If the thought of House and Wilson together (together-together) doesn't fly with you... fly away, dear reader. Fly to a Huddy fic, because this certainly isn't one.

House smiled slightly at the picture, but his leg was the one that needed attention right now. He limped as best he could to his bedroom, trying to keep all the weight off of the offending limb. As gently as he could, he lay in bed, a heating pad over his leg, and tried to relax.

Wilson stuck his head in House's room an hour or so later. House looked up from the magazine he was pretending to read, setting it down over the heating pad on his leg. No need to add to Wilson's guilt complex by advertising the fact that his leg was hurting.

Wilson sat down on his bed slowly, looking like he was trying to formulate a sentence. "We need to talk," he finally said a moment later, looking afraid at the very thought.

House sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. "About Kim Kardashian's boob job? She so had work done."

Wilson was not amused. "Where did you find him?"

"The library."

Wilson blinked. "Why did you even think to look there?"

House sighed. This was going to be a long talk. "It was the first quiet, safe place I could think of."

Wilson looked surprised. House's genius continued to amaze him. "I never would have looked there."

House shrugged. "I have a bit more experience in these matters than you do."

He frowned when Wilson's face fell. "Hey. Stop," he commanded, kicking his friend lightly with his good leg.

Wilson rubbed the back of his neck, not having to ask what House was talking about. "Sorry. It just depresses me. I never even… I mean, I knew you and your dad didn't really get along, but…"

House kicked him again. "Ow!" Wilson yelled indignantly, rubbing the spot where House had kicked.

"Stop." House commanded. "I don't want to talk about this right now.

"House, you can't just avoid this. It isn't healthy to keep it all bottled up like this…"

"Then I should be dead by now, I've been doing it for the last 45 years."

"It's a wonder you aren't dead!" Wilson exploded, tossing his hands up in frustration. "You're life hasn't exactly been a bucket of roses, House."

In his anger, Wilson had jerked the bed – and therefore, House's leg. House swallowed, lowering his eyes away from Wilson's accusatory glare with hurt on his face, and not all of it physical.

Wilson melted when he saw that look, and the way House gingerly placed his hand over his leg. His friend wasn't the untouchable man he often thought of him as. House had emotions too – some of them were probably even more fragile than normal people's.

"House, I'm sorry. I didn't mean –"

"Yeah you did," House cut him off bitterly. "I'm screwed up and I know it. You didn't have to tell me."

Wilson placed a light hand on House's knee. "You aren't screwed up. You've just had different life experiences than most people. All I'm saying is, talking helps. If we sort through some of the damage your dad did to you… maybe we can stop it from happening to Jacob."

House continued to stare at his lap.

"We don't have to talk about it tonight," Wilson said after a long moment of silence. "I'm not going to force you. But I do think it's important, alright?"

House shrugged.

Wilson sighed, removing his hand. "Tomorrow we have to finish Jacob's room. I'll... see you in the morning I guess."

House said nothing, and Wilson walked toward the door. He didn't know what he'd been expecting, but what came was not it.

"Wilson." House grunted quietly. Wilson did a 180.

House didn't saw a word, but his face conveyed his message clearly. Wilson could see the inner turmoil in his eyes, the memories the last few days had brought up. He could see the need there.

Wilson nodded. "Just let me get Jacob settled. I'll get us some dinner, and… I'll be right back."

He'd hit right on the money, because House relaxed immediately. He nodded slowly, looking back down at his magazine.

True to his word, he returned minutes later. "I set Jacob up with a movie and some leftovers."

House set his magazine down, taking the plate from Wilson as he sat down on the other side of the bed and handed it to him. House picked at the food, the forks of the two men clicking against the plates in the silence.

House, as usual, was the first to break it.

"The first time he hit me, I was four," he stated, deadpan. "I was crying because I'd somehow gotten the ball over the neighbor's fence. Apparently, my inability to articulate the reason why I was upset pissed him off."

Wilson was frozen, afraid to make a move for fear of making House stop.

"When mom got back from her 'girl's day out', he convinced her that I'd fallen, and that was what had bruised my face. She bought it without question. By that point, he'd told me that so many times that I believed it, too."

He remembered that day. He remembered the red plastic ball sailing over the fence, the crying to his father, who was supposed to fix everything; the moment his annoyance transformed into rage and hate, and the feeling of pain and betrayal as his dad's fist knocked into his cheek. He remembered the way his tears had become silent, how he'd fallen on the floor only to be yanked up by a slightly panicking dad, who drilled into him for the next three hours how he'd fallen while trying to climb over the fence. He remembered his mother's face, how'd she'd cooed and nursed the bruise until it was gone, how she'd commented continuously how he was such a big boy for not crying.

He remembered it all, in stunning detail. That was his curse. The pain of it had not faded with time.

Wilson's hand on his shoulder startled him, food flinging off of the plate as he jerked. He could have cared less about the rice on his sheets, though – Wilson's touch had brought him back to the present.

He took a deep breath, setting the plate on the night stand. He couldn't eat when his stomach was flip flopping like this. "That was the only time I've seen him panic like that. The rest of the time he was cold about it, calculated. He'd lose it sometimes, but afterwards he always stood there and let me deal with it."

Wilson set his plate down as well, and faced House. His brown eyes were full of love and compassion. No words were needed.

And then suddenly, they were kissing, and neither man was questioning the other or themselves, and neither rice in the bed-sheets nor pain in the thigh could possibly have stopped the inevitable.

Not even gonna try to lie this time. The next update is gonna be a while. Review, dear readers? The more I get, the more my guilt will motivate me...