House MD Fanfiction

Hate

Hilson, abuse!, 843 words
By: orphan_account

House hated the cold. He hated snow, ice, winter, and occasions when the dark grey clouds and the swirling winds forced the cold deep into his bones. He hated the burning sensation that cold provided, oxymoronic but in no way ignorable, a wet, seeping sensation no matter the source of the low temperature.

Wilson sighed at the prolific and sudden burst of curse words which spilled from the bathroom like water from a pitcher, standing up automatically. Damn. He must have used all the hot water again.

“House?”

Their relationship had started three years before, and at times he still felt odd calling his boyfriend Greg. Hell, he'd probably still feel weird about it in thirty years.

No response.

“Greg?”

The cursing had ceased by then, replaced by heavier than usual breathing which Wilson recognized as House trying to seize control of himself before he made any response. Sure enough, a few moments later the voice came, impatient and sharp.

“What?”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine, that's why I was swearing like a lunatic.”

Wilson knows the difference between House's playful sarcasm and the cutting wall of sarcasm and insults that came after a shock or upset.

“Look, I'm sorry for using all the hot water – I thought you'd showered last night.”

Another moment of silence. The breathing slowed to normal.

“It's fine. I'll catch a shower at work.”

“It's not fine.” Wilson gave a theatrical sigh, carefully planned to show House how sorry he was. “I just forget, sometimes.”

Through the bathroom door, which Wilson had approached without even realising, House gave a slightly stupid laugh. “Of course you forget. You didn't live it. It's fine.”

The front button of Greg's shirt popped open as the collar was yanked sharply back.

“Why in hell did you swap the salt for sugar? Think it was a funny prank, eh?”

John shook Greg roughly as he half pulled, half dragged him up the stairs, his stubby fingers closed tightly around his son's shirt and neck. Greg gave a snorty gasp.

“I did think it was funny, yeah.” Greg defiantly replied, wincing as his father pushed him through the bathroom door and into the large, airy room. The dinner guests, Mr and Mrs Johnson, had had to go home after Mrs Johnson had become rather confused and clammy, her skin turning ham pink. As Blythe and Mr Johnson helped her to their home a few blocks away, a very guilty looking ten year old was left with his father, along with Mrs Johnson's heavily 'salted' plate and a shaker which Greg had tried to sneak away.

“Yeah, if she'd died it would have been fucking hilarious – strip to your underwear, you worthless little idiot.”

Greg took a deep breath as soon as the pressure left his neck, and quickly set about obeying his father, folding his clothes neatly by habit. While he did this, his father had began to run a bath, cold water flowing readily from the highly polished tap.

“In.”

Hesitation caused a shiver to run through Greg, his body briefly rocking back and forth as he contemplated the filling tub. A cold bath. This was new. Usually, he'd get a taste of his father's belt if he 'misbehaved', or a night in the yard. His moment of uncertainty cost him, though, and he was propelled forth head-first into the bath by a sharp push in the small of his back. The coldness of the water shocked him, causing goosebumps to rise on his skin immediately. It literally took his breath away as he tried to keep as much of his body out of the water as possible, his lungs seeming to empty themselves in reaction to the freezing temperature which had just assaulted him.

It wasn't even the beginning.

When his father returned a minute later, he was holding a dark brown plastic bucket, a remnant from Blythe's attempt at keeping chickens a few years before. It wasn't filled with feed, however, but with something that Greg couldn't understand where his father had gotten it from: ice. He stopped contemplating a moment later, however, when some of the ice tipped onto his head and down his back, numbing the flesh as the same time as stinging it, his penis shrivelling even closer to his body at the further plummet in temperature and his nipples becoming as hard as rocks. More ice followed, and Greg was too terrified to move, too terrified to do anything. How long would he have to sit there, his entire body shocked by the cold?

“You sit there and think about how funny your little prank was.” John roughly told his son, before drawing back and sitting on the toiletseat. He didn't look at his son, or even acknowledge him, just sit in the same room while Greg began to cry at the cold, his skin grey and his body shaking violently.

The reason that House hated the cold wasn't the sensation of iciness, or the unpleasantness, but because of the simple fact that the cold hated him.