Thornton did indeed have the door of the dining room staked out, but Wilson only spotted him because he was specifically looking. Thornton was sitting in an armchair in a small waiting area not far from the dining room entrance, reading a magazine, and Wilson, studying him even more intently than before after Jensen's enigmatic comments, was struck by how absolutely casual he appeared. Honestly, you could walk right by the man and not have anything catch your attention. He seemed to have a talent for blending into his background. Even though Thornton immediately noticed Wilson and Jensen, there was also nothing abrupt or overly eager about how he put the magazine aside and casually stood before ambling toward them on his long legs. The oncologist watched his approach and began to suspect just what an excellent - and yes, practiced - actor this man was.
As for the relationship, it was there when Wilson looked but only hinted at unless he paid attention and starting listing similarities. Thornton had House's height, but his eyes, while blue, were a completely different hue, less vivid, less noticeable. He shared the lean, athletic build but was slightly less angular than House, and the sharpened edges and chronic pain lines in the face weren't there. No way Wilson could guess what color his hair had been - it was gleaming silver now. He was clean shaven.
Once or twice in their brief previous encounter in the courtroom, there had been something in the expression momentarily that reminded the oncologist very strongly of House, but most of the time, it wasn't there. Thornton looked pleasant, even handsome in an unremarkable way, but he didn't look as intelligent or insightful as his son, whose appearance advertised openly to the world the eccentric genius that he was. Within the next hour, Wilson would add back in the quality of intelligence to his description, along with a wicked sense of humor, but those weren't visible on the surface. Outwardly, Thornton almost looked ordinary.
Jensen had paused as he saw him (Wilson had jolted abruptly to a stop, and it was Wilson, not Thornton, who drew a curious glance from a passerby), and the two men waited as Thornton walked up to them, perfectly routine, everyday, just like any set of acquaintances meeting in public. "So Greg's not coming down to eat?" Thomas asked with an edge of concern.
"Yes, he is. They'll be down as soon as they get the girls sound asleep. It should be any minute," Jensen replied.
Thomas hoped that meant that Greg was feeling a little better after some meds and treatment for his leg. The physical pain when he exited the plane had been obvious. "Let's go ahead and get a table, then," he said, thinking it would shorten the time for Greg to be on his feet waiting when he arrived. Thomas started for the door of the dining room, the other two falling into step beside him. He felt a thrill of anticipation and also of hope, though neither showed outwardly. The others had expected to encounter him down here; Wilson's expression had been a dead giveaway. But they were still coming, when room service and every other restaurant in Lexington were also available as alternatives. His son wanted to talk to him.
Wilson, tuned into every nuance, found himself watching Thornton's stride as they entered the dining room. Long and forward, covering ground even when Thornton was playing things casual, but with a fluid grace to it, and Wilson was abruptly carried back to the preinfarction days. Yes, he recognized that, too.
They requested a table for five and were assigned to a comfortably sized round one, small enough to be intimate, large enough for elbow room. The dining room was fairly busy, mostly business travelers at this time of year, but it wouldn't be tourist season for a few months, so it wasn't at capacity. They sat down, Thornton quietly managing the chairs so as to put himself between Wilson and Jensen while saving the other two spots side-by-side for his son and his wife. Once House arrived, whichever of those chairs he sat in, he would be as near as possible with an odd number to sitting directly across the table from his father. That little manipulation was handled so skillfully that Wilson didn't even fully realize it until it was already accomplished.
Feeling slightly off balance at failing to notice he was being herded, Wilson launched his quest for more background as soon as the waiter had left after being told they would wait for the rest of the party before ordering drinks. He at least was going to get some solid details on what he was dealing with here, and he was fed up with being the caboose on the information train. Thornton, whatever kind of "professional" he was, couldn't possibly be pricklier than House to pull information out of. "So, Thornton," he said in his best firm, self-possessed, in-control tone, "what exactly did you do in the Marines?"
