“Doctor Wilson?  Do you have a minute?”  Loretta, the oncology department’s administrative assistant, catches up with him in the hallway.

            “A minute, yeah,” he says.

            “It’s the kids’ Christmas party,” she explains.  “The company that was supposed to provide the Santa Claus called and said half of their Santas are down with the flu.  They don’t have anyone available to send.”

            “That’s a shame,” Wilson says.  “The kids are really looking forward to it.”

            “Well, they said they could send us the costume and an elf.  So now all we need to do is find someone to wear the suit.”

            “Oh, you know who would be good?” Wilson asks.

            “Folger from Optometry?”

            “Yes!  He’d be perfect.”  Folger is plump, white-haired, and won't even need a fake beard.

            “He’s already supposed to be Santa at a children’s home, a special needs school, and his granddaughter’s house.  He can’t fit us in.”

            “Damn.”  Wilson tries to think who else would make a convincing Santa.

            “I already asked Cartwright, Walker, and Schmidt, too.  And I called the theatre department at the University and the local acting club.  They don’t have anyone.”

            “There has to be someone,” Wilson says. 

            “Ask everyone you see, okay?  I sent out an email, but people are more likely to agree to do it if someone asks them personally, and I can’t talk to everyone.”

            “Yeah, sure, I’ll ask people.”

            Wilson asks everyone he can find, whether they look anything like Santa or not.  The man who cleans up in the cafeteria looks like a good bet at first—Wilson knows he doesn’t have any family, so he’s probably free, and he won’t need much padding in the suit. 

            “Thanks for asking me, Doc,” he says.  “But I don’t think I can.  What if one of the kids says that what they want for Christmas is not to die?”

            “They probably won’t.  If they do, just say you wish you could.”

            The man shook his head.  “My heart couldn’t handle it.  I’d start bawling right there in fronta everybody.”

            “That’s okay,” Wilson says, even though he’s rapidly running out of people to ask.

            “Sorry, Doc.”

            In desperation, he goes to Diagnostics—there’s an outside chance House will make one of his fellows cancel their own Christmas Eve plans to do it. 

            Cameron, predictably, gives him an opening.  “How’re things going for the cancer kids’ Christmas party?”

            “Not so great,” he answers, getting a cup of coffee.  “Santa Claus cancelled.”

            “Shocking,” House says.  “You’d almost start to think that life is unfair to dying children.”

            “Half the actors from the company we use are out sick,” Wilson explains.  “They offered to send the suit over, if we can find someone to wear it.”

            “You know who would be good?” Cameron says.

            “Folger’s busy,” Wilson answers.

            “Oh.” 

            “We’d take anyone, at this point.  Foreman?  How about you?” 

            “I’m going upstate to see my brother,” Foreman answers.  “Sorry.”

            “Chase?”

            “I’m covering Doctor Thompson’s ICU shift so she can be there for her son’s first Christmas Eve.”

            “So you can keep yourself in appletinis and ugly ties, you mean,” House says.

            “Cameron?” 

            “Do they even have a Mrs. Claus costume?”

            “This is the twenty-first century!  A woman can be Santa Claus,” Wilson says desperately.

            “I don’t think so.  The kids would notice.”

            “Okay, maybe we can get a Mrs. Claus outfit.”  That could actually work.  It would be better than nothing, anyway.  “You can tell the kids that Santa has too much last-minute stuff to do, so he sent you.”

            “I actually have plans, anyway,” Cameron says.  “My parents are expecting me, and I have to leave at five to get there in time for midnight services.”

            “Dying children!” Wilson reminds her. 

            “Sorry.”

            He turns to House.  “I don’t even have to ask, do I?”

            “Nope.”

            “You’re not even going to pretend that you have a good reason, are you?”

            “I got myself a hooker for Christmas, and I have to be home to unwrap her,” House answers. 

