It was almost never silent between them. Not from the first, not from the very first day (over the desk they came to share)—

(What the hell you think you're doing?)

—and the sound of papers flying—

(You got a problem?
Maybe, just maybe, I don't like the way you're sashaying around trying to take over everything.)

—and that was just the first of a hell of a lot of arguments—

(Look, it's not my fault you went up North and got your heart broken, Stanley, so just—
Shut the fuck up, Vecchio.)

—on stakeouts, in the squad room, angry and loud and raw, but the arguing became part of the way they worked together, like overlapping intensities—left brain, right brain, no-brainer—Kowalski and then him and then Kowalski again, and on the flip side were the jokes and the wisecracks, Kowalski's grin when they made a bust and the way he snorted when he laughed too hard, and it was all part of the noise that was them, all part of the clang and the clatter, a whole symphony of sound, really, first movement, quick, with—
—the jangle of newly cut keys on a key ring, and the new alarm clock they bought because it didn't sound anything like the one in Vegas, and the weird burp of the shower at the new place, with the neighbors who had "relationship discussions" at the top of their lungs at two in the goddamn morning (and Kowalski would lay there and snicker, and repeat half of what the wife said in the "Stella voice"), and the sound of coffee beans grinding and Kowalski's radio in the morning—

(Don’t everybody like the smell of gasoline? Well burn motherfucka burn american dream)

—until not so long ago, not nearly long enough ago, when everything slowed down to a crawl and the only sounds he could hear were the steady beep of the heart monitor lagging behind the frantic beating in his own chest and the soft hiss of the respirator, the low voices of everyone talking quietly when they thought he was asleep and couldn't hear, and it stayed like that for days, long, slow days when he thought maybe he would go nuts, and then finally Kowalski woke up, drugged and groggy, his voice raspy when they removed the tube, and sounding like heaven, sounding like—

(Fraser?)

—and everything inside him went silent.

---

It was a symphony—quick, slow, scherzo and trio—and only time would tell what the fourth movement would be, but it sounds—
—hoarse, ragged with need, and his own voice rough as sandpaper, or maybe sharp and thin, like a knife, like he'd put it through a shredder, or maybe that was just his heart, and the wet sounds of kissing, fabric tearing, the distant sound of buttons rolling on the floor—

(fuck)

—sucking, biting—

(fuck)

—moaning, groaning, the drag of fingers over sweaty hips and thighs—

(Can I—?
Yeah.
Lift your—)

—the slick crackle of lube on fingers pushing deep inside and twisting, and the squeak of the mattress rocking, rocking—

(Fuck, you feel good, so good, so fucking, fucking good…)

—and the keening, which is all inside his head now.

It's almost never silent between them.

Which is not to say there is nothing left unsaid.