First fic for House M.D. with chapers. (:

Toxicity

"House!"

Stopping dead in his tracks, House sighed as he heard his name yelled from the stairs. Wilson, of course. That jerk just didn't want somebody else to get home and watch the game if he couldn't himself. Raising his eyes to the ceiling for a moment, House limped around, and, sure enough, Wilson was struggling through the throngs to get to him.

Reaching House, Wilson clutched his side, having apparently decided waiting for the elevators was too trivial for him and bounding down three floors at top steed.

"You buh-bastard, House." He panted, trying to catch his breath. "I've been cuh-calling since your office."

"Yuh," House nodded, rubbing the stubble over his his jaw briefly, in that thoughtful sort of way. "And I've been tactfully ignoring you since my office."

Grimacing, Wilson closed his eyes until he could stand straight without the stitch making another attack on his side. Being 'in top shape' wasn't really the same as sprinting through a hospital, dodging patients and staff while yelling your ass of a coworker's name.

Deep brown eyes finally opening once more, Wilson shoved the paper file in his right hand at House's chest, looking somewhat drawn. As House complained, however, the chords beneath his shirt collar in his neck tightened, and he looked like he was having trouble just not shoving a fist into Greg's stomach.

"I'm going home! What, you want me to say it slower? Want it in Spanish? I go home to get away from patients, not to be reading about some little girl with an eraser up her nose as my bedtime story."

"I don't want you to take it home." Wilson muttered, looking sideways at the floor instead of directly at House. "I want you to take the case. And do something about it. Now."

House's jaw dropped, and he made a few attempts at words in his dumbstruck state. If he hadn't already, he now looked completely incredulous.

"Wha-- Go away." Deciding he couldn't risk any more time arguing with Wilson without risking missing the beginning of The O.C, House shoved the case file back at the other before turning around and making for the main doors.

It didn't look like Wilson was giving up without a fight, however, and darted around to block him. House sighed and rubbed his brow.

"This is incredibly juvenile." House spoke with an unusual quietness before shifting his weight more onto his good leg and striking Wilson's with his cane. It had the desired effect, and the Oncologist stumbled from his path in favor of clutching his shin.

Smiling, House pushed open the main door, the cool breeze hitting him.

"It's my wife!" Was the strangled cry from behind him, and – strangely – the voice seemed close to cracking. Twisting his head back, he could see Wilson was still holding his shin, but had that look of desperation on his face that made him look so much like a puppy. House sighed, and, even if he didn't show it, felt something inside him mellow.

"Which incarnation?" He asked sharply, pointedly checking his watch.

"The first one. Blythe. Please." With his free hand, Wilson held out the case papers while testing his foot back on the floor. Both prayers were answered as there was no shooting pain and House took a half-step back towards him.

"They don't know what's wrong." He said as he handed over the papers. "But they know she's dying."

Shoulders dropping a little, House briefly scoured the papers before looking back up at a thoroughly relieved Wilson. In fact, he looked so relieved that House was tempted to throw the Kleenex box at him.

"Alright." House mumbled, grudgingly. "But you'd better tape The O.C. For me, or you are so dead."