A/N: Let's see. I had some stuff to share with you guys.

Okay, first of all? Thank you for the reviews! I know I don't have 400 reviews like some stories here have, heh, but who the hell cares about that? The fact you guys actually took time to read and review? Thank you so much!

Secondly, to answer the question of my sanity (heheheheheeh!!! Mwuahahahah!! Um, yeah…) I have realized that I work best with trilogies - meaning I actually get to finish them. I have no idea why that is, BUT anyway, don't worry. I have, for the past two days, been writing a sequel to this one - whether it'll be another trilogy or longer fic, who knows, but if it turns out to be a trilogy… I'm somewhat sure yet another trilogy will follow that one and there you go. A vicious circle. It seems I always lose my interested in multi-chaptered fics, but writing trilogies? Excellent way to cheat. Because, let's face it, it IS a story with multiple chapters, hee, but my mind doesn't seem to see it that way.

If you're interested in my other ryro fics or my other fics in general, everything can more or less be found in my livejournal - the link should be in my profile. I update there the minute I get something done for which I'm sorry - I'm usually too lazy to convert my entries to .docs and post here… so it always takes a while.

Anyway, here's the final part for this one - stay tuned for another sequel should follow shortly. Unless a block kicks my ass… but reviews always kick the block's ass, SO, hint hint.

THE KILL

Maybe you are a little too naive for your own good, whatever, but you actually were under the solid impression there's not a thing he could do that would still surprise you. Be it roses on your doorstep or a stone thrown through your bedroom window, you thought you've seen it all when it comes to him and his grand gestures.

The truth is you got neither of those and now you're kind of wishing you had. At least if it were roses or a rock you'd know what to do with it, but this, you have no idea what to do with. The roses would obviously go into water or the trashcan, depending on your current mood at the time. Or into both, though the order is unknown; no one knows for sure how that one would go down and right now, it doesn't matter much anyway. The window, you imagine, would have to be fixed and the stone you'd keep hidden in some shoe box, top-shelf, behind the extra pillows and blankets. In other words, far away from Shelby's prying eyes and never-ending questions. But still, you'd keep it just to remind yourself that you can do better.

He's an ass and you never wanted him anyway.

The tension headache is there, hammering in the back of your head like a bad hangover and his eyes on you, the cold but yet burning stare, it doesn't help at all. There was a time when you would've shrunk under those eyes; would've looked away like a child in shame but those days are over and you're planning to make it known.

You snort, letting him know you're anything but happy with him and the way things are going. Sarcastic, frustrated, cynical, pessimistic, discontent - take your pick. Anything but happy, seriously.

And it's - of course - all his fault. The accusation playing on your lips, demanding to be voiced; it makes you fold your arms in a manner meant to send him a clear message without you actually having to say it. This way you stand a chance. Now you can deny it, the whole message, if things get heated. With him they usually do, don't they, and Wolverine taught one always needs to have a backup plan, a way out.

Instantly you feel the desire to look over your shoulder, to make sure the door, your one and only exit, is still there. But you don't look, because you don't want to give him the satisfaction of breaking the hostile stare. Plus, you're in enemy territory now - which, you figure, might not have been as smart a move as you thought it would be - and you are never ever supposed to take your eyes off the villain. You've seen the horror movies, okay?

For some reason you want to be the one to speak first, yeah, but you're not sure what to say. Or how.

Other than blame him loudly, that is, but you doubt it gets you anywhere. Sure, the reason it's his fault and not yours is logical to you, but he certainly won't see it the same way - and that's not why you're here anyway. You're here simply to tell him to fuck off, right?

Seriously though, how could you have known? The shock of seeing him there, in your home, standing in your living-room, it's making your memories a little hazy, fine, but you have no difficulties whatsoever recalling his last words to the damn dot.

He'd said don't think we're done here yet and trying his best to make it sound like a poisonous threat, but really, in your ears it was more like a promise.

That should say it all. That's why it's his fault.

Because at the end of the day, Pyro, John, whoever the hell he wants to be for the time being - you don't ask because you don't care -, he's always been good with threats. They're his second nature and always kept, but his promises, as far as you can tell, are always empty.

