Chapter 20

A/N: Hey, so I'm a terrible person for not updating for two months. I've actually had this chapter written for almost a month but I've been having major computer/internet issues and ended up losing everything I'd written, and then it was awhile before I had enough time to write the next one, send it along to my beta, and do the final edit. So, anyway, thank you all for the feedback, I love you all dearly, and hopefully it won't take me so long to update next time! On with the chapter!

Disclaimer: I only own the ridiculously long author's note and Anya.

Christmas Eve? Total success. Great time.

Christmas Day? Not so much.

It was definitely a lesson on how men in their late thirties and mid-forties respectively should not drink themselves into stupors. I apparently hadn't cut them off early enough the night before. When I woke up around noon, House and Wilson were still sprawled out together on a couch, with House snoring loudly. I'd tossed a blanket over the two of them as I cleaned up the apartment. The temperature had dropped significantly over night, and snow was now falling slow and soft outside.

I turned the heater on full blast. I didn't want House and Wilson to freeze and have even more to bitch about when they inevitably woke up and realized that they'd had one too many.

When the boys finally did wake up, predictably, neither of them were much in the holiday spirit. Wilson immediately retreated to the bathroom, and House stretched out on the couch with a groan and covered his head with the pillow.

"Turn it off," the diagnostician growled. I tossed him a sympathetic look as I crushed the pizza boxes from the night before into the trashcan.

"Turn what off?"

Another groan. "The sun."

"Would if I could," I told him. "I'll make you two some chicken broth." I promptly retreated to the kitchen, trying to block-out the sound of Wilson retching in the bathroom. I wasn't surprised that he was ailing worse than House. The older doctor had the alcohol tolerance of champions. Some warm soup in his stomach and a nap and House would be fine.

The rest of the day passed by without much event until Wilson received an angry phone call from Julie. After wincing his way through the partially shouted conversation, the oncologist hung up and informed us in a dejected tone that he would have to leave. We bade him farewell and he departed, his expression one of misery.

When the door closed behind him, I sank down on the couch next to House, sighing quietly. House glanced away from the television, a rerun of a monster truck rally he'd taped earlier in the week, and looked at me critically. "What?"

"Whenever he leaves here and he has to go home, he gets that kicked puppy look that just... ugh, it kills me," I explained, crossing my arms as I leaned back against the couch. House merely snorted in response.

"His face always looks like that. It's the eyes."

"Come on, take this seriously," I whined. "He's your best friend, you can see how bad things are with him and Julie. Aren't you even a little worried for him, somewhere in that black hole in your chest?" Obviously I knew House cared, even if he was really good at hiding it, but getting him to admit that he actually had emotions seemed like a healthy thing to do.

"I've seen him through every failed marriage, and I'll see him through this one. It's a sinking ship. He knows. Julie knows it. I know it. I'm just waiting for the death throes before I show up with the sympathy card and tub of Rocky Road," House explained, seeming somewhat exasperated. "You know it, too, I'm guessing." He quirked an eyebrow at me. "Not just intuition on your end, though, now is it?"

I immediately went silent, turning my eyes back to the TV and keeping my lips pursed with an air of defiance. "You know exactly when it's all gonna come crashing down. And don't pretend that you don't; it's written all over your face." I continued to say nothing. House rolled his eyes. "Not answering is as much of an answer as answering," he informed me. He watched me for a few moments, waiting for me to speak. When I didn't, he just shook his head in exasperation.

"Do I at least get the next episode name?" he asked.

"The Socratic Method," I replied evenly. It was actually one of my favorite season one episodes, and one of my favorite medical cases from the show's entire run. I actually remembered the diagnosis for this one, too. Not that it really mattered, since House figured it out with more than enough time to spare. I furrowed my brow for a moment. That was the next one, right? Or is it Fidelity? Shit... "At least I think. Like I've said before, I wasn't as into season one as the others seasons."

"And why's that?"

"The characters are just never as well-established in the first season, you know? I mean, season one had some awesome moments, I'm not denying that, and House set itself apart from the crowd really early on in its run, but I still prefer the middle-ish seasons. Three, four, five and six," I told him. "But yeah, if I've got my episodes memorized right, then The Socratic Method is up next."

"Any clue when it'll start?" he asked, arching a quizzical eyebrow at me. I shook my head.

"Absolutely no clue whatsoever. Soon," I told him with an apologetic shrug.

"Soon. Can't get much vaguer than that," House muttered.

