Imaginary Time and alternate futures have been rough on Rhys, and it's resulted in some strange pairings. He can only give a tiny shrug in response- technically, it didn't actually happen, so there is that, too.

"Solomons owes me for tea that I'm holding for him, but no one has papers. And what I really want is weed. I've got regular cigs, I just don't like them."

Rhys is specific in his addictions, and he's more than aware that his smoking habit is completely in his head. He's smoking tea, after all... Just for the comforting burn of it, the clean smell and the sense of cleansing.

He misses the smell of incense and cherries, the comforting ritual of rolling his own handmade cigarettes, but he's doing without a lot of things here. He'll live.

And there's that nice, awkward moment when House brings up bathing, and Rhys gets a flash of memory, too: they still haven't talking about it, of course, but it still won't stop Rhys from remembering skin against skin, the slickness of soap and hot water and the shift and pull of muscle in close spaces. He manages to keep the smirk off his face, but there's still going to be a moment of wistfulness for the feel of House's long, strong fingers in his hair.

He's probably going to think of that every time he thinks of the doctor playing music, now. Two warm thoughts tied together whether he wants them or not.

"Will and the other guy? Didn't seem the type." It's finally what he chooses to say. He hasn't met Hannibal, really, but it seems an odd match.

Not that he can talk, but it's conversation, anyway.