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tamingthemuseTitle: Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave
Fandom: House/RPS Crossover
Prompt 114: Seychelles
Rating: PG
Summary: A chance meeting between Gregory House and Marc Sandman when the good doctor was younger and a little less cranky and Marc Sandman was already brilliant and still very alive.
Notes: Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jaiden_s for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.
Boston, 1989
House energetically waved, making the cab stop. He hopped in, his confident gait hampered by the combination of the backpack, the guitar case, and the duffel bag.
"To the train station, please," he ordered, barely glancing up at the cabbie who eyed him through the rearview mirror. He was too busy arranging his possessions around him.
The cab started moving as soon as he closed the door and a few moments later, he was all settled and looked up front for the first time. The cabbie looked back at him.
"Nice case you have there," the man complimented with a distinct note of curiosity.
"Thanks. It's a Gibson Les Paul."
"Not bad."
House noticed that the top of a similar case peered from the front seat.
"Yours?" he inquired, more out of curiosity than politeness – cabbies were not a homogeneous species, but one carrying a guitar case in the front seat was rare enough to raise his interest.
"Something I'm working on. It's a guitbass... or a basitar..."
The cabbie laughed at himself, his pale blue eyes crinkling slightly. The man looked like he was 35 to 37 but he was laughing like a kid at the prospect of messing with a fine musical instrument. House decided he liked him.
"Oh really? That sounds pretty... interesting, actually. I'm curious to what it would sound like."
The cabbie raised an eyebrow In the rearview mirror. "Mmm, curious, curious, or curious polite?"
"The first. I'm not big on 'polite'."
"My kind of guy. Hey, we're almost at the station, but why don't I leave you my card? Next time you're in town, if you still remember the guy with the weird guitar, give me a call and I'll show you a few things. My guys and I play a few clubs downtown."
House took the card, stuffed it into his pocket and handed him a ten as they were stopping in front of the station.
"Keep the change," he said, clumsily extracting himself and his bags from the back seat.
House rarely had reason to go to Boston, but coincidentally, less than four months later he was invited for a set of lectures. Considering that he was only thirty, it was pretty impressive being a guest talker at one of the main med schools in the country. His smugness, however, always left room for curiosity. The world had no lack of interesting little puzzles to solve and finding out exactly how a 'basitar' sounded might not be the hardest, but it was certainly a worthy one. And besides, hopping bars and listening to the mix of good and horrendous live music that permeated the Boston scene was much more interesting than the stuffy dinners with old men that were reserved for the conference lecturers.
He went through the pile of cards he accumulated in a bowl in his office. About midway, he found what he was looking for. Mark Sandman in a purple artistic font, with a bass doodled over the best part of the card. There were two numbers. Great, he was all set.
"Hey, buddy!" Mark Sandman cheerfully greeted House. His enthusiasm burned so bright that House found himself smiling back.
"I see you got my message," Sandman said, holding the back door to the club open for House to enter.
"Yeah."
"Well, I have bad news for you – the basitar won't make an appearance tonight, but, in compensation, you'll see my spanking new two-string slide bass guitar. I just got it to sound exactly the way I wanted."
House raised an eyebrow, feeling vaguely cheated, but Sandman led him to the backstage, stuffed a beer into his hand, introduced him around. The other two guys played the sax and drums. This was promising. House went to the front room and found a stool by the bar, despite that the place was nearly at full capacity. At least that was a sign that they weren't so bad... House hoped.
All fears that he might have harbored died at the first chords. Sandman was clearly no amateur and his band mates neither. His music fit the place perfectly: smoky, sexy, vibrant, and with a very serious streak of dark humor. Sandman bantered with the crowd and the band between songs, then launched himself into another one, sweating profusely under the heat of the lights. Maybe a little too profusely, House thought, trying to see how Sandman's pupils looked. He was too far to be sure of anything, but he did notice a healthy tan that looked oddly out of place on a white man in wintry Boston.
Sandman launched into something that he proudly announced as their latest, a good humored bit of ranty advice from an old man to an audience of youths, urging them to raise hell before kicking the can. At some point, the lyrics and the deliverance actually dragged a chuckle from him, and House found that he liked Sandman more by the minute.
The band was called back to the stage two times. House waited for the crowd to settle, made sure no more encores were in line, and headed for the backstage.
