House woke up reluctantly, already resisting the day without knowing why. Before his mind even remembered where he was, there was a vague sense of dread hovering over him, and he knew that whatever today held, he wasn't looking forward to it.

Right alongside that undefined sense of foreboding came the first morning pain assessment, as much an established part of his matutinal routine as brushing his teeth and one that came far earlier in each day's agenda. This morning, the deep ache in his thigh already was somewhat increased over baseline, either due to weather or tension or just the moods of the damned thing, even as he lay carefully still, and he could sense the teeth just waiting to bite in if he moved abruptly. Nope, definitely not going to be a good day.

He also began scouting for Cuddy. Sometimes that preceded the pain rating as he woke up, sometimes on harder days came along with it, but the thought of her was never delayed too long past his brain first coming online. Of course, usually she got up ahead of him at her typical insane hour to do yoga, but he could still hear or, if not hear, sense her nearby, and it was always comforting to rediscover her in his life every morning and track where she was in her routine. Today, he didn't have far to check, as she was still in bed next to him, her breathing deep and even.

The feeling that something was wrong accelerated sharply, and he opened his eyes. She was sound asleep, but her face looked weary. It was only after checking on her that he registered the bedroom around them. They weren't at home.

No, they were in Lexington.

And his mother was dead.

And he had to read those letters and decide what the hell he was going to do.

Undefined foreboding fled in the face of even more alarming facts. He was tempted to close his eyes and try to ignore the dilemma a little longer, but he knew he would never recapture sleep. Already his mind, now having reoriented itself to the current differential, had taken off at a dead gallop, dragging him along unwillingly in its wake. The sharp-toothed monster of the pain gave a low, eager growl and moved in a bit closer.

Cuddy looked tense even in sleep. He wondered what that will had said; her starting to read the will was his last hazy memory from the previous night. Or she could just be worrying about Thornton and the last-minute trip again, fretting over his foot. It was a bad bruise, but House was positive it wasn't broken, and all the pulses had been strong. No, the man would probably be tired and achy from the last minute trip back, but he'd be all right, if a few dollars poorer, and he could catch some sleep on the planes, too.

No matter what else House tried to convince himself of, he kept coming back to the root of her tension as himself. She and the girls both had been on edge the whole evening last night, although he had tried to believe his daughters were picking up on Cuddy, not reading him themselves. But she unquestionably thought he shouldn't read the letters.

Jensen definitely thought he shouldn't read the letters. No interpretation required there; the psychiatrist had said so.

He tried desperately to stuff back down the fact that the thought scared him, too. He remembered reading just the one letter, and the impact of that had been sharp. But 128 letters, spanning decades and the great majority of them from his childhood. All those years, all the memories, all the misunderstandings, everything his mother had missed along with the rest of them. It was all right there waiting to be relived. The idea of diving back into his childhood to that extent in one plunge scared the hell out of him.

But the letters were there, and he had to know. Making his decision without all of that data would be like picking only half of a patient's chart and tests while ignoring the other half and still trying to arrive at an accurate diagnosis. He needed to know what Thornton could have known, how much he could have worked out.

Damn the man. If he hadn't sent that one . . .

If he hadn't sent that one, then that goodbye letter yesterday would have been entirely new information to House, and he would have immediately challenged why, in six months of tentative conversation, Thornton had hidden the fact that there were letters at all.

But he hadn't hidden that fact. What did that mean? That he wasn't afraid of them convicting him? Or had he been even more Machiavellian than that, picking out just the one and deliberately trying to scare his son with the impact, covering all bases, so that if Blythe ever mentioned them, he was safe, having mentioned them already himself but also having ensured that House would never want the lot? After all, the man had worked in intelligence. He was a professional at playing a deceptive role. Nothing about him could be taken at face value.

Or could it?

House needed to know. There wasn't time to do it gradually; he had to make this decision soon for the sake of his family, and he couldn't ignore the information in the letters, the one real-time record that still existed from his childhood. Thornton was getting too close to the girls and also to Cuddy. If he wasn't to be allowed into their lives, that veto had to come swiftly, and the decision had to be made right now.

If he wasn't to be allowed into their lives ... The impact of that thought, not about the girls, whom it was his duty to protect, but about Cuddy, suddenly hit House with the force of a hammer to the chest. He thought of his mother, stifled all those years, John limiting her access to the world, restricting her friendships, keeping her in the box. Cuddy was an adult, and while the girls were a different story, Cuddy could make her own decisions about whom she chose to have relationships with. House didn't like the thought of her and Thornton growing close before he had even decided about the man for himself, but what the hell did he think he had the right to tell her? "I absolutely forbid you to talk to him." He even heard it mentally in his stepfather's voice, and come to think of it, he himself had said pretty much that back last summer to his mother, starting this whole farewell letter business in the first place. At that time, even if she had written the letter, Blythe had fallen meekly into line as ordered, because that was her familiar role, because she was used to it. Because she had lived there for years. House felt his stomach twist into a double knot. While worrying about his biological father, was he actually turning into John House?

