Disclaimers, etc. in chapter 1.

A/N: Not surprisingly, I'm taking this thing out of order, skipping some of the nicer drugs, which I'll go back to, to go to this one. For clarification, House is about 20 and the year is about 1979 in this scene. Regarding the plausibility of it, remember Wilson's comment at the end of "Autopsy" about House knowing his way around a razor blade and the inevitable antihistamine snort. Those writers love to pass out juicy tidbits for speculation…

Cocaine I

Crandall looked at him expectantly, his face broad and leaping like an excited puppy's. The neon blues, greens, and reds of Bourbon Street burst behind him from a block away in series of unnatural, kaleidoscopic halos.

House's eyes flickered from Crandall's face to the gigantic sweaty black woman easing out of the doorway of a darkened house to the flash of white powder in her hand. Without preface, he grabbed Crandall by the jacket and pulled him away from the woman.

"I always knew you were gullible, Crandall," he said with a maliciousness not at all curbed by the alcohol in his system, "but I didn't know you were stupid too." He threw the fistful of Crandall's jacket back at him. "How much did that cost you?"

"No, G-Man, you got it all wrong," Crandall implored. "She saw us play last night. She wants me." He grinned. "Said she wants you too."

"The hell," House replied. "Her kids 'll rob you before you get your pants off. You'll be lucky to get out alive."

"C'mon, man," Crandall whined, his face stretching into the only other expression he had by House's calculation: the sad puppy. "I love her."

"You love every woman who looks at you," House snapped.

The poorly-lit street was crawling with people who'd sooner cut him than look at him, House knew, and it made him nervous, never mind the fact that Crandall was already so committed to the situation. Damn him for having to drag someone else down with him.

Crandall's face turned from sad puppy to hurt puppy. Right. The third look. House had forgotten about that one.

"You owe me, G-Man," Crandall said.

House cursed under his breath. "It isn't free," he growled at Crandall.

The greasy woman was waiting on the two of them, weaving in and out of the doorway, her eyes darting up and down the street.

House put a foot on the lowest of the three steps leading to the doorway and leaned toward her.

"I'll give you fifty," he said, nodding at the small plastic bag in the woman's hand.

"Half gram," the woman answered sleepily. "Worth two-hundred."

House mounted the first step and stood to his full height. "That's a quarter gram—probably an eighth, since you cut it with baking soda or rat poison," he said. "Fifty bucks is more than it's worth."

She stared stolidly down at him, ready to yawn at any moment in the early summer heat.

"Cops are after you," House continued. "Or you wouldn't waste your time on guys like him." He nodded back at Crandall. "You need someone easy and you need to get rid of that."

He eyed her again, his body straining outward, expecting to be jumped by some lean kid with a razor at any time.

"Two white boys, two hours' solid alibi and you get to get rid of it," House offered. "Fifty."

She blinked slowly at him, sizing him up again. Smart for a kid who obviously wasn't from the neighborhood. Smart-mouthed too. She liked his friend better.

"Seventy-five," she countered.

"Fifty," House repeated.

"Sixty."

"Done."

House yanked Crandall by the jacket again. The woman moved aside to let them in and quickly closed the door.

The dingy, rotting room was lit by a single red light bulb. House could hear the crunch of cockroaches under his shoes. He propelled Crandall toward the woman as a distraction and hurriedly produced three twenties. That left one twenty, which he resolved to hide in his underwear as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

"Go easy on him," he said, fingering the money on his pocket, "he's in love."

He held out the money with one hand and reached for the bag with the other. They snatched at each other, House at the bag, the woman at the money.

He followed her eyes to a corner of the room where a small table held a mirror and razor blade. Crandall was already pushing himself inexpertly on the woman.

She led Crandall to a dirty mattress on the floor and House retired to his corner. Crandall owed him big now. He couldn't re-sell this stuff—not without getting knifed in the gut—and now he was stuck for two hours in this decaying room watching Crandall paw a disinterested woman twice his size.

Well, he considered as he opened the bag and emptied a portion of it on the dingy mirror, couldn't hurt to give it a try. Slowhand Clapton did it okay, wrote a song about it. Not that he was any Clapton, not with a guitar, but he might be able to take Slowhand on a piano on a good night.

The last user had left a piece of a plastic drinking straw with the razor blade. Didn't take a genius to figure this one out, House mused. Crandall made a particularly disgusting noise and House scrunched his face up. The sooner he was on another planet, the better.

He separated a line from the small pile and began chopping into finer and finer powder. He'd observed the process backstage before, but had never participated. Of course, if a drug addict could do it, it had to be pretty simple. He found that it was pretty simple.

Crandall made another despicable noise and House decided the line was as fine as it needed to be given the circumstances. Taking the straw, he bent down, closed one nostril with a finger, and snuffed hard and fast.

He was convinced he was God for about half an hour.