vdistinctive | 75 Godiva Street, Saturday

Eliot hadn't been by the apartment in a few days. And that was weird. What was also weird is that he hadn't seen Eliot walking Val around the island on one of their insanely long constitutionals that made Hardison tired just imagining.

Which was why Hardison was letting himself into the apartment today, calling out, "Eliot? Yo, Eliot! You ain't crazy or nothin' are you? Anyone answerin' to the name of Eliot in here?"

Val sat up, making Eliot grunt, and barked. It was a happy noise. Did Hardison know her well enough to tell that?

"Ain't crazy," Eliot called back, his voice even lower and grumblier than usual. "Y'got in here, di'n ya?"

Edited 2016-01-30 22:14 (UTC)

"Hey girl," Hardison said, following the noises. "Who's happy to see other Daddy, huh? Who's my happy girl?"

Well...maybe the Daddy thing was a step up from calling her Megabite?

"You sure?" Hardison asked, lounging in the doorway. "Cause you don't look like my Eliot. It's the middle of the afternoon! Ain't you s'posed to be doin' your four hundredth pullup of the day while gently seasonin' tonight's dinner?" He gave a low whistle and snapped his fingers to see if Val would come for pettings--and get off Eliot's chest.

She did, making Eliot grunt again. "Got a -- somethin'," Eliot muttered, rolling over once there was no longer a dog pinning him down. He curled up and shoved his face into a pillow. "Cold 'r somethin'."

A vicious, evil cold from another world. Monster pony cold.

"Aww hell, man, really?" On the one hand, Hardison was relieved that Eliot wasn't hurt. On the other--what did he know about playing nursemaid? He was a germaphobe! He used to refuse to hug Nana when she got off her shift until after she'd changed and showered! "What're your symptoms like?"

He was worriedly playing with Val's ears, trying to figure out what to do. After all, he couldn't just leave Eliot! But--germs.

"Th' cold kind," Eliot peered over the edge of the pillow and glared. What, did Hardison think he couldn't figure out when he was sick? "Jus' need ta sleep it off." You know, like he slept off getting run over or shot.

"Yeah, your sovereign remedy," Hardison snorted, finally coming in close enough to rest the inside of his wrist on Eliot's forehead. Oh yeah, that was a fever. "You tried to tell us that was all you needed after DC, too, remember? Naw, we need to get some--some orange juice up in here. An' soup. Chicken soup. An', like, NyQuil or somethin'."

Beat.

"Maybe I should call Nana. Or Sophie." Because Parker wasn't going to be much more helpful than he was. Unless poking Eliot would somehow put him on the path to recovery.

Trials with Parker-poking were thus far inconclusive. Mostly because Eliot yelled at her and walked away before she could be sure if they were working or not.

"Don't call Sophie." The last thing Eliot wanted was her cooing at him. Poking was preferable. "Nana's a nurse, right?"

She could tell Hardison this was just a cold and to calm down.

And also attempt to talk him through an attempt at cooking soup. In Eliot's own kitchen. With his tools.

"Yeah. But more trauma an' ICU experience than a doctor's office." On the other hand, she'd also had an entire household of foster children for most of her adult life, which meant she probably had more experience with colds and flus than most pediatricians. "You got a thermometer around here?"

Hannibal was well aware yesterday's voice mail was an error, but he thought he might as well drop by and see what it had been about. And Eliot had sounded rather stuffed up, so Hannibal had brought an offering with him.

He knocked on the door and waited.

That would certainly be one way to convince Eliot to get out of bed.

"Don' need a thermometer," he told his pillow. "'S jus' a cold."

That had taken him down for three days already. At least it hadn't turned him cartoonishly blue.

Eliot attempted to calculate the odds of whoever it was just going away if he didn't answer, but was interrupted by Val dashing delightedly to the door, barking.

He was pretty sure that was greatly reducing whatever odds he managed to work out.

Grumbling, he dragged himself out of bed and cracked the door open enough to peer blearily through. "Oh," he said, voice a bit more growly than usual. "Hey, Doc."

"Mister Spencer." Hannibal took in Eliot's appearance and shook his head. "I thought you sounded under the weather. I got one of your messages yesterday." He lifted the thermal bag with him. "I come bearing soup."

"Yeah you need a thermometer," Hardison argued. "You feel pretty hot an' I need to know whether to be worried or not." Hmm. He'd seen a thermometer in the kitchen, hadn't he? Some fancy one with wires and whatnot. "Where'd you pick this up from, anyway? Runnin' around in the damn snow an' cold, I bet. I warned you that bein' outside ain't healthy!"

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."

Eliot frowned. What message would Hannibal had -- oh.

You knew he was off his game when it took him an entire day to figure out the phones had been on the fritz.

"Which one?" he grumbled, stepping away from the door and leaving it open as an invitation for Hannibal to follow, leading the way to his well equipped, warm, modern kitchen. "I'm guessin' I left several for folks."

Hannibal followed him in and unpacked the soup, looking around at the rather nice kitchen. "Bowls?" he asked politely. "Something about not needing any liver, and getting it yourself if you did," he explained. "I admit I was curious."

"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.

Eliot pulled open the cabinet with the bowls as he walked by, aiming for his tea supplies. "Ah. Anakin called sayin' somethin' about me wantin' a bunch of liver. And then sayin' it'd taste like crap." He assumed that was what 'poodoo' meant from context. And also took that sort of thing personally, when he wasn't in the shape to work out it wasn't actually meant for him. "You want some tea? I got French, Korean, or Japanese."

"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.

"Japanese would be lovely; thank you." Hannibal grimaced at the mention of Anakin. "Trust that man to have no decent sense of taste."

He got down a bowl and dished out the soup. "Chicken, green leafy vegetables, sweet potato, and garlic. All good for a cold."

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.

"No one ever seems to notice: you can make anythin' taste good if you know how to do it right." That was basically the entire history of cooking, after all. Figuring out how to make things taste good enough to eat.

Eliot put the kettle on and measured out tea leaves into his cast iron tea pot. (Because of course he had a traditional tea pot to go with each of his tea varieties.) "That sounds amazin', man. Thank you."

Hardison meant well, but -- he'd put orange slices into soda because he couldn't figure out a hand juicer. Eliot would be lucky if he got canned soup out of the man.

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!"

75 Godiva Street, Saturday

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