So when the two delightful fellows, looking more or less like some PCH bikers gone over the edge with the all-covering tattoos and piercings, start popping up at every corner and window you stop to look at, you are (as noted), not happy.

Truth be told, it actually starts with Shelby telling you how she thinks she saw some funny looking dudes - her words, not yours - watching her while she played in the park. At the time you waved it off. I'm sure it's just your imagination, sweetie and she shrugged saying maybe it is, whatever, Mom.

You worry for a few days, but when she doesn't mention the dudes again you kind of forget all about it.

But then you, being the sensible adult and all, start sensing them around and though you try not to show it, it really does freak you out. It's when your spine crawls as if your spider senses were telling you something's not quite right that you know they're there again, somewhere. A quick glance on the surface of the nearest window and you can almost swear you saw their reflections lurking behind your back.

Still, at first you insist blaming your daughter's imagination and her undying love for Tobey Maguire. Honestly, no woman can be forced to watch that damn movie ten times a week without it leading to some sort of mental damage (paranoia, in this case) and that, you reason, is what this is all about.

Yeah, that's what you thought. Up until the day you were almost hit by a car, one driving straight at you and your daughter while you were crossing a busy street. Then, the next minute, you heard a smooth woosh and the world turned up-side down for a moment. You closed your eyes as the cold breeze hit your face violently, brought tears, and when you opened your eyelids again - somehow, you don't know how - you found wide-eyed Shelby in your arms, safe and secure.

It took another minute before you registered she was not the only one being held. You were in someone's arms too, far away from the dangerous scene and you blinked, drawing Shelby closer to your chest. Then you realized, with a kind of weird relief, that you were face to face with the same guy - one of them, anyway - you thought you'd seen around.

You remember thinking, fucking hell, a mutant and well, that's when it all started to make sense. Even a kid could've done that equation.

You were dropped on your feet rather softly and you in turn set your child on the ground, behind your back. Then you made your move.

After doing the unthinkable; slapping your tattooed savior instead of thanking him for saving your life - and your daughter's --, you demand some answers and he gives them, though not that cheerfully.

He told you, you might wanna take this to the boss and you frowned asking out loud what the hell would Magneto want from you?

A smile spread on his face and he chuckled, shaking his head as if you'd just come up with the joke of the day and it annoyed you. Lady, he started, still chuckling, aren't you forgetting something?

With hands behind your back, holding Shelby in place, you're about say, what, what do you mean, but you don't get that far. Because you did forget something. Oh, right, you said, right.

How the hell did you forget that? Maybe because he, Magneto, is about the last person on Earth you like to think about... but you, like everyone else, do know he isn't the boss anymore.

You didn't know who was, but for what it's worth, you did have a one good guess. You still don't know for sure.

Finally, for the first time you can think of, John gives in right in front of you. First you hear a deep, annoyed sigh, which makes you focus your stare again and then you hear it, the actual question.

"You do realise," he drawls with a cynical face, leaning back against the soft looking armchair, "you've stood there for 20 minutes without saying anything, right?"

Yeah, you do realise that, though you're thinking no one could blame you if you didn't. Anyone would still be a little shocked and dumbfounded. Because yeah, you - like any other person who's known him for as long as you have - are finding it really damn hard to believe that John Allerdyce has an office. A real office, the kind that isn't hidden in the woods, built underground, but is located in an actual skyscraper in the middle of San Francisco. And the fact it's as neat and official as this one, well, that's just another surprise to add to the fast growing pile of unexpected.

"Yes," you answer, trying to keep your tone as cold as possible though you're trembling inside. From anger, from fear, from everything. You're not gonna let him do this. He, you think, can go to hell and stay there for the rest of his pathetic days.

"Well," he barks back, "fucking stop it. I have things to do."

He's got the office of a businessman, you give him that, but the attitude is still that of a spoiled brat. Some things don't change and though you probably should be glad, you're not. Maybe because you'd kind of wished this one would.

"You fucking stop it," you return with a snap and take a dangerous step closer, "you had absolutely no right to send those damn gorillas after me!"

The bored look disappears and as always, the smug smirk returns to its throne. "They weren't after you, Roguey," he points out and you can't help but imagine grabbing the nearest thing - oh, look, a phone - and slapping him around with it, "They were just keeping an eye on the kid."

