A/N: Here's another short update. We are definitely on the wrap-up for this story, just a few chapters left. I doubt you'll get more this weekend, because I have a concert plus a separate solo plus a real writing story with a deadline of 4/30 that will be getting its final polish, with any extra time after those going to working outside. So tune in next week for more of this story, which will continue with breakfast together. Thanks again for coming along with me on this ride. I have loved this one, probably my favorite in the series to date.

(H/C)

The knock on the door of the suite came at 8:10 Thursday morning.

House had been limping around the main room restlessly, letting himself seek mental refuge in movement for a few minutes while Cuddy and his girls weren't watching. His leg felt better today than last night, but it was still worse than baseline, proclaiming loud and clear what it thought of digging in cemeteries. His thoughts weren't much more settled. A decision would have to be made before long, he knew, and he hated being pushed to it. The cemetery versus his childhood. Which tipped the scales more? Thus ran the carousel of his thoughts this morning, prancing in a circle with a lot of production and energy attached but actually getting nowhere. Damn it, even his mind was running on a horse theme lately. It, like events, was siding with Thornton. All he wanted was to be sure. He owed that to his daughters - and to himself. In his experience, there had always been hidden dangers attached to a father. But how wide was his statistical sample pool, after all? Was it valid to use that in the differential? But it demanded to be used in the differential. Thornton wasn't just here; he had been there, too. Occasionally. Rarely. And Jensen had said the letters didn't give it away. House huffed and was starting another lap when the knock interrupted him.

The girls had been asleep in bed with them this morning when he woke up. They didn't seem scared, just delighted to see him again, and once everyone was awake, the ensuing hour and a half had been a whirlwind of toddler activity and stories and reunion. Rachel had eagerly reported her conversation with Ember, and Abby had been justifiably proud of being in on the secret with the music computer yesterday morning and was looking for feedback. But at the moment, they were both busy elsewhere. Marina was in the bathroom with Rachel, and Abby had had an accident with a cardboard box of juice and was getting totally redressed by Cuddy. The spilled juice had left a small stain on the carpet, and House, as he limp-paced, hadn't been able to stop eying it, remembering not John for once, not the glue from when he was six, but trying, and failing, to obtain help from Thornton a week later. The man had laughed at him. But he hadn't known.

House glanced at his watch and headed for the door. It was Thornton in person, as if the thought had conjured him up. He looked better this morning, House noted on a quick analysis. Definitely more rested, still tired, but the weariness right now was cumulative, not acute. He'd had a good night. As he took a few steps forward, he was back to concealing the bruised foot so skillfully that most people never would have spotted it.

"Good morning, Greg." Thomas walked into the suite, a little bolder this morning on entry, and looked around. Noting their temporary privacy, he jumped straight to the point, taking his sketch pad out from underneath his arm, turning it to a page, then offering it to his son. "I woke up at 6:00; still can't sleep late even when I'm trying to. So I drew for a few hours. I put down a couple of ideas on Blythe's stone to bounce off you."

The delivery was perfect, the eyes steady. Not a flicker. House didn't know whether to be suspicious or impressed at how good this man was at concealing things. He took the pad and looked at the page. It contained four small drawings of stones, all identically stark on John's side and with a similar floral theme but subtle variations to it on Blythe's. The flowers and positions were just a bit different on each. House studied them, his eyes absorbing details, pausing at the end, returning to the third one. Azaleas outlined her half, and one branch extended with blooms to rest beneath her name, almost as if pushing the date of her death out of the way, or as if it might achieve that in another year. If it were real instead of stone, that was. Too elaborate, really, and slightly lopsided on effect, but it fit her somehow. House pulled the page off without a word and offered the pad back. Folding the sketch, he shoved it into a pocket and went for the throat immediately in this brief window of opportunity.

"You know," he said, "redecorating a tombstone in the dark makes a lot more sense than kicking one."

Thornton's eyes widened. The shock was complete, but he didn't flinch, absorbing the blow, considering for a few seconds, coming back quickly. "It's a different kind of satisfaction," he said. "They both can feel pretty good."

"You can't tell me that kick felt good."

"At that moment, it did," he insisted. "Later, not so much, and I forgot how old I am for a minute there in how hard I kicked it, but I don't regret it."

House shifted, feeling an unwilling identification with that attitude. There had been a few times over the years. . . "It's stupid to hurt yourself. Doesn't change the past."

"Nothing will change the past. I do realize that, Greg."

"You didn't want me to know about it. Didn't try to use it. Why?" House demanded.

Thornton held the eye contact. "What I did there Monday night, and anything I might have said there, wasn't aimed at you. That was personal." House tested the sincerity and tried to grasp this, and Thomas changed the subject a little, offering a small release of the tension. "I didn't mean to set off Lisa worrying, though. I do regret that."