The other man didn't look prickly at all. In fact, he looked amused. "I was . . ." His attention sharpened, and Wilson knew even before turning to check the door that House and Cuddy had entered the dining room. "It gets a little involved," Thornton said. "I'll tell you in a minute." Wilson, put definitely if politely on hold, fumed silently at House's timing. Questions would be harder once House got there. He couldn't help but notice the definite differences between the father and son in their hanging-up-on-Wilson procedures, though. House never would have wasted time on an explanation and implied apology before switching to something else he found more interesting than the oncologist at that moment. Thornton was very focused now, even though he still did a good job of hiding it, and Wilson, temporarily thwarted, looked across at Jensen.
The psychiatrist was looking rather amused himself, but he spoke quickly to Thornton, his voice so soft he couldn't possibly have been overheard at other tables. "Once the food gets here, do not talk about any serious subjects while he's eating." Thornton looked at him briefly, then simply nodded, accepting it.
House and Cuddy spotted the other three promptly and headed straight for their table, Cuddy carefully holding her stride back to match her husband's slower progress. House was definitely moving better than he had at the airport, but his pain levels still were over baseline. That wasn't apt to improve much on this trip, he thought glumly as he limped across the room. He took in the seating arrangement at a glance, considered protesting just to stir things up, then decided that reshuffling would only draw even more attention from other diners than his cane-laden approach had done. He dropped into one of the chairs and glared across the table. "Sure, come right on and join us for dinner, why don't you?" he said sharply, though he didn't raise his voice, aware of surrounding tables.
"Thank you," Thornton replied pleasantly. "I will."
Cuddy hid her smile as she sat down. The waiter appeared with prompt efficiency, distributed menus, and took drink orders, and Thornton's eyes lingered on Wilson for just a moment as the oncologist ordered a plain Coke, even though Jensen ordered one, too.
Once the waiter had gone, House launched into the rules (revised juvenile version) for this visit. He kept his voice down, but he was all but daring his father to challenge him. "You're just a family friend on this trip as far the girls and Marina are concerned. Cross that line, and it will be the last time you ever see them."
"I know," Thornton reassured him sincerely. "I'm not trying to start anything, Greg."
Cuddy touched her husband's leg beneath the table. She was on his right, protecting his weaker side, and her touch was like a feather against his bad thigh, but she knew he was aware of it. "He already said that to Rachel at the airport, Greg."
Yes, he had, House remembered. He studied Thornton, again wondering about his motives. Thomas gave him a tentative smile, then abruptly left his son alone and turned back to Wilson. "What was it you wanted to ask me a few minutes ago, Dr. Wilson?"
He remembered perfectly well, Wilson realized, and was just offering a chance to change it if he wanted. Fat lot of good that would do at this stage, because House immediately plugged in some worst-case scenario question anyway and glared at Wilson. That at least meant that actually asking couldn't make things worse than letting his friend simmer in silent speculation. Besides, there was nothing at all wrong with background questions. They had to talk about something while they ate. Thornton's background, aside from the touchy matter of his unacknowledged son, seemed as good a choice as anything and a lot more interesting than weather or sports. House was already mad at Wilson now whether the question was asked or not. So damn the torpedoes, Wilson decided. Full speed ahead. "I was asking just what it was you did in the Marines," he repeated.
House's reaction wasn't what Wilson had expected. He looked slightly amused himself now, which pissed the oncologist off. The waiter returned with their drinks just then, and they asked for a few more minutes to order; not a menu had been cracked as of yet. Thornton politely waited for the waiter to leave, then turned to face Wilson directly. For the briefest moment, the pale blue eyes were almost apologetic, and then they focused, and Thornton's entire expression changed. No longer did he look ordinary. "This was all classified, but no harm in admitting it decades later. I worked in intelligence," he said. "My specialty was in gathering information. They would send me in to extract as many secrets as I could from places and people who thought they were good at hiding them. I did that for most of my time in the service."
