House sat the bar with a glass of 25 year old scotch in his hand, at the other end from the cigar smokers by special request, and ignored the benefit going on around him. The lights were down and couples tortured themselves on the dance floor. He kept his back turned.
"Hi," Chase said in his ear, and leaned into his shoulder.
House half-smiled and leaned back. "Your adoring public tired of you?"
"I thought they'd never let me go," Chase said.
"You shouldn't have told Cuddy you know ballroom dancing," House said.
Chase took House's scotch glass off the bar and tipped it down his throat.
"Hey," House said, but he wasn't serious.
"They're harpies, especially the old rich ones," Chase said.
"Get you a sugar mama," House said,
"Hush," said Chase, rolling his shoulders. He turned to lean against the bar.
Chase's tuxedo was still immaculate. He looked stunning.
It was a miracle. It couldn't be allowed to last. House's worldview would be ruined.
House tugged Chase's black tie out of its knot so it unraveled and trailed one end down Chase's chest.
"Oh, thanks," Chase said.
House looked him over. "Delicious," he said. "Let's go home."