Title: The Touch – Chapter Eight – The Strongest Man
Author: Linda/Brynna/Brynnamorgan
Rating: M for Graphic Language
Categories: Romance/Supernatural/AU
Characters: H/OC
Spoilers: None

Summary: "Here's the way I look at it, hon. You can either keep lying there looking like a turtle on its back or you can accept a hand up."

A/N #1: the string of swear words that Sabrina uses is my favorite string of swear words when I am pissed beyond belief. Had to get a tiny bit of self-insert in there somewhere. ;-)

A/N #2: The Delaware Valley Bluegrass Festival is real and is held every Labor Day Weekend in Southwest New Jersey. If anybody goes, please let me know if I came close to guessing what it would be like! I'd like to know that research plus personal experience with festivals in general paid off.

A/N #3: I promise that some House lovin' is coming (pun not intended) soon. At least two chapters totally devoted to it, in fact. Patience! ;-)

Lyrics Credit: "Heavy Lifting" as sung by Blake Shelton, 2003

"Baby when your heart is aching
Lean on me, my back ain't breaking
All I'm saying
Is that I don't mind doing
A little heavy lifting."
Chapter Eight – The Strongest Man

House leaned against the door of the large suite he'd reserved and watched as his (Girlfriend? Lover? Hot date? Woman?) unpacked her suitcase, hung her fringed blouses in the closet and parked her shoes at the bottom. Typical female, he thought, smirking at the sight. Only a woman would bring extra frills for a weekend at a large campground.

As it was it took everything he had to not interrupt Sabrina with more interesting diversions than unpacking her suitcase, especially with a king-sized bed a few feet away. Still, he hadn't brought her here for sex (no, take that back, that wasn't the only thing he'd brought her here for) so he was determined to be on his best behavior, at least for the moment.

"I can't believe this was the only room you could find," she commented, pausing to take a look around what had to be the honeymoon suite at their hotel in Wilmington, Delaware. "Especially..." She looked up at the mirrors over the bed and blushed a little.

"Believe it. Every room from here to the Delaware Valley was full because of the festival. It was either this or forty miles to Philadelphia. Besides, we've got a fancy bed, Jacuzzi, all the amenities." He waggled his brows at her but continued to stay where he was at. It was safer that way. She merely grinned and blew a kiss at him before returning to her unpacking.

Sabrina paused in front of the dresser mirror to give herself on last once-over, acutely aware of Greg's eyes on her. Jump him! her mind screamed. Just push him onto the bed and ride him like there's no tomorrow. Fuck him silly. She repressed a grin at the thought. Damn, now she was getting wet. Silly old broad. She brushed her hair and wound it into a thick ponytail, some of her curls tamed by two large barrettes. Over that went her Chicago Cubs baseball cap, which ran in direct contrast to Greg's New York Mets cap. One toss of the sunscreen into her tote bag, sunglasses, thin blanket for the ground, yes, plenty of money, and then her fiddle in its case. If someone was jamming in the campgrounds somewhere, she was not about to miss out.

"Anything else?" Greg said dryly. "All of the pretty towels, the complimentary soap and shampoo?"

"Just you."

He followed her silently out into the hall and once the door was shut pulled her into his arms then backed her against the door. His mouth slammed down on hers, containing her gasp of surprise. His tongue dove into her mouth, devouring, his hips thrusting against hers. Immediately she sagged, her hands clinging to him. Could the man kiss or could he kiss?

"Damn," she whispered against his lips when he finally lifted his head slightly. "What... was that about?"

"About either doing it here or back in the room," he said huskily. "And back in the room... we would never have left."

"And this would be a bad thing?"

Greg's eyes shut and she watched him struggle for control. "No, it wouldn't be a bad thing," he finally muttered. "But, I brought you here to listen to music, spend money, and see an old friend. Not just..." He waved his free hand in the air, his cheeks flushing.

"Why, you romantic," she said softly, taking delight in the way his blush deepened. "How sweet."

"Hush, you'll ruin my rep." Still, he was smiling sheepishly as he escorted her to the elevator.

Watching Sabrina go from booth-to-booth was like watching a bird discovering her wings weren't clipped. Greg marveled at the way fellow musicians who recognized her treated her like one of the family, joking, teasing her about the "handsome man" who was escorting her. In turn she'd blush, introduce him, then drag him in to meet everyone. She was showing him he could be social again, and he wasn't quite sure how to take it. He was by nature anti-social, mistrusting of the human race. Everybody lies, he thought. If everybody lies then he was lying about everybody lying. Christ, philosphical in the middle of a campground? He mentally flipped himself off and told the circular thinking to take a hike for the moment. Enjoy being by her side and if the cost was being out of his element, so be it. Odd, that he didn't feel out of his element. There went that fucking circular thinking again. Maybe a double-bird would chase it off.

By mid-afternoon they made a decision to wander over to the campground area to find out if campers were engaging in jam sessions. Secretly Greg's leg was starting to ache and all the Vicodin in the world hadn't helped. Instead he grit his teeth and kept going. Dammit, House, you didn't think about this, he grumbled inwardly. He didn't want to spoil her fun. Hell, he'd been in far worse pain than this, he'd be in far more again.

