Disclaimer: Oh, how I wish this were mine. I don't even owna cane, let alone House's.
A/N: Short and sweet. Easy, too: this came into my mind one day and promptly swam back out. When it came back a few weeks later, I sat down and wrote this in about a half hour. It's 2:30 in the morning; it might be a little weird, but I like it.
She offers her hand to shake, and, inanely, the only thought running through his head is how he can shake her hand when he's so busy clutching his cane.
It's a frequent problem; people, doctors, patients offer to shake hands, and he's forced to find another way to deal with the common introduction. Often he just glares at them, with the occasional glance at his cane, until they drop their hands in embarrassment and apologize. Sometimes he'll switch his cane to the other hand and shake (that's when he really likes the person). Occasionally he offers a nod before the other person gets a chance to extend their hand, avoiding the situation altogether, and stays on the other side of the room.
Sometimes he avoids the prelude altogether, and just starts right in on the abuse.
The first time it happened, he was at a complete loss. A doctor from a nearby hospital (Jefferson, he believes, though he can't be bothered to keep up with this), whom he's met before, meets him in Cuddy's office and extends a hand before noticing House's latest accessory. House instinctively reaches up to shake hands, but feels the strange wooden weight in his hand and a shooting pain down his leg, and he is stuck. He stares at his hand in confusion for a moment, and the other doctor (far more tactful than House can ever be) drops his hand and acts as though nothing had ever happened. "Dr. House. It's been a while. How's your practice doing?" He even avoids the obvious questions about how he is, not like House. House has no tact, no patience for the tactful; he runs (as well as he can with a game leg) straight into awkward situations and barrels through them with a combination of sarcasm, humor, and withering wit, leaving others stumbling in his wake (he likes leaving others stumbling. It makes such a nice change). If not for his utter confusion in this situation, he probably would have said something like, "Oh, you mean limping practice? Quite well, thanks, I've nearly managed opening doors." Instead, he mumbles something incomprehensible and pitches headlong out the door before the situation can become any more uncomfortable than it already is.
The next time, he is prepared. It's an old friend whom he's lost touch with who suddenly appears at the hospital. His wife's having a baby, he says. He's too excited to notice House's occupied hand, and extends his own automatically. House stares pointedly at the other man, who suddenly notices the cane and falls silent. His hand drops down by his side, and the moment is unexpectedly awkward. After a few confused sentences, the man rushes off to check on his wife (who had sent him on a useless errand to get him out from underfoot. It's a good thing, House thinks, that she doesn't really need two wheelchairs, as she's not getting the second).
Soon, it becomes habit, ritual. As automatic as the instinct to shake hands used to be. He doesn't need to think about the action. The cane even becomes an excuse to avoid formal introductions; instead, he just walks right in and ignores the whole name-thing. He likes it.
Until Cameron leaves.
He's faced once again with the overwhelming confusion that had flooded his mind that first time he tried to shake hands. He's turned away, but he still sees her standing there, in the pretty blue shirt that tries so hard to be unflattering but is such a perfect color for her, with her hair so flat and straight he'd swear it was plastered to her head. He doesn't want her to leave. Shaking her hand would say he accepts her departure, but not shaking it says so too. Doesn't it?
He doesn't want her to leave.
Her mouth has flattened and tightened at the corners, and her fingers are splayed and stretched, begging him for something, anything, even just a look. His hand has tightened around the handle of his cane, the knuckles throbbing, his palm aching. He can't let go; then his cane would fall and then he would fall, because right now the only thing keeping him up is the unflinching bit of wood. His mind goes blank, completely empty but for a feeling of lost confusion. This is new for him. How could one silent action unbalance him so completely? Where did Cameron learn this?
Through the frozen yet panicked emptiness in his mind he hears the words, "Goodbye, House," and still can't bring himself to move, to look up. He hears the door open, feels her glance back at him, and hears the door shut, a hollow, final, sound.
Still, the only thing he can think is how does she expect him to shake her hand, when he's so busy clutching his cane.