Title: Softly
Author: LadyMurha
Fandom/Pairing: House M.D. - House/Chase
Rating: PG/13
Summary: Sequel to 'Patience'
A/N: If I say anything in the summary, y'all know how it'll turn out... sorry, I give no spoilers. Also, originally this was an idea for a completely different fic, but I merged that with the idea for the sequel (which originally was going to be much, much angstier). Beta'd, for a change! And very short. Sorry.
Disclaimer: I only play with the characters and nobody sues. You steal the story and you shall painfully die. Yay? Okay. Let's go.



Green shoots bloom and the flora wakes up as spring takes a grasp of the outside world. The twittering every morning only increases in volume, the weak sunlight penetrates the window pane and the crack in the curtains earlier each day.
House’s fingers slide along his own. They slide over the back of his hand and over his wrist, slowly and softly. Chase knows this. He likes it.

When Chase tore open the last envelope, this time- this time it’s for real- read every word and made sense of every sentence, he chanced a glance at House’s face. He knew the blue irises were reading in tandem with his own and he didn’t need to provide words. The desirous lazy kiss he receives is enough. ‘Clean’ tastes so nice on his tongue. He whispers it again just to be thorough and screaming happily isn’t as far from his mind as he pretends, but he can push the idea of that activity aside for a while.

Eight months and he’s clean, shinier than a new one cent piece. It’s a good feeling, cooling him when the heat outside is roasting to perfection. He knows he’s lucky and he doesn’t even mind praying from time to time to thank whatever it is for letting him come out of the ordeal with no life-long physical damage.
House snorts when he catches him kneeling like a child next to the bed, says that it’s amazing what medicinal miracles can do, but lets him have his moment. Chase doesn’t waste the time, drags him head-long into the bed, ripping covers away. The wildness of the action is soothing, rather than tiny kisses, and he just needs the corporeal loss of control right now.

House’s fingers continue to slither their way up his arm, tapping unconscious melodies along the skin, blushing and wet still from sex. The windows are open at this hour of twilight – red and purple and slight tinges of cerise – the breeze mellow and sweet. Smells of the car exhausts from the street lightly filter in through the heavier scents of full-bloom flowers and post-coital aromas. House probably insisted on putting the flowers on the window sill in a misguided attempt to make the place feel more domestic, Chase supposes, though when he whispers that into House’s ear, so shell-shaped and pink this close-up, House grunts and sleepily denies doing so. Chase doesn’t care; he thinks the idea is endearing, and shifts closer to House’s body. Naked and without sheets they feel pleasantly warm, the fresh hues of the wind just this side of chilly.

The heat outside dissipates for the day as the sun deserts the horizon. Chase sits at the piano stool and lets the pads of his fingers press down at the white and black keys. He does so gently, the sounds perfect in pitch and a little quiet. He leans a foot on one of the pedals, pillowing the notes. House fell asleep and he left him in bed, not wanting to wake him. He’d rarely seen the man sleeping; it is nice to observe the rhythm of his chest, the diminutive pulses at each of the surface blood-vessels, listen to the breaths. After a glass of water he takes his place once again at the piano, no distinct melody or harmony emerging. He traces over the scales again and again. He doesn’t notice the soft gaze that House gives him when he finally comes to stand behind him, nude bodies nearly touching and the heat radiated twining neatly. The remnants of warm colours disappear from the sky; make way for navy blue and grey. A solitary lamp is currently switched on in the corridor and the illumination, the gratifying liberation, is softer than anything imaginable.