Title: Silver Butterflies

Rating: Ma

Disclaimer: Own only the obvious.

Summary: Little girls and guns, and suddenly their hostages, prisoners of their own hospital. It's funny how things become so much clearer when you think you're about to die.

3. Foreman.

When he's 16, his brother dies.

It's not a disease that has a real cure, after all, there's no quick fix for a path of self-destruction. Rehab won't give back the years you lose, and treatment doesn't leave you scarless.

Marcus Foreman lost his life at the age of 19, shot in the head whilst arguing over the price of a heroin injection.

What a way to go.

"So why'd House hire you?"

The question isn't even aimed at him, but he's startled out of his reverie anyway. It's been an hour and a half since they were jammed into their boss' empty office, and it had been an odd silence ever since Chase had woken up.

Cameron stared at the blond, an eyebrow quirked, blue eyes strained. "Where'd that come from?"

Chase shrugs, picking at the dried blood on the side of his face. "Just trying to start conversation…"

"He chose me on my skill, my references, talent…"

"Nah, that's why he kept you," He says, "I asked why he hired you."

"Is there a difference?" Cameron asks, but she's fidgeting now, and Foreman can see straight through her. From the look on his face, so can Chase.

"I mean, he hired me because my Dad made a phonecall…"

Foreman snorts, sounds about right. He turns to Cameron, mouth ready to make a smart arse reply, but she's flushed and humiliated.

"I'm pretty…a piece of artwork in the lobby."

The blond nods, he understands. Foreman thinks that the fact that Chase is a good-looking little bastard has probably helped him in many situations as well.

"What about you?"

The eldest of the three suddenly finds himself the centre of attention, as his pretty colleagues look at him with childlike curiousity.

"I broke into someone's house." He replies, and really, that's all there is to it.

There's always been the four of them, well at least as far as Eric can remember…then again, he's only 16.

Simon Foreman is an accountant. A tall lean man, masculine build, with scars that run up and down his back telling tales of a past life.

Abby Forman is a housewife. Short and wide and charming and tough, her hands have always been grazed and broken and Simon would always be mad when she punched the mother of the boy(or as they got older, the boy himself) who messed with her family. People said she wore the pants in the Foreman household, but that wasn't true, she merely wore the boxing gloves.

Marcus is huge. Tall, and definitely not fat, he's just a hulking mass of bulging muscles, attractive and smart, with a pretty girl always at his side. Eric's always been slightly envious because he's short and is a bit on the heavy side. But then he recalls the syringes under his brother's bed, the liquid brain damage in little bottles under the sink. It's an unhealthy addiction, one that Eric's not jealous of.

Chase shakes his shoulder with surprising gentleness, and it's quite strange really, because Foreman doesn't remember falling asleep in the first place.

"Are you ok?" Cameron asks, worry evident on her elfin face, "You don't look too good."

Foreman shakes his head, and with a wave of his hand, dismisses her concerns. He's not one for pity.

There's a girl there now, watching them from the other side of the glass walls. She can't be older than 17, matted black hair falls over her pale face, and wild green eyes stare at the three of them, pricing them and putting them on the shelf.

"Who the fuck is she?" Foreman asks, loud enough for her to hear, for those emerald orbs to latch onto him.

"Dunno," Chase answers, "She came into the clinic, was there when the guy knocked me out. Mumbled a load of crap, seems like a bit of a nut job."

Cameron twitches, gestures for the two men to lower their voices, frantic of the girl overhearing. But it doesn't matter, because she's gone, almost as quickly as she came.

The younger two are eyeing each other, hesitant over something that Foreman knows is about him. So he rolls his eyes, grins at the two reassuringly, "Yea?"

"You said you broke into a house…"

His grin drops immediately, "Yea."

"Why?"

Foreman doesn't answer, instead he turns towards the door where the hulking figure in the ski mask stands, patiently guarding his prisoners. "We're hostages."

Chase rolls his eyes, but Cameron appears taken aback. Her red-hair just starting to fall out of her normally well-kept ponytail.

