Author's Note: If you've never eaten a raw onion before, you really must. It's quite an experience, whether you like onions or not.

Onions

My mother loved cooking in Japan; it was where she learned to love onions.

Mushrooms were more common and probably cheaper, but she loved the flavor that onions gave to food and the way that they crunched between your teeth. In Egypt, there had been onions (the ancients used to worship onions—to them, the rings symbolized eternity), but they were different in Japan. Less bitter. We had them in our soup, meat, vegetables, natto… The only reason we never ate them raw was because my father refused to eat them like that. But that didn't really matter, because most of all, my mother loved to peel them. She would sing to the radio while she worked.

"Darn that dream… I dream each night… You say you love me and you hold me tight…"

oOo

AMC is having an Indiana Jones marathon that House had insisted on watching, and Chase had rolled his eyes and agreed to sit through it. It's not that he doesn't like Indiana Jones—he does—but he had been six when the first one came out, and even though he'd pleaded with his nanny for weeks for permission to see it, the movie had given him nightmares for a month. He's twenty-seven now and won't have any nightmares, of course, but it's like a foul aftertaste that he can't spit out.

The opening scene of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom is interrupted by the phone's trill. A glance at House tells Chase that if he wants to find out who's on the other end, he's going to have to take the long way because House has his feet propped up on the coffee table and isn't showing any signs of letting Chase through. With an irritated sigh, Chase stands up and goes all the way around the couch to get to the phone.

He picks it up on the fourth ring. One more and it would have switched to the answering machine.

"Hello?"

There is heavy breathing from the other end. "Greg?"

Chase pauses, trying to figure out who's on the other end before he responds. It's a deep, gruff voice that he doesn't recognize.

"Um, no. This is Robert." On the couch, House is mouthing I'm asleep, and Chase rolls his eyes. "Can I help you?"

"I need to talk to Greg," the man says stiffly. Then he adds, like he's spitting the word out on the ground, "Please."

"I'm sorry," Chase says apologetically. "He's in the bathroom."

"No, he isn't." The man sounds like he's getting angry.

"I'm sorry," Chase says again. "If you'll give me your name and number, I can have him call you—"

"He's not in the bathroom. Don't try to fool me—I know my son, and he's probably sitting on his worthless ass watching television."

Chase's stomach drops out as he realizes that this is John House on the phone. The father that House never talks about. Chase isn't stupid—he has a good idea that House's childhood was no better than his own. His mouth is dry, so he swallows to be sure that when he speaks, the words will come out clearly.

"Can I give him a message?" he tries, knowing that if he gives the phone to House when his father is on the other end, he'll be on the couch for a week. Maybe longer.

John House snorts. "You know what? Go ahead and give him a damn message. If he won't talk to me, then he'll have to hear it from whoever the hell you are—tell him that his mother's dead. She died last night—just from—just like that—in bed—just from old age. She's dead. Tell him that, why don't you?"

There's a click, and the dial tone is ringing in his ear before Chase collects himself enough to remember to turn off the phone.

"Cuddy?" House asks, his eyes sliding from the television to where Chase is standing.

Chase feels a surge of hatred. He isn't sure if it's directed towards House for refusing to take the phone call or at John House for losing his temper and leaving this awful task to him. The last thing he wants to do is tell House that his mother died, especially at the end of such a good day, but he feels obligated. It can't wait for tomorrow.

"It was your father," Chase says, setting the phone down on the coffee table. He carefully steps over House's legs and sits down on the couch but doesn't sink into it. He sits on the edge, turning to face House—which is a dead giveaway that the coming conversation isn't going to be a fun one.

House seems to realize it, because he reaches for the remote. "Then I don't care," he says as his thumb hovers over the volume button.

"House," Chase says, trying to get House to pay attention and take him seriously. If he just blurts it out when House is watching TV… It just isn't right. He knows that House loves—loved his mother very much. "House, look at me. Please."

Scowling, House drops the remote and turns to face him.

Chase knows that he has all of five seconds to make his case for why he's more interesting than the television and he speaks before he can think about what to say. "Your father—he wanted me to tell you that… That your…"

House's eyebrow raises, and Chase knows that four of his five seconds have gone.

