It's actually an established truth about sociopaths: sex tends to be secondary to them, a means to an end. A fleeing pleasure, a method of control. Many of them are surprisingly not-preferential.

Back home, Rhys could pick them out because they were a wall of white noise to him, a chilling, chaotic emptiness to his psychic senses. He has no such edge here: just his own observations, and he hasn't even talked to Hannibal yet. Which might be for the best.

House mentions pot, and Rhys blinks, reaching for a logical response. "I have a pipe that works fine, too. Or cannabis oil, that's what I tried to prescribe to Dorian for sleep." It takes him a minute to blink away the surprise, turn this into a sensible conversation, but after a moment, he gets there, shoulders sagging as he adds,

"I don't wanna pick up benzos again. I'd be fine for a week or two on valium or whatever, but then shit turns pear-shaped the first time and I'm doing lines off the first flat surface I find. I smoke, things get a little better without me heading for the cliff."

It's cold, ugh truth, but it's what he needs right now. He needs to remind himself how awful addiction is, because otherwise, it looks entirely too damn good and is the last thing he needs right now.