Enjoy the Silence
A/N: The work of a beta is exceptional, yet almost never to be seen by the naked eye. The readers will never know how much of a help a beta offers, but I do, Meg. I do.
Warning: Change of rating. Just to be safe, though as I am told by my beta, it's pretty mild. Don't know whether to believe her, though. She is pretty kinky. *wink-wink.*
Chapter 29
"The fever's finally broken," she murmurs with relief, setting the thermometer on the night table before turning back to him, gently running her fingers through his floppy, damp bangs.
Beads of sweat still cover his forehead, his skin flushed. He gives her a tired, thankful smile before another fit of coughing seizes him. He has to sit up, his spasming body rocking the whole bed and Kate sighs, rubbing his back while she waits him out before handing him the cup of tea.
Castle grabs for it gratefully and takes a gulp before slumping back against the pillows, the fit leaving him utterly spent. His eyes are still glassy, cheeks pinkish, but at least he's not puking all over the place anymore, keeping fluids down now.
She's barely slept; actually, they're both sleep deprived, although he's definitely had it worse. Still, Kate can feel the lack of proper rest and exhaustion pressing down on her, her eyes gritty and dry. She has to go into work while he gets to stay in bed, though she wouldn't trade places with him, the poor guy. Having the flu in your forties is no fun. He would probably scowl her for the commentary on his age, she thinks, suppressing a grin.
Her eyes cut to the alarm clock and she bites her lip when she sees how late it is; she should have left for work twenty minutes ago, but she's just so reluctant to go, to leave him here like this, sick and miserable and bored out of his mind.
She glances at the clock again, and some of her guilt must transfer to her face because Castle's eyes follow hers, frowning when he takes in the numbers. He gives her a pointed look, then raises his hands, his uncoordinated fingers fumbling with the signs she has a hard time deciphering. Go. Late. And then he points unnecessarily to the clock.
Kate sighs. Yes, she knows it's late. Knows she should get going, thank you very much.
It's nothing. Just the stupid flu. It's not like he's dying or anything.
But even as she thinks it, an involuntary shiver runs down her spine. She'll probably never be okay seeing him in any other condition than hearty and healthy. The last couple of days, his discomfort and suffering, even from something as ordinary as the flu...it's imprinted on her, dredged up things she doesn't want to remember. It made her skin crawl, the images her mind had conjured during the wee hours of night when she wiped his brow with a damp cloth, listening to his wheezing, labored breaths.
"So, Kate," Alexis bursts inside the room with a flourish, pulling Kate from her thoughts. The redhead's arms are laden with books and DVDs, a fresh box of Kleenex and some snacks. "I'm all set now. Sorry it took so long, but I couldn't find season two of Game of Thrones for dad." She throws a questioning, slightly accusing look at Castle. "Buttercup must have been playing with the box because I found it under the couch." The glance she gives her father is stern and all too knowing, her free hand presenting him with the plastic box with one corner chewed off.
Castle blushes, burying his head deeper into the pillows, but he merely shrugs his shoulders, seemingly unbothered by the destruction. He doesn't chance a look at Kate, though, and it's all the admission she needs. She grins, patting his chest soothingly.
Just this once, she'll let it go.
Castle's chest relaxes, a tired, boyish grin stretching across his face as he glances back up her expectantly, his fingers dancing across her hip, urging her on and okay, okay, she's going already.
She rises to her feet and bends over the bed, ignoring Castle's dramatic lurch to avoid her touch, and manages to press a kiss to his sweaty forehead despite his protests. And yeah, okay, it is a little gross, but she isn't at all sorry. His disapproving scowl makes her bark out a laugh, because he's cute, but adamant in his attempts to shield her, to protect her own health. But if she were going to catch the flu from him, she probably would have done so already. Certainly after the time she went down on him only two days ago – but okay, okay, that's not the direction her mind should wander right now.
She shakes her head forcefully, wiping the grin off her face and the memory from her mind. Shrugging her arms into her jacket, she grabs her bag and the keys from the dresser.
"Be good, babe," she says with a wink and blows him a kiss, her heart skipping a beat at his answering sign of Always, before she makes a beeline for the door. Because if she doesn't leave now, she won't leave at all.
Even from the foyer, she can hear a new bout of violent coughing rattling him and for a moment she feels conflicted. She honestly can't decide whether to consider his sickness a curse or a blessing.
Because they don't talk about it. Of course they don't, just like they never have.
But the fact remains that for the last couple of days, Castle has been freely sneezing and coughing (and yes, even retching), uninhibited and naturally loud. It shouldn't make her so hopeful. It really shouldn't. She's setting herself up for disappointment if this doesn't lead to more, and that's the very last thing they all need right now.
He's been slowly getting back more of his natural sounds, those instinctual ones you can't help making. The best part of all is that there's been no setbacks, no panic attacks, no regrets. And no pressure, either.
It would all come in good time, Burke had said in one of their rare joint sessions; they just have to be patient and give him the freedom to allow it to happen at its own pace. At the same time though, he warned them not to have too many expectations.
She didn't…for the most part.
