FF: The Silence Between the Notes
Title: The Silence Between the Notes
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through "Subject 13" (3.15), vaguely
Summary: Five times Peter Bishop played the piano
****
His father said that learning music was important for good brain development. His mother had nodded, looking vaguely amused by that response, and said herself that learning things because they're beautiful is important, too. Peter had been indifferent; it wasn't as if he had a choice, at five, of where he went or what he was to learn. He would have rather played ball in the back yard with Jax, if it came down to it.
But his mother patiently arranged piano instruction, driving him over to take lessons with the wife of one of Walter's grad students. Marieke's English was somewhere between heavily-accented and non-existent, but she played effortlessly, and even as a young boy, he was entranced. Once he learned the notes, only a rudimentary language was necessary between them; the music was universal.
She stood by the piano as he played, a steady human metronome, drumming out the rhythm he was to follow. His hands were small, still reaching to strike the chords perfectly, and an octave seemed an enormous span. At home, they put a piano in the den, and on rainy evenings, he would sit and practice late, hoping he'd be playing when his father came home, so he could hear him. Sometimes that worked, and he got a round of applause and a "well done" before being sent off to bed.
He'd discovered that it was easier to play when he sang along, so he sat at the piano bench, carefully singing along with "Row Row Row Your Boat," when his mother came into the room.
"Don't play that if you're hoping for your father to hear you," she said, looking nervous.
His fingers froze on the keys, instinctively unwilling to displease his father. "Why?"
Shaking her head, all she could answer was, "I don't know. But he never liked me singing it to you."
He stared at the keys thoughtfully for a moment, then flipped the page in his lesson book. Looking over the notes, he positioned his fingers on the keys and started on "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" instead.
*
There had been a fundraising gala in the lobby the evening before, and as his father made a beeline to his office, Peter lingered, watching the removal of handcarts full of chairs and stacks of folding tables. In the far corner, next to the hallway back to the offices, sat a grand piano, half-covered with a sheet and surrounded by potted palms. No one paid any attention as he made his way over to it.
The keyboard was open, and he tapped the middle C a few times, testing the sound, muffled by the closed lid, and checking whether anyone would bother stopping him. There was no bench so he stood, fingers skimming the keys, something just past the edge of his memory guiding them. He closed his eyes, feeling the worn old ivory keys under his fingers, and stopped trying to catch the fleeting memory.
Almost of their own accord, his fingers began to play, pianissimo, something he didn't recognize, but was most definitely a song. A simplified, unsubtle version of a greater piece, but it was something, welling up from deep inside him. His confidence grew, and so did the volume, though only slightly; instinct told him this piece was quiet.
"Peter!" He heard his father calling, but he didn't turn around, didn't even open his eyes. He kept playing. "Peter! What are you doing? Where did you learn Dvorak?"
"Huh?" His hands froze on the keys, still stretched mid-chord.
"You were playing Dvorak's 'From the New World.'"
"I didn't know that. I didn't know that I played the piano." His brow furrowed, trying to remember, those flickers of recollection, of melodies flitting away. He couldn't remember learning the piano.
In his own befuddlement, he didn't notice his father's moment of hesitation, the flash of shock across his face before a mask of sympathy came across it. "You play very well. You were taking lessons before you got sick, but I hadn't heard you play that before. Are you feeling up to starting lessons again? And practicing this time?"
He responded affirmatively, and let himself be led away, but couldn't help but wonder how he'd taken piano lessons, without a piano in the house.
*
He was wiping up a spilled slurry of hurricane from the battered old bar, as the lull between sets left the bar at a dull roar of tourists. In a blur, patrons barely making way, he saw one of the musicians dart from the table by the stage where they were enjoying drinks. The man disappeared into the restroom, and for a few minutes failed to emerge. Chet, the bandleader, disappeared after him a few moments later, as Peter was hanging up the towel by the sink and slipping out from behind the bar, his lunch-through-happy-hour shift finished.
When Chet emerged, shaking his head, moments later, Peter caught his eye. "Everything all right?"
"No," he said, bluntly, fedora shadowing his face to nearly inscrutable in the dim bar. "Bad oyster, Jonny says. Bad years of gin, I say."
