A/N: Please make sure that you all have read chapter 65, Thomas at Blythe's house. It was posted Saturday morning, but I figured out from apparent total lack of reviews and also a comment later from someone else via non site email that FF net was constipated this weekend and did not deliver to email boxes, at least not to everybody's. I had to hunt up reviews at the site, and the new chapter notifications weren't all going out, either. Anyway, 65 is right there waiting, and 66 will still be here for you in a few minutes, so go read that one first if you haven't. Great Thomas-House exchange.

To Team Cuddy, in this case, you're definitely reading too much into "nothing." House has many times tried the exact same dismiss and then distract tactics with Abby to avoid explaining something (see chapter 39 of this story for one example that's only 2 fic days old). The strategy is starting to get less successful with Abby as she grows older, but that's due to personality differences between the girls and her starting to call him on the evasion. It's not due to him saving dismiss/distract for Rachel alone because he considers she isn't "worth" the effort of a real explanation, being only adopted. He does have a bad habit of doing this with his daughters (plural) on emotional subjects instead of giving even a toddler-edited version of an answer, and Jensen has brought it up and has been working on it since Medical Homicide, several mentions in the series over different stories. House is improving, and there are also multiple examples across stories of him catching himself at it with both girls and changing course voluntarily halfway, but he's not totally there yet, and he especially isn't up to volunteering explanations to them yet that relate to Thomas.

To all, there is only one more chapter left of this story after the current one. Just so you don't get your hopes miscalibrated, I will not be giving a live, play-by-play account in a story of the next visit, the whirlwind weekend trip to get the furniture moved. You will get a brief summary of that visit in Father's Day, but not much happens other than continued slow interaction, another intermediate step on neutral ground. Trust me, you will like reading the visit in Father's Day at length much more; a lot of things happen there.

On to 66. Thanks for those who reviewed the last chapter; finding them when I finally thought to check the site was a nice lift. And for those who missed notification of the last chapter due to FF net, have fun reading (and reviewing?) both . :)

(H/C)

Somehow they made it to the airport by 1:37. Those seven minutes off goal bothered Cuddy, but even she had to admit that the interval had proceeded as smoothly as it could, and she wasn't sure how any more time could have been gained. The house had undergone its final inspection, and all boxes had been addressed, sealed, and loaded. Then Thomas was sent off to the UPS Store as well as McDonald's to pick up lunch while Cuddy had had a final talk with Patsy and returned the key and the others had loaded the girls and their impedimenta into the van. Then back to the hotel, where Thomas and lunch arrived at about the same time they did. A quick meal in the suite, and then everybody split for final packing, loading of the vehicles, and checkout. Thomas beat them to the airport but was waiting for them outside at the rental car lot, and he had already acquired a luggage cart. House even had a helpful moment and volunteered to turn the van back in with the rental place while the rest of them went on to check in the baggage.

Finally, the luggage was consigned to the nontender hands of the airline employees, everything was done, and all that was left was waiting. Thomas' plane was departing from a gate two down from theirs, but he joined the rest of them in the interim. Sitting there surrounded by carry-on luggage, car seats, and the potted azalea, they made quite a sight for the other passengers, and several smiled. House could almost see the thought bubble over their heads: What a nice family.

He shifted in his seat. The closer they got to this goodbye, the more he had pulled back into himself, thinking, watching. Was this a family? Could it be? More to the point, should it be? He had to admit, Thornton had surprised him on this trip, but still, so much at risk. Little moments of unexpected humor and similarity, of a revised tombstone and burned letters that Jensen said were not enough to give it away seemed poised in a scale, and on the other side was all the weight of the past. He fidgeted. This was all happening too fast, and he hated being pinned down to anything.

And now, like bad fiction, they were down to a farewell at the airport. Part of him was afraid he would be expected to say something significant now, in the best corny fictional fashion, and his whole being rebelled against it. He couldn't say something like that, even if he wanted to, and he wasn't yet sure that he wanted to. He needed more time to watch and run this differential. Jensen had agreed that it was all right to go slowly, so he even had professional approval here from the expert. Screw expectations. If Thornton . . . if anybody else had them, they would just have to be disappointed for today.