Sandman had his back to the door, chatting with the guys, two girls fawning over him despite that his shirt was drenched in sweat. House felt a slight pang of envy at his charisma, but he was still curious and wanted to be part of Sandman's world, at least for a while.
"I just have one thing to ask," he said from the door, waiting for Sandman to face him before continuing, "What are you doing driving a cab?"
The guys laughed. Sandman walked toward him, patted him in the back and dragged him into the room.
"I take it that you liked it, then..."
"Like? You guys are brilliant."
"Well, fortunately, other people agree," Sandman said. "We have a meeting this week with Rykodisk. That’s a small label but they are pretty good to their people."
"Good, good." House, despite his sardonic ways, genuinely felt that talent should be appreciated and encouraged to develop. However, he was interested in Sandman in other ways. He waited patiently for Sandman to change, observing him, trying to find out exactly what was going on. Sandman had his back to him when he changed into a clean shirt but House saw a glimpse of track marks on his hand and elbow. He squinted, his brain debating – Sandman was so vivacious that if he had to be on anything, he'd be on cocaine, not heroin. Of course there were other injectable uppers, and there was the sweat, but-
His train of thought was interrupted as Sandman turned to him still buttoning his shirt and House saw the angry red scar on his chest speaking of very recent surgery. No wonder he had marks of thrombosed veins and sweated like a pig.
"You should be resting!" he chided. "What do you think you're doing? Judging from that scar you had a pretty major intervention very recently."
"A month ago," Sandman replied unfazed. "Are you a doctor, by any chance," he challenged
House stared at him as Sandman picked his coat. The girls left with a quiet goodbye and the guys fell into an awkward silence. One, the drummer, House remembered, said, "Mark, man, maybe you should..."
"See you Thursday, guys," Sandman cut.
House followed him into the street cold, easily falling into step.
"I'm not a cardiologist, but I know a few people."
"So you really are a doctor?" Sandman side glanced at him.
"Yes. Diagnostician."
"All right. So if I tell you that I'm running a slight fever and that I may have forgotten my antibiotics this morning you won't have me arrested."
"Jesus." House shook his head. "Are you trying to kill yourself? What is your condition, exactly?"
"Sharp knife to the chest for cab fare. That usually has nasty side effects, like almost bleeding to death, permanent heart tissue lesions..."
"Ah." House found it hard to reply to that. Sandman was not his patient. He was someone whose talent he admired, who could eventually become a friend, given the right circumstances. He also knew what permanent lesions meant.
"So all that talk about living to 74..."
"It’s probably not going to happen. I do plan to raise a little hell, spend a few nights on the floor before going," Sandman replied, teasing House with his own lyrics.
House drew cold air till his lungs were full. "If you take care of yourself properly you can dramatically improve your chances.
"And miss all the fun. Yes, I've been told. Hey, doc," Sandman said stopping and turning to face him. "You're a cool guy and I'd love to have a few beers with you and talk about music and whatever else. I don't need another doctor, though."
House pondered for a second. "Then the name is House. Not doc and certainly not Greg. Okay?"
Mark smirked. "Okay, Greg. The night's young. C'mon, I wanna take you to this new bar two blocks from here.
"All right, sounds like a plan," House ingratiated. He had seen enough of Sandman to know that the bar had something more going on than just being new to raise his interest. "Meanwhile, you can start telling me how is it that a cabbie from Boston has your tan."
Sandman laughed. "Oh man, you really are observant. I bet you're a great doctor. This," he said showing a sliver of wrist skin from under his coat, "is the result of a week in the Seychelles."
"But you just had surgery..."
"Yes, and as soon as I was declared fit, I took the insurance money and treated myself to a nice little holiday. I deserved it."
House was torn between laughter and the impulse to bite Sandman's head off – the man was too brilliant musically to be considered stupid in other domains, and he was too full of zest to be trying to kill himself off the easy way. And, he had made clear he wasn't interested in House's medical skills. This was not going to be an easy friendship. House smirked at the thought: none of his few friendships were, but they were all worth it.
Finis
September 2008
Note: Gregory House is a well known character. Mark Sandman was the front man and genius behind Morphine, one of my favorite bands. He died playing on stage, allegedly from sequels of a knife wound he received while working as a cabbie in Boston, before his Morphine days. The title of this fic is the same of the song they mention: 'Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave.'
