The ice in your drink gives a small clink as you swirl it about a little. You're sitting in one of the chairs in the room, not participating, for once. It doesn't bother you today though; you've always hated New Year and Christmas parties. Ever since you were five, you've been dragged to them, and they're always the same; rich people dressed up and trying to impress the others with their wealth.

You're father was rich, so you must be rich, too, huh? Well, that's what most people think. When you're father died two months ago of lung cancer, he cut you out of his will; leaving you nothing. You expected as much, you've always hated him for leaving you and your mother, the chronic drinker, when you were fifteen, but that was only when he finally walked out. He'd been gone long before that; never showing up for your polo games, or your football games, or anything else for that matter. You'd learned not to care about what he doesn't show up for; it was easier that way, you didn't have to feel crushed when you never saw his face when you scanned the crowd at, whatever he's missed.

That's why, no matter how much you try to deny it, you went to seminary school, to spite him, on some levels, not carrying on the family name, and not becoming a doctor like he wanted you to. But, as you realize later, it's also to try to keep yourself from the path your mother traveled of booze and alcohol. You prayed for her every chance you got, you visited her when you could, and you tried not to look as scared as you felt when she was admitted to the hospital. You prayed for her even more so then, hoping your god would save her. But she continued to get worse, as time when by, and her liver finally gave out. Father Superior tried to comfort you, and convince you it was god's will, but it didn't work, and so you left seminary school, and went to med school, having lost all faith in your god.

Once you were in medical school you decided on another way to gain your father's attention; surpassing him. Though, at first you considered it almost impossible, there were so many areas of the medical practice, not to mention, your father is Rowan Chase, a world renowned rheumatologist. It's difficult to escape a shadow like that. Though out med school you were always compared to him, by teachers and students alike, and you hated it. Every one seemed to think you'd go into rheumatology, too. So you shocked them all when you became an intensive care doctor.

Then your father showed up, at graduation. He was getting married to some woman about half his age, and you were getting a stepsister, who was seventeen, almost eight years younger than you. That wasn't what he wanted to tell you though; he wanted to offer you a job at his hospital. You stared for a minute before saying that you already applied somewhere else. Of course, he dragged one of your friends away and asked them where you applied after you left. New Jersey, U.S.A. that's where you were headed, to work under another world renowned doctor, Gregory House, a diagnostician. So he made a call, not trying to help, but to hinder. He gave Dr. House fifty and one reasons not to hire you, but, as you found out afterwards, Dr. House loves puzzles, and that call puzzled him.

So you were hired, and you were finally out of Australia. The weather in the States was different, but welcomed. Fall is now your favorite season, the cold and the colors are so different from Melbourne's, it's beautiful here. But it's not fall right now, its winter, New Years actually, a party, a fundraiser at the hospital. You're second time participating in one, but you don't feel like moving out of your chair. You don't think it's worth it, yet.

The ice in your drink gives a small clink as you swirl the liquid around again. There's a count down starting now. You're smile's fake, but you hope no one sees. You stand up and count along with them staring at the projector screen set up to see the ball drop over in New York.

"FIVE, FOUR, THREE, TWO, ONE!!!!" Everyone's screaming and clapping now, jumping for joy, and in happiness. You smile, it's fake again, and you hope again, that no one sees.

You take a big gulp of your drink and the ice clinks again. You smile and begin to walk out, before your arm's caught by Dr. Allison Cameron, an immunologist that you work with, "What's your New Year's resolution Chase?" she asks, using your last name, like every one did.

"Not to drink," you say picking one you know you'll keep. Why should you make a resolution you can't keep? Even if it's an easy one?

Cameron's smile falters for a moment before she replies, "That's cool, I want to--" and she goes on to site a list of resolutions. You smile and nod, taking it all in, or pretending to anyway.

"That's great Cameron, but House has me doing clinic hours in the morning so I have to go," you smile and pat her shoulder before turning around and going out of the room.

You're almost out the hospital doors when a care is thwacked against you legs and you stumble. You look up to see House standing there, leaning on his cane. "Yes?" You ask politely.

"You can't lie worth a crock pot." He states.

You purse you lips slightly, "What would I have to lie about?"

"What's you real New Year's resolution, Robbie?" He uses a nickname for you that he knows you hate, but he smirks slightly anyway, as usual.

You sigh, "I told Cameron, ask her."

He shakes his head, "Nope, not good enough, what is it?"

"Why do you want to now, House?" You just want to get home now and sleep. "What's yours then?"

He stares for a moment, "To finally figure out why you Brits can't tell a good lie."

"I'm Australian," You state, annoyed at him. He always like this, you've gotten more used to it though, over the years of your employment.

There's a silence as he waits for your resolution, "Fine, you wanna know what it is?" He waits, and your impatient and just want to get home, "I want to be as impulsively rude and as bloody annoying as you are, and I want to learn how to be just as uncaring for anyone and anything I meet as you are." You jab you're finger at him lightly, before storming through the doors, leaving your boss standing there, slightly shocked at your extremely out of character reply.

You get to your car and get in and drive home as fast as you can, with out braking the speed limit. You stomp up the stairs to the 3rd floor and open the door quickly, before leaning up against it, and sighing, sliding down the door slowly to sit on the floor.

Your real New Year's resolution? You don't have one, never did, and never will. And that, makes you weep.

The End

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Disclaimer; Characters of House, M.D. are not mine; they belong to David Shore and the people at FOX.