"Hey, don't blame me. The dates that each episode aired and when you get the cases aren't the same, except for the first one," I responded. Then, I remembered something from the episode - Cameron sorting through House's mail and wishing him happy birthday. "Oh, hey, scratch that. When's your birthday?"

House merely cocked his head. "What the hell kind of segue is that? And more importantly, if I'm your favorite character, why don't you already know?"

"There were a few discrepancies in the show's canon when it came to your birth," I began. "The Socratic Method aired on January 25th, and in that episode it was supposedly your birthday. However, at the end of season two, this was contradicted and it was said that you were born on June 11th, 1959, which was also Hugh Laurie's birthday. Fast forward five more seasons, and on your driver's license it says May 15th, 1959. So, in other words, no one has a friggin' clue when your birthday actually is, including the people who created the show."

House stared at me for a long moment, his lip twitching in mild amusement. "Did you have any life at all in your own universe?"

I huffed in indignation. "Hey, I had a life! I was enthusiastic about the show, is that a crime?" House smirked in response. "It isn't! There's nothing wrong with having a hobby, and whoever thinks that watching a TV show can't be a hobby then-"

"Exactly how many people have you had this conversation with before?" he interrupted, cutting across my histrionics. I frowned, eyes darting away sheepishly.

"I don't know. A few."

"So everyone who's ever talked to you for more than five minutes?" he asked innocently.

"House!" I snapped, irritated. "Back on subject! When's your birthday?"

"They got it right the first time," he answered. "It's January 25th."

I nodded. "Okay, well then, you'll get the case on your birthday. See, I just gave you an exact date. How helpful am I?"

House snorted, eyes going back to the TV. "On a scale of one to ten you're still in the negative numbers," he said. "Speaking of... well, not really speaking of anything, but before I forget..." He rose from the couch, massaging his thigh with a wince. The night on the couch must not have been good on his leg. I mentally kicked myself for not waking up House and getting him to his bed.

The diagnostician walked over to his blue backpack, which sat by the coat rack, unzipping it and digging around for something. After a moment, he straightened. "Catch." The next second, there was a small object sailing through the air and towards my head. I managed to raise my hand just in time to catch it before it smacked me in the face.

I lowered my hand, turning the object over in my hand. It was a cell phone. Just a pre-paid flip phone - the standard fare for 2004. I opened it up, squinting at it. It had six-hundred minutes on it, and a contact section with only six entries. House, Wilson, Cuddy, Cameron, Foreman, and Chase.

"House..."

"Merry Christmas, kid," he said, zipping his bag back up. "I figured that if you wandered off somehow and I couldn't find you, I might be - God forbid - accused of neglecting my not-daughter from an alternate dimension." He limped past the back of the couch, making his way towards the piano.

I couldn't really formulate a coherent response. I just turned it over in my hand. It was just a cell-phone, for fuck's sake, I didn't know why I was getting all dewy-eyed over it. I was an idiot for not having bought myself one earlier, it had just never really occurred to me to get one.

I guess I was just kind of overwhelmed by the fact that House had gotten me a Christmas present. I smiled softly, lifting the phone and selecting the camera option from the menu. House was already off in his own world, his hands caressing the keys, but not pressing hard enough to make any noise.

"Hey," I said, my voice quiet, but loud enough for House to hear. House turned his head, looking at me with disinterest. He didn't want this to get maudlin, that much was obvious. I just smirked. "I need a contact picture for you." House stuck his tongue out in a petulant manner. With an exaggerated roll of my eyes, I snapped the picture and saved it under his name. "Your maturity never ceases to amaze me."

"Says the girl wearing Spongebob pajamas."

"They were on sale!" I protested, indignant. "I like my brightly colored anthropomorphic sea animals, so sue me."

"Touchy, touchy," House scoffed as he began to play the piano.

It was something familiar, maybe something I heard at a Christmas service a million years ago. It was a hymn, slow and soft, a kind of melody that made you want to just close your eyes and drift off and forget about things for a while. So, I did just that. I let my eyes fall shut, and for a while, everything seemed just a little bit brighter.

The next week was uneventful and as close to boring as I'd experienced in the House universe. With no work, no school, and without House having a case for me to help or hinder, I basically just sat around on the couch and watched TV when House wasn't home and played video games with him when he was.

House was displeased with the knowledge that his next good case (his words, not mine) was an entire month away. The cases that House had between the ones that had been televised generally were interesting, but after a few tests or scans the patient was treated and went on their merry way back home. This was real life, after all. Not every single file on House's desk would end up being a nail-biter.

