A/N: Update from the land of ice and snow. Thanks so much for reading. Reviews are virtual hot chocolate.
(H/C)
Thomas worked very slowly in the living room, caught between the past and the present, music the thread that connected both. He was careful not to look at Greg, nor did Greg look at him, but they were both intensely aware of each other. He could feel all the antennae out and receiving behind him. Yet Greg kept playing. That fact alone was the most reassurance he had had yet that he was making progress, even more than Lisa's statement. Greg knew that he was right here, knew that he was listening, and the music had not stopped.
If Thomas closed his eyes, he could imagine that it was his father. They had a very similar touch on the keys, technical brilliance along with individual flare. No, Thomas hadn't had any gift for playing himself, but he had listened. Music had flowed in and around his childhood home as much as oxygen. The serious practices, where he knew to observe quietly but not disrupt. The lighter moments, when his father would take requests, when he would wander around on the keys from song to song as Greg was doing now, even the musical games that he would play. Thomas had often wished that he could have that period back again just for a month, a week, even a day, so that he could pay more attention and realize that this was transient, that the sands were almost at the bottom of the hourglass, that his father wouldn't always be there. He had never truly appreciated his early family until they had been ripped away from him.
He was so grateful for those recordings. Tim had made sure to secure those. The children had had barely had any time to go through that house for mementos; the neighbor who came solemn-faced to break the news had taken the three of them to his house that night. Thomas' uncle had descended the next day, making arrangements for the funeral, taking the three kids on back to Cleveland in the meantime. There had been one brief day when they went to the house, barely the hour Greg had threatened, and his uncle went through it like a whirlwind with a notebook, recording things of value, speculating price. Tim, the only one who really could play, had asked for their father's piano, but his uncle vetoed that immediately. Not only wasn't there room in Cleveland, but of course, the baby grand was probably the most monetarily valuable thing in the house. Naturally it would have to be sold. Ellie had gathered what pictures she could. Thomas himself had been so lost in the swift shock of it all, as well as raging about Trigger, that he had wasted a good bit of his one opportunity kicking a tree in the back yard. Other than their clothes, which their aunt packed with swift efficiency, they took almost nothing away from that house.
There was the money, of course, after selling everything. His uncle deposited it into an account for them and told them they would each get their share at 21, plus interest. Only Tim hadn't made it to 21, so Ellie got half, and Thomas got the other half on his majority. By that time, the Marines had given him something in life he could count on again, he was doing well in his new career, and the anger was down to embers, no longer flames. He invested most of his and spent some of the rest of it on himself, though he did take enough out to have a bakery make a black cake saying in red icing, with negative signs around the rim, "The bottom line never added up, " and deliver it to his uncle at the bank during the work day. Like Greg initially with John's stone, Thomas had regretted not being able to be more blunt, but bakeries, like cemeteries, had lines they wouldn't cross. At least bakeries did back then. He wouldn't be surprised if there were a few bakeries now specializing in obscene cakes for those who wanted the perfectly appropriate message when nothing else would quite fit the recipient.
He had spent more time in this house than anybody else in this group, visiting regularly every few years, but everything was changed now, not merely Blythe's improvements to the house but his own internal change of reference. For the first time, he was with a group of people openly, everyone except the girls knowing who he was. He didn't have to try to pretend it all meant nothing to him. The release was refreshing, even if also flavored with the bitter aftertaste of the past. All those years, trying to keep up the front in front of John, and John had already known.
Thomas had been very careful to avoid matching personality traits, at least the ones that he got from Blythe's letters, but the accuracy of those as a guide had obviously been worse than useless. Greg per her was a serious child, a bit challenging and blunt. He had never been simply playful as most children are, she had said. Thomas, rereading those letters in the last few months, had wanted to yell at her that why on earth would he be? He knew a little from following Greg's professional reputation that his son had discovered play in his adult life. Thomas hoped he would enjoy the model trains in a few weekends. At least Greg had had this piano, had found the music, and Thomas had done one thing right in his older son's childhood.
And missed so much else. Thomas shifted another step along the picture wall and that time, lost in self-recrimination, he came down a little harder than he meant to on his bruised foot. He managed to hide the flinch. He was both impressed and warmed that Greg had spotted the injury this morning, because Thomas had been deliberately trying to conceal it. There had been true concern there in his son's tone for a moment. Not that there was any need; it was simply bruised, although Thomas had been surprised how much it had hurt him for the rest of last night.