Wilson stared at him, suddenly feeling like a specimen under a microscope, pinned down firmly by the lens. "That . . . must have been interesting," he said. Those eyes bored into him, seeming to see clear through to read his shirt label on his back collar, and yes, they had all of House's focus. They weren't sinister in a physical way but were filled with searing perception, proclaiming that attempts to hide anything were useless. How had he ever thought them nondescript?
"Oh, it was. Sometimes more than others, of course, but it had its moments. It's amazing what you can find out just by letting people misjudge you at first." Thornton broke the gaze, all at once as amiable and ordinary as he had been at first, like changing from one costume and persona to another backstage before entering in a new role. "But that's all ancient history." His tone was purely conversational again. He glanced across at his son. House was laughing softly, and he looked more relaxed now.
Wilson took a swallow of his Coke, gaining breathing space for a moment and trying to find his composure, which seemed to be somewhere down on the floor beside his shoes. That had been like flipping a switch, on and then off, the speed and control of the transformation shocking. Below the table, Thornton lightly bumped him with his hand for just a moment, and the apology in his fingers was sincere. He's using me to break the ice with House, Wilson realized. And I walked straight into it. But it did work, at least. He looked at his friend. House definitely had settled down a little while enjoying the show at Wilson's expense. Oh, well, it had been for a good cause. Wilson fought back the sigh and dutifully asked his next question. "What did you do once you left the military?" Surely being a spy had ended there.
"I worked out another twenty years at a company as a translator," Thornton replied.
Wilson started to relax a little, no longer pinned to the back of his chair by those eyes. "Which languages did you work with?" He looked at House, wondering if that was an inherited talent.
Thomas shrugged. "Pretty much whatever ones were needed. All of the main ones, anyway."
House came to attention. "You're claiming you're fluent in everything?" he asked, with an edge of challenge underlying his voice.
Thornton didn't back down. "Enough that I worked full time selling that ability for twenty years, yes."
The blue eyes locked over the table. House abruptly switched into German. "So you think you're a big shot at languages, then?"
His father followed him linguistically without missing a beat. "It isn't a question of what I think, Greg. It's a simple fact." Thornton switched himself, jumping from there into Dutch. "You know how much travel was involved in the service, and me even more than John. Once they found out about the ability, they used it. They sent me into all sorts of places."
"And you just couldn't help soaking any language up," House responded, making it sound like a flaw. Both of them took a brief time-out to glance in unison at Jensen, who obviously knew at least a word or two of Dutch himself, and then the unofficial competition resumed.
Thornton changed over to Portuguese. "I always picked them up like a sponge. Didn't even have to work at it. It's a talent I was born with, but yes, I am good at it. You came by your ability there genetically, too, like the music."
House's eyes hardened. The other three people at the table were totally lost now, trying to interpret tone alone in this publicly private conversation. "Yeah, you think I'm just a chip off the old block, don't you?" That had been one of the things John used to tell him before he realized the true paternity involved. The phrase set House's teeth on edge ever since he had remembered that.
Thornton shook his head. "No, I don't. You're your own person, Greg. But yes, there are bits of me that I can see, even more of Dad. I'm not claiming you as a carbon copy lacking individuality, but there are genetic contributions, and I appreciate them. That's a fact, too, not just my opinion." He changed into Italian, the language of love. "I'm proud of you, Greg. Always have been. I'm proud of the heritage that's in you, and I'm also proud of your own qualities that are totally original, and I'm especially proud of what you've made of your life."
House retreated and changed the subject, unable to accept the approval yet. "What were. . ." He stopped and switched to Japanese, refusing to stick to Italian. "What the hell were you doing coming down to the airport to meet us? Trying to play prodigal father and move straight in? You haven't earned that right yet."
