House, M.D. is owned by David Shore and Fox TV. David P. Kelly is the creator of characters recognizable from Chicago Hope. Consider it a rather AU soap opera.

Written for the DUERBP Chase ficathon, using the prompt, "It's twenty years in the future. What's going on with Chase?"

Chasing the Past

They'll start the speeches soon, and the idea of sitting through another hour in Babel is even less appealing than the wedge of cheesecake on the plate in front of him. "Could you keep an eye on that for me, Miss?" He aims a winsome smile at the dull woman who's been flirting with him since she took her place during the cocktail hour. "I'll be right back." It's a lie. He brushes a few crumbs from his dinner jacket and slips out of the banquet room.

Doctor Robert Chase wanders the once-familiar halls of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and is vaguely dismayed. Oh, the equipment is state of the art; he has no issue with that. Nothing else is quite the way he remembers it, though; they've remodeled, redecorated. Back in the days when he was a fellow here, bright colors defined the walls and everything was crisp and streamlined. Today, soft, dappled shades flow together as if through osmosis, as if his memories have been eroded by almost two decades of passing history. There are a few recognizable landmarks, but the faces aren't the same.

The conference room should be here, next to Dr. House's office. It isn't. Through the glass, he sees a desk and personal effects. The lettering on the door says "Gaynor". There's no sign of a whiteboard, and he shakes his head. The next space is labeled "Bhalati" where it should say "House", and Chase feels a spasm of indignation, although he knows Greg House has been gone for years.

"I thought I'd find you here," says an amused voice. "I saw you make that oh-so-casual exit from the party."

"I wasn't expecting to be followed by the guest of honor," Chase says, touched. A handshake becomes a hug, and he takes a deep breath to forestall the sudden tightening of his esophagus. The face is more lined, the hair well on its way to being silver, but James Wilson still has kind brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and he's smiling now.

"They won't notice until they get ready for the speeches, and I don't mind missing those. How've you been, Chase? Still in---where was it, Chicago?"

"Yeah, I love it there. Cold as a bitch in winter, but it's never dull."

"Still got that accent, I hear."

"Part of my charm." Chase gives a self-deprecating shrug. "I haven't run into anyone from the old days until you came along."

"Really? Cuddy's here. Of course."

"That's not running into," says Chase with an exagerated shudder. "That's getting run over by. At ninety miles an hour."

Wilson grins. He looks good for pushing sixty. In the old days, he was boyish...now he's distinguished. "And she likes you," he points out. "Just imagine if it was House." The moment of camaraderie lingers, then the older man says, "I still get a Christmas card every year from Cameron."

There's a name that brings back memories, some of them pretty good. "I guess I dropped off her radar, oh, two or three moves ago. The last I heard, she got married."

"Yeah, she did. Kevin. Nice guy; he's a veterinarian. They met when he neutered her cat. House and I went to their wedding. I almost had to choke him with his own tie at the part about 'Does anyone have a reason why these two should not be wed?' He was going to say she hadn't gotten over him yet and was marrying on the rebound."

Chase pictures it, the two of them scuffling in church, House with that gleam in his eye, Wilson looking harried---and he laughs aloud. "What's she doing these days?"

"Private practice," Wilson sighs. "Pissed House off big-time, after all that training---but she just couldn't handle the stress." His smile fades. "That's why I finally stopped taking patients and went into teaching. After a while, you just can't cope with any more bad news." It isn't the same---Wilson spent years in oncology before teaching, but Chase isn't going to push the issue. Allison Cameron is probably a terrific GP. It's not like she dropped out of medicine completely. "What about you?" Wilson asks. "Wife, kids, any of that?"

"Married for a couple years, but it didn't work. She wanted me to leave the hospital and go into something with," he clears his throat, "normal hours."

"In other words, private practice."

"Exactly. It didn't work out." He can shrug it off, but at the time, the failure of his marriage was another sign that Robert Chase was an unlovable human being. Thank God for friends who thought otherwise. Like Wilson, he's failed at marriage---but only once so far, and he's going to keep trying---even Wilson finally found a keeper. Like Wilson, Chase has one good friend---Jeffrey Geiger is brilliant, and every bit as outspoken as Greg House ever was. Chase smiles; get the two of them in the same room and World War Three would erupt.