Fandom: House/RPS Crossover
Prompt 114: Seychelles
Rating: PG
Summary: A chance meeting between Gregory House and Marc Sandman when the good doctor was younger and a little less cranky and Marc Sandman was already brilliant and still very alive.
Notes: Many thanks to
jaiden_s for the beta. All remaining mistakes are mine.Boston, 1989
House energetically waved, making the cab stop. He hopped in, his confident gait hampered by the combination of the backpack, the guitar case, and the duffel bag.
"To the train station, please," he ordered, barely glancing up at the cabbie who eyed him through the rearview mirror. He was too busy arranging his possessions around him.
The cab started moving as soon as he closed the door and a few moments later, he was all settled and looked up front for the first time. The cabbie looked back at him.
"Nice case you have there," the man complimented with a distinct note of curiosity.
"Thanks. It's a Gibson Les Paul."
"Not bad."
House noticed that the top of a similar case peered from the front seat.
"Yours?" he inquired, more out of curiosity than politeness – cabbies were not a homogeneous species, but one carrying a guitar case in the front seat was rare enough to raise his interest.
"Something I'm working on. It's a guitbass... or a basitar..."
The cabbie laughed at himself, his pale blue eyes crinkling slightly. The man looked like he was 35 to 37 but he was laughing like a kid at the prospect of messing with a fine musical instrument. House decided he liked him.
"Oh really? That sounds pretty... interesting, actually. I'm curious to what it would sound like."
The cabbie raised an eyebrow In the rearview mirror. "Mmm, curious, curious, or curious polite?"
"The first. I'm not big on 'polite'."
"My kind of guy. Hey, we're almost at the station, but why don't I leave you my card? Next time you're in town, if you still remember the guy with the weird guitar, give me a call and I'll show you a few things. My guys and I play a few clubs downtown."
House took the card, stuffed it into his pocket and handed him a ten as they were stopping in front of the station.
"Keep the change," he said, clumsily extracting himself and his bags from the back seat.
House rarely had reason to go to Boston, but coincidentally, less than four months later he was invited for a set of lectures. Considering that he was only thirty, it was pretty impressive being a guest talker at one of the main med schools in the country. His smugness, however, always left room for curiosity. The world had no lack of interesting little puzzles to solve and finding out exactly how a 'basitar' sounded might not be the hardest, but it was certainly a worthy one. And besides, hopping bars and listening to the mix of good and horrendous live music that permeated the Boston scene was much more interesting than the stuffy dinners with old men that were reserved for the conference lecturers.
He went through the pile of cards he accumulated in a bowl in his office. About midway, he found what he was looking for. Mark Sandman in a purple artistic font, with a bass doodled over the best part of the card. There were two numbers. Great, he was all set.
"Hey, buddy!" Mark Sandman cheerfully greeted House. His enthusiasm burned so bright that House found himself smiling back.
"I see you got my message," Sandman said, holding the back door to the club open for House to enter.
"Yeah."
"Well, I have bad news for you – the basitar won't make an appearance tonight, but, in compensation, you'll see my spanking new two-string slide bass guitar. I just got it to sound exactly the way I wanted."
House raised an eyebrow, feeling vaguely cheated, but Sandman led him to the backstage, stuffed a beer into his hand, introduced him around. The other two guys played the sax and drums. This was promising. House went to the front room and found a stool by the bar, despite that the place was nearly at full capacity. At least that was a sign that they weren't so bad... House hoped.
All fears that he might have harbored died at the first chords. Sandman was clearly no amateur and his band mates neither. His music fit the place perfectly: smoky, sexy, vibrant, and with a very serious streak of dark humor. Sandman bantered with the crowd and the band between songs, then launched himself into another one, sweating profusely under the heat of the lights. Maybe a little too profusely, House thought, trying to see how Sandman's pupils looked. He was too far to be sure of anything, but he did notice a healthy tan that looked oddly out of place on a white man in wintry Boston.
Sandman launched into something that he proudly announced as their latest, a good humored bit of ranty advice from an old man to an audience of youths, urging them to raise hell before kicking the can. At some point, the lyrics and the deliverance actually dragged a chuckle from him, and House found that he liked Sandman more by the minute.
The band was called back to the stage two times. House waited for the crowd to settle, made sure no more encores were in line, and headed for the backstage.
