So my second Kutner fic. It's rather short, I know, but I'm not a very good writer so...This is loosely based off of the song "Somebody's Baby" by Jon Foreman. I just think Kutner's storyline should've been explored more before he was left the show. Also, I use the name Kutner throughout the story, even though he has not yet become Kutner. However, I figured it was better for the story to stick with what's familiar.

Don't own House of course. :)

It was a cold September day when Kutner decided to become a doctor. He remembered it clearly. 7 years old, blood still coating his hands that stuck every time he tried to scrub it off. His social worker said it was a compulsive habit, that many children who experienced trauma would do similar things. Kutner didn't believe her, but he didn't wash his hands so much in front of her. She didn't see the blood because she chose not to. And that was her problem, not his.

He'd slipped out of the current foster home to walk along the streets, his wool jacket wrapped tightly around him to ward off the abnormally cold weather. The family he was living with was his second, and they were nice but cold. They didn't warm to him, or perhaps he didn't warm to them, he didn't know. He did know they didn't like buying soap constantly, but he figured it was better to get rid of all that blood instead of letting it drip over the house.

Leaves skittered across the sidewalk and he kicked at them, just for fun. The neighborhood was not that nice. He could tell, because the first home he'd been to was much nicer. The fences were wood, not metal, and the nice houses didn't have metal bars over the windows. Kutner remembered metal bars over the windows of his parent's shop.

They didn't do much good.

Kutner drew in a deep breath, glanced at his hands, and then ran. He ran and ran, his sneakers pounding on the ground and the cold air hitting his face. It was refreshing. He liked the sound of his breath puffing, and his feet hitting the pavement, hard. He didn't even see the stick in front of him, and with a crash he went down, instinctively putting his hands out to catch himself. He hissed and gingerly stood up, looking at his scratched palms. They were bleeding. He brushed the rocks out of the tiny cuts and bit his lip as he stared at the blood. Real blood, yet hardly terrifying. It was different blood.

"Hey boy," said a quiet, female voice. Kutner whirled around, mouth open, eyes wide. A young woman, younger than his parents, but much older than him, was lying down next to a tree, bundled in blankets and clutching something to her chest.

He realized he was in a park, and glanced at the other kids playing at the playground not too far off, and an old couple sitting on a bench reading.

"Yeah?" He asked, not moving towards her.

"Are you hurt?" Her voice was hoarse, almost painful to his ears, but he listened anyway.

"No,"

"Are you alone?"

Kutner shrugged and sat down against the tree opposite her, the pathway between them. He hugged his knees to his chest and watched her with large brown eyes. She stared right back.

"Are you homeless?" He asked softly, even though he was almost positive she was.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Not really,"

"Can you do me a favor, boy?"

Kutner didn't answer, but she was already taking the bundle away from her chest. She held it out to him.

"Take it, please, take it anywhere,"

Kutner shook his head quickly. The woman pulled back the blanket and he could see a curly head of fair hair.

"I can't take care of her, and…you seem trustworthy,"

Kutner wondered when someone would trust a 7 year old over an adult or someone like that couple sitting on the bench. He remembered his mother telling him to stay away from the strange people, the ones that took bad stuff that made them do weird things. He figured she was one. But the baby…Kutner felt tears stinging his eyes.

"You're going to be a big brother," he remembered his mother saying and she'd placed his little hand on her stomach. There was only a little bump then, but he'd made up a list right afterward of all the things he'd do with his little sibling. He'd proudly shown it to his parents who had hung it on the refrigerator. Another casualty of the shooting, yet one that Kutner had never gotten to know.

Kutner pushed himself to his feet and walked over, the gravel of the pavement crunching under his feet. The woman was crying, and her thin, reed like arms were shaking under the weight of the tiny child.

"Her name's Autumn," the woman whispered.

Kutner gently took the baby in his arms, like he'd seen in a movie and backed away from the woman, who had begun full out sobbing. Then he looked down at the tiny being he held in his hands. The eyes were scrunched closed, the chubby cheeks were tinged red. It was an unhealthy red, he decided.

He grinned ever so slightly and stroked its icy cheek. The tears finally fell, silently, mourning for a baby he'd never met and for the one whose life he held in his arms. He glanced up to find the woman had disappeared. He looked every which way, but she was nowhere to be found.

Keeping a tight grip on the baby and making sure the filthy blanket was securely wrapped around it, he walked back the way he'd come, back to his foster parents home. They'd take the baby and make sure it was cared for. Or maybe he should take it to the social worker. After a mild internal battle he decided it would be easier to bring it to his foster parents.

When he reached the house, his foster mother, Sharon, was outside on the porch, drinking something in a teacup. She put the teacup down hurriedly when she saw him and stood up. He went through the gateway and stepped cautiously up the stairs, so as not to jar his passenger.

"Where did you get that, Lawrence?" She asked with that fake adult voice Kutner hated.

" She's somebody's baby girl," he said, sitting down on one of the chairs and holding the baby close to him.

"Someone gave you a baby and you took it?"

He nodded. Comprehension dawned on Sharon. She obviously remembered the homeless people that lived around.

"Why don't you give me the baby and we can take it to the hospital, huh?"

Kutner shook his head.

"I'll carry her,"

Sharon got her keys and they were in the car in moments. Kutner held the baby close, wondering why it wasn't crying. In movies, babies always cried. And though he told himself not to, he was already imagining what it would be like if this little girl took the place of his sibling that never had a chance to live. Maybe then life wouldn't be so lonely all the time.

The emergency room wasn't crowded and at the sight of a black woman with an Indian boy and a little white baby in his arms the doctors were drawn to the strange group. Kutner solemnly let one of the nurses take the baby from him and watched them lay it on an exam table and remove the clothing. Sharon placed her hand on Kutner's shoulder and the young boy bit his bottom lip anxiously. The doctors and nurses had grim faces, the baby wasn't moving. Not even its chest. Not even-

Immediately, all hopes he had were dashed. And Kutner knew then that if he ever became one of those white coated people he wouldn't let people die. Ever. It wasn't the doctors fault, he knew, but still. Death happened, and one day he would stop as much as he possibly could, at whatever cost.

"Her name was Autumn," he mumbled, and Sharon hugged him tightly, the most affection she'd ever shown him. He wrapped his small arms around her and hugged back.

After that, at the next foster home, he stopped washing his hands to get rid of the blood. The blood that would never go away, as long as he lived, even when he was a doctor and other people's blood stained his gloves. And eventually, he stopped believing it was on his hands. Because he saved people from death, and that was good enough for him.

But sometimes, if he looked very close, he could still see it, ingrained in his skin. No soap could ever wash it away.

So, good, bad? Please review!

Thanks for reading.