All you have to do is remain calm. Stay cool. Ignore his baits, state your business. Professional, unaffected.

Still, you tell him, "the kid's name is Shelby", because you hate the fact he refuses to call her by her given name. It's always that girl or the kid or something else as impersonal as that. You figure the main reason he's lowering her to the status of a thing is just to annoy you and you shouldn't let it bother yourself. However, like most things in life, it's easier said than done.

"Only 'cause of you," he shrugs and you fucking hate it how you're tempted to defend yourself. And, what's worse, to ask - ask what name he would've preferred if you'd given him a choice. It shouldn't matter to you now. Not when it didn't even matter then.

The fact that that for sure was your own fault, you coldly ignore.

"Whatever, John," you force out tonelessly, exhale and keep going because you're half sure a pause would break your float and the train of thought, "Anyway. Believe it or not, we don't need you. I've taken care of her for quite a few years here in case you didn't get that and I think I've done fine so thank you, but no thank you. We don't need your men ogling us, okay?" There, it's almost said, good.

"Just..." you lick your bottom lip pensively while trying to decide how to put it, "just leave us alone." Please. It almost slips out, but you manage to bite your tongue in time. Thank the higher powers.

Your silent 'thank you's are forgotten when you sense a slight change in his stare though he doesn't even move. But you feel it anyway - there's something overtly challenging about the way he's looking at you, isn't there? "If I thought that, I wouldn't have sent them, you know," he says and you hold your breath, hoping he's not gonna go where you think he is, "You think you can take care of her, but really, you've just been lucky, that's all."

You want to scream at him, tell him to shut his fucking cakehole all the while you contemplate - again - on grabbing the phone, but his icy tone keeps you frozen.

You almost feel guilty and it hurts. Because he's wrong and you damn well know it.

"I've seen how you are with her," he continues, ignoring but most certainly enjoying the pained expression on your face, "You let her run around in the park with some kids she's never met before. You take your book and you read," he spits the words out through half gritted teeth, making you think of a hissing snake.

He is furious at you. That fucking prick! What right does he have to judge you?

And why the fuck is the guilt in the pit of your stomach only expanding? There should be no guilt at all, damnit!

"You fucking read, Rogue," he stresses, "and while you get lost in that fantasy world of yours where everything is so perfect and shiny, anyone could come up and grab her."

For a moment you simply gape at him, astonished. The nerve of this asshole!

You must really have offended him somehow when he was still at the school because you don't think he'd have gone this far if you hadn't. All this to hurt you? He seduced you - it was him, naturally, because you were drunk and out of it and he used you. And as if that wasn't painful enough, when he finally did find out about her, he ran away.

What the hell is driving him forward, you wonder. Was he trying to get back at Bobby through you? Was he trying to hurt him or you?

Maybe you should've told him to go after Jubilee. Since she's Bobby's wife and all. Would've saved you from hell... only, the down side is, you wouldn't have her.

So really, it's kind of hard to regret.

"Oh," you snort tossing your hair over your shoulder and let out an arrogant laugh, "now you care about us?"

The smile on his face, you swear it goes from evil to satanic under a nanosecond. "No," he replies, shaking his head with the kind of smile you'd gladly punch in, "I take care of me and mine."

Ah, of course, to him there's a difference.

"She's mine," he finishes. Yep, there's the implication you expected to hear. You get what he's saying, you do. He might have slept with you once, but it doesn't change the way he sees you now. In his eyes you're still the vermin you turned into the day you decided to give up on your most precious gift and he, then again, is the king of the world.

Ah, of course, to him there's a difference.

"She's mine," he finishes. Yep, there's the implication you expected to hear. You get what he's saying, you do. He might have slept with you once, but it doesn't change the way he sees you now. In his eyes you're still the vermin you turned into the day you decided to give up on your most precious gift and he, then again, is the king of the world.

Perhaps he really is the new leader of the Brotherhood, you don't know. It would certainly explain his forever-growing ego.

"I wouldn't have bothered if you could actually handle her," John says, snapping you out of it again and the funniest thing is he actually sounds like he'd have a clue, which he doesn't, "It's not my fault you suck as a mother."

