A/N: Really didn't mean to break this one off, but it's been a very hectic week. This will give you a small slice to keep going on. Hopefully more this weekend.

(H/C)

Wilson studied Thomas' house as he walked up the path to the door. It was compact and pleasant-looking. Nothing really to grab the attention. You might have driven by without even noticing it, much like the man himself, until he wished to be noticed. Wilson had seen enough of him by now to know how much sharp intelligence and observation and humor lay beneath the surface. No doubt the house, too, held more than it looked like.

Part of him couldn't help appreciating the irony of this meeting. Last year, he would have paid and paid well for a private conversation with House's father, but his own past and problems would have been lightyears away from being one of the topics on the table. No, the spotlight would have been turned the other way, Wilson excavating details for all he was worth. The post conversation private conclusions would have centered on further analysis and explanation of House in the light of the new data.

Yet here he was walking up to the door, with House's knowledge, with Thornton given advance notice, and with the agenda not involving dissecting his cantankerous friend. While he was after information, he also truly did intend to apply it, and not to others. Things could change, even, to his surprise, himself.

Thomas opened the door promptly. "Come on in," he invited, and Wilson took a step or two into the living room and looked around.

Books. Hundreds of books; they almost formed wallpaper for the lower half of the room. Above them were pictures, not grouped but each proudly commanding its own, even if small, piece of wall or section of top of bookcase. Most were family photographs, though the largest was an oil painting, a nice scene of mountains. The piano from Blythe's house was here; Wilson still couldn't believe that House had allowed him to keep it. Not hard to realize why Thomas wanted it, a positive souvenir from his son's childhood, even though he wasn't musical himself, but House's motives were a mystery. Maybe some sort of tribute to the musician grandfather?

Wilson jolted to a stop in his inventory of the room as he came to the couch, just down from the piano. Landscape timbers surrounded the bottom of it, making it look definitely odd, even if they color coordinated fairly well. On past the couch, there was an upside-down storage container with a hole in it, and then, beyond that and well out of reach from the couch, was a small end table with a lamp. Wilson tried to see into the container through the hole, wondering what important (upside-down?) storage item had bumped the lamp table out of that more convenient spot. Other than an apparent towel in the bottom of it, it looked empty, though it was dark enough inside that it was hard to tell.

Turning on, he came into line of sight with Thornton again, who was standing patiently holding the door open. Thomas had taken a shower recently, and his hair was still half wet. Probably had been off riding the horse this morning, Wilson decided. He was dressed in jeans, an old T-shirt, and tennis shoes and looked exactly, in attire if not in features, like House's father. At the moment, he also wore an understanding smile that made Wilson suddenly very aware of his own several-second pause in the doorway. He hadn't meant to be that obvious.

"Like it?" Thomas asked. Gentle amusement, not mockery, but Wilson still felt uncomfortably on the spot.

"It's nice. A little small but nice."

"It's been hard work compressing," Thomas admitted. "I didn't think I really had that much, and I thinned out a lot of things, but the old house was three to four times the size of this one. And we'd been there long enough to have things accumulate. Kind of like sediment; it just gathers on you while you're still."

Wilson smiled at the image, glad Thomas wasn't making fun of or offended by his own curiosity. He doubted that Thomas had been too still through life, whether or not he was living in one place. He had a quiet energy to him, a strong current running under his unobtrusive surface.

For Thomas' part, he couldn't blame Wilson for his extreme interest. With roles reversed, he would have put just as much effort into soaking up the environment, though he would have hidden it better. He had expected the bewilderment at the couch and cave, but he also noted that apparently, Wilson didn't know yet that Thomas had given Greg the piano back in childhood. He was still scrambling for a context to fit the piano into.

Wilson looked down at the take-out sack in one hand and the drink holder in the other. Food was a familiar route out of discomfort. "Shall we eat at the table or in here?"

"In here," Thomas replied without even pausing to consider it. He glanced at the pictures. He wanted to have them in sight during this talk. Of course, there were pictures elsewhere in the house, too, but most of them were in the living room. This was already the center of this house. In St. Louis, the soul of the house had been their bedroom to his mind and for far more reasons than only sexual, but the bedroom here was not theirs and never would be. He walked over to the couch and sat down on the end nearest the cave, waving a hand invitingly toward the recliner.

