A/N-Thank you so much to all who commented on the last chapter-IHeartHouseCuddy, huddyholic, JLCH, tori, Josam, Boo's House, TheHouseWitch, Little Greg, ikissedtheLaurie, Alex, Abby, CaptainK8, KiwiClare, Bakerstreet Blues, jkarr, ammeboss, HuddyGirl, dmarchl, LapizSilkwood, ClareBear14, Guest, Jane Q. Doe, BJAllen815, jaybe61, IWuvHouse and Mon Fogel.

This chapter's a little different. I cut it from the story, but then I felt one of the story's major subplots lacked closure on one particular front, and I wanted to give it that closure. I hope it reads OK.

For those who may be interested, the second part of Aches and Pains will be up for Thursday.

All of the jokes about Cuddy's protectiveness were based firmly in truth. She and House often joked that as long as only one of them fell apart at a time, they'd be OK, and it was true. After everything that had happened in the previous weeks, the arrival of Frank, Blythe's death, the confrontation of Brian Yost, Cuddy remained strong, and her family survived mostly unscathed. In a few hours, they'd be on their way back home, where she hoped she could breathe freely again. She functioned perfectly well under pressure, but often the moment when all of the tension was gone and there was nothing else to fight, could be unexpectedly difficult.

Her family was resting, bags packed by the front door, but she couldn't sleep. At the end of the day, it was difficult to easily ignore the wrongs done to the people she loved most. She was hurt and angry about the pain they'd experienced, and what she told Brian was right, there was no act of retribution that would ever make up for the things that had happened. When House asked her if she was OK before they went to bed, it was because he knew she wasn't. He also knew she didn't seem ready to discuss the matter further.

She paced through the apartment, reviewing travel documents, prepping for the trip, and trying to consider a way to move on from everything that had happened. She went out onto the porch, appreciating the feeling of a city a few stories below her. The city was mostly sleeping, with hints of life and alertness reminding her that she wasn't the only one alert at that hour. She sat back on the chair, put her feet up, and tipped her head back to try and relax. Exhaustion carried her body toward rest, toward a blessed reprieve from awareness, and she thought about going back to bed, but worried that the simple act of walking back inside would make her fully alert again.

Her eyes were closed, breath even, and she heard the distant sound of a car backfiring as her body released into relaxation. While she drifted into near sleep, she was oddly aware both of her dream world, and the world of reality.

In her dream, she was suddenly gripped by a gut-tightening panic that something had happened to her son. She stood, noting that her body was left behind, resting on the furniture on the patio, while she drifted into Jack's room. He was napping, curled and wound through blankets, bits of his body visible through the mass of fabric-covered padding. She went to his side, checked for his pulse, his breath, kissed his head and smiled down at the only child she had given birth to. She sighed, feeling relaxed that her concerns for her son were unfounded until she heard a scream. It was booming, loud and unfamiliar, more monster than human, a truly terrifying sound.

Walking out of Jack's room, she pulled the door tightly shut and found she was no longer in their apartment in Philly. At the end of the hall there were stairs, creaky, ill-lit stairs that she had never seen before. She walked forward into the stairwell, cautiously bracing one hand on the wall where she felt cracking paint and loose plaster under her fingertips as she treaded cautiously down the narrow steps. When she reached the landing at the foot of the staircase, she stepped off to the right into the kitchen. In sharp contrast to the dark stairwell, she squinted from the brightness of the room lit by two uncovered light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. Once inside, the loudness of the man yelling was as abrasive and harsh as the light, so her instincts were to cover both her eyes, and her ears, although she knew she couldn't do that. The room was painted bright yellow and white, with a border on the wall around the ceiling made of cheerful sunflowers, supported by sturdy, verdant stems. In an almost sarcastic contrast to the warmth of the border, all of the surfaces were dingy, with leftover particles of food on the counters, and a thick slick of grease around the cooktop. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, and she heard a scurrying that she could only assume was coming from rodents or roaches or some sort of infestation. She heard the angry yelling continue, but still couldn't see the source of the noise. Suddenly she was transfixed by one thing, one item in the kitchen that she'd never eat anything from if she had a choice: a pot of spaghetti sauce on the stove top. It was burning, boiling, clearly left on for far too long. Then she knew where she was, as that realization gripped her, she knew she had little time to act.