"You out a pianist, then?"
"Looks like we're going on as a quartet next set. Won't be the first time, won't be the last."
"I could step in."
"You, boy? You play?"
"A little. As well as Jonny ever does."
Chet looked him up and down, lips pursed, and stared him in the eye for a long moment. Finally, he pointed one gnarled old finger at him. "I don't even know you're really old enough to be in here, but you got something about you that says you know the blues. So find a hat and follow along."
"Yes, sir," Peter nodded, quietly purloining a grey derby from the hatrack by the bar. He sat at the piano, facing away from the crowd, as the band took up their places. It was easy to follow along with the same improvisations he'd heard every night for two weeks, keeping steady rhythm to the "Basin Street Blues" as Leon's trumpet wailed above the clinks of classes and murmured conversations of patrons.
*
The apartment was barely a step above squatting, though in this neighborhood, in this country, it could be difficult to tell. At least if he were squatting, he'd have chosen a place with reliably functional electricity and ceiling fans. It was old and dingy, with single-pane glass windows giving a view of the city that might have been a selling point, fifty years ago, when they didn't let dust blow in where the lead had chipped away, and the city had been beautiful. The wood floors, once, would have been a selling point, too, but the finish was long gone, replaced with ingrained grime and splattered paint. A ratty green sofa sat in the middle of the room, facing a fuzzy black and white television that still sported rabbit ears.
With little enthusiasm, he poured a drink into the least filthy glass on the counter, and crossed to the window. He was directly across, and one floor above, his target. The other building had no glass in the roughly framed windows. He'd have an unobstructed view, and a clear shot. But he would need to wait.
Looking around the dirty space, his eyes lit on an unsteady heap of newspapers, which toppled easily aside to reveal an ancient Hammond organ that had seen better days at least a decade before his birth. One of the wooden legs looked nearly gnawed through, and there were teeth marks around the bottom edge of the frame. But with a bit of a buzz, it powered up. He gave it a few minutes, sitting idle, wondering at the likelihood of it bursting into flames, killing him and ending this whole ridiculous enterprise. For a moment he almost hoped for that.
He spared a glance back over at the window, where the apartment remained dark. He left the rifle on the window sill, within easy reach, and sat down at the organ. Pressing a few of the keys, he was pleasantly surprised to find it the most functional thing in this apartment.
There was, he thought, really only one thing to play on an organ, and he didn't have to think as he drew the opening bars of "Whiter Shade of Pale" from the instrument. It wasn't quite the same without the vocals, he thought, though he'd never been a singer. He would, though, skip a light fandango out of this godforsaken country just as soon as he could get off a clean shot.
*
He hated Bach; all Walter had ever wanted to hear was Bach, saying it was best for the brain. He'd had a damned piano hauled into the lab just so Peter could play it, whether he wanted to or not. Walter had seemed to take an entire Mass for granted, but at least Astrid had seemed appreciative, and a bit awed by the sound he was able to coax from the battered old practice piano.
Fingers still on the keys as the last notes faded, he looked up at Astrid, who met his eyes and smiled, just a little bit. The poor woman deserved better, after the ridiculous work Walter expected her to help with. "And what would you like to hear, Astrid?"
She looked a little startled at the question, and Walter had seemed to finally notice the end of the music, looking ready to answer for himself. Quickly, she asked, "How about something a little more modern? Maybe with a little swing?"
That made him smile, a real smile, for the first time in a long time. The request was easy enough, and thoughtfully gave him more than a little leeway. He pondered his options for a moment, and slipped into a classic, one that allowed him to improvise a little.
"My stardust melody..." he heard, thin and a bit off key, during the chorus, and was pleasantly surprised to find Astrid singing along, in bits and broken phrases. He didn't pause before segueing into "Night and Day," and she followed right along, singing more fully. She didn't have a beautiful voice, and seemed to know it, grimacing at a few particularly sharp notes, but smiled and continued right along, enthusiasm more striking than talent. He kept playing, old jazz standards, and she kept singing, bolder, and the mood in the lab seemed a little brighter.
