“Oh, fuck me,” James moans.
You ease his leg gently onto the cushions you’ve stacked beneath his foot and ankle. “Sorry.”
“Fuck.” He covers his face with his hand. “Fuck.”
The expletives are expected, though perhaps not in such a quantity. You rub his calf gently, a warning, before putting the frozen bag of peas down onto his knee. He flinches, hisses, and brings his second hand up to join the first. Hidden from view, you might not know he was in pain if it weren’t for the tight set to his jaw —he holds his breath for a while.
He breathes out hard. You kneel at the foot of the sofa to hold the peas there, your hand instantly freezing and hurting. It can’t hurt half as much as what James is going through. You stick it out.
“Sorry,” he breathes out a moment later, letting his hands fall to his chest. He’s still in his training uniform, a tight Spanx black shirt stretched over his chest and arms, his red and white shorts, even his socks, one pushed down and the other just below his uninjured knee. “Sorry, I’m not swearing at you.”
“I know. I wouldn’t be so nice to you if you were speaking to me like that, Pots.”
“Don’t start,” he says, but he’s smiling for the first time since he slid in the field. You raise your chin at him, smiling back, and he raises a heavy looking hand to your chin, chucking it lightly.
“It’ll stop hurting once you keep still,” you say. You’re not sure if that’s true, but sometimes the only escape from pain is a lie.
“My ibuprofen isn’t kicking in. You know, Sirius says it kicks in quicker if you lay on your right side.”
“You probably shouldn’t move, handsome.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
You rise up on your knees to offer him a kiss, which he takes immediately. He whines against your lips in pain and pushes you away gently. “Don’t tempt me, angel, please. It hurts so bad,” he complains, eyes squeezing closed.
“Yeah, you should be,” he says, giving your shoulder a friendly shove. “Away, angel in human form. Get lost before I hurt myself. You’re too much to resist.”
You decided to make him a cup of tea, but you’ve not even boiled the kettle when he’s shouting for you to come back. “I didn’t mean it!”
You return with a tray of tea and biscuits and he perks up from his depression. “The ibuprofen must be working now,” he says.
“I’ll get you some deep heat,” you say through a mouthful of biscuit.
“Yeah?” he asks, dipping his own in his mug, the tray balanced precariously across his lap. “You’ll rub it in for me?”
You’d genuinely love to. “Of course I will. Have some tea first and let the painkillers really sink in. I don’t want to make it worse by touching it.”
James gives you his biscuit out of love. “Thank you. You’re like my beautiful doctor.”
You finish his biscuit and put your tea aside to tuck yourself into his waist for moral support. “You played a great game,” you assure him, pressing your cheek to his shoulder. He lets his head fall down onto yours, silky hair brushing your ear.
“Good, ‘cos it’ll be my last for a while.”
“Don’t be silly,” you say, rubbing your palm down his stomach to hug him.
“That’s fine. You can spend two weeks on the sofa with me kissing me and watching telly, and then you’ll have to work your socks off and train back up again,” you say easily.
He relaxes with a sigh. “That doesn’t sound bad.” James turns his mouth into your hair. “…That sounds amazing.”