Unexpectedly, in the corner, a man materialized: Brian Yost. Not the calm, slightly cocky man from the prison, but a loud, bizarre, frantic man, obviously under the influence of drugs and completely without any sense of control. Her eyes began to search, she knew the child had to be there somewhere. And there she was. Ava was on a booster seat that was far too close to the edge of the chair it was perched upon, and she was trying to get away. Her limbs were less practiced and controlled, with the uncertainty of a toddler. She got down from the seat, almost falling, as the man charged toward her. It was then that Cuddy stepped forward, putting herself between the child and the the man screaming obscenities and threats. Ava's eyes were filled with fear until she saw Cuddy's hands reaching out, and then the child reached up, face lit with happiness and relief, whispering softly, "Mommy."

Cuddy wrapped Ava up, motherly arms surrounding the child as Ava hid her face against Cuddy's chest, seeking a rescue from the angry man, an absent and uncaring mother, the hideous conditions, and a future that didn't seem to hold a lot of hope. Cuddy ran for the front door as quickly as she could, gripping onto the child with all of her strength and running so fervently that the muscles of her legs burned. And then she was there, in their apartment in Philly. She walked back the hall, the stairs into Ava's first home were gone, and the apartment was quiet and peaceful, much as it was earlier. Cuddy held the frightened toddler in her arms, brushing back the child's mussed up hair and whisking tears away from her tiny face. They went down the hall to Jack's room. He was there, sleeping peacefully.

Cuddy put Ava in his bed with him, looking down to find, not a toddler, but Ava as she was in the present. Taller, stronger, older. In Cuddy's dream, the two children held each other, and she slid down to the floor, leaning against the door, keeping it tightly closed with her body. She had decided, she'd remain there for the rest of the night, and watch over her children until she saw the reassuring morning sun.

Cuddy heard a yelp, followed by a series of pained groans from an obviously larger being somewhere on the other side of that door. She turned, concerned, feeling drawn to the sound with a desire equal to the desire to watch her children sleep. She weighed the options, feeling that she couldn't neglect the person who was clearly in need of her help, and feeling uncertain that her children would be safe if she left. When she turned back to her right, she saw a girl whose face she knew perfectly. "Rachel," Cuddy said, happy to look upon her first child again. "I miss you."

Rachel hugged her, sweetly, "I know you miss me, but I'm always here."

Cuddy began to speak and she heard the groan again in the distance.

"Mom, you have to go," Rachel said urgently. "I'll stay with them. I'll help you. I always do."

Cuddy looked at the door, concerned, evaluating.

There was a louder thud, followed by rough coughing, and an angry rebuke spewing a steady stream of disapproval.

"Mom," Rachel said, her tone sincere and concerned, "You better go."

Cuddy hugged Rachel tightly, "Lock the door when I leave."

Rachel nodded.

"I love you, Rach."

"I love you too. Don't worry, I'll be here."

Cuddy smiled, kissed the girl one more time, and walked out into the hallway.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, she was in a different home, in a different hallway. This place was unlike the last place, the place where she found Ava. This place smelled like pine cleaner and pot roast being slow cooked in a thick gravy filled with chunks of white potatoes. This place was pristine, almost too neat and tidy, and so very, very cold. At the end of the hall, past a bathroom and a spartan master bedroom, was another room.

The door of the room at the end of the hall was closed, a light that drained out into the hall from beneath the door and through a keyhole below the knob told her it was the right place to be. She tiptoed to the end of the hall, desperately trying not to make a sound, certain that, in this place, she should not disturb the quiet or upset the order.

