Disclaimer: I do not own the characters of this work of fiction [Sutter, Kurt, prod. Labrava, David, actor. Rossi, Theo, actor. Sons of Anarchy. FX. Hollywood, CA. Television. ] No profit, monetary, or otherwise, is being made (by me) through the writing of this, or through posting it here. No copyright infringement is intended. Neither is offense.

A/N: Written for the h/c bingo square - hug, and for lederra who requested Happy/Juice, about a million years ago now - sorry this is so late.

F/A/N: Not really set within any particular episode. I started this maybe two or three months ago (?) and finished it today. I'm not yet caught up with everything that's happened in the current season; as such, this is kind of a floating piece. So, no major spoilers.

Warnings: Angst. Hurt. Comfort. Fluff. Hugging. Kissing...except, in more of a brotherly sort of way, as opposed to a romantic way. Though, if you put on your slash goggles, anything is possible. The story insisted on being gen. I didn't argue.

It's so hot out that Juice can feel the sweat gather and pool at the small of his back. His tee-shirt clings to him like a second skin, sticking when he pulls it up and over his head. He stinks of sweat, grease, and cigarette smoke.

Grimacing, Juice tosses the soiled shirt to the side, and gets back to work, hoping to lose himself in the rhythm of it. He's still hot, losing the shirt has done little to ease the discomfort of the unseasonably hot, fall day. Being stuck in the stuffy garage, without so much as a fan, doesn't help matters either.

The still air hangs, stagnant, trapped in the garage with Juice. There isn't even an occasional breeze to break things up.

Exhaustion hits him like a fist, and he staggers, falling against the car he's been working on for the past two hours. He raps his knuckles against the hood, scraping them.

Blinking as sweat stings his eyes, he rubs the back of his hand over them, inadvertently smearing blood and grease across his face. Cursing, Juice reaches blindly for a rag to wrap around his bloodied knuckles.

"Knew I shouldn't've gotten out of bed today," he mutters, and hisses when the rough cloth comes into contact with his broken skin.

"Here."

A cold bottle is shoved into his uninjured hand, and Juice uncaps it. Raising it to his lips, he drinks without bothering to look at what it is that he's drinking.

Cool water assuages the worst of his thirst, some if it spilling down his chin and neck, cooling him off just a little. He opens his eyes to find Happy hovering nearby, a look of veiled concern in his eyes.

Juice nods his head in thanks, and places the half-empty bottle on the shelf behind him before moving to go back to work.

Happy's suddenly in his way. "You eat anything today?"

Juice shrugs, tries to bypass Happy so that he can get back to work, but the man refuses to budge, and Juice gives him a pointed, 'stop-fucking-with-me,' look. It doesn't work. If anything, Happy seems more determined to keep Juice from resuming his work.

"Give me your hand," he says, gesturing toward the hand Juice has wrapped a dirty, stained rag around. He's holding another bottle of water in one hand, the other's resting on the hood of the car.

Juice isn't fooled by Happy's air of calmness. He knows that the man can move quicker than a snake can strike, when he wants, or needs, to.

Juice takes a step backward, and shoves his injured hand behind himself. He knows he's acting like a little kid, but doesn't care. It's hot, he's got work to do, and Happy's standing in his way like a jackass, an immovable jackass as that.

Though Happy is only about a foot taller than Juice, it seems to him like the man is towering over him, and it makes him more than a little uncomfortable. Space is limited, this side of the garage, and Happy's crowding him.

"C'mon, man, let me get back to work," Juice says, hoping that his mounting anxiety at Happy's close proximity isn't given away by the slight tremble in his voice.

Happy frowns, and Juice can read the concern in the other man's eyes. It's subtle - an almost imperceptible furrowing of the brow, eyes widening slightly, the skin crinkled around the edges. Concern isn't something that Juice, or anyone else, often sees reflected in Happy's dark eyes..

Pursing his lips, and shaking his head in disapproval and impatience, Happy pushes off the car, and stands directly in front of Juice. A step backward on Juice's part proves to be pointless as he slams his back, and his injured hand, into the corner of the tool counter behind him, sending some of the tools that are hanging from the pegboard clattering to the cement floor.

"Fuck, damn it, Happy, get the fuck out of my way," Juice puts every ounce of energy that he has - which isn't much as the heat's sapped most of it, and his knuckles are smarting - into mustering enough anger to make his command as much of a threat as he can.

Unfortunately, if Happy's continued approach is anything to go by, his attempt has fallen short of its aim, leaving him feeling more drained than before. He raises his one good hand, and shoves at Happy's chest. The man raises an eyebrow, but doesn't budge. He does and says nothing when Juice draws his other hand from behind him and pushes at him with both hands.

