Rating: Mild PG

Spoilers: None. Takes place any time after the beginning of season 4.

Notes: House and company belong to Fox and company and not to me. Thanks to Autumn and Geekygecko for betas.

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"You could pay someone to do this," House said, twiddling his cane in his fingers. "By the hour."

I was having a hard enough time stuffing myself into the Santa suit without simultaneously trying to match wits with House. So, I ignored him. I had in fact rented the bright red velveteen suit, with white fur trim and stiff black boots to make the rounds of the children's ward on Christmas Eve. Padding to make me look jolly was included gratis.

"What are you doing here anyway?" I asked. "Since when do you work on Christmas Eve?"

"Dying patient."

"So why are you here?" I asked, indicating my office with my free hand.

"Patient died."

"Oh, sorry."

House shrugged. "Triple A."

Abdominal aortic aneurysm. Not good and nothing House could do about it.

The instructions said the Santa suit would "fit easily over street clothes." Not exactly. I grunted as I cinched the belt over my artificially bulging waistline.

"Last time I checked," House continued, not bothering to lend me a hand, "Jews didn't believe in Santa Claus."

I hefted a black patent suspender over my shoulder. "Nor do most adults. The point is that most of my patients do."

"Or at least believe in getting free gifts."

I wasn't having any part of this. "Yeah," I said, unable to hide the sarcasm in my voice, "gives new meaning to the phrase 'dying to get a new video game.'" I pulled the adhesive strip from the back of the beard and gently pasted it to my chin. "Straight?"

"Always have been."

"The beard, you idiot." I shook my head with a snort and did my best to arrange the white-trimmed hat on my head.

"Wilson, it's fine. You're just going to the dying kiddie ward, not the Tony a-wards."

No use asking House for an opinion. I'd just have to stop by the men's room along the way to make sure I was properly put together. What I needed in this suit was air conditioning. The advertisement had also promised it was "breathable," but between the heavy velvet and the thick padding, beads of sweat were starting to pool on my forehead. I reached for the large burlap sack, grimacing as I heaved it over my shoulder.

House made no move to help me. "Have you thought about transporting all that junk in a wheelchair?"

I awkwardly adjusted the bag. "Kind of ruins the concept of Santa delivering the presents."

"And there's no chimney for you to climb down."

"I'll manage. The kids will manage."

"Where'd you get the loot?" House asked, pointing to the bulging bag.

I hobbled toward my office door, seeking balance with the bag. "Donations," I puffed. "Kids dying of cancer aren't exactly a hard sell." House trailed me toward the elevator. "Coming with me?" I asked, already certain of the answer.

"Better things to do."

"Pizza and porn?"

"No better way to spend Christmas Eve," he replied with a smile.

I really needed to start working out. The sack wasn't that heavy and the trip to the ward wasn't that long, but I was winded by the time I arrived and paused in the hallway to catch my breath. Feeling refreshed after a couple of minutes, I started my Santa rounds with the younger kids, gathered with their parents in the dayroom.

The excitement in the room was no different than you'd find in any group of children waiting for Santa Claus to appear. It was the emaciated bodies, bare scalps, and IV lines that made these kids different. A couple of the oncology nurses decked out as elves preceded me into the room. I couldn't help but smile at the oohs and ahs that greeted my arrival.

"Ho, Ho, Ho. Merry Christmas. Ho, ho, ho."

Usually, all I could offer these kids was pain and nausea and needles. It felt good to be able to be the source of joy, for a moment at least. For some odd reason, I tried to imagine House as Santa but the only image that came to mind was the Grinch. No, I corrected myself. That wasn't fair.

I forced myself to focus on the kids and not the tear-filled eyes of parents who wondered if this would be their son or daughter's last Christmas on earth. The kids still here on Christmas Eve were really sick; I always discharged every patient I thought could manage at home. The hospital was no place for a kid to spend Christmas – or any other day for that matter.

Gifts were quickly handed out – the younger kids were generally happy with anything they could unwrap. Some wanted to sit on my knee; most were too tired and too sick to do more than stay in their wheelchairs or parent's laps while I came to them. A few of my own patients recognized me, but most of the children were more than happy to accept me as Santa.

I knelt next to a girl who told me her name was Maxine. Not one of my patients but, judging by the fact that her right leg from the knee down was missing, I suspected she was battling osteosarcoma. The good news for her was that this form of cancer was generally curable. Still, going through life without a limb wasn't exactly good news.

She grinned when she opened the Afro-American Barbie, her smile broadening as she pulled it out of the box and lovingly stroked its long hair. "Thank you," her mother whispered to me. "It's exactly what she wanted."

I smiled, said something appropriate, then rubbed my chest and stretched a little. There was a slight pain under my breastbone that had been nagging me for several minutes now.

"Santa?"

I started with the realization that Maxine had asked me a question.

"Is there a wedding dress too?"

