Sometimes, Eliot Spencer wondered in his teammates had been raised by wolves. True, he was pretty much the epitome of the professional lone wolf (at least he had been, before getting involved with the rest of them), but at least he was aware enough to recognize when one of the people in his life was acting…off.

More off than usual, that is.

Okay, maybe he could give Hardison a bit of slack, as, impressive tech skills aside, the hacker was still fairly young. Nate was having one of his more whiskey soaked weeks and, while Sophie often took an interest in everyone's well being, she and Nate had been particularly wrapped up in their ongoing will they/won't they thing. Again.

One of these days, he was going to lock the two of them in a closet and push a refrigerator in front of the door so neither of them could just pick the lock. He'd let them out after they'd had a few hours to work shit out. But that wasn't pertinent at the moment.

Presently, Parker was the focus of Eliot's attention. Sitting by the couch, Nate was leading a post job debrief. Sophie hovered nearby, while Eliot had claimed one end of the couch, Parker the middle and Hardison the other end.

The little blond thief was slumped back into the couch cushions, a soft, fleece blanket pulled up to her chin. She had found one of his woolen hats somewhere (actually, he was pretty sure it was one he'd thought he'd lost, which probably meant she'd taken it. She did that sometimes, appropriating little items from them and no one really minded). Even though he wasn't touching her, Eliot could feel the heat radiating off of her and her stillness was unnerving. Parker liked to move around, liked to touch things, poke him.

Clearly, something was not right with her. And not in the everyday wrongness, which, over time, had become less and less annoying and more endearing.

Not that Eliot would ever admit to that fact out loud. He had an image to maintain after all.

Nate was going on and on about adhering to the plan (which they had done, but Nate himself had deviated from, as usual). Sophie was trying to prod him back towards his point while Hardison was tapping away at another one of those tiny computer pads he seemed to carry everywhere. Nothing was actually being accomplished.

By his side, Parker let out a small, phlegmy sounding cough and Eliot decided enough was enough. Standing, he said, "Bye."

He waved a hand, a cue Hardison noticed and hopped up, eager to get out while someone was providing an escape. Normally, Parker would have already been half out the window, but instead she just peered up at Eliot from her fleece cocoon.

"Now, wait, we need to talk about what went wrong…" Nate began, only to have Sophie interrupt.

Thrusting a bottle at Nate, she snapped, "This is what went wrong!"

And if that wasn't ever a cue to leave. Without waiting to hear the fight that was clearly about to happen, Eliot reached down and scooped up Parker, blankets and all, and followed Hardison quickly out of the apartment.

Once they were safely out in the hall, the closed doors muffling whatever Sophie and Nate were shouting at each other, Hardison seemed to notice the fact that Eliot was carrying Parker. "Hey," he said, sounding concerned and surprised, "What's up with this? You okay, Parker?"

The thief cracked open an eye to peer at him and lie, "Yes."

Hardison raised a doubtful eyebrow and met Eliot's gaze. Clearly, the younger man had joined him in realizing Parker, despite her assertions, wasn't well. "Right," the hacker drawled, "And I'm gonna grow me a mullet and run off to the Billy Ray Cyrus show at the Garden."

Squinting at him, Parker muttered, "That would look…strange."

Well, her inability to tell when someone was joking wasn't anything new, but her strained tone, the fact that she was limply lying in Eliot's arms and idly patting his hair were.

"I'm pretty sure you got that flu that's going around," Eliot told her gently and Hardison took a standing leap backwards. Heaving a sigh, the hitter asked, "Neither of you got your flu shots, did you?"

"Needles are bad, man!" Hardison exclaimed, creeping further down the hall, further away from the germs surrounding Parker.

Rolling his eyes, Eliot said, "It's half a second! Jab, done and less of a chance of catching your death."

"I'm dying?" Parker looked up at him with bleary worried eyes and the distraction allowed Hardison the time he needed to escape.

"No, Parker, it's just an expression," he assured her, then considered his options. He really didn't want to take her to any of the…interesting places she called home. From the sound of things Sophie was going to be busy with Nate for a while. He knew, sick or not, she'd climb out a window if he took her to the hospital. "But you are sick, so you're coming home with me."

"I'm fine," she protested weakly, a testament to the fact that she truly felt awful.

"I'll make you soup," he told her, knowing the quickest way to get Parker to agree to something was to bribe her with something she wanted. Over the course of working together, he'd discovered that she really, really liked having him cook for her.

She was quiet for a moment, before she sniffled and asked, "Since I'm sick, will you sing to me?"

Little manipulator. "Sure."

"Okay."

Ensconced on one of the large, squashy couches in Eliot's living room, Parker sipped delicately at the cup of warm, sweet tea he'd given her to rinse the taste of the medicine out of her mouth. She could see him moving around the kitchen, prepping homemade chicken soup for her.

It was kind of nice.

She'd never had anyone actually care enough to look after her when she wasn't feeling well. Usually, she just crept back to one of her hidey holes and tried to sleep it off. Admittedly, this was much nicer, even if the medicine tasted like feet.

Before she'd settled onto the couch, he'd shown her the neat guest room she'd been sleeping in. It was warm and cozy and just seeing it made her feel better. As did the over-large t-shirt and flannel pants he'd lent her to sleep in.

The fire he'd started in the hearth was warm, but that was nice as she felt seriously chilled…when she wasn't roasting hot. Being sick sucked.

"While the soup's cooking, eat this."

Eliot returned to the room and handed her a bowl of Jell-O, topped with a fluffy mound of whipped cream before settling into the nearby chair. His guitar was propped against a nearby wall. Already, the soup smelled good and the first swallow of Jell-o felt good in her scratchy throat.

Even sick, this was kind of nice.

Kind of like home.