            “The party only lasts an hour,” Wilson points out.  “Six to seven.  I bet you could reschedule the hooker.”  He’s not sure why he’s arguing—it’s not like House is actually going to do it, no matter what he says. 

            “Surprisingly not.  I waited until the last minute one year, and they were all booked up.  Just do it yourself,” House suggests.  “Jesus was Jewish, so there’s no reason Santa can’t be.”

            “I could, but a lot of the kids are looking forward to seeing me, too.  If I have to, I could put in appearance as myself and then go put on the costume, but there’s no way I’d have time to talk to each of them as myself and as Santa.”

            “Well, there actually is a good reason I can’t do it, and if you think about it for a minute, you’ll see what it is.”

            Wilson thinks.  Of course—House’s leg.  Santa Claus screaming in pain when they sit on his lap could be traumatizing for a kid.  “We could make sure they sit on your other leg,” he suggests.

            “You always go straight to the leg, don’t you?  The reason is because I’m an asshole.”

            “You could fake being nice for an hour.  I have faith in you.”

            “I’m sure I could, but, being an asshole, why would I?”

            “I’ll pay you,” Wilson says.

            “There’s not enough money in the world.” 

            “I’ll get you a subscription to the porn of the month club.”

            “Already have one.”

            “I don’t suppose you’d do it because your best buddy is asking you to.”

            “Have we met?”

            “All right,” Wilson says.  “You’re forcing me to do this.”

            “Do what?”

            “If you won’t do it, I’m telling them--” he gestures to House’s team “—about that thing.”

            “What thing?”

            “You know which thing I mean.”  Actually, Wilson doesn’t even know which thing he means—but it’s possible there’s something House might think he knows that he doesn’t want his fellows to hear about.

            House looks at him for a minute, then snorts.  “You’re bluffing.”

            “I’m not bluffing.  I’ll do it.”

            “That’s not what you’re bluffing about.  There is no thing.”

            “There is.”

            “Then whatever you’re thinking of is something that means so little to me that I’ve completely forgotten about it.”

            “Think about it, it’ll come back to you,” Wilson bluffs desperately.

            “Tell you what, we’ll step into my office and you can just tell me what it is.”

            Wilson tries to think of a way out of it.  “Okay.”  Maybe he’ll think of something on the way there.  It’s ten whole steps.  Plenty of time.

            House ushers him in to the office.  “It’s so obvious that you have nothing,” he says. 

            “Is it really too much to ask for you to take an hour our of your busy schedule to make Christmas special for some kids who probably aren’t going to see another one?”

            “Hah!  I knew you didn’t have anything.”

            “I won’t tell anyone that you did it.  I’ll lie and say I dragged in a homeless man off the street.”

            “That’s not a bad idea, why don’t you trot down to the soup kitchen and find one?”

            “Because most of the kids have compromised immune systems, and a lot of homeless people aren’t very healthy,” Wilson explains impatiently.  “Same reason I didn’t go down to the Clinic waiting room and offer to move anyone who’d do it to the head of the line.”

            “Why don’t you work on Cameron some more?  She might cave.”

            “Why don’t you just act like a human being for a change?”

            “Because human beings are stupid.  Anyway, you wouldn’t be asking me if any of the other human beings who work here had been willing to do it; we both know I’d suck at it.  I’m just the only one who isn’t bothering to come up with a self-serving excuse.  I’m not doing it because I don’t wanna, which is the exact same reason no one else is doing it.”

            “Everyone else, if they aren’t genuinely busy with something important, doesn’t want to do it because being around dying children on Christmas Eve is depressing.  Are you saying that’s why you won’t do it?”

            House hesitates.  “Touché.” 

            “You’re right that you were the last person I asked.  But you’d actually be good at it.  I’ve seen you with kids.  You’re not going to talk down to them, you’re not going to resort to avoidance or clichés if they want to talk about the fact that they’re dying.  I bet if one of them asks why Santa can’t make them healthy for Christmas, you’d have a real answer.  You don’t want to do it, fine, don’t do it, but don’t pretend it’s because you wouldn’t be any good at it.  The only reason not to do it is because you’re just as much of a chickenshit as everyone else.”