Cuddy opened the thin, light door and stepped into a bedroom. It was clean like the rest of the home, neat, with off-white contractor's paint on the wall. There was no clutter on the floor, everything was in its place. She tried to figure out why she was in this small, nondescript room. Looking for clues, she walked a few more steps into the room, and found a desk. On the desk there were textbooks, they looked like high school text books, anatomy, English literature, advanced calculus. She pushed them to the side to reveal notebooks underneath, which she opened and saw familiar handwriting. Her heart sank as she heard shallow breathing, each inhalation punctuated with a soft, almost unheard, pained sigh. She turned, found a guitar leaning against the wall, and her eyes settled on the foot of a neatly made bed that she walked toward.

"Do I know you?" she heard from the direction of the bed.

It was a voice both familiar and strange. Lighter, less worn, less gravelly, but clearly familiar and full of discomfort.

"You will know me," she said sweetly as she cautiously sat on the edge of the bed.

She looked down at her clothes, realizing that she was dressed in the flirty, tighter clothes of her youth. Turning to the dresser, she caught her reflection in the mirror. She was young, eighteen, the face of the woman he would meet later in his life.

"You look familiar," he said.

His arm was draped across his torso as he leaned against pillows propped up on the head of his bed, a book open on his lap. He was tall but she knew he'd still grow a bit taller. He was very thin, wiry, and wore sneakers, shorts and a tee shirt so worn she could practically see through it.

"What happened to you? Let me see," she asked.

He looked away, his curiosity about the intruder forgotten. "Please, just…go away," he mumbled.

His breath was uneasy, she could see the pain in everything about the way that he moved, and the ways he didn't move.

"You can trust me," she said.

"Right," he said with disbelief.

"Tell me what happened."

"I think you know," he said, at first angrily, but then turned toward her, confused by his own words, confused by the realization that he thought the stranger knew exactly what was going on.

"Yea," she nodded, "I do."

He looked away, closing his eyes like he just wanted to go to sleep, dream his way into a different place entirely.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Seventeen. Now, please go away," he asked again, hating the empathetic way she was looking at him.

"Come with me," she said, standing, and holding out her hand.

"Two more months and I'm leaving for college and I'll never live under his roof again. I'll be fine. I have to stay here until then."

"No, you don't. You can come with me. One day you will. You'll leave everything behind and run away with me."

He turned, looked her over, confusion across his face, "I think…maybe…I already knew that."

"Then, why wait? Come with me now."

"I can't."

"I hate him," she said, "I hate what he does to you."

He shrugged, "I've made it this long. And he isn't always like this. We just…do not get along."

"You aren't little anymore. Let's stand up to him together. I'll help you. I'll help you fight him."

"He's a Marine. He likes killing people," House said, stating what he believed was the obvious.

"I doubt that's true," she countered.

"Trust me, fighting back is a huge mistake. I tried that. It just pisses him off more."

"Then let's leave. Let me help you. Let's start our life together now. We don't have to wait."

"You want to be with me?" he asked.

She sat back down on the bed, "Oh god, yes. More than you can even imagine. I'll marry you. I'll have a baby with you, adopt a little girl. We'll live…in a place that's as close to paradise as anywhere on earth."

"You're full of shit."

"I'm not."

"You're gonna have my baby? So that means that you…and me…we're gonna…you know," he smiled a bit shyly and a bit lasciviously, the roots of his future wanton admiration showing slightly through his youthful uncertainty.

"Yea…we're gonna…'you know' a lot, actually," she smirked, looking in the mirror again and seeing her young face blush.

He smiled, uncertain how to act, "Lucky me."

"Lucky me"

"If you hang around, I guess I must be pretty good…?" he said tentatively.

"You're amazing…my ideal. Or you will be in a few years. Not just in bed though. You're an amazing man too. You'll cure the sick, help the hurting…you'll mend my broken heart…one that I will be certain will never mend. You'll be a great father and husband, friend and doctor," she said, looking compassionately at him.

"That's not me. You're in the wrong room," he said.

"No, I'm not, trust me. This is the right room."

He looked at her, studying her face. He looked away, and said simply, "You're really pretty."

"Thank you"

"You seem…really nice too."

"You won't always think so," she smirked, wrinkling her nose. "You'll like me…then you won't. For a while, we'll barely be able to speak to each other. But we'll get through. We always do. When we do…we'll be great. Really, really great."

He was thinking, processing, not reacting, but she wasn't certain if it was from confusion or pain.

