vdistinctive | 75 Godiva Street, Saturday

If Hardison tried to use a meat thermometer on Eliot, they would Have Words. Which would at least end with Eliot mentioning an actual health thermometer in the bathroom, at least.

"Damn pony," he said. "All sneezin' on me plannin' this week's class. You don' get sick just from goin' outside."

"Naw, but you do get sick keepin' your coat on in the house," Hardison said, completely believing this. "If I heard it once I heard it a thousand times growin' up. You'll catch pneumonia or somethin'."

Certified nurse of not, there were some old wives tales you just passed along, okay?

"I didn't even know pony germs were transmissible to people, yo," he added, heading into the kitchen for that thermometer. And to see if Eliot had any juice. Or if he'd left any Orange Squeeze here to tide Eliot over until he could come back with real juice.

Eliot would not be drinking any of that creepy day-glo orange crap. So, you know, there was probably plenty, just waiting for Hardison to arrive.

There were also some actual oranges and a hand juicer around here, somewhere.

"Why the hell would wearin' a coat inside make you sick? You get pneumonia from inhalin' water and shit." Eliot shook his head and resigned himself to sitting up. It'd probably feel better on his chest, anyway. "Real ponies can't get you sick. Pinkie's . . ." special. "Weird." That too.

"Well that's good," Hardison called as he puttered around in the kitchen. "Because findin' out you could get sick from ponies is not the kind of thing that Parker would wanna hear."

He dug around in the drawer until he found the thermometer--why Eliot didn't keep it in the bathroom like a normal person was beyond him-- and then grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl and started cutting it into slices. Maybe Eliot would be able to accept a glass of Orange Squeeze if there were oranges floating in it? What did he want from Hardison?! He didn't have any juice!

"An' you know. You wear a coat in the house, your body temperature rises. Then you go outside an' you get real cold cause of the difference in temperatures or somethin'. Then--bam! Pneumonia!" Hardison continued, bringing out the bounty from the kitchen.

It was a real medical thing, Eliot! Honest!

"Now you take your temperature," he continued. "I'mma see if you got any cold meds or aspirin in your medicine cabinet or whatever." Probably left over from the last time Hardison had gotten sick, considering Eliot's idea of proper medical care for himself was sleeping it off and the odd manly grunt of discomfort.

Eliot was all set to start in on 'that's not how temperature works', but got derailed when he saw the thermometer. "Dammit, Hardison!"

He was not taking his temperature with a meat thermometer! He'd throw it dramatically across the room, but it was an expensive fancy one and he didn't want to break it.

It was probably from Williams Sonoma, too.

"There are orange slices in it!" Hardison yelled back from down the hall, assuming that Eliot was complaining about now. "That makes it healthy!"

Eliot hadn't even gotten around to noticing the soda yet. "How are you still alive?!"

Hardison was a gift that kept on giving, honestly.

"Cause I'm a damned genius, that's why! Smartest man you know, remember?"

Huh. Why did Eliot have two thermometers? Was one oral and the other one--you know, he was just going to put that back where it was. He'd gotten Eliot a thermometer, he didn't need a second one.

"Yeah, well, that was before you put orange slices in your damn soda."

Eliot was going to go back to hiding under his covers. Oh yes he was. Maybe this was a fever dream and his partner wasn't really this ridiculous.

If this were a computer virus Hardison would have fixed it within seconds! It wasn't his fault Eliot expected results from the two stats Hardison had tanked most: kitchenware and bedside manner!

"You were gonna complain about how unhealthy it is," Hardison retorted, returning triumphantly with a box of tissues and some Advil. It was a fever reducer! "Oranges upped the Vitamin C levels. Now stop fussin' and' tell me what's your temperature?"

"You could have just brought me an orange." That would also have plenty of vitamin C! "And I don't know, Hardison." He shook the meat thermometer in Hardison's face. "I'm not a turkey!"

"You need fluids!" Hardison argued. "That's important, Nana always said so! An' what the hell--" He paused. Looked at the weird thermometer. Thought about where he'd found it. Actually used that genius-level IQ he was always bragging about. "That's a food thermometer," he guessed.

"Ya think?!" Eliot would have more patience if his face wasn't full of phlegm. "That's why it's sharp!" He tossed it onto the bed and rubbed his hand down over his face. "An' glorified sugar water ain't the kindsa fluids your Nana was talkin' about, man. Jus' -- gimme a bit and I'll make myself some tea."

A minute, a few hours. . . . He'd get out of bed eventually. He always did.

"Oh yeah, cause that's exactly the best thing for you," Hardison said, wrinkling his nose. "Hackin' all over the food, spreadin' germs where we eat. Aww hell naww. I ain't lettin' you anywhere near your kitchen. Gimme a minute, I can handle dunkin' a damn tea bag in some hot water."

Which would work, if only Eliot were the kind of man who used teabags...

"You can't kick me outta my own damn kitchen!"

Eliot closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Yelling just made his head hurt.

"At least google how to make a proper cup of tea," he growled. "I'm sure there's videos on facetube or whatever."

"Youtube," Hardison corrected, though his voice was softer. Eliot was grimacing again and it was his 'in pain' grimace, not his 'annoyed at Hardison' grimace. A moment later, his cool hand was brushing Eliot's damp hair off of his forehead, delicate fingers moving in small circles to chase away the pain. "How 'bout this?" he suggested. "First I get you a nice glass of cool water so you can take them pills an' also a damp washcloth to put on your forehead to cool you down some?"

And because Eliot was really sick, he wasn't going to point out that Hardison actually could kick him out of his own kitchen right now, because Eliot looked like he'd buckle fighting with Val right now.

Eliot had taken down trained soldiers in worse condition -- but it wouldn't do any of them any good, so, no, he wasn't actually going to fight Hardison on it.

Especially not if he kept brushing his hair out of his face like that.

Eliot leaned into the touch, relaxing by degrees. "Yeah. 'Kay."

"You hungry?" Hardison asked, keeping his voice gentle. "Anythin' else you need while I'm up? I'm serious, Eliot. If you need it, I can figure out how to get it for you."

It might involve a few emergency calls to the diner, but he'd get it!

"What you're doin' now is good," Eliot mumbled, leaning a little more into the touch. "Recovery really is mostly 'bout relaxin'."

Right. Which Eliot was generally great at, really.

"You know," he said, moving his fingers over to rub at Eliot's temples, "I could hook up my laptop over here. Play Rudy for you if you want."

Which Hardison would hate, but he'd suffer through for love.

"And hear you rantin' about it for the next two months?" Eliot snorted, then coughed. "Don' need entertainin', s'okay.

"You ain't about to get all antsy an' grumpy cause you have to rest an' relax, insteada jumpin' up to do a hundred different things?" Hardison asked. He sounded skeptical about that, but only because he was incredibly skeptical about it.

"Not 'til I start feelin' better," Eliot admitted. "Gimme a couple days, and I'll start scalin' the walls."

"An' once we get that far, I'mma park you in front of Rudy an' every other sad-underdog-plays-sports movies and leave you there," Hardison grumbled. "An' if I catch you tryna make a break for it, I'mma change that to reality cookin' shows instead as punishment."

Though Eliot would probably entertain himself yelling at the chefs for their innumerable screwups.

It was a guilty pleasure.

"Long as you don't start threatenin' to cook for me."

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