The sound of scraping at the front door had Cuddy rushing to the peephole. She peered through, gladdened to see her husband's face. With one hand over her heart, she turned and wandered to the coffee pot, flicking it on; then she walked down the hall to get some towels.
Outside, House continued scraping at the ice; delicately turning the wide blade and trying not to take off the door knob or make any scratches. He was lightly striking the sheets of ice when, above the quiet commotion, he thought he heard a soft chuckle. Expecting another neighbor, he turned. And saw Wilson, sitting on the roof of the car; his shoes on the hood. His hands were clasped between his knees and he was looking at House. Like the last time House had envisioned him, Wilson wore a black and green jacket and gloves. His task forgotten, House stared at him.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," Wilson chastised him. "You can't forget me; we were friends for years!"
House turned back to the door, noting that Wilson didn't have a reflection. But as he continued to chip away the ice, he felt an uncomfortable presence to his left.
"Is that turkey I smell?"
"Leave me alone, Wilson."
"I miss turkey. Gravy. Yams. Stuffing. Cuddy makes the best stuffing, doesn't she?"
The last of the ice rained down, and House opened the door, stepping onto a towel. Cuddy stood there waiting for him with another towel—and Wilson stood behind her, to her left. Her welcoming smile faded as he shut the door with a scowl on his face.
"What did I do?" she asked.
"Nothing." He took the towel from her and began to dry off.
"Okay..." She smiled at him, turning away and leading him down the hall. "How's Chase?"
"Don't care."
She turned back, still reaching for the cupboard knob. "House, you can be a Grinch for the next four days. But I expect you to be on your best behavior at the party."
House sighed, watching her putter around the kitchen. "I'm not going to the party, Cuddy."
"Of course you are. Everybody will be there. Rachel will be there. And you are not to freak her out with any more prison talk. I hate that she's living on campus. Did you know I can't visit her because it would be embarrassing? I mean, how does that even work? How can you be so self-conscious about what people think of you; and at the same time, be so ready to do whatever it takes to show the world what you're made of? Was I too self-conscious to let my mother come around? No. You let your parents come around. Chase and Foreman let their dads come around."
"So you raised a hypocrite. Almost everyone does."
She gave him a stern look. "That's not helpful. Or nice. Start basting, or get out."
House surprised her by picking up the oven mitts. She made sure she was out of his way as he took the turkey from the oven and began to baste. He raised his eyes to Wilson, who was sitting at the kitchen island, as the hallucination asked, "Are you ill?"
House ignored him. "Do you know Cameron's planning a vacation?"
"No!"
"She wants to see somebody. I don't know who. Her firstborn? Or something?"
Cuddy smiled. "Ah, she told you. See, if you cared, we could actually talk about it. I'm sure we still have some secrets from each other."
House looked at Wilson over the steaming turkey, then opened the oven door. "Nope. Which is how you know I'm not interested in getting acquainted with the product of her genitals," he said, speaking into the oven. He closed the door and stood up, removing the gloves. "Smells good!" he added, as he walked away.
"Thanks for your help."
She continued to sit, crushing crackers; unaware he was lingering until he spoke.
"I'm not going to the party, Lisa."
The foreign sound of her first name on his lips effectively got her attention. She stared at him as he turned around and moved agonizingly up the stairs.
House closed the door to the guest bedroom, glowering at Wilson. "Why are you here?"
Wilson held his hands out, palms upward. "I'm not."
House stared. "It doesn't make any sense," he muttered. "I'm off the Vicodin because I'm taking pills to suppress hallucinations. So why am I hallucinating?"
"Well, the mind is a powerful thing. And your body is probably weakened by sixty years of Vicodin abuse. You probably built up an immunity to the medicine."
"I need something stronger."
"No," Wilson snapped. "The last thing you need is more pills."
"The last thing I need is to see people who aren't there!" House slammed back. Fed up, he turned around and limped to the mini-fridge. Wilson watched him prepare a sandwich.
"Huh, so you actually can make your own food."
"I'm ignoring you."
Wilson laughed, softly. "Yeah. That's worked out well so far." And, just like when he was alive, he held his hands up in quiet surrender as he turned away. House watched him go to the chair and sit down.
House turned back to the partially-made sandwich and kept working.
"Are you really not going to show them one act of kindness all year?"
House was silent.
"You don't know how lucky you are. You've got your intellect, your friends, your wife, your job. Would you truly be happier if they never invited you? Most people would kill to be like you."
"That's because they don't realize what being me is like. Didn't I tell you to leave me alone?"
"How can I leave you alone if I'm not even here?"
House walked to the chair tucked into the counter extending over the mini-fridge. "Be not here quietly," he said, as he pulled the chair out.
Wilson gazed at him. "You'll go. Because you'll realize you want to see people who are there."
House limped to the bedside table, grabbed a pair of noise-cancelling headphones, and put them on. He walked back to the table and sat down as Wilson smiled at him.
