Disclaimers: Alas, he's not mine and neither is his boyfriend. If they were, I'd make sure they were warm and ate rabbit stew. Please don't sue me, I work for the Chairman of the Bank that owns your house.

Summary: A very un-dramatic hurt/comfort leads to some *very* soft focus touchy-feely cuddly stuff.

Warnings: American is not my first language, please forgive any faux pas. I've guessed at the rating guide - PG13. This means nothing to me, but I hope it guides you. There is no explicit violence, language or squirty bits of manhood in this story. Better luck next time babe.

And, this is based on my real life two week long agony. As if you care!

HURT SO GOOD

by

Gloria Lancaster

"Hey," Jim called, back heeled the door behind him and slam-dunked the keys into the basket. Nothing. "Hey," louder, looking around - he knew his guide was home, his car was outside and his scruffy parka was tossed on the back of the couch (as usual). It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out Blair's whereabouts. It only took Sentinel senses approximately 5 seconds to identify the sound of a familiar heartbeat.

Jim walked over to Blair's door and knocked sharply, twice. "You in there?" a pointless question since he knew full well Blair was indeed 'in there'. Jim listened again for privacy's sake - Blair was alone and his heart rate seemed normal, so feeling perfectly entitled (after all, this was his apartment and this was his guide) he pushed open the door and stuck his head around. "What's happening chief?"

Blair gave a noncommital grunt of greeting, a muffled sort of 'hello Jim' but didn't move at all from lying on the bed, face down, fully dressed and preternaturally still. "Blair?" and if Jim sounded worried, that was because he was. "What's the matter?" stepping closer with care, trying to avoid treading on anything from the third world that Blair considered treasurable.

"Uh," Blair sounded a bit clearer, "I'm okay, Jim, really, nothing's the matter," but it was pretty obvious this was a lie. And Blair was keeping very still, still. And very still was not good for Blair, indeed, unnatural for Blair.

"Call me a nasty old cynical cop," and Jim sat right down on the end of Blair's small bed, "but I don't believe a word you're saying." He hitched himself closer to get comfortable; he was too big to sit perched on the end of anyones bed for very long, but he froze as his movement provoked an outright hiss of pain from the other man. "Blair," seriously alarmed now, Jim got up and bent over to investigate, putting a hand on Blair's shoulder, only to jump back, scorched, as Blair let out a downright sob at the gentle touch.

"Ooooooow, man, watch that big guy, you got hands like a back-hoe, Jeeez," and not only was it bizarre for Blair to reacte that way to Jim's touch, it was downright unique for Blair to be so crabby about it.

"Tell me what's going on or these back-hoes will haul your ass off this bed and teach you some manners," Jim sounded half serious about it and was rewarded by Blair emerging from the pillows to regard him with half an eye. "Well," and Jim folded his arms across his chest, waiting.

Blair sighed: "I hate it when you fold your arms that way, man, I really do. I'm okay, big guy, I just - pulled - something or something, in my neck, or maybe my shoulder, I don't know. It just - hurts. Okay? Can I go back to sleep now? Huh?"

"What did you do?" and Jim didn't show any inclination to let Blair go back to sleep, rather, showed every inclination to roll up his shirt sleeves and advance in a meaningful manner.

"I didn't - ouch - do anything - watch it - you make it - ooowch - sound like I did this to - oh oh oh - myself - fuck - deliberately or - oh, shit that's good - something," then Blair stopped making any sound at all beyond a deep, chesty rythmical grunt as Jim's hands worked minor miracles on the knotty (and knotted) problem of Blair's neck and shoulder muscles. "Hmmmmmmm," a long deep sigh as Blair relaxed totally, unravelling all his nerve endings, "that's the spot, oh, yeah, that's it, just - there," the last word a gasp, Blair's head tilting back, then forward, flexing, like a cat arching its back when its fur is stroked just right.

"You work too hard," Jim pointed out gruffly, then gave an inelegant grunt as he knelt on the bed, one knee either side of Blair's hips. The small bed creaked at the burden. "I'm not squishing you?" Jim checked, aware he could be a big clumsy ox at times, such a contrast to Blair's lithe, light movements and oddly charming grace.

"No way," Blair sighed the denial and snuggled into the pillow, moving easier already. "You've got the magic touch, big guy, where'd you learn to do this?"

"Pulled muscles, pinched nerves? Huh," Jim snorted at the memories, "chief, I have been there too many times. There," pressing at a particularly tender and wilful spot, "is that the place?" but he didn't need to hear Blair's short, hurt indrawn breath to know it was. "Over that keyboard, hour after hour, then streching, cramping, sitting in the cold, no wonder," and Jim's hands were heavy, soothingly so, over and over that particular hurt tender spot now, "tense all the time, tight like a wire sometimes, ah, chief, you should look after yourself more."

