Shock and protest turns soft and pliant and House sees the minute it changes, like a switch being flipped. It's not just giving in, but it's relief, like this is what he wanted, what he'd been waiting for, looking for, and here it is, finally. He's seen this look before but it had never held his interest quite this much. Most people only hold his interest just so long. And it's one thing, it's easy enough to find someone who'll submit, but it's something else entirely to find someone who'll stand up to you as well. Chase is better now that he's got a backbone, now that he'll push back rather than folding at the slightest pressure.
And this is what's left. Chase is changed, jaded, and yet they're here again. He can see it again in his face, what he saw then, and it's a hell of a lot more interesting than it was before. The first time he'd half chalked it up to all that hero worship, a dumb crush and a brown nosing desire to be whatever was wanted of him. But now? Now he knows him. Now, there are layers peeled away, and he can see that it's so much more than that. It's deep and it's nagging, clawing at him, it's a raw desire to be pushed like this and harder, to be taken past the lines he's drawn almost until it's too much, and then farther.
The bartender is looking at them when House finally puts the glass down. It's empty and his hand is wet with whiskey. He knows, and the expression is all over his face, in the glittering expression in his eyes. He reaches over, reaches inside Chase's leather jacket and wipes his hand dry on his shirt, probably his tie, too. Because the leather wouldn't do any good.
"Not as sorry as you want to be..." it's soft, and it's a push. It's almost a question, almost asking, do you want to take this further? And it's a guess, a quiet bet, a way to say I know what you want, so just ask for it.
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And this is what's left. Chase is changed, jaded, and yet they're here again. He can see it again in his face, what he saw then, and it's a hell of a lot more interesting than it was before. The first time he'd half chalked it up to all that hero worship, a dumb crush and a brown nosing desire to be whatever was wanted of him. But now? Now he knows him. Now, there are layers peeled away, and he can see that it's so much more than that. It's deep and it's nagging, clawing at him, it's a raw desire to be pushed like this and harder, to be taken past the lines he's drawn almost until it's too much, and then farther.
The bartender is looking at them when House finally puts the glass down. It's empty and his hand is wet with whiskey. He knows, and the expression is all over his face, in the glittering expression in his eyes. He reaches over, reaches inside Chase's leather jacket and wipes his hand dry on his shirt, probably his tie, too. Because the leather wouldn't do any good.
"Not as sorry as you want to be..." it's soft, and it's a push. It's almost a question, almost asking, do you want to take this further? And it's a guess, a quiet bet, a way to say I know what you want, so just ask for it.