****
Author: Ellie elliestories
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Through "Subject 13" (3.15), vaguely
Summary: Five times Peter Bishop played the piano
****
His father said that learning music was important for good brain development. His mother had nodded, looking vaguely amused by that response, and said herself that learning things because they're beautiful is important, too. Peter had been indifferent; it wasn't as if he had a choice, at five, of where he went or what he was to learn. He would have rather played ball in the back yard with Jax, if it came down to it.
But his mother patiently arranged piano instruction, driving him over to take lessons with the wife of one of Walter's grad students. Marieke's English was somewhere between heavily-accented and non-existent, but she played effortlessly, and even as a young boy, he was entranced. Once he learned the notes, only a rudimentary language was necessary between them; the music was universal.
She stood by the piano as he played, a steady human metronome, drumming out the rhythm he was to follow. His hands were small, still reaching to strike the chords perfectly, and an octave seemed an enormous span. At home, they put a piano in the den, and on rainy evenings, he would sit and practice late, hoping he'd be playing when his father came home, so he could hear him. Sometimes that worked, and he got a round of applause and a "well done" before being sent off to bed.
He'd discovered that it was easier to play when he sang along, so he sat at the piano bench, carefully singing along with "Row Row Row Your Boat," when his mother came into the room.
"Don't play that if you're hoping for your father to hear you," she said, looking nervous.
His fingers froze on the keys, instinctively unwilling to displease his father. "Why?"
Shaking her head, all she could answer was, "I don't know. But he never liked me singing it to you."
He stared at the keys thoughtfully for a moment, then flipped the page in his lesson book. Looking over the notes, he positioned his fingers on the keys and started on "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" instead.
*
There had been a fundraising gala in the lobby the evening before, and as his father made a beeline to his office, Peter lingered, watching the removal of handcarts full of chairs and stacks of folding tables. In the far corner, next to the hallway back to the offices, sat a grand piano, half-covered with a sheet and surrounded by potted palms. No one paid any attention as he made his way over to it.
The keyboard was open, and he tapped the middle C a few times, testing the sound, muffled by the closed lid, and checking whether anyone would bother stopping him. There was no bench so he stood, fingers skimming the keys, something just past the edge of his memory guiding them. He closed his eyes, feeling the worn old ivory keys under his fingers, and stopped trying to catch the fleeting memory.
Almost of their own accord, his fingers began to play, pianissimo, something he didn't recognize, but was most definitely a song. A simplified, unsubtle version of a greater piece, but it was something, welling up from deep inside him. His confidence grew, and so did the volume, though only slightly; instinct told him this piece was quiet.
"Peter!" He heard his father calling, but he didn't turn around, didn't even open his eyes. He kept playing. "Peter! What are you doing? Where did you learn Dvorak?"
"Huh?" His hands froze on the keys, still stretched mid-chord.
"You were playing Dvorak's 'From the New World.'"
"I didn't know that. I didn't know that I played the piano." His brow furrowed, trying to remember, those flickers of recollection, of melodies flitting away. He couldn't remember learning the piano.
In his own befuddlement, he didn't notice his father's moment of hesitation, the flash of shock across his face before a mask of sympathy came across it. "You play very well. You were taking lessons before you got sick, but I hadn't heard you play that before. Are you feeling up to starting lessons again? And practicing this time?"
He responded affirmatively, and let himself be led away, but couldn't help but wonder how he'd taken piano lessons, without a piano in the house.
*
He was wiping up a spilled slurry of hurricane from the battered old bar, as the lull between sets left the bar at a dull roar of tourists. In a blur, patrons barely making way, he saw one of the musicians dart from the table by the stage where they were enjoying drinks. The man disappeared into the restroom, and for a few minutes failed to emerge. Chet, the bandleader, disappeared after him a few moments later, as Peter was hanging up the towel by the sink and slipping out from behind the bar, his lunch-through-happy-hour shift finished.
When Chet emerged, shaking his head, moments later, Peter caught his eye. "Everything all right?"
"No," he said, bluntly, fedora shadowing his face to nearly inscrutable in the dim bar. "Bad oyster, Jonny says. Bad years of gin, I say."
