For the past eleven days (but who was counting?) Hardison had...not been himself. Instead, he'd been a teddy bear, lugged around in Eliot's messenger bag or cuddled--yes! cuddled!--by Eliot whenever he was at home. In point of fact, Hardison was still a teddy bear and Eliot had dragged him around outside today, into the preserve, surrounded by bugs
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Wanted it enough that he'd actually spent some time cleaning any residue of the bugs and pollen and nonsense off Hardison's synthetic fur after class. Delicately. By hand. The internet said he could just throw a stuffed toy in the washer, but that seemed needlessly cruel.
He reached over for his beer to take a sip and found it empty. Which meant they were down to his last six pack. "We're running low on beer," he muttered, half to Parker, who was around here someplace, and half to himself. "Again."
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A drunken Parker, plus a teddy-bear Hardison and an upset Eliot was clearly a spectacular plan.
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