"Have you heard about---oh, what was his name? The one House threatened to throw down the stairs that time---that's why I'm retiring, Chase---it's getting harder and harder to remember the names of the new students every year. I can't remember that guy's name for the life of me. I know you two were here at the same time, though, because I remember---" Wilson shakes his head. "He was working out of a free clinic in Baltimore and some junkie shot him to death."

Chase staggers back against the wall. For a moment, he feels much older than his forty-seven years. "Foreman?" he says in disbelief. "Foreman's dead?"

"Foreman?" repeats Wilson. "No, Foreman's in Gainesville at the Mayo Clinic. I heard from him a few weeks ago. I'm going to be working with the Clinic's hospice program as a consultant. No, this was someone else, that guy that lived on Mountain Dew and donuts."

"Warren Tucker. Yeah, he was the senior fellow when I came in. I didn't know about that." There's another piece of his youth, gone. Not that he's made any great effort to keep up with them, he's always been bad about that. He always figures they didn't care that much about each other at the time, why bother? Cuddy's kept him filled in on the news from PPTH, or he would never have known about tonight's event.

"Tucker!" exclaims Wilson, as if it's a trophy. "Right! Internist. Out of Johns Hopkins."

"That's him," says Chase, who only remembers John Hopkins after Wilson says it. He hesitates, then asks the question he really wants to know: "What about House?"

"He calls me a couple of times a month to bitch about all the politics and back-biting at the CDC. I'll give you his number, if you want. He'd probably love to hear from you. This year, he's obsessed with swine flu epidemiology. Don't let him get started on that, or you'll be there til your ear falls off."

"There you are!" exclaims an aging blonde in a teal evening gown, and the conversation shudders to an awkward halt. Chase and Mrs. Wilson the fourth never got along. She has an affectionate smile for Wilson though, and Jimmy smiles back. Chase sees real happiness on the older man's face. "Sweetheart, please come back downstairs. It's your party, they're not going to start the speeches without you."

Wilson nods, looking rueful, and laces his fingers through hers. "See you later," says the older doctor, extending his free hand to Chase.

"Take care of yourself," replies Chase, shaking it.

"Nice to see you again, Dr. Chase," the blond adds as they depart, Wilson hand-in-hand with his wife. Watching the couple stroll away down the hall. Chase hears her say to her husband, "Of course I remember Chase---it rhymes with baby-face."

The alleged baby-face rolls his eyes and remembers why they didn't get along. He catches himself thinking that if James Wilson could find love---and he had to be the unluckiest guy at love this side of one of House's soaps---then maybe he will, too, some day. There are enough similarities that sometimes Chase thinks he's going to turn into Wilson eventually, although the prospect of sharing an apartment with an egotistical piano-playing son-of-a---comparing House to Jeffrey Geiger pulls Chase up short. Maybe he's already turned into Wilson.

What the hell, he's still better off than Warren Tucker. Or even Greg House, who seems to have played it safe and avoided this shindig. Can't say he's all that surprised. House always was an anti-social bastard. On the other hand, for something like this, Jeffrey wouldn't resist the urge to show up and mess with everyone's heads.

Detouring through Witherspoon wing on his way back down to the function room, Chase is still musing on past events, but he isn't so caught up in youthful memories that he doesn't hear the monitor that starts squealing in a nearby room, and his reflexes kick in without thought. Chase takes all of two steps, when he's jostled by a small cadre of lab coats that bolts past him into the patient's room. Somebody mutters what might be "Excuse me--" in passing, but it's perfunctory; if he'd been knocked flat on his bum in the scrum, none of them would've slowed one iota.

The trio seething around the bed doesn't know him or need him, and he stands outside the glass for a moment, watching them. They're working as a team; quick signals and practiced procedures, tones urgent but not panicking. What strikes him is how very young they all look, almost child-like with their unlined faces and vast energy. They don't even look like they're old enough to be out of college yet! "Baby-face" appellation or not, was he ever that earnest, that innocent-looking?

