"Butterflies and Hurricanes"

Chapter five: Doubts and Malcontent

Caitlin's apartment:

Caitlin spent most of Saturday in a deep funk, wandering aimlessly around her apartment, which was still piled high with boxes. Discontented, she began to rethink her decisions for coming here, it had obviously been a erroneous decision, at least to her mind. Almost no one knew that she was here, so she could still make it back to Johns Hopkin without losing any face. In fact, even her mother was still unaware of her daughter's arrival in New Jersey. Caitlin was determined to keep it that way. Their relationship was a precarious one filled with tension, and half truthes.

Arriving in Princeton had been a spur of the moment idea. She had heard about the opening through a colleague in Maryland, and had been immediately intrigued, knowing that was were her mysterious uncle was located. On a complete whim, she sent in her resume and within just a few days was packing up and heading north. It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, an adventure... yet now...

Her mind ran rampant with despairing thoughts-- he doesn't want you around, Caitie... why are you here?-- until she reached the inevitable urge to either scream or break something. Caitlin chose the latter. Reaching into the box labeled, 'kitchen,' she pulled out a plate, and with a frustrated cry, she hurled it at the wall.

It shattered with a loud, satisfying crack, showering the floor with shards of white and blue pieces of porcelain. She remained standing there staring at the mess, lost in a daze, until the sharp shrill of the phone broke her of her trance. She debated whether it was worth actually walking over and picking it up until her decision was finally made for her when the answering machine picked up.

There was a click and then a standardized message, 'the person you have called is not available right now, please leave a message after the beep,' since Caitlin could never remember to change them, but also because she always hated the way her voice sounded on machines. Her ears perked up, and a bit of hope blossomed expectantly as the sound of the beep. House?

"Caitlin? Uh, it's Alison. Alison Cameron," the voice said, hesitantly.

Crestfallen, Caitlin stared at the phone, hope withering away as quickly as it came. Of course, House wouldn't call, that just wasn't his thing. And remember, Caitie? He was serious when he said 'go away'. Caitlin had to admit though, that she was a bit surprised at who the caller actually was. Cameron was the last person she expected to hear from. She absently noted that Alison was also one of those annoying people that managed to actually sound good on an answering machine.

"Listen, I just wanted to apologize for Chase's behavior yesterday. He can be a jerk sometimes."

Figures, Caitlin thought. Of course, Cameron would be apologizing for Chase. In just the few times that Caitlin had spent with Alison, she was pretty sure she gotten all that she had needed to know about the other woman. Cameron was a sentimental, soft hearted woman who couldn't bear for pain, either for herself, or for others. She had to fix things, had to make them better, and if not, she had to know that she had at least tried. The type of person that made Caitlin feel like a bad person, because there was no way she could ever be that nice.

The quiet voice continued, "I hope that we can be friends, Caitlin." Alison's voice paused, as if unsure to continue or end the conversation, "Well, I suppose I'll see you on Monday. Please, don't hesitate to call me if you need anything." Cameron rattled off her number and then with a soft goodbye, hung up.

Caitlin couldn't decide whether the phone call helped or hindered. She was disappointed that the person calling hadn't been who she had hoped for, and yet also was touched at the other woman's simple kindness, even if Caitlin knew that was simply who Alison Cameron was, and didn't really have anything to do with her.

Her gaze returned to the shattered mess in front of her, and she sighed deeply. Caitlin could suddenly quite easily picture the disorder as a metaphor for her life. Nothing seemed to be going right, somehow she had naively pictured this whole scenario going differently. One where House was a different man, who welcomed his long lost family with open arms. One where she strolled up and finally got the answers to all those things she had been left wondering for all these years.

She knelt down and began to pick up the broken bits of plate, her mind caught up with doubting thoughts. In a careless moment, a large piece sliced into her finger, and Caitlin jerked back, startled. She stared down at her finger, a sudden sharp pain jolting through her nerves traveling up to her brain to cruelly inform her body of her clumsy moment. She watched dazed, as blood began to well up, a surprisingly rich red, and slid down the side of her hand, her heart steadily pumping the liquid out of her body.

A single tear slid, unbidden down her cheek as she continued to examine her wound, and then another, followed by another, and then Caitlin sat down, right there in the middle of the porcelain debris and began to cry in earnest. For her stupid, childish dreams and wishes, and for the unwelcome slap of harsh reality. She sat there as her blood dripped down and sullied the white purity of the plate, leaving a unremovable dirty stain.

House's apartment:

Saturday did not treat House kindly either. He woke at five a.m., his leg screaming in pain, leaving him panting in agony and frantically grabbing for his bottle of pills. His sleep had been restless, filled with snatches of disturbing dreams that couldn't be remembered at morning's light, leaving him with an ominous sense of deep unease, and a profound ache of isolation. On top of that, he had a vicious headache to remind him of how extremely hung over he was.

After dry swallowing two Vicodin, the bitterness burning all the way down, he flopped back onto his back with a groan, reaching one hand up to his pounding head, and desperately waited for the sweet release the pills would bring. Staring up at the ceiling, flashes of last night began to haunt House's thoughts. Shit. This was the last thing he wanted to think about. The memory of Anna's betrayal of him had left him reeling with an intensity that surprised him.

He had ignored the memory for so long that he had foolishly and even arrogantly believed that it no longer bothered him; that he had put it all behind him. However, to House's discomfort, the fact remained that he still loved Anna. There was no hiding behind his clever witticisms and sarcastic remarks to convince even himself.

She, however, he thought darkly, had managed to easily drop him like an unwanted toy, leaving him with enough emotional baggage for several therapists and as if to add insult to injury, she had fobbed her daughter off on him. Somewhere in Scotland, she was laughing at him, he was sure of it.

