snowblindrpg | As Sharp as Knives

Rhys's issue with property damage in town is more the fear of creatively horrible vindication, than anything. Stabbing out of nowhere is one thing: the town deciding to burn you right along with whatever you set on fire is another.

But he'll consider it. It would answer some questions, and they've only got so many possible "experiments". And Rhys, well, he's better at burning things down than building them up, some days.

"You know what you're doing, you just don't always seem to do it," Rhys points out mildly.

He seems satisfied, though, at least for the moment.

And at the challenge, he just cocks his head. "Depending on which kind of 'sore' you're complaining about? I've got some chamomile tea for those scratches if you want. If you're talking about the stress you're carrying in your trapezius muscles? That's up to you, too."

They can talk about it if you want, House. But whether you do or you don't, Rhys is still going to do what he perceives as his job.

How irritatingly grown up of Rhys.

House tsks and hunches his shoulders as he leans over the desk before regretting that immensely as it pulls at the healing wound on his chest. He winces and relaxes a little bit from the childish pose. "I hate tea. Save it for one of the limeys."

There are parts of House that both do and don't want to talk about what happened. They should probably set the record straight--hah--on where they stand. But that means getting into things that didn't really happen. Maybe that's just where he should leave it. It didn't happen. And if it didn't happen, it doesn't matter. Except that he can remember if clearly, vividly, and the emotions he'd felt, the things he'd thought. It was a one-night stand and that means it shouldn't be difficult, but it was his first one-night stand in two years (or so he thought) with... a friend. As much as he hates thinking about it that way.

No. It's better to treat it like it didn't happen, at least openly.

"Look, about what we each remember... that didn't happen. Agreed?"

"It's a natural antiseptic and anti-inflammatory."

Not only is Rhys irritatingly grown-up, he's irritatingly competent, too. At times. But he shrugs, only a slight frown crossing his face.

He shouldn't have mentioned mollies, because now he really wants one, or at least some pot. Hell, even a cigarette at this point. He's saving all his tea at this point for trade and antiseptic, which means he doesn't have the luxury of smoking it anymore- just the three precious cigarettes he made with gum wrappers, and those are for emergencies.

Emergency cigarettes. Hah.

"It actually didn't happen, so...yeah. Sure." He shrugs, shaking his head. It's exactly what he expected from House, so...well, that covers it, doesn't it?

Never mind that Rhys isn't quite that black and white, but he's not going to act like it's a surprise. He's going to be quiet, pretend it doesn't sting a bit, and keep wishing he had a cigarette.

"We have a hell of a lot more to worry about anyway. Next week, we'll all be shanking each other again."

As with agreeing to never speak of the time that House was a little boy, Rhys just... agrees. No fuss, no fight. It's strange and feels almost unnatural in a way. There should be more of... something. A part of him wants to ask if it really is that easy to just forget about what happened for Rhys, but he knows the answer is very likely 'yes.' The guy's been with more people than he could probably count off easily. And House knows he is neither a looker, nor some sex god. Better to just not set himself up for the wounded pride.

"I'd be really with skipping the shanking. It's starting to get old. You'd think they'd come up with better ways to torture us than replaying the Top 10 hits."

"Well, pain is a pretty reliable negative reinforcement." The words are wry, pointed.

It's not just that Rhys is good at one night stands. He's also good at burying his feelings when he's in pain. Both these situations have required silence from him, so that's what he gives.

Granted, it's easier with a few Percocet or Valium and a glass of brandy, but it's not a luxury he has here. Still, even if it leaks around the edges he has lots of years of practice under his belt. Whatever that night had been, House wanted his wall and Rhys might be selfish at times but dragging the doctor out and castigating him like a jilted lover over something that hadn't even really happened wasn't Rhys's place.

This is what I have. This is what I get.

"I'm happier when they don't get creative," he adds, rubbing his forehead absently. Last time they got creative, he got parts of his skull re-located. "And this place, our heads mess with us enough without the help."

"You say that, but..." House just gestures to himself and the multitude of injuries he's invited onto himself in spite of being hurt far too many times. "And real masochists do exist." He's looking at you, piercings boy.

"I'll give you the head screw, though. If we get to cross off our least favorites, I'm going with the imaginary future time one. Holy hell is that torture. They don't even have to do anything, just let lack of progress over a freaking decade take its toll. At least it's motivation, right?

"As soon as Stiffi gets here, I'm gonna try to register her as a student. She's our best bet for solving whatever the hell the puzzle is here. Might get us into the chapel, which is gonna get us into that goddamn bunker. We also need to work on contacting the original residents more, I think... maybe some of the previous sessions. I was able to talk to the Russians who've been leaving messages in the Radiation Zone. Remade their map in the shed north of here this morning. I asked them how they went forward and they said look to the people who were here before."

