Chapter 21

A/N: I'm so sorry for the long wait, my darlings! Writing for House is getting more and more difficult, what with it being almost two years since I've had a weekly dose of my favorite diagnostician. I'm gonna try to keep going, though. So, here's the new chapter! Thank you so much for all the feedback so far, it means the world to me.

Disclaimer: I own nothing!

I slammed the cordless phone down on the coffee table, jostling the coffee cup that House had sitting there. The diagnostician looked up from his medical journal, his gaze disinterested. I glared at him pointedly, arms crossed.

"What?"

"You are going to take this phone, and you're going to call Wilson," I said, slowly and clearly. I'd already lost his attention, his eyes going back to Nephrology Biannual.

"And why would I do that?" he asked in a monotone, flipping the page.

"Because for the past week you've been acting like a fucking fourteen year old girl whose boyfriend just broke up with her!" I burst out, throwing my hands up in utter exasperation.

The past week had been bordering on torture. House had been in the foulest mood I'd experienced thus far during my time living with him. Before, I'd seen him bored and irritated, distracted and snappish, and sometimes just plain grumpy, but in the aftermath of his fight with Wilson, he was being... well...

He was being a complete and total mopey bitch.

Something Foreman said a few years ago (Or a few years from now? I was still getting used to being from the future.) floated into my thoughts: "This is why it pays to have more than one friend, House!"

"Have not," House defended, wrinkling his nose.

"Case in point!" I exclaimed. "Come on, just call him and make up. I don't really know how you guys go about making up, but... just do it. Please. I hate seeing you all bummed out like this," I admitted, my tone softening somewhat.

On the show, whenever House and Wilson fought and it wasn't one of their cataclysmic bordering on friendship ending fights (i.e. their fights in mid-season three and the beginning of season five, respectively), they generally just... well, they just got over it.

"Touching," House replied mordantly. "I'm fine. Wilson's fine. We're fine."

"Which roughly translates in House speak to either, 'We are anything but fine and I'm feeling all these emotions and things and don't know how to deal' or 'Go away, Anya, before your good-naturedness gives me acid reflux'."

"The second one," House grunted. "I'm not calling him."

I huffed, my irritation getting the best of me. I picked up the phone. "Fine," I said with a nonchalant shrug. "I'll call him then."

House, with surprising speed, swiped the phone from me and stuffed it under one of the couch cushions. I finally had his attention now, good and proper. He glared at me.

"You say you watched the show for eight years, and you never picked up on how Wilson and I work?" House asked, arching an eyebrow. "I say something insensitive, he overreacts, we don't talk about it, then he shows up on my doorstep with free food and we act like nothing ever happened. It's worked for us for years, and it'll continue working. I don't need my guardian angel trying to push me into couple's therapy."

Well, this was the most House had said on the subject of Wilson all week, so I supposed this could be classified as progress. I shook my head. "No wonder people ship Hilson," I muttered. "You two really are a couple, right down to the making each other act like idiots part."

House's expression turned confused. "Hilson?" I'd already explained what 'ship' meant to House about a month ago, so I didn't have to elaborate on that bit.

"Hilson. House and Wilson. Couple name. It was one of the main ships in the House fandom. You two just get gayer and gayer as the seasons go on, so next to Huddy - you and Cuddy, which was a given if you look at your history - it was the most popular ship."

House didn't seem put off, he actually snorted in what appeared to be amusement. "I'm not surprised. Wilson's two tigers short of a stage show in Vegas on his most masculine days." House tilted his head a little, as if he was thinking. "People assume I top, right?"

"Okay, gross," I said, mainly because I didn't want to admit to the amount of Hilson fanfiction I'd read over the years or the fact that I knew the exact answer to that question. What? I was curious. "But, back on topic, you should still talk to him. Just apologize. I know you're capable of it."

"I've got nothing to apologize for. I was being honest with him. Someone has to be."

"What the hell happened to everybody lies? You are not the exception that proves the rule," I said.

"There is no exception," House replied. "And everybody does lie, but I lie when it's actually warranted. I'm not going to feed Wilson bullshit just to keep him happy."

"Sometimes that's what friends do for each other, House!" I exclaimed. "Look, you guys are obviously gonna make up eventually, but why not-" I was interrupted mid-lecture by a knock on the door. House tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I wonder who that could be." He stood up, grabbing his cane from where it leaned against the side of the couch, and limped to the door. He opened it up, revealing Wilson standing in the doorway, several boxes of takeout cradled under one arm and something close to a bashful expression on his face.