"It's impossible to stop her from worrying," House said. "But telling her you did it deliberately wouldn't make her feel any better. She'd worry more, if anything."

"That's what I thought. I didn't intend for anyone to notice the foot."

"News flash: I notice things. That's my job."

The other man smiled with a look of genuine pride. "I underestimated you there. My mistake." He considered asking about his son going back to the cemetery; House saw the thought in his eyes. But he didn't voice it.

Relieved but unable to resist scoring another point, House continued. "You've never mentioned your meeting after the trial with the defense attorney to me, either."

That bombshell surprised his father even more. "How do you know . . . did he come to you after all?" The pure anger in his voice and eyes, the way his fists tightened and his posture fired up for a fight, caught House off guard. Thornton was ready to nail that attorney to the wall if he had been bothering his son. The other man looked dangerous suddenly, actually physically dangerous as well as mentally, but in an odd way, this potential violence wasn't frightening, not like John.

"No," House admitted, unable to avoid giving the reassurance.

Thornton relaxed, anger fading into simple curiosity. "Then how did you find out?"

"Why didn't you try to use that?" House asked again. "It's been months."

"Because it was personal," Thornton repeated. "I wasn't trying to score a point with you. I just wanted that son of a bitch to regret giving you a hard time and also to leave you alone forever if he had any thoughts of getting even. I have no doubt that you could have dealt with him, Greg, even physically if that came up, although he's a pure coward and not likely to try that; mental sneakiness is more his style. Still, that wasn't the point. You shouldn't have had to deal with it. He didn't deserve another second of your time and attention than he'd already taken." The sincerity in the few last sentences rocked House again. Thornton wasn't seeing him as a cripple or trying to protect a weakling but had wanted to spare him annoyance. And it had been personal, too. House remembered the ice-cold threat in the other man's voice on that recording, reducing the attorney to a quivering, spineless pile of goo without laying a hand on him, then flipping the intensity off like a light switch.

"Did you enjoy that?" he couldn't help asking.

"Yes," Thornton admitted promptly. "That isn't why I did it, but yes, I enjoyed every second of it. He deserved that."

The door to the bedroom opened, and Cuddy and a newly dressed Abby emerged, with Rachel and Marina close behind. "Thomas. Good morning." She marched over and inspected him, obviously calculating sleep. Abby stopped beside her mother's leg and looked him over as well. Rachel, on the other hand, bounded up and squeezed his leg in a hug.

"Morning, Thomas!" Rachel released him and ran off in search of the horse, returning to galloping hoof beats. "Ember says morning."

"Good morning, Lisa. Good morning, Rachel - and Ember. Good morning, Abby."

Abby eyed him. "Morning," she replied after a moment.

Cuddy, having finished her sleep analysis, walked over firmly to the group of chairs and pointed to the recliner. "Sit," she ordered, her tone already gearing up to tackle any argument.

Thomas gave her a smile and then, with perfect mimicry, barked as he sat down, giving his movements a crisp flourish and looking up expectantly at the end as if for a treat. Rachel and Abby both laughed, and House snorted and looked away to conceal his amusement. "Doggie!" Rachel exclaimed. She came up to the side of the chair to consider new possibilities as Cuddy, with a sigh and an eye roll, knelt and began to remove his shoe. "Good doggie. Can you talk like Ember?" She squeezed the ear for demonstration.

"Not as well as Ember can. My Ember or your Ember either one. It's harder to whinny."

"Try," Rachel demanded. He gave it a reasonable attempt, and she and Abby both giggled again.

Cuddy meanwhile had gotten the shoe off and was surveying his foot. More than 48 hours out from injury now, it was in full Technicolor glory. "Greg, are you sure this isn't fractured?"

House limped over and seized the foot, giving it a thorough palpation. Definitely a deliberate strike, and a hard one at that, the big toe taking the brunt of the kick. His eyes met Thomas' silently. "It's just bruised. You need to watch about running into things."

"I'll try to be more careful," Thomas replied. Both of them were absolutely steady in tone, and Cuddy didn't notice anything.

Rachel, distracted for the moment from animal sound effects, made her own inspection. "Did you color?" she asked Thomas, noticing how much more vivid it was today than yesterday.

He smiled at her. "No, Rachel. I haven't been coloring it, but it sure looks like it, doesn't it? It should start fading after today. It's going to be all right."

House straightened up with an effort - too much of an effort, and all of them looked at him, Thomas the best at hiding it, but everyone noticed. He was relieved when Wilson and Jensen arrived at that moment, and in the flurry of greetings and breakfast plans after Marina let them in, they all had something else to focus on besides his leg.