Title: Confessions of a Red Mug
Author: Amanda
Feedback: sweety167yahoo.ca
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I'm not really sure who owns House M.D., but I know it's not me.
Spoilers/Continuity: none
Pairing: House/Cameron
Summary: A series of drabbles, from the perspective of the Red Mug.
Completed: February 19, 2007
1) There's a rhythm in his fingers as they wrap around me. I don't know the song, but it's familiar. Bittersweet. Melancholy. His. And just as it's there, it's gone again. Hidden away.
His hands are two sided (like his personality): one smooth, the other callused and rough. But both are usually warm, dependable. Not that he'd acknowledge that.
The grip around me is hard and I'm sure, one day, he's bound to bruise me, crush me. Break me. He holds on tightly, a hold to keep himself grounded. His hold on me is only envied by his hold on her…
2) She's soft and delicate, but firm. Much stronger than any of the others give her credit for. Dependable and devoted. That level of commitment takes patience. And personal strength.
I'm never afraid she'll drop me, Cameron has the careful caress of a lover. And she cradles me like one; gentle, caring, but firm. She's cautious not to hold me too tight, but never slips. Never falters.
I wonder if she seems me as an extension of him…the red life-line they both share.
But I never sure what to expect from her. Hot, sensuous or bitter cold. She's hiding herself well.
3) She whisper's her secrets to me. In broken confessions and one-sided conversations as she stirs in the sugar.'Have to be careful, never too much. Never too soon.'
An experimental sip; That brush of her lips, a gentle first kiss, as she lets out a surpressed sigh to cool me. To soothe herself. To confess everything.
'Never show how comfortable this can be. How safe.'
The downward twist of her mouth tells me. It tells me that he doesn't know yet. Doesn't know of all the secrets she's told me. He doesn't know half of them, doesn't listen for them.
4) He lingers. It's all hot breath and anticipation. Waiting and staying, weighing each press of his lips, each next move.
But he always makes the same move; a slow sip and pleased sigh…familiar, safe. Almost happy. Almost.
Watching from behind the rim, the way his lips play against the ceramic. A Morse Code. Tapping out messages, meanings. Something he tells only me, and I still don't know it.
He speaks without uttering a word.
The corner of his mouth curves up: he's learned something, finally something.
Does he see me as her offering, the chance to grab hold of something?
5) They tremble slightly as they reach for each other – with me in the middle, their pawn piece.
Her hands shock warm – she blames it on the coffee. His get clammy; thinking it's the weather. Purposely blind to what's happening… I can feel it, see it.
They must know.
These little games, their excuses to fall into an intimate ritual. To share the secrets of hands and lips with each other. With someone other than this mug.
Have you ever seen someone rationally fall in love? It doesn't happen, not if it's done right.
Not when it's done by these two.
End.