Blair managed to nod his total agreement. "Whatever you say, Jim, whatever, just don't stop, okay," and Blair felt his face start to melt off the front of his skull, every muscle in his body singing soft gentle praise of the man who was making him feel so good, all over.

"Easier now, chief?" Jim's voice was quiet, and it felt almost as good as Jim's hands, almost as warming, almost as affectionate.

"Yeah, oh, yeah, man, that is just - hmmmm, yeah, feel free to stop any time in the next three weeks, guy, I'll be fine," Blair felt sleepy with the relief it. "Pain is so, like, not me."

Jim continued, smoothing and kneading the muscles, putting a lot of power into the touch, finding every little knot of tension, easing them all away with blunt, patient power. "Pain gone now?" he asked, his touch getting lighter, withdrawing at last.

Blair considered lying, just to get those hands back on him again, but innate honesty made him tell the truth. "All gone," he admitted and rolled over onto his back, as Jim levered himself off his body and his bed and stood up.

Jim's face creased with his trademark half-smile of satisfaction. "Good, glad I could help out," with a slight bow. "Its what us Blessed Protectors do best."

"I'll say," Blair stretched, experimentally, expecting the agonising pain to return, shooting hot needles into his neck and head, but there was nothing but a rather loose feeling of heat and lightness; as if something had been lifted away from him. "Pain - bad, Jim's hands - good," Blair stated flatly, thankfully.

"Yeah, well, any more pain, you come get me, okay, the hands are at your disposal 24-7, you got that?" and Jim was busy rolling his shirt sleeves back down, Blair's eyes somehow trapped on the movements of his large, well shaped hands. Jim looked up, catching Blair staring at him. The moment stretched, becoming too silent, too long. "Ah, well, yeah," and Jim cleared his throat, his face hot for some reason, his eyes a darker blue than usual. "As you're still on the recovery list, I'll fix up some stuff," and he retreated towards the kitchen, making coffee and then later a scratch-ingredient-store-cupboard stir fry they shared in an amicable manner.

Jim settled down with a documentary about the Seven Wonders of the World on the t.v., having instructed that the dishes be left until tomorrow. "I should get nerve pinches more often," Blair half-joked, "if it lets me off the house-rules routine."

"Special once only never to be repeated offer," Jim said, sternly, and only Blair would notice the oddly charming glint in his eyes as he said it.

Talk languished and before very long, Blair announced his intention of going to bed.

"See you in the morning, chief," Jim was carefully friendly, and Blair thought about it - about everything - as he got out of his clothes, still stretching every now and again, for the sheer joy of being able to do so without feeling his muscles scream in protest.

Blair's little bed was still rumpled from earlier, from those moments when Jim had knelt there, when Blair had lain there, from those moments when Jim's hands had touched him, so clever, so easy and clever, knowing just what to do, just how hard, just how soft, knowing everything. Everything.

Blair reached up to touch the back of his own neck; his flesh still felt warm from the massage, from Jim's powerful, wonderful touch - the warmth spreading as Blair remembered it, every powerful wonderful moment of it. He gulped, his mouth dry, his throat suddenly tight and tense, his muscles reacting to a stimulus very far from pain, an ache of simply the most delicious kind.

He could hear the sound of the t.v. being switched off, the sound of Jim moving about the loft, locking doors and checking windows, then the light firm tread as Jim went up the ladder-stairs to his own, big, wide, lovely bed.

The ache deepened, became more delicious. Blair paused, looked down at his own hands, considering their inky condition, contrasting them with Jim's.

Another noise then, that faint scarce heard creak as Jim got into bed.

Blair pushed back his hair, took a deep breath and stalked out of his room, up the stairs and towards Jim's bed, naked, determined, bold.

"Chief?" maybe not a question, or a greeting, maybe a combination of both. Then the word again, confirmation: "Chief."

"I'm tense," Blair said, a little too aggressively, but he was feeling scared now, for lots of reasons. "I'm really - really tense now."

"I know," Blair heard and felt the rush of Jim-scented warmth as blankets were pushed back, "I know what that feels like."

Blair felt clumsy as he got on the bed, aware he could be a klutz sometimes, conscious that Jim was always so sure, physically, his body supremely muscular and controlled. "I'm not squishing you this time, am I?" he was genuinely worried.

But Jim's voice held a smile and Jim's hands were on Blair's body again, and Jim pulled him down, closer and then closer still. "No, you're not squishing me," a whisper, no more, across lips that were nearer than ever before, then even nearer, then nothing but tension, and after a deliciously tender interval, the most exquisite release of skin into mouth, and skin.

End