Rhys gives House a jaundiced look, and leans against the counter. "All in the context." He'll take the teasing, even if he's not quite in the mood to retort, right now. No matter how fucked up his relationship with pain was, he hadn't enjoyed being scalped and scarred more than anyone else.

And then he lets House talk. Wrapped up in his own thoughts, about thirty years of failure and loss and the hell that the imaginary future had been for him (he wasn't there and it was his fault, until he realizes the other man is done and that he should probably say something to indicate he's still awake and following.

"Guess that's usually the best thing to do when you're stuck. Go back to what you've got. Cover it again, see what you missed." He pats himself down as if looking for a smoke.

"Fuck knows there's plenty of ghosts and corpses here, if we want to start digging."

"Graham Cracker and Becky had the idea to do some sort of technological seance. Keep an eye out for that, I guess. Or an ear." House makes note of the fact that Rhys seems to be only half-there. A part of him is inclined to ask what's wrong, but that's not really who he is. Instead, he goes rooting in his pack for one last thing.

"Found something you might be interested in. Help get you through the long, cold nights. Or at least give you something to critique." Rhys will see that House is holding out what appears to be a magazine about monster trucks. When he opens it up, he'll find it's an off-brand Play Boy, though.

Rhys isn't quite sure why he's feeling off, either, so better to bury it. At least until he can pinpoint why he's feeling hurt over something he knew was going to fuck him over.

And never mind that his first instinct is still to try and take care of someone he knows doesn't really want to be taken care of.

Whatever.

And he still wants a cigarette.

His eyebrows raise at the mention of the seance, and he nods thoughtfully. "Use tech to reach the electronic ghosts. Makes sense." He sounds it out slowly to himself, drawing circles on the table.

"In normal ghost hunting... Hear me out, I know it sounds like bullshit, but just for a minute..." He holds up a scarred hand. "There's a method called EVP, which everyone knows about, sorta. You record your questions in the room you figure is haunted, and you might not hear an answer, but you might catch one on the tape when you go back and listen." Simple enough, even though it's reasonably bullshit to the doctor.

Rhys himself never bothered because he could hear and see ghosts without the help, and because electronics tended to go haywire around him. But that wasn't really relevant.

"You can also get conversations, voices, whatever, by cycling through dead air radio stations. Because ghosts are energy, and they can interact with electronics more easily then they can do other shit. Considering that here they actually are some kinda energy imprint, though? Even more relevant."

There. He contributed something. He's proud of himself.

And after a moment, when he realizes that House is offering him a...peace offering, maybe? That actually gets a slight smile out of him.

"Hey, what do you think the market would be here, for drawn girly pics?" Or boy pics. He can do those too.

House actually listens attentively. He puts zero stock in "ghost hunters" or all that crap where he's from, but somewhere where tech really can hold the lingering impressions of people who were uploaded onto the servers? He's willing to entertain the notion of it and Rhys' ideas. He simply nods, planning to pass on the information to Will whenever it seems convenient.

The smile at the end when Rhys take House's peace-offering, though, gets him feeling... strange. Not in a way he particularly likes, either, especially when his automatic response is to smile back. House schools his expression to something nonchalant before half-shrugging one arm.

"You could probably get a few condoms. Maybe some cigs. God knows we've got enough written porn. Maybe film yourself when you get to a house with a hot shower and sell that. Gingersnaps'd probably go for it. Maggie May, too."

Okay, Rhys's cheeks color just a bit at the mention of Magenta, though he doesn't look away. Just coughs, and shrugs.

"I've got a shitload of condoms, I'm probably gonna wind up making wine with them. Haven't got much other use for them and wine's a bigger commodity. Cigs, though? Man. I'd probably do something indecent for some rolling papers. I'm using gum wrappers." Prison ingenuity at its finest.

Not that Rhys ever needs a reason to do anything indecent, but he sort of likes to have one in his head. Especially when it's currency.

You're never too old to learn a new trade.

"Clinic's got a hot shower, for what it's worth. Put up shelves, too, fixed all the tables. The fuckers undid all the work I did on the firepit, though, so no love there. But you ever want a romantic getaway? That's the place to go."

Not with Rhys, of course. But in general. And he keeps a perfectly straight face when he says it.

No.

