Title: My Life in Drugs
By: sy dedalus
Rating: T for drug use, language, and possible sexual content
Characters: House-centric
Spoilers: Seasons 1 and 2
Summary: A look at House's life in vignettes revolving around instances of drug use from his adolescence to the present. Despite the title, this is not written in first person. Gen. Some episode fills. WIP.
Disclaimer I: These characters aren't mine, obviously, and I don't claim any right to them. They belong to Fox, David Shore, whomever. Any additional quotes belong to the person to whom the quote is attributed.
Disclaimer II: This fic deals in part with the illegal use of illegal drugs. I don't advocate using any illicit substances. Given the many hints about House's varied drug use on this show, it makes for something good to write about—but not something good to do, unless you like prison. So just say no to drugs, etc.

A/N: I thought this would be a fun little write to tide me over the difficulties my other fics give me. I plan to write three or four vignettes per drug and go in chronological order of House's first experience with each. So the first three or four will be about nicotine, the next about marijuana, etc. But that may change. To reiterate disclaimer II, don't do as House does. Except for the doctor part, his life has turned out pretty crappy so far.

Reviews much appreciated!

Nicotine I

"House."

House kept walking, hefting a backpack laden with textbooks on algebra, European history, biology, and American government, a ratty copy of Huckleberry Finn in his hip pocket. He wasn't interested taking a bloody nose home with his books and having to listen to another lecture from his father about honor and self-defense, so he dropped his eyes to the ground and pretended not to have heard anything.

"Hey! House!"

He stopped with a sigh. He'd tried outrunning the gang once but they were taller, stronger, and faster, and running only made them angrier. He had a scar to prove it.

"Hey, man, wait up," one of the boys said.

House steeled himself as the gang walked quickly toward him. He noticed that they didn't look especially menacing today, but he'd learned long ago that looks were usually deceiving.

The boys circled around him in the hot Arizona sun. He forced himself to stand still and not tremble under their shadows.

"Look, man, me and Jeff saw you put that stuff in Mr. Nichols' coffee in math," one of the boys said.

"So?" House replied, eyes still on the ground.

"Hey, that was cool, how he bent over and ran out of class." The boy's voice sounded happy.

House looked up. Yes. The boy was smiling.

The boy slapped him on the back and others in the group groaned dramatically, "oh, my stomach." More hands slapped his back and he began to smile too.

The chatter died down and the lead boy spoke again.

"Really cool for a military dork. What'd you do it for?"

House shrugged slightly. "I don't like him," he said in a squeaky voice. "Gives us too much homework. He's an asshole."

Just like my dad, he added to himself. The rarely-used curse word tasted potent and salty in his mouth, and he stood taller.

He didn't really hate the teacher—it was just, Mr. Nichols was so strict and mean, just like dad—and he'd spent most of the day feeling bad about what he'd done, but now he felt kind of good about it. It had gotten him out of a beating and the boys kind of admired him for it as far as he could tell.

The lead boy nodded. "Yeah, that's how we feel."

The other boys joined in with a chorus of 'yeah's and 'I hate that asshole's.

"Shut up!" the lead boy commanded.

He leaned in closer to House and deftly bumped a single cigarette out of a pack he'd produced from nowhere.

"Ever had one?" he asked.

"Yeah," House lied, "all the time."

A few of the other boys snickered. The leader eyed them sharply and they stopped.

"All right," the leader said, "light up with us."

He put an arm around House's neck and escorted him toward the alley the gang had called him from. He shook the package again and House took the cigarette nervously.

Both of his parents smoked. His dad never said anything about it, but mom always told him he should never start and that she wanted to quit but it was so hard and when dad was gone—and that's why he shouldn't ever start, because it was so hard to quit and it made you smell bad, your clothes and skin and hair, and made your teeth yellow.

But. So what? They did it, why shouldn't he?

Crowded behind a dumpster and out of view from the street, the leader popped another cigarette out of the pack and took it in his mouth.

"Keeps me mellow when my old man gets on me," he said.

House noticed vaguely through the sharp, metallic taste of anticipation that the other boys were producing cigarettes from their own packs.

The leader struck a lighter with his thumb and held it out.

New guy goes first, House thought, hyper-aware of the importance of this test. Quickly, he put the cigarette between his lips and stuck his neck out toward the flame.

He held the cigarette in the flame for over a second before he thought to inhale. When he did, he coughed hard and cursed, eyes watering.

Some of the boys laughed while the leader lit his own cigarette and casually released a plume of smoke.

House stopped coughing with a curse and looked up through wet, smoke-filled eyes. The leader regarded him carefully, inhaling again and forcing smoke out of his nose like a bull.

"You must be used to lights," the leader said.

"Yeah, that's it," House choked. "This is strong stuff."

The leader inhaled. "Sure is." His challenging glare doused the remaining giggles.

"Yeah," House said in a strained voice.

He inhaled again, this time much more slowly. He coughed the smoke out, but not as hard.

He desperately wanted to be home having a drink of water and a snack in the kitchen with his mom. She'd have a peanut butter sandwich and an apple ready and waiting for him. She'd want to know about his day.

Instead, he drew another smoky breath.

The group shifted slightly and House sensed that he was no longer the subject of their attention.

As if on cue, one of the other boys started a new topic.

"Look what I stole from my dad," he said slyly, pulling a rolled magazine out of his back pocket, but House was barely paying attention.

By the time he got home, school had been over for nearly two hours and his mom had been so worried that she'd called his dad at work.

"We almost called the police on you, boy," his father growled, shaking him by the shirt collar. "You scared your mother to death! Where were you?"

House began muttering something about being asked by Mr. Nichols to tutor a kid in his algebra class when his mother burst out,

"Gregory, have you been smoking?"

House stared agape at his mother—how had she known?—then down at the floor. He murmured something unintelligible. Fear and shame burned from his spine to his fingertips.

His father's hold on his shirt collar tightened. "Answer your mother, boy."

But he couldn't look up and he couldn't answer that question. He heard her begin to cry softly. His heart pumped acid.

When his father drug him to the back bedroom and made him pull down his pants, he didn't resist. He grunted, nails digging into his palms, and tears ran from his eyes at each of the five lashes from his father's leather belt, but he didn't cry out.

Exiled to his bedroom, he listened to them purposefully not talking to each other, smelled meatloaf and potatoes being cooked, eaten, and washed up, and watched the sun go down lying on his belly in his darkened bedroom.

Later, after he'd heard his father go to sleep, mom crept into his room. She put a hand on the back of his head and he heard the clink of a plate and glass on his night table. He smelled ham and bread and milk, and a faint hint of mom's perfume with the solid, earthy smell of mom herself underneath it. Her hand was warm and gentle. He heard her breathing lightly. He feigned sleep, his eyes wet again, until the door to his room closed.

As much as he wanted to, he couldn't thank her for the sandwich and milk, and he couldn't quiet his snarling stomach by consuming them.