Right. You were supposed to stay calm, yes, and cool and unaffected. Yes, you were indeed supposed to ignore his baits all together and let him have his insults.

Of course, reality - that bitch - has the habit of stepping in the way of your plans. Because somehow that simple sentence of his, said with the kind of loathing and condescension you can not take, it's the last straw.

Whereas a moment ago you were only fantasizing about smashing the fancy table phone against its owner's nose, now you actually act on it.

You grab the phone on his desk without thinking it further and send it flying to his direction... but you aren't fast enough or then he simply saw it coming. He manages to lean to one side, efficiently getting out of the target line and the phone hits the wall behind him.

He smirks at you with laughing eyes and stands up - and all you can think of is, what else to throw, what else to throw, what else to throw, but because you don't dare to glance around, you come up with no answer.

If you didn't have your keys in your purse with all the other important belongings, you'd consider giving it a try. Whatever, you don't have it on you anyway - it's lying on the chair next to you and being the cocky son of a bitch he is, he'd figure your plan out if you bent down to pick it. So, there goes that one.

You expect him to throw a tantrum, jump you, slap you, whatever. You do not, however, expect John to walk around the desk all calm and smirking as if you hadn't just tried to assault him. Well, he's most likely gotten used to the violent kind of reactions anyway, so.

But even then, this seems wrong somehow, surreal and so unlike him. That is probably why you're still expecting him to grab you and as much as you'd want to take a step back now, run and flee to Mexico with Shelby and never come back, you don't move an inch. You swallow, hard, breathe, and blink a few times, yeah, but that's about it.

Apparently some things do change and you ain't complaining - a slap on the face really wasn't in your agenda for today anyway. Well, not on your face.

He's leaning against his desk now, way too close to you because his leg is brushing against yours. He's doing it on purpose, trying to shake you up.

The cocky smirk has morphed into one damn alluring smile and you have the weirdest and yuckiest feeling of a déjà vu. The memory flashes in front of your eyes and you almost grunt out loud. Yeah, you've seen that smile, alright.

"You don't like it," he speaks then, so softly that first you have no idea what he means by it, "I know that, but hey, truth hurts."

Then you, well, snap. That's all there is to it. You snap.

You don't even feel the movement, but all the sudden you're there, in his face, hitting and punching, clawing and screaming and pushing him backwards. He grabs your arms, trying to keep his balance and get you off, but you're too high on adrenaline and rage.

What you're trying to accomplish with that little stunt, you don't know and don't really care either. All you do know is that the fucking smirk glued to his lips has to come off even if you have to beat it out of him.

Which is quite accurately describing the scene between you two.

You manage to nail him in the nose with a strong punch of some kind and enjoy hearing his sudden inhalation and the snarl of pain. He doesn't shriek, of course not, but the snarl works for you quite nicely too, so you don't complain. Your fingernails leave a scratch on his cheek and you hit him so hard in the chest, or somewhere near, that your fingers actually hurt afterwards.

It's over way too quickly, though, when he recovers from the shock and is finally capable of pushing you away. Only, he doesn't push. He pulls.

And then, all the sudden, you're the one breathing in sharply, the one on the table and he's pinning your arms down, face hovering dangerously above yours. You'd kick him, or knee him, one way or another, if he didn't have your legs captured against the desk in rather suspicious position.

Not good.

"You're fucking unstable, too," he growls, hot breath brushing your face, tingling, and you can't believe how familiar he smells - or the fact your stomach tightens. Maybe, you put together, you should get laid more often or something because hell, this is kind of ridiculous.

"Go tell that to a judge, fucker," you cry out, shielding your thoughts from him by attempting to push him off with all your might and every inch of your body. To your misfortunate, the damn mutant stands his ground like you were nothing but a little bug trying to roll over a stone - and the smirk doesn't fade away, either. Assholes, you decide, both of them! The boy (not a man; never a man) and the damned smile.

He doesn't say anything back, not at first and it puzzles you a little. The way he's only observing your face with a tilted head and then, believe or not, he actually frowns. You enjoy seeing how his eyes darken with nearly unnoticeable surprise. Usually you never know what's going on inside his head, but this time you notice it. He's just as puzzled as you are.