"Your mother," he blurts out, and suddenly House isn't timing him. Chase feels the dread mount in the pit of his stomach as House's gaze becomes curious. Serious. Now that he has House's attention, he's certain that it would have been easier to tell him while his eyes were glued to the television. "She… Last night. Last night—you know she's older—and it was night and she was asleep…"

House's eyes shift to the TV for a second, and Chase sees his fingers twitch in the direction of the remote. "Get to the point."

"She…" Chase sucks in a breath. He knows that beating around the bush any longer will not end well for him. "She passed away last night."

"She's dead," House says flatly.

Chase hesitates for a second, and then he decides that this is how House deals with things. "Yeah."

House is still and silent. In the background, Indiana Jones shouts something in Chinese to Shorty. He's trapped on a rope bridge.

"You dad didn't give many details," Chase says quietly. "But he said that it was peaceful. She died in her sleep."

Still mute, House grabs the remote and turns off the television just as Indy is about to cut the rope. He inhales and exhales slowly.

Tentatively, Chase reaches out to touch him. "Do you want me to—"

"Don't," House say sharply, and Chase pulls his hand back as if it's been shocked. House grabs his cane and stands up, and then limps down the hallway. The door slams, and Chase closes his eyes.

oOo

The first layer of an onion didn't stay on very long. It was dry and brittle, and often broke away before you could take it out of the netted red bag (although in Japan, you never bought anything in bags because all food was bought on the same day that it was going to be cooked). My mother held the onion over the sink and very carefully pressed the brownest area with the pad of her thumb, increasing the pressure until it broke through. Brown flakes drifted down, becoming a flurry of dust and brittle skin as her fingers rubbed the onion, working away the outer layer. Near the bottom, it was still ripe. This part she couldn't just rub away—she had to rip it off.

oOo

Chase consults with Wilson. It's something that he used to do often, but he hasn't needed it in the last few months, which is why Wilson is quite surprised to see Chase push open the door to his office, hand him a cup of coffee, and seat himself in the chair directly opposite Wilson's desk. The routine is familiar to Chase, and he takes a little bit of comfort from the fact that Wilson, while surprised, doesn't kick him out.

"What happened?" Wilson asks as he pries open the lid on the coffee cup.

"House's father called last night," Chase says, slouching back into the chair and staring fixedly at the desk. It's their tradition.

Out of the corner of his eye, Chase can see that Wilson has paused over the cup, the lid suspended in midair. Little brown droplets are raining down on Wilson's desk blotter, but he doesn't appear to notice or care.

"Did House talk to him?" Wilson asks after a second, recovering and picking up the foam cup to blow on the steaming coffee.

"No." Chase takes a deep breath as the events of last night replay in his head. "I did. He—House's mother died. He told me. John."

"He told you?" Wilson says, and then he winces. "Sorry. I meant—"

Chase waves a hand dismissively, still staring at the front of Wilson's desk. "Don't. House wouldn't talk to him, he lost his temper and just sort of… told me. And hung up."

"Did you tell House?" Wilson asks. He takes a sip of the coffee, but it's obviously too hot because he sets it down and doesn't take another.

"Yeah. He didn't say anything—just sat there, and then stood up and went to bed when I tried to say something," Chase says, his tone more defeated than he'd like it to sound. It isn't like House's reaction is a mystery to him. He just doesn't know what to do next.

Wilson sighs. "He came into work today?"

"Of course," Chase says with a slight snort. He sobers quickly, though. "Do I… I mean, is it overstepping to call up his father and ask about the funeral? I don't think House wants to go, but he should. It helps. Funerals, I mean."

"I think…" Wilson trails off slowly, and he's silent for so long that Chase actually looks up to make sure that Wilson hasn't busied himself with his pager or something. But Wilson is sitting behind his desk, staring down into the cup with a deep frown on his face, like he's trying to divine the answer from the patterns of undissolved creamer that are swirling about the coffee. Eventually he takes the coffee in his hand and sips from it again. When he finishes, he locks eyes with Chase. "I don't know."

