Or the aftershock -- deafening --
when an only son is given to understand
his mother's business with him
is completely done.
- Jim Moore
When Chase's father dies, he is: a) fucking Cameron ("never, fuh, again"), b) thinking that he should be enjoying this more, c) enjoying it more (Cameron's mouth around his cock, and she's really bloody good at that), d) all of the above. He is also angry, horny, confused, turned on, oblivious, and starting to think this was all a bad (a fucking brilliant) idea. It isn't raining. Isn't grey and foreboding; the stars are as bright as they ever get in New Jersey, and the moon is full. His father is dead, but he doesn't know that yet. The room smells like sex and apples.
"So," Cameron says, later, while he's lacing up his trainers. "Uh."
"See you tomorrow?" He snaps the lace on his left shoe.
Cameron squeaks. "Yeah, sure, see you then."
His left shoe half-on, half-off, Chase walks out. His mobile rings, and he thumbs the silent button. It feels like he hasn't slept in months. Years. Decades. He blasts the radio on his drive home, rolls up the windows and turns the air conditioner on high.
*
(This is how Chase finds out that his father is dead: "Hello, Robert? This is your stepmother. Uh. If you could give me a call when you get this, that'd. Be. Yes. Give me a call. Thanks."
This is how he finds out that everyone, apparently, knew that his father was ill but him: House says, "I did the math." It's surprisingly painful to hear.
This is how Chase spends his suspension: he watches fifteen Law & Order reruns, works out at the gym, tries to cook paella; he eats oatmeal and pears, and he doesn't think about the fact that his father was dying-- that his father was here, at Chase's hospital, in Chase's life-- and didn't think to tell his son.
This is how Chase copes: he doesn't.)
*
So: life goes on. The world continues to revolve; people continue to kill each other with frightening regularity, and Foreman is a bastard on a power trip. ("In short," Chase thinks, "la plus ça change.")
"You know, Dr. Chase, I've never kissed a boy," House says, and Chase digs his fingernails into his palms. House is leaning against the doorframe, twirling his cane and smirking. "I could die tomorrow- be hit by a bus, shot by an insane clinic patient, suffocate between Cuddy's admittedly luscious breasts, and all without kissing a boy. Which is made all the more tragic by the fact that I outed myself to my ex-girlfriend not even a month ago."
"Are you high?"
"Well, duh," House says. "Also, you're using the wrong form."
"Fuck. I mean, shit. I-"
"Hey, Foreman's the man for another whole week- do your paperwork in pink crayon for all I care. Hell, have Cameron do it; that's what I usually do."
And then, just like that, Cameron's there, and Foreman's right behind her. Foreman's smile is slightly evil, very sadistic. "So, let's get to work," he says. House's fingers play what looks suspiciously like chopsticks on the conference table as they discuss whether or not their current patient has vasculitis (the consensus: she does).
*
("Hello, this message is for Dr. Robert Chase. My name is Alex Davies, and I'm, I was, your father's, that is to say Dr. Rowan Chase's, solicitor. I'm calling regarding the details of his Last Will and Testament. Your father's left you a not unsubstantial--"
"Donate it all to charity," Chase mutters, "Or, hell, leave it to the trophy wife." He deletes the message and hangs up the phone, carefully, hands shaking. He's sick all over his new bag. (Fifteen months later, the following things will arrive at his flat: a pocket watch (Chase's grandfather's), 15 Merck Manuals (one copy of each edition, stopping inexplicably in 1987), a letter, a check for $100,000.00 in blood money. Chase will toss the letter. Sell the pocket watch. Put the books in a box in his storage space. Donate the money to Doctors Without Borders. He will not sit up all night, staring at the bottle of Beefeater he picked up on a whim; he will not think, longingly, of drinking himself into oblivion.) He dumps the bag in the trash. Crawls into bed.)
*
"It's not like you ever really spoke to the old man anyway," House announces, apropos to nothing. He's wearing his Rolling Stones tee-shirt, the one he's been wearing ever since he walked in last week brandishing a pair of floor seats to their show at the Garden.
"What?"
"I mean, I get it, he's your father, you're sad, boo hoo hoo, but. It's not like you ever called him up to say hi, how's things, I'm fine and, ooh, my hair's particularly shiny today."
"I di-"
"-d not, I think, is what you're trying to say."
"Oh, just ignore him." Wilson is smiling. Chase didn't notice him entering the room. (Then again, wherever House goes Wilson is sure to follow, therefore it's not at all a surprise.) "He's just upset that Cuddy won't take his doctor's note to get out of clinic duty."
"Hey, it's legit."
"You wrote it yourself. And it claims you have scurvy."
"Hey, you say that like scurvy didn't manage to kill the best pirates of our age. They call it the silent killer, you know."
Chase doesn't roll his eyes, quite, but it's a very close thing. "Children," he mutters.
House bats his eyes. "You know you love me."
Chase isn't sure to whom, exactly, that remark was addressed. "Um, I have to go. Test results are due in on the not-chicken pox woman."
House winks. "Of course they are."
*
(The card arrives a week before Christmas; Chase tosses it in the rubbish bin without opening the envelope. He doesn't want anything from his stepmother. He won't accept anything. She'll get the message, eventually, when he fails to respond to her machinations. (Or she won't. It's entirely possible she's an idiot.)
This is how Chase celebrates the holiday: he doesn't. He pretends it doesn't exist.
He is hiding in the men's room. The annual hospital holiday party (an elaborate, and expensive, excuse to get drunk and sleep with one's colleagues) is going strong in the other room. House is sitting on the floor in the corner, listening to his ubiquitous iPod. Cuddy is probably looking for them. Chase doesn't care.)
*
"So, wanna go see the Stones tonight?" House asks, looking at Chase's magazine over his shoulder. "Wilson's standing me up, again--apparently some nubile teenager's got leukemia or something-- and it's either take you or one of the winos in Penn Station."
"Well, since you asked so nicely."
"Bob the Wino would've been more gracious about it."
"Fine." Chase grabs his jacket and follows House into the corridor. "Take Bob the Wino, then. I'll just go home and-"
"Oh, shut up. If we miss 'Start Me Up' I may have to fire you after all, and then Cuddy'll get all red-faced and start spewing legalese at me." House holds out his arm, and mock bows. "Shall we, fair lady? And may I just say that your hair is looking particularly fetching this evening?"
They walk. "You really are an arse."
"Though not one so fine as yours."
A shiver runs up Chase's spine, and he knows with a sudden certainty that this is a horrible idea. That it can't, that it won't, end well. The parking lot is eerily still; car doors slam and someone calls out to Linda-- "we'll meet up at the Alchemist at seven!"-- but it's as if Chase is behind a wall of glass. He doesn't particularly want to break free. He doesn't try.
House is staring at him. "Ready?"
Chase blinks. Smiles. ("Or not, here I come," he thinks.) He opens the car door and climbs inside. "Hurry up," he says. "We don't want to miss the opening act, now do we?"
*
(When Chase's mother died, he was too young, too stupid, too alone. He thinks that maybe he still is.
House is playing piano, it's only rock and roll but I like it so slow it's almost backwards, and Chase is reading about an 100 year old pregnant woman in The Inquirer. He's unsure as to how, exactly, he wound up on House's couch. He's trying not to think about it. He's almost succeeding.
"Have you heard the one about the priest and the rabbi?"
Chase laughs. It isn't funny.)
*fin.
[once more into the fray]