Wilson found the yellowed, brittle paper shoved between a filing cabinet and the wall. The rest of the office had been cleared out. After nearly thirty years in pediatrics, Dr. Lawson was retiring, and his prime office space was up for grabs. Wilson wasn't eager to steal it away from the outgoing colleague; he liked his current office well enough. It had the proper balcony. But the elderly doctor had asked him one last favor as he left. "Those old files are just so damn heavy," he had grunted with a wave of his hand. "Would you mind terribly…?"

Of course, Wilson couldn't say no. It wasn't too much of a task to carry the reams of paperwork to Cuddy's office, where she could sort them to her heart's content.

But that little scrap of paper peeked out from behind the filing cabinet, and Wilson, ever so meticulous, couldn't leave it there. He stooped to his knees on the worn, gray carpet and gently extracted the old newsprint from its hiding place. Wilson gave a laugh when he saw the date on the newspaper's front page. God, Lawson hadn't cleaned the place since the late '70s, it seemed.

That would have been the end of that, except Wilson scanned the paper's modest title: The Johns Hopkins News-Letter. Made sense; Lawson was an alumnus. A quick bout of mental math, and Wilson gave a hum of surprise. 1979. House had been an undergrad then, hadn't he?

Sitting firmly on the floor now, Wilson looked around the empty room. The door was only cracked a little, and the pediatric hall was quiet at this late hour. There weren't any pressing cases he had to attend to at the moment. No harm, then, in carefully peeling the paper open.

It was a tiny slice of history inside the old student paper. The op-eds were full of debate about Cambodia, the YMCA song, and, Wilson scoffed, abortion. Some things never change, he thought. He turned some more pages.

And he lost his breath.

Because right there, on the front page of the sports section, was a piece on the champion men's lacrosse team. The article lauded last year's win, and expounded on the Blue Jay's chances for another championship. Wilson wasn't paying any attention to the words, though. He was too busy studying the black and white photograph that accompanied it, a blurry picture of the players on the field, presumably during practice. And there was House, in the thick of things, wielding the crosse with vigor, if that frozen look of ferocity in his eyes said anything.

Wilson frowned. It was difficult to imagine House playing any type of team sport. The image came to Wilson's mind: a very tiny House, sent home from grade school with a note that said, "Does not play well with others."

Wilson opened the paper to see another photo below the fold, this time of the team captain in the foreground, some clean-cut boy with his hands on his hips. But in the background, the other players dawdled. Wilson found House near the back. The picture had captured him looking at something off camera, his stick held absently, nearly vertical in the air between two fingers. It took Wilson a moment to realize that House was twirling it, just like he did with his cane.

Always a show-off.

Wilson continued to pore over both pictures, squinting to catch every last detail. He was looking for something noticeable, some secret clue from House's history. But all the differences seemed superficial.

House's hair was darker and thicker. His face was shaven smooth. And, of course, he stood on both legs. Ran, even. In the first picture, he looked about to dive after a small rubber ball like a hawk would dive for a mouse.

And that was just it. Wilson would recognize that face anywhere. He traced his fingertips over the small figure of a younger House, twirling his stick with a distracted look on his face.

"Can't wait for Lawson's cologne to dissipate before you take over his office?" a gruff voice called from the doorway. Wilson jumped, startled, before turning around to look at House.

"I don't want his office," he repeated for the third time that day. For some reason, House hadn't believed him the first couple times. "I told him I'd take care of his old files."

House snorted and advanced into the room, his cane leading the way. Wilson thought about folding the paper in his lap shut, but the guilty look on his face had already given him up. There was no hiding it from House now. He was too fast.

House leaned over his shoulder, balancing both hands on top of his cane. To fill up the sudden quiet, Wilson explained, "I found it while cleaning."

After a moment, House said matter-of-factly, "We won that year. And the year after."

"You were that good?" Wilson asked with only a hint of incredulity.

"I was. Can't speak for the other slackers," he answered.

Wilson shook his head, a smile on his face. He folded the paper with great care. "I think I'll keep it," he said, "unless you want it."

House didn't answer, and didn't even ask what Wilson was going to keep it for. He just watched the other doctor get to his feet before bringing up the subject of dinner.

"If you buy, I'll let you choose," he promised. "As long as you choose Thai."

Wilson sighed and held the door open for him. "Thai it is," he mumbled, watching House shuffle out into the hall. He held the delicate paper in his hand, and felt another smile spread across his face.

Some things, he thought, don't need to change.

Author's Note: My very first House fic. This is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.