A/N: Here's the next chapter. The next one after this is another of my favorite scenes in this story.

Remember that Thomas did not select the funeral home. House did. Rather, House told Thomas to use the prepaid deal John had already arranged at that one, although revising service details to match Blythe's wishes instead of John's. Basically, House chose to leave John stuck with the bill instead of starting completely over from scratch. If you recall, though, there was one aspect of that service planning where Thomas was worried enough that he called for further instructions, and that was the grave site, though Thomas had never seen the whole thing himself (more there later).

Enjoy 32 and thanks for all the reviews. This chapter is a peak of sorts, but we have plenty of this story left on the windup with two and a half more days in Lexington and some interesting added factors, including lots of House/Thomas, Thomas/grandkids and House/Jensen.

(H/C)

Rachel spotted Thomas quickly as they came outside. "Hi, Thomas!"

"Hi, Rachel," he answered, but he was about as distracted from her as House had seen yet. He was totally focused on his son, though he didn't ask questions.

Cuddy was just as worried. Her husband almost looked physically ill. He was fighting so hard to hold it together, and she couldn't help being impressed at his heroic effort even while both concerned and exasperated at it.

"You see Grandma?" Rachel asked. She hadn't noticed Thornton inside, as the girls had been surrounded by other of Blythe's friends, and Thomas had deliberately been keeping his distance.

"Yes, I did," he replied.

Rachel was about as thoughtful as she got. "She looks better," she stated.

"Better?" Wilson couldn't help asking. Rachel nodded.

House wondered how on earth a dead body in a casket could be considered "better" by a 3-year-old or anybody else, and then it hit him. She was comparing to Wednesday morning, the last previous time she had caught a glimpse of Blythe, when his mother had been dead in bed, and House himself had been frantic to revive her, trying CPR, sternal thump, everything. That scene had been Rachel's former mental picture of her grandmother's exit, complete with her father freaking out just to make it more terrifying. Yes, even a casket amid flowers might be considered an improvement over that bedroom. What had he done to his girls?

He lurched into motion, stumbling slightly and catching himself even as Cuddy grabbed for his arm. Couldn't fall with Abby. He recovered his balance and limped toward the van. "Let's get out of here," he repeated.

"Okay, Greg." Cuddy carefully kept hold of his arm as they walked the short distance to the rental. House opened the passenger's door and passed off Abby to the first person available besides Cuddy, not even noticing that it was Thomas who was right at his left elbow, having moved up quickly when House tripped and stayed there just a step behind, ready if needed. Cuddy kept her tight grip on her husband's arm, helping him as much by presence as physical support as he climbed awkwardly into the van. She gave his hand a squeeze. "I'm going to go around and get in, okay?" she asked softly. He nodded, feeling pathetic as she let go. Marina had captured Rachel's hand from her on the walk. Cuddy did indeed make her best time around the front of the van, climbing in the driver's seat and picking up House's hand again. The others were left to deal with the children.

Abby, abruptly finding herself held by Thomas, did not struggle but studied his face up close as if running an analysis. He recognized that look. How he recognized that look. He had seen it in pictures of Greg occasionally, but he had seen it a thousand times in real life on his own father. The past was alive again. He took a deep breath. "You need to get all buckled in, Abby," he told her. "Your Mom and Dad probably want to get back to the hotel." House jumped and looked over at him, realizing for the first time who had been on the other end of that blind kid hand-off.

Wilson opened the sliding door. "Come on, girls. In you go. Come here, Abby."

Rachel shook her head and tried to climb into the van herself. "Me first." She had had the car seat directly behind her mother on the drive over and now considered that spot her rightful property. Thomas grinned through the worry, and Marina gave Rachel a boost up, then followed her across, getting her fastened firmly in. Once they were set, Thomas handed Abby to Wilson, and the oncologist buckled her into her seat. He then wedged himself through the gap into the very back seat, and Jensen followed.

Thomas shut the door with its thick, sliding thud, a firm barrier falling into place between the others and himself. He knew there wasn't any chance of a group lunch today. Greg looked like he felt sick even without the suggestion of food. He was fighting so hard to be strong when what he really needed was to let go, but it would be the others he turned to when he finally did, not Thomas, not yet. Once more, Thomas was left on the outside. The awareness settled around his shoulders like a blanket.

