Dr. Gregory House, Head of the Department of Diagnostics at Princeton Plainsborough Teaching Hospital hated funerals. They were too –emotional - everyone in black, speaking in formal, loving tones of people they really hated, and couldn't wait to see six feet under. Also, churches and gravesites weren't the best place for a man with a cane. Either the cane made too much noise on marble floors, sank into lush red carpeting or got stuck or slipped in mud. He didn't really know why funerals were held – it wouldn't bring the dead back to life. The only people he liked at burials were the priests – not because of their comforting words of 'ashes to ashes and dust to dust' but because of the same reason people of society hated them – they weren't emotional enough for a funeral.
In this particular instance he was standing in a cemetery in Sydney, Australia, cursing the stubborn will of a dead man for dying and leaving his estranged son completely alone in the world.
Dr House turned his attention to his intensivist and saw that he was keeping well with his "stiff upper-lip" doctrine that was a trait from his British-descended cool. The last Chase man was stoic, his hands made white by the force by which he was holding a rosary, subconsciously mouthing the priest's words.
Robert was sixteen years old when he first put his trust in God and He had not delivered.
He had sat, huddled next to his mother's hospital bed, his hands running over the rosary at the same time that the sounds of life support that kept his mother from the grips of death beeped.
Hail Mary… pray for us sinners…
At the rustle of material Robert looks up, startled out of the middle of the rosary. He looks up in time to see a familiar sight, the tails of his father's black coat; walking out of his life once again.
He turns to face the expressionless face of his mother – once again taking up a vigil that would have no end.
A rough hand shakes him out of his reverie.
"Wake up, Chase." The voice was rough and showed no sympathy - not that Robert expected any - from his boss, especially not on the day of his father's funeral.
"Hurry up. Thanks to you, I may not have the time to have a drink before Cuddy finds me," House snarks, "and you know how I love mixing drugs and alchohol." Chase blinked, his eyes clouded in confusion, "What - ?"
"Let's go, wombat."
House turned and began to unsteadily manoevre himself – and his cane – on the dry, crumbly ground, leaving Chase no option but to follow.
The wake is crowded. There are people spilling in and out of manned-doors, all wearing a range of attires – with one commonality – black. It is a black that speaks to Chase as if from a long forgotten dream – or nightmare. It is the symbol of both his salvation - and his destruction. He had been sixteen when he had first encountered the conotations that such a colour could bring.
"…. Abigail showed her unwavering kindness in the raising of her fine young son, Robert. He is a lasting tribute to such a wonderful woman…."
Abigail Chase's son, upon hearing those words from the lips of his mother's brother, clutched the rosary that had not left his ssight since his mother's death, until his knuckles turned white. He was suddenly posessed with a childish wish to scream and stamp his feet. He wished to stand up in front of the congregation of mourners and ask them where they were the day his mother died? The days her "lasting tribute" had to skip sport because of the bruises her "unwavering kindness" would bring?
He made to speak and was silenced by a hand contorting muscle and flesh into streaks of white hot pain. His father's fingers were digging into the flesh between his collar bone in a universal guesture that said only one thing: no.
For the first time in months Rowan Chase looked at his son waiting for an answer to the non-verbalised question. Robert stared back at his father through haunted eyes and nodded: yes.
… now and in the hour of our death….