A/N: Two things have kicked in this last week hindering writing/posting time somewhat. First, work woke back up from the holidays - a good thing. Second, my musical groups hit full gear again after Christmas break - also a good thing. This story will probably go more slowly now than it did for a little while there during the down time, so be patient.

Also, there is now another developing Pranks story in line which actually jumped the one I thought was next up. It didn't change the events of the other, just happens earlier. It's in full plotting right now. There's also a non-Pranks one-shot I'm currently playing with, pure comic relief, that's liable to show up in the next few days. I have zero control over my muse, but the ride in this series shows no signs of ending yet.

Thanks for all the reviews, and here ends New Year's Day. I think it's quite appropriate that my muse decided to get House, the girls, and Thomas actually all together for the first time on New Year's Day. Tomorrow (fic time) will be the funeral, and that day is several chapters long, too. Onward, and thanks for reading.

(H/C)

House and Cuddy stood in the doorway of the second bedroom which had been set up for Marina and the girls and watched their daughters. Both girls were sound asleep, Abby smacking a little at the moment as if enjoying dream delights, Rachel with one arm thrown over her stuffed horse. Their parents stood for a long time before turning away.

"Thank you, Marina," Cuddy said.

The nanny smiled. "Everybody was quiet. They're getting better all the time. All they needed was being with you." She paused. "But I still think they should go tomorrow."

House flinched, and his stomach abruptly clenched to the point that it was physically painful. The funeral. Tomorrow was his mother's funeral.

Cuddy sighed. At that moment, a light knock came on the door of the suite, and House gave a low growl. "I knew he couldn't let it alone. Came up here for another look at them in person tonight." He limped stiffly for the door, aware again of his leg, which he had almost forgotten for a few minutes over dinner. Sure enough, Thornton had only been reeling him in earlier, trying to get his defenses down, and now was making his real move. Marina looked after him with puzzled concern.

House jerked open the door, but it wasn't Thornton who stood outside. It was Jensen. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" the psychiatrist asked.

The anger House had all prepared evaporated without a target, leaving him suddenly exhausted. He leaned a little harder on the cane. Jensen noticed, though his eyes stayed on House's face. "Just for a minute," Jensen emphasized. "I know we're all tired after the trip. I don't want to get into things right now."

Cuddy took over smoothly. "Thank you again, Marina, and we'll see you in the morning," she stated. The nanny had been watching House closely, but she took her dismissal and retreated into the bedroom with the girls. "Unless you need us earlier," Cuddy amended quickly, and Marina nodded to her as the door shut. "I'll be in our bedroom, Greg," Cuddy said, walking over to the other door. That one also clicked shut, and Jensen and House were left alone in the main room.

Jensen didn't try to sit down to encourage House to. He wasn't planning to be here long enough tonight; they all had a long day tomorrow, House most of all, and needed to get to bed. The psychiatrist had debated talking to him tonight at all, but tomorrow morning before the funeral would hardly be better timing. Just a brief minute, stating his opinion but not challenging, and then he would retreat and leave House the space he needed to consider it.

House jumped in before he could start. "If you mention the word bonding, I'll hit you with this cane. I was just eating dinner. He's the one who crashed the party. Nothing I could do about it without causing a scene in the dining room."

"I don't want to talk about Thornton," Jensen reassured him. That definitely had its place in a session or twelve coming up, but not until they were clear of the immediate crisis that had sparked this trip. He'd let Thornton do the talking - both verbal and silent - on that subject at the moment.

House relaxed, and the lean on his cane increased a little more. "What, then? Just want to compare rooms? Yes, ours is bigger, but you and Wilson don't have to share with that damned whinnying horse."

Jensen phrased it carefully. "I just wanted to say that I think going to the funeral tomorrow would be good for the girls."

House tightened up instantly, and his eyes hardened. "They don't need to see . . ." He trailed off into silence.

"A funeral isn't a bad thing, Dr. House. John isn't at this one; don't let his lies affect your decision as a parent. I just think it would be good for them and would help them to process their death. That's all I wanted to say. Good night."

Jensen started to turn away, and House's next words stopped him in his tracks. "Yeah, but you thought last week was a good idea, too, and your professional approval there sure wound up counting for a lot."

Jensen stared at him, momentarily caught off guard, and House saw the pain in his eyes and knew that he had just hurt the psychiatrist badly, worse than he ever had in all these years. House's stomach clenched even tighter than before. He wasn't truly blaming Jensen for last week; after all, the psychiatrist had been the one who tried to stop things sooner while House mowed over him. He had just been lashing out, wanting to avoid really thinking about the funeral, and the unintended dead-on accuracy of that bull's-eye resounded through him almost as much as it did Jensen.

Jensen was the first to break the silence. He collected himself and straightened up again. "Good night," he repeated, and even now, there was no anger in his tone. "I'll see you in the morning." He left the suite, leaving House standing there alone.

Only not alone, of course. John's voice immediately crowded in, just like it had the last few days at any opportunity. At least it picked a different topic than the funeral for once. "Nobody's ever going to care about you, Greg. You're not worth putting up with. All you ever do is screw things up."

House turned so quickly that he almost tripped on his leg, and with John's laughter ringing in his ears, he limped as quickly as he could to the bedroom. Cuddy was sitting on the bed holding a book that was still closed, and she popped to her feet immediately. John's voice died into silence at the sight of her. How odd that in this, the worst flare-up House had ever had of replaying John's old threats and predictions, the simple state of being with someone he was close to was enough to turn the soundtrack off. "Let's go to bed, Greg," she suggested. "This day has been too long."

