"Man, I can't go now! I've got—" being ticked off on long fingers "—new episodes for Doctor Who, Psych, that monster-show Parker makes me watch—" a shudder and mutter of "freaky psychic kid" "—Avengers memorabilia deals about to expire, World of Warcraft butt to kick - there's this kid in the Netherlands, thinks he can beat me - ME?" An incredulous look. "Man, I Alec Hardison, I do not get beat. Oh, and to top it off—"

"Hardison, I don't care about your stupid geek mind-meltin' noise crap, alright?" There was what Tara had affectionately termed that thing with your eyes that scares people, but Hardison had grown an immunity common to all little brothers everywhere. "Get your ass outta that chair and come with me, man, or I swear I will - break - the next thing you touch."

"Now that's just rude. My babies need more respect than that, man - I tell you what - it's not even funny. Why you - why you gotta joke like that?"

The next look said I'm not joking, Hardison. "Apple, right screen, game console-...thingy." A finger jabbed at each to emphasize the blatant and immediate threat to the precious techno-bit, intimidation about as ruined with that last one as the teddy bear incident had been, its accompanying jab more of a vague, unimpressive wave.

Still, with hands up in the air and a wide-eyed affront, he's protesting, "I haven't touched anything! Why would - why'd you'd do that?"

A smirk. "One for each day you've been inside. Next thing you touch, I'll destroy your precious breaker for all this crap."

"So not cool, that took me weeks to set up. I can't even—you're just—man, why you gotta mess around with—it's just hurtful, hurtful, man, really."

"Your agoraphobic habits are just hurtful," mutters as he walked away, past piles of dirty dishes and mounds of empty sodas, grabbing his coat, "Plus that caveman odor is just offensive. Damn it, Hardison, this orange soda has mold growing in it!" Another scary-eye look and a finger jabbed at the offensive leftovers. (Oops. Not all empty.) "You're cleanin' this up."

"Yeah, yeah, sure, man, whatever. Just let me—" There was a dirty butter knife vibrating in the space between his hands, just centimeters from the keyboard he was so not turning back to, nope, not at all. Eliot was just...overreacting, man, that paranoia, he'd warned him about that. Flying off the handle and all. Just isn't good for one's health. Look, it'd almost cost him his precious fingers. He needs those fingers, y'all. He's Alec Hardison, hacker extraordinaire, where would he be without his magic fingers? Broke(n). And so not stuck in front of a computer screen, twenty-four/seven.

Maybe that was Eliot's point. Okay, okay. Point taken. After all, he's a genius, right? And he's got self-preservation instincts like nobody's business.

Man, he hates fresh air. It's so...clean.