A good meal soothed the savage beast within House and this meal was no different. He attacked his meal with all the grace of a shark in a feeding frenzy until Cuddy told him he was going to make himself sick and wouldn't be able to enjoy the cake that had been made especially for him. House made a half-assed effort in complaining, but the thought of enjoying a huge slab of chocolate cake outweighed spending the rest of the night with an upset stomach and heartburn. He slowed down and began to eat the rest of his meal with something that resembled table manners.

Wilson watched his friends and noted the stolen glances, the accidentally-on-purpose brushing of their fingers, the private jokes. Picking up where they had left off. Cuddy had been diligent with her visits to Mayfield, with only honest-to-God emergencies keeping her away. House didn't come right out and say it, but did imply that their visits gave him something to look forward to. If House had said something similar to Cuddy, she never bothered to mention it. Maybe he did in a moment of weakness, Wilson thought, and told her not to say anything to save him some future embarrassment.

"The sludge they served at Mayfield was worse than airline food," House spoke up before inhaling a forkful of mashed potatoes.

"So you've told us a million times," Wilson said, and decided against changing the subject. Let House get his seemingly endless list of complaints about the asylum out in the open and out of his system. The sooner the better.

"Now it's a million and one. Actually, comparing it to airline food might be too kind. It was worse than cheap frozen dinners and cheap fast food."

"You live on that stuff," Cuddy reminded him. "You have at least half a dozen take-out numbers on your speed-dial and I threw out some frozen dinners that had been in your freezer since the Clinton administration."

"My point exactly. That makes me the perfect judge of Mayfield's food." House made it sound like the most important job in the world.

Wilson asked, "So you've turned into Gordon Ramsay now?"

House scarfed down a few more bites of his dinner before answering, "Not hardly. I'm the average man out looking for something edible. Nothing fancy, just edible. Like I said, that makes me the perfect judge."

"How so?" Cuddy asked, leaning forward, honestly wanting to hear his answer.

"If you can make some McNuggets and fries look like a five-star meal, then your bar isn't set very high. Cheap Chinese take-out tastes like cheap Chinese take-out…ergo, I know slop when I taste it, and the shit they served at Mayfield wasn't fit for the raccoons."

"Did you really see raccoons out there? I thought they didn't allow pets in your rooms," Wilson joked.

"I saw one or two raccoons, and there were about a million squirrels. I'm sure they have plenty of Xanax stored for winter."

Underneath all the layers of madness, indifference, selfishness, cockiness, misanthropy, and addiction was a brilliant and calculating mind. Said brilliant and calculating mind had just spent endless months in an asylum, trying to keep a grip on its sanity. That battle had been won but the war was far from over. House evidently felt he had something to prove when he challenged Wilson to a game of chess.

"I figured you'd be dying for some cake right now," Wilson said as he helped Cuddy wash the dishes. "I put extra chocolate frosting on it because I know it's your favorite."

"The cake isn't going anywhere," House pointed out. "Right now I'm in the mood to kick your ass over sixty-four squares."

"House, really. You just got home today. Just relax and take it easy. There will be plenty of time for chess later."

"There's plenty of time for one lousy game of chess now."

"Even one game of chess takes forever."

"Too bad, so sad." He leveled his gaze at Cuddy. "Did you play chess with him while I was gone?"

"We just went bowling," she answered, rinsing off a handful of silverware. "I haven't played chess in ages. I'm probably as good at that as I am at bowling."

House grinned triumphantly. "Sounds like Wilson and I could use a little brushing up. Where's my chess set?"

"It's safe, don't worry," Cuddy told him.

"Really? You didn't throw it out with the ancient TV dinners, did you?"

Cuddy said, "It's on the shelf where it always is."

"It'll take forever and a day, House," Wilson protested, "and I have a million things to do tomorrow."

"Well, we better get started."

"House--"

"It's one game, Wilson," House pointed out. "It's not like I'm asking you to bring me the moon or anything.

Wilson gave his best puppy-dog eyes to Cuddy in hopes of getting some support. She didn't buy it for a nanosecond. "It's one game. It's not going to kill you."

The oncologist turned back to his smirking friend. "One game…on one condition."

"Which is…?"

"We have cake and ice cream first."

"What kind of ice cream?"

"Chocolate chocolate chip."

"More chocolate?" House gaped. "Are you two trying to kill me with some kind of weird chocolate overdose or something?"

Getting three small plates out of the cupboard, Wilson said, "We're trying to placate you with chocolate. Maybe you'll go into a sugar-induced coma and forget about the stupid chess game."

"Not on your life," House replied with a wicked grin. "Now slice me a big hunk of that cake so we can hurry up and get on with the carnage."