April 12th

They've waited an hour or so for Hawkeye's flight to arrive. The gate isn't that busy-a few soldiers headed for Fort Hood, some commuters, pretty much like all the gates here; it's Syracuse, not LaGuardia or JFK or even Newark. Greg keeps his attention on the game he's attempting to play, while Roz is the one who scans the board and gets both of them coffee, and chats with the attendant. Thus, she's the one who sees him first. She puts a hand on Greg's arm. "He's here," she says quietly, and then she goes to meet him.

Greg watches them out of the corner of his eye. Hawkeye is a little taller, skinnier if that's possible, with similar lean features and thinning white hair. He wears comfortable clothes under a good coat and carries a single duffle bag. When he sees Roz his face lights up with what appears to be genuine delight. He drops the duffle and holds out his arms. Roz goes right to him and they embrace as if they've known each other all their lives. Greg is aware of a strange sensation deep inside, a tangled knot of anger, pain and reluctant wistfulness he can't bring himself to acknowledge.

After a minute or two they head his way, arms around each other as they talk and laugh. Greg works on the fifth level of his game, unwilling to give it up. It isn't until they stand in front of him that he lifts his gaze for a moment. He looks into Hawkeye's face, into eyes as blue as his own, full of understanding, uncertainty and even a little amusement.

"Doctor House," Hawkeye says. "Good to meet you at last." His voice is familiar now: resonant with a New England accent. He doesn't hold out a hand to shake; Roz must have warned him. Greg looks down at his game.

"Doctor Pierce," he says, and falls silent.

"I don't know about you two, but I could eat," Roz says. "Why don't we go to Dino BBQ?"

Greg perks up just a bit. Hawkeye gives her a quizzical look. "Do they serve barbecue alphabet soup?"

Roz chuckles. "Stop at barbecue," she says. "Dinosaur's the best around here." She looks at Greg. "Okay?"

He nods and puts the game away. "I'll drive."

"Not a bad flight," Hawkeye says as they drive through town. "Thought for sure we'd have rotten weather on the way down. I saw northern lights last night."

So dear old Dad couldn't sleep either. Greg feels a second or two of distant sympathy; he'd been up on and off all night long, tense with anxiety until Roz had persuaded him to take some Vistaril and then curl up with her in bed. It had given him a few hours of rest, at any rate.

"It won't take too long to get home," Roz says. She sounds confident and relaxed. Her ease with the situation helps him stay calmer than he would otherwise; Greg wonders if that's the case for the older man too. He says nothing however, just concentrates on his driving.

The restaurant is crowded as usual, but they get a table fairly quickly. It hasn't been cleared yet—there are leftover ribs and cornbread on dirty plates. Greg observes Hawkeye's reaction. He takes a seat, ignores the mess and looks around, clearly intrigued. So, not a man to fuss over less-than-ideal conditions. No doubt his experience in the military has something to do with that.

"It's got atmosphere," Hawkeye says drily, but a smile glimmers in his eyes when he says it. "Reminds me of a place I used to go to in Chicago. Adam's Ribs, down on Dearborn Street. Probably a parking garage now."

Anything Greg might have said is interrupted by the arrival of their server, a young woman with multiple tatts, piercings and purple hair, pretty much the required look here, in what's still a biker bar to some extent. She's quick, efficient and funny; she cracks jokes with them as she clears the table, gives it a good wipe-down, offers menus and takes their drinks order. Roz will drive home so she opts for iced tea, while Greg gets a Yuengling and Hawkeye tries the Ape Hanger Ale. They decide on the Swag sampler for four people—spicy shrimp boil, chicken wings, deviled eggs and fried green tomatoes—along with the family size main meal of chicken, ribs, brisket and sides. Anything they don't eat they can take home of course, in fact they'll order a bunch of goodies to go; Dino barbecue is a common sight in their fridge and the clinic's too, since anyone on airport duty usually stops to pick up orders while in town.

"So, if you don't mind my asking, why the Adirondacks?" Hawkeye says when the server disappears into the depths of the kitchen. "It's a little on the remote side for the work you're doing."

"I thought I'd combine renting cabins with diagnoses," Greg says. Hawkeye sits back and gives him a direct look, though amusement still lurks in those blue eyes.

"You've got your great-grandfather's entrepreneurial spirit and my smart mouth," he says. "Dad would be both thrilled and appalled." And he means it. There's actual pride in his voice along with the teasing. Greg blinks but says nothing, because for once he doesn't know what to say.

Thankfully, the beer and iced tea show up at that point along with the appetizers. A few minutes of happy chaos ensues, while everyone takes what looks good and then falls to. Hawkeye tries the chicken wings first. He munches, turns red, downs a good swallow of beer.

"Hot damn," he says, and belches. Roz rolls her eyes but smiles all the same.

The main courses show up a short time later, and everything is so good none of them can resist the temptation to eat way too much. Conversation is intermittent, and mostly between Hawkeye and Roz, which suits Greg just fine.

