75 Godiva, Tuesday

Eliot had always been a fast healer -- a definite advantage in his line of work, no one was going to respect a hitter who was covered in bruises all the time -- so while he still had a black eye and a fairly impressive mass of scab on his temple, the swelling had gone and the side of his face was more yellow than purple. It'd taken a few hours to convince Hardison that he really wasn't letting the man out of his sight for longer than it took to use the bathroom, but once they'd managed to move from escape attempts to resigned depression, Eliot had even managed to get some actual rest in, so his headache was down from sometimes-literally-blinding to dull-throb-with-painkillers-if-I-don't-move-too-quickly. With his hood pulled up to both cut down on excess sunlight and hide the mess that was his temple, he felt almost normal.

Physically, anyway. Hardison wasn't the only one dealing with masses of guilt over what happened over the weekend. Eliot was just more used to carrying stuff like that around.

Parker wasn't going to let Eliot stand up in the kitchen long enough to even make some decent omelettes, so he called and had the busboy at the diner bring them enough food to cover all three of them for a day. This of course led to an argument with the busboy about whether him not coming in at all meant the kitchen staff had a day off, which set off exciting new throbs in Eliot's head, which in turn made Parker go all growly mama bear at the busboy, who eventually ended up running away shrieking. Then Eliot had to hurry back to the living room to make sure that Hardison hadn't tried to escape through the back door.

"You know," Eliot said as he grabbed yet another ice pack from his freezer. "We're not s'posed to have to tie you to a chair after you're done being evil."

[ooc: for the crew. Wheee aftermath!]