Thomas looked down briefly, trying to keep from fixating on that tantalizing word yet, although his heart had jumped at it. Meeting his son's eyes again, he gave him the truth. "I wanted - needed - to make sure you were safe."
House stared at him, annoyance paused momentarily at the unexpected answer. "Safe? Why wouldn't I be? Lisa talked to you last night; you would have seen us in another hour or two anyway. I'm a big boy now and perfectly capable of managing a plane trip. I've done it dozens of times. Why wouldn't I be safe - at least now, that is. Are you just trying to make up for missing asking that question in the past?"
Thomas flinched as that flaming arrow struck a bull's-eye. "I had a nightmare last night," he replied evenly. "I dreamed that your plane crashed, like Mom and Dad's crashed, and you and Lisa were both killed, and I had to arrange your funeral. When I woke up, I knew it was just a dream, but still, all day, the shadow of it stuck with me. Nothing else worked to shake it. I needed to see you, as soon as I could, and I knew then, once I saw that you were safe, it would let go of me."
House looked away, fighting an unwilling sympathy. He was as much of an expert on nightmares as Thornton was on languages. His voice was soft as he dropped into English, ending the informal contest. "We'd better look at the menus before that waiter comes back."
Wilson had been staring again, following that whole sequence like a ping-pong game between two championship players. "Wow."
Cuddy quelled him with a look. She was just as impressed, but she knew better than to push it. She had no idea what that conversation had contained, but she did know it had switched to serious matters part way, and she knew that Thornton had somehow gained his son's sympathy at the very end of it. She wasn't about to lose the ground just won by getting House stubborn. "You're right, Greg. We need to order." She opened her menu, looking at her watch at the same time.
"Go ahead and call Marina for an update," her husband suggested. "She'd call us if things went wrong, though." They had promised the girls (and the nanny) that they could be back upstairs within five minutes if needed and that they wouldn't even be leaving the building. The girls had been a little resistant, but today had worn them out, and sleep wasn't too delayed.
"Let's order first." They made their selections, and then Cuddy called upstairs. "All quiet," she reported as she hung up a few minutes later. "They're sound asleep." The group cumulatively relaxed, Thornton included. He knew better than to ask questions on the girls right now, though.
"What else do you want to know, Wilson?" he asked. Not just a friendly question that time but almost a request.
Wilson obliged. "What about your family? Any siblings? Kids - I mean other kids?"
"Yes on all fronts. I had two siblings, a brother and a sister. I'm the youngest."
Wilson noted the past tense. "Are they dead?"
Thomas nodded. "My sister died about thirty years ago. She apparently picked up some bug while traveling, and it developed into atypical pneumonia. Nothing they tried worked."
House came to attention. "What did they try? Where had she been traveling?"
"She took a safari. We all did, actually, my wife and I along with her, as well as Tim and his wife. He was my other son. Ellie was the only one who got sick afterwards, though. We went through Kenya mainly." He gave a sad smile at his son's differential expression. "I can get the old medical records if you'd like to look through them."
"Might as well try to see what the medical idiots missed. It might make a difference someday with a patient if I ever run across it again." House hesitated. "If you don't mind."
"I don't mind. I'll request them once I return to St. Louis."
"What about your brother?" Wilson asked.
"He joined the Marines a few years before I did, and he was killed in Korea." Thomas paused, then went on, looking back at Greg, silently offering this as another trigger behind his nightmare. "On New Year's Day."
Wilson flinched and fell into silence as today's date landed with almost an audible thud in the middle of the table in front of them all. Jensen, fairly quiet so far and just watching and appreciating the conversational interplay, gave Thornton a compassionate look. "I'm sorry," Cuddy murmured. She only remembered a moment later to give her husband's arm a squeeze as she said it in lieu of their more active reconditioning, but House didn't seem lost in the past in spite of her late response. He was watching his father with that grudging sympathy again.