"What can I do to help you?" she offered.

"My parents aren't home," he suggested with a devious glint in his eye.

"Are you…trying to fool around with me?" she asked with a surprised laugh.

He looked away, rejected. "You said I'm the best. I just figured…"

Her fingers reached out and touched his face, smoother than she'd ever find it again, faintly scruffy. "I'm not turning you down. Believe, me, I'll spend countless hours making it up to you. I'm not saying no, I'm just saying not yet. Be patient, it'll be worth it."

He looked at her, a bit sadly, but trying to convince her to rethink her position. "If we're going to anyway…why not start now?"

He tried to sit up and winced at the pain in his side, remembering his injury quite clearly.

"You're in too much pain to do what you want to do anyway," she replied.

"I'm seventeen," he scoffed, "I'm never too much…anything…to stop me from wanting to do that."

"That has nothing to do with your age, that's just you…it won't change when you get older," she grinned, before remembering just how much pain and sadness they'd survive before they were better.

"Come on," he tempted, lifting an eyebrow, "Make me feel better."

"I would, but I'm way too old for you."

He forced himself to sit up the whole way, still wincing, trying not to look hurt. "You're not too old for me," he commented, disoriented.

She remembered herself, remembered that she looked as she'd look when they'd first meet. "I may not look older, but I am. I'd be taking advantage of you."

"You're perfect. I really like to be taken advantage of by cute girls."

"Some things never change," she smiled.

Her hands cradled his face and she leaned forward, placing one, gentle, chaste kiss against his lips that she held for a few seconds and then backed away.

He leaned forward again, trying to steal another kiss, "Don't stop," he asked. "I don't want you to go. I know I don't know you…but there's…something."

"One day…you'll know me. One day, you'll love me."

"Do you love me back? One day?" he asked, just an inch away from her lips.

"I will love you…more than I ever thought I could love a man," she smiled.

The door flew open and a man in fatigues bound in, "Who in the hell is this, Greg?" he screamed. "What do I have to do to make you have some respect for your mother and I? You think your mother appreciates you bringing your whores into her home."

"She's not a whore, she's my wife," House said, his voice sounding not like an injured teen, but like the man she heard speaking to her every day. The lines between the dream and her reality were rapidly blurring.

"Are you talking back to me, smart ass? Didn't you learn anything? What do I have to do? Your fucking head is so goddamn thick I don't know what I have to do to pound through it."

Cuddy stood up, turning toward House on the bed, his voice older but his face still young. She reached out a hand, "Come with me, now."

"I have to stay here," he argued, "You go, I'll see you later, I promise."

John House was standing over her, screaming, "Get out of here."

She was ignoring the older man, still looking at House, "I won't leave without you. I can't. I can't leave you here."

John House boomed, "You have ten seconds to leave, or the boy will regret it."

"Dammit, House, now. Come with me, don't stay here. You can't stay here anymore, please!" She was begging, pleading, the thought of leaving him alone, in pain and with his angry father terrified her.

Just then, she caught movement, the sight of John House's fist flying toward his son. She stepped to the side, stopping the progress of his fist with her own body. She curled over. The pain was horrible, intense, blinding. She couldn't think, or breathe, and then suddenly she heard House's voice. It was clear, the strong voice she heard every day. "That's enough," House said loudly, not to his father, but to Cuddy. "It has to end. You can't keep doing this to yourself."

Cuddy's pain was gone, John House was gone. She felt arms surround her, lift her up. When her eyes opened, she saw House, no longer a teen, but the man she knew. He continued, "We cannot stay here. We can't waste any more time in this place. It's time…for us to leave."

She looked at his face, and she let go. She leaned her forehead against his chest, releasing herself to him. He lowered his face to her forehead, and kissed her softly. They began to walk out, House stronger in her dream than in reality, easily carrying her down the hall and out of the home.

"Trust me, Cuddy. I've got you," he said, his voice clear and current, and then she realized it was him, that her dream had ended. He was lifting her out of the chair on the patio and carrying her back into the apartment.

"Watch your leg, put me down," she said nervously.

