Chase is staring at the rope and House knows without even asking that Chase knows exactly what it means, knows why House has it, that it’s more than casual, that it’s not just for looping around an adventurous lover’s wrists and tying them to the bed frame. This is one more thing that House has done to excess, obsessed over until he’s almost terrifyingly skilled at it. Chase looks excited by the prospect of what he sees, and House is pleased to see that reaction, both knowing and wanting.

“…and you bought shitty pleather cuffs,” he replies with a sly, knowing grin and an almost playful tone. He’s still joking, they’re still them, there’s still this barrier of bullshit and harassment between them. It’s going to fall away soon enough.

House watches him as he moves, as he sets the bag down and starts to strip out of his clothes. His jacket is laid out on the bed, and it’s followed by his tie, his shirt and pants and the rest, and House is watching. He quietly envies the easy way he undresses, completely unselfconscious. Completely comfortable in his skin. And rightly so, he’s just as gorgeous as he’d imagined he’d be beneath his often stylish and always dorky clothes. Pale perfect skin, and long, slender limbs. They haven’t talked about safe words, and they’re not going to. Chase hasn’t brought it up, and House can tell he doesn’t want to. That he needs not to. That the whole allure to this is not being able to escape, of giving everything.

House unbuttons his shirt and tosses it over onto the bed, one sleeve draped over the pile of Chase’s discarded clothes, leaving him in jeans and a pale blue t-shirt as he goes to sit down on the end of the bed. He picks up a length of rope and undoes the end that holds it tied together, and gestures at Chase to come over, stand in front of him. When he doesn’t move quite fast enough, he speaks up, tone curt.

“Come here.”