A/N: Here's the conclusion of this three-part chapter. Two chapters left in the story, neither of which is very long, so probably will in fact be only two chapters.
(H/C)
The presents were a big hit all around. Rachel was delighted at the Breyer horses, running her hands over every line of their bodies almost reverently, as if touching a real horse. House was careful to point out that these were breakable (his ribs knew exactly how breakable, not that she was likely to get similarly tossed onto one in a heavy fall by the combined force of a tackle and a bomb). They were hardly made of glass, but they could not take the rough handling that her stuffed Ember did. But Rachel seemed struck by the same quality that had made him buy the model for her in the first place, the realism. These did not look like toys. They looked like horses. She was fascinated and, in her best toddler efforts, respectful with them.
Abby liked the unicorn and was intrigued by the bugle, but her favorite tonight was the child's puzzle. She was familiar with basic shape puzzle toys, the round peg through the round hole, but she had long since been bored with those. Assembling pieces into a coherent picture was a new challenge, and they had to pull her away from it to eat when the pizzas arrived. She gravitated back to the puzzle on the coffee table like a magnet afterward, and much to the pride of her parents and her grandfather, she actually did manage to work the 20-piece puzzle all by herself, even if it took a little while. Her attention never wavered from the task. Belle frisked in the sacks, and Cuddy simply sat there watching her family and slowly unwinding a few more turns after yesterday.
As for the electronic racing game, House got that out of the box as soon as the girls were settled. Thomas was a willing partner, but it was obvious to the diagnostician that he still had a headache and that the sound and light effects weren't doing much for it, so after only two "races," House put the game aside for the evening. After eating the pizza, they wound up watching a movie, Rachel with the stuffed Ember in her lap and the Breyers arranged in a line next to her, Abby finishing the puzzle at first before focusing on the screen, House and Cuddy on the couch, Thomas in the recliner.
Nothing was said about bedtime, but Cuddy thought after all the stress of yesterday and last night that the girls weren't going to be able to stay up too late, even with their long nap. Sure enough, only the adults remained awake by the closing credits, although Thomas already was looking worn out again. House still looked quite tired himself. Cuddy quietly got to her feet and switched the TV off. "I'll take them back to the nursery and tuck them in. You two need an early night, but don't head for bed yet, Thomas. We need to make sure all your cuts are doing okay." She picked up Rachel and the stuffed Ember. "I'll be back in a minute for Abby."
She headed down the hall, and House looked over at the recliner. "How's the headache, old man?" he asked.
"Probably my favorite headache I've ever had. I'm enjoying it." House looked away, not feeling like playing at the moment, and Thomas dropped the joking tone - although he had been serious, too. "It's still there but better than it was before the nap."
"It will probably let up by tomorrow." House studied the line of model horses, remembering his fall - and the old man jumping on him.
"We'll get more into that game then. How are you feeling?" Thomas asked.
House shrugged and changed the subject. "I want to see that sonata," he said abruptly.
Thomas looked from him to the piano in silent analysis. He knew his son wouldn't be able to play the piano right now with any kind of freedom of movement, but pointing that out would only annoy him. Thomas heaved himself to his feet with a sigh. "It's in my suitcase." He started for the bedroom.
Just as he was turning into the room, Cuddy exited the nursery. She spotted him and hurried down the hall. "Wait a minute," she protested. "We need to check you out first, plus taking your temperature. You also need to take another dose of meds."
"I was just getting something from my suitcase." Thomas stopped in the door and reached out to touch her arm, his warm, living fingers giving her a reassuring squeeze. "Relax, Lisa."
She sighed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like your mother."
"You must just be channeling her necklace." His light tone was at odds with the deep understanding in his eyes. She gave him a grateful smile and a return squeeze on his good arm, then left him and went on into the living room to fetch her younger daughter.
By the time Thomas returned to the living room, House had hauled himself up and moved over to the piano. He was sitting on the bench, not playing or even touching the keyboard, just looking at it. Thomas came over and handed him the sheets. House looked surprised. "This is the original. I thought you said you copied your life in quadruplicate to disaster proof yourself."
"I do. I have another copy myself, and two more are in storage at different locations. But yes, that's the original. I specifically wanted you to have that one." House gave him an odd, searching look, not as much skepticism now as bewilderment. That was at least progress, Thomas thought. Damn John House. "The original definitely belongs to you, Greg."