And the sharp-toothed monster eagerly leaped to the attack.

(H/C)

Cuddy woke up abruptly in the cold certainty that something was wrong. Shooting up off the bed, ready for the call to duty from whatever quarter, she opened her eyes and looked first to her husband. She didn't have to look any farther. He was nearly doubled over, both hands clawing at his leg, sweat standing out across his forehead. Not a sound escaped him. "Greg!" She ran around the bed to his side, grabbing the meds bag along the way. Her hands closed alongside his on his thigh first; the entire limb was rigid. She let go and opened the bag. This spasm was beyond simply a massage for relief.

"No! I don't . . ." The desperation in his eyes, equally as strong as the pain, implored her.

She paused in the middle of getting out a syringe. "Greg, you need this."

"Got . . . to think. . . today," he panted.

She sighed. "What about just diazepam, okay? Not morphine. It will help the spasm, but it doesn't hit you nearly as much mentally." A brief differential, even from the middle of agony, and then he gave a tight nod. She fixed a shot, administered it, and then reached for his thigh again. He let go, yielding to her, and she worked on the spasm with her own teeth clenched, waiting right along with him for relief. It took a while, but slowly, the muscles released. She kept massaging his leg, more gently now, and looked at his face. His eyes were closed. "Better?" she asked.

He nodded, clearly trying not to move even his head much. The weather forecast hadn't been too bad for January, if she was remembering it right from yesterday morning. The culprit here was probably just his tension level, which was through the roof. "What about a hot soak, too?" she suggested. He nodded again, eyes still closed, and she let go long enough to head into the bathroom to switch the tub on, then returned and resumed her massage. He opened his eyes after a minute, studying her, and she could see the wheels spinning.

"You didn't make me," he said finally.

"It's your choice, Greg. If you don't want the morphine, as long as you're still able to express that opinion, I'll leave it up to you. I know you hate the stuff."

"But you thought I needed it."

Her hands paused briefly. "I did think you needed a little, yes. Not a knock-out dose, but it would have helped you faster. But it's still your choice. Greg, what are we talking about here?" She hated feeling like she was lagging somewhere a few zip codes behind him in a conversation.

"If I . . ." He trailed off, and she waited, her hands moving again on his leg, chasing out remnants of cramp and pain. "If I told you I'd decided I didn't want Thornton in our lives anymore, that I didn't want him to be around the girls at all, would you still talk to him?"

"Yes," she replied. "At this point, I would keep talking to him. I'd respect your wishes with the girls, but I would still be his friend myself. But I wouldn't try to hide that fact from you." He looked oddly reassured by that answer, even while the thought annoyed him. She leaned over to give him a kiss, then let go of his leg and stood up. "I'll go check the tub again. It should be full soon." She collected clothes for both of them, then walked away, leaving him the privacy he always wanted to get out of bed, although this morning, her ears were turned up on high.

Following the sound of his progress out of bed was painful for her, and the hot tub was full and steaming well before he made it into the bathroom. He was walking tentatively, clearly just waiting for his leg to bite him again, and he sat down on the edge of the tub and eyed it for a moment, then silently reached out an arm. She was right there, and she took hold tightly, giving him a firm support point as he shifted laboriously over the side and settled down with a sigh into the water. She joined him but waited, wanting those pain lines to recede somewhat before she brought up the letters.

He spoke first. "Quiet night last night?" he asked.

"The girls wanted to see you once when they woke up. They came in, and we watched you breathing for a while."

"Wanted to see me? Not us?" She nodded, and he looked away. "You probably called him, too, soon as I was out."

"Yes, I did, just to make sure he was all right. He didn't answer, but he called me back later when he got to St. Louis."

"So he is getting those letters?"

"Yes. He'll be back this morning. His plane lands at 6:47." She couldn't stand putting it off any longer and dove in. "Greg, please, think about this."

He fired back immediately, tensing up even in the hot water. "I know. You think it's a bad idea, too. But I need to know how much they said, Lisa. I have to make this decision now."

"Why? Why today? I know the girls are getting curious, Greg, but we're leaving tomorrow afternoon, and he'll go back home for the moment, too. You can keep taking this slowly if you need to. Nobody is pushing you here except yourself. Please, read them with Jensen one at a time or something over the next several months."

He was still watching her with that intensity from last night, even as he stayed stubborn. "Lisa, that's a live report as it happened. Written records, like in a newspaper. It will tell me things that he couldn't. I can't just ignore all that data."

"It's about as accurate as a newspaper, too," she countered.

"Even so, it's . . ." He stopped in mid sentence. "How would you know? You asked him last night what was in them, didn't you, maybe even had him read a few, just so you could get a summary yourself while I couldn't object?"