"You out a pianist, then?"
"Looks like we're going on as a quartet next set. Won't be the first time, won't be the last."
"I could step in."
"You, boy? You play?"
"A little. As well as Jonny ever does."
Chet looked him up and down, lips pursed, and stared him in the eye for a long moment. Finally, he pointed one gnarled old finger at him. "I don't even know you're really old enough to be in here, but you got something about you that says you know the blues. So find a hat and follow along."
"Yes, sir," Peter nodded, quietly purloining a grey derby from the hatrack by the bar. He sat at the piano, facing away from the crowd, as the band took up their places. It was easy to follow along with the same improvisations he'd heard every night for two weeks, keeping steady rhythm to the "Basin Street Blues" as Leon's trumpet wailed above the clinks of classes and murmured conversations of patrons.
*
The apartment was barely a step above squatting, though in this neighborhood, in this country, it could be difficult to tell. At least if he were squatting, he'd have chosen a place with reliably functional electricity and ceiling fans. It was old and dingy, with single-pane glass windows giving a view of the city that might have been a selling point, fifty years ago, when they didn't let dust blow in where the lead had chipped away, and the city had been beautiful. The wood floors, once, would have been a selling point, too, but the finish was long gone, replaced with ingrained grime and splattered paint. A ratty green sofa sat in the middle of the room, facing a fuzzy black and white television that still sported rabbit ears.
With little enthusiasm, he poured a drink into the least filthy glass on the counter, and crossed to the window. He was directly across, and one floor above, his target. The other building had no glass in the roughly framed windows. He'd have an unobstructed view, and a clear shot. But he would need to wait.
Looking around the dirty space, his eyes lit on an unsteady heap of newspapers, which toppled easily aside to reveal an ancient Hammond organ that had seen better days at least a decade before his birth. One of the wooden legs looked nearly gnawed through, and there were teeth marks around the bottom edge of the frame. But with a bit of a buzz, it powered up. He gave it a few minutes, sitting idle, wondering at the likelihood of it bursting into flames, killing him and ending this whole ridiculous enterprise. For a moment he almost hoped for that.
He spared a glance back over at the window, where the apartment remained dark. He left the rifle on the window sill, within easy reach, and sat down at the organ. Pressing a few of the keys, he was pleasantly surprised to find it the most functional thing in this apartment.
There was, he thought, really only one thing to play on an organ, and he didn't have to think as he drew the opening bars of "Whiter Shade of Pale" from the instrument. It wasn't quite the same without the vocals, he thought, though he'd never been a singer. He would, though, skip a light fandango out of this godforsaken country just as soon as he could get off a clean shot.
*
He hated Bach; all Walter had ever wanted to hear was Bach, saying it was best for the brain. He'd had a damned piano hauled into the lab just so Peter could play it, whether he wanted to or not. Walter had seemed to take an entire Mass for granted, but at least Astrid had seemed appreciative, and a bit awed by the sound he was able to coax from the battered old practice piano.
Fingers still on the keys as the last notes faded, he looked up at Astrid, who met his eyes and smiled, just a little bit. The poor woman deserved better, after the ridiculous work Walter expected her to help with. "And what would you like to hear, Astrid?"
She looked a little startled at the question, and Walter had seemed to finally notice the end of the music, looking ready to answer for himself. Quickly, she asked, "How about something a little more modern? Maybe with a little swing?"
That made him smile, a real smile, for the first time in a long time. The request was easy enough, and thoughtfully gave him more than a little leeway. He pondered his options for a moment, and slipped into a classic, one that allowed him to improvise a little.
"My stardust melody..." he heard, thin and a bit off key, during the chorus, and was pleasantly surprised to find Astrid singing along, in bits and broken phrases. He didn't pause before segueing into "Night and Day," and she followed right along, singing more fully. She didn't have a beautiful voice, and seemed to know it, grimacing at a few particularly sharp notes, but smiled and continued right along, enthusiasm more striking than talent. He kept playing, old jazz standards, and she kept singing, bolder, and the mood in the lab seemed a little brighter.
****