You'd stolen a revolver off his nightstand and had been shooting at bottles and any seagulls that came by as target practice. Giving a barky laugh when you heard the glass shatter or the squeal of a bird, quieting down slightly and gritting your teeth when you felt the cold leather of a glove on your shoulder as someone turned you around. You stared up at him and spit as he gingerly grabbed your wrist so you lowered the gun from him and stared flatly "Brat, I'm gonna need that back."