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'Round Midnight
by Barbara Barnett
Round Midnight
By Barbara Barnett
(lyrics `Round Midnight by Thelonious Monk)
Note: Character of Gregory House, etc. not my property. He belongs to David Shore and Hugh Laurie. My first attempt at House Fic.
"Mem'ries always start round mindnight, round midnight
Haven't got the heart to stand those mem'ries..."
He was in the mood for Monk. The song spoke to him, never more resonantly than at this moment, his fingers hearing Thelonious Monk's unique piano style, eyes closed, his own deep graveled tones choking out the lyrics past the lump in his throat.
"Darlin' I need you, lately I find
You're out of my arms and I'm out of my mind.
Let our love take wing some midnight, round midnight,
Let the angels sing for your returning..."
Enough. House abruptly stopped, slamming his right fist on the keys while reaching for the whiskey tumbler with the other.
Was Cameron right? Was he still capable of loving someone? Love had become to him a foreign feeling, he wasn't sure he'd know it if it hit him square in the forehead. Was what he had done for Mark Warner borne out of love for Stacy? Was that what Cameron meant?
The whiskey burned down his esophagus and coursed through his veins, but was unable to drown the feelings fighting for the surface of his soul. He poured again. This time the amber liquid didn't burn, it soothed cool down his throat.
He never should have taken the case. It would have been better, wouldn't it have been, to let Warner die? And yet...
He went back to the keys, trying desperately to feel only the music and nothing else. Shut the door on that old locked and dusty closet. But it was no use. The door had opened and he hadn't the strength left to close it. Not tonight.
He glanced at the cane leaning against the piano. A momentary hopeful thought escaped the reaches of his mind and rather than letting it go to watch it pop like a bubble in front of his eyes, he grabbed hold of it. Was it possible to be healed? Could he will himself as he willed his patients day after day?
House leaned on his cane to arise from the bench, taking the bottle and now empty glass with him, placing them carefully on the mantle. He poured again. How many was that now? Three? Four? It didn't matter. He needed that additional bit of liquid courage. House's eyes roved over the cane, hoping, yet acknowledging the probable futility of the exercise he was about to try. He tossed it across the room, out of range, in determination.
He propped his right foot on the raised floor in front of the hearth, minimizing the discomfort, postponing the strain that was coming to his long disused leg. He steadied himself, steeled himself. What was she doing now? A random thought skipped into his head? She was with Warner, no doubt. Holding him. Comforting him. Sure, he was whole, now. Because of him. His skill. His relentlessness. OK, Greg, old man. Turn it on yourself. Ready? A small prayer to a God he didn't believe in. Take the freaking step already, House!
Careful, small step, just slide the foot...slowly now. His leg protested, though only mildly at the mini step. He held his breath as he readied himself for that first full step onto the carpet. And...
House's leg gave way as searing pain shot from his knee to his groin. White hot pain as he clutched for something, anything to break the fall. He knew if he fell to the floor, he'd never get up again. He steadied himself on the old leather chair, dragging the useless leg behind as he sat himself back on the piano bench. Square one.
He laughed ruefully, aloud at his own stupidity for trying it, welcoming the pain as a rebuke for it. He sighed in resignation, reaching for the comfort of the Vicodin bottle in his shirt pocket, momentarily saddened that there was only one left. The gods were truly against him.
"Let our love take wing, some midnight, round midnight
Let the angels sing for your returning.
Let our love stay safe and sound.
When old midnight comes around."
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Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of Fox Television, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
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