Eliot didn't sleep nearly as much as Parker and Hardison did, so he was pretty used to being up before they were, getting coffee ready and sorting through his fridge for what to make for breakfast. He'd've been perfectly happy to stay in bed and just stare at his partners and make sure they were still there, but whatever the aliens had been using to sustain them all over the week hadn't really been much more than minimal, and Eliot was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who'd be waking up today starving.

He may have stuck comms on everyone so he could still hear them the whole time, though.

It was weird being in his kitchen without Val sitting at his feet in her eternally frustrated hope for scraps (eternally frustrated from him, anyway, he was pretty sure she still did it because Hardison and Parker were sneaking her things), but Kathy had texted the night before to let him know that her little sister had been taking care of the puppy, and that Kathy was going to keep her in the dorms for one more night. Considering how much time he and the others had spent yesterday in constant physical contact, Eliot could guess why Kathy wanted to keep a nice, warm, happy puppy around for the night, so he didn't insist. He was used to getting shot at and nearly killed, after all, and what had happened in that sim --

Eliot's hand spasmed around his knife and he dropped in to the cutting board and stepped back, leaning his weight into his hands on the counter and just breathing through it as the image of Kathy silhouetted in the doorway ran through his head. He kept his head down a moment longer once the scene finished playing out in his memory, then straightened up, stretched his fingers, and got back to chopping.

He'd have to watch out for that for a little while.

[ooc: for those in the house and the one stopping by -- and anyone else who might decide to drop in and visit. Note: linked thread contains violence and simulated death.]

( The continuing adventures of Eliot in not-Deadwood )

[ooc: open for anyone who wants to come play cowboys and indians.
Content note: really blatant old school racism. Like, I feel dirty typing it. Here there be stereotypes (and even more cursing).]

Eliot found himself gripping a set of reigns as hard as he'd just been gripping a man's shirt. He was on horseback, at night, on a dirt road through the middle of a busy and haphazard looking old west town, surrounded by other people on horses.

"You were sayin'," an older man on the horse to his left said. "You were sayin' about this man's story."

Eliot twisted in the saddle, looking behind him. It didn't make any more sense that way. "What."

"I said you were sayin' about this man's story. About that white family getting hacked and scalped in the woods."

"I -- I really wasn't," Eliot said, looking back over at the man.

"You feelin' alright there, friend?" Another man, this one on foot by the door to what seemed to be a rather busy saloon, said. "You're not goin' to fucking pass out and die on us now when you're all just gettin' set to ride out and investigate this cocksucker's claims to an Indian attack."

"What," Eliot said again. He blinked and reached up to adjust the hat he only just realized he was wearing. "Indian attack. . . ."

The men on horseback nodded. "Just been reported," said the man on the horse to his right.

Eliot blinked a few more times, looking around, and adjusted his hat again.

"The fella's story on this don't hold water," the man on the horse to his right hissed, like a prompter at a grade school play.

Eliot stared at him. The man nodded.

"The, uh." Eliot cleared his throat. "The fella's story -- on this don't hold water."

The man on the horse to his right nodded. "No, it don't."

And the other two men on horses started riding off.

Eliot stared after them a moment before spurring his own horse forwards. "That's -- Wild Bill. Wild Bill fucking Hickok. . . ."

[and Eliot has been zapped into Deadwood. Because like I would throw this guy into anything but a western. . . .]