            House looks down at the rug.  “You’re getting better at this manipulation shit,” he says. 

            “Thanks.”

            House takes a deep breath. “If I do this, you owe me bigtime.”

            “Naturally.”

            “A very special guest is coming to visit us tonight,” Wilson says to the children in the pediatric oncology playroom.  “He’s very, very busy, since tonight is Christmas Eve--”

            “Santa!” yells Kaitlynn, a six-year-old with osteosarcoma in her right ulna.

            Wilson smiles at her.  “He’s a very good friend of mine, so he made time to stop by, just for a little while.  The one and only, Santa Claus!”

            The kids and their parents clap and cheer as House limps into the room, followed by the elf from the Santa rental company, carrying a sack full of toys provided by the staff.  His “Ho, ho, ho, merry Christmas!” sounds only a little bit forced.

            “Are you really friends with Doctor Wilson?” another kid, Johnny, asks.

            “Did he say that?  Oh, sure!  Santa and Dr. Wilson go way back.” 

            They’ve set up a chair for Santa near the artificial Christmas tree.  House heads for it. 

            “What’s wrong with your leg, Santa?” Kaitlynn asks.

            “Sleighing practice accident,” House answers. 

            “Will you still be able to deliver all the presents?”

            “Oh, sure.  It doesn’t hurt that much.”

            “When you sit on Santa’s lap,” Wilson jumps in, “be careful not to sit on his hurt leg.  He has a big night tonight, so we don’t want to put too much strain on it.”

            “Where are your reindeer?” Johnny wants to know.

            “On the roof,” House answers.  “They can’t come in the hospital.  They shed, and the hair might be bad for patients with breathing problems.”

            “Mom!”  Johnny hisses.  His mother starts rooting in her handbag.  “I saved some carrot sticks from my lunch for Rudolph.”

            “Great,” House says.  The woman hands him some limp carrot sticks wrapped in a napkin, with a slightly apologetic smile.  House tucks them in a pocket. 

            “Who wants to tell Santa what they want for Christmas?” Wilson asks. 

            All of the children yell, “Me! Me!” and “I do!” 

            “Maybelle, why don’t you go first.”  Maybelle has been fighting leukemia almost all her life; she’s spent four of her eight Christmases in the hospital.  Her father pushes her wheelchair and IV stand up to Santa. 

Wilson and the nurses worked out a schedule ahead of time, making sure that the sickest kids of those who were actually able to leave their rooms saw Santa first, in case they had to leave the party early.  He turns emcee duties over to a nurse and starts circulating among the children and parents.  Everyone’s trying hard to be cheerful, the kids as well as the adults.  Despite their ages, few are young enough not to realize that there’s something horribly wrong with spending Christmas Eve in a cancer ward. 

Wilson makes some extra time to spend with a family whose daughter was just diagnosed with a brain tumor ten days ago.  Having a seriously ill child at Christmas is hard for everyone, of course, but this particular family had had less time than any of the others to adjust to it.  They had probably started buying presents and decorating a Christmas tree thinking that they’d have a normal Christmas at home, even if their daughter did seem to be having headaches a bit more often than was normal. 

“This is very nice,” the mother, Maureen, tells him.  “The tree, the presents, everything.”

“We do the best we can,” Wilson says.  “Are you holding up okay?”

She nods.  “Yes.  Charles is home with the other kids.  We’re…coping.”

“Mama, I want to see Santa,” the daughter, Dorothy, says. 

“It’ll be your turn soon, honey,” Wilson says.  She’s near the middle of the batting order—her cancer is serious and very likely fatal, but since her last round of chemo was four days ago, she’s feeling relatively good today.  “Do you know what you’re going to ask Santa for?”

