snowblindrpg | As Sharp as Knives

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

cw: drug cravings

cw: drug use

cw: drug use

cw: drug use

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