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[princessmia-t.livejournal.com]

Hi everyone this is my first post!!

Title: A Christmas Miracle
Author: Me!!!
Characters/Pairing: House/Wilson duh
Rating: I don't know.. there's some bad words and some drug use? PG-13
Warnings: Drug use, slash bad words
Spoilers: Some usage of wilson's brother! But not the way you think!
Summary: House after working in a soup kitchen meets a drug addict and is surprised to find out who it is but it's not who you think.
Disclaimer: They're not my characters!!!
Thankss!!!


House would never admit it to anyone, but he found Christmas really beautiful. It’s probably because Christmas was the only time he really remembered his parents not fighting. John and Blythe made an unspoken truce on the 24th not to yell for the entire day of the 25th. Although this meant that the screaming started with more rambunctious action the day of the 26th, Greg appreciated and remembered fondly that one day of pure peace between everyone in the House Household.
This especially meant that he never told people about his volunteering at the Trenton Area soup kitchen on Christmas Eve. Besides the fact that it would ultimately destroy his brash exterior, it’d also give Cuddy ample ammunition to make him do clinic duty. He was really getting sick of her. Hadn’t he made it clear that her affections were not returned?
It was midnight, the kitchen closed at 11:45. House helped as much as he could with his handicap, but Donica, the main server, told him to go home after the final bowl was spooned out, realizing the pain from his leg was overwhelming him. The second House exited the place of goodness for all without homes, he took the vicodin bottle out of his pocket. He wasn’t technically supposed to be carrying drugs inside the center (there was a rehabilitation clinic next door) but he took his vicodin anyway. It was a habit.
He almost jumped three feet in the air when a lump of garbage started to move, groan, and finally speak
“Yo son, yo got powder in that pill man?” the lump said. House suddenly realized it was really an African American man with a raggedy wardrobe and a dumpster in close proximity.
“What?” House said, not entirely sure what the man said.
“Any smack, any blow, any jiggy boogy boy any blow? I’m illin’”
“What?”
“Crack, Jesus man, crack.” The man looked defeated. “Yo don’t, do you?”
House suddenly felt a rush of pitty towards this poor miserable homeless addict. In all seriousness, without Wilson, he’d probably be in this state in a couple of years, on the street, begging for vicodin. The only difference would be his race.
“No. I don’t. You from the clinic?”
The man laughed. His laughter turned into a cough that sounded something like a third week flu to House’s adapt medical ears. Nothing interesting, it just took his interest.
“I ain’t got that money man.”
“Oh.” House didn’t know why he was still standing there. “You live here?”
“Yo what kind of question that be?” He seemed offended, House tried to cover it up.
“No, no, I was just..”
“Yeah, I live here. It’s warmer. There’s a light, and the ventilation from the place comes up and is all warm up in it once in a while.”
His words seemed stilted. The ghetto slang that should have come so easily to him was awkward and odd on this man’s tongue. House was intrigued.
“I’m a drug addict too.” He didn’t think it through. It was word vomit if he ever heard it.
“Shoot, you know that ain't cool, dawg.” The man seemed genuinely concerned. “I ain’t no drug addict.” House laughed.
“Yeah, I don’t think I am either. Other people tell me I am. I’m a doctor, those guys think telling people they’ve got problems is part of the territory.” House walked over to the wall the man was sitting on. He leaned against it, momentarily releasing the pressure from his strained leg. He was starting to like this guy.
“Yeah, I ain’t got no one to tell me I’m a druggie man.” He coughed again.
“How long have you had that cough?”
“Ah dawg I dunno.”
House suddenly had an idea. “Would you be willing to come with me?”
“Aw dawg yo turning me in?” The man didn’t seem genuinely upset. “Yo a cop? Ah dang I knew it.”
“No, no, I’m not a cop,” House’s mind returned to the Tritter incident, understanding clearly why this guy disliked cops. “Nah, just, you wanna get that cough fixed at the hospital I work at? I could get you dinner or something.”
“Hahaha, thanks man, I don’t need no dinner though.”
“Man, do yourself a favor, it’s Christmas Eve.”
“I ain’t believe in no Jesus.”
“Fine.” House began to walk away when he had an idea. “Someone at the hospital could get you crack though.”
“No, dang, really?”
“Yeah. Just, get in my car. I’ll drive you to the hospital.”


Wilson looked up from Ms. Reinholt’s discharge papers. It was dark outside, and his computer clock said 12:00am. He hadn’t noticed the time passing. It was Christmas, and being the good, single, Jewish doctor that he was, he was working.
Well, less working, more thinking.
He had to do a lot of thinking after Amber. He had months to think. He was sick of thinking, which is why whenever he breached a new topic to start thinking about, he just got furious with himself. It was the day after he took Amber off the respirator that this thought came into his mind, and it really hadn’t left him since.
He hired a therapist to talk to, so he wouldn’t have to think that much. He took antidepressants so he wouldn’t be nervous and thinking even harder on what he didn’t want to think about. The therapist just told him to think about everything more, and told him to confront his little (well, huge) problem. She was terribly wrong, though.
The problem was House. House was always the problem in his life. House was ruining his marriage, House was annoying his patient, House was high and running around the hospital electrocuting people, it was always something. But it wasn’t like this.
These (he cringed at the thought of the word) feelings for House, well, they weren’t just a small discrepancy in his day, or one more alimony check, they were driving him insane.
The thing that made him think the most, though, was the fact that he didn’t want them to go away.
Wilson suddenly realized he was ripping the papers that included Ms. Reinholt’s discharge information. Liz Reinholt was one of his oldest patients. She was diagnosed four years ago with an inoperable brain tumor. Every oncologist in the country said she had six months from her diagnosis. She had lived almost nine times that. Yet, it was given that this was her last trip to the hospital. She asked to be taken home to die, and Wilson as well as a nurse, happily obliged. She seemed unafraid of her imminent death.
How can Liz Reinholt be so accepting of her death, when Wilson couldn’t even come to terms with a small crush on his best friend?
It was then when he realized he had to tell him.