"How's it going now that you're starting your own business?" Hawkeye asks her.

"Not bad," Roz says, and licks her fingers. Greg hides a smile at this childish gesture. One of the things he enjoys about Roz is her ability to be a serious adult and five years old simultaneously. "Doing the paperwork sucks, but Sarah helped me find a good CPA so I don't have to worry about payroll deductions." She hesitates. "I'm—I do some tutoring, too. On the side."

"Really?" Hawkeye takes her up on it, his interest clearly real. "What do you teach?"

"I'm not a teacher," Roz says, and blushes. "Just a tutor. Math, some algebra and calculus."

Hawkeye's eyes widen. "No one is just a tutor," he says in admiration. He glances at Greg. "That fact isn't lost on you, no doubt."

"Nope," Greg says, and stuffs in a mouthful of brisket. He's actually quite proud of Roz, but he's still in the process of observation, to gauge strengths, weaknesses, prejudices, how and where to push, to test limits. He gathers information, he doesn't give it out.

"Succinct," Hawkeye says. There's sardonic, knowing amusement in that one word. It makes Greg aware his father understands what he's doing and moreover, doesn't object.

Interesting, he thinks, and files it away for further study later.

Eventually they finish up, put in a huge order to take home along with some of the local beer, and head on their way. Hawkeye gets the front seat with Roz. Greg stretches out on the back seat, his head pillowed on the older man's duffle. It smells faintly of Old Spice, something he finds oddly comforting, which is just plain weird, but there it is. He listens to his wife talk with his father, the comfortable, desultory kind of conversation people have when they're okay with each other, and thinks he'll probably never get to that stage with this man. The fact that he even contemplates it is ludicrous. And yet . . . he can't help but admit that way down deep inside, there's a tiny little part of him still in shock at the realization that John House is not his dad. After all these years, that hasn't gone away. That same part of him longs for a relationship with his real father—hell, with any father, but doesn't know how to go about it. It's the same problem he has with everyone else, just magnified to the intensity of a million collapsing suns.

Slowly he drifts off, lulled by the motion of the car and a full belly.

"Amante." Roz says it softly. As she speaks he becomes aware they've stopped. "Do you need the bathroom?"

Greg pulls himself upright. "I didn't until you said it," he grumbles, but there's no real annoyance behind his words. Roz leans in and kisses him, a soft brush of her lips over his. Then she stands back so he can get out, and walks with him to the rest area.

They're about an hour from home now, so Greg doesn't bother to go back to sleep once they're on their way again. Instead he sits in the back and listens. It therefore comes as a surprise when Hawkeye says quietly, "Look, I don't expect us to be instant family. It's okay for you to say whatever you want to me. I won't plotz if you're less than kind." There's truth in his words, no hidden agenda, no attempt at blackmail or emotional angst. It's a genuine offering of respect. So of course Greg has to poke at it.

"No reason to be less than kind," he says. "You didn't know about me until Mom decided to tell you. Not your fault I was dad-less for most of my life."

"Blythe was married," Hawkeye points out, but without rancor.

"Her husband was not a father," Greg says, more sharply than he'd intended. "Literally. And in more ways than one."

"Was he abusive?" The question is put quietly, but there's anger and sadness behind it.

"Fortunately for both Mom and me, he was mostly absent." Greg looks out the window at the lights of farmhouses and outbuildings glittering in the dark. "When he wasn't . . . let's just say he made an impression in every way possible."

"Shit." Hawkeye sighs softly. "If I'd known . . . hell, I don't know what I'd have done. Maybe talked to Blythe about having you come to Maine."

"Easy to say now," Greg says, even as he thinks about how utterly different his life would have been with a medical doctor for a dad, instead of a humorless jarhead with a ramrod up his ass.

"Yeah, it is," Hawkeye says. "I won't say I'm sorry because that's meaningless, but . . . I'd have tried to make a difference for you somehow."

Greg doesn't answer him. There's nothing he can say that won't start a war. While he's not averse to such an action, he knows Roz would be terribly hurt by it. Anyway, it would destroy any chance he might have of learning more about this man. So he doesn't indulge his first instinct.

"So Blythe married career military," Hawkeye says. "Who knew she was such a glutton for punishment? I only met one guy who was regular army who wasn't a total dick. Mostly they're humorless jerks."

Greg is startled into a reluctant smile. "True," he says finally.

"What was Korea like?" Roz says. It's an attempt to steer them away from a potentially explosive subject, but she's also interested in Hawkeye's history.

"Madness and boredom, interspersed with moments of sheer terror." Hawkeye sighs softly. "I worked with good people, got two best friends out of it, and none of us should ever have been there in the first place." He glances at Roz, then away. "Korea was beautiful, when it wasn't being bombed to hell and back. The people . . ." He trails off, then goes on. "The people were pretty decent, all things considered."