House put it on the music rack, looking at it longingly, but he still didn't reach for the keyboard. He knew Thomas was right; he wasn't up to playing. The music would be horribly stiff right now, and he couldn't stand to do it wrong. "You've had somebody else play it just so you could hear it, haven't you?" he asked. Of course, it wasn't realistic that this would go straight from Timothy Thornton's hands to his, jumping across 60 years without anybody else touching it along the way, but he still felt almost jealous, even while telling himself that was ridiculous.
Thomas nodded. "Yes, but I wished even then it had been you playing. I wanted to know if I'd ever heard him playing this one. If so, I don't remember it." He sighed. "But I wasn't paying the closest of attention in my childhood. Never occurred to me back then as a kid that it all might be about to end." He looked at the manuscript, his father's writing, remembering, then pulled himself back to the present. "I've thought of trying to pick out the melody myself just one note at a time, but I've resisted temptation so far. Old dogs can learn new tricks, but it does take a while."
"I still can't believe you've started piano lessons."
"I'm enjoying them, even if I haven't got any talent at it. The determination is there now. I also have a lot of fun watching the expressions on the students before and after me every week as I arrive and leave. They can't believe it, either."
House gave a soft chuckle. Cuddy reappeared from the hallway, then froze, looking at them both over by the piano. "Come on in, Lisa. I wasn't playing anything," House said. He didn't add the current reasons; they both knew those as well as he did. "We were just talking while we waited for you."
She dissected through the tones of that invitation and concluded that he actually wanted to be interrupted. Still, she reminded herself of Patterson's advice. The two of them would need time and space to talk this week. She was glad that her husband actually was talking to Thomas now, even if he was still holding back on the emotionally charged topics. Conversation at all was a huge step forward from pure challenge. "Let's see your back, Thomas. How are you feeling?"
"A little ragged, but things are improving. I think another good night's sleep will make a lot of difference." He started working his arm out of the sling as he walked stiffly across the room toward her, and she met him partway, helping to take it off. He ran his left arm through a tentative range of motion. "I think my shoulder's going to be okay. It's just aching." He started unbuttoning his shirt, and House pried himself off that marvelous therapeutic piano bench cushion and came over to inspect the cuts for himself at close range. Cuddy helped Thomas slip the shirt off, and she tenderly pulled off the dressings that were over the largest spots to give him some padding and protection, trying not to hurt him and going so slowly that he wished she would just give it a rip and get it over with. She and her husband both surveyed the damage.
"Looking pretty good," House commented. "I don't see any of them starting to get infected." He took refuge in the medical facts, but every cut and scrape reminded him of the reason why the old man's back had taken most of the debris. Cuddy was silent; she didn't trust herself to speak for a moment, but as her husband turned away to sit down on the couch, hitting his short current time limit for standing, Cuddy gave Thomas' arm a squeeze, trying to pick an unbruised spot. He turned his head, and his eyes met hers.
"Once the cuts get past 48 hours, we can take showers," House said. "Unfortunately, the hot tub is out for a few weeks. That would really work the kinks out, but it would also be asking for an infection."
"I'm looking forward to even a shower. No offense to the ER staff who cleaned me up last night, but I prefer to do it myself."
Cuddy started for the bathroom. "I'll get some more dressings. I'll grab the thermometer, too. That's actually in the discharge orders, not just me worrying. Temperatures twice a day." She returned after a minute with antibiotic ointment and gauze patches and redressed the worst spots on his back, wishing that he could lie down a little more comfortably. She then added antibiotic ointment to the gash on his temple - that one was uncovered, being not as likely to come in contact with surfaces as his back. Afterwards, she took Thomas' temperature and then her husband's, which were 99.2 and 99.1.
Thomas waited for the verdict on his son, but then he picked up his shirt and started slowly for the guest room. "I'm going on to bed," he said. "Good night, Greg. Good night, Lisa."
"Good night, Thomas," Cuddy replied. "I'll get you another glass of water." He already had his pills in there.
After delivering the water and making herself not wait to supervise the pills, she came back into the living room to find House on his feet again, standing by the piano, looking at the music. She paused for a moment, making sure that his body language was open to her, then joined him. "Sonata," she read. It was signed TT in the upper right corner.
"This is the only surviving piece of Grandad's original compositions," House said. He read the music as easily as a book, hearing it in his head - but that wasn't the same as playing it.
