The drive home from the practice was deathly silent. He'd asked Charlotte if she was alright, and she'd said, "I will be," but other than that, nothing. He wants to ask if she needs to go to a meeting, wants to ask if she's really truly alright, but he also wants to trust her to know what she needs. She's been good at that, the whole time he's known her. When she needs to go to a meeting, she goes. When she needs help, she gets it. This is the one thing she seems to know how to ask for help with, the addiction. But then, he supposes, there's nothing like having a body count to keep things in perspective.
Still, she's silent. They don't speak in the elevator, don't speak in their apartment, and as soon as they're in the door, she's heading for the bedroom, peeling out of her sweater. She strips, and shuts herself in the bathroom, and within moments the shower is running.
And running.
And running.
It runs for forty-five minutes before he goes to check on her.
She's left the door unlocked, so he slides it open easily, and steps into the steam room their bathroom has become. He's sweating immediately, the damp air so thick he can only see her outline in the shower stall. She has her back to him, elbows on the wall, head bowed between them. The water's beating down on her from the side this way, and he can tell from where she's standing that some of it has to be splattering against the side of her face. She doesn't seem to mind.
He steps closer and says her name softly, and she jumps, straightens, and reaches for a bath sponge and body wash.
"Char," he says again, "Are you alright?"
He pulls the door open, just enough so that he can see her without looking through glass frosted over with steam. Her skin is red from the heat of the water, her hair plastered to her neck, her shoulder. When she looks at him, he has his answer, even before she shakes her head. It's something in the eyes – the same thing she's had all day. Anxiety, acute discomfort, guilt, shame.
"No," she answers softly, then she looks back at the puff in her hand, squeezing it until the soap lathers up. She runs it up her arm, over her shoulder, back down.
Forty-five minutes in, and it's just occurred to her to wash.
"Can I get in with you?" he asks, and he's fully expecting her to say no, but she doesn't.
She nods, tells him, "Sure," and swipes lather over her chest.
Cooper strips down and steps in, and covers her hand with his, foamy soap bubbles slipping between their fingers. Hers are shaking just a little. "Let me."
"Okay," she murmurs, relinquishing the puff, and he runs it over her breasts, her belly, up again toward her other arm. She shifts to accommodate, and the shower spray deflects off her shoulder, spattering him with tiny, burning drops.
He tests the spray with his hand; it's scalding. No wonder she's pink.
Cooper props her arm on his shoulder, coasting the sponge tenderly across her skin, and she lets her eyes drop shut. She doesn't look the least bit relaxed.
He can't stand seeing her like this; it's been killing him all day.
So he asks her, "What do you need?"
She looks at him then, sharply, and tells him, "Loaded question."
Right.
"What can I do?" he amends.
She shakes her head a little, at a loss for words, it seems. With a gentle nudge, he urges her to turn so he can soap her back. She turns for him, and plants her hands on the tile again. She's tense, jumpy. Pent up.
It takes a few minutes for the words to come from her, but when they do, they make his heart stutter: "I need… somethin'."
It's a pointed "something." What she means is she wants to use. Despite everything she saw in Amelia today, or maybe because of it, that need has been stirred up in her.
He should've made her go to a meeting. Should've driven her straight there, and waited in the car until she was done. He's not equipped to help her through this; he doesn't know how.
And he decides the best thing he can do for her right now is to be honest, so he tells her.
"I don't know what, uh… I don't know what to do for you right now."
For a few seconds, she doesn't move or speak. And then she turns, stepping back into the spray to rinse the soap off her skin, reaching for his free hand at the same time.
Her eyes are bright and clear all of a sudden as she takes that hand and presses it between her legs. "Give me a different high. Screw me 'til it's… enough."
Cooper lets the sponge fall to the floor with a plop and moves in close, pinning her to the wall and kissing her hard. The water is uncomfortably hot, but he ignores it, letting his hands slide over her slippery skin.
This, he can do.
If this is what she needs, if this will take the edge off, this is a way he can help her.
And God, he needs to help her.
He takes her against the shower wall, and she's restless and tense, her hands fluttering over his skin like hummingbirds. She can't settle anywhere for more than a few seconds. It's quick, and rough, and it takes her longer than usual to come, so by the time she does, he can't hold back any more.
Now he's the one with his forehead against the wall, the water finally starting to cool as it cascades down on him (or maybe he's just getting used to it now, he's not sure). She's breathing heavily, trapped between him and the tile, and Cooper's enjoying the buzz of afterglow when she breathes, "I need more."
"Okay." He steps back, reaches over and cranks the water off, then tells her, "Not in here."
He never feels safe on his feet in the shower.
She nods and steps out of the stall, heading for the bedroom, her skin still wet, little rivulets running from the ends of her hair, down her back.
