"Tell me about the fire."

Sitting on the steps leading down to the forest, House stifled a groan as he poured peroxide on the ugly gash on the bottom of his foot. Now Foreman knew why it had taken him so long after the gunshot to arrive at the cabin. Putting all his weight on the gaping wound...Foreman couldn't even look at it.

"Exit clause. For Wilson."

"Holy shit! He's alive?" Foreman blurted.

"Nah. Died in 2012," House answered, glad he sounded almost normal. He wiped the moisture off his foot, forced his shoe on, and grabbed the rail; hoisting himself up onto his bloody foot. The rail creaked under his fist.

"I'm, uh, I'm sorry." Foreman paused then, looking quizzically at House. "What did you do with him?"

House's answer came in a thick British accent. "'I seem to have found some remains; I need a team quickly.'"

"You didn't."

"I did." House turned, pivoting on the step and looking up at Foreman. "Okay, I may have dropped the ball on that one."

"I can't believe you did that."

"Well, I...needed help getting him out of there. And I didn't have anyone else."

"They didn't recognize you?"

"Actually, I...didn't wait."

Foreman scoffed, shaking his head.

"But don't tell him that," House joked.

Foreman looked down at him, suddenly seeing opportunity. And he decided to take it. With a speed that surprised even him, he threw his fist into House's face; knocking him off the stair and into the dirt. He landed on his arm. Foreman lunged noisily down the steps and stopped beside him. He was out cold, which was an even bigger shock. House was wearing a long-sleeved shirt made of thin fabric, easily torn. Foreman tore off both sleeves, exposing horrible scars and a dislocated shoulder.

"Damn," Foreman muttered, as he bound House's wrists together. Retrieving his gun, he slid it back into his own pocket and hurried up the steps to retrieve Remy's body. For the sake of convenience he left the door wide open.

He was just destroying everybody. He slowed to a walk as he entered the bedroom, and caressed her cheek before carefully lifting her into his arms. He carried her from the room and down the hall towards the open door. Bumping the door open, he stopped at the sight of House struggling to upright himself. The muted morning light caught on his scars, lending the appearance that it was only crude stitches holding him together. He looked around, with obvious limited mobility that prevented him from checking over his shoulder. Suddenly his deep, powerful yell resonated through the woods. "FOREMAN!"

Startled by his anger, Foreman fumbled Remy; clutching her tighter so she wouldn't tumble down the stairs. "House! I'm right here!" he snapped. He began to carefully maneuver down the steps. "Scaring away all the wildlife," he grumbled to himself.

"Well, untie me! Taking an old man hostage. For shame, Foreman."

"I'm turning you in to the authorities," Foreman announced. "Somebody's gotta do the right thing." He awkwardly opened the backseat door and began loading Remy's leaden body inside; pulling her hat down to hide the bullet hole.

"I told you. If you turn me in, I'll turn you in."

Foreman backed out of the car and looked at House. "I'm accepting your deal. Get in the car, House."

House made a face at him and stiffly moved his tied arms. "Fine. But I need my cane, which means I'll need my hands, which means...you gotta untie me."

"Forget it. I'm not giving you anything you can use as a weapon." Foreman strode over to him and began helping him stand on his one good leg. "You're going to sit there and talk to me. Don't need your hands for that."

"I assume if I need to take a leak, you'll do the honors?"

Foreman stopped, giving him a dirty look.

House sighed, hesitantly meeting his eyes. "I'm not going to hurt you, Foreman," he said quietly, "Trust me. Ratting you out to the fuzz will be enough."

Foreman hesitated a moment longer, then pushed House against the side of the car. House leaned while he untied his arms, and then Foreman handed him his cane. "Only a fool brings a stick to a gun party, anyway," Foreman said, and walked back towards the cabin. House ducked into the passenger seat and waited for the return of his captor. When Foreman came back, he was carrying a pillow and blanket; and he arranged it to make it appear as though Remy had fallen asleep in the backseat. Peering at him in the rearview mirror, House watched the transformation take place; holding his question for when Foreman got behind the wheel.

"Why'd you do that?"

"If we get pulled over, I don't want them knowing she's dead. I'm already packing heat, with a criminal in my car." Foreman looked at House's expecting face and rolled his eyes. "And I'm black," he sighed. "It's always gotta be part of the issue with you."

"It is part of the issue! The discrimination issue."

Foreman spared one last look at Remy. It looked awfully convincing. He started the car, swerved around and began driving back through the forest. "The drive'll take two days," Foreman muttered.

"You know what, I don't care. It just feels good to get off my feet."

Foreman spared him a quick glance. "Yeah, I know." He reached into his pocket and held out the Vicodin, returning his hand to the wheel after House took the pills from him. "So how long were you in contact with Remy?"

House winced as he cracked open the bottle. "The whole time."

The car came to an abrupt halt and Foreman twisted in his seat. "The whole time. Are you freaking kidding me, House?"

"The past nine years," House clarified.

Foreman stared at him, trembling with well-suppressed anger. "She came to Princeton-Plainsboro looking for you and I told her you were dead. No, I thought she believed me!"

"She didn't," House said simply.

"Did you tell her about Wilson?"

"No." House raised his eyes to the mirror and gingerly touched the bruise forming on his face. "Wow, you really clocked me."

"Why not?" Foreman demanded.

"His secret wasn't a crime." House looked ahead, over the dashboard, and waited a few moments. "I'd ask if we can go now, but I'm not overly anxious to go to prison."

Foreman's face softened. "You've been on the inside before. You'll be fine."

House looked down as Foreman continued to drive through the woods. It was shaping up to be a nice morning; and the further they went, the more light they had. The tension was only filled with the sound of the gravel crunching underneath the tires. Foreman cast a look at his wounded passenger. His eyes were still intelligent, but tired; an appearance that had only been worsened by the lesion that extended under both. The majority of his skin was defaced with cuts, bruises and scars.

"Watch the road," House told Foreman, without even looking at him.

Foreman returned his eyes to the trail and sighed heavily. "I'm sorry about your shoulder. I didn't think you'd land on your arm. And I really didn't think I'd knock you out. You've taken punches before."

House echoed him with a sigh. "Well, I was young once too, you know."

It saddened Foreman to hear such a thing. He couldn't stop looking at him. "Getting old is a strange thing, isn't it?"

"Oh―this coming from a guy fourteen years my junior," House said in disgust. "If you're going to talk down to me, at least grow a few inches. I'm not going to specify where."

Foreman shook his head, but couldn't repress a smile, at the strangest of times. "It's good to see you too, House."