A/N: Yay for positive feedback! This chapter is dedicated to Fluffy 2001 for being amazing and REVIEWING and to Loremaster of Anorien for favoriting. You guys rock!
Disclaimer: Disclaimers suck. So does plagiarism. Not mine, people.
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People thought they knew him. People thought they could read him and his shallow stance, his ass-kissing backstabbing manner and dismissed him. They stuck a label on his prize-winning ass and claimed they knew all about him.
They were wrong.
Chase had always taken refuge in hiding-places. He used his textbooks to hide from his parents' constant screaming, the reason for all those good grades all those bad years. Drugs worked for a while when running from the rules, at time when a false rebellion had held almost as much comfort as a real one. He had used the bible to hide from hard questions, where he had pretended to search for answers. Then, when all else failed, he hid within himself, only to find that there was no hiding.
Dissapearing's not for ghosts, just the people turning into them.
Why was he always left alone? Dad was never home, too busy saving lives or screwing around. Mum was there but never there, trapped in some gin bottle far away. It took her five years to go from living dead to just plain dead.
Maybe he was always alone because he ran away. He ran to the other side of the world, as far from a former life as he could. Maybe he was the ghost.
Not even ghosts can disappear for long.
Chase sighed, shifting in his chair uncomfortably, staring at his half-completed crossword with slight dislike. Half of him wanted to chuck it across the room, the other, more dominant half, knew if he did, it would drive him crazy for the rest of the day. So he sighed again and bit hard into his pen.
Good boy. Do your crossword just like daddy. Bite your pen just like daddy. Cock your head, stand too straight, roll your eyes just like your dear old dad. It's the closest you'll ever get to him. It's the closest he'd ever let you.
Chase learned long ago that it didn't actually matter how much you care. It didn't matter how many times he told his mother he loved her, how her drinking was killing her, killing him. It didn't matter how many times he called his dad when he heard he was in town, how many times his call wasn't returned. It didn't matter how many times he worked his ass off to get the diagnosis right when he would always be a moron to House. It didn't matter. It was never enough.
So don't care. Don't let the poison in. Don't let them under your skin.
Just walk away.
It didn't take long to figure out that in the end running away is nothing more than running in circles. Vices seemed to follow you that way.
Chase shifted again, this time completing the rare motion of scratching the back of his head, feeling out the dozen-year-old scar from that time his mother lost it and took a swing at him with a bottle of gin.
He was used. It usually wasn't intentional, just habit for most. He was the guy you didn't think you could hurt; the guy you never saw as anything more than the cardboard cutout not worth noting until you needed something. Consequences never were quite the priority.
Two word, nineteen letter name for the rare condition in which Heidi Falconer suffered.
He seemed invincible; cocky and solf-absorbed. Nothing could break him. No one saw him break.
It had something to do with water, like being allergic to it, Aquatic something.
He hadn't thrown a punch sinse he was fifteen. He hadn't cried sinse he was ninteen. He hadn't screamed for a whole ten minutes. People thought he was fine.
They were wrong.
Aquagenic Urticaria, that's it.
Cameron was wrong. He was wrong. Sex didn't mean nothing. It couldn't. She never did quite look at him the same, less respect and more…something. He couldn't pin it. Whatever it was he hated it. He hated her.
It felt so wrong.
That the trial of your faith (much more precious than gold, which is tried by the fire) may be found unto praise and glory and honor at the appearing of Jesus Christ.
What kind of joke was that? The trials of faith was life being lived. You can't get through life undamaged. Being around other people, talking to them, doing your job, not doing your job, your family, whatever; it damaged you. The only way not to come out completely broken would be to live in a John Travolta-style bubble. Hell, even that would break you. Lack of human contact. Like hell.
He had tried running. Running away. Running in circles. It was like listening to your favorite song on repeat. The same story, same words get all too worn out.
It used to be Losing my Religion, his favorite song. Now he can't listen to it without wanting to punch something. His religion was lost. Morals never existed.
And what was that? Morals, a code of ethics for him to live his life by. Do no harm, right?
Who was he anyways? First and foremost? A doctor, a son, a lamb abandoned by his Sheppard? Or was he a human being? Was it too much like House to wish he weren't?
Chase felt like screaming. He shoved his pen further in his mouth, trying to hide the gag. This is who he was. This is who he'd become. He didn't know this guy, this guy who'd stab your back with second thoughts much too late, this guy who valued flight over fight, this guy who hated just about everyone around him, himself included. This poor sap didn't even know who he was. In the end, he was nothing more than a suit.
People thought he was more, a jerk or a rat, an ass or a rich brat.
They were wrong.
He was nothing.
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