vdistinctive

"A'ight now, settle in," Hardison said, flinging himself back onto the couch, his arm automatically falling onto Parker's shoulders. "I worked hard on this presentation for y'all. Made it all nice, gave it some decent graphics, rewrote Powerpoint to be less garbage--you know, all sorts of cool things since I'm stuck here by my lonesome while y'all run around on that whacky-ass island."

Not that he was bitter or anything. Really.

"But since y'all have finally deigned to grace me with your presence, I was thinking we might catch up on some of the backlog of jobs or something? Or we could keep telling those craaazy stories about that craaaazy island and whatever craaazy thing it's done this time. That'd be cool, too."

"We do jobs," Eliot protested. "We just did that -- the whatsit -- the one where I got hit by old Jewish ladies." The 8 Crazy Nights Job. So called because it happened over Hannukah. More than a month ago. Eliot cleared his throat and changed the subject. "I like PowerPoint."

Yeah, that probably didn't help.

"Man, did you really just--?" Hardison had to turn away, shaking his head and muttering to himself. "He comes up to me, in my house, and says he likes PowerPoint. Can't even update the drivers on the printer, but he likes PowerPoint. Fine, you know what?" he said, turning back to Eliot, still looking insulted. "Next time you do that whole Krav Magoo stuff, I'mma sit back and tell you how much I like karate. How does that sound?"

At least he was distracted from pointing out--again--just how long ago the 8 Crazy Nights job was?

"Krav -- man, you can't even do karate!" Why yes, Eliot, that would pretty much be Hardison's point. "Just -- get on with it. The presentation. Whatever."

"You sure you wouldn't rather do it?" Hardison asked. "I mean, I could change all the fonts to Comic Sans, maybe get Clippy all up in here to help you out? Offer some pointers and all?"

"Nah, I like the old-timey Egyptian one." That's right, Hardison, papyrus. "Clippy's the talking paperclip, right?"

Eliot knew the answer to that. He was seeing if he could get Hardison's head to actually explode.

He'd gotten Hardison up to Defcon Sputtering, at least.

"You like--he really said he likes--can't even remember the damn name--but he knows who the hell Clippy is--'I see you're tryin'a murder someone with your pinky, would you like some help with that?'--out of his damn mind--" He stopped and pointed at Eliot, visibly shaking, before turning around and facing the wall of screens.

"So about this damn presentation, created and handcrafted for you in the obviously-inferior-to-PowerPoint system that I designed in about three hours because I was bored, but what does that matter because Eliot likes PowerPoint..."

He was totally going to eat a sandwich of Eliot's, just for spite.

Then he could learn just how little Eliot needed help trying to murder someone with his pinkie.

Eliot leaned back in his seat, propping his feet up on the coffee table. "You know, that Danger Shop could totally use a Clippy."

No, Eliot. No.

AND THERE WENT THE PRESENTATION.

"The what needs a what?" You could practically hear the needle scratch in Hardison's brain. "You are not tryna tell me that that beautiful, state-of-the-art, hologram projector needs some kind of handholding program that even Microsoft admitted was obnoxious just because some people can't even fix the clock on the microwave when it goes out even though there is CLEARLY a clock button on it and we've gone over how much it annoys me when it's just blank right there--"

Hardison stopped his sputtering to bite down on his knuckles, looking up to the ceiling as if God or his Nana or some other holy saint could give him patience.

"Eliot." Bite. "Eliot, do you have any idea what you just--" He was pacing now. "There are some things you just don't DO! You don't publish a friend's browser history. You don't lock down your hard drive with a thirteen-bit encryption unless you WANT your stuff to get stolen. And you don't install Clippy onto a piece of tech that even I can't build yet." He threw up his hands. "Next, you'll be suggesting we add toolbars that we got off porn sites to the dang thing, man!"

Parker was suddenly there, and watching the show. With popcorn.

"We can't do anything with porn with the students," she clarified. Just to see if it would wind Hardison up a little more. "...I guess we could ask one of them for help? We don't have a teaching assistant."

Now Hardison was whining in the back of his throat like a kicked puppy.

"No, no, babe, you're missing the point," he said. "These are things we DON'T do. Not even on out own computers. Babe, please tell me you don't download toolbars off of websites? Please, babe."

Why was this his life?

"Why would I need a toolbar when I have you?" Which could have sounded flirty, but was also completely puzzled. "Eliot's the one who's all about tools." Like that crowbar she'd thrown at him once! She smirked at Hardison. "And Powerpoint."

It should be noted that Eliot had never actually used PowerPoint in his life. It really didn't come into play very often when it came to beating people up and retrieving lost things.

"I bet the pony would like Clippy." The pony, near as he could tell, liked everything.

Hardison was just going to fling himself back into a chair. And hold his head. And whisper a few things to his beautiful, beautiful computer who, he was becoming increasingly aware, was the only person who truly understood him.

"Who," he asked in a tragic voice, "is the pony?"

"Pink, talking, excitable four legged thing," Eliot explained. "Dunno why she thinks she's a pony, she doesn't look a goddamn thing like a horse."