So, there was a woman. Maybe more than one. Greg files the knowledge away for later use. "Meatball surgery," he says aloud. "Interesting term."

"A very apt term." Hawkeye is silent for a few moments. "It wasn't uncommon for us to work forty-eight or even seventy-two hours at a stretch. You'd catch a catnap here and there, drink really bad coffee and eat a stale sandwich left over from the Civil War, and go back to work. Sometimes I dream about it, about being back there. Hearing the choppers come in, one after the other . . ."

"Is that why you became a GP?" Roz asks.

"Yeah. I'd had enough of blood and guts." There's bitterness in that simple statement, and pain. A lot of pain. John House never showed any remorse about the wars he participated in, but then he was the one who blew people up, not a doctor with the task to patch them back together. "I'd rather talk about Doctor House's practice."

"Just House," Greg says. "You're my daddy after all, Doctor Pierce."

"Okay. And on my side of things, just Hawkeye." The older man chuckles softly. "Tell me about your clinic."

"Not much to tell. Two beds, plenty of waiting."

"You take the cases no one else can figure out."

"They pay more."

That earns him a laugh. "You're not in it for the money. If you were, you'd be grabbing every speaking engagement and chance to publish that comes your way. I know for a fact you haven't done either in years."

"Checking up on me . . . nice." Greg loads the words with sarcasm.

"Of course I checked up on you. I'm curious. Wouldn't you be?" Hawkeye stretches a little. "Curiosity is our stock in trade." It's the truth, so Greg doesn't bother to answer. Hawkeye folds his hands across his belly, and Greg almost laughs out loud at the familiar gesture. It must be genetic. "That said, if you don't mind I'd like to visit your clinic."

The idea makes him nervous. On impulse he blurts out "I've got a student," and wishes with everything in him that he could take those words back.

"Really? A protégé?" Hawkeye sounds surprised but pleased. "That's—that's a great idea. Will I get to meet him?"

"I doubt you'll be able to avoid him." He hates the knot in his gut. "He's the Goldman kid, their adopted son."

"How old is he?"

"Fourteen." Greg remembers himself at that age—sullen, silent, filled with equal parts rage and confusion.

"That's a tough age," Hawkeye says. "Still a kid, but on the way to being an adult and no clue how to get there."

Roz laughs softly. "That's true for girls too," she says, and Hawkeye chuckles. Greg can't help but envy their easy comraderie. He pushes the feeling aside and listens to them talk back and forth, but adds nothing else to the conversation.

Another half hour and they're home. The light in the kitchen door window is a welcome sight, though of course Greg would never admit that to anyone else; it's tough enough to know it in his own head. They put Barbarella in the shed and head into the house, where Hellboy waits for them. He flicks his tail back and forth because he hasn't been fed at his usual hour. Hawkeye sets down his duffle and looks around.

"Nice place," he says. "Old houses are the best. This one was well-loved, and still is." Then he sniffs the air, and shoots a glance at Roz. "Spice cake?"

"Spanish bar cake," Roz says. She actually blushes. "Blythe said . . ."

"It's my favorite." He reaches out, puts a hand on her arm for a moment. Greg is reminded of Sarah, her butterfly touch. "Thanks. Let's save it for breakfast, if you don't mind. I'm still stuffed from dinner."

They decide to call it an early night. While Roz shows Hawkeye upstairs, Greg puts the food away, then grabs a beer and goes to the couch. He searches through channels when Roz sits next to him and rests her head on his shoulder, a sign she's tired and in need of reassurance. He slips an arm around her, brings her closer.

"He's more tired than he wants to admit," she says softly. "Like father, like son." She puts her hand over his. "Do you have work in the morning?"

"The minions can handle things." They've gone through quite a few files, but haven't struck pay dirt yet. He'll give them another twenty-four hours to find something worth his time, or he'll call a Sunday session and keep them there until they either bring in patients or run out of potential cases. "You?"

"Mandy's coming over in the afternoon to work on her math. Other than that I'm clear." She sighs softly. "Are you really okay with this?"

"Kinda late to ask now." He strokes her hand with his fingertips, enjoys the sensation of her soft skin.

"I mean having him here. If you need him to go to Gene and Sarah's—"

"No," he says, to his surprise. "Here's . . . all right." He waits a beat, then says "Spanish bar cake?"

Roz sighs. "I asked Blythe if she knew what his favorites were, and that's what she told me." She sits up a bit and looks at him. "What?"

"He's seeing Mom." The knowledge is . . . confusing, weird.

"Wow." She leans in, kisses him. "You okay with that?"

"Don't know," he says under his breath, and feels suddenly as if it's all been thrown at him too fast.

"Well, we'll talk to him about it tomorrow," Roz says, and Greg can't help but smile a little. 'Forthright', Gordon Gordon calls her, and that's such an apt description; it's one of the reasons why he loves her.

"Tomorrow," he says, and returns her kiss. Time enough until then for other, more pleasurable tasks.