As he hobbled into the hospital, House called a nurse in to get a wheelchair for the man, who said just to call him A.B. He muttered quickly to Brenda, “found him on the street, seizing. It’s Christmas, you’ve gotta have a bed.” She nodded curtly and clicked a few things on the computer, and handed him a printout.
“Oncology ward?” House scowled down at the page.
“It’s Christmas Eve. There’s nothing else available, sorry.”
House caught A.B. being wheeled into the elevator out of the corner of his eye, finally getting a good look at him. He couldn’t have been older than 40, the crinkles of his oddly light eyes covered in grime. Every part of his face was covered in grime, actually. For all he knew, A.B. could be white. His eyes were suspiciously light.
He thought nothing of it, and took the elevator to his floor.


When Wilson got a page, he knew someone was dying. This late at night there was no doubt about it. He was surprised to just see the number of the nurse’s station, and dialed the extension on his phone with his eyes half shut.
“Hello?” Brenda sounded apprehensive.
“Hi, it’s Doctor James Wilson. You paged me?”
“Yes, I just wanted to let you know that Doctor House is putting a patient in the oncology ward.”
“He’s doing what?”
“He’s putting a patient-“
“No, I heard you, I’m sorry, I’m very exhausted. Thank you, Brenda.”
“Anytime, Doctor Wilson.”
Wilson stormed out of his office. Not now House, of all times he could be pulling shenanigans, he chose the night of Wilson’s revelation.
In his haste, he didn’t even notice that he left his beeper in his office.


Wilson saw House looming outside a patient’s room, head to the wall, eyes closed. He knew this had to be it.
“House!” he yell-whispered. “What in hell are you doing putting a patient in the oncology ward?”
House didn’t open his eyes. “There are no empty beds anywhere. It’s Christmas Eve, you moron, shouldn’t you realize that? Oh, I forgot, your people think that god’s son wasn’t miraculously born from a virgin today.” His bitterness surprised both of them.
Wilson sighed, not in the mood for a fight. “I don’t know what this guy has, but I don’t want him infecting these immunally challenged people.”
“Yeah, that’ll be fine, I just got him off the street.”
“House! You didn’t!”
“No, actually, I did. Go ahead, look for yourself.”
The patient’s shades were down, so when Wilson glanced at the window, all he saw was the glare of himself and House, mirroring itself into his eyes. No matter his frustration, his aggravation, his exhaustedness, he was still a lot happier with house than without him. That’s when he remembered his promise to himself and Ms. Reinholt.
“House, I need to talk to you about something.” House didn’t respond. Wilson knew he was listening, though. He was still looking at the reflection of the two of them in the glass.
It was then when everything changed.
The shades were opened, and a man who was too familiar to Wilson was standing on the other side in a hospital gown, face newly washed to show pale skin, pale green eyes, and eyebrows identical to Wilson’s.
“I can’t do this, House.” The tears were already flowing down his face. House was astonished, what the hell was going on? Wilson ran down the hallway. House finally turned back to A.B. he ran into his room and slammed the door behind him.
“What the hell is going on?” House screamed. “What the hell did you do to Wilson??!” A.B. began to cough again and curled back into the bed. “STOP PLAYING SICK I NEED TO KNOW WHAT”S GOING ON!”
“I’m Wilson!”
House didn’t know what to say.
“My name is Abraham Wilson. That’s my brother, James.”
Oh my god. It was his long lost brother. They hadn’t seen each other in years. House dropped his cane.
House picked up his cane and ran as fast as he could out of there, paging Wilson, calling his cell phone, everything to just try and find him. He eventually found him in the children’s oncology ward, sitting in a kid’s plastic chair, head in his hands.
“Wilson?”
He didn’t look up.
“Wilson, I’m sorry.”
A murmur came from the chair.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. You didn’t know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop, it’s not your fault Abe-“
“No.” House suddenly realized it was about more than just the homeless man. “This is about more than Abe. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. I’m sorry for always being mean to you. I’m sorry for ruining your marriages, I’m sorry for Tritter, I’m sorry for Amber, I’m sorry for making your life a living hell every time I come anywhere near you, Jimmy. I really am.”
Wilson looked up.
“And if this is the end of our friendship, so be it. I’m sick of making you hurt Wilson. I don’t want to see you hurt.”
He didn’t realize how close they had gotten. He didn’t realize that they were standing under mistletoe. He didn’t think, he didn’t breathe. Finally, he spoke.
“House, you really don’t think I feel the same way?”
House looked up, staring into his chocolate orbs, a child present in the neediness ever present in the diagnostician’s eyes.
They both leaned in a little, both not realizing it, both just going with the emotions they were feeling, not overthinking it, not underthinking it, just existing and accepting the things thrown at them.
Suddenly, Wilson stopped.
“What’s the matter?” said House.
“We’re under the mistletoe,” said Wilson. “I think we...kind of have to kiss.”
“Okay.”
House leaned in.