A/N: Sorry this update took a bit longer than usual... Student council, every day cross country workouts, and weight lifting every other day keeps me busy, not to mention that my wifi has been out and was just fixed today, so I am finally able to put up a new chapter! Please keep reviewing, it means a ton to me!

Disclaimer: You know the drill. I don't own House and I don't own Scars. Well, the song anyway.

Gregory House's mind was still swarming with images of his brutal, hard father with that familiar, unforgiving look in his eyes before he pushed his child down the hall when Wilson called his name. Suddenly yanked straight back into his flashback he was just pulling himself out of, the pace of House's breathing increased and sweat rushed out of his pores. Not realizing it was Wilson who had called to him, the diagnostician quickly flipped around towards his friend with a wild look in his eyes and an uncontrollable urge to just get the hell away.

"House! I've been worried about you for hours, what do you think you've been doing out here alone?" the oncologist scolded the older man, not yet recognizing the fight-or-flight response in his friend until he came closer. "House?" he questioned again.

Get out of my head. Get the hell out of my head. I left you thirty years ago, and I don't need you back here again. House struggled internally with himself, trying to fight off his father mentally while the command 'be still, shut up, and take it' still remained in his mind. Hearing his name called again and again only reminded him of the verbal abuse inflicted upon him for not finishing a drill fast enough, or eating more than his daily ration, or getting into trouble yet again.

"What is he doing?" Wilson questioned internally as he watched House struggle with himself. After a second of using his prior knowledge, the oncologist figured he was just hungover, cranky, in pain, and being his typical-House self, and stupidly reached out to grab the other man when he came within reach.

It was a big mistake. House, already scared to death and metaphorically drowning in memories of his father literally drowning him, forcing him to walk on nails, and throwing him outside for the night after a beating, dropped his cane and struck out at Wilson as soon as the hands closed in on his shoulders and pulled him closer. Flailing, sweating, breathing hard, and moaning unintelligible words to himself, House fell after hitting Wilson and promptly threw up before rolling over onto his side into the fetal position without realizing what he was doing in his panicked state.

[Line Break]

Rubbing his jaw where House had hit him, quite forcefully he might add, Wilson bent down next to his friend and wondered what the hell had happened and how he was supposed to get House into the car and back to his apartment. Quickly taking his pulse and noting that it was far over normal, Wilson concluded he'd had an anxiety attack for some reason he could decipher later and began shaking the diagnostician while saying loudly, "House!"

Ten or fifteen minutes of shaking and shouting later, House re-opened his eyes, vomited again, and began kneading out the cramp overtaking his thigh before trying to hoist himself up. Finally recognizing Wilson, who was just happy he had gotten his friend awake and up, House looked at his jaw and cocked his head. "What'd you do to your face?" he inquired in a weak voice, then internally yelled at himself for his voice cracking.

The oncologist gaped down at his friend before trying to, more tentatively and slowly this time, wrap his arms around House's back to pull him up. House, being his deflective self, batted his hands away and stated, "I'm a big boy."

"Of course you are," Wilson responded, figuring that House just did not want to be touched after spending the night in a bar or outside in freezing weather, all the while he was having anxiety attacks over something Wilson could not figure out. Did he get into a fight last night? Within a couple minutes, House had sat up, grabbed his cane he had thrown down haphazardly earlier, and began to push himself up with one hand while keeping his right leg straight. A few minutes later, the famous diagnostician was still in the same position, just with more sweat pouring off his forehead and more labored breathing. House clenched his teeth and with one push and a couple pulls, hoisted himself up into more of a crouched position and slowly tried to stand to his full height.

Watching this, Wilson put his face into his hands and wondered why House always had to be so damn difficult. Every inch of Wilson's body urged to reach out and grab the man to steady him, but his brain told him that House needed to learn to accept help on his own. Still, watching House bite through his lips and turn his knuckles white with an iron-grip on his smooth, wooden cane tugged on the oncologist's heartstrings more than he let on. When House had finally reached a standing position and Wilson could tell his heart rate must be through the roof, the oncologist contemplated taking him into the hospital because he was obviously in ridiculous amounts of pain, both physical and emotional, yet he just could not figure out why. Still, the brown-eyed oncologist let the taller man battle a few painstaking steps. However, when Wilson heard the smallest whimper emerge from House's throat, which he was sure he wasn't supposed to hear, he had to step in. Pulling the Vicodin out of his pocket that Wilson kept for emergencies but almost never let House use, Wilson poured three into the older man's waiting palm.

"I love you," House responded sarcastically before throwing the pills back and waiting for them to take effect. After a few minutes, they had taken the edge off of the pain in his thigh that made him think of a thousand-degree set of teeth gnawing at his leg. When Wilson reached out again to steady House, the diagnostician flinched away reflexively and mentally scolded himself. "It's Wilson. Not him. Get over it," House thought to himself.

Pondering the possible causes of House's edginess and anxiety today, the shorter man reached out again, slower this time, with the diagnostician watching the whole way, and touched House on the arm before wrapping his hand around House's forearm to ensure that he would not fall. "Okay?" Wilson asked.

"Okay," House replied shakily, feeling embarrassed at the thought of Wilson having to help him across the street like he was an old man who couldn't fend for himself, and feeling more embarrassed at the thought of his father ever seeing him this weak.

Wilson noticed his friend's breathing lock up for a moment when they began hobbling towards his car. Eventually, the oncologist had had enough of seeing him struggle and ducked under House's left arm, as was tradition, and a few minutes later, had House seated into the car. House clenched his jaw again and rubbed out his leg, glad to know where he was, but not how he got there. As Wilson sat back down, House asked again while looking at a bruise bloom over his friend's jaw, innocently enough, "really though, what did you do to your face? Did your prostitute last night like it rough?"

Looking over at his friend before he glared and sighed, Wilson started the car and stated, "You're an idiot," recognizing House's smirk, Wilson added on, "we need to talk."

A/N: Alright, can anyone catch The Fault in Our Stars reference? :) It shouldn't be too hard, I just love that book and movie and had to include it!

Hopefully, I'll be able to get in a few more updates before July, because July is when everything picks up and goes crazy for me... between the 4th of July, vacation, two running camps, my birthday, and the ridiculousness and craziness of everyday life, I don't have much time, but I'm still going to try to write a lot. In addition to this, I have a couple stories in mind that I'd like to start after this one concludes, but Scars definitely still has a ways to go.

Please keep reviewing! It makes me so happy to see new reviews.