Wilson put the drinks down on the coffee table with a brief pause to register that it was a surface - glass inset top - that wouldn't require a coaster. He also noted the sketch pad and wondered what Thornton had been drawing, but he made himself not ask. Jensen would have been proud, he thought. "Here you go," he said, fishing in the sack and extending a carton. "Just what House would want. I picked up plastic forks as well as chopsticks." He waited alertly for the reply. No harm in comparing a little while he had the opportunity, even if his main purpose for today was relationship advice.

"Chopsticks will do," Thomas replied.

Wilson handed over a set, then collected his drink and the other carton and sat down in the recliner. "I appreciate you meeting me."

"I'm glad to. I'm interested as well," Thomas stated. "But again, we aren't going to be talking about Greg."

"I know. By the way, he does know I'm meeting you. He didn't mind."

"I'd figured out already that he knew." That surprised Wilson, and Thomas explained. "My cell number isn't listed. You had to get it from either him or from Lisa, probably him, because he would have found out from her quickly otherwise. She'd never keep that from him, and it would have looked better to just ask him outright in the first place."

Wilson was impressed. "You two must be related. " He watched Thomas manipulate the chopsticks as he took a bite. He was quite adept with them.

At that moment, a movement caught his eye, and he turned to look at that inexplicable storage container. Had something wiggled in there? Inch by inch, a black nose and muzzle emerged from the dark interior. The nose twitched a time or two. Wilson held still and watched, and the rest of the head came cautiously around the corner. It was a black kitten with large yellow eyes.

"That's Jet," Thomas said.

Wilson studied him, and Jet returned the scrutiny. "House said you'd found a . . . hurt kitten."

Thomas without difficulty filled in the word that his son no doubt had actually used. "He'll be out to join us in a few seconds. He smells lunch, and he's curious about you. But he's had a very rough week, and he doesn't like loud noises. So please keep everything low key."

Jet emerged in slow motion, and Wilson studied the splint, fascinated. "House just said he was hurt, but we didn't get into details. He's been tied up on a tough case all week, so I haven't talked to him as much as usual. Do you know what happened to the kitten?"

"He was apparently thrown by somebody."

"Thrown?"

Thomas nodded. "I'm getting a pretty good picture by this point from his reactions. He was in a car that stopped, and then the person opened the door and stepped out for a second, probably for better leverage than he could get sitting down. Didn't just toss him out the window. He hurled the kitten as hard as he could using that leg as a handle. Then the door slammed, and the car accelerated away quickly. Jet bruised up his left side when he landed, but the vet says the leg broke before that just with the twisting force of the throw." Thomas' tone was full of fury; Wilson was glad he wasn't the target. Thomas looked dangerous at that moment.

Wilson shook his head. No possible kitten offense would have merited that. "What the hell is wrong with people? Is he going to be okay?"

"Yes. He needed surgery, but they think he'll heal up pretty quickly. He's young." Thomas sighed. "As for your first question, I just hope whoever did this doesn't have kids. Or anybody else in harm's way, either. But they probably do. The people who truly deserve to be alone almost never are."

"Yeah," Wilson agreed.

Jet had stopped just outside of the cave and stood there for a while, considering the newcomer. Discarding him as a threat after a few moments, the kitten relaxed and turned to limp a few steps to Thomas. "Mow!" he said.

Thomas chuckled. He ate most of his current piece of meat grasped in the chopsticks, then dropped the remaining small morsel strategically under the kitten's nose. Jet scarfed it down, then sat back, licking his chops. "Mow!" he repeated.

Wilson laughed, and Thomas reached down to scratch the black ears. "All things in moderation, Jet," he admonished. Jet looked briefly disappointed, then started to purr.

"He's a cute little guy," Wilson said.

"He's got personality, too. And he's good company. But he is skittish; it's only been three days. So try not to frighten him."

"I wouldn't ever do anything like that," Wilson assured him with a surge of sympathy. Thomas had straightened up for another bite and stopped scratching Jet's ears, and the kitten turned and looked at Wilson. His nose twitched. He lifted his good front paw, then put it down again, deciding to stay next to Thomas rather than exploring Wilson's possibilities as secondary food dispenser. Wilson grinned. "I'm actually good at handing out food, Jet. Lots of people say it's a talent of mine."

"I've noticed that," Thomas agreed. "And heard about it. Rachel is a great admirer of your pancakes. Greg, too, but she's more vocal about it."

Wilson couldn't help expanding at the compliment. Still, they'd better get this show on the road. Thornton was apparently waiting for him to open the main topic, even though he already knew what it was. Shifting a little in the chair, he began.