The next few days falls into a pattern that Nick isn't entirely sure he can break, the icy fingers of winter finally settling sullenly into cloudy skies and frosty winds. It won't last long – the forecaster is already predicting a winter storm for later in the week, the promise of snow heavy in the air – but he tries to enjoy it as much as he can. This, admittedly, isn't much.

The wind off the bay is too strong to stay outside for any length of time, the sharp sting of it chapping his cheeks and making him wish for a better winter coat, but it gets him out of the house for a while and that's all he really wants. It's nearly unbearable, the thought of being inside all day, and if he were a better man he would have toughed it out, for the girls' sake if not for his own, but he's not and he's already walking the fragile line between falling apart and holding together. It doesn't help that Tom, for all his talk of settling the estate, has yet to make any overt moves to do so, instead spending all his time either talking on his mobile – business, he claims, though Nick has his doubts – or moving around the house with powerful purposeful strides that make it impossible for Nick to stop him for long.

He tries, though. Lord knows he tries. Tom isn't an easy man to catch though, deftly changing the subject whenever Nick broaches it or hurriedly shaking him off with false promise to "talk later". Nick doubts they ever will and tries to plan accordingly.

He can't stay here forever – already he's had to ask for an extension on his leave, promising his boss that he'll do some work from his laptop if he has to stay away any longer – but he isn't entirely sure when he should leave. The girls, pale and solemn things that they are, have been hovering in around him, looking for comfort he's not wholly certain he can give and, although Grace has been good about stopping them from crowding him, it still feels wrong to just leave them. They're hurting, after all, and Nick is not so dried up as to be callous enough not to notice.

He just doesn't know what to do about it. They're not his children, in as much as he cares about them, and what he has to offer them isn't much. He's only six months sober, for god's sake, and a mess besides. What possible good could he do for them – for anyone – right now?

None at all, he thinks bitterly, tiredly, as he watches the choppy surf come in off the bay, the sharp bite of wind as good an excuse as any for the stinging behind his eyelids.

It's two days later that Tom decides that they're going to have a party.

"No, not a party," Tom corrects firmly, lips pulling down into a twist of a frown as he sips his after dinner coffee. A cigar hangs carelessly from his other hand, the smoke filling up the space between them and making the room feel stifling. "Just a small get-together for friends and family; you know, Daisy's nearest and dearest. I thought we could have it here at the house over the Thanksgiving holiday. It's coming up, you know."

For a long, nearly endless, moment, Nick isn't sure what to say. Isn't sure he wants to say anything at all. Not with the way he can feel incredulity and what might be the first stirrings of anger clogging up his throat, his mind, and making him curl his hand tighter around the edge of his coffee cup.

Because – because – Tom wants to have a party. A party – no matter what he wants to call it, that's what it is – and he actually thinks it's a good idea. That it's – acceptable – so soon after Daisy's death and on Thanksgiving no less. It's just – it's too much. This is too much.

Hands shakily putting down his coffee cup, Nick stands, intending to – god, he doesn't even know. Storm out, maybe, or just quietly leave the room. Get as far away from Tom and his cigar smoke and this place as possible. Take a long walk in the freezing cold or drown himself ina bottle of scotch-brandy-whiskey, whatever is on hand, because this isn't – it's not – he shouldn't be here, goddamnit.

He should have left when he had the chance.

"I need to – "

"Nick," Tom cuts in, voice soft and unexpectedly close, and Nick jerks, realizing he's just been standing there the whole time, unmoving as he stares down at his rapidly cooling coffee cup, and Tom must have gotten up, must have moved, because suddenly there's a presence at his side. Too close for comfort but far enough away that it would be awkward to shy away. "I want you to be there. For the get-together, I mean."

One of Tom's hands abruptly settles onto the nape of his neck, fingers brushing against the soft hairs there, a strangely tickling sensation that has a weight behind it – a meaning – that Nick is suddenly too afraid to think about.

"I know that you want to leave soon. You have," Tom's lips twist, frown displaced by something altogether too mocking as he rubs his fingers against Nick's neck. "Obligations, but I want you to stay, at least through Thanksgiving. It'll give us all sometime to – say goodbye."

Stomach lurching, Nick nods before hastily stepping away, the back of his neck burning where Tom had been touching him as he hurries from the room, cigar smoke wafting out into the hall after him.

Notes: Just to be clear on the timeline of this fic since it might be a little muddled: Daisy's funeral took place at the beginning of November with Nick staying a few days after that, only to have Tom decide that he wants them all to go back to the house at East Egg. Nick is just entering his second week and now Tom wants him to stay through Thanksgiving, which is about a week or so away. I realize that most bosses would not be as generous as Nick's but, as you'll find out, Nick has a job that is flexible - he's not a bondsman, anymore.

On a different note, this chapter was a bear to write. It completely got away from me - I had intended to write about Nick's reactions to being back in East Egg with some telling memories thrown in - but it just didn't want to be written that way. On a positive note, though, with things being as they are, next chapter we'll get our first real hint of Gatsby. :)