When Juice moves to shove at him again, Happy grabs Juice's wrists, and pushes him back, effectively trapping him.

Juice sags and hangs his head in defeat. He's tired, and hot, and achy, and he just wants the day to end. He doesn't want to deal with Happy. Doesn't want to answer the man's questions, or handle whatever the fuck it is the man has been sent out to tell him to do.

"Happy, please just..." his voice cracks, and slips away when Happy releases his wrists and places his hands on Juice's shoulders.

Juice's heart starts racing, and he swallows past a lump in his throat, awaiting a slap or a punch, or something worse. Seems like he's everybody's punching bag right now, why should Happy be any different?

But, Happy just stands there with his hands on Juice's shoulders, holding him in place. Juice trains his eyes on the other man's tee-shirt, watches the muscles of the well-defined body - hidden beneath the grease-stained cotton - clench and unclench as Happy tightens his hands on Juice's shoulders. Those muscles can do a lot of damage, when they aim to.

And then, just when Juice thinks that Happy's about to haul off and punch him, or shove him to the ground and start kicking him, Happy pulls him in for a hug. At first, Juice stiffens, but, when Happy doesn't let go, just holds him, cradling the back of Juice's head with one of his large, rarely merciful, hands, Juice relaxes a little and simply breathes.

Happy stinks of sweat and grease, and what Juice thinks might be coconut oil. It's as strange as it is comforting, and, finally, when he knows that Happy really isn't going to hurt him, Juice hugs the other man back.

The day isn't over yet, he's still got a lot of work to do, and it's still fucking hot as hell, but, when Happy releases him with a pat on the back, Juice feels a little lighter. Like some of the load that he hadn't even realized he'd been carrying has been lifted.

When Happy reaches for the injured hand, this time Juice relinquishes it, lets the other man unwrap the rag from around it, and ignores how much it hurts when little bits of the fabric get stuck in the drying blood, and torn skin. He flinches when Happy starts working the stuck threads loose.

Juice bites his lip, leans back against the counter, and watches Happy's fingers as they work on his hand. The man's fingers are deft and sure, and surprisingly gentle. Happy uncaps a bottle of water, using his teeth, and Juice snorts, tries not to laugh at the comical picture that it paints.

Happy raises an eyebrow, and, without warning, pours the cool liquid over the now debrided injury. It stings, and Juice hisses and scowls in response, tries to jerk his hand free, but Happy's grip is tight. Juice grits his teeth and glares at the other man.

"Shit," Juice complains, and he looks at the floor.

"Relax, Nancy, I'm almost done here," Happy says with a smirk. "Don't worry, Juice, promise I'll give you your hand back."

Juice flips Happy the bird, but relaxes and lets the man tend to his injury. Reaching back behind himself, he hands Happy the first aid kit before he asks for disinfectant burns, but, this time Juice is prepared, and he holds his hand completely still, curls his toes in his boots, and locks his jaw.

The area around his injured knuckles is swollen and bruised where the skin hasn't been torn completely off of it. It looks like he's been in a fist fight, with a brick wall.

"You really did a number on these knuckles," Happy's voice is quiet. There's no hint of accusation in his voice, yet Juice feels the need to defend himself, because what happened is stupid, and now he's being babied by Happy, and it's so fucking hot that his sweat feels like it's sweating, and Happy is too damn close for comfort.

"Rapped them on the hood of the car," Juice says a little defensively. He jerks his chin in the direction of the car, almost daring Happy to call him a liar.

Happy doesn't rise to the bait, though. He nods, and dabs some antibiotic cream on Juice's knuckles, and then wraps some clean gauze around them, securing it with tape. When he's finished, true to his word, he lets go of Juice's hand.

Juice eyes Happy's handy work. It's almost as good as what Chibs or Tara would've done. Maybe even better, given Chibs' less than cordial attitude toward him of late.

Feeling self-conscious, and a little like an ass for thinking the worst of Happy, Juice stares at the floor. "Thanks, man."

"Anytime," something in Happy's voice causes Juice to look up. Happy's face is it's usual, unreadable mask, though, and Juice isn't sure what to make of it, or the man's actions toward him.

Happy pulls him into another, brief hug, and he whispers, a little gruffly, "That's what brothers are for." He kisses him on the temple, and then releases him and walks away.

Juice watches him leave, and takes another swig from the water bottle Happy'd given him. The water's warm, the outside of the bottle wet and slick with condensation, but it feels good on his throat and gives him the boost of energy that he needs to get the job done.

Reviews would be awesome, and encouraging. Mahalo