"Tomorrow's not going to be any . . ." He broke off. He didn't want to think about tomorrow, not about himself and his predicted actions, not about the girls, not about his mother lying there cold and dead. He wanted to turn off the thoughts completely like Cuddy's presence had the voices.

She came across to him. "I know, Greg." A world of pure sympathy in her eyes, but it wasn't pity. Ever so slowly, he was starting to see the difference at times. She embraced him but moved away after just a moment. She knew how much his leg was hurting as much as he did. She was careful to stay right with him as they went through the bathroom in a community trip and then changed into sleep clothes. House was glad of it; she was more than a match for John. Part of him, though, was oddly tempted to call Jensen up on his cell phone and apologize, and he couldn't do that with Cuddy hovering. Oh, well, Jensen knew he hadn't meant it. He still felt guilty, though. As he shook out the doses on his nighttime meds, including a knock-out dose of the sleeping pill, he welcomed the artificial escape tonight. That, at least, could give him a few hours of not having to feel anything, and the multifaceted guilt, as well as the confusion over Thornton's agenda, could be postponed. He only wished it would last clear through the funeral and he could wake up on the other side with everything over. He gulped the pills down.

Cuddy turned off the lamp on the nightstand and snuggled down against him, pulling him close. "Greg," she said softly. "I heard something once that annoyed me at the time, but it's true. How many hours are there in a day?"

"24," he snapped.

She didn't move away at his tone. "Right. Every day just has 24. Even the worst day just has 24, same as all the others, and even the worst day ends after those have counted down. We will make it through tomorrow, Greg, and tomorrow night, when we're lying here, the funeral will be past us. We'll get through tomorrow together."

"Stop sounding like a cheesy chick flick," he protested. "I'll bet that's where you heard that. Some stupid movie; philosophy by Hollywood." She chuckled and pulled him tighter against her, and he slid slowly into the arms of her and the meds and landed in dreamless sleep.

(H/C)

Jensen entered the room he was sharing with Wilson and walked straight over to his suitcase, pulling out sweats and tennis shoes. Wilson, who had been sitting on the edge of the bed considering a second call to Sandra for the day, came to attention. "Where are you going?"

"Just out for a walk." Jensen's voice seemed as smooth and unflappable as ever, but he was visibly tense, and the tone was obviously only a veneer.

Wilson recognized the signs from long years of experience. "What did House say to you? Can't have been a long conversation, but he can blast people in a short one. He is that good."

The psychiatrist sighed. "I can't tell you what we talked about. He's just tired after the long day and the trip."

"I know what he can be like, even so." Jensen started for the bathroom, clothes in hand, and Wilson watched him. "You're seriously going to go out for a walk - after dark in the middle of downtown in a strange, large city? What if there are muggers? Or gangs - I'm sure Lexington has a few of those, too."

"I won't go far, James. Just around the block a few times."

Wilson stood up. "No."

That got Jensen's attention, at least. The psychiatrist stopped and looked at him. "No? James, there aren't always dangers lurking around every corner. I'll be fine."

"But there are dangers lurking around some corners, especially in big cities after dark. That's not being paranoid; it's a fact. And another fact is that even if the chances are small, tonight is not the time to take them. If, hypothetically, something did happen to you tonight, the timing couldn't be worse. House is going to need you to get through tomorrow." Jensen hesitated, still looking tense but at least thinking through that.

Wilson fell back onto another tactic, trying his more familiar field of manipulation instead of facts. "Besides, I'd really rather not be alone tonight. You did tell me to find some company if I started thinking about things." Jensen tilted his head and gave him a skeptical look. Wilson didn't even sound convincing to himself, but he pushed on quickly with a mental apology to Sandra. "Really. Earlier, when everybody else was ordering drinks at dinner, I wanted one." True enough, though also true that the impulse had been conquered without much of a battle within just a minute or two. "I don't want to be alone and wind up going down to the bar and getting into trouble."

Jensen studied him for a moment. Wilson carefully manufactured his most sincere look, and Jensen finally put the sweats and tennis shoes back down, although the oncologist caught a quick flash of amused gratitude in his eyes as he turned away. "All right, James. You win this one." He fished in his luggage and came up with a chess set he had brought just in case House got in the mood or in a situation where the distraction might be useful. "Do you know how to play chess?"

"Yes, but not very well. Sure, I'll play a game with you." Jensen sat down on the bed next to him and started setting the board up between them. "Thornton is interesting," Wilson started. "Did you get any of that with the languages?"

"Only a few words. It was obviously a private conversation." Jensen finished setting the board. "You can go first."

By the time they went to bed, Wilson had failed at both informational fishing and chess. Jensen would only discuss what they had talked about openly at dinner without adding any new data to it, and he beat Wilson in three games straight. The oncologist thought as he turned out the light that at least hopefully, between that dinner and Jensen later, he had done his good deed for the day today.

(H/C)

As tired as he was, Thomas was reluctant to go to sleep. He wasn't worried about a replay of last night's dream; nightmares were rare for him. He simply didn't want to stop thinking about the rest of today, playing every memory like scenes from a favorite movie, reliving every sight from the airport on, relishing the dinner again. He kept looking at the pictures in his wallet by the light of the bedside lamp, adding mental pictures of his granddaughters to them and looking forward to actually doing so, however long that took. Finally, he turned off the light and surrendered to the weariness. "Good night, Emily," he whispered softly, and then, directing it mentally just a few floors away, miraculously in the same building, he added, "Good night, Greg."