"No." That denial was rock solid, and she waited a moment, suddenly wanting him to believe her, even without additional clarification. He did. Once she was sure of it, she went on. "I asked him how bad they were. I was asking about cumulative effect, not about content, because I was worried about you. I'm assuming the content, based on Blythe. I don't need to read one to know what they said. Knowing her was enough."

"What did he say?" he asked, softer now.

"He said at the time, one by one, there was nothing he questioned, but in hindsight as a group, they're awful. That was his own word for it. Greg, please, don't do this to yourself, or to us. I'm scared for you. So is Thomas. You can go slowly on it."

"He could just be scared for himself," he suggested.

"No, he's scared for you. And I'm definitely scared for you." She slid closer to him in the water, pulling him against her, realizing that her hands were trembling even in the hot tub. "Please, Greg. The girls and I will be with you through it, whatever you decide, but don't throw it all at yourself like this. It's too much. It would be too much for anybody. Please think about what you're doing."

He was silent for a few minutes, although he didn't pull away from her touch. "You trust him," he said finally.

"Yes. By now, yes, I do."

"Why?"

"Because of watching him, especially the last few days. The way he looks at you and the girls, but still respecting your limits. The similarities I see in the two of you. The way he cares about all of us. The way he admits his mistakes honestly from the past. Him setting up the funeral. What he did last night for you, even though it's costing him - and I'm not talking about money, damn it. He doesn't have any ulterior motives here. You've mentioned sides a few times, Greg. This isn't about sides, but if it were, it still wouldn't make any difference, because there's only one. Thomas is on your side, too. But he's also willing to wait until you can see that."

He flinched. "I asked him for help, and he laughed at me."

"Greg, that was decades ago, and he didn't know. I can't imagine what your childhood was like; I'm not diminishing that. But Thomas didn't realize what you were asking. He'd do anything to change it, but he realizes he can't. We can't change the past. All we can do is go forward."

"Now you're sounding like a sappy chick flick again," he protested.

"So what?" She felt his arm tighten around her. "Just think about it. I can't tell you what to do, but I think this is a mistake, and it's going to hurt all of us, you most of all. I'm sure of that, Greg."

He looked thoughtful, if still stubborn. She knew it was time to leave the subject. "By the way, I read the will. You get the house."

"Told you so."

"You weren't totally right; she didn't actually leave everything to you." She waited long enough to get his curiosity firmly engaged. "She has 21 bequests of things in the house, from the furniture to the books to the silverware, even. I think she tried to give something to every new friend she had made."

"Not the piano?" he asked quickly. "I gave the piano to him yesterday, not that he's going to be able to use it."

"No, not the piano. Nor the desk. Thank you for doing that for him, Greg. Thomas just wants it because it was yours." She hesitated, debating.

"What?" His attention sharpened up instantly. "Go ahead and say whatever you're thinking. With everything else we've talked about this morning already, it might as well join the pile."

"I was just thinking that. . . Greg, I realize you can't call Thomas your father. Not yet. Maybe never, and that's okay. I'm not pushing that on you. But you seem to try to avoid calling him anything. Thornton if you have to, but you do avoid even that, and you especially never call him anything to his face. Couldn't you at least call him Thomas?"

His eyes went distant, and he looked away. She waited. Finally, he spoke. "What do you think I called him all those years I was growing up?"

She straightened up as if hit with a jolt of electricity. That point hadn't occurred to her. "You mean the name itself reminds you. . ."

A tremor went through him, and she pulled him in closer. "I . . . it brings it back. How I felt then. And John, too, every time he'd visit after that time I asked him to take us away, John would give me a reminder beforehand, and he used his name all the time during those. So that's . . . that's what I associate with that name."

"I'm sorry," she said. The kiss steadied both of them. "I hadn't thought of that," she continued after a minute. "And I don't know why I hadn't. Of course that's what you called him back then."

"Stop feeling guilty," he demanded, kissing her again.

"Does it bother you when I call him that?" Not that she had any idea what the solution to that would be, as Thomas deserved to be addressed by his name.

He shook his head. "No, only . . . only me. It doesn't bother me hearing it from anybody else, just when I think it. Probably would from John, too, but he's in hell. I just . . . I can't call him that, Lisa."

"I understand, Greg. I'm sorry I asked." They came together again in the water, and slowly, she felt him start to relax as he realized that it was only sympathy, not pity. The kiss began heating up as they melted into each other.

That, of course, was when Marina knocked on the bedroom door. "Dr. Cuddy?" she called. "Are you awake?"

They broke apart laughing, and Cuddy shook her head. "Great timing," she muttered. "Just a minute, Marina," she called. Erupting from the hot tub, she seized a towel and quickly got dressed. House watched, obviously admiring her agility and coordination. "I'll deal with them, Greg. Take your time." She exited the bathroom, closing the door carefully behind her, leaving her husband sitting in the gently steaming water, looking thoughtful.