You find her in the middle of the park. She's just standing there, staring. She turns to you, opens her mouth, and does the last thing you expected her to do. She explains. "He couldn't do it himself. He was… the disease had progressed too far. He was flailing. He didn't have any control over his own body. He pretty much lost control of his mind too, but… every once in a while, he would have a few seconds of lucidity. He turned to me, and he said, 'It's time.' I hooked up the I.V. I used gloves. I knew they'd get me on the drugs, but they couldn't prove who pushed the plunger." She pauses a moment, tears rolling their way down her cheeks. "I put in the needle, and he just… Got quiet. And it was over." She pauses, seeming almost relieved. "And I was alone. And one day, I will be that sick, and there will be no one there when it's time."

She looks so lost, and you want to reach. You want to tell her that you'll be there for her. But of course, your nature doesn't allow that, so you just stare, dumbly.

"God House! I didn't expect you to be sympathetic, but I expected something: horror, disgust, revulsion, some sort of emotion! It's no wonder Cuddy broke up with you!"

You take a slight step back. Of course. Of course she doesn't like you. Not like that. Sure she puts up with you—better than most, maybe even better than Wilson—but she doesn't like you. And so you turn, and limp away, back towards the contest grounds.

You get back to the grounds, and pick up your gun, hopping to get in some practice.

"Dumped in a field in Schenectady. Ouch. You mind if I make a move? I know she's out of my league, but she's at a spud gun contest with the soon-to-be five-time runner-up, so she's probably got some self-esteem issues."

The way he talks about Thirteen, like she's some sort of accessory, blows your last nerve. So you do the only thing that seems reasonable at the time. You turn around, and raise your gun, so you're aiming point-blank at the brat.

He raises his hands in surrender, paling. "You wouldn't."

You know, that, rationally, you wouldn't. But you're beyond rational thinking now (maybe you always have been), so you pull the trigger. The potato hits him in the stomach, with enough force to send him flying backwards into a car. You know you're screwed, and most likely disqualified, but you don't care, because that was possibly the best feeling in the world.

You pull up in front of her apartment building, and stop. "Home sweet home." She doesn't get out; just sits there, staring at her building through the window. "You owe me eighty-seven bucks for gas."

She turns to look at you, and it hits you how little you how little you want her to leave. The two of you sit there for a few more minutes in silence. Finally, she finishes some mental debate, and once more turns to go.

"I'll kill you." She looks over at you, once more, lips parted slightly, in confusion. "When the time comes, if you want me to." It's as close to 'I love you' as you'll get, and maybe she knows this, because she's staring at you blankly. You try to joke it off. "I'll do it now if you like," you tell her, turning to look in the back seat. "I think I've got a baseball bat in the back…" You trail off, because she's leaning closer. Your lips meet, and it's like nothing you've ever experienced. Her lips are soft, and warm, and they're moving perfectly with your own. She leans forward to get closer, and puts her hand on your thigh to balance herself. You hiss in pain, and pull away.

She doesn't say anything as you pull out your Vicodin bottle out of your pocket; just sits and watches. It's as you dry-swallow a pill that you realize. This is the first time you've taken Vicodin since Thirteen got out of jail.

"Come home with me?" you ask. She smiles, and gives a small nod.

You both have always been alone; maybe you always will be. But at least now you can be alone together.