"I got you," he mumbled. "Relax, I can take care of you."

"The kids," she practically shouted.

He put her down a few steps inside the patio door, and she ran to Jack's room. She opened the door, found both kids inside Jack's room, almost as if she had actually moved Ava there, practically feeling Rachel's presence in the room.

"When did Ava come over here?" House asked, yawning.

"I…don't know," Cuddy said.

"What were you dreaming?" he asked as they went back to their room.

"Nothing," she answered.

"You aren't really going to do that, are you? Keep it from me?"

Cuddy sighed. Her face was red and puffy from tears she cried in her sleep. "A lot of things…I got to Ava before Brian…Rachel was there…watching the kids while I was gone. I didn't get to you in time…your dad was there…"

"Cuddy," House said with quiet sincerity, "It has to end. You can't…keep doing this to yourself."

"God," she laughed through her tears, "That's what you said in my dream."

"Then I'm right, even in your subconscious," he said, smiling.

He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her entirely and feeling her sink into him.

"You had the chance to save Ava?" he asked.

"Yea. I did. It felt good."

"And me?"

"You were already hurt, but I was trying to get you to leave."

"Did I go?"

"Not until after I was hurt. Then you said that…we couldn't stay there anymore."

He nodded, "It's true."

"Yea, it is," she nodded, enjoying the feeling of his chest against the side of her face.

She could feel the vibration of his voice when spoke, and hear the thud of his heart against her flattened ear.

"You have…no right to feel guilty for these things that you didn't do…you did nothing to cause that pain," he told her.

"It isn't guilt," she answered. "I just feel like I should have done something to stop it."

"Which sounds…remarkably similar to guilt. You are not to blame for the horrible actions of selfish people. When Dad started beating me, you probably weren't even in kindergarten yet. By the time I left home, you were still a kid. There was nothing you could do to stop anything that happened to us."

"I know"

"We don't need saving anymore. Not from that stuff…not from the past. "

She snuggled closer as he held her more tightly.

He breathed in deeply, "I haven't had a single nightmare or felt like shit about everything that happened with Dad since we talked to Mom about it. Ava's doing well, she is going to be fine. I…have left my childhood behind…I left that room I was stuck in. You need to leave the room too."

"I know"

"Good. I know I give you shit about protecting us…and you do. But when the zombies come, you won't have to fight them alone."

She smiled, "Good to know."

"Now get your fat ass back in bed, it's too damn cold for me to sleep by myself."

"You could turn the AC down."

"I like the air cold, and my bed warm," he leered.

They were settling into bed, getting comfortable and he said, "So you paid me a visit? In your dream?"

"Yea. I did."

"How'd I look?"

"Adorable"

"Was I little?"

"No. You said you were leaving for college in a few months."

"Did I make a pass at you?"

Cuddy chuckled, "Kind of"

"Good for me. I think in all universes, and dream worlds, for all time…I will always hit on you."

"You were sweet."

"Did I come before I even unzipped?"

She elbowed him.

"What?" he asked, "You're really hot. It's still a struggle to hold off."

"Idiot," she snickered.

"So…wait…if I didn't come before I unzipped, does that mean…we did it?"

"Some things really don't change"

"Oh my god, we did! You cheated on me with younger me," he teased. "Tell me about it."

"I didn't sleep with you. You were under age."

"Only you would be so concerned with rules in a dream! If I was going to college, I wasn't that young. Did you at least kiss me?"

"I did."

"Freak, I feel so…used," he teased, unable to hide his chuckle.

"It wasn't that kind of kiss. It was sweet. Innocent."

"Innocent?" he groaned, "I must have been so disappointed."

She rolled over, facing him, took his face, kissed him chastely, just as she had in his dream. "Are you disappointed?" she asked.

"No," he smirked, "not disappointed, but…always hoping for more."

"Then be glad you're not seventeen anymore!" she said.

"I am…always glad I'm not seventeen anymore. That was a shitty year."

He leaned closer, caught her lips more sensually in a longer, deeper kiss.

"You could have at least let me feel you up," he teased.