The gap between Christmas and New Years passed slowly. On New Years Eve I found myself walking alongside House down the third floor hallway at PPTH, House with a bottle of champagne in one hand and me with carton of cheap glitter. I disapproved of the champagne, but House just rolled his eyes and said that if everyone else in the world was allowed to drink on New Years, than so was he. I asked him then if everyone else jumped off a cliff, would he jump too? He said it would depend on whether their bodies would cushion his fall.

We arrived outside of the door to Wilson's office. House knocked; once, then twice. Wilson opened up the door, hair slightly ruffled. He looked exhausted, though it was only eleven o'clock.

"Did you bring figgy pudding?" he asked, carding a hand through his hair.

"Next best thing." House proffered up the champagne bottle. I grabbed a handful of glitter and tossed it on Wilson's head as ordered, covering the oncologist in a series of purple and yellow sparkles. He grimaced.

"Hello, Anya."

"Hi," I replied with a slight smile.

Wilson sighed. "Come in. I've got charts to finish up."

I soon found out that Wilson was once more avoiding his own home like the plague (insert fake surprise here) since Julie had apparently been on a rampage before he left for work this morning. Wilson didn't go into details, I didn't ask. House did, but he was met with a stony glare from House.

We kept an eye on the clock on Wilson's wall, waiting for midnight. The champagne bottle waited on the surface of Wilson's desk to be open. Wilson put on music - generic Christmas stuff that House hated, which was probably exactly why he played it.

The next hour passed quickly between the three of us chatting and Wilson finishing up his work for the day, and soon the clock hit twelve. We could hear muffled celebration from the rest of the hospital. House cracked open the champagne, it fizzed, and he and Wilson took turns drinking from the about to foam over bottle. I dumped the remainder of the glitter on the two of them, making them both multicolored and fabulous.

House asked Wilson once he'd finished all of his backed-up work if he wanted to come over. Wilson looked like he wanted to say yes but eventually shook his head with a beleaguered sigh.

"I have to go home," he said. "I've only slept at home one night this week. I can't fix my marriage if I'm not there."

"Isn't that the whole point?" House asked, blunt as ever. Wilson frowned.

"Julie's my wife, my responsibility. I can't just leave her whenever I want."

"You're talking about her like she's a dog," I commented. "Wilson, listen, I know you don't want to hear this, but... maybe it's time to think about getting... you know..."

"Seven letters... starts with a 'd', ends with a 'ivorce'..." House added helpfully.

Now, I didn't want to be the one responsible for sinking the Titanic that was Wilson's third marriage, but I didn't see anyway it could be saved. They weren't working. In the show, they crashed and burned, and I didn't think there's anything that I could do to stop it from happening. And honestly, they kind of needed to get divorced. I shipped Wilson and Amber pretty hard, and I was still convinced that if she hadn't died in season four that they would've been together for the rest of their lives.

So, in other words, I couldn't save everything and everyone - Wilson and Julie were going to break-up, just like they had in the original timeline. It probably wouldn't hurt to speed things up and spare Wilson as much pain as possible. I could tell that this was killing him.

"I'm not giving up," Wilson said stiffly as he packed his bag to go. "Not yet."

"You gave up on the other two," House pointed out. "Third time's the charm."

I wanted to say that technically he didn't give up on Sam, but decided that opening that can of worms wasn't a good plan. Wilson already seemed put-out by House's words.

"This doesn't affect you two, so just... leave it, okay?" I blinked. That was the first time since coming to this universe that I'd heard Wilson sound even remotely angry. He was usually the very definition of even-tempered. I wanted to say something along the lines of 'but it does affect us, because you're our friend and we care about you' but decided that it was time to stop pushing.

Oh, but House had different ideas.

"Doesn't affect us? If you're a moping sack of sad, it definitely does. Drop her! Spread your wings and fly, Wilson! Look at me, I'm a bachelor, and I couldn't be happier."

The irony of the statement was not lost on any of us.

"Yeah," Wilson snapped. "The crippling addiction to pain pills, misanthropy, and self-hatred really shows how functional and happy you are alone." He rounded on his friend. "I'm not like you, House. I don't think that I'm better off by myself. I want to have someone other than you in my life, ever thought about that?"

The smirk that House had previously been wearing dropped in an instant. The two friends stared each other down for a few tense moments before Wilson turned his back on House, grabbed his bag, and promptly exited the room. The door swung shut behind him, leaving me alone with my silent, glitter-covered hero.