Rachel was chatting with Thomas, mentioning a few times the number of hooves on a horse. She did have the stuffed Ember with her for the plane trip this time instead of consigned to a suitcase, but the batteries had been removed, a compromise Thomas had suggested. Rachel kept forgetting that and squeezing a hoof or an ear anyway. Abby was happy with her stuffed musical notes, to House's relief. He had been afraid she would want her special Christmas toy for the trip, too, and the music computer was completely useless without batteries. She had asked but at least had accepted the explanation with the attached reassurance that she could have it back before the end of the day.

Finally, reluctantly, Thomas looked at his watch, then at the departure board overhead. "I'd better get over there. They'll be boarding soon." He looked at his son, hesitated, then stood up, and all of the others did, too, except House. He stared at his shoes, not even looking at the other man, but he was following the action intently, all his senses on high.

Wilson and Jensen shook hands with Thomas, and Marina, to House's surprise, gave him a quick hug and whispered something in his ear. Rachel started to say something, and Cuddy picked her up. "Just a minute, Rachel. We'll walk over there with you to say goodbye. Come on, Greg." He froze. She started off for the neighboring gates without a glance back, only the tightness across her shoulders betraying her insecurity about this moment. Abby, in his arms, surprised him by flopping away, reaching after them.

"Go, Dada."

He sighed. Jensen, Wilson, and Marina carefully didn't say a word. Finally, he set Abby aside while he pried himself out of the chair, and she waited patiently for the process. Nothing like being reminded by his 2-year-old daughter that he was a cripple. Right now, he felt it in every possible way, not just physically. Once his balance was set, he picked her up. The others were about 20 feet ahead, and he limped slowly after them, the tension increasing with every stride.

The destination arrived too quickly. Cuddy closed in beside her husband, and her free hand gave him a squeeze on the arm with such gratitude, relief, and pride in it that it momentarily pushed the tension away a few steps. Rachel was wanting down, and once her mother had set her on her feet, she ran the few steps to Thomas. He knelt, getting down to her level, as she gave him a hug. "Bye, Thomas!" she said. "See you Saturday."

"Four Saturdays," he reminded her.

She nodded. "Four Saturdays. Like Ember's feet. Bye." She returned to her parents, and Thomas stood back up.

In the next moment, Cuddy had seized him firmly in a hug. She blinked back tears. "Goodbye for now, Thomas. You take care of yourself, you hear?" She backed off enough to meet his eyes firmly. "Call me tonight to let me know you got home safely. No, wait. Go to bed early tonight. You still need more sleep. But call me tomorrow morning to let me know you got home safely. Only. . ."

She broke off as he hugged her again. "I'll send you a text soon as I get home so you won't have to worry about it. And then I'll go to bed early."

"Lisa, he is 75 years old," House muttered. "He probably has figured out how to take care of himself by now."

Cuddy heard, but she ignored him other than a twitch of a shoulder. "Bye, Thomas," she repeated and finally backed off. "For now."

His father faced him, and House felt his stomach tighten painfully. "Greg, could I talk to you privately just for a minute?" The man sounded a little unsure and worried himself, oddly for someone so good at a front.

Cuddy was promptly on the bandwagon, of course, reaching over. "I'll take Abby," she said. "See you in a minute, Greg." She picked up her younger daughter, her free hand still holding Rachel's.

Abby studied Thomas and then abruptly spoke up herself. "Bye, Thomas," she said.

He gave her a surprised smile. "Bye, Abby," he replied.

Then Cuddy was gone, and the two of them were left face to face. House's entire body tensed up, and defiance edged with panic pushed in. He would not be forced into something he wasn't sure of yet by the occasion. To hell with it.

"Greg." Thomas reached into his carry-on and pulled out a manila envelope. He looked around at the other waiting passengers, present but not too close, and then he switched into Dutch anyway, his voice soft and steady, as if reassuring a spooked horse. "I have something I wanted to give you. That's all."

