Author's Note: House isn't mine. So, I wrote this as a little one-shot and thought about the Garden State quote. And that's when I knew it belonged in this collection.
Andrew Largeman: Hey Albert? Good luck exploring the infinite abyss.
Albert: Thanks. Hey, you too.
--Zach Braff to Denis O'Hare in "Garden State"
Conversations involve two people—be they alive and dead, alive and alive, or both dead, there are typically two people (unless the person is a basket-case.) But these conversations between two people take many forms because of the relationships that can occur between humans. Be it a conversation that takes place between a father and son, lovers, mother and daughter, friends…all these conversations have different connotations and bring their own nuances to the table. And sometimes, conversations take different forms as relationships shift.
""""""
He sits on the dock. Princeton's a college town and every proud college town (especially an expensive Ivy League one) wastes a lot of money of a sport that's for rich kids like him—crew. He rowed. He rowed.
But now, what does he have? He owns a small apartment and the requisite knick-knacks and the like, but that's not what life should be filled with should it? He doesn't know anymore and the skipping of the rocks over water provides him little comfort. They get off so easy.
His father's dead and he's a sinking rock.
He comes here because there's peace, there's quiet, and there are rocks. It lets him take out his grief on inanimate objects that can't fend for themselves. He wasn't able to fend for himself. He had to fight and learn how to survive. He had to help her to survive. And the only meaningful thing he had ever needed to do—save his mother—was the one thing he wasn't able to accomplish.
He chucks a particularly large rock into the river, not to skip it, but to see it sink. Sinking things make him feel as if he has not sunk as far as he can. It's a slow journey to the bottom.
The rubber ended wood on weather-beaten planks sound. He knows it's House.
"What the hell do you want?"
"To make sure you don't kill yourself."
Chase laughs bitterly.
"Me? You're worried about me? I thought I was still on your shit list."
"I don't waste my time on shit lists."
"Oh, really?"
"Your dad was a good doctor. Hell, he was a great one."
Chase sneers, takes a handful of small rocks, and launches them vehemently into the water. House doesn't flinch because House doesn't ever flinch.
"You're a great doctor, but that doesn't mean you're going to win human being of the year."
Chase waits for the comment about being a bad son. He waits. House doesn't like to miss opportunities to ride him, so why wouldn't he waste this one?
But instead House moves to his side and slowly lowers himself to the dock's surface. His cane drops and he lets his butt rest on the wood with his legs sprawled in front of him. He manages to swing his good leg around and lets it dangle over the edge. He drops his cane and moves his other leg with his hands. It's a painful gesture of solidarity. Chase doesn't appreciate it, so he stands up and puts his hands in his pocket.
"I'm not getting up."
"Good."
"If you keep falling down long enough, you start to realize that it's not worth the energy to get back up," House waxes poetic and Chase shoves his hands deeper in his pockets.
"He's dead."
"A very true mantra."
There are a few people who feed the ducks stationed along the river's edge. One shades her eyes and watches the scene on the dock. Two men, one with is feet scraping the water and the other with his back turned. It could be anything from a lover's quarrel to a divided father and son. The person goes back to feeding the ducks. Somehow, the waterfowl are a lot less complicated than human actions.
"So, you're sulking because you didn't have enough time with your father."
Chase purses his lips and House takes his cane and swings it across the top of the water. The soft splashing of barely displaced water is the only conversation for several minutes.
"Why are you here? You're starting to sound like Cameron," Chase says, watching the rowers row back towards the end of the river.
"I've come to reclaim my job. I'm the bitter, sarcastic, jaded doctor. You're supposed to be the lovable Aussie. So, Foreman's filling-in for you, Camron's taken over for Foreman, and I'm playing Cameron. I'd rather like to reclaim my personality."
Chase is unimpressed and not amused.
"Go away."
"You don't get three wishes."
Chase whirls on him and points an accusing finger at House's back.
"And you don't get the right to infringe on my privacy."
"Infringe? What a big word for our darling little Aussie. Did your mother teach it to you? Or was it your father?"
Through gritted teeth—"Leave my mother out of this."
"But why?" It's House swishing cane and sarcastic utterance that makes Chase put his hands on the man's shoulders. He's not seeing Greg House as his superior—this superior is Rowan Chase.
"Push," Rowan hisses.
Chase removes his hands.
"That's too good for you."
"And you my boy are too good for this," House's hands, but Rowan's voice, sweep the landscape, encompassing begging ducks and weary rowers.
There is no response to that, so Chase assumes his old pose. The duck-feeder watches this silent saga and knows now that this pair must be father and son. Even if the crippled man looks nothing like the able-bodied one, their argument is a thousand years old. Well, every argument is a thousand years old, but this one has the distinct bitterness of a familial dispute.
"Virginia Woolf committed suicide by weighing her pockets down with rocks. You contemplating the same thing?" It's still House's voice but the argument playing in Chase's head is pure Rowan.
"That was always Mum's area of expertise."
"Your mother was a fine woman."
"You never loved her!"
House tilts his head in response and hears Chase kick at a warped plank.
"It's your decision," House offers.
Chase reaches his hand up to pull at his hair. To tug out tufts and make his heartthrob qualities disappear.
"No, it's not! You made me stay with her!" He shouts a little too loudly.
House turns his head around and looks at the distressed Chase.
"What are you talking about?"
"You know what I'm talking about!"
House realizes that something's wrong with Chase. He manages to stand up and get his cane in hand.
"For once, I have no idea what's going on."
"Bastard!"
Chase slaps House's face seeing only Rowan's.
Jesus Christ, the duck-feeder breathes when she sees the slap.
House's head swivels and his hand grips the cane. He takes the cane and nudges Chase's ankles—he won't hit him, but he this is a warning.
It's the cane, Chase figures later, that makes him realize this isn't his father.
"Dr. House I never meant to hit—"
"You might not have meant it now, but you have in the past. Don't do it again," House hobbles towards the land end of the dock.
"House!"
"I never had the opportunity to learn about my father either. At least you saw him before he died," House tells him before walking back to his parked car.
"House!"
"Don't chase after things because you're guilty!" He shouts back.
Definitely not a father-son argument, the woman decides as she lets some more breadcrumbs fall from her hand.
Chase sighs. No matter how many men remind him of his father and how many rocks remind him of himself there is nothing he can do.
Rowan Chase is dead and Robert Chase is waiting to reach the bottom.