035. Time
All That Really Belongs To Us Is Time
There were many things House hated about his disability. He hated the pain that he lived with, day in and day out. He hated having to rely on the cane to walk any distance beyond a few steps. He hated the limp that forced the use of the cane. He hated what his thigh looked liked, scarred and missing muscle tissue. He hated the stares and curious questions from complete strangers. But one of the things that grated the most was the time it took to do things now.
Walking was the most obvious. The limp slowed him down. The pain slowed him down even more. He used to walk quickly, striding through the corridors of the hospital, making people almost run to keep up with him. He used to run; great, long, ground-eating strides, the wind in his hair, a grin on his face. There was no running now; just walking was enough of a trial. While he'd made the occasional idiotic effort to walk normally without his cane, suppressing the limp, he had never even once tried to see if he could run. He could be stupid sometimes but he wasn't that stupid.
It took more time to get ready in the morning. Once he'd been able to be out the door within fifteen minutes of waking which had been a real bonus during med school. It had allowed him valuable sleeping-in time after the parties at night and still be able to get to his classes on time. But now it took time. He had to be careful in the shower even with the bars Wilson had installed after he'd been released from hospital after the infarction. He had to move deliberately, slowly or risk slipping on the wet floor of the shower. Even dressing took more time. He couldn't balance on one leg while shoving the other into his jeans anymore. He had to take his time, be careful, be judicious in his movements.
Even going out took more time. He had to be careful, manoeuvre deftly, to get in and out of the car. He had to pick his path when walking through a crowded bar or in a restaurant. Make sure that no one would bump him too hard or pull out a chair at just the wrong time. It made going out a chore, a trial, a burden and made him long for his own couch, his own apartment where he could lounge around to his heart's content and make Wilson get the beer. Or take his own sweet time getting it himself.
He knew he hid his frustration well. He knew others assumed it was due to the pain, the bitterness, his misanthropy. He knew they didn't realise that he hated being slow, he hated having people wait for him, he hated taking so much time to do even the simplest of things. Even Cuddy had been taken in but she was a busy woman, it had been easy to throw her off the scent. He'd been surprised when Stacy had been fooled; he'd thought she knew him better. But he soon realised that she knew the old him, the whole him, not the post-infarction, broken him. She'd never gotten that chance, she'd left before being able to get to know the broken him, driven off by his vitriol and her own guilt. And now she wasn't able to see it; blinded by her love and concern for her husband, her pain and guilt on seeing him and her concentration on her work.
But Wilson saw it; he knew and he did what he could to alleviate House's frustration. He adjusted his own walking pace to match House's limping rhythm. And not just when they were walking the corridors together. The steady pace had become ingrained, become natural to him. He'd learnt how to help in ways that House would not reject, learnt how to be subtle about helping. Little things like making two cups of coffee in the morning instead of one. Timing his own drinking so that he conveniently finished his beer just before House finished his. Ensuring that if they did go out, it was at a time that meant where they were going would be sparsely populated.
House never openly acknowledged these little things that Wilson did. It wasn't in his nature and he wasn't sure he would know how to do so anyway. But he acknowledged them tacitly as best as he could. He didn't always do it well but he did what he could. He snarked so as to make Wilson laugh. He encouraged him to play hooky in the clinic because it was fun even if they did get into trouble sometimes. He paid up the ten dollars every time Wilson lost a patient because someone had to point out that people died and it couldn't be avoided by simply being nice. And he gave his friend a sanctuary; some place he could go where people didn't expect him to be nice. Where he could relax and avoid whatever was bothering him, be it the current wife, the patients, other doctors.
He made time since it was what he had so much of now.