Cuddy carefully slid an arm around him. "I'm looking forward to hearing it in a few days." They stood there until she felt him start sagging against her, though his eyes were still devouring the music. "Come on, Greg. Let's go to bed."
He jolted back from musicland to full consciousness of the pain. "There's an invitation I never turn down," he joked, but he was too tired and achy to even put much feeling into it. He knew that the bed activity tonight would be limited to sleep.
They made the slow trek down the hall together, her pace matching his current limits. The guest room door was open, and both of them glanced in as they went by. Thomas was already in bed. Once they got to their own room, Cuddy closed the door behind them, and House raised an eyebrow, surprised that she could stand putting a barrier between herself and the rest of the household at the moment.
"I'll open it again before I go to sleep," she answered the unspoken question. "I wanted to talk to you for a minute. If you feel like it, that is."
"What's up?" He stopped in the middle of the floor, and she urged him gently on.
"Go ahead and sit down, Greg." He resumed his sore route to the bed, easing himself down onto the mattress, though he stayed sitting up, looking at her with a "spill it" expression. "Greg, if I go too far this week, if I'm trying to over control things or hurting the two of you or turning into a total bitch again, please, tell me. I was so scared yesterday, but I don't ever want something like last year to happen again. Don't let it go that far. Please, talk to me."
He opened his right arm in silent invitation, and she sat down on the side of the bed next to him, sliding close but still tense with the urgency of the request. He gave her a direct answer, not joking, not evading. "I will. But you're doing fine, Lisa."
"I know I'm trying to keep track of meds and worrying about infection, but that really was part of the doctor's orders. And you two do need to rest and eat and take care. . ."
He bent his head and silenced her by kissing her, though he was careful not to lean his body over too far. "You're doing fine, Lisa," he repeated a minute later. "Yes, you're rattled, but you're only human. You're at least admitting you were scared, and that's miles ahead of last year. We aren't filming the sequel to hell week here. It's okay. Just do one thing for me."
"What's that, Greg?"
"Talk to Patterson about things," he requested.
She nodded. "I will. In fact, I'll call her tonight. We'll have a session on it, and I'm sure that won't be the last one."
He studied her still-exhausted face. "Could you hold me until I'm asleep first?" he asked. She agreed, of course; no woman could turn down that request. As soon as they were ready for bed, she reopened the door, and then they both settled in, snuggled as close together as his ribs would permit. As he'd expected, she fell asleep rapidly herself, even before he did. He remembered the old man manipulating Rachel earlier this afternoon. Like daughter, like mother. He was smiling in spite of the pain as he dropped into sleep.
(H/C)
Wilson looked around, double checking the moment. The waiter had just left after removing their plates. Dessert waited in front of each of them. The food had been marvelous. The soft music was perfect, and each discretely separated table in the dining room had candles on it. Sandra looked relaxed, enjoying the evening. He reached into his pocket, brushing the ring box with his fingers. "Sandra, I want to tell you something. In all the years, I've never met anyone like you. Never. You are beautiful, compassionate, strong, loving - you're what I've been looking for. I want to spend the rest of our lives together." He paused a paranoid second to give calamity a last chance, but the offer wasn't claimed. He stood up and then dropped to one knee, pulling out the ring. "Will you marry me?"
Her smile as the ring was opened was what he would always remember first when looking back on tonight. That and the fact that there was no hesitation at all. "Yes. Oh, yes. I will marry you, James Wilson."
Applause startled them, and they looked up to see the nearest tables getting into the scene. The wave of recognition swept across the restaurant, and before long, all of the other diners were applauding. Oddly, Wilson had forgotten in the actual moment that he was in public. Now, he appreciated the picture they must be making, the perfect moment and proposal, but he appreciated her even more. House was right. She was what he wanted, what mattered, not the moment. He pulled her out of her chair and slipped the ring on her finger, then kissed her.
As they sat back down a minute later, Sandra tilted her hand, letting the diamond catch the candlelight, admiring it, then smiled at her fiance across the table. Together, eagerly, they started making plans, both of them excited about the future, but her smile also had a private layer behind it. Maybe, she thought, in ten years or so, she might tell James that she had worked out back as far as Friday night from his nervousness his true plans for this weekend, and he had had her sympathetic understanding and appreciation from Saturday on as the crisis interrupted his first attempt and everything went haywire. Yes, maybe in ten years. But she sure wasn't going to tell him tonight.