"Maxine!" her father admonished. "You should be thankful to Santa for what you got."

"But she'd look so beautiful . . . "

The debate over the Barbie and the dress continued between Maxine and her parents as I slowly stood up, grimacing as the pain burned in my chest. I took a cleansing breath, said Merry Christmas to the family and made my way out of the dayroom. I still had a number of older kids to visit.

Next stop was Adam, a fourteen-year-old with Hodgkin's. His prognosis was good but the chemo that would likely cure him had been rougher than expected and he needed the ongoing monitoring that only a hospital could provide. And, the whole process had taken its toll on his morale.

"You're not Santa," Adam exclaimed as I strode into his room. "You're Dr. Wilson. And I'm Jewish, so I don't give a crap about Santa."

"Adam!" his parents protested, simultaneously giving me a sheepish "what can we do?" look.

"It's okay," I said to all three of them. "You're right, Adam. I am Dr. Wilson. I'm Jewish too. And, personally, I like the idea of Santa."

"Hanukah's better than Christmas, anyway. You get more gifts."

"Well, consider this a Hanukah gift, then" I said, pulling a wrapped present out of my bag. "Or, I can just give it to the next person on my list."

Adam held out his hands. As he peeled away the wrapping, his father pulled me aside. "How much longer is he going to have to stay here?"

This was the one downside to playing Santa – doing impromptu rounds with the patients and parents. Luckily, I was familiar enough with their son's case to answer. "Let's see how the next round of chemo goes. If he tolerates it well, we can see about continuing the regimen as an outpatient."

"Hey doc, is something wrong?" Adam's father was giving me a strange look.

"Huh?"

"You keep rubbing your chest. You okay?"

I forced a smile. "Fine. Just tired."

Adam's voice interrupted us. "This is way cool!" he said, admiring the video game I'd brought. "Doug is so gonna want it!"

Another success, I thought to myself as I headed to the next room. Twelve-year-old Marcie was in the final stages of leukemia, her ten-year struggle coming to an unhappy end. She was asleep when I entered the room, her older sister keeping a watchful eye. Her parents had gone to the cafeteria for a much-needed break.

"She wanted to stay awake for you," the sister said. "I promised I'd wake her up when you came."

"Don't. She needs the rest." And the precious moments without pain, I mentally added.

"I know." The sister – Anne, I think her name was – looked wistfully at the bed. "She doesn't have much longer, does she?"

"No, I'm afraid she doesn't."

"Will she make it to the New Year?"

I sighed heavily. "I don't know."

"My parents – they haven't accepted that Marcie's going to die."

The pain was back; I couldn't decide if it was physical or emotional. "But you have."

"I don't want to see her suffer, or my parents suffer."

I provided what solace I could to a child forced to be the adult in the family. After a few minutes and a promise to return to the room before I left the ward, I took my leave. Outside the room, I leaned against the wall, setting the sack of toys at my feet. I took several deep breaths, forcing air into my lungs. It didn't help nearly as much as I'd hoped. My chest hurt.

My fingers snaked up to my carotid. I didn't need to count the beats to know my heart was racing. My symptoms lined up as if on House's whiteboard. Chest pain, pain in my left arm, tachycardia, sweating. Shit, I was having a heart attack. I was thirty-eight years old, no risk factors. How could I be having a heart attack?

Leaving my bag, I carefully made my way down the hallway to the nurse's station, feeling my heart pounding in my chest every step of the way.

"Dr. Wilson!" A nurse named Maggie came up to me. "I'm so glad you came. The children are so excited—" She looked at me strangely. "Dr. Wilson, are you okay?"

"I need to sit down," I managed as I dropped into the nearest chair. It was on rollers and I almost fell off as it moved out from under me. "Chest hurts," I said, rubbing my breastbone through the padded suit.

This admission prompted obvious concern. This time her fingers found my carotid, then brushed against my forehead. Immediately she reached for the phone. "Josh, need you at the nurse's station stat." A second later. "Now, right now. It's Dr. Wilson; I think he may be having an MI."

My terror returned. I was having a heart attack. Shit. I tried to focus on what I needed to do. I was in a hospital, I reminded myself; I didn't need to do anything.

"Okay, Dr. Wilson," Maggie said in a soothing tone. "We're going to take care of you, get you down to the ER and get you checked out." Gentle hands pulled my Santa hat off my head and undid the buttons of my suit. I was too scared to feel like an idiot. A man came running up – it was Josh, another of the oncology nurses.

"We're just gonna get you on this gurney," Maggie said. A few seconds of gentle words and not-so-gentle tugs later I found myself flat on my back with a view of fluorescent lighting racing overhead. I hoped, prayed, that none of the patients or their parents were seeing any of this.

There was a yell to hold the elevator. I started to look around and, as the gurney was pushed inside, realized it was being held for me. Maggie's hand held my left arm, telling me to relax. Josh braced my right and I wondered if the were trying to console me or hold me down.