“Uh-huh.  A Dora doll, a fire truck, and a canopy bed for my room at home.”

“That sounds like a good list.”  The doll is in Santa’s bag already.  He wonders if her parents bought the bed.  The only way she’s likely to sleep in it is if they decide to do in-home hospice.  He stands up.  “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” the mother and daughter echo as he heads over to the next family. 

After he’s touched base with everyone, Wilson makes his way over to House.  “How are you holding up?” he asks as one kid hops off House’s lap and before the next one comes over.

“Is there any way you could get Santa a stiff drink?”

“There’s eggnog,” Wilson offers.

“The good kind of eggnog?”

“No.”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“David.”  It’s a sad case.  A mixed-race boy of about eight, David had moved back and forth between foster care and his addicted mother’s house for most of his life.  Just before his diagnosis, his mother had been sent to prison for twenty years, and he’d been placed on the adoption track.  His chances for adoption were never good, but now that he has leukemia they’re exponentially worse.  Even if he makes a full recovery, which is possible, he’ll probably be in foster care until he’s eighteen. 

“Are you going to sit on my lap?”

“No, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.  Do you know what you want for Christmas?” House asks.

“You’re not really Santa.”

Wilson clears his throat.  “Why do you say that?”

“Santa doesn’t wear sneakers, that’s a pillow in his jacket, and Santa isn’t real.”

“How’d you find that out?” House asks. 

“I figured it out last year, when my foster family’s real kids got bikes and computers and I got socks and an action figure.  If Santa was real, he wouldn’t do that.”

“Yeah,” House says.  “You’re pretty smart.  Most people say the chimney thing, or how it’s impossible to go to every house in the world in one night.”

David shrugs.  “Santa’s magic.  He could do that stuff, if he was real.  But if he’s real and just hates poor kids, there’s no point in believing in him anyway.”

“Good point.”  House fishes in his jacket pocket.  “Want some M & Ms?”

“Okay.”

House tears the packet open and pours some of the candy into David’s hand.  “Wilson, you want some?”

“Sure.” 

            They munch in silence for a while.  Finally House says, “What do you want this year?”

            David shrugs.  “I asked for Legos.”

            “But that’s not what you really want?”

            Wilson wishes House wouldn’t follow up on that line of questioning.  Legos are what they have in the sack for him. 

            “What I really want is a dad.  I know that’s not the kind of thing you get for Christmas.  But that’s what I want.”

            House drums his fingers on the arm of the chair.  “Yeah.  That’s a tough one.”

            “Yeah,” David says glumly. 

            “Tell you what,” House says.  “I’m not going to be able to do anything for tomorrow—I’ve got a busy night, you know--but I’ll work on it during my off-season.”

            Wilson winces.  House usually knows better than to give people false hope.  Even if it is Christmas.

            “I can’t promise anything,” House adds.  “But I’ll see what I can do.”

            That’s a little better.  David knows House isn’t really Santa; he’s not expecting a miracle.  Maybe it’ll mean something to him to think that some adult, somewhere, at least takes his wish seriously.

            Even though it’s a big lie. 

            “Thanks,” David says. 

            “Hang on, I bet we’ve got some Legos for you.” 

            Wilson delves into the bag.  “Here we go.”  He hands David the present.

            “Thanks, Doctor Wilson.  Bye, ‘Santa.’”

            House rubs his leg and takes a Vicodin.  “Is that it?”

            “Yeah, he was the last one.”  The hour is up, and the parents and nurses are starting to gently herd the kids back to their rooms. 

            “Great.” 

            “I don’t know if that was a good idea,” Wilson says.  “With David.”

            “I wasn’t lying,” House answers.  “I’ll work on it.  What’s he got?  Can I just stall until he’s dead?”

            “Leukemia.  It’s responding well to treatment.”

            “Damn.”  He heaves himself up out of the chair.  “C’mon, you owe me a drink.”

            “I do?”

            “Several.”

The End