And you love it.

"You're not afraid," he states bluntly, taking you off guard because you didn't expect him to say that and then, out of blue you're flying across the air and onto the floor. Only, before you hit the hard floor, you smack against one of the two chairs in front of his desk. Then, and only then, you fall painfully on your knees and shriek. Shit.

It hurts - a lot - but you try and rise above and beyond, try to ignore every trace of the pain because that is the only thing you can think of to lessen his victory.

"What a way to let a girl go, John," you sigh tiredly, brushing the hair off your face and use the armchair behind you to prop yourself up as if nothing happened. Guess it's a theme today between you two. He's settled against the desk again and if his face didn't look like that, bloody nose and long red scratches on his other cheek, you wouldn't even believe what happened a moment ago.

But it did and hey, the smirk is finally gone. If you were Hermione Granger, you'd totally deserve 50 house points right about now for your courage or something. Take that, slytherin.

And with that thought it actually occurs to you. He was right - you aren't afraid.

Somewhere in the middle of all this, this crap and bullshit he's making you go through, you stopped fearing him. How'd that happen?

"What is your freakin' problem?" John questions, seemingly irate and holy shit - you can't believe he's even asking that. How in the world does he not get it? That was a rhetorical question, right?

"And here I thought I was making it very damn clear," you answer anyway, with as much sarcasm and venom as you can stick into it, "You, John, you are my freakin' problem."

Still no sign of that annoying smirk and for a brief second you pat yourself on the back, savoring the moment. After that's done, you get over it. It might be his face that makes you forget to be proud because he looks... weird.

Then his mouth opens and you can see his lips moving, but the words simply do not register.

I was just making sure she's safe.

Maybe his words don't want to register because somehow, they sound sincere and that can't be. Frankly, he even looks sincere and that definitely can't be the case.

You refuse to believe he'd actually care - obviously it's nothing but another way to get under your skin.

Because, "No, actually," you protest with a sour glare, "you were just making sure she's safe because apparently, I'm such a horrible mother I can't take care of my own child."

His eyebrows quirk in poorly hidden amusement, and there, in the corner of his mouth, there it is again - the damn smirk, lurking as he speaks, "Is there a point there somewhere?"

"Stay away from us," you state without hesitations. That's all.

But apparently he's decided to make it as difficult for you as possible. What does he want? You to beg? And you know, you would do that - beg - if you knew it'd get him off your back. But honestly, what are the odds of that happening? Like ever?

"No," he puts back, once again shaking his head and its cap of blond curls. "The way I see it, we've got two options."

Two? Well, that could almost be called something like progress because it sure as hell is one more option than you would've guessed... You would've thought there's only one option - his and his only.

"I kill you or you kill me?" you quip defiantly and draw a smirk from him. Only this one isn't a smirk, really, but something that could almost be described as a genuine smile and it sends shivers through-out your whole body.

Pathetic, much?

"Tempting," John chuckles, once, before continuing and you hope to God he doesn't know what's going on inside you - physically, that is, "But no. Either I take her or you accept my help."

That's when you come to the conclusion that maybe, perhaps, you should've waited with the phone assault. Because this moment, right here, this is when you should've clawed his eyes out. And considering the rage building up inside, you could've even won this time.

But you don't do anything, because you recognize a threat when you hear it and that most certainly was a threat, not a promise, and suddenly you're a little scared again.

Not that you'd let him see that. "No way in hell, John," you return making it sound like it's a done deal already - like he'd have no say on it, at all. It makes you feel better, a little, though you know better than that. You're both probably thinking the same thing anyway.

He could and he would and that's that. Unless you take him up and play this stupid game of his. You don't know what it's about, not really, or what's at stake here, but you know it's nothing but a little mind game to him.

"Then we have a conflict," he points out, sucking his bottom lip and you try not to focus on that, "and I don't like 'em that much."

Yeah, well, you don't like stray cats either, but somehow they always find their way into your little cozy backyard and into Shelby's sand box. Tough shit, lover.

"Boo hoo," you drawl, irritated. Maybe it's the delicate combination of rage and frustration that's making you act and sound so bold, you don't know, don't care, but you do love the way it makes you feel. Stronger.

