He grieved in the hours that passed, suffering from two panic attacks. The only other thought he was capable of having was how good it was that he had become a doctor. He was able to calm himself efficiently with the knowledge that he would be okay. He brought their belongings to the car, leaving her body for last; and sat there regretting it. He knew hauling her outside and packing her into the backseat was going to be strenuous; he should have done it when he had more energy.

That and he had put a hole in her forehead. How had he become Dean of Medicine again? Foreman was sitting on the floor, staring into the dark cavity beneath the bed when he thought he heard something. He lifted his head, tearing his thoughts away from the much too recent past. It was still storming outside, but this sound was different, wrong. It was inside the cabin...

Foreman got up, crawling to the edge of the bed and swiping the gun. He didn't particularly feel like killing a bear would be any easier than killing Remy, but the front door of the cabin had no lock; obviously the bedroom door didn't either. He had lost the courage to pull the trigger on himself and wasn't particularly fond of the idea of dying. Fearing the gruesome encounter with every step, Foreman peered out of the bedroom and slowly made his way down the shadowed hall. Leaving the security of the narrow space, he quickly turned his head to the figure standing in the open doorway. The living room was pitch black, but the lightening sky illuminated the man's moonlight-colored hair. And though Foreman couldn't actually see the object from where he stood, there was a particularly cane-shaped shadow on the floor.

Then a familiar baritone added to the tempest of the storm raging behind the man. "Foreman?"

"House?" Foreman answered, lowering his gun.

"What are you doing here?"

Foreman tried to get his breaths under control, ashamed they echoed in the dark. "Don't you have anything else to say?"

"Yeah. Did you fire that shot?"

Foreman pocketed the gun. "Yeah."

House lifted his head, illuminating the anger on his face before he began limping into the cabin.

"House," Foreman said, moving off to the side. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to keep my word. You took my shot, Foreman!"

Foreman looked down at the floor, at the glistening red footprint following House through the living room. "Are you hurt?"

"No, I'm limping because I like being in the spotlight," House snarled. Then he turned around and surveyed the area, shaking his head. "This place could use a spotlight. Makes you look white."

"House, why don't you sit somewhere?" Foreman asked.

House shook his head as Foreman noticed the sound of sirens wailing in the distance. "Ah, I've got to keep moving."

"You can't spare two minutes―"

"Nope! I'm a fugitive!"

"Come on. I gave a speech at your completely unnecessary funeral!"

"And I died because, for a lack of better words, I'm on the run." House leaned back, peering down the hall. "You take her out to the pasture, or is she here?"

Foreman stared at him, looking nervously at the door as the sirens drew nearer.

"Don't worry, I lost them." House spun and began limping for the bedroom, and Foreman walked after him. "Well, this is fun!" House declared, "Kind of like old times. Me, leading you down a hallway." Several steps into the bedroom, he looked ahead and came to an abrupt halt. "Except I don't know when you called the time of death."

"Last night."

House stared at her a moment longer, then took a breath and gave Foreman a curt nod. "Good catching up," he said, and left the bedroom. Again, Foreman trailed after him.

"How about a deal?"

"Okay. You do my time, I'll go work as a Dean." Nearing the doorway, House turned and gave him a waiting look. "You interested?"

"I meant something more along the lines of you staying and talking to me. And in return...I'll give you my Vicodin."

"You don't take Vicodin," House said dismissively. He turned away, but was stopped by the familiar sound of pills rattling.

"November 2010. The hospital went in lockdown for a missing infant. I'd confiscated Vicodin from a patient, but got locked up before I could return them. Ended up trying Vicodin...just because I was bored. I got so high." Foreman was shaking his head as House turned back to face him. "When Remy asked me to kill her, I knew I'd want to get high again."

House squinted at him. It didn't make sense...

"Which brings me back to my premise; why are you here?" Foreman repeated.

House shrugged grandly. "Coincidence?"

Foreman stared at him, realizing the strange truth. "She asked us both to kill her?"

"I guess," House said, sounding rather cheerful. Foreman frowned, immediately on edge. If House was happy, the rest of the world wasn't. It was like the law of physics.

Foreman leaned a little closer. "Are your eyes clear?" he asked accusingly.

"I don't know, I can't see them."

"Remy is dead, House. She lied to get you here. How come you're not angry?"

House motioned subtly for Foreman to follow him to the open door, and they stood there listening to the utter silence of the undisturbed dawn. "You hear that?"

"No."

"Exactly," House told him. "The pigs don't know this place exists. Long as I'm here I'm a free man."

"You should turn yourself in."

House looked at him. "And if I don't? Are you going to turn me in?"

"Well, I should."

House looked at him for a long time, studying the expression in his past fellow's eyes. He must be so proud. It hadn't taken him very much effort to become a better man than House.

Foreman sighed quietly. "I didn't become the Dean of Medicine overnight. Until you disappeared, I did a lot of things I knew were wrong. And turning you in...I don't want to do that either," he said honestly, "But it's the right thing to do."

House gave his head a little shake. "That doesn't mean you'll do it."

"I want you to do it."

House bowed his head, still meeting Foreman's eyes. "Neither of us," he began quietly, "Are going to turn me in."

"House, listen―"

"No, you listen. Because I'm going to offer you a deal that's way more interesting. You're going to go home, put this whole thing with Thirteen behind you, and you're going to go to work. Because if you turn me in, I'm going to turn you in."

Foreman was motionless, floundering for a response. After nine years of being free from House's insanity, he had forgotten how cruel he could be.

"I...I did her a favor!" Foreman stuttered. "I put her out of her misery, I saved her from pain and suffering. People do that to dogs all the time!"

"I'm not going to go down without a fight!"

Foreman found himself breathing hard again. His head was swimming. He looked away, trying to get his anger in check. "House," he finally said. "At least consider it. Consider serving your time and getting it off your shoulders. Because even a man with two good legs can't run forever."

There was an awkward silence. Then, as Foreman turned to retrieve Remy's body, he felt a third hand sliding into his pocket; and hearing a distinct metallic click, his feet slid to a stop as his heart began to race.

"You have a point," House said.

Foreman turned slowly, raising his hands; one of them still clutching the pills. He knew all too well that if someone as level-headed as himself could shoot a friend, someone as insane as House could definitely shoot someone posing a threat to his freedom. It wasn't like House had ever been fond of people; and Foreman could see it now, being away from civilization for nine years, fearing for his life, had made him even worse than he had been. Slowly raising his eyes, he felt the smallest weight lift off him when he realized House was holding the gun down at his side, the safety on.

House smiled then. "Friends?"