A/n Fluffy House/Wilson goodness to see you all into the new year and hopefully brighter and better things. Wilson needs to finish his New Year's resolution from last year by 12 o'clock. House isn't helping things. House/Wilson established relationship.

Disclaimer: If I owned them I would have invested in some new clothes and a sorely needed haircut. But I haven't. Take from that what you will

Cake. One of life's great pleasure but also one of Wilson's formidable opponents in the kitchen.

Give him a slab of meat, he could cook up a roast dinner to perfection, trimmings included. Give him rice or pasta and within half an hour he'd have a delicious, hearty meal adorning a plate. His pancake skills had already been duly praised by House and most of the Oncology staff so there was no problem in that department.

But cake; the unassuming buttery, sugary, sweet mixture, had always manage to foil even his best culinary attempts. That was until today. This was his last chance to complete his final New Year's resolution from the beginning of the year. After numerous failures over the preceding eleven and a half months, Wilson was determined to get this done even if it took him all the way twelve o'clock.

He had sent House to store to buy some soda for later as both men were strictly off the alcohol. House, on the orders of Nolan. Wilson, on the advice that mixing medication and alcohol was a bad idea. This gave him the chance to cook without the ever watchful eye of his best friend peering over his shoulder, telling him he was doing it wrong and that he was a girl for being so worried about a damn cake.

Wilson flipped over the second page on his recipe book, which was pretty much a collection of old, yellowing papers stapled together and tips that his mom had written for him when he left home. On the right hand page was the recipe of a sponge cake, complete with scribblings and strikes as his mom had adjusted the quantities and ingredients.

Jam: check

Butter: check

Caster sugar: check

Eggs: check

Flour: check

Cream: check

The first thing for him to do was to mix the butter and sugar. He didn't have an electric whisk so a wooden spoon would have to suffice. In all honesty he preferred the wooden spoon; there was nothing more therapeutic then whipping the hell out of some cooking mixture. After a few minutes, he could see this wasn't working; the mixture was nowhere near to being the pale and fluffy consistency it was meant to be. He glanced back at the book, trying to see where he went wrong. He traced his finger down the page until he came across a note in stern, red capital letters.

Whip harder.

Wilson smiled before grabbing the bowl with his right hand and furiously whipping with his left.

Progress. Take away the sweating and pain in his arm, Wilson was left with a delightfully creamy mixture. Following the instructions, he then whipped in the eggs and then he began folding in the rest of the flour, this time with a metal spoon. The flour folded easily, leaving little to no lumps in the mixture. One last stir through and the mixture could be poured into the two tins he had set aside.

He slid the spoon through the liquid once more before greasing the two cake tins with a lump of warmed butter. This was where he went wrong the last time he tried to bake a cake and his committing of the cardinal sin of baking had not gone unpunished. The un-greased cake tin error went on to create a new hybrid cake of sponge and metal. Not tasty and not edible. Thankfully, he had learned from his mistake.

He poured equal amounts of the mixture into each tin and slipped them into the oven. Now it was out of his hands. They would either rise or fail in spectacular style. He would have to wait and see.

House barged his way into the apartment a few minutes later, sodas in hand and a copious amount of potato chips in the other. "I've stocked up."

"How much did you buy? We're celebrating New Year, not going into hibernation."

"No harm in being prepared. There could be a nuclear fallout next week."

"In which we will probably all die so we won't need the food."

"But at least we can say we died with soda in our bloodstream, potato chips in our stomachs and without fear in our hearts." House flung the bulging bag of chips onto the sofa and dumped the sodas on the table. "Smells good."

"Don't jinx it, please." Wilson reached over and pulled a soda from the cardboard wrapping.

"I.." House raised a hand as he watched Wilson fiddle with the top of the can. "...wouldn't..."

A blizzard of foam and fizz burst from the top of the can, covering Wilson in sticky, purple liquid. He glared at House, his eyebrows and hair dotted with flashes of white from the foam, his shirt soaked from neck to naval. "You..." He slammed the can back onto the table before rubbing his face with his sleeve.