Wilson, meanwhile, getting the idea by now that absolutely everybody else who had ever been in Thornton's life was dead, decided to change the subject. No point in drawing out a parade of funerals from the other man and reminding House of Blythe's tomorrow. Besides, Wilson was starting to feel sorry for him himself. He grasped at the first question he could think of that wouldn't involve what happened to relatives. "Does anybody ever call you Tom?" The derivatives of James had always grated on him, but there were people who insisted, even after he had stated what he preferred. Operating from that framework, he had noticed in retrospect that Cuddy in the airport had called Thornton Thomas.
Thornton smiled at him, and Wilson again had the feeling, at least without the paralyzing intensity of being under a microscope this time, that the other man knew exactly what he was thinking and even appreciated the change of topics. "A couple of people in the Corps, but not many. I've always been Thomas in my family. See, my grandfather was Tom, and he actually lived with us for his last several years when I was really young. It would have been too much to have two Toms under the same roof. Then when I got married, Emily had a brother, and he was Tom. So she liked the difference herself."
House shook his head, but there was almost a friendly edge behind the scoff this time. "You and your family needed to work on another letter. There are 25 others, you know. Try a little originality for a change."
Thornton grinned at him. "Dad used to say something similar to that at times, even though he was the one who named Tim after himself. I confess, our family tree gets a little repetitive. A few generations back, there was also a string named Thaddeus. Three versions of those. That left me glad to just be Thomas."
House cringed. "Did people actually name their kids stuff like that?"
At that moment, the food came. Thornton, remembering Jensen's warning, avoided all serious topics while they ate and instead produced a long string of "idiots of the week," as he had called them - the most ludicrous, oblivious people and situations he had run into in his 20-year career working as a translator. Wilson and Jensen both tossed in a few of their own similar encounters of the medical variety, with all identifying details removed, of course. House was quiet for the most part now, though he did throw in some of the more memorable patients from Diagnostics, personality wise, at Wilson's prompting. Much to Cuddy's surprise, House actually did manage to finish off the meal, even if slowly, and for at least half an hour, he forgot about the funeral tomorrow.
She knew the moment he remembered, feeling it settle down onto him like a cloud, almost visible. "We need to get back upstairs before the girls want to see us," he said abruptly, pushing his chair back and stiffly rising to his feet.
Cuddy quickly stood beside him. "Yes, we do. See you all later. Good night, everybody."
"Good night," they responded, and then Thornton switched into Spanish as his son turned away from the table. "Good night, Greg." House turned, looking back at him for a long moment, then limped away without responding.
Thornton let out a deep breath, relaxing. "That went surprisingly well," Wilson noted.
"It did," Jensen agreed. The psychiatrist reached out to touch Thornton on the shoulder as he stood. "I'm sorry about your brother. I know anniversaries are tough."
Thomas nodded. "This one improved a whole lot halfway. Now I've got something positive to associate with it, too." He looked at Wilson. "Sorry for pushing you a little bit there."
"You did give me a chance to back out first." Wilson studied Thornton, then said, "You know, earlier tonight, I was thinking how little you looked like him, but the more I see you together, the more obvious it is." The oncologist offered his hand, and Thornton shook it. "Nice to finally meet you."
Thomas stayed alone at the table for a few minutes, replaying the evening in his mind. So much bad history behind them, but there was also one priceless word, even if Greg had been mad when he said it. Yet. His son had told him he hadn't earned that right yet. Tomorrow loomed large and dark ahead of them, but beyond that, there was a glimpse of the future. He finally stood up. Fishing out his wallet, he dropped a bill on the table and then headed upstairs. Long day tomorrow, and he hadn't had a good night last night. He was very tired, but for right now, even with all the difficulties ahead, he was satisfied.
A few minutes later, the waiter, clearing the table, stared in disbelief. Tucked under the edge of one plate was a $100 tip. With a smile, he captured it before it could get away and quickly pocketed it. The new year was starting off right.