Chase stares at him, wondering how he can say that he doesn't know what to do. There must be something that Wilson knows, some side of House that he's seen in the last ten years that would help them now. Wilson's never given him such a brick-wall answer.

"You don't know?" Chase repeats, because he can't quite believe it.

Wilson shakes his head. "No. I've never… I don't think that House has ever dealt with death. In his family, I mean."

Chase has. He's had lots of experience with family members dying.

"Thanks for the coffee," Wilson says, in lieu of an apology.

With a sigh, Chase pushes himself up out of the chair. "Anytime."

oOo

"I think you should go to the funeral," Chase says that night while they're eating. Even though he's really the only one eating. House has just been pushing food around on his plate, mashing different things together and letting the juices run across the plate.

"No one cares what you think," House says acidly, not looking up from his plate.

"We don't have to stay," Chase offers. "We could skip the wake and the luncheon, just go the actual burial."

"What's with the 'we'?" House asks, raising an eyebrow.

"I assumed that I would go with you," Chase says slowly, wondering if this isn't the case.

House snorts. "My father would hate you." He starts to say something else, but stops and shuts his mouth, staring down at the table.

My mother would have liked you. The words go unspoken, but Chase knows that it's what House is thinking.

"I have a headache," House announces. He stands up, seizes his cane, and limps down the hallway. Chase slumps back in his chair as he waits for the sound of the door slamming. He'll be on the couch again tonight.

oOo

"House!" Cuddy barks as she strides into the room, but she pauses and spares a glance at Chase, Cameron and Foreman sitting at the table. She sighs and shakes her head.

"Go away. We're working," House says—and they do have a patient—but his voice doesn't have any real spite behind it. He just sounds tired.

Cuddy snatches the marker out of his hand. "You go home. I don't know what you think you're doing here—you need to be at home."

"I'd rather be here," House says tersely, trying to grab the marker out of Cuddy's hand, but she's too quick for him. "Let me do my job."

"Go," Cuddy says emphatically. "Take Chase with you."

House's eyes go to Chase, who quickly looks down at the table, not caring that it betrays his guilt.

"I'm not going anywhere," House says, his hand going for the marker again.

Cuddy takes a step backwards before House can get a good grip on the marker, and she folds her arms over her chest. "Go to the funeral. If Chase tells me that you stayed at home all week and watched Spongebob, I'm tripling your clinic hours and cutting off your Vicodin supply until you finish them."

House isn't an idiot. He recognizes defeat and knows when it's time to bow out gracefully instead of fighting to his own death.

"You know, in some countries, that could be considered cruel and unusual punishment," he says. It's not up to his usual acerbic standards, but at least he's trying.

"Good thing we don't live in any of those countries," Cuddy says sternly, and her gaze flits over to Chase for a split second, and then she turns on her heel and leaves.

Foreman and Cameron exchange mystified looks because no one has bothered to tell them that House's mother died three nights ago. It isn't really their business, and besides that, the news will be all over the hospital the day after they find out, and it's the last thing House needs.

But right now, Chase is wondering if he's the best person to be judging what House needs.

House is looking murderous.

Chase swallows and prepares himself for the rage that House is going to fly into as soon as they're alone.

oOo

After she got the brittle, dried layer off, my mother cut off the ends of the onion. She used a big knife and held the onion in the center of the cutting board, slicing off the pointy ends. Now the onion was cut open and the scent, sharp and cutting, didn't come immediately. It came seconds later, after the ends had been swiped into the garbage can, and tears stung the eyes. My mother said that cutting off the ends made it easier to peel apart the layers.

oOo

They get there too late for the funeral. But it's a six hour drive back to Princeton and dusk is already settling into the sky, so House sits in stony silence while Chase tries to figure out how to get the GPS to stop telling him to turn right. Eventually it shuts up and lets Chase do a search, but by then he's in a foul temper and picks the nearest Motel 6 instead of maneuvering his way around the dark streets to find a Best Western or a Holiday Inn. House, who hasn't spoken the whole trip, suddenly speaks up at the counter and requests a room with two twin beds. Chase doesn't protest and figures that, after spending the last four nights on the couch, it really shouldn't have come as a surprise.

