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What, was "Rudy" on cable last night?

. . . Yes.

Eliot Spencer vdistinctive
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75 Godiva Street, Saturday
Eliot's phone had stopped ringing. That was awesome. On the other hand he felt like he'd gotten thrown around by a carnival ride -- again -- and there seemed to be a weight sitting right on his chest.

Val lapped at his chin. The weight on his chest was his small-for-her-breed-but-now-full-grown puppy.

Alrighty then.

[ooc: expecting one, but also open]

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 at 2016-01-30 10:14 pm (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.

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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.

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."

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."

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Parker came by a little later, concerned and looking to play with Val.

"You're sick? Why are you sick?"

"'Cause the pony sneezed on me." That was his story and he was sticking to it. "Hi, Parker."

Parker frowned. "She didn't do it on purpose, did she? Because she doesn't seem like the type." She reached over to scritch behind Val's ears and said, "Aren't you supposed to starve yourself if you're sick or something?"

This was precisely what his cold was missing: some surreality. "You're not s'posed to starve yourself at all. Ever."

"Starve a cold, feed a fever," Parker sing-songed. "Except you always feed yourself, so that really doesn't make any sense." She frowned. "How long are you going to be sick? And did you tell Hardison I was going to be playing with knives?"

Just in case that surreality hadn't kicked in enough yet.

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