It was the second statement that caught House's attention first. That's all? This wasn't a public effort to trap him? He was so caught up in analysis of that that it took him a moment to react to the offered envelope. "Another Christmas present? You're late. Or early. Nope, definitely late."

Thomas gave him a sad smile. "I'm several years late. But this isn't a Christmas present. It's just something I thought you might want. I wouldn't open it in public, though." That, of course, was a challenge, and he saw the answering spark ignite in his son's eyes. "Please, open it alone. That warning is for your sake, Greg."

House took the envelope, studied it - totally blank but sealed - and then looked back up and waited. Nothing. "That's all?" he repeated finally, skeptically.

Thomas nodded. "It's okay, Greg. I'm not pushing you for anything more. I know this is difficult, and it should be."

He tried to wrap his mind around that for another moment. He glanced back toward the others, two gates away but watching, of course. "Well . . ." he started. Abruptly, almost of its own volition, the sentence changed halfway, still in Dutch but arriving in a different galaxy from where it had started. "If you had known, would you have done something?" A second later, he wanted to snatch the words back, but it was too late.

Tears actually welled up in the other man's eyes. "Yes! I swear, Greg, I would have." There was again a flash of that odd intensity, the steel beneath, reminding House of the tape of the confrontation with the defense lawyer and of that meticulously altered tombstone which Thornton had come near breaking a foot on afterwards in the force of his kick.

Overhead, the first call for boarding for Thomas' flight came. He looked toward the door to the tunnel, then back at his son. Slowly he reached out, touching him lightly on the arm.

His hands felt strong but gentle, too, an odd combination that House couldn't help noting and analyzing in the few seconds before he pulled firmly away. His father didn't try to hold him. "Au revoir," he said softly, and then he turned and was gone.

House stood there watching the tall form until it disappeared through the tunnel. Then he turned toward the others. It was Wilson's look that reminded him of the manila envelope in his left hand, and he promptly changed course, heading for the restroom. Thornton had recommended privacy; you couldn't get much more private than a bathroom stall. He ripped it open but extracted the contents carefully, as if they might burn his fingers.

It was an 8 x 10 portrait of Blythe, and this one, unlike the quick black-and-whites he had seen from the other man so far, was done in color, looking almost professional and yet personal at the same time. She looked as she had in the last few years, finally with an odd peace but still with an almost childlike wonder and naivety that belied her gray hair. The love was there, but so was the subtle sense of fantasy that would lead her astray, that had killed her in the end. His mother.

The damned tears were shorter lived that time, at least, and silent. Nobody in a neighboring stall would have known. He held out the drawing carefully to protect it. Once he felt that he had a firm grip on himself again, he repackaged the portrait and then wiped his eyes with the toilet paper. He started to stand up, then stopped and pulled out his cell phone, typing in a quick text.

Not bad, old man. Keep practicing.

He pocketed his cell phone, then stood up. He reached for the door of the stall, then, hearing the other passengers moving around the room, remembered to reach back to flush the toilet. Then he exited, heading for his family.

(H/C)

Thomas sat in his seat on the plane, bone weary as, away from the others, he relaxed. The week was over, and so much had been gained. So much left, of course, but he was amazed at how much things had changed since only last Thursday when he first had arrived in Lexington to arrange the funeral.

The doors closed, the fasten seat belts light came on, and the standard greetings and safety reminders that he had heard dozens of times started unspooling. He pulled out his cell phone to turn it off, and in that instant, as he was holding it, a text arrived. He quickly switched over to view it. He read it once, twice, and even after he turned off the phone, he still saw the words written clearly in his mind.

It was the first time since childhood, other than one sarcastic dart thrown at that first meeting in the courtroom, that his son had called him anything.

Thomas settled back into his seat, feeling the engines beneath him, the heavy weight of the plane now slowly in motion, now accelerating, now leaping, defying gravity, into the air, no longer earthbound but free. He knew he and his son weren't in the air yet, but he knew that the doors had already been closed. It was only a matter of waiting for clearance.

By the time the stewardess came by with snacks, Thomas was sound asleep.