The patient's vitals have stabilized, and they're adjusting the IV flow. He hears snatches of conversation through the open door: "--doesn't support lupus!" "But the family history---" "---enough neurological problems--" "If you start him on steroids, you're going to completely--" "Bhalati will go ballistic if you don't---"

Going on twenty years...and the conversation sounds eerily like any one of hundreds he's had, some of them in that very room, Chase has no doubt. Unbelievable, but... This isn't his patient; hell, it isn't even his hospital any more. Chase tears himself away from the scene reluctantly, almost overwhelmed by an urge to walk in and ask them for a differential diagnosis.

There may have been changes, but Chase is relieved to find that the south elevator is still where he expects to find it, and it lets him out in a corridor that's a little more familar than previous ones. He pushes open the door, and swallows hard when he finds out the chapel hasn't changed at all. Geometric squares of vivid stained glass overlook rows of pews, nearly deserted. A white-haired figure sits in the back row, head lowered, and Chase silently moves down the aisle

Resting his hands on the woodgrain of the altar rail, he gazes up at the glass mosaic, offering a prayer for the patient whose crisis he just witnessed...and for his doctors. If there's one thing the intervening decades have taught him, it's that being a doctor takes every bit as much faith as being a priest. He's come to terms with all that. The issues that were earth-shaking back then have receeded: everyone has family tragedies, he's found out. His own history isn't that much more fucked up than anyone else's, and is less so than many. It's just that when you're twenty-something, it sure seems like the world is dumping all its shit on you.

It's good advice, he thinks, but the trouble is, you have to be on the shady side of forty to really understand it. Those kids up in Witherspoon---ahem!---those young doctors up in Witherspoon, he corrects himself, are starting to wake up to it, but he gives it another ten years before it really sinks in. One of his boyhood heroes said, "It's not the years, it's the milage"---but it's really a bit of both... A kid isn't gonna understand it, not a kid who's barely eighteen. Graduating from high school confers a diploma, not the wisdom of the sages. He sighs.

"Why the long face, junior? Bad news from the Big Guy Upstairs?" There's Greg House in a tux, looking smug at his surprise. Chase has forgotten how big the man is; it wasn't just the sheer force of his personality that gave him presence. His eyes are as blue as Chase remembers, and no less keen. His hair is pure white, and the younger man is amused to see how long it is. If he wasn't so immaculately clean-shaven, House would look like a patriarch out of one of his childhood Bible stories.

Chase realizes with some chagrin who the white-haired old man in the back row was. Probably playing a handheld game, not praying, unless House has had a moment on his own personal road to Damascus. "It's good to see you, House," he says, extending his hand. "How've you been?"

House accepts the handshake, doesn't hug him in greeting like Wilson did. Chase would've been a little surprised if he had. "Can't complain. Doesn't help." A small smile, in proportion to the low-key quip. "You still work with Jack McNeil? Tell him I said hi. The leg works good."

"I know he's good, but I didn't know he was that good." House towers over him, and thanks to advances in orthopedic medicine, he's not leaning on a cane any more.

"You know," the older man muses, "if McNeil hadn't fixed my leg when he did, I wouldn't be here. The ketamine bought me some time, but I was getting more and more self-destructive...vicodin, morphine, booze--- I should be dead." His expression is thoughtful. "I've heard good things about you, too." It's so unlike the House he knew to give an unqualified compliment that Chase just stares at him.

"Sometimes the universe has other plans," Chase manages to say, discovering how deeply his old teacher's opinion still matters. House has mellowed. It's unlike him to wax philosophical or admit to weakness. Or have his demons finally backed down?

"You turned out pretty good for a neurotic rich kid."

Chase blinks. "I was an ass in those days," he reminds House. "Like that stunt with Vogler."

"It really broke my heart when I heard he had that aneurysm," House purrs. The unholy glint in his blue eyes recalls the House of old. "Cuddy broke out the champagne when she found out he hadn't written us out of the will." Us. It's been almost ten years since House has worked at PPTH, and even longer since Chase has, but they still have a shared connection to this hospital.

"Looks like it's been well-spent," the younger man acknowledges. "They've got state-of-the-art everything."