And while it's been hard to watch Castle struggle with his sickness for the last few days, the way it's propelled him forward in his recovery has been a revelation; his articulation of sounds is nothing short of a miracle. He didn't even seem to notice at first, during that rather scary, feverish first night. He just coughed, sneezed, sniveled and moaned his way through the night, blessedly too delirious to notice. Later, he was simply too exhausted and miserable to contemplate it too closely.
It made them slightly nervous – her, Martha, and Alexis – watching him feel wretched with the powerful coughs wracking his body. Mostly, they were afraid it might once again evoke the sound-pain association drilled into him by Tyson. But whether oblivious or unwilling, Castle didn't stop making the sounds, even as he grew less dazed by the medication and more alert during the day.
It was nothing, really. Nothing of substance, anyway. No speech, no words, no whispers. Not even sounds he might make consciously, like a laugh or a scoff. Nothing was done on purpose.
And yet, it seemed to unlock something in him.
She hated they couldn't be certain; there was no way of knowing how much progress could be made, and where (and if) it would end. She knew that the thing he was most afraid of was that they would get their hopes up and he wouldn't be able to deliver more. She didn't want to give him reason for that fear, but at the same time, she was more and more hopeful each day. Fiercely hopeful, a burning desire that grew within her. It wasn't fair to him, but then nothing was fair to any of them these days.
She grabs her travel mug from the kitchen, filled with coffee she had to make herself this morning while she was preparing the herbal tea for her sick fiancé. She's used to good stuff, the best blend, but she still makes a face as she takes a sip of the hot liquid. It never tastes quite the same, never as good as his.
Eh, it will have to do.
A loud sneeze carries towards her from the bedroom and she desperately tries to quell the tiny jolt of her heart, because she knows hope is a dangerous thing. But even as the front door falls shut behind her, she can't help but cradle that little pocket of shining optimism tighter to her chest.
The progress he makes in the following weeks is breathtaking and he even manages to amaze himself.
They're small things. A hum of acknowledgment when Mother hands him the newspaper, a grunt of dissatisfaction and a click of his tongue when his daughter comes down the stairs one night in a shirt he deems far too short and flimsy. An ooof! after he gets pummeled one afternoon by an over-excited Buttercup.
Small things. But big things all the same. Not just for him, but for all of them, and he can sense it in the way they're not talking about it.
He regularly makes sounds now and they're all casually accepting of it, even if it feels anything but casual. But they never dwell on it, never bring it up for discussion. They act like it's no big deal, like it's completely normal, all of it; his silences as well as the noises he makes, more and more often these days. They don't comment on it, seemingly taking it in stride, like they'd expect nothing less of him. Nothing more, either.
Sometimes it baffles him, this elephant in the room they all seem to tiptoe around, never upsetting the balance they've established. It's not that they're disregarding it, or indifferent to it. Or that they aren't proud.
He sees it in their eyes, in their actions, hell, even in the way they don't comment on it. A gentle, appreciative smile; the caress of a hand; a happy pat against his cheek. All small gestures, rewarding him for all of his small sounds.
It works. Maybe it's slightly weird, but it works for them.
It's late and their room is dark, only a single bedside lamp gently illuminating their bedroom. The lamp and the candles. Mmm, can't forget the candles…Kate's touch.
She likes candles, apparently; likes the soft, warm light spilling over the room, bathing it in tender shadows.
But he can't concentrate on that right now, not when Kate's got him blissfully naked and aroused, writhing underneath her in sweet agony as she rises above him like a goddess, her soft curls spilling over her shoulders in gentle waves, eyes alight with mischief.
That look is on her face, the playful one with her tongue pressing against the back of her teeth, and he knows he's in trouble. Oh God, yes, let him be in trouble. She's straddling him, has him so worked up his whole body is thrumming with anticipation, his hips surging toward her, silently begging for more, always more.
Her hands are splayed wide across his chest, toying and playing, caressing his most sensitive spots. She knows him so intimately, so amazingly well, and it always steals his breath away, that this is a two-way road. That they are both so deep in this. It makes him wonder how he got so lucky.
She's pushing all the right buttons, teasing but never giving into the urge to do more, and it excites and frustrates him to no end. Her pelvis meets his, but the position and angle are wrong, and she knows it. He grunts with impatience and she merely grins, splaying her body over his, breasts flush against his chest, and presses a hot, lasting kiss against his lips.
She kisses him deeply, thoroughly, taking her time. And even though he wants to give it to her, this slow build, the teasing as they continue to explore each other with their hands and mouths, his hands grab her thighs, traveling up to sneak around her hips. She moans into his mouth and grinds against him in retaliation, right there, right where he wants to have her, before lifting her hips off him again, another frustrated puff leaving his lips.
She ignores his sudden impatience, his immediate need for her, but trails her fingers down his chest where they're still plastered together, her hands slightly trapped in between. Her nail scratches over his nipple and he hisses, feels her grin as it spreads against his cheek.
Such sweet torture.
Her fingers continue their explorations and god, it's taking too long and if she keeps up this teasing, she might be very disappointed in the end. He wants to utter her name, plead with her, beg her, but no sound comes out.
