"I've never had my own tutu," Chase comments with a thin sort of smile. It's not a lie, but it is careful wording. When he was a child, he'd play with his mother's old ones. And he has one locked away in storage from her last stage performance, but that's more about the memory than wanting to put it on and feel enchanted. House is still being an ass, but it's not hurtful. There are a million sharper things he could say, and the passing insult seems more like just the man's usual temperament.

He looks up at House when he holds out his hand. There's a feeling that he shouldn't take it, but he does anyway. He lets his hand slip into House's, a soft touch, delicate pressure as he slides gracefully up to his feet, and then up onto the toes of his shoes, although he's still shorter than House as he ends up leaning toward him, into him. His heart races, and yet everything feels smooth and easy.