(A/N: This is a what-if story that popped into my head a while back while listening to some favorite music from college days. There are some canon elements, but it's not a canon episode of the series by any stretch, as you'll see. It's also not a part of any stories I've written before this.

Some of the experiences related here did happen once upon a time. It's been many years since I visited U of M's central and north campuses; no doubt in the interval things have changed quite a bit. I honestly don't care. This is set in the long ago, not now. At any rate, hope you enjoy the story. Many thanks to Babalooblue for help in reading the rough draft and commenting.

If you'd like another take on young House, please read BabalooBlue's story Everything's Going To Be Different. Well worth your time, and drop a review while you're at it too please. Reviews are the only payment we get from writing what we love. -Brig)

University of Michigan

Ann Arbor

October, 1982

"Y'know, they put practice schedules on the door for a reason."

Greg finished the riff and didn't bother to turn around. He knew who it was—the girl who came in every day at this time, her name down in neat, small writing on the paper schedule taped to the door. "You're ten minutes late." When there was no answer he kept on playing. "Glaring at me won't change things."

Silence followed this remark; she'd walked away, as usual. The lack of pushback didn't surprise him much. Most people didn't know how to deal with open, antagonistic honesty. He continued to play and enjoyed the privacy of the practice room long after her departure.

Later he mooched a coffee at the Commons and took up a corner, the better to scope out potential scores and keep an eye on various forms of trouble. But he found his thoughts co-opted by the girl whose practice time he'd stolen. He'd seen her around the north campus, sometimes here or in the library. She was always alone, hauling a backpack full of books and an instrument case. He knew a fair number of grinds and she seemed to be one too, so he couldn't understand why he watched her. She was nothing special to look at –average rack and a big butt hidden under the usual uniform of jeans and sweater, dark brown hair held back in a thick braid, her features obscured by oversized glasses. "Boring," he said under his breath, and took a gulp of coffee.

Still, later that evening he stopped by the Burlodge, where most of the underclassmen music students lived, and used a little charm on an RA to get information.

"You're looking for Beth," she informed him. "She's in the east T-section, last door on the right." The girl gave him an amused glance. "Good luck. She's pretty anti-social."

He heard the music before he reached her door—it wasn't loud, but her room was on the end, isolated from the rest of the floor. Greg envied her. Even if it was university housing, she had more privacy than he did at the frat house. "Alan Parsons. She's a nerd," he said aloud, and banged on her door.

She didn't answer for a full minute. "Who is it?" She sounded wary.

"Candygram." Greg injected a fake cheerfulness in the word. After a few moments the door opened a fraction. She peered out at him and frowned.

"You."

"Yup, me." He offered her raised brows. "Scared?"

"What do you want?" She hadn't backed down at all, in fact now she was on the defensive. He noted it with a stir of interest.

"Just came by to let you know the practice room is open."

"No it isn't. The building's locked at nine." In this light he couldn't tell what color her eyes were, but he could see they held a fair amount of animosity, with an edge of pain that both surprised and annoyed him. "Thanks for nothing. Hope you enjoyed the joke." And the door was shut in his face. He heard the lock turn, and the music fell silent. It was as plain a dismissal as he'd received in some time.

For several days when he had time between classes, he watched her from a distance. Her routine never varied; from dorm to practice to class to the Commons, she made the same stops every day without fail, and always alone, even on the bus to and from the main campus. She ate lunch with her nose in a book, oblivious to the noisy crowds around her.

On the fifth day he spent some of his hard-earned poker money to buy a burger and fries, and took a seat opposite her. "Hey." He kept his tone neutral. She didn't respond. Greg realized she was so deep in her read she hadn't heard him. He knocked a knuckle against the book cover and she jumped, looked up at him in startlement. Just for a moment she was almost pretty. Her skin was delicate and still held a vestige of a tan, with a few freckles scattered over her nose and cheeks; in natural light her eyes were a soft, deep cornflower blue with little flecks of gold near the iris.

"Anybody home?" He offered her a smirk. Her brows lowered. In silence she shut the book with a snap and stuffed it into her backpack, got to her feet, picked up her gear, and left him there.

"Told you she was antisocial." It was the RA from the Burlodge. She gave him a derisive smile. "Whatever bet you made about her, you won't win it." She sauntered off to sit with her friends.

"You know some music student named Beth? She plays violin or viola," he asked Crandall later that evening at the mid-week poker game. His friend thought about it for a minute, which gave Greg the chance to sneak an ace into his hand and discard a six of hearts.

"Beth Bramble." Crandall sat back a bit. "Her teacher's pushin' her for a performance career, but she doesn't want it."

Greg felt his curiosity sharpen. "Do tell."

"She chose music education." Crandall glanced over at him. "She's nice. Leave her alone."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"She's nice," Crandall said again, and nothing more.

Of course that made it imperative for him to check lesson schedules, easily done as they were posted on the department head's door. Bramble was in early with him—some loser named Worthing. Greg hid behind a bathroom door and was rewarded with the sight of her headed into the office with case and music in hand. She didn't look pleased to be there.

"Good morning," he heard Worthing say. "I hope you've put in more practice time this week. You need it."

It didn't take long to discover Bramble was good—better than good. He listened as she played and knew she'd done almost nothing else in her short life except practice and perform. Still, she had superior interpretive skills allied with decent technical ability; she'd worked hard and refined her natural talent. He wondered once more why she'd chosen to attend a large university. She could have gone to Berklee or Juilliard . . . Raised voices caught his attention.

"—they'll give you first consideration, do you understand what that means?"

