A/N: This story looks at the parallels between Kutner and House throughout their history and how the most recent development with Kutner will affect House and his relationship with Cuddy.

Please note that there will be a lot of character development of both House and Kutner at first, so we won't be seeing Cuddy or the Huddy effects for a few chapters. I assure you that this is a Huddy fic!

Spoilers through Simple Explanation

Please note: I don't consider myself a fanfic author. A devoted reader, yes, but author? Not so much. However, after watching Simple Explanation, I had so many thoughts about the effects it would have on House that I started writing, for my own benefit, a short reflection piece. That "short piece" has grown into the following behemoth.

Anyway, this is my first House fanfic and my second fanfic ever, so please be critical, yet kind.

Rated T for child abuse and implied violence.

As always, I own nothing, but I would be willing to rent if that ever became an option. :)

Neighborhood deli, 1981…

Lawrence couldn't stop looking at the blood. It was pooling around his feet, threatening the new white shoes his mother had bought him last week for the first day of school. He took a gentle step back, mindful of his mother's outstretched hand. He sat on his step stool, the one his dad kept behind the counter so that when his inquisitive, yet short, son wanted to work the deli counter with him, he could. Lawrence often tried to help, though sometimes his clumsiness got in the way. Not twenty minutes ago, he had accidentally knocked an opened salt shaker on the floor while refilling it. Salt had gone everywhere and his mother had sent him to go get a broom. He was on his way until he saw his Star Wars action figures and soon the broom was forgotten in place of Luke's eternal battle with the dark side. He had only remembered about the salt when he heard loud voices coming from up front.

Lawrence looked down at his mother's hand lying on top of the spilled salt crystals as they slowly turned pink. He avoided looking at her cold, blank eyes and instead picked up her still warm hand and pressed it to his cheek. He inhaled, savoring the familiar scent of olive oil.

He felt completely empty, completely alone, completely lost. His eyes drifted to the cash register, ripped open and emptied of its greenery. Next to was a piece of steel, the gun that had ended his parents' lives and, just as assuredly, his own. Nothing would be the same. That crazed man had ruined everything, taken everything Lawrence had ever cared about.

The man had dropped the gun right after two haunting booms filled the room. Lawrence had heard guns fire on television before, but he would never forget this distinctly different sound. Nor would he forget the sound of the bell above the door merrily jingling as the man's hurried footsteps left the deli.

Lawrence looked at the gun. It had been quick for his parents. He hadn't heard much besides twin startled gasps as they fell to the floor. Maybe it could be just that quick for him…

As he reached out for the gun, police sirens filled the air. He stopped, instinctively glanced towards his parents, and vomited. When he looked up again, he let the blue and red lights sear the images from his eyes as a policeman led him outside. The bell jingled.

Egypt, 1968…

Greg listened to the desert winds whistle around him while he nursed his latest wounds in silence. In the distance, he could see ancient monuments and a rising moon, but he could not see an escape.

He had been late to dinner tonight. What's worse was that he had been planning to be late to dinner. His father was out on assignment so his mother had given him permission to go to Paul-Henri's family's flat off base. Paul-Henri was top in Greg's classes and admired by all. And, for a reason unknown to Greg, Paul-Henri considered him to be a worthy friend.

Unfortunately, while Paul-Henri was an amicable French boy, his father was an outspoken, anti-military French man. John House had made it clear that Greg was to have nothing whatsoever to do with Paul-Henri or any of this family, which made his tardiness this evening even worse.

Greg had run home, excited to tell his mother about his football prowess against Paul-Henri and his brothers, when a looming shadow crossed the door like an ominous eclipse.

"Where in the hell have you been, boy? Dinner's been ready for over an hour and you're just now home?" bellowed the elder House, with all military force and power in his words.

Greg attempted to choose his words carefully, well aware of his grass stained clothing. "There was an after school football match and I was chosen for the team. I told Mom I may be a bit late to…." He was cut off by a hand to his head that made his ears ring.

"I don't tolerate lying, boy. I know you were at that weasel's house, so don't lie!" Greg peered through the door and saw his mother cowering in a corner. He couldn't be sure, but it seemed her arm had welts on it. Then he saw the belt hanging off the back of their chair. His eyes widened and he prepared to run, but before he could, his father's other meaty hand reached out and knocked him to the ground.

"Don't even think about it. You're late, you're dirty, you've disobeyed, and you've lied. You WILL be punished."

Greg was just raising himself on all fours when he was sent back down by the force of the leather biting through his t-shirt. Again and again the belt slapped across his back, raising welts on his skin while his mother wept. Greg, though, heard nothing but his own rage and the crickets in the background.

"You. Are. Never. To. Go. To. That. Boy's. Home. Again. Do. You. Under. Stand. Me?" Each grunted syllable was punctuated by another whip of the belt. Finally, it ended. "And if you don't want to come home on time, how about you just not come home period? You'll stay outside tonight, you good-for-nothing piece of shit!" His mother's pleas were silenced by the door's slam.

Greg carefully picked himself off the ground and walked through the perfectly paralleled streets of the base until he reached the outer fence. There, a caring father had set a baby pool up for his young son to splash in while the family was outside during the day. It still had water in it. Greg took off his shirt and dipped it into the pool, using the water to soothe his back. He gazed out at the desert.

"I wonder what it would be like to just walk into the desert and just walk and walk and walk until you couldn't go any farther. Would you just pass out into oblivion? " he wondered. "Would it feel like a dream? Would it make your nightmare of a life go away?" Greg knew that he couldn't escape his father by running away. He had no money, nowhere to go, no way to live. And his father would find him. He was certain of that. His father would find him just to punish him. But maybe he didn't have to run away; maybe he could just walk away and disappear. ..

He was still envisioning the carrion birds cleaning his bones, effectively hiding him from his father forever when he heard his mother's loud whisper of "Greg?" across the yards. He flashed back to the welts on her arm and knew he couldn't go, he could never go.