"What?"

"This whole thing. It's a hold-up."

"But why?"

He shrugs, "Who knows? Drugs, money, a grudge - probably against House."

"Why would they bring a teenage girl here though?" Cameron asks, naïve and sweet.

"You seem to know a bit about it," Chase says to the older man, "Been a hostage before?"

Foreman shakes his head in the negative, and it was true, he hadn't been.

No, he'd been the one with the gun.

Marcus dies on a cold night in early January. He's 19 years old, and has gone without a fix for three days. His hands shake and sweat is pouring off his body.

Tonight he's dragged Eric along for the ride. They're at a small café, way down town, and Marcus knows what he's doing.

"Felker." He calls out, voice hoarse.

The kid can't be older than 18, and he's a twitchy little thing, with greasy hair and sweaty palms. 'Felker' turns around, his beady eyes widening when latching onto Marcus' massive frame.

"Foreman! What…what are you doing?" Marcus grabs the Felker kid by the scruff of his shirt neck, drags him aside. There are only four other people in the café, two waiters, a pregnant woman and a sorta fragile looking old man.

"Eric!" Marcus yells, as he punches Felker in the gut, and it doesn't matter that he's only 16, the gun in Eric's hand is natural.

"Don't anybody fucking move." He states, gun pointed at one of the waiters. He's done this before, and if no one moves, no one will get hurt.

Suddenly a gun shot tears through the air, and the pregnant woman is screaming, but there's no steam floating from the mouth of Eric's weapon.

Something clicks in his head, and he turns before he can stop himself, just in time to see the blood ooze from his brothers neck, the gun in Felker's hand. It was a stupid thing to turn, because he's left himself wide open, and as the serving tray comes down on his head all he can think is how pissed off Marcus is gonna be.

The girl's outside again, but this time there's a gun in her hand. Upon sight of it Cameron yelps, and Chase unconsciously shuffles a little backwards. Foreman feels the blow to his ego though, that they're being held hostage by this scrawny, mad-eyed little girl.

"But she's so young." Cameron says, eyes as wide as newborn Bambi.

Foreman shrugs, she's not that young, but maybe it was because he was only 13 when he held his brother's for the first time, and this girl's gotta be about 17.

She shuffles into the room, her toe-sock clad feet sliding across the tiles. Their bulky guard remains outside the door, keeping one brown eye on his bony partner.

"I'm Eugenie." She states, pointing absently to herself with the gun, "Who are you guys?"

Cameron seems taken aback, "Dr. Cameron, this is Dr. Chase and Dr. Foreman."

Eugenie stares at them again, her big green eyes clouding over. "Damn. Not here, Rogers." She calls back to her partner, and starts to leave the room.

"Wait," Cameron calls out, blue eyes wide, "What…why are you doing this?"

The girl stares at the older woman, her eyes blank and lips pursed in a half-frown. "Because I have too." She says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"But this is a hospital…"

"Yes." Eugenie shrugs, rubbing her fingers over the mouth of the gun. "It's also just a building. A business."

"What?"

But Eugenie doesn't answer, she leaves the room, and through the glass they see her disappear down the hall.

Eric has to leave, because his family is cold, little and broken now, and the numbers odd. It isn't Simon and Abby, Marcus and Eric, it's Simon and Abbey, and Eric on his own, clinging to some ridiculously foreign memory of his dead brother.

He breaks into the Felker's house, because that bastard is the one that shot his brother. He doesn't know what he's going to do, so he just stands there, stares at the photos on the wall of a happy, wholesome, complete family…and suddenly all he feels is hate. A loathing that's running through his veins like wildfire.

The cops are there half an hour later, and Eric hasn't even tried to escape. He's ransacked the house, flushed every ounce of heroin he could find down the sink, and then proceeded to break everything he could get his hands on.

He couldn't bring his brother back, but he could send his killer to hell with him.

A/N

So it's starting to pick up. Woot!

Thanks to everyone who reviewed.