House MD Fanfiction

When Life Gives You Lemons

Hilson, blind!Wilson, sweet, 2,325 words
By: DarlingHilson (Mycroffed)

Bam bam bam

 

The punches against the bag sound like gunshots in the still, quiet hospital gym. It’s two AM, so no one’s there, no one’s even in the building except for the overnight patients and the unlucky interns who drew a short straw.

And Wilson.

Sweat soaks his body, making his t-shirt and basketball shorts cling to his skin. Every muscle in his arms strains and aches, but he ignores the pain. The adrenaline is making it bearable, all the beautiful chemicals coursing through his veins as he hits and kicks the hanging bag over and over again. 

Bam bam bam

That and the anger.

Bam bam bam

 

He watches his black mitts slam against the leather through narrow eyes. 

It makes his so angry, his life. Who he is. 

Forty-four long years of being the nice guy. Of turning the other cheek. Of being patient and understanding and letting things go, always letting things go.

It gets old. So fucking old.

Bam bam bam

As he jabs and knocks the bag back and forth, watching it swing wildly from it's chain, he imagines what would happen if he didn’t have this gym, this bag, as a shock absorber for when this happened. When he exploded.

He imagines storming into the Oncology ward and screaming his head off at the inconsiderate nurses, the rude patients. He’s a smart guy, dammit. He went to eight years of school to do his job, and he’s very good at it. No more questioning him, no more arguing or trying to make him look foolish. 

He imagines crashing his car into the big concrete pillars in the parking garage. Not caring about how much money it would cost to fix either one. Just to hear the crunch, just to watch the people scramble, just to be the chaos instead of the shield against it.

Bam bam bam

 

He imagines stalking into the Diagnostic office, kicking the door open like he used to do to in his bedroom as a little kid, back when he really was fearless. The team jumping in surprise and mild fear, not just staring at him like he’s House’s trained puppy. 

Speaking of which...

He imagines pushing through the second set of doors, pausing only to slap the ass of whichever overly-beautiful doctor got stuck working for Greg House this year, without worrying about being gentlemanly or appropriate or caring about anyone but himself and what he wanted.

Bam bam bam

He imagines punching House in the face, hearing the crack of his nose. Better than music.

And then, relishing it, he imagines grabbing him by the sleeves of that awful, wrinkled button down and kissing him roughly, tasting blood as he pushes him down on his weird, glass desk, having his way with him, not caring about his subordinates who might be watching.

Who’s the boss now? Who’s the tough one, who doesn’t take shit, who doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want, ever?

He imagines growling into House’s ear as he drives into him with almost superhuman strength. 

 

How do you like me now?

Being strong, and bold, and standing up, taking what he wants when he wants it, for the first time in his goddamn life.

Bam bam SLAP

 

An heavy, lust-filled, awkward hit to the top of the bag sends the chain breaking from the ceiling, and all eight hundred pounds of sand crash to the ground, shaking the floorboards on impact. 

He jumps back, but doesn’t cry out in surprise. This isn’t the first time this has happened.

Because Wilson doesn’t do any of that. 

Wilson never does that.

He only attacks his punching bag until it breaks, his arms shake, and his legs fall out from under him.

It's what's best for him. What's best for everyone.

He collapses on the dulled wood floor, holding his trembling mitts up against his damp hair, heaving in and out as his heart pounds frantically, trying break out of his ribcage.

He sits on the floor until it gives up it’s escape attempt, his breathing coming back to him, his legs regaining feeling.

Time to box up the rage again.

Put the mitts at the bottom of his bag. Wash his hair and skin, put on his suit and tie. Pick up his clipboard.

Smile.

Keep smiling until it hurts too much to go on, when the anguished stomachaches get unbearable and he barely makes it to the bathroom before the hot, furious tears start springing from his tired eyes.

Until the soft, gentle grin is too weak to pin back the red beast behind it.

Then lace the gloves back on.

And repeat.