There's no harm in wet sheets, he figures, ignoring the towels stacked nearby and following her immediately. He catches her, kisses her, over and over, until she's half on the bed, and he's standing, then kneeling, tugging her hips to the edge and using his tongue and his hands to bring her up again. She has a second orgasm, a third, a fourth, and still she tells him, "More."
He climbs into bed with her, pulls her on top and lets her ride it out. And she does, her body moving hard over his, working deep, pleasured grunts from both of them. She's frenzied, determined, and, God, stunning, and he's not sure whether he should take in the sight of her like this, wild and seeking, and hungry for him (or for what he can give her, anyway), or shut his eyes so this lasts longer.
In the end, he can't help looking at her, and it ruins the whole thing. He comes just a little too soon – can't help it with the way she's fucking him hard and scratching her nails over his chest, moaning and writhing and spiraling up, up, up. It's just that he hits that precipice first, and she lets out this bereft cry as he spills into her.
He rubs hard between her legs, immediately, and feels her clench around him. But she's shaking her head, whining, "No, no, no…" her hips rocking lightly against his. "I need—" She slams her hips down hard, but it's no use, he's already going soft. "Damnit!"
Damnit is right, he thinks, kicking himself for not closing his eyes and reciting baseball stats or something.
"I'll take care of you," he promises, dumping her unceremoniously next to him and rolling until he can yank open the nightstand and fish out the sex toys. Their sex life isn't as wild as it used to be, they haven't quite worked back up to that place, but some things come back more quickly than others, and he knows her favorite vibrator will be fully charged.
He grabs it from its case and pushes a button, and sure enough, it hums to life softly. Perfect.
He rolls to her, and she's laying there, splayed, her breath still heavy, with a pained look on her face. "I've got it, I've got you," he murmurs, tucking himself along her side, and reaching down to slip the vibrator inside her, angling it just the way she likes, and adjusting the external nub against her clit, then turning it up a few notches.
He moves it in and out of her, and her eyes fall shut again. She nods, slowly, and then again, and again. It's good. He knows just how she likes this; they've done it a million times before. Nights when she needs just a few more orgasms than he can keep up with.
Suddenly those nights take on a whole new meaning.
He rests his head against hers, lips against her ear, murmuring to her how beautiful she is, how much he loves her, how he'll take care of her, just feel it, just feel how good it is…
After a few minutes she jerks and trembles, grits her teeth and he thinks maybe that's it, maybe he's robbed her of the full experience by stopping just short before. It wouldn't be the first time it's happened to them. But it's not, and he hasn't. He keeps going, harder, faster, and then finally she goes rigid, eyes squeezing shut, hard, her mouth falling open, tense and silent before she lets out a harsh cry, then one more, another.
And then she's bringing a shaking hand down between them, pushing at his, and he stills the vibrator and stops.
It's finally enough.
She starts breathing again, heavily, and her face relaxes. Her grimace of pleasure melts away, and her eyes blink open for a second, then close again. He sees them roll back just a little as her lids fall shut, and gets a flash of Amelia. Flying high on oxy, slow-blinking and dulled. He's pumped Charlotte full of a half-dozen orgasms worth of oxytocin, and she's finally feeling something that's enough to ease her need.
Her breathing is starting to slow, to go even and peaceful, and he can see her eyes move toward him under closed lids. The corners of her eyes are damp with unshed tears.
"Thank you," she breathes, and he presses a kiss to her shoulder, her neck, behind her ear. She adds, "I'm sorry," and his heart breaks a little for her.
"Don't be," he murmurs, covering her mouth with his and kissing her slowly. He pulls back just far enough to say, "You don't have to apologize for finding a safe way to cope." They're still so close his lips brush against hers as he says it. "Never be sorry for doing what you need to stay sober. Ever. Okay?"
She nods, her nose bumping against him, then turns her head away and takes a deep breath.
"Is it better now?" he asks, again, lifting a hand to trace his fingers along the line of her jaw.
She opens her eyes, stares out the window for a minute, then nods her head slowly. "I need to go to a meeting in the morning," she tells him. "No excuses. But yeah."
"I'll make sure you go," he promises, as he skates his touch down her neck, over her collar.
"Right now, I just wanna sleep."
Cooper smirks slightly at that, a small amount of pride welling up in him at the knowledge he has worn her out completely.
He settles in a little more fully, and drapes his arm across her belly. Truth be told, he's pretty exhausted, too.
"Take a nap," he urges. "I'll wake you for dinner."
"Okay," she murmurs, her voice scratchy and already a little sleepy.
Her eyes drop shut, and she looks peaceful. Really, truly peaceful.
Cooper stays awake, watching sentry over her as she sleeps.
The addiction is a part of her life he'll never really understand, and after this morning, he has a clearer idea of just how much he doesn't fathom. But he'll be there for her, however he can, and if it means being her drug when she can't have the one her brain is telling her she needs, well… he's pretty sure he's been doing that all along anyway.
No reason to stop now.