"Busy?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Nope." House stood aside and allowed Wilson to enter the apartment. The oncologist nodded to me.

"Hey, Anya," he greeted.

"What. What! No!" I stomped my feet. "That's just... no!"

Wilson shot a questioning look at House as he set the takeout on the counter. "Is she okay?"

House twirled his cane. "She's just mad that I've been proven right yet again and she's so far failed to turn me into a blubbering mass of emotional openness and empathy."

"House!" I huffed indignantly, though I found myself relieved that the boys had made up so easily. House had a wicked gleam in his eye, pleased that he'd been proven right.

Wilson offered me one of the boxes. "Does peanut chicken make up for it?"

I pouted for a moment before accepting the box. "It's a start," I said begrudgingly.

Wilson smiled, then handed me a package of chopsticks.

Why had no one ever taught me how to make cookies from scratch?

Okay, admittedly, I was pretty sure that I learned it in my eight grade cooking class, but I spent a solid ninety five percent of my time in that class either sleeping or eating spoonfuls of brown sugar whenever my teacher wasn't looking, so the memory seemed to have faded.

I wanted to make House cookies for his birthday. I know that to House, it was just an arbitrary date that he happened to be born on, and it meant absolutely nothing to him, but still. House liked food, and since I didn't know how to make macadamia nut pancakes, this was the best I could think to do.

But as I set the ingredients I knew I needed out on the counter - flour, oil, eggs, milk, sugar, and chocolate chips - I realized that I actually didn't have any clue how to make cookies.

Well, shit.

House had been gone when I'd woken up that morning, and since I didn't have work or school that day, I had a bit of free time. I figured that this was a good a way as any to spend it, but now I was starting to question that decision. Then, however, an idea came to me. When in doubt, seek out help.

I pulled out my phone, scrolled through my whopping seven contacts (the House cast and then my boss) and selected Cameron's number. I hoped that she could take a few minutes away from Lucy Palmero's case to do me a solid. Cameron seemed to be practically made from puppies and rainbows, so it wasn't a huge leap of logic that she knew how to bake.

As the phone rang, I tried to remember how far the case progressed during the first day of The Socratic Method. It was times like this that I wished my House DVDs would've been thrown into my pool with me when I got sucked into House's dimension.

After three rings, Cameron picked up. "Hello? Who is this?"

I'd never called Cameron before; I never really had a reason to. "Hi Cameron. It's Anya." Over the past two months I'd lived in the House universe, I talked to Cameron more than any of the other ducklings, mainly because she was more approachable than Chase and Foreman, who both kind of scared me, though for totally different reasons.

"Oh, Anya, hi! Is there something you needed? Are you trying to get ahold of your dad?" I cringed. I knew that by now, I should've probably started to get used to people referring to House as my father, but man... it was still just way too weird. "I think he's with our patient right now."

"He's with a patient?" I asked, incredulous. Oh, right - The Socratic Method. Supposedly Schizophrenic Lucy. "Err, never mind. I actually have a favor to ask, if that's okay. From you."

"From me?" It sounded like I'd piqued her curiosity. "What can I help you with?"

"You know it's House's birthday, right?" I still called House by his name whenever I spoke about him, because I thought that considering my cover story, the idea of me calling him 'Dad' already seemed like a bit of a stretch.

"I do."

"Okay. Well. I want to make him cookies, and... I sort of have no idea how. And I don't want to give him that Betty Crocker out of a bag crap. I want legit ones, from scratch. But I'm not much of a baker. Or cook, period. My culinary skills are pretty much limited to stove top food."

A pause on Cameron's end. "You want some help, I take it?"

"Yeah. Look, I know you're probably busy-"

"It's fine," Cameron cut across me. "Hey, listen, I'll be on my lunch break in about a half an hour. Do you want me to just come over and help you out?"

"Uh." The other was tempting. It would be a hell of a lot easier than Cameron trying to walk me through on the phone. The only problem was, I didn't know how comfortable House would be if he knew one of his still relatively new fellows was running around his apartment.

Then again, what House didn't know certainly wouldn't kill him. Or me, for that matter.

"Okay, sure. That sounds great. Do you know where he lives?" I asked, leaning against the counter.

"I just know that he lives somewhere in Princeton. Do you mind giving me an address?" she asked.

"No problem. It's 221B Baker Street. You'll see his motorcycle parked out front in the handicap spot," I told her. I often wondered why no one in this universe ever pointed out the fact that House's address was the same as Sherlock Holmes's.