House really doesn't want to imagine Magenta having sex with anyone, least of all Rhys. Well, no. His mind is happily supplying the Joker and Magenta together as the most horrifying option, and he pulls a face without commenting on what he's reading off of the witch. He hates being hyper-observant at times. This is one of them.

"Solomons probably has cigs. He does his whole trade thing if you wanna roll the dice on him rolling you." He's honestly forgotten that Ecks has cigarettes or he'd bring that up now as another reason to take her and run.

"We might head over to the hot water. Graham Cracker and his bf probably wanna get it on again. It's easier to ignore them banging in the shower than through a thin wall." There's a pause as the flip reply takes him back to the tubs. House blushes, himself, and looks down at his his hands before clearing his throat.

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.

"He's not. It just happened that way." Something House can relate to. Intimately. "Unless you're talking about other guy. Then I'm pretty sure his criteria's something completely esoteric and random, depending on the person. Like whether or not they look hot eating spinach." Whether or not they look hot being eaten...

What House is pretty sure about regarding Hannibal is he'll do whatever he needs to do for his machinations. Men, women, other, it's all on the table. It's easy not to actually have a preference when you're a narcissistic sociopath who considers himself above everyone else.

"I'll see if I can prescribe you cannabis. That actually has modern medicinal purposes. You'll still have to find your papers on your own."

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.

"Ooooo... kay. Didn't need an addiction history, dude. I'm not prescribing you either of those." Although benzos sound... really good right now. The Admin won't even let him prescribe iron to himself, though. No way she's letting that slide. Ugh. If Rhys were staying with them another night, he might suggest prescribing and then absconding with half the bottle as his payment.

But he's not staying, which is probably for the best.

"Tell me if you find any pot tomorrow. Maybe you can share it around if I can get you a regular script for it going. God knows some of these assholes could stand to be less wound." Says one of the most wound men here. But he's better at pretending not to be anxiety-riddled than some of them.

Of course House doesn't care about his history. Rhys is just another addict, just a pretty one who puts out. Useful.

But that's what Rhys wanted to be, so that's okay. Why should he care what House thinks, how hard he's trying? It's not like it's a good bonding point or anything. Even in rehab, they'd nailed that through their skulls: other addicts are shit company.

Failure. Oath-breaker. Bastard. Junkie. Whore.

And Rhys would try to haggle him down from half, but he'd pay the price. Because he's not that strong, not anymore.

"Yeah, I'm good that way. I don't bogart." He pastes a flat smile on, looking around the room again. He's not useful anymore, so...probably time for him to be somewhere else. He forces his back straight, tugs his hat down to cover his scarred brow.

"I'm going to see if anyone else needs anything, then. If not, then I'm going to go write shit on the boy's room walls. Just for old times sake."

House can read the disappointment off of Rhys in his tone and body language. He has no idea what to actually do with that, though. He's trying not to make good acquaintances here. There's too much to lose when they're hurt. And Rhys... Rhys is already more than he should be. Better to push away and leave it in neutral territory where that night together didn't happen or mean anything now. Just like they're pretending the things they shared when House had lost his memories didn't happen.

"Have fun. Be sure to write: 'For a good time, call Lisa, 867-5309.'"

Let it go. That's what he's doing. Rhys promised he would, and he is. It's just that he has a habit. A very bad habit, of caring too quickly, too easily, and even when it hurts. Maybe especially when it hurts.

He'll get over it, especially if that pot goes through. And maybe if he can talk someone else into another scrip. It's not addiction if it helps him function, right?

Plus, he's got a mission now. Missions always help. Especially burning shit down. He's good at that.

"If I'm going to do graffiti, I'm going to be a little more creative than that. I did have plans of art school, y'know."

Let him be proud about something, at least. He smirks, then cocks his head.

"And that was Jenny, wasn't it? Not Lisa."

"I'm being creative. And my admin's name is Lisa Cuddy." So, you know? There's that. "Take pics of whatever you end up doing. Might not stick around." There's a dismissive flick of House's hand toward the door as he seemingly returns his attention to the tablet. He'll still be paying very close attention to Rhys' presence until he leaves the room, though.

"Charm that transcends universes, huh?" That does explain it, though.

He shrugs, at the latter. "Never had any shame on camera, why should I start now?" It's light, flip, a throwback to his comment about showers, and then he's done. He's got all he's going to get from this, and he certainly doesn't want to bother House any longer with his presence. So, tail wrapped defensively around his hip, he'll leave the older man to his business.

As Sharp as Knives

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Cw: drug cravings

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Cw: drug use, Noisy Black reference

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cw: torture mentions

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Cw: drug cravings

cw: drug cravings

cw: drug use

cw: drug use

cw: drug use

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