Just a little something to get me used to OpenOffice Writer and to get me back into that writing mood.

Si-star requested something Hurt/Comfort and Murdocx2D, so I guess this is what came out.

Dedicated to Si-Star, for a brilliant idea.

If you're reading this livid that it is not a new chapter of Indecision, please forgive me. I'm not in that kind of a mood. But I will be. Doctor Who comes on tonight.

Standard Disclaimer: Stuart “2D” Pot and Murdoc Faust Niccals © Jamie Hewlett & Damon Albarn; Guns N' Roses' Welcome to the Jungle © Axl Rose & Slash.

Stuart “2D” Pot grit his teeth, long, narrow fingers entangled within locks of greasy blue hair. Tears beaded at the corners of his eyes as he applied pressure to his temples.

“Bad today,” he muttered to himself. He had already taken six pain killers, too many to take more, bad as his head ached at the moment. He rubbed the throbbing parts of his cranium and wished he could sleep.

The curtains were drawn in the Music Room; the phone was unplugged, the television switched off, all the instruments put away. Perfect migraine atmosphere. 2D smiled to himself as he sat in his sickroom, feeling sorry for himself.

“Welcome to the jungle

We take it day by day

If you want it you're gonna bleed

But it's the price you pay,”

Enter Murdoc Niccals, barging into the room with the smell of vodka and Guns N' Roses' Welcome to the Jungle blaring from his mobile. 2D's head throbbed as he groaned.

“Oi, Muds,” he yelled over the music. The bassist either ignored him or couldn't hear him. 2D, his eyes watering from noise sensitivity, considered the latter.

“And you're a very sexy girl

That's very hard to please

You can taste the bright lights

But you won't get them for free-”

“Muds,” he shouted.

“In the jungle

Welcome to the jungle

Feel my, my, my serpentine

I, I wanna hear you scream!”

“MURDOC!”

“WOT?!” Murdoc whirled around, pulling his arm back to strike the singer. 2D flinched.

“Oh, um,” 2D stammered, “I's just, I've got this 'eadache, an' I was wonderin' if maybe you could - ”

“Yeah, wotever,” Murdoc scoffed, turning back to searching through a box of records. “'Ave you seen my Black Sabbath – ugh, forget it,” he sighed, looking back at 2D; the blue-haired boy was still fumbling for words to say.

“Muds - !” 2D snapped, hurt. “'Re you even listenin'?” Murdoc grunted, looking into an empty record sleeve. He punched a few buttons on the stereo and it blared 666.0, All Thrash, All the Time. A painful lump formed in his throat as his head pulsed; he barely bit back the tears that rolled down his cheeks. The loss of pressure in his head would perhaps make the pain go away.

“MURDOC, GOD DAMN YOU,” 2D exploded. He crossed the room and unplugged the sound system straight from the wall.

“Wot the hell,” Murdoc growled, standing up to eye level with the singer. “You got a problem, faceache?” 2D glared, trying to think of something vicious and stinging to make Murdoc feel bad. He needed to be told off, let know how much a dickhead he was acting.

“Don't,” he whimpered. He dropped his glare to the floor, where it melted into a pitiful watery gaze. “Jus' don't.” He was crying now. He held his hand up to his forehead to cool it down.

“Headache, isn't it?” 2D looked up to the Satanist, who was looking away, glaring at something in the distance. It was his way of apologizing, 2D reasoned. He smiled slightly.

“Yeah,” he said softly. The room was silent again, except for the sound of blood pulsing in 2D's ears. Murdoc finally sighed.

He crossed the floor to the sofa, fluffed the rock-hard pillow as much as it was possible, and pointed to it.

“Sit,” he commanded. 2D quirked an eyebrow. Murdoc's eyes narrowed. “Well, dullard, you gonna sit or wot?!” he shouted, fists balling up. 2D jumped, quickly getting to the couch and sitting down. He looked up at the bassist, who exited the room promptly. 2D looked at the door, confused.

“Wh - ”

Murdoc re-entered the room as abruptly as he left it. He extended his arm, holding out a dripping wet washcloth to the pretty-boy singer. 2D hesitantly took it and looked at it as Murdoc crossed his arms impatiently.

“Wot is it,” Stu-pot asked.

“It's a cold washcloth, dumbarse,” Murdoc sighed, “It's for your head.” 2D stared at him. Murdoc rolled his mismatched eyes. “Lie down,” he demanded. The injured boy obeyed without question, stretching his long legs over the length of the sofa. Murdoc set the cloth over 2D's blackened eyes in a way the singer almost thought of as... gently...

“Fanks,” 2D nearly whispered, the tension in his body melting away as he lay down. Murdoc grunted. Silence filled the room as 2D lay and Murdoc stood over him. 2D let his eyes flutter closed behind the wet cloth, his breathing became even.

“Oi,” Murdoc spoke up, and 2D jumped a bit.

“Huh,” he murmured.

“Your... 'eadaches.”

“Yeah?”

“'Re they bad?”

“Wot?”

“Like... all the time. Does your 'ead always hurt?”

2D thought for a moment. “Yeah, most of the time,” he worded carefully. For some reason he didn't want the Satanist knowing that he was to blame for most of his migraines, what with the constant verbal and physical abuse. “Why?” he asked the green-skinned man cautiously.

“Jus' wondering,” Murdoc replied with a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders. He pulled a metal folding chair up to the sofa; the chair screeched against the floor. “Sorry,” he muttered.

2D picked his head up, the cloth falling to his chest, matted blue hair in his face. “Wot'd you say jus' now?” he asked apprehensively. Black eyes and mismatched red-and-black ones met and locked on. Murdoc's finally broke the gaze.

“Nothin',” he grumbled.

“Muds - ”

“WOT NOW?!” 2D winced. Murdoc snarled and stood up. He bent over and picked the cloth up from 2D's chest. A dark, wet spot had formed. He placed the rag on the singer's forehead, turned around wordlessly, and left the room.

2D lay his head back against the armrest of the lumpy sofa. He didn't reposition the washcloth, even though it was hanging awkwardly over his eyes. His face relaxed, eyes closed yet again, and his breathing stilled to a steady hum. In the doorway, Murdoc leaned casually. He looked over at the sleeping singer, sighed in resignation, and crossed the room for the last time.

He let his calloused fingers trace 2D's sleeping face, pulling the lopsided washcloth off and settling into the chair again.

2D's half-asleep mind lazily repeated its mantra as he realized the headache was gone:

"It wasn't his touch, it was the drugs. It wasn't his touch, it was the drugs. It wasn't his touch..."