Rachel waved at him through the window as the van started, and he waved back at her. Abby was still watching him with those eyes. He stood until they pulled out of the lot, then walked slowly to his own rental car, and at that moment, he felt every year of his 75. There might have been far too many funerals in his life, but he realized with a jolt that this was the first one he had ever left alone.

(H/C)

It was a party of four, not seven, as the van pulled into the cemetery at 1:30. Back at the suite, they had ordered room service for lunch, though House had managed only one bite. He looked so sick on that one that Cuddy hadn't tried to encourage him for more, though she did note with relief and concern mixed that he at least skipped the anti-inflammatories with his noon meds. After that, they played with the girls a little, and Rachel got her promised call on Wilson's cell phone for a Belle report. The girls were still worried and keeping an eye on their father, but they had had a wearing emotional morning themselves, and they fell asleep just before time to leave. Marina was left on duty with them, and the other four headed out to the burial.

Thornton's car was already there, parked at the side of the little road right behind the hearse, and his father was just getting out. House rolled his eyes. "So much for keeping a distance so people won't wonder," he snapped, forgetting that the others hadn't heard that promise from this morning.

"Nobody's here to notice, Greg," Cuddy reassured him. She couldn't blame Thomas. He had obviously been staying away at the funeral in front of the crowd, but every time she had met his eyes, the worried longing in them was painful. He wanted so much to be there for his son. "This is just the funeral home people, and they already know he made the arrangements." She looked over at the small group at the graveside. "And the pastor of the church Blythe went to sometimes." She had been impressed with his comments this morning. "I guess he's going to be reading a verse or something."

"Empty superstition," House snapped. Bits and pieces of that eulogy drifted back as if at a distance; the man had sounded like he truly cared. House was surprised to know that Blythe had been going to church, but he did remember that pastors are expected to maintain confidentiality on what they learn about families in the course of their duties, just like doctors. If this man wondered where Thornton fit in, he hopefully at least would do it solo and keep his mouth shut around her other friends.

The van doors opened, and the group slowly spilled out. House kept his head down and watched his feet, trying to avoid looking at the canopy as long as he could. He prepared mentally for what he knew he would see, the casket waiting there poised over the hole. Few people, at least. He had survived the crowd, and this wouldn't take nearly as long as the funeral.

It had been Thornton's idea to have the burial private, he remembered. Cuddy had been sure to tell him that after Thornton had called her to ask about the grave. Another ember of reluctant gratitude flared up, and he tried his best mentally to stomp it down.

Left foot, right foot. He limped slowly forward. The pain in his stomach had been worsening since the funeral, and it now felt like streaks of fire. He held himself stiffly upright against it, posture painfully rigid, only head bent.

They reached the canopy. Thornton was standing there along with the pastor and the funeral director, looking straight at him. There was a row of chairs set up, and as Cuddy gently nudged him toward one, he finally made himself look at the casket.

The hole at least wasn't visible, hidden discretely beneath the lowering mechanism, but beyond the casket, he could see the stone. A large double stone, obviously preordered by John back before his own funeral. Blythe's side simply had her name, date of birth, and a waiting gap for date of death. John's side had much more.

Around the four corners of his half, the emblem of the Marines appeared four times, and the words in the middle were writ large. John House was followed by date of birth and date of death. On the three lines below that were United States Marine Corps, Pilot, and Semper Fi. Below those appeared Husband and Father.

House jolted to a stop, staring at it. The others were staring at him at first, and then Thornton turned and followed his fixed gaze.

The distant hum in the back of House's mind burst into sudden, present attack, right on top of him. John was laughing. Laughing at him from beyond the grave. He could almost see his father standing there, looming over him, prolonging action like a cat toying with a mouse, just as he so often had done in life.

House spun so quickly he would have fallen over had not Thomas and Cuddy caught him. He pushed his father away and limped back toward the van desperately, as near as he could get to running, trying futilely to escape, but John followed, the old, familiar words right at his ears now. He reached the van, surging around the far side, the scene blocked by its sturdy bulk, but the soundtrack remained. He leaned against the van and closed his eyes.

Cuddy. She was still there, he realized, and she was saying something, though it took a minute for the words to soak through. "Get in, Greg." She opened the door and helped him up, having to provide most of the physical effort herself that time. Once he was in the passenger's seat, she actually climbed right up beside him, careful of his leg but nestling down against him, her presence reassuringly real in a fit tight enough that even the ghosts were crowded. She closed the door on the world and held him tightly.

"Shut UP!" House shouted, his eyes still closed.

