He came to the boathouse half to be alone and half on the off chance he could find something suitably dangerous there. No luck, so instead he's grumbling to himself and breaking things.
"Goddamn fucking livelings won't even let me have a knife. Bullshit."
"To stop breaking things," Dan answers, without thinking. The flinch that immediately follows his statement is probably an indication of his absentmindedness.
Instead he takes another breath, lets it out, and shakes his head.
"Livelings," he mutters contemptuously. "Always needing things. What's in it for me? And if I hear the word 'survival' anywhere in your explanation, I swear I will find a fucking chainsaw somewhere on this godforsaken heap of dirt and make you regret it."
He came to the boathouse half to be alone and half on the off chance he could find something suitably dangerous there. No luck, so instead he's grumbling to himself and breaking things.
"Goddamn fucking livelings won't even let me have a knife. Bullshit."
And so on.
Approach with caution, if at all.
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That's... unexpected.
"What are you doing?" Dan shouts, startled at what he finds on the other side of the door. "Hey!"
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"What the fuck are you looking at?"
Everything about his stance and posture says: please, please give me an excuse to smash your face in.
And his eyes flick to the floor, by the wall, where a scatter of shards is the only remnant of several glass bottles.
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And please don't hurt me.
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He does, indeed, take a deep breath.
"What do you want?"
That he simply growls it, instead of picking up one of those shards and laying Dan's face open, is a testament to the extent of his self-control.
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"... please."
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It's not a very nice sound.
He crosses the space between them much, much too quickly.
"Fine," he says, his voice low and smooth and soft as silk. "Give me one good reason not to."
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"Because they're supplies that we need," he says, bracing himself for a punch to the face.
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Or hit Dan.
Or hit something else.
Instead he takes another breath, lets it out, and shakes his head.
"Livelings," he mutters contemptuously. "Always needing things. What's in it for me? And if I hear the word 'survival' anywhere in your explanation, I swear I will find a fucking chainsaw somewhere on this godforsaken heap of dirt and make you regret it."
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Survival was going to be his only explanation.
So he's just... not gonna answer that, and look pathetic.
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Two.
Chainsaw grins, bright and sharp.
"You know when to shut up. I like that."
He's still standing too close-- personal space seems to be a foreign concept-- but at least he doesn't look immediately violent anymore.
"What's your name, liveling?"
If he's heard it before, it didn't register. Now Dan has his attention.
Some would say this is not a healthy state of being.
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"Daniel Faraday."
Liveling is a word he certainly hasn't heard before, ever.
He's not gonna ask about it, though - not yet.
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"Nice to meet ya. I'm Chainsaw."
The smile adds: wanna know how I got the name?
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Dan's expression looks curious, but he isn't sure he wants to know.
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The little intimidations are absolutely ridiculously fun.
He slings an arm around Dan's shoulders.
A far-off spectator might call it a companionable gesture.
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"Does this mean you're done breaking stuff?" he asks, sounding as uncomfortable as he looks. "I have work I need to do, if you don't mind."
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