So this day was all kinds of fired. First, Hardison had met some crazy, murder hobo version of his boyfriend in the park and had gotten to have not-so happy funtimes with the wrong end baseball bat. And then on his way home, he'd kept seeing things out of the corner of his eye, but when he'd turned to see what was out there, there was absolutely nothing.
Was that a sign of a concussion? He was pretty sure that was a sign of a concussion. Or maybe some kind of brain swelling thing. Or was brain swelling what a concussion was? He couldn't remember off the top of his head and that was probably a bad sign, too. And staring at a computer screen would just make his headache worse and he was already squinting out of his left eye, as bruised and blackened as that one was and rather than look up Web MD and discover that he had some form of cancer, he was going to rest right here on Eliot's couch and steal Eliot's last sandwich and use Eliot's good William's Sonoma handtowel to wrap around the ice he was holding against his bruised face.
Hardison...might have been a tad grumpy at Eliot, yes, even though it wasn't, technically speaking, his fault a crazy version of him had kicked Hardison's ass earlier. Not that being grumpy kept Hardison out of Eliot's house and waiting for either of his partners to come home so he could demand cuddles and sympathy.
Man, he wished he had some kind of neat superpower so he could see when the island was going to go crazy and ruin his whole goddamn day.
[For the crew, please!]
- Eliot's Place, 75 Godiva Street, Wednesday Night