He slowly sorted the pictures, making two piles for Lisa and a smaller one for himself, studying each shot as he took it off the wall. The edited past here, the painful bits removed. How perfectly Blythe.
Rachel got tired of just listening to the piano after a while, and Marina took her into the kitchen with some toys. He could hear them playing in the floor, Marina right down there with Rachel. That nanny was a gem. Greg looked at him - Thomas caught the glance out of his peripheral vision - and then picked up Abby. "Where's middle C?" he asked her softly, and she struck it immediately, proudly, looking back at him for the approval that she knew was coming. Thomas was careful to keep working and not stop to stare, but he couldn't blame Greg for wanting to show her off. She was a genius - and in more ways than musically, Thomas thought.
Greg took her up and down an octave each way, Abby flawlessly finding each C, and then he let her play the melody line from Tomorrow from Annie. Thomas was soaking up every note. Finally, Greg reached for the book on top, the one Blythe had left open on the music rack, and he replaced it. "Can you find the eighth notes?" he asked Abby. She immediately pointed. One, two, three, and then suddenly, she wiggled her way off his lap and ran off, calling Marina.
They were alone. Thomas took a deep breath and walked over to stand beside the bench. "Greg," he said softly, no one in a different room able to hear, "may I have this piano?"
Greg was startled out of sarcasm. "What do you want it for? You don't play," he reminded him, bewildered.
"No. But it was yours." And maybe, someday, there might be visiting grandchildren. But even if not, Thomas wanted it.
His son's tone sharpened up a bit now. "Do you have any idea how much it would cost to ship a piano to St. Louis? The military isn't picking up the moving bill this time."
"Greg, I'm drawing two retirements, plus Social Security, and my house is paid off. Might as well spend it on things I want." He waited, poised, ready to not recoil at a verbal slap.
Greg looked back at the music, Blythe's music. The moment stretched out painfully between them. "Hell, you bought it anyway," he said finally.
Thomas relaxed. Don't react too strongly, he reminded himself, although he wanted to cheer. "Thank you, Greg. I will take care of it."
Abby returned at that moment, running into the room as eagerly as if she had switched personalities for a moment with Rachel. She was holding a stuffed toy, and as she thrust it at her father, Thomas saw that it was a pair of musical notes. Stuffed notes. "Eight notes!" she announced proudly. "Find eight notes."
Greg picked her up, smiling. "You're right. You did find some more eighth notes." The lesson resumed, and Thomas wandered back over to the wall to continue his slow-motion work and to listen. He felt like singing. No, on second thought, he didn't. He felt like listening to his son and his granddaughter.
(H/C)
Cuddy, working her way through the desk, was listening hard. There were rare moments of low conversation, too low to catch, but it was obviously conversation, not a fight, not even a one-sided effort at starting a fight. She hoped that this musical interlude would help take away some of the sting for Thomas of other remarks today. She was amazed how open her husband was being with the music, but he always had been most at ease at a keyboard.
Rachel, playing in the kitchen floor, asked where the bathroom was, and Marina stood up to go take her. "I'd better check Abby, too," she said. "They're getting to be such big girls."
Cuddy looked at her watch. Well over an hour had passed now, and that brought up another thought. She pushed Blythe's desk chair back and stood up herself, deciding that it was definitely time for a break. She followed Marina and Rachel into the living room, where House had just set Abby down on the floor. Apparently, the lesson was over. "Come here, Abby," Marina called, and Abby walked over to her.
House turned to Cuddy. Thomas, almost done with the picture wall, paused and looked around as well. "Any luck?" her husband asked her.
"No will so far. I've found utility bills, lots of volunteer paperwork, travel brochures from her club, and an order of what plants she wanted to add this spring." She gave a stretch, careful not to exaggerate it too much. "I decided it was time for a break before I grew to that chair."
The carefully directed subliminal thought hit home as he suddenly realized how long he had been sitting still. His leg's protests finally reached through the musical cloud, and he stood up a bit stiffly. "Good idea," he said, but his tone had gone flat. He walked down the room and back again, trying to work the kinks out without looking like he was trying to work the kinks out. No custom-made piano bench cushion here. This bench was simple wood, and his leg hadn't appreciated that extended session. He turned again, shooting a challenging glare at Thomas, daring him to comment.
Thomas studied the last picture and added it to a pile. "These two piles are for you, Lisa." She started to protest before realizing that one of those piles was the Blythe pictures and was clearly meant for House eventually. "This pile is mine, but if you really want anything, we can have copies made."
