A/N: This story was written for the FOX "Last Author Standing" challenge on LiveJournal.
Warning: Child Abuse.
"It's here!" Wilson shouted, as he burst into House's office holding a small box. House looked up from his computer in irritation.
"What the hell are you shouting about?"
Wilson smirked as he pulled up a chair and opened the box with a flourish. "Your book. It's published."
House pushed his chair back from the desk and sighed. He actually did know what Wilson was talking about. It wasn't really "his book." Over a year ago, he had been approached by Ronald Harris, an overenthusiastic journalism student. The young man had asked whether House would allow him to write a book about the diagnostician. House had refused, but after being subjected to Wilson's constant harassment and Cuddy's threats of clinic duty, he finally caved in. According to Cuddy, it would be good for the hospital to participate in this project, and the book might even make House look good – something he could use when it came time to fight the many lawsuits he seemed to attract. House had assumed Harris would never actually finish the book – after all, frat parties and spring break beach trips demanded so much of a young student's time.
He had been wrong. Here was the book, a beautiful hardcover with a huge picture of House on the front.
"Wow, that picture really brings out your eyes," Wilson said in admiration. "When did they take that?"
House shrugged. He had participated in numerous interviews with the young man, several of which had included short photo sessions. He couldn't remember exactly what took place during which interview.
"Well, I'll let you read it first," Wilson offered, setting the book on House's desk. House snorted.
"I have no intention of reading a book about myself, ever. What would be the point?"
Wilson shrugged. "Fine, then I'll let you know how it is." He happily took the book with him, and House returned to his research. He didn't give the book a second thought.
Two days later, Wilson pounded on House's front door. House slowly got off the couch and hobbled over to let him in. Wilson brushed past him, waving the book in the air.
"Is Cuddy here?" Wilson asked, looking agitated.
House looked at Wilson, concerned. "No, she's at her place."
Wilson nodded, and then plopped down onto the couch. He cracked the book open, searching.
"Page one hundred and two," he said, looking at House accusingly. "Harris interviewed your mother. She said that you fractured your rib when you fell off your bike when you were eleven."
"Yeah? So?"
Wilson slammed the book shut, causing House to flinch. "You told me that fracture was from a lacrosse injury in college."
House said nothing. Wilson pressed on.
"Why are there two different stories, House?"
House shrugged. "I must have been confused."
"How can you be confused about something like that? You just forgot breaking your rib?" Wilson yelled, hands raised in exasperation. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw House flinch, and raise his arm in a defensive posture. In that moment, Wilson knew. He slowly sat back down, never taking his eyes off of the older man.
"What really happened?"
House put his arm down, but averted his eyes. He knew he had been found out. Stalling, he asked, "What does it say, exactly?"
Wilson recognized the redirection for what it was, but softened when he noticed House's hand shaking. He opened the book again, found the page, and held it out for House. House placed the book on his lap to read it, hoping Wilson wouldn't notice his tremor.
"Greg was always getting into accidents," said Blythe House, mother of Dr. Gregory House. "He would often have strange bruises crop up. One time he even broke a rib when he fell off his bike. He could be a bit reckless at times."
Followers of Dr. House will note that the same recklessness pervades to this day. Dr. House is known for making tough decisions and using unsound methods of treatment. Fortunately, he is most often right. Take, for example, the case of Andie, a nine-year old –
House closed the book again. "It's just a broken bone. No big deal."
"But how did it break, House?"
House didn't answer.
"If it's no big deal, why won't you tell me?"
"There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."
"Yeah…now. But you haven't always been fine, have you?"
Again, House was silent.
"Why didn't you ever tell me, House? I'm your best friend."
"It's over, Wilson. It's been over for thirty years. I've moved on."
"Is that why you flinch any time someone comes near you? Because you've moved on?"
House rolled his eyes. "I'm done talking about this." He grabbed the book and flipped to a random page, pretending to read. Wilson sat and watched, unsure of what to say. Finally House put the book down again and looked at Wilson with resignation.
"What do you want me to say?"
Wilson honestly didn't know what he was hoping to hear. What could House say, really? He was right. Wilson was dredging up the past, and he probably had no right to butt into House's personal business. Still, he wished for once they could talk about something serious like this without House deflecting. Watching House's eyes, he realized that just wasn't going to happen this time.
"Nothing," he replied, giving in. "Want a beer?"
House nodded, and Wilson went to find two beers from the refrigerator. The older man turned on the t.v., and found a wrestling match for the two to watch.
An hour later, House had fallen asleep against his own corner of the couch. Wilson quietly turned off the t.v. and covered House with the throw blanket from the back of the couch. Then he ever so softly let himself out and went home. Maybe not next time, or the time after that, but someday House would be ready to talk. And Wilson would be there to listen.