"Alright, that's not too far from here. I should be there in about forty-five minutes," Cameron told me. I felt a swoop of gratefulness.

"Awesome," I said. "Seriously Cameron, I owe you one."

"See if you still want to thank me when we're done," Cameron replied with a little laugh. "I'll see you soon."

Perhaps Cameron wasn't the best person to go to for baking advice. I did, however learn that too much baking soda is a very bad thing, patience is not one of my many virtues, and that yes, the third time is actually the charm.

I picked up a perfectly round, perfectly soft, perfectly good-looking chocolate chip cookie. "I'm terrified to try this."

Cameron looked equally worried. Our first batch had been reduced to black hockey pucks after a bit of an oversight on just how long the cookies would take. The second batch had been ruined thanks to my own poor decision to add way too much baking soda, thus resulting in the cookies tasting (for lack of a better term) like complete ass.

I broke the cookie in half. It smelled alright. I passed one half to Cameron. "On the count of three."

"Okay."

"One... two..." I counted. "Three." We both bit down on our respective halves. Chewed. There was a moment of silence as we both mulled over the flavor.

"Perfect," we chorused. I swallowed, then grinned at Cameron. I offered up my hand for a high-five, and she slapped it, a look of relief on her face.

"Thank God," she said. "I haven't had time to actually try to bake anything since before med school... it's safe to say I'm a little rusty."

"Hey, screw-ups aside, I wouldn't have been able to do without you," I replied. I took the neatly stacked plate of cookies and placed them on the table. "Now get back to work - you're over a half an hour late. I'll clean up here."

"You sure?"

"Positive," I responded. Cameron nodded, heading for the door and her coat. She'd already washed the flour and chocolate off of her hands. "I'll put your name on the card. It was definitely a team effort."

"Don't," Cameron said with a quick shake of her head. "I have a feeling he wouldn't want me traipsing around in his home. I don't mind you taking credit, trust me."

I could see Cameron's point; hell, I'd already thought of it myself. "Hey, if that's what you want - thanks again."

Cameron laughed, looking at me like I was insane. "You know, sometimes, I have a really hard time believing that you're really his daughter." With another brief laugh, she opened the door and slipped out. "I'll see you later, Anya! It was fun... and painful. But fun."

"Likewise!" I called, before closing the door behind the immunologist.

I smiled to myself. Although Cameron had been about as talented in the kitchen as I was, it had been fun having... I don't know, girl time. Although my group of friends back in my own world had been almost predominantly guys, my best friend Maura was a girl, and it had been months since I'd spent any lengthy amount of time with another chick. Or anyone that wasn't House or Wilson, really.

I turned back to the kitchen. It was an unholy mess. I smothered a sigh. It was a good thing House wouldn't be home for awhile.

To my credit, I kept very cool. When House came home around seven, I just gave him the usual greeting, which he grunted some kind of barely audible reply to. I could tell he was distracted - he was probably right in the middle of Lucy Palmero's case.

He went into the kitchen. The sound of his feet and cane on the linoleum ceased. I heard the crinkle of paper as he picked up the little note I'd left with the cookies.

Happy arbitrary date you happened to be born on! Have some cookies!

I was proud of that, honestly.

House came traipsing back into the living room. Sank down on the couch. He had one cookie in his mouth, two in his left hand. He snatched the remote from me and turned on Desperate Housewives. I desperately tried to hide my smile. He was eating them, and for me, that was mission accomplished.

I was surprised to find a cookie being held in front of my face. I looked at House, who was very pointedly not looking at me. Unable to help myself, I grinned and accepted the cookie, taking a large bite. It was like seeing a six year old share their toys for the first time. I wanted to cry tears of manly pride.

"Cameron?" he asked, his mouth full of cookie. I furrowed my brow at him.

"How-"

"Flour on her pants. She was late back to work, you smell like her perfume, and you can barely speak around Chase and Foreman intimidates you." He finally turned his eyes to me. "So, Cameron."

I finished off my cookie, giving him a withering look. "Yeah. I needed some help. She didn't want you to know."

House nodded. "Huh." He started on his other cookie. "She wants to sleep with me."

I'm surprised it took him that long to figure it out. "Yup."

"Do I sleep with her?"

"Not telling you."

He stuck his tongue out at me. The gesture was so petulant, I couldn't help but laugh.

Overall, I'd rule the day as a success.