The room is sparse and clean, which is fine with Chase—he doesn't need the ends of his toilet paper prettily folded and a flat-screen TV to help him get through the night. House doesn't have any complaints either. He walks in, pops two Vicodin and climbs into the bed nearest the bathroom without even changing. Chase can't stand the thought of sleeping in the clothes that he's been wearing all day and strips down to his boxers before crawling into his own bed that is little more than four feet away from House's.

That night, he dreams of blowing, grassy plains that suddenly begin to smolder and blacken, and then burst into flames before his very eyes. Even though there are no people, he still hears screams of pain and smells burnt flesh in the air. He can't help them.

When Chase wakes up with a start, he looks around the room wildly before he remembers where he is and that House isn't in the same bed. House is in the other bed, and even though it's only four feet away it might as well be a mile for all the silence between them. Chase is about to lay down and wait for his heart to stop racing so that he can fall back asleep when notices that House is laying on his back, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling.

For one horrible instant, Chase thinks he's dead. But the slow rise and fall of House's chest, accompanied by the sound of rushing breaths, reminds him that he's being an idiot.

"House?" he says softly, blinking in the darkness. Light is coming in through the window—a faint buzzing tells him that it's a street light.

"I can sleep with my eyes open," House says in a flat voice, staring up at the ceiling.

"And I can read with my eyes shut," Chase replies. He wonders at the fact that this is the first time that House has spoken to him since yesterday afternoon, and he doesn't really feel any relief at it. Does that mean anything?

House blinks, but if he catches the Dr. Seuss reference, he doesn't say anything. "We're going home tomorrow."

"No we're not," Chase says, laying back down quietly.

"Yes, we are," House says.

"No."

"Yes."

Neither one of them sound particularly vehement about this.

"Good night, House," Chase says at last, rolling onto his side and staring at the wall.

House doesn't say anything.

oOo

When Chase wakes up, House is already awake. He strongly suspects that House didn't fall asleep at all last night but doesn't say anything—instead, he pulls on a pair of jeans and grabs his cell phone before stepping outside. The sidewalk is sticky and hot under his bare feet, and Chase thinks about going back in to grab his sneakers for a minute, but House just thinks that he's going out to get the newspaper. He resolves not to think about what kind of things have been on this sidewalk since the last time that it was last hosed down.

The conversation with John House is short. All Chase wants to know is where she was buried, and all John wants to do is get off the phone, so it works out rather well. There's a brief moment when John demands to know why he's calling on behalf of House, and Chase thinks that now probably isn't the best time to introduce himself as… Well. There's a whole host of words that John would probably use to describe him and none of them are complimentary. So instead he just says that he's a friend of House's (and that Wilson was unable to come because he had a conference in Denver), and John seems to buy it. He gives directions and then a very curt farewell, and the conversation is over.

Chase knows that he should feel bad for John, but he can't bring himself to. There are too many things that House has never said.

He comes in without the newspaper and House doesn't even raise an eyebrow. After last night, Chase had been hopeful for a conversation—even a glance would have sufficed—but House is back to being silent. With a sigh, Chase grabs some clean clothes and heads for the tiny bathroom, intent on taking a shower.

The water is freezing and the pressure changes every thirty seconds. Chase can only stand it for the five minutes it takes him to wash his hair, and then he's out, clutching the towel to himself. The air conditioning has been turned on, he thinks, or a second ice age must have set in over the last few minutes, because there's no way that the room was this drafty earlier. He quickly dries off and pulls on clean clothes, feeling slightly warmer. After towel-drying his hair as best he can (because despite what he'd said yesterday about not needing hotel room amenities, they could have had the decency to include a hair dryer), he leaves the bathroom and resigns himself to more of the silent treatment from House.

Only House isn't in the room.

Chase stops walking and looks around, making sure that House really isn't in the room, and panic flares inside of him. He walks to the other side of the room and sees the door open for the first time. Someone left it open. He steps through without feeling the sticky sidewalk, staring at the empty parking spot before him. He turns his head to be sure, but it's clear that House has left.

