Work Text:
- Dexterity
Gregory House liked writing.
Fine, maybe ‘liked’ was stretching it but at the very least, House did write a lot. Between differentials and the documents he half-assed, there was a near obscene amount of writing he did; whether it be with his markers or an over-expensive pen he pocketed from Wilson’s office.
His handwriting, in spite of all that practice, was notorious for its near unreadable nature. When he wrote, there was this sense of urgency to it all-- always scribbled in a certain rushed and slanted manner. Whether it was the race-against-time differentials that had him and his team scrambling for an answer and a solution or just his lack of care for doing paperwork Cuddy practically shoved in his face.
It was just a known fact that while you could probably read some of his handwriting (mostly his differential symptoms, he wrote those with a certain sense of purpose), it really did take a sort of persistent study to understand his writings on less-important matters. Well, less important to him. Cuddy would probably disagree with deprioritizing paperwork.
Though, this wasn’t always the case. Most nurses and medical residents in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital knew of how unreadable his handwriting was, but that was — well—his right hand’s way of writing.
Not many people knew Gregory House was ambidextrous.
Admittedly, he was a right-hander first. Though, sometime between being hired and establishing the Diagnostics’ Department in Plainsboro, House had learned and mastered the skill of writing left-handed.
It hadn’t even been particularly with reason or purpose. It wasn’t kickstarted by some grand ambition under the misguided glorification of how left-handers were special or different. It was kickstarted, rather, by a bet.
James Wilson was a left-hander. Everyone knew that. Wilson hadn’t ever made a big deal out of it so it took a while but eventually, people around him noticed.
House, on the other hand, had immediately clocked it, which then consequently sparked jokes made at the oncologist’s expense-- mocking the occasional smudges on Wilson’s reports, watching Wilson struggle with right hand catered items, and so much more. It was ammunition and House hadn’t bothered holding back shots.
Which, by Murphy’s law, obviously progressed and snowballed into a hundred dollars bet over whether House could even survive a week as a left-hander after Wilson made an off-handed retort.
It was rough for House, maybe more than he’d like to admit. He had fine mobility over his left, yes, but his writing was hindered in a way that bruised his ego just a bit. Every smudge on his paperwork felt like an attack against his competence, every word that took erasing and re-spelling felt downright offensive.
But, learning to write with one’s left hand and becoming ambidextrous wasn’t just a decision made on a whim. It wasn’t easy at all, in any case.
Unfortunately, Gregory House had never been one for rational decisions. He’d practically devoted himself to mastering his left-hand for the subsequent weeks. Though, he hadn’t quite utilized that skill other than making more left-handed passes at Wilson.
Heck, even his ducklings hadn’t known about his hidden left-handedness.
~
It was just another day in Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital with nurses rushing about and medical students in disarray. Cameron had long gotten used to the hustle of the hospital and that specific art of dodging doctors and patients alike.
In her hands were the Diagnostics’ Department’s paperwork. Unfinished, overdue, and in desperate need of House’s signature. There were stacks, and she had to use both arms to support the genuinely concerning mass of overdue work.
House was late, again and as per usual, so Cuddy had unloaded the paperwork down on Cameron to shove in the diagnostician’s face. Why Cuddy believed Cameron could find House, was a mystery. The man could really disappear when he put his mind to it. Though, the only pattern that persisted was House’s Wednesday café hauls with Wilson. It was during Wilson’s break, and— well— House never quite cared for coming to the hospital on time.
That was why Cameron was waiting by the hospital’s lobby entrance patiently. Needless to say, House never did immediately report to his office and perhaps the only place he would definitely be sighted was the entrance itself— since it wasn’t quite possible for the man to break through the back door exit again, considering what happened last week.
Cameron still didn’t know what really happened but there was some talk about House’s cane and well, a broken door lock.
The clock struck ten-thirty and just like clockwork, House strolled in with Wilson by his side. The two men were side-by-side— Wilson walking with purposeful strides while House’s obstructive presence slowed him down with meaningless chatter and outrageous statements. They held café treats from two streets down. Admittedly, it was mostly Wilson holding the packed food, House was unhelpfully holding two cups of coffee stacked on one another and his cane. Wilson had his hands full with what looked like the entire dessert section.
“-don’t know why you still insist on that café.” Cameron could make out as the two men walked through the hospital doors. Wilson folded his arms in an exasperated manner, as much as he could in any case— his hands were still occupied with the downright obscene numbers of paper bags he had to carry.
House shrugged with casual dismissal— because he could with next to nothing on-hand, a fact Wilson seemed envious of— as he dryly remarked, “The other baristas aren’t as pretty.”
”The barista is a guy!” Wilson hissed, hands swinging upwards before he could think better of it; he’d nearly dropped the desserts. “You insulted him the entire time!”
”Ah, well,” House spoke up with false contemplation and continued mock-seriously, “That was to get him to spit in my coffee, for one.”
It was then that Cameron walked up to the two, House specifically. “Cuddy needs you to sign these.”
She made a move to hand the diagnostician a pen, but quickly realized the flaw in that plan. House had the steaming cups of coffee in his right hand and cane in his left.
”..I could put them on your office table?”
House hummed in agreement. Wilson, beside him, sighed heavily. “No, don’t give him an excuse to procrastinate.” He made a motion with his hand for Cameron’s pen. Cameron hesitantly handed it over, but admittedly, she didn’t know Wilson’s game plan.
There wasn’t exactly a surface for House to place down the cups of coffee (Brenda had long since banned House from coming in 2 feet of her desk) and neither Wilson nor Cameron could help him hold it; given their own stacks of items.
Then, Wilson handed off the pen to House’s left hand.
House sighed, begrudgingly lifting his left hand (and cane, though, he was using it on the wrong side anyway) and to Cameron’s astonishment, started signing the documents in her hands with his left hand.
More than that, his handwriting was ridiculously neat. It wasn’t his usual slanted cursive that made each word blend into the next. It was upright, separated by an actually reasonable space between each letter. It was the type of writing you’d expect digitally; a perfect replica of the alphabet down to each stroke.
It took a while, given all the documents, but Cameron couldn’t stop getting surprised every time House made a move to sign the papers. It wasn’t just neat, House wrote fast. Her jaw practically hit the floor.
”Well, we’re done here.” House placed the pen back on the stacks of papers with an exaggerated raise of his eyebrows. “Now, you could move out of my way or gawk at me for another hour. Your choice.”
Cameron rushed to the side-- letting the two men pass by him, mouth still agape. She stared at the two men as they walked towards the elevator, presumably to Wilson’s office— because House didn’t ever do his work willingly.
She.. really didn’t know much about Gregory House. When had he been ambidextrous?