In the next moment, her own voice, even louder, filled the van. "Yes, SHUT UP! You damned coward! You're never going to win no matter what you do. He already beat you." Her arm around House's shoulder was so tight it hurt. "You're in hell where you belong, you son of a bitch, and he's moved on. Nothing you try now will ever change that."

House opened his eyes and looked at her, startled. "You already beat him, Greg. He can't do anything now." She kissed him fiercely, trying to break through the mental onslaught, and slowly, in wonder, he started to respond. John's voice gradually faded, dying back to a hum, then dying completely.

The pain in his stomach was still there, threatening to burn a hole through him, and his breathing was still jagged. Cuddy broke the kiss, sensing that the ghosts had departed, and hugged him tightly. "Greg," she urged him, "just let go."

He shook his head, but self control was slipping unwillingly through his clenched hands, disappearing faster and faster until he was left holding nothing.

Finally, the storm broke. He dove at her as if clutching for a life preserver, and she was there, her hands as steady as his were shaking, not minding the tears that were soaking her designer blouse. She was there, and the anchor held.

He didn't know how long it was. It might have been forever. The first thing he was aware of beyond her was the sunlight, warm through the windows on him. He blinked and pulled away a little to look around.

The other cars were gone. There was no sign of Jensen or Wilson. "Thomas must have taken them back to the hotel," Cuddy said, reading the thought.

He sighed. "Guess I did blow things after all."

She shut him up in the best way possible, and after a minute, when their lips had separated again, she shook her head. "What's the point of a burial, Greg?"

He rolled his eyes, suddenly looking reassuringly more like himself. "To get a body underground."

"Exactly. Tell me, how did you ruin that? She's buried, Greg. It happened anyway. Doesn't look ruined to me."

He sniffled and raised his sleeve, and it was her turn to roll her eyes. Freezing him with a look, she pulled a wad of Kleenex out of her purse and handed it over. "Do it the right way, damn it."

He was absurdly reassured by the words. "Slave driver. Anybody ever tell you you're a bossy control freak?" He blew his nose.

"I think I've heard that somewhere before." She leaned over and kissed him again. "It's okay, Greg. It's all going to be okay. Eventually."

"I freaked out the girls," he remembered. "Last Wednesday morning. That's what Rachel meant, that Mom looked better now."

"But Rachel was reassured when she said it. She won't have to remember that image as the last time she saw her. She'll be all right, Greg, and so will you. The grief will be there for a while, but it does get better."

He shuddered, remembering Wednesday morning himself, the desperation, the refusal to believe it even with medical knowledge, as if he could pull his mother back by stubbornness alone. Cuddy hugged him more tightly, and unwillingly, he remembered that last glimpse this morning from a distance. She had looked better than Wednesday morning, at least.

The last glimpse. Forever.

The tears were shorter this time, at least. He blew his nose again at the end and grumbled, "You ever tell anybody about this, I'll deny it. And steal your underwear and put it on display in the faculty lounge."

She smiled. "You're safe with me, Greg." The girls would need words here and there from him in the coming weeks, but they would need them from their father himself, not as a tale from Cuddy, and she thought they would sense he was feeling better anyway. She wouldn't have to give him away. "It's going to be all right, Greg. One thing, though."

He looked at her, his blue eyes steadier now, even if bloodshot. "What?"

"Please talk to Jensen. I don't mean today, but going on. Tell him you feel guilty about this. Don't deny what you're feeling; he can help."

He looked out the windshield. His stomach had finally stopped hurting. "He feels guilty, too."

"Yes, which is why you two can help each other. It won't just be one-sided this time. But talk to him, okay?"

He looked at his watch. It wasn't that late after all. "We need to get back to the hotel for the girls," he said, but the dodge itself was an unspoken promise, and she heard it.

"Okay." She gave him one last kiss, then opened the door, not insisting on prolonging the moment. She dropped neatly to the ground, graceful even in heels, then gave his arm a squeeze and closed the door, heading around to the driver's side.

"One thing you need to do," he countered as she climbed in.

"What?" she asked, her hand pausing halfway to starting the van.

"Call Patterson tonight and talk about things yourself," he told her.

She nodded. "I will once you're asleep." She reached for the key again, and his left hand shot out suddenly, claiming hers. He held on tightly, his fingers wrapped around her own, though he didn't say anything. After a minute, he let go, and she started the van and drove out of the cemetery.