Title: The Touch - Chapter Three - Rumor Has It
Author: Linda/Brynna/Brynnamorgan
Rating: M for Graphic Language
Categories: Romance/Supernatural/Spiritual/AU
Characters: H/OC
Spoilers: None

Disclaimer: I'm not a doctor or a nurse or anything else medically related other than being a patient on occasion. This chapter and the next called for a young person with a terminal illness that House and the Ducklings couldn't help. I didn't name the illness specifically because I drew a huge blank, researched, then gave up. I hope this doesn't detract from the overall readability of this fiction.

For those too young to remember, a party line was a telephone line shared by several customers in a town. The practice had nearly died down by the Seventies and I doubt if it's in use in the US these days, except for very remote areas. Whenthe phonerang anybody could pick it up and answer. It was considered a courtesy to make one's presence known if they picked up the phone and somebody was already using it. Neighborhood gossips wouldn't and therefore get all the dirt on their neighbors.

Summary: "Wilson is worse than an old woman with a party line."

Lyrics Credit: "You Make Loving Fun" as sung by Fleetwood Mac, 1977

"I never did believe in miracles,
But I've a feeling it's time to try.
I never did believe in the ways of magic,
But I'm beginning to wonder why."

Chapter Three - Rumor Has It

Given that there was a major celebrity performing that afternoon, the halls were a lot quieter than he expected. Every time Greg rounded a corner he half-counted on avoiding being tripped by a reporter. Instead, things were business as usual. Odd. He shrugged. He didn't have time to focus on trivialities such as the lack of press attention, but still the thought nagged at him throughout the morning.

He even went as far as to check out the conference room Sabrina would be performing in, noting the low platform set up for a stage, a few small amps; that was it. Clean and simple. No banners, no signs.

"Contemplating creating chaos, House?"

Cuddy's voice behind him made him freeze for a moment. Damn that woman and her uncanny ability to sneak up on him like that. "Well, a major disruption did occur to me. Suppose if I start knocking stuff over with my cane that would do the trick? No, wait," he added, "not subtle enough. True chaos needs subtlety."

"Subtlety has never been one of your shining qualities," Cuddy replied dryly.

"Nor yours," he replied easily, leering at her low-cut blouse. "Revealing more goodies today, Cuddy? You know, if you unbutton the top button it'll reveal more real estate. Might even get me interested."

"For you, House, anything."

"Or at least for our V.I.P.."

Cuddy rolled her eyes and shook her head. "She's not my type." She cast a brief sideways look at him, remembering Sabrina's words from the previous day. "On the other hand, rumor has it..."

"Wilson is worse than a girl," House muttered as he exited the room, ignoring the snickering of his boss. Damn, did the entire fucking hospital know about his having the hots for the woman? Stacy too? He repressed a groan. Stacy was still in the peripherals, making occasional forays into his life and leaving emotional havoc in her wake. Sure, he still cared about her, in the "we used to be together and those feelings never really go away" kind of caring. A sudden curiosity came over him as he wondered what would happen if Sabrina and Stacy met. Maybe it could be avoided. Then again, maybe it was inevitable

Which led to problem number two, Cameron. He'd done his best to put her at a distance during her fellowship, but she had continued to hammer at him. Part of the problem with Allison Cameron was… well, she just hadn't lived. Granted, she'd been widowed young, but still she lacked what a woman closer to his own age would have, and that was the seasoning of life. That feeling of looking into a woman's eyes and knowing she'd understand the road a man had been down and back again. He liked the look of gracefully graying hair, lines around the eyes; why on earth women went to plastic surgeons to have wrinkles removed escaped him.

So he'd pushed the younger doctor away as best as he was able to manage, between sarcastic barbs and private conversations. To his relief she'd began to pull back a bit, finally settling on something more comfortable, and that was an odd sort of friendship peppered with sexual innuendo and snarky comebacks. Okay, that he could deal with and was content to have.

Girl trouble, he snarked to himself. Old, graying cripple with females chasing him around. Forget "General Hospital." He had plenty of drama to make up for it.

He limped into his office, drew the blinds, and opened the ones over the balcony windows. Ah. Better. With a sigh he settled into his chair and propped his feet up onto his desk, shutting his eyes to gather his thoughts. He'd spent time the previous evening and part of the day web browsing, combing through the Internet in order to find out what he wanted to know.

Sabrina Wallace and Whistle Stop, also known as SwwS, consisted of Sabrina on the fiddle (fiddle? he'd wondered at first, until he heard a sound byte of her playing the instrument); Brian Beloit on the bass fiddle, Jon Evans on the Dobro, Ray Blount on the banjo; and finally the man who'd overdubbed on some popular film soundtrack (he couldn't recall the name right off hand) which had caused the renewal in popularity of bluegrass, and that was lead male vocalist Derrick "Del" Thomas, who played the mandolin and acoustic guitar. Sound bytes had revealed Sabrina's pure, breathy soprano that could either seduce or sadden, lift to the skies or plunge to the depths of the soul. That alone had not only made him go by a local music store to grab the band's latest best-selling CD, it also made him determined to attend this little performance. He had a good excuse. He was the kid's diagnostician.

