"Well, here are we are. My deathbed."

Foreman sighed, watching Remy peer up at the cabin. "I'm sorry, Remy. I don't want it to be this way..."

"Shut up. Neither of us want this, you don't need to explain. It's just the lesser of two evils..." Remy unbuckled. "At least this way it's just you and me. That minute in your office wasn't going to cut it." She kicked open her door, and Foreman quickly followed her example. The car doors closing echoed in the forest, which was deep in shadow and filled with the sound of croaking frogs. The chilly air bit their faces, and they both shivered in their coats.

"This place is depressing. How do you know about it?" he asked.

"Through House. It was...part of the deal."

"I see." Foreman huffed another sigh, then walked around the car to the trunk. "I'm curious, why did you pick him over me?"

"He was in the right place at the right time. You weren't."

Put off by her response, Foreman let his laundry, her laundry, then the bag of dehydrated fruits and the toiletries drop to the gravel and dirt. Retrieving the jugs of water, he turned to face the cabin. "You can at least close the trunk, right?"

"There is a difference between sick and useless."

Foreman ambled up the steps and found himself looking at a door without a knob or handle. He pushed the door wide open. The interior of the cabin was dark, musty, and filled with small winged silhouettes. He fumbled for a light switch, but there wasn't one; the only light that came in was through the windows and the cracks between the wood planks constructing the walls and ceiling. Then Remy's footsteps echoed softly as her shadow devoured the last of the light. He turned and looked at her with an expression that clearly suggested she had lost her mind.

"This is where you want to die?"

"Absolutely. It's quiet, off the grid, secluded."

"Disgusting, dark, depressing," he countered. "I don't even want to talk; I'm afraid something will fly into my mouth."

"We'll clean it." Her shadow disappeared into the darkness, and Foreman tried to use the sound of her footsteps to keep track of her. Suddenly the fireplace crackled into life, and as the fire grew the dreariness began to dissipate.

"Maybe let someone with control over their body light the candles," he offered. Then the right side of her waist and torso materialized before him, and she handed him the lighter and candles. Her fingers seemed to linger slightly on his hand.

"Why here? Why not the Grand Canyon, or the ocean?"

"I've been to places that were...comparable," she offered. "But it never mattered how nice the geography was. My vacation sucked."

"I believe you called it a mistake," he said, as he began lighting the candles.

"They were supposed to be the best days of my life, but it didn't pan out that way. I was always scared of dying before I got to my next destination. And the people I was with...well, they always wanted to know why I wanted to travel like I was dying, and stupidly, I told them. Nobody wants their vacation to be about death, and they all left me. Every one of them, every time; and...I just didn't see the use in trying. I knew House wouldn't leave me...until you told me he did."

Foreman struggled to find the correct response as he continued lighting candles. The ambiance was infinitely better, until he heard her soft cries.

"I was so stupid!" she wept. "I actually thought I could have the best years of my life without you. I wasted...all that time!"

Foreman could see her crying. He emptied his hands over the table, feeling an unaccustomed rush of fear. Dealing with psychotic patients, yes. Dealing with annoyed parents, yes. Dealing with a manipulative, crazy bastard, yes. But trying to comfort a friend in the pit of despair just before he shot her in the head? He would rather be the one staring down the barrel.

But he couldn't just leave her standing there. She was the one playing Russian Roulette. Everything he felt had to be magnified in her. So he strode to where she was standing and wrapped her in his arms. He said nothing, wondering only if she would return his embrace. But he didn't need to wonder why it didn't comfort him when she did.

"I can't believe this is happening to me." She sniffled, hugging him with one arm as she wiped her cheek dry. "I can't believe my life means nothing."

"Well, you've got me."

"Eric." She pulled back, framing his face in her hands. "Oh, Eric, I'm sorry. But that's not enough. That's not everything. Everybody's got friends. And me? I've got a day. A bullet."

Foreman stared at her, gently removing her hands from his face.

"What do I have that I'm going to leave behind, to be remembered for?" she asked, and grew impatient when he was quiet. "What do I have?" she demanded. "Besides a bloodstain on the pillow." Here she dropped his hands like they had transformed into poisonous reptiles. Her voice turned cold. "I can't believe you agreed to this. How could you? How can you do this to me?"

"This was your idea. You want this!"

"You should drive back," she said in disgust. "You've got sick people to take care of!"

"I know why you're yelling. It's the disease. But deep down I know you still want this."

"Not from you! From House!"

"House isn't here," Foreman said, wondering how he could sound so calm when everything was shaking inside.

"Yeah, well, he should be!" Remy shouted. "He said he would be and he abandoned me like everybody else."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere."

"No, this is wrong!" she yelled. "The only reason I took his damn deal was because I couldn't stand the thought of being killed by someone I didn't hate!"

The cabin fell into silence. Remy covered her eyes and shook her head, awash in disbelief. "No. No, I didn't...I didn't mean that, I...I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." Her tears overwhelmed her, stealing her voice. Foreman stood frozen, watching her shoulders shake as her tears ran down her arms. Finally he began stumbling backwards.

"I'll go get the rest of our stuff," he rasped, glad to have an excuse. Waving moths out of his face as he went, he lurched down the stairs blinking back tears of his own. He retrieved their bags of laundry with shaking hands and took his time carrying them back to the dragon's dark, ominous lair.

The next few days were equally emotional. It wasn't like riding a bike, or cutting onions. Dealing with Huntington's was not something he could get used to. It wasn't something that could be solved by meeting all of her needs. Like the tide, her mood went up and down; and without a raft, Foreman barely kept his head above water. Their final days together were filled with laughs, tears, screaming, and intimacy. Until one day she could no longer fight the current.

Foreman would remember this night for the rest of her life. He would eternally claim it was the most difficult thing he had ever done.

They were sharing the bed after a spirited encounter. All seemed well. Remy was lying rather still to his left side, and the night seemed peaceful. He was just about to take a deep breath and close his eyes when her haggard whisper broke through the night and grated his sensitized nerves.

"Now, Eric. I'm ready. I'm done."

He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling. And looked at her. "How do I know it's not the Huntington's? How do I know it's not murder?"

Her body trembled as she rolled over, but her smile was full of promise. "Because I am in control."

Foreman filled his eyes with her. "No. Not yet," he croaked.

"Eric," she insisted. "Get the gun."

Foreman scooted backwards, letting himself sink to his knees on the floor. His fingers curled around the gun and with a shaky, loud breath in, he stood up; struggling to aim. Tears blurred his view of her and he blinked fiercely, not wanting his last view of her to be a vague glimpse.

"I love you," she said calmly.

"Love you," he uttered, and closing his eyes he pulled the trigger. The shot was loud and more invasive to his pride than a rectal exam by Lady Deathstrike. Breathing so hard he was choking on the air he breathed, Foreman opened his eyes and peered past the haze of tears at the gaping hole in her forehead.

The woman he loved...the woman he would always love. Foreman had never hated himself before, but all at once he knew he could never forgive himself. He reloaded the gun and spun it around in his hand, raising it to his forehead...

And lost his nerve. The gun clattered to the floor as he sputtered again for air. He kicked the gun away from himself and let his torso fall until he was laying on the floor, staring at the gun. He wrapped his arms around his knees, and he wept.