His hands squeeze her hips again in a silent plea, but she takes his fingers in her own and guides them up and above his head, loosely pinning them with one of her own hands. The other travels south, dipping ever lower, and yes, yes, that's exactly it, that's exactly where he wants to feel her.
Her fingers stroke him and then squeeze, dragging a deep, guttural moan of pleasure from his throat, spilling into the darkness of the bedroom.
He freezes, and for a moment, she does too.
It's a first. A first in a long series of firsts.
She recovers first, grinding against him in reply, fully aware of the power she has over him at the moment. Her mouth is at his ear as she continues to touch him, hard and unrelenting and so fucking good.
"Do that again," she husks, a plea and a command both. She grabs him at the base, positioning him right at her entrance, coating his tip with her slick heat and he couldn't stop it even if he wanted to as another dark moan escapes his lips.
Kate, Kate, Kate.
His mind is blissfully blank apart from the single word.
"That's it, babe," she whispers, rewarding him as she finally, finally sinks down onto him, both of their moans mingling in a single breath.
She sets a quick rhythm and he knows they're both already so close, so damn close.
He pulls one of his hands free, his fingers searching, seeking, and then he's there. She gasps, her back arching and her head falling against his shoulder, her breath damp against his neck.
She bites at his lobe and sucks the sensitive flesh right behind his ear, that one secret spot that hopelessly turns him on even more as he moans and writhes, their rhythm faltering as they draw closer to their peak. Her mouth is at his ear, her voice a sultry and mischievous murmur.
"Come again?" she teases. "Come on, Rick. I want to hear your voice."
Oh, God.
He does come, on a deep and guttural groan so obscene, it would otherwise make him blush. It takes him time to recover, to come back from his high and refocus, and by that point, she's slipped down from around his torso, resting at his side.
With a pang of embarrassment, he realizes he doesn't even know whether she…but she's giving him this huge smile, her eyes luminous, open and unguarded. Happy. Letting him know he's responsible for that.
It's almost more than he can bear.
With time, Kate realizes that she doesn't really miss his ability to speak. They don't need the words to feel normal. It's the sounds in general that create the normalcy, not the speech per se.
It's the joy of reading in silence together, the only sounds the rustle of paper and the occasional clearing of his throat, the popping of her toes, the satisfied hum that escapes him when he rolls his head on his stiff neck after sitting too long in one position.
It's not having to watch him suppress what should come naturally to him, to any person. It's reclaiming the freedom of his body as well as his mind, breaking free of those confines, the internal prison within which Tyson had barricaded him, forcing him to stifle everything that's instinctual, causing his personality to retreat and hide itself away.
They don't talk about it openly, his mother, his daughter or her; they just accept it as it comes, some days more, some days less. But it does come, steadily and more frequently.
What they now call the Hamptons episode never repeats again, although there are still moments when he freezes, when a sound makes him stop dead in his tracks. When his eyes lose their focus and his mind transports him to some dark, desolate place. He always shakes himself free though, and more days than not, he can accept the sounds for what they are: a natural part of his life again.
It makes her so damn proud of him. Hell, proud doesn't even begin to cover it for Kate. She takes nothing for granted in this regard, absolutely nothing. His every sound, as tiny as it might be, makes her heart rejoice, lifts her spirits. Because every sound he makes is more evidence of his progress, of his healing. She doesn't need those sounds to love him completely, because she already does. But she knows what they mean for him, for his recovery, for his mental health. Each little sound is a milestone in her eyes.
Each and every one is a gift that she picks up and stows away, collecting them greedily like the little pockets of light they are.
She forces herself to not mention it to him. It's hard, at times, especially when words of praise and awe push up into her throat. Still, it is a big deal, every single time, and Kate doesn't want him to think she takes it for granted, because she never does. No sound – whether it's a deep sigh, a yelp, a sneeze or a moan – ever goes unnoticed by her.
And though she never acts on them right away, never makes the mistake of repeating Tyson's conditioning of instant cause and effect, she ultimately has to acknowledge his progress. She always takes stock, always makes a mental note not to forget. To make it count.
She's patient. She's cautious. She doesn't act on her impulses to address it every time it happens. Because that would only feed into Tyson's plan, would only strengthen what he ingrained in Castle. Instead, she uses her owns weapons to do battle against Tyson's ruthless legacy of punishment.
Where he punished Castle for a sound he made, she rewards.
It's subtle. Never immediate.
She never ties the reward – be it a deep kiss, a sweet embrace, a moment stolen just for them – to a specific event. But she never forgets to reward him in the hope that subconsciously, it will solidify Castle's belief that making sounds pays off. That his progress does reap rewards, even if it's never directly addressed.
She's sweet to him, kind of always is these days, couldn't help herself even if she wanted to.
She knows how it is to go without.
And she can't fathom being without him, ever again. So yes, she's turned into a sap, into this tactile person who touches in abundance, who offers reassurances; with her words, her embrace, her lips and her caresses. Her very presence.
Because he deserves it. And because she deserves it too.
A/N: We are closing in on the end, only one or two more chapters left, peeps. :)