House is gone.

oOo

After the tips had been cut off, my mother stood the onion up on one of its flat ends and reached for her big knife again. She lined the blade up in the precise center, blinking back tears from the sharp aromas that were coming from it, and then she cut it in half. She didn't saw or hack or gently go through—it was done in one clean cut. Cleaved, the onion halves fell outwards and wobbled around on the cutting board until they lost momentum, and then they went still. The smell rose up, burning my mother's eyes as she blinked furiously, and the thick layers still clung together—but only just.

"Darn that one-track mind of mine," she sang, even when the radio faded out into static. "It can't understand that you don't care…"

oOo

Chase finds House at the cemetery. He doesn't know if House simply drove to every cemetery in the city until he found the one bearing a grey marble stone engraved with his mother's name and two lilies, or if he somehow already knew where to find his mother. Absurdly, it's the first thing that comes to Chase's mind when he finally makes it to the cemetery. He's pissed even though he doesn't want to be and shouldn't be, because the weather was too hot and muggy for the walk here. But as he approaches House, he takes a few deep breaths and reminds himself what House is going through. Losing your mother is like when Indiana Jones cuts the rope on the bridge and it goes swinging across the great chasm. You hold on like hell to whatever you can and tell yourself that it's going to be okay even when you know that it can't be.

House doesn't hear him approaching, and if he does, he doesn't turn around. He's just standing there, staring at the grave.

For a brief moment, Chase considers saying something, but what? What can he say to House? There aren't any words he can use to show how fully he understands House's pain.

He comes from behind to stand next to House instead, completely silent.

"Onion?" House asks without looking at him, holding out the white vegetable.

Chase almost turns to stare at House but decides that it probably isn't a good idea. He can see the onion out of the corner of his eye and reaches out to take it. Juice runs through his fingers—House has taken a bite from it. As Chase brings it to his mouth, the harsh scent spikes his eyes and they fill with tears. He bites into it anyway, the taste of onion exploding in his mouth, burning his nose, searing his throat, and before he knows it the tears have spilled over and are rolling down his cheeks. His vision is a blur of watery blues and greens as the scent rises up, and he can't speak. It would hurt too much.

"She loves onions," House says, and Chase feels him take the onion out of his hand. The sound of onion crunching and ripping tells him that House has just taken another bite.

Blinking furiously, Chase looks over and sees that House is crying. His eyes are red and there are shining tear tracks down his haggard face. And suddenly, the hurt has been ripped open and Chase feels as though he's just been punched in the stomach. He can't breathe.

House throws what's left of the onion at the grave, and the broken, half-eaten bits fly all over the place.

Then he roughly pulls Chase into a one-armed hug, squeezing him so tightly that Chase can scarcely breathe—but he doesn't protest. He clings to House, desperate to let him know that he isn't alone in his grief, and tries to tell him that it will be okay without speaking. House's breathing is ragged but his grip is like iron, pressing Chase to him like he's the only thing keeping him alive. The scent of onion is everywhere, in their mouths and noses and down their throats and in the pits of their stomachs, but neither one of them is crying anymore. It's just silent as they stand there.

oOo

Then came the final step. My mother took one of the halves and dug her thumb into the center of it, digging and rubbing until the layers began to split. They fell to the cutting board soundlessly. It was at this point that my mother lost control and began sobbing while she worked—her tears were not quiet, but soft and keening as a dying animal. She shook her head when I offered to help and insisted that onions were good for the soul, that everyone needed a good cry sometime. And then she went to the other half, her whole body shaking with sobs as the layers fell to the cutting board like thick, white petals.

oOo

The cemetery is quiet as they stand there, staring at the grave. Then at last, House reaches out and brushes a few pieces of onion off of the grave.

"It gets better," Chase says quietly.

"I know," House says, taking a step back. He exhales and closes his eyes for a minute. Then he opens them, and Chase is certain that he's never seen House's eyes this shade of blue.

"Let's go home."

Chase isn't sure which one of them says it. He just knows that the words are such a relief that they almost hurt.