Nothing was said as she opened the door, blue eyes meeting her green.
Nothing ever was. 

She let him into the quiet of the front hall, even the faint sounds of the
wind in the trees fading once the door shut behind him. None of the
electronic hum of the hospital late at night, or the traffic sounds from
outside his apartment. Just pure, echoing, ear-ringing silence. 

He could swear he didn't even hear his own heart beat. 

The path to the bedroom had been memorized, even though his visits were
sporadic. He couldn't afford to come here too often. Or maybe he could.
The silence felt almost as addictive as the Vicodin right now. Especially
since he didn't have to worry about this being cut off. 

Her fingers efficiently divested him of his jacket, and his shirts, sweat
beginning to bead on his skin. It went beyond the silence, the lure of
this place. A lrue harder to ignore when his leg hurt and his Vicodin was
gone, and Cuddy wouldn't let him have more. Warmth, silence, no demands
that couldn't be met, no telling him that he could live with the pain,
without the Vicodin. 

No Vicodin, either, but nothing was perfect. 

His cane hung from the knob of her bedroom door. His jacket landed over a
chair, his shirts neatly folded on top. She stayed near him as he limped
towards the bed, able to steady him if he started to fall, but not
offering help. Only when he was sitting on the edge did she approach him
again, kneeling in front of him, undoing belt and jeans, letting him slide
them over his hips to drop to the floor. 

She stood in front of him once she'd set the rest of his clothing with his
shirts, her fingers poised on the first of the tiny buttons that held
together her outfit. Scarlet and black, silk and linen, and he shook his
head, reaching out to undo the buttons himself. He liked to unwrap his
present himself. His gift for putting up with Tritter and Cuddy and Wilson
and the trial, and the whole rehab mess. 

A gift of silence and warmth and sex and pretending that he really didn't
care beyond that. 

She let the jacket slide off her shoulders when the buttons were all free,
from neck to waist, elbows to wrists, blood red silk hissing as it fell.
Sooty black linen, as fine and dense as the silk, clung to her curves,
with as many tiny buttons down the back as the jacket had in total. And
black silk pants were little better. 

He always wondered why she wore so many buttons, though he doubted she'd
really want zippers on the shirt. Not so close to her throat. No hands, no
lips, nothing but the fabric of her clothing or her bed. He could
understand it, at least a little. 

After all, scars are always painful. 

Her clothing remained in a crumpled heap on the floor as he twisted
sideways on the bed, the matress thick and plush and barely shifting as
she knelt beside him, her knees next to his left hip. He reached across,
touching her shoulder, his hand skimming over her collarbone, dipping to
caress the first swell of her breast. 

She raised one hand to his jaw, rubbing her thumb over the stubble there.
It dropped lower, fingertips tracing the lines of muscles down, pausing at
the first dusting of corse hairs, a question in her expression. He paused,
thinking, before lifting his hand to the back of her skull, leaning in to
kiss her, hungry, his flesh already hardening with need. 

He should have come back sooner. 

They moved together, her keeping him balanced as he shifed over her, his
good leg nudging between her thighs. He leaned down to kiss her again as
she lifted her hips, letting him slide inside easily in one slow thrust.
She was hot and slick, and everything he needed right now, fingers
clutching at his arms, hips lifting to meet his rhythm. 

He rolled without pulling free after he ejaculated, reaching down between
them to circle her clit with his thumb, her own moisture mixing with his
fluids providing lubrication as he brought her to shuddering orgasm,
wrapping his arm around her as she curled against his chest, holding her
for a long moment before she stirred. 

This time, he didn't let her pull away as she always did. 

She usually left him to shower alone; this time, he pulled her in with
him, and she looked up at his face, tilting her head with a frown. He
reached behind her to turn on the water, the sound of the spray breaking
the silence, and she touched a hand to his face. Her frown faded as she
smoothed her fingers over the lines in his forehead, the tiny line of pain
etched between his brows. 

Her arms around him he didn't expect, nor the cheek laid against his
chest. He rejected intimacy from his friends, even the simple familiar
hug, and yet this... didn't feel wrong. It felt almost comfortable, and
strangely pleasent. He rested one hand against the wall to keep his
balance, wrapping his other arm around her shoulder, just holding her,
able even to forget the pain for a moment. 

No one would believe it if they saw it. Good, then, that no one would. 

He dressed slowly, reaching into the pocket of his jacket to pull out a
handful of bills, setting three of them on the small table next to her
bedroom door. He knew someone would ask him about where he was tonight in
the morning. And would wonder, if they knew, what he spent a hundred-fifty
dollers on in a night. 

She let him out into the night, where the wind cut noisily through the
trees, and his motorcycle sounded louder than usual after a few hours in
the silence of her home. He settled his helmet on his head, his cane
strapped across his back as he pulled away down the long driveway. He knew
he'd be back, sooner or later. And he didn't plan to give up this
particular addiction. 

After all, how could you call silence a dangerous addiction?