fandomtownies | Luke's Diner, Saturday

Hardison missed the fact that, for the second time in a year, aliens were hovering over head. He'd still been in bed when Parker left--not his usual Saturday morning laziness, but the kind of determined refusal to get out of bed and face the day with all the knowledge of yesterday along with it. Finally, though, his hunger outweighed even his stubbornness, and he'd pulled on some clothes and made his way slowly down to the diner.

"What?" he asked the staff, who all had their noses pressed against the glass. The busboy just kind of waved at him, but Hardison was too busy putting together a plate to notice. And even so--his natural inclination towards curiosity was a little squashed right now.

Today's Specials
Asparagus, Potato, and Onion Frittata
Feta and Bacon Stuffed Chicken with Onion Mashed Potatoes
Breakfast Strata

It wasn't until he got Anakin's email that he realized something bigger was going on. "Dammit," he groaned. "Really, Fandom? Really? Ain't in the mood to run around nekkid again."

[OCD free]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"That means it's working. Stop movin' around." Eliot really hoped that was just Hardison being Hardison and not a sign of some sort of iodine allergy. He pulled out some gauze to smear the iodine around and blot up the excess, then grabbed the prethreaded needle. "This is going to hurt even more, but we ain't got any topical analgesic. You want somethin' to bite down on?"

"What?" Hardison was looking panicky now. See? He'd known there was a reason he was not keen on this idea! "This ain't the 19th century, Eliot! What the hell?! Get outta here with that!"

"Alright, but you bite your own tongue off, don't come crying to me."

If he built it up as really really terrible, Hardison would be relieved about how not as bad it was. Right?

"What?!" Now Hardison was trying to scramble away from Eliot. Not that he was getting far, trapped between his boyfriend and his couch. "The hell--I NEED MY TONGUE!"

Eliot was a fan of Hardison's tongue, too. "If you need to yell, yell. Ain't gonna do anyone any good you holdin' it in. You want some whiskey or something? Being drunk helps sometimes."

"Fine, yeah, GET ME SOME WHISKEY!"

While Hardison made a break for it, la la la.

Eliot was pretty sure Hardison wouldn't get far, bleeding from a gut wound and turning gray around the edges and all.

It also wasn't really very far across to the kitchen where the liquor was kept.

"Alright. Stay there."

"Yeah, of course," Hardison babbled. "Where would I go?"

Certainly not, say, running for the door the minute Eliot stepped into the kitchen!

Eliot heard the footsteps and sighed. "Don't be an idiot, Hardison. Sit your ass back down before you fall over."

"I don't wanna bite my tongue off!"

"You're not going to bite your tongue off. Especially if you bite down on something." Eliot held out the bottle of whiskey for him. "Now drink this, it'll help you relax. And stop bleedin' all over this nice clean floor."

Hardison grudgingly took the bottle, made a face, then took a long swallow. He tried not to sputter coming up. "Nasty!" he declared. "This here is nasty! Ugh!"

Hardison was not a heavy drinker and went more for beer or sugary drinks when he did.

"Great. It'll be nice and distracting." Eliot pushed him back down on the couch. "Can I get started here already?"

"Fine, fine," Hardison muttered. "I get Hot Pockets for dinner though. I need ease of digestion because I got stabbed."

Eliot started the first stitch. "You eat crackers when you're worried about digestion."

Hardison yelped. "That hurts!" Not enough for him to bite his tongue off, not that you'd notice with the way he was carrying on. "I drank whiskey an' it still hurt!"

"It's gonna hurt more if you keep wiggling!" Eliot tied off the first stitch and started number two, trying to balance speed and precision.

At least the wound wasn't big enough to need more than a handful of these.

A whole handful?! This was barbaric!

"I wouldn't wiggle if it didn't hurt!" Hardison said after another mouthful of whiskey.

Eliot paused in the middle of the third stitch and looked up at Hardison through his hair.

"You want me to miss?"

"I want you to not be further mortifyin' my already damaged flesh with a damn needle an' thread like it's 1854!" Hardison declared. "There's a clinic in town for this! An' I bet they have pain-killers!"

Oh, wouldn't this be an ironic comment tomorrow.

"And we'll go to the clinic to make sure you're okay just as soon as we know there ain't a town full of the damn things that did this to you between us and it." Eliot tied off stitch number three and had stitch number four in place before he finished talking. Distracting Hardison seemed to be working, at least.

Giving him whiskey had also helped. He was gulping it down like a young Korean teen with her first taste of moonshine. "Yo, these last few days are really makin' me question my commitment to Sparkle Motion," he said vaguely, gesturing with the bottle.

Eliot was 90% sure that was some sort of pop culture reference, but just in case: "You didn't end up with a concussion while I wasn't lookin', did you?"

Hardison heaved a heavy sigh. "How do you remain this ignorant of pop culture after a year of bein' together?" Beat. "Ow."

Hardison, the needle hadn't even been near you that time.

Honestly, where the wound was positioned, that "ow" could have been from sighing heavily.

"I still have better things to do than to stare at a TV all the time?" Eliot suggested, starting in on the last stitch.

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