Just as they reached the campground edge his cane went down... then down into a rut and he to the ground with it. Screeching pain shot through his thigh and he gasped, tucking over into his right knee.

"Goddammit," he growled out as she knelt next to him, her eyes wide. "God-fucking-damn son-of-a-bitch."

"My favorite was always 'mother-fucking cock-sucking son-of-a-bitch,'" she quipped, getting a glare from him. "Okay, not funny. What do you need?"

"A good right leg," he muttered, slowly straightening it out with a groan. "Dammit to hell."

"Well, since that's not happening any time in the near future, what can I do to help?"

"Nothing."

"Right." She stood up and extended her arm to him, causing him to stare at her like she'd lost her mind. "Here's the way I look at it, hon. You can either keep lying there looking like a turtle on its back," his glare darkened, "or you can accept a hand up." When he continued to stare at her she added, "Let me put it another way. What if our roles were reversed? Would you leave me lying on the ground and let me struggle up on my own?"

At that he let out a sigh and closed his eyes for a few moments. She's not Stacy, he reminded himself firmly. "Okay," he said out loud, reopening his eyes.

"Good. What can I do?"

"Elbow."

He linked his arm around her elbow and slowly eased up, using his cane for support. Once upright he draped his arm around her shoulders and let her lead him over to a patch of shade at the edge of the grounds. There she spread the blanket and helped him back down again, then came down next to him. Remaining as detached as he could he ran his fingers over his right thigh, his knees, ankles. No sprains, just a bit tender. Thank God.

"So, what's the prognosis, doctor?" Sabrina finally asked as Greg rolled his pant leg down, looking a little more cheerful. That fall had scared the living daylights out of her, although she'd done her best to not let it show. He seemed none the worse for wear because of it, excepting perhaps bruised pride.

"No sprain. I'll be fine. And, Sabrina, if you don't mind, that is... I don't want to fuck up the day..."

"What?"

"Could we rest for awhile?"

"Of course. I could use a breather myself." Her fingers came to rest on his right thigh, feeling the muscles that were still intact bunch under her caress. "Greg, I can't 'heal' you, but maybe you need something else." Slowly she began to massage in circles, avoiding the injured area, getting the tension out of the stressed muscles.

"Uhm."

"Good?"

"Yeah." His eyes shut and he was actually smiling. Good.

After awhile she worked her way down his leg, his calf, then removed his shoes and began working on his foot; over to his left leg (avoiding one particular location that might find them both embarrassed) and down. The sound of his even breathing told her he'd fallen asleep. Thank God, she thought, sitting back and letting out a long sigh of relief.

Her eyes fell on the miscreant cane and she picked it up, running the length of it over and over in her hands. Amazing how a person could become dependent on one strong piece of wood.

Suddenly she rose to her feet, fetched her billfold out of her tote bag and picked up the cane. Hopefully he'd stay asleep for awhile, she thought as she hurried back over to the vendors and one of the displays she'd seen earlier, cane in hand.

Greg slowly became aware of a light breeze across his face and a warm woman spooned against him. Uhm. Yup, he'd died and went to heaven. Music came across the air, the sounds of children playing out on the field intermixed with it. Heaven? He snuggled a little closer to Sabrina and planted a kiss on the side of her neck. If not, heaven couldn't be better than this. Wrapped around a soft, warm female, the scent of her shampoo, thighs pressed intimately against his, her behind nestled into his hips.

I'm a goner.

"Hey, cranky doctor." She turned to her back and was rewarded with a kiss.

"Hey, bluegrass lady." He hesitated, then continued, "I hope I wasn't too cranky earlier. Sorry about..."

Her fingers on his lips stilled him. "Shit happens. You fell. Not the first time, won't be the last. Life goes on."

"That 'turtle on its back' remark stung." By the twinkle in his eyes she knew he was ribbing her.

"Well, you did kinda look like one, except cuter."

Immediately he pinned her to her back, wedging his good thigh between hers. "Yeah, well, a turtle has a hard shell, but I have something a lot harder."

"What? Your cane?"

He pretended to frown at her, then grinned and pressed his lips to hers before rolling off of her and sitting up in the name of public decency. His eyes fell on his cane, then on the object lying next to it. Another cane? He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. "Sabrina?" he whispered, taking in the highly polished hand-carved cane. Treble clefs and musical notes ran the length of it, with the handle finishing in a curve similar to the cane he currently carried. "I don't know what to say."

"Here." She turned it so he could see the underside of the handle, revealing the lettering she'd had the carver engrave there.

"'G.H. For the strongest man – something to lean on.'" He fell silent, taking in the meaning behind the words. His throat tightened, he took a deep breath and his eyes squeezed shut. Hard.

"Greg, there's something I want to tell you." She moved to rest her head on his good thigh and grasped his free hand. "There's strength and then there's strength. I don't know the story behind this yet," her fingers lightly traced his right thigh, sending a few tingles through it that told him a bit of energy passed through her to him. "But I do know that while this part of you may not be strong, this part is." Her palm came to rest on his chest, right over his heart. "And that's what matters the most."

Suddenly he dropped the cane to the ground and engulfed her to him, burying his face in her hair. What had he done right that she'd come along? He drew in a deep breath and continued to hold her to him, his body shaking with what his mind was starting to realize and his heart already knew.

He was in love.