"I guess. I'm glad I don't have to look at those crappy colors all day long." House glares and changes the subject. "You know, I'm a little surprised you're here."

"Wilson's a good guy. I wanted to be here for the tribute. And see the old place again."

"Are you sure that's the only reason?"

"What other reason would there be?" Chase asks cautiously. There is something else on his agenda, but House can't know about that--can he?

House shrugs. "This and that. Your daughter's graduation..."

Chase's jaw drops. "You knew?" he blurts before he can stop himself.

"Oh, please, wombat. How could I not know?" House smirks."She may have her mother's big blue eyes, but she looks just like you." Mellow? What was Chase thinking? "When she was about nine, she cut her hair---it was down to her waist before that---and I swear, it ended up exactly the way you used to wear yours, flopping into her eyes. I had my suspicions before that, but that really proved it. Same pointy nose, too."

"What do you want me to say?" Chase responds, subdued. "It wasn't that long after my dad's death, and I needed to feel like I had family somewhere---even if it wasn't family I was with every day. Does that make any sense? So when Cuddy asked me, I said yes." He eyes House, knowing it's a lie---Lisa Cuddy hadn't asked, she'd seduced him and informed him of impending fatherhood after the fact---but he's still 50 percent of the genetic makeup of Amelia Rowena Cuddy.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing," House replies, feigning innocence. "She's a good kid."

"How the hell would you know?" It irritates Chase that his old mentor sounds so superior. Amelia isn't House's kid, why's he rubbing it in like this?

"Because she keeps in touch with her dear old godfather," House chuckles. "And I found her blog. You ought to look into it---very interesting reading! Did you know she's got a tattoo of a penguin on her left butt cheek?"

"No," he says faintly. "I didn't. And I wish you hadn't told me." What the hell was Lisa thinking, letting their little girl get a tattoo? She's just a baby! Maybe he can offer to help her get it removed as a graduation gift?

"Want to know what color her hair is this month?" House inquires. Chase raises an eyebrow. "Butterscotch. Like I said, she looks like you. Except cuter."

"House, you are not allowed to find my eighteen-year old daughter cute," Chase growls. "If I'm old enough to be her father, you're old enough to be her grandfather!"

"If you're going to act like her father, I suggest you take it up with her. She needs one. Sometimes her mom's a little too busy networking to become Surgeon General to give her all the warm-fuzzies she needs."

"It was part of the agreement we worked out," Chase explains. "She didn't want me in the picture playing daddy. We decided I would keep my distance and not contact Amelia until she was eighteen. That's why I relocated after my fellowship was over. Otherwise---"

"So now the kid's old enough to know The Truth, and here you are?" House intones "the truth' as if it should be carved on stone tablets.

"Damn right, here I am. I kept my word to Cuddy, now I'm going to keep the faith with my daughter. For all I know, she may not want anything to do with me, but she can tell me so to my face."

"Afraid you might be your father's son after all?" suggests House. "She's nothing like you, trust me on that. Personality-wise, that is. She's popular, out-going, happy---"

"Get screwed." Chase knows House is trying to push his old buttons; there's no real animosity in his rejoinder.

"Nah, I've got a hooker coming over to my hotel later, I don't want to take the edge off. And...I need to get down to the function room," he says with a glance at his watch. "The number three speaker on the agenda is an elected official who hasn't supported budget increases to the CDC." House tsk-tsks, anticipation glinting in his blue eyes. "There are only so many corners we can cut. What do they expect us to do, reuse the tongue depressors?"

Following House through the corridors of PPTH again is the most disorienting thing that's happened to him so far tonight. He's not the same callow young man he was, House isn't as caustic, PPTH itself has a new face, but in these halls, there are still young doctors---and older ones---trying to make sense of the complexities of medicine. That will always be the same.

Lisa Cuddy is standing at the podium, looking great in a burgundy dress that hugs her still-attractive curves. "---joining us all the way from Washington, D.C.. Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital was fortunate to be associated with our next speaker early in her distinguished career. Please welcome---Congresswoman Stacy Warner."

House rubs his hands together and Chase rolls his eyes, thankful that he didn't succumb to Cuddy's plea for him to speak. Some things never change.

The End.