Sandman had his back to the door, chatting with the guys, two girls fawning over him despite that his shirt was drenched in sweat. House felt a slight pang of envy at his charisma, but he was still curious and wanted to be part of Sandman's world, at least for a while.
"I just have one thing to ask," he said from the door, waiting for Sandman to face him before continuing, "What are you doing driving a cab?"
The guys laughed. Sandman walked toward him, patted him in the back and dragged him into the room.
"I take it that you liked it, then..."
"Like? You guys are brilliant."
"Well, fortunately, other people agree," Sandman said. "We have a meeting this week with Rykodisk. That’s a small label but they are pretty good to their people."
"Good, good." House, despite his sardonic ways, genuinely felt that talent should be appreciated and encouraged to develop. However, he was interested in Sandman in other ways. He waited patiently for Sandman to change, observing him, trying to find out exactly what was going on. Sandman had his back to him when he changed into a clean shirt but House saw a glimpse of track marks on his hand and elbow. He squinted, his brain debating – Sandman was so vivacious that if he had to be on anything, he'd be on cocaine, not heroin. Of course there were other injectable uppers, and there was the sweat, but-
His train of thought was interrupted as Sandman turned to him still buttoning his shirt and House saw the angry red scar on his chest speaking of very recent surgery. No wonder he had marks of thrombosed veins and sweated like a pig.
"You should be resting!" he chided. "What do you think you're doing? Judging from that scar you had a pretty major intervention very recently."
"A month ago," Sandman replied unfazed. "Are you a doctor, by any chance," he challenged
House stared at him as Sandman picked his coat. The girls left with a quiet goodbye and the guys fell into an awkward silence. One, the drummer, House remembered, said, "Mark, man, maybe you should..."
"See you Thursday, guys," Sandman cut.
House followed him into the street cold, easily falling into step.
"I'm not a cardiologist, but I know a few people."
"So you really are a doctor?" Sandman side glanced at him.
"Yes. Diagnostician."
"All right. So if I tell you that I'm running a slight fever and that I may have forgotten my antibiotics this morning you won't have me arrested."
"Jesus." House shook his head. "Are you trying to kill yourself? What is your condition, exactly?"
"Sharp knife to the chest for cab fare. That usually has nasty side effects, like almost bleeding to death, permanent heart tissue lesions..."
"Ah." House found it hard to reply to that. Sandman was not his patient. He was someone whose talent he admired, who could eventually become a friend, given the right circumstances. He also knew what permanent lesions meant.
"So all that talk about living to 74..."
"It’s probably not going to happen. I do plan to raise a little hell, spend a few nights on the floor before going," Sandman replied, teasing House with his own lyrics.
House drew cold air till his lungs were full. "If you take care of yourself properly you can dramatically improve your chances.
"And miss all the fun. Yes, I've been told. Hey, doc," Sandman said stopping and turning to face him. "You're a cool guy and I'd love to have a few beers with you and talk about music and whatever else. I don't need another doctor, though."
House pondered for a second. "Then the name is House. Not doc and certainly not Greg. Okay?"
Mark smirked. "Okay, Greg. The night's young. C'mon, I wanna take you to this new bar two blocks from here.
"All right, sounds like a plan," House ingratiated. He had seen enough of Sandman to know that the bar had something more going on than just being new to raise his interest. "Meanwhile, you can start telling me how is it that a cabbie from Boston has your tan."
Sandman laughed. "Oh man, you really are observant. I bet you're a great doctor. This," he said showing a sliver of wrist skin from under his coat, "is the result of a week in the Seychelles."
"But you just had surgery..."
"Yes, and as soon as I was declared fit, I took the insurance money and treated myself to a nice little holiday. I deserved it."
House was torn between laughter and the impulse to bite Sandman's head off – the man was too brilliant musically to be considered stupid in other domains, and he was too full of zest to be trying to kill himself off the easy way. And, he had made clear he wasn't interested in House's medical skills. This was not going to be an easy friendship. House smirked at the thought: none of his few friendships were, but they were all worth it.
Finis
September 2008
Note: Gregory House is a well known character. Mark Sandman was the front man and genius behind Morphine, one of my favorite bands. He died playing on stage, allegedly from sequels of a knife wound he received while working as a cabbie in Boston, before his Morphine days. The title of this fic is the same of the song they mention: 'Do Not Go Quietly Unto Your Grave.'