"I don't want it." Bramble sounded both weary and exasperated. "You know I don't. This is more about you than me."

"You're wasting a tremendous gift!"

"I don't think so."

Greg didn't wait to hear the rest of the argument; he left quietly for the basement practice rooms. He needed time to put things together.

That evening he made the trek to her dorm room. When he knocked he expected the same lengthy wait time, only to be surprised when the door was yanked open.

"What do you want?" Bramble glared at him. Greg folded his arms and leaned against the doorjamb. From his vantage point he could see her personal space more clearly. He'd expected the usual clutter girls brought with them—vases crammed with dried eucalyptus, posters, stuffed animals, pillows—but her room was almost stark. Standard-issue twin bed, desk and chair supplemented with a music stand, stacked milk crates crammed with albums and books, a few river stones on the windowsill, a stereo with a turntable . . . The book titles were telling—biographies, science fiction, poetry, science reference; no romances or fantasy.

"Quite an interesting discussion you had with your teacher this morning. So why don't you want a position in the symphony?"

She was silent for a few moments. "You and your friends at the frat house probably find this bet hilarious. I don't. Stop—stop following me. Just stop."

Greg stayed where he was. "People make idiotic assumptions."

Her chin went up. "Tell me it's not true."

"It isn't."

"Liar." The deep bitterness in that single word shocked him.

"Only when I need to be." He let his gaze travel over her. "You could stand to lose some weight."

"No shit, Sherlock." She didn't flinch; that told him she'd been taunted plenty of times before and learned to put up a stoic front. "Anything else?"

"There's no bet."

She actually laughed. Then she shut the door. He had to move fast to get out of the way.

"You're just not used to having girls reject you," Crandall informed him the next day. "Try being nice."

"That word again." Greg slugged down the last of his beer. "I've had girls dump me. Life isn't nice."

"But she is."

"I haven't seen any evidence of that."

"I have. Look, she's a musician. Share your music with her." Crandall ate the last of his pizza slice and burped. "Share something. You're treating her like an experiment."

It was a fair assessment. So Greg chose Friday evening to show up at her place, this time with a couple of albums tucked under his arm. When she opened the door he held them in front of him like a shield and pretended to cringe. That earned him a stony glare.

"You're persistent, I'll give you that. It must be a big chunk of money."

"There. Is. No. Bet." He sighed when she made no comment. "Trust me, I'd never work this hard for anything less than a grand and no one at my house has that kind of cash." They stood there in silence for a moment. "Ask me in. You know you want to." She shook her head. "I brought music." He tried a smile. "We both like it. Something we have in common."

"We have nothing in common." To his surprise he saw what could be a glimmer of tears in her eyes. "I have studying to do. Go away."

Greg craned his neck to look past her. "Algebra 101 . . . I can help you with that." He offered her a smile.

"It's a game to you, isn't it? Charming people." Her voice held no emotion now. "You do what you need to, to get what you want. But that won't work with me because I have nothing you'd be interested in. Now if you don't mind, I've got tests tomorrow."

Greg stayed where he was. "I don't think it's ever occurred to you that a friendly gesture can be real."

"When I see one I'll let you know." And once more the door was closed in his face.

Later, as he sat on the back porch with a beer and a cigar, he brooded over his failure. Somehow this had become a challenge, one he was determined to win. He thought about the stack of textbooks on her desk. Most of them had been remedial science or math subjects. Music education, he reminded himself. That's the key.

On Friday he skipped classes and decided to show up at one of Bramble's instead. It happened to be basic biology. The grad student who gave the lecture on the carbon dioxide cycle was about as hung over and bored as Greg expected, but that didn't seem to matter to his quarry. She took careful notes, head bent over her books—the classic illustration of a total grind. At the end she packed everything away with neat precision, lifted her head and saw him. Her impassive expression faltered. In that moment she looked young and vulnerable, her eyes wide. Then the shields went up. She passed by him without comment. He fell into step with her. They walked in silence for some time, until at last he was compelled to comment.

"Seriously? Basic science courses in your third year?" At her continued silence he rolled his eyes. "You should be sleeping in, not wasting your time with this stupid shit."

She said nothing as she entered the Union. With Greg trailing behind her she bought her usual cup of coffee and a muffin, made her way to a table in the far corner, and claimed it. Greg sat down opposite her and snagged the muffin. She watched him unwrap it and take a big bite.

"Stale," he said through a mouthful of crumbs, and pushed the rest of it back to her. "How's the coffee?"

Without comment she reached out to take the remains. That was when he saw the scars—faint pink lines on her forearm. On impulse he took her wrist in a gentle clasp. She froze; he felt her shiver when he touched her.

"Smart," he said after a moment. "You knew you'd bleed out faster if you cut lengthwise and not across the wrist." He rubbed his thumb gently over the lines. "Deep too. That takes courage."

She closed her eyes. He saw her throat move as she swallowed once, twice. "So now you think you know me." He could barely hear her. "Congratulations. Go collect your money and leave me alone."

He didn't let go. Instead he leaned in a bit and waited until they made eye contact. "Tell." He stroked her with a slow, deliberate caress.

She pulled her arm free and studied him. "Why do you even care?"

"I don't. I'm just curious. But you need to tell the story to someone or you'll crack up again. It might as well be me."

She was silent so long he nearly gave up. At last she nodded. "All right, if it'll get you to leave me alone. But not here. Not now."

"Tonight. Meet me at your place. I'll bring the pizza." Greg held his breath. Bramble looked down at the table.

"Okay."

'The Eye in the Sky,' Alan Parsons Project