"I promised you that I'd reward you for your patience," she said as she took his hand, lifted her nightshirt and placed his hand on her breast. "I'm a woman of my word."

"I've always admired that about you."

"Honesty or boobs?"

"Both," he smirked. "You're the whole package. You're honest, have great boobs…you have…honest boobs."

"There's my poet again."

"So what line did I use?" he asked as he casually teased and fondled her.

"You told me your parents weren't home and asked me to make you feel better."

"Classic," he bragged. "And actually…my parents aren't home now either…and…I'd love for you to make me feel better."

She smiled, "You're older now, I should expect a better warm-up line."

"Should expect or do expect?"

"Should. But, you feel really good, so I'll take the recycled line."

"I'm the whole package too, you know," he commented.

"Great hands, amazing lines, and the ability to stave off orgasm until after you unzip."

House chuckled, "I can almost get my boxers off now too."

"Wow…that is…really impressive. It is also…why we usually do it with your boxers still on."

They were joking, teasing, steadily moving forward in their physical exploration until their clothes were removed, bodies fully aroused, minds engaged by their act of love. They were quiet, whispering because it was silent that night, and their children were only a few rooms away, and because of the nearly sacred nature of the connection that they shared. The symbiosis of their compassion allowed two people who had difficulty showing how much they cared, to openly care; and people who found it almost impossible to accept compassionate support, able to welcome it.

For them, giving and receiving compassion required the utmost trust, but became as natural to them as their physical expressions. House loved the way she'd softly whimper at times like those, when she had to be quiet. When they were able, she would often loudly say the most tantalizing things, moaning and screaming in ways he couldn't script more perfectly in his most elaborate fantasies, but he loved the way she'd act when she had to restrain her reactions as well.

As she quivered underneath him, she tried desperately to be soundless, but one pant, one deep inhale, continued after her lungs must have been filled, and resulted in a tiny, uncontrolled moan that gasped from the back of her throat and was followed by words that were truly whispered, words of breath without any sound from her vocal chords. "Come along with me."

He understood the meaning wasn't sexual. "Wherever you go," he whispered near her ear.

"Stay with me?"

"Without hesitation"

They had long ago stopped justifying the ways they sought comfort. It was very much a part of who they were. People who had hurt and been hurt, people who it sometimes seemed were lucky to survive at all, seeking comfort in each other. Comfort through words, touches and implications. Seeing him enjoying sex, without the pain of wounds from an abusive father, felt reassuring. He wasn't fighting through motions over the pain of broken or bruised ribs, he was chasing and offering pleasure years away from the hurts of his youth in a time where those hurts barely even existed anymore.

She was so filled by her affection for him and lost in the safety of the world they created that her fears and sadness were disappearing into the realms of their present world. When they climaxed together, she pressed her mouth into the bent of her arm to stifle any sounds she might involuntarily leak, and House buried his face in her neck. A brief encounter in the middle of the night between moments of sleep was still just as satisfying and meaningful as all of the others.

She fell asleep, pleasantly sated, and curled around House as she rubbed her hand along his ribs. In her sleep the dreams came again.

She was walking on a narrow sidewalk and gradually homes faded into recognition on either side of the road. It appeared she was walking in a military family housing complex. There were rows upon rows of identically boring houses. She stopped and turned to the left and began marching up a walkway, automatically knowing the location of her destination, and that she was returning to the right place. She stepped up on the first of three steps, resolute and unafraid to do whatever she had to do. When she reached the top of the steps, she placed her hand on the door knob, and another hand covered hers, refusing to let her open the door.

"Don't," he said.

Cuddy turned, looked up House, again the seventeen year-old version of himself.

"We got out," he said, looking up at the building with distaste. "Don't go back in."

"I was worried about you."

"Don't worry about me, I'm out here with you. If you go in…I'll have to follow you to make sure you're OK…and I don't want to go back in."

She looked at him, thoughtfully, "You're right. If I'm in there…you'll go back in too."

"Of course I will," he smiled a gentle and youthful smile she had never seen on him, "I'll always look out for you."

"I know you will."

"You do it for me. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?" he asked, "When you really care about someone?"

"Yea, it is."