Disclaimer, etc. in chapter 1.

Thanks for the responses to the last chapter. I had most of it written before "One Room, One Day" aired. That episode got me to finish it. This chapter is completely new.

Marijuana I

It started a few months after he turned fourteen. New base. New school. New hierarchy in which he had to establish himself, or he'd be on the receiving end of wedgies and swirlies between classes and much worse in the shower after gym class. He hadn't had a chance the last few years to do much about his status as the short, gawky geek, but he'd grown nearly a foot in the past year and all the push-ups, chin-ups, and laps his dad made him complete had started to pay off. He'd even thought about joining the track and field team. Dad couldn't find fault with him when he was running. Marine trainees did a lot of running. And he could jerk off in peace in the shower afterward.

In fact, it happened in that oh-so-critical first group shower after gym on the first day of school. He was busy soaping his body and keeping his eyes fixed on the stained tile wall when a dry hand yanked his shoulder from behind.

"New guy, get out, you're done."

He blinked through wet, soapy eyes at another student two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than he was.

For a moment, he just stared. Clearly, this guy had chosen the first freshman he thought he could pick on; House knew at least two other guys from his gym class were smaller than he was, and he guessed they were both still rinsing off. But he knew this was his opportunity to establish himself. His dad had pushed him last night and this morning about his schedule. Dad wanted him to take American Government as an elective; he wanted to take Music Theory. Dad had called the school this morning to make sure he attended American Government. He'd pledged to fail the class and spent the entire period doodling, but he still burned enough to take a few swings. Dad had also been teaching him to box, which he assumed was just his dad's socially acceptable way of beating him up three times a week. What else could it be? Dad was still much bigger and stronger than he was. But now he saw the merit of the lessons.

Mildly, he met the other student's eyes.

"No, I'm not," he answered, selecting a punch combination as he turned back around and leaned into the spray.

He was ready when the other student jerked his arm, and he controlled the rate at which he spun.

"Yes, you are."

House watched as the guy's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. He imagined the guy's fists balling; a bully like this wouldn't know to keep his thumbs outside of his fingers to keep them from breaking.

"I said I wasn't," House replied evenly.

He could feel the other boys' attention on him.

The guy inched closer and drew himself up to maximize his size. "You wanna go, new meat?"

The tension in the showers escalated. House could almost smell it. Anticipation. Hunger. They knew they were going to see a fight. For his part, House had a hard time caring what happened. This guy was nowhere near as big as his dad was; he knew he wouldn't get hurt much. If he'd been willing to admit it to himself, he'd be exhilarated by the prospect of starting a real bare-knuckled fight which he had some chance of winning. But he didn't care about anything. Not running, not Music Theory, not the few hits he got in on his dad every now and then, not the future, not the past, and certainly not the present.

House shrugged. "Fine. But if you don't pay, I don't put out."

House thought he could pinpoint the moment the other guy blew his top.

"You son of a bitch!"

And a poorly-formed fist connected with his jaw. Inwardly, House sniffed as he recoiled from the hit: his dad hit at least four times harder than that. And this guy definitely didn't know about keeping his thumb outside of his fist.

House moved his jaw back and forth calmly, the way his dad did on those rare occasions House connected with his face: expertly judging the hit, that was all. No surprise. No fear.

House met the other guy's eyes again. "All right." He watched anger rise in the guy's face in red blotches. "All right."

House dropped expertly into a balanced stance and delivered a right jab-left cross-right jab combination, sliding forward with each punch as the blows pushed the guy back.

Flesh smacked tile with a resounding thwack. House and the rest of the boys in the shower, along with a dozen other boys, some sweaty, some clean and wearing towels, who'd been attracted by the angry voices, watched the downed guy blink and turn his head to spit blood in the runoff sliding toward the drain.

House said nothing and looked at no one. He took a moment to wash a small spray of blood off of his hand, finished rinsing the soap out of his hair, and turned the water off. The bully had rolled on to his side, one hand clutching his face, the other cupping his genitals as though he was afraid House might kick him. Instead, House stepped over him, selected a towel, and negotiated the pack of surprised teens standing between him and his locker.

Slowly, regular conversation started up again: the hum of adolescent boys showing off, the whip-crack of rat-tailed towels.

House dressed in the neat khakis and collared shirt his father insisted he wear on the first day. He didn't touch his closely-cut hair and left the top button of his shirt open. Dad was home every night now, having been promoted. Now he trained pilots to do what he did all day, and at night he saw that even House's fingernails were kept neat.

Ready for the next period, House grabbed his backpack and migrated toward the urinals. The lack of supervision that had enabled him to bruise his knuckles surely extended to the usual activity conducted in boy's bathrooms. He could use a cigarette right now. He hadn't had one in weeks.

He spotted the guy who would have what he wanted: sitting in a windowed enclave five feet from the floor, long haired, sporting tattered clothing; he didn't have to be smoking, and he wasn't.

House had learned from observation how to play it cool, so he took his time, acting like he'd come to do regular business in the bathroom.

As he washed his hands, the lounging student spoke to him first.

"Great knock down," the guy said. "Military brat?"

House shrugged. "Not by choice."

The guy shrugged back. "Happens."

House nodded toward the guy's backpack. "Got a smoke?"

The slouching shoulder rolled again. "Got some grass."

He looked House over once.

"You get lit?"

House returned the half-shrug. "Sure."

The guy produced a joint. House licked his lips unconsciously.

"First time?" the guy asked.

House just shrugged again.

The guy lit the end, sucked on it, and passed it to House.

"Not like a cigarette," he said in a strained voice. "Take a big hit and keep it in long as you can."

House nodded and drew as much smoke as he could take. It tickled his throat and he suppressed a cough, passing the joint back. He knew how to smoke weed—he didn't need to be told. But he also knew not to correct the bearer of relaxation.

The guy released a thin cloud near the open window. "Passes the time," he commented, taking another puff.

House exhaled his first hit. "Something has to."

The guy nodded and passed the joint back. "Quentin Hollis," he said.

House filled his lungs again. "Greg House," he replied.

Quentin accepted the joint. "Your dad's home, huh?"

House flicked his head to the side and exhaled. "Yours isn't."

Quentin flicked his head, too. "'Nam's the best thing that ever happened to me."

House tossed his head again. He felt the drug begin to kick in. Dizzy. Calm. Different.

Quentin smiled wryly. "Good, huh?"

House hit the dwindling joint again and affected the same cool he'd had all day. "Not bad."

He didn't know who started it, but soon he was giggling with Quentin.

"Shit," House said with a grin as he took the last draw. He opened and closed his right fist. "My hand hurts."

Quentin snickered. "Shit."

The bell for the next period rang. House turned like a lapdog after a grinning "Thanks."

"Hang on."

House stopped and turned back. Quentin produced a bottle of cheap cologne and passed it to House.

"You get busted otherwise," Quentin explained. "Eye drops get rid of the red eye. Breath mints are important too." He hopped down. "Let me know if you want more."

House thanked him again and stumbled toward the exit.

This year would be different. Better. He knew it.