"Thanks, Thomas." She started a closer inspection as House took another turn of the room behind her. Thomas moved over to the closest armchair and sat down just a bit heavily. That was all, but Cuddy immediately came to attention and forgot pictures for the moment. She crossed to him and knelt on the floor, capturing his right foot. "Hold still," she ordered as she started removing his shoe.
"Lisa," he protested. "It's nothing, really. You don't have to worry."
"Wrong," House corrected. "She does have to worry. It's an RDA with her, like vitamins. If she doesn't get her quota in every day, she thinks it's unhealthy." He walked over to stand immediately behind his wife, even crowding her, in fact.
Cuddy got the shoe off and started on the sock. "Shut up, Greg. In fact, both of you shut up. Supposedly little injuries can turn into big problems. Remember, Calvin Coolidge's son died from a blister on his foot he got while playing tennis."
"Actually, Calvin Coolidge's son died from an infection that went systemic after he was too much of an idiot to remember that he was supposed to put socks on before shoes. He's ahead of Calvin, Jr., at least, since he obviously knows about that step." As ever, House didn't address Thomas in person by any name or title at all.
Cuddy ignored her husband and succeeded in working the sock off, her other hand firmly on Thomas' ankle, preventing escape. It didn't take the diagnostics department to spot the problem here. His foot had an ugly reddish-purple mark extending back from the tip for the full length of the big toe. "Thomas!"
He shrugged. "Like I said, it's bruised."
She was almost afraid to touch it. That toe hurt just to look at it. "It could be broken."
House bent over, subtly propping himself against Cuddy as he dropped the cane and reached down. He captured the foot and ran his hands quickly along it, taking the toe through a range of motion, palpating the joint, finally checking the distal pulses at the ankle. "Nope, just bruised. You sure did a good job on it, though. About an hour or so after midnight?"
Thomas looked impressed all over again. "Yes."
Cuddy sighed. "Thomas, turn the light on next time." No doubt that was why he hadn't slept well the rest of the night because of it throbbing. No wonder he looked tired.
"She needs to lecture, too. That's step two, follows worrying." House ran his hands along the foot one more time, then collected his cane and straightened up, having to use Cuddy's shoulder to do it. His leg hadn't liked that whole maneuver. "Diagnosis: One whacked foot. It's not still bleeding under the skin, and pulses are strong. Try to be nice to it for a few days. Other than that, take two aspirin and don't call me in the morning." He backed away and resumed his leg-stretching pace around the room
Thomas hid his smile. His son had been just as interested in that exam as Cuddy was, and his hands had been surprisingly gentle. Skillful hands, too, playing a human body as he played an instrument.
Cuddy started putting his sock and shoe back on. "I've been having you working in here on your feet, too."
"Lisa, it's fine. I wasn't running a marathon. And I am taking care of it; I even skipped my usual walk this morning."
"You had trouble sleeping last night because of it hurting, didn't you?" His expression confirmed it. She looked at her watch and came to her feet. "Well, I'm giving you a different assignment for the moment. We're going to want something to eat soon. Go find us some lunch, all right?"
Thomas looked at Greg regretfully, but his son obviously needed a piano break himself. That bench was hard on his leg. At least Thomas wouldn't be missing further music while he was out. "Okay, Lisa." He stood up. "Really, I'm fine, I promise. Don't worry."
Seized suddenly with the memory of Blythe only a week ago today, seemingly perfectly fine, Cuddy grabbed him, hugging him fiercely, fighting back tears. He was startled at first, then almost in slow motion put his arms around her and returned the embrace. "It's all right," he reassured her.
House had stopped across the room and was watching. "She does that, too," he commented.
"All women do," Thomas replied. And nobody since Emily had given him a purely spontaneous hug of concern or connection like that. Plenty of friends in the interval between, yes, but the planned sympathy hug and the "you-need-a-hug" hug were a different species entirely from this.
Cuddy released him and ran one hand across her eyes. "Shut up, both of you," she said again. Replacing her poise like a garment, she walked over to the stacks of pictures to resume her aborted inspection. Thomas could feel Greg's eyes on him all the way to the door.
Once outside in his rental car, he popped in the CD of his father, and with the music of the morning alive again, he drove off in search of lunch and also of a chocolate milkshake for Greg, silent thanks - his son's only accepted kind - for the gift of this morning.