House stifled another groan, pressing a pillow over his face, one arm tossed over it. When it rained, it poured, he thought darkly. Everything in his life seemed to be coming to a head, in a very bad way. His job, his life, his friends, his family... each pretty, perfect little picture, a false facade that was beginning to show its true identity -- cracking and fading around the edges.

The pills were beginning to set in. He could feel the numbness that it brought, the blissful nothingness that crept slowly into his leg, erasing away the feeling of each aching nerve ending like a rolling wave. House pulled the pillow off his face and stared at the ceiling again, his normal mask of sarcastic superiority falling away, leaving a tired expression to crease the corners of his eyes and pull at his mouth. The pills would do nothing for the small aching pain in his heart, and the pervading wake of loneliness that surrounded it.

Chase's apartment:

Robert Chase was feeling malcontent. He was sitting in his favorite (and only) Lazyboy chair, legs propped up, a cold beer resting next to him, and his remote in one hand. All the makings of a perfect, laid back Saturday in which to relax and enjoy the fact that he would not have to see House or anyone else at the hospital for another day and a half.

A rugby announcer's voice was blaring out of the enormous plasma television mounted on the wall; it was Australia versus England, and the Aussie team had an excitingly precarious lead over their fellow monarchial subjects. It was an edge of the seat sort of game, and usually Chase was right there cheering on his team, yet today he couldn't seem to shake his restless unease.

He shifted in his seat, frowned, and then crossed his arms over his chest as he stared blankly at the screen in front of him. Guilty. He was so guilty; inculpatory sensations assaulting him from every direction. It was the unpleasantly bitter taste of beer on his tongue, the abrasive, accusing sound of the man's voice coming from the t.v., and even the particularly uncomfortable lumpiness of his chair.

Regret. He shouldn't have gone to Vogler – but it was too late now, the damage was done. It had been a moment of weakness, of childish fears resurfacing, of doubts and low esteem. This was a side of Robert Chase that no one got to see. The frightened, shy little boy that had been left essentially fatherless at age eleven, and motherless at sixteen.

Oh, they knew the basic facts, but they didn't know the years of self doubt and the turbulent adolescence-- that he had to survive on his own, since his mother had been a terrible alcoholic and couldn't be bothered by her only child. They also didn't know about how he had no friends as a child, that the other children had made fun of him, because they all knew about his mother.

They saw him as the little rich boy who had it all growing up, given everything on a silver platter. That, however, hadn't been the case, it had been an empty one, filled with nothing but loneliness. His only solace as a child, had been his faith, his abiding trust in God, and the knowledge that he could spend the rest of his life making sure others didn't have to go through their problems alone.

Yet, even that had been snatched away from him. He had been an utterly brilliant child, and had gone into seminary school four years early, until one day his father had walked back into his life and with his overpowering, forceful demeanor, and manipulative ways and had essentially given the boy an ultimatum – become a doctor or live on the streets.

In Rowan Chase's eyes, the idea of his own progeny becoming a priest was worse than death, a waste of time, and intelligence. His son would become a famous doctor like he had – changing the medical world with his brilliance, bringing honor to the family name. The teen found himself in an odd situation, desperately wanting his father's approval and simultaneously hating the man with a passion at the same time. Unsure of what to do, he cracked under the overwhelming pressure and entered medical school.

It had jaded him, he knew. That deep faith that he had practically prided himself on, had in his life's defining moment had cracked, and he had failed. Failed so utterly, that the adolescent Chase had allowed his faith in God slowly slip away, because his young naive mind had thought that if he had so throughly betrayed God, then why would a deity want anything to do with him?

In hindsight, he could see what a stupid idea that was, but he found himself stuck in his ways, unsure of how to change, what steps to take, or where to even begin. What remained instead were those lingering self doubts, the ones that crippled even those with the most emotionally stable lives, and he, Chase thought a bit wryly, was far from being one of those people. He couldn't help but sometimes feel extremely sorry for himself as he looked back on his life, lament for his childhood washed over him in a powerful tide of emotions, in which he could do nothing but ride it out.

These were his justifications in why he had basically sold out his two friends, ones that remained weak and pitiful sounding in his mind. Essentially, he had panicked. When he had heard the rumors that House might have to let go one of the Fellowship holders, the image of a disapproving, and disappointed 'I told you so' look plastered on his father's face had burned into his mind, and he had immediately known that he would have to do something drastic to save his job. To wipe that look of his father's face. To prove that he, Robert Chase, was not just the brilliant Rowan Chase's son, but an equally intelligent doctor of his own right. To show to the world that he was a doctor now because he wanted to be.

He slugged back the rest of his now warm beer with a grimace. Back on the screen, the Aussie team was now being throughly trounced upon by the Brits, who had made a spectacular come back, and now seemed intent on humiliating the other team by creating as lopsided a score as possible. It seemed strangely symbolic to him.

Frustrated, and somewhat disgruntled, he threw his crumpled can at the screen, as the British team scored again, and there it fell to the ground, a lonely discarded piece of trash.

A/N: Oooo, so sorry about the long delay. It's been hectic lately- finished up the last week of work, and then had to get ready for vacation and then I'm off to school. Anyways, a bit of a shorter chapter, and rather angst ridden for some reason, but I hope all of you enjoy it! This chapter ended up being very Chase oriented- that actually wasn't how I had planned to write this one... but lo, and behold, here it is. I hope his character sounds believable.

Thank you as always for reading, and even more for reviewing... this story is being written for my own personal enjoyment, but it's always gratifying to know that others can find as much fun in it as I do.