The rest of what he'd found out about her he ran lazily through his mind. Age forty-one, divorced ten years (okay, hopefully no competition from that direction), mother of one son, Michael, who was attending Princeton University nearby. According to the official site bio she'd moved to Princeton to be near him between tours. The photos he'd found at the site both amused and intrigued him. In nearly all of them the men of the band was surrounding her protectively; in some shots the guys wore a look that plainly said, "Fuck with our Sabrina and you're toast," especially the big bearded one, Del. Getting past those four could be formidable. Good. He loved a challenge.

Still, though… he sighed and reached into his sports coat for the Vicodin. What the web site and the related fan sites hadn't revealed was what made her tick. He caught vague references to the "healing power of music" that seemed to purposely sidestep questioning. He frowned, recalling the faint, tingling going up his arm when she'd grabbed him, then the odd burning sensation in his right thigh just before she collapsed. Then that... what had happened then? He'd felt as though she'd briefly become a part of him. Nah

"Uh, House?"

He looked up from his musing to see Cameron eyeing him with a cocked brow of amusement. "And to what do I owe this honor? And..." his expression changed to one of mischief, "why the smirk? Get some in the supply closet?"

"Actually, while you were gone I propositioned Chase. We found your desk to be very... accommodating."

"Ah. That would explain why the room smells like sex."

"I thought that your viewing internet porn was the reason the room smells like sex."

He looked at her admiringly. "You've done it. I have no answer." He stood up and bowed. "I defer to your silver tongue, Dr. Cameron." With that he grasped her hand, lifted it to his lips and pressed a light kiss on the back of it, getting an eye roll from her. "What? You doubt my sincerity? I'm crushed!"

"Huh." She extracted her hand from his and lifted the other brow at him. "Sincerity is not exactly part of your mental makeup, House. Besides," that smirk returned, "rumor has it..."

"Oh God, not you, too." He reached for his cane and leaned on it. "Is that why you darkened my door? To prove you possess the feminine talent known as gossiping?"

"My source was hardly feminine," she replied dryly.

"Wilson is worse than an old woman with a party line. Next thing you know I'll walk into that damned clinic and the patients will question me about..." He stopped in mid-sentence.

"Sabrina?"

"Shush."

Cameron gave him a peeved look. "I don't 'shush' very well, thank you. What I did come here to tell you, though, is that the concert starts in about thirty minutes. I think Wilson is saving you a seat."

"Probably out in the hall."

Pre-concert energy flowed through Sabrina as she strolled down the hospital corridor, letting Del lead her by the elbow. Of the four he was the most protective, but then again he'd joined the band in his mid-teens, with Sabrina as the mother figure he'd never really had. Eighteen years later found him once divorced, twice shy, and hanging on with those who'd had more influence on him than his parents.

The conference room had the simple layout she and the guys had agreed upon. For one thing it would give them all the freedom to relax, to occasionally set aside an instrument and have fun with the small audience. The only people in attendance would be Robby Darrelly and his family along with a few hospital personnel.

Unlike big concerts they didn't have all the fanciness, the roadies tuning up instruments, the huge wave of applause. Instead Sabrina simply walked in with the guys, grinning at the little boy who lit up the second he saw her from his position in a hospital recliner. So many tubes, so many machines keeping him alive, IVs with pain medication and fluids to keep him comfortable. Her smile slipped for a moment. He was dying. What he had could not be fixed.

"Robby?" She pulled up a stool next to the recliner and laid her hand on the boy's thin one. "I'm happy to meet you, hon."

"Oh, I'm happy to meet you, too, Sabrina!" He was smiling at her through the drugged haze he was in. "You're very pretty. Almost as pretty as my mommy."

She chuckled and touched his cheek. "Well, your mommy is quite a pretty lady. Listen, Robby, is there any one song you really want us to play for you?"

"Can Del sing 'Man of Constant Sorrow' for me?"

"Of course I can." Del's voice was gravelly from behind her.

She continued to stroke the five-year-old's cheek for a while, inwardly shaking her head. There was nothing to reach for, as hard as she tried. Giving the boy one last pat she stood and turned for the stage, pausing at the sight of Greg House pulling up a chair by the door and propping his feet up on the back of Wilson's. If there was one word to describe the look in his eyes it was intense, she decided, holding his gaze for as long as she could as she mounted the stage.

"Well, boys, let's get going," she said softly as she retrieved one of her fiddles from its stand and cradled it in her arms.