"I did say not to open it."

Wilson growled. "Crap." He plucked at the damp patch on his chest. "I'm gonna change my shirt."

House stuck out his cane, blocking Wilson's exit to the bedroom. "No point. You won't be wearing it later anyway. You might as well just take it off and keep it off."

"Is that an invitation?"

House shrugged nonchalantly. "Maybe."

"Well I can't cook topless. Not in my condition." Wilson padded towards the oven and opened the door, the warmth sending the sickly, sweet smell of grape soda from his shirt, up his nostrils. The cake looked about done; golden brown and pulled away slightly from the edge of the tin. It had even had the decency to rise to a respectable height.

"How's it looking?" House bellowed from the sofa.

"Good." Wilson grasped a towel, pulled the two tins from the oven and placed them on the counter top. He pushed the oven door shut and surveyed his successful experiment. From nowhere, House's hand shot to grab a lump of cake. Wilson batted his hand away. "Hey! It's not cooled yet. You wanna burn your mouth?"

"Mom."

"No." Wilson was aware he did sound exactly like his own mother but carried on regardless. "You have to wait till it cools. Then I have to spread the jam on and then the cream. Then you can eat it."

"But mom." House poked out his bottom lip.

"Ten minutes okay? Then it'll be ready." Wilson placed a towel over the tins and wandered back into in living room with House in tow.

"Is it ready yet?"

"House!" Wilson squinted his eyes shut. "We've just sat down."

House flicked through the channels, hopping back and forth between baseball and New Yankee Workshop, ignoring the despairing sighs from his friend on the sofa.

"Will you just choose a channel?"

"I'll choose it when I can eat the cake."

"House, I can't make the cake cool faster."

"Sure you can. You can blow on it. Or waft it with a towel."

Another sigh, this time laced with more exasperation than despair. "Fine. But if it's screwed up it's your fault."

"I don't care I just want some cake."

Back in the kitchen, Wilson gently turned the two tins upside down and wobbled the metal to release the sponge. With a muffled thud they both landed gracefully on the wire rack; no cracks or uncooked sponge spoiling Wilson's proud moment.

"Can I eat it now?"

"No." Wilson grabbed a bowl, a whisk and the tub of cream and handed it over to House. "Now you whisk while I spread this." He held up the jar of jam.

"You know if you weren't holding that jam I would have sworn that was a euphemism." House popped open the tub and poured the contents into the bowl. "How thick do you want this?"

"Thick enough to spread." He ignored House's sexual comment, his mind was too focused on spreading the jam evenly across one sponge cake. The cream would go on the other.

House finished his aggressive whipping of the cream and tilted the bowl towards Wilson. "Thick enough?"

"Yeah that's fine." Wilson spooned the cream onto the other sponge cake and began spreading.

"So can I eat it now?"

"Hold on." Wilson cupped the cream smothered sponge in his hands, flipped it over and placed it down on the jam sponge. "There." He gestured to the cake. "Now you can eat it."

House swiped a knife from the draw behind him and cut a slice of the cake before stuffing a huge mound in his mouth. It was good -- it was better than good -- it was phenomenal. He could see Wilson eye him up expectantly, waiting for his approval to see if all the sweat and toil was worth it. House merely swallowed the chunk, picked up his plate and headed back to the sofa.

Wilson followed behind him. "Well...?"

"Well what?" House popped another bit of cake into his mouth.

"Don't... don't mess with me. How is it?" Wilson was pacing, his feet checking back and forth over the rug. He wanted this to be right so he could say, without fear of contradiction, that he completed his one New Year's resolution. House wasn't giving him anything; no indication of whether it tasted good. He was eating it though, which Wilson supposed was a good thing. But then this was House. He was probably enjoying watching Wilson tie himself up in knots. "Well?"

"It's perfect." House smiled as he chewed on the last piece of cake.

"Really?"

"Really." House rose, handing the empty plate to Wilson, who himself stood almost rooted to the spot. He leaned in and placed a warm kiss on the younger man's lips just as the clock chimed twelve. "Happy New Year Wilson."