House's eyes were half-mast as he entered Wilson's car and he refused to look at the oncologist. Instead he looked out the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass.

"You should talk about it."

House glanced at Wilson to see his mouth set in a tight line, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles paled.

"Stop it." House whispered. He was tired and didn't want to deal with ghosts of the past.

"You were yelling at me. You hit me." Wilson shook his head in quiet desperation.

House cocked an eyebrow. "Do you want an apology?"

"This is not funny."

"What's done is done. Stop prying into things that have nothing to do with you."

Tires screeched as Wilson swerved into a parking spot. He turned to glare at House. "Don't do that. Don't downplay your past and act as if nothing significant happened to you. Don't act as if you had a great average childhood. I know you didn't."

House fingered the head of the cane in his right hand and thumped it against the car floor for a few moments. "My childhood wasn't normal. I got into a lot of fights as a kid." He shrugged. "I was just as smart-mouthed back then as I am now. That's all that was."

"No. No it wasn't just that." Wilson shook his head furiously. "You called me Dad. You yelled at me to stop hitting you."

Everything seemed to stop. His eyes widened with fear and breathing stopped. House pressed his lips together tightly as a sign he wouldn't say another word.

Wilson hit the steering wheel in frustration and yelled, "Stop shutting me out. Let me help you." He took a deep, stuttering breath and grabbed fistfuls of the exposed collar of his crisp white shirt. He was probably on the verge of having an anxiety attack.

"Hey, calm down." House's left hand hovered over Wilson's arm.

"Don't tell me to calm down." Wilson snapped. He held his head in his hands and leaned back against the seat.

House sucked air into his mouth and moved it around before letting it out in a sigh. "Are you ok?" He asked hesitantly, looking over at Wilson after he had taken a few calming breaths.

Running a hand over his coat to smooth it out, Wilson nodded slowly. "I'm fine."

House gave a small nod of approval.

"What are you trying to accomplish? Is this just you being stubborn or is it something else?" Wilson asked in a whisper.

The diagnostician felt the corners of his mouth turn down in a frown. "There is nothing else. There's just you, trying repeatedly to dig up the past. Do you realize you're the only one who wants to reopen old wounds?"

"So you admit something happened."

"I've moved on, Wilson. Things happened. I sure as hell don't want to waste my time talking about it." House yelled.

"You need to. You need to get closure."

"Did your shrink tell you that after Amber died? Because you really opened up." As soon as the words were out he regretted saying them. There was no going back now. He had to face the consequences of his actions. That was all he could do.

"That's not fair." Wilson's brown eyes were so filled with hurt House couldn't stand to look.

House pursed his lips and turned his gaze to the floor, suddenly finding a dirt stain fascinating. Wilson tore his gaze from House to concentrate on the road.

"You're right." House said gruffly as Wilson parked in front of their apartment. "It wasn't fair for me to bring her up like that." It was a half-ass attempt at an apology but at least he said it.

"I'm the one that should be sorry." Wilson hung his head. "I had no right to bring up your past. I just… I care about you and… I want to be able to help you."

All he could hear was his heart beat as panic began to set in. Things were becoming far too intimate and he couldn't handle it. He simply nodded dumbly before fumbling with the lock and stumbling out the car. He heard the car door open and close then Wilson's footsteps closing in on him. He had just gotten the door open when he felt Wilson's fingertips brush the back of his neck.

"What the hell?" House jerked awkwardly away from the touch, nearly falling over when his bad leg gave in.

Wilson caught him by the front of his jacket, hooking his fingers into the pocket, and had to wrap his other arm around the older doctor to steady him. Their chests brushing together as they swayed unsteadily on their feet.

House dropped his cane and instinctively grabbed onto Wilson's coat with his right hand in an effort to keep upright. "What are you doing?" He pulled back a little, body tensing as the result of physical contact.

"Do you even know how many scars you have?" Wilson asked. "Every time you ended up in the ER I could see them. There's one on the back of your neck. I would tell myself they were just collections from an active childhood. I always doubted myself though."

House pulled Wilson's hands off his jacket. "I have nineteen belt buckle scars, three burn scars, two surgical scars, and five self-inflicted scars. I also have a scar on my lip from when I accidentally bit it. Is that enough for you?" He said calmly as he gave the oncologist a withering glare.

"No."

"What else do you want from me, Wilson?" House yelled. He threw his arm out angrily gesturing at nothing in particular. "Do you want me to tell you how much my father hated me? How he constantly belittled me and treated me like shit? How I loved it when he beat the shit out of me because then at least I knew that he knew I existed? I give you everything I have and nothing is good enough for you."

Wilson tried to comfort his friend by wrapping his arms around him but House knocked his arms away. His chest expanding more than normal as he took deep breathes.

"Is that what you wanted to hear? You sick bastard." It was frightening the way his voice cracked. "I've tried for years to just keep stuff like this buried and you had to dig it up. You and your damn need to know."

"House, I-"

He held up a shaky hand. "It's over. He's dead. The end." House spun on his heel to limp heavily toward his bedroom sans cane.

It was as if there was a gaping hole in his chest as closed the door behind him and he felt as if he might actually be sick. He drew the blinds so it was dark and curled up in the middle of the bed despite the pain of his ribs. The smell of Wilson still cling to bed and, coupled with the sound of the younger doctor baking out of guilt, helped lull him to sleep. He stayed in that curled position, biting the knuckles of his right hand to keep from crying.