What, was "Rudy" on cable last night?

Eliot had been taking it easy since getting back from LA. For all his bluster and insistence on avoiding formalized medical care -- be it hospitals or magical healing -- he knew how to take time to give his body what it needed. And after the number that the mad doctor had managed to do, both with his fists and the whole "blowing up" thing, Eliot's body had needed a lot.

So he'd laid low, making good use of ice packs and analgesics, and lots and lots of cuddle time, either with his partners or with his dog. Not that he would ever, ever use that term out loud.

He was just pulling his "cook and convalesce" stool up to the counter to get started on dinner for the evening (and yeah, it was maybe a little sad that he had a stool specifically for that purpose, but it wasn't like he was going to not cook), when he heard a quiet but firm knock on the door.

. . . That was a very distinctive knock.

"I got it," he called. Val trotted up to the door with him, ears pricked at her person's sudden discomfiture. Eliot paused at the door to steel himself, only for the knock to come again, more insistently this time. He rolled back his shoulders, shook out his hair, and eased the door open.

"Heya Pop."

[for the family, please]