It also makes you want to ask - though you're smart enough not to actually say it aloud - if this is going anywhere or really, are you gonna be forced to spend an eternity in his office exchanging insults because if yes, then he's gonna be the one paying for the babysitter.

Hell, it actually isn't such a bad idea and you make a mental note to work on it. After all, cash doesn't grow on trees and you're all too familiar with that fact. At least not on the trees you've seen around.

You find it refreshing that he's tense again - it means he isn't enjoying himself anymore and you take comfort in knowing that. Plus, the smirk's gone into hiding somewhere for which you're also pretty damn grateful.

So grateful that it actually makes you smile. Widely. For the first time during this conversation, argument, battle of wills, whatever, you smile without having to fake it. No, you smirk. Like he'd smirk if it was him cornering you and he notices it right away. It takes one to know one.

"Don't fuck with me, Roguey," he snarls, trying to turn the tables on you, but you're too far away now and he can't reach you.

15 minutes ago you would've taken that comment of his badly. Now you're simply laughing inside. No pun intended, John?

Now you get it; why others' desperation is always so funny to him.

"You should've said that 6 years ago," you say sweetly, a smile on your lips through the whole sentence and you think you're high, "you little piece of shit."

His anger has faded away too and there's only amusement left. "Nice one," he laughs and weirdly, you agree with him. That's a first, you note, but it's not like you can deny it - you are getting the hang of this, though why he doesn't seem bothered by it, that you don't get...

"Fine," you sigh with a shrug - and a plan, "Okay, have it your way. If you want to protect her, then do it," you tell him with mocking tone, "By all means, protect her."

He looks pensive, as if he wasn't quite sure whether you mean it or not and he's not exactly alone with that thought. You don't know either, it just sort of came out on its own and now you're gonna have to stand behind it.

All you know is that you want to mean it and that settles it.

"But I swear to God, John," you go on, "if you don't send guys that actually blend in instead of giving my daughter nightmares, I'll come back with Wolverine and have him dice you like the meat you are."

To that he snorts and rolls his eyes much like you expected him to. Well, you had to say something and you imagine threatening him with your right hook wouldn't have done the trick. The one you picked didn't either, but you had to choose from two evils.

"Right," he rivals cynically, crossing his arms onto his chest, "'cause we all know how fucking scared I am of dear Wolvie."

Maybe not, but, "You should be." You even mean it. A little.

You guess you're tiring him out because without any warning at all, he suddenly sighs and rubs his face - it strikes you odd, the way he's letting his guard down, but you let it go.

"Okay, enough," he says then, arms going back to the folded posture while his gaze finds yours. You stay silent but only because he's got this odd look in his eyes and suddenly you're a little confused again.

"So you accept my help?" He asks and you're almost too tempted to throw it back at his face. His normal tone, that is, not the actual offer - because he's Pyro for fuck's sake and now it seems to you as if he was asking your permission instead of telling how it'll be. Call you crazy but somehow it doesn't fit the profile and you'd have so much fun pointing it out to him.

But you let that one go, too. "Help?" You repeat his word, tasting it and deciding it doesn't quite taste right, "If you can call it that, then yeah, fine, I accept it."

John stares at you with an openly contemplative look on his face, one eyebrow quirked up into an unvoiced question.

You choose to ignore the question, whatever it is, and tell him, "I'll take your stupid gorillas and, in addition, I'll take your money."

That earns you an actual reaction - a question spoken aloud. "You'll take my money?" He says and though you know it's supposed to be a question, at least you think so, it doesn't really sound like one. It feels more like he'd already known what you were gonna say and been completely fine with that. You frown, but only inside.

"Well," you begin though you have no idea how to put it, "the Brotherhood seems to be doing well. I have no fucking clue how or why or if this thing you're doing here is even legal or if it's you who's doing it, but you know, I don't care."

In the end your safest bet is to go with the truth and that's what you do.

"I have a kid to feed and rent to pay and if you're insisting on helping, then do it properly."

He only nods, saying, "fine," and behind the facade you're more than a little surprised.

"Okay," you clear your throat, once again wiping the hair off your cheek because you have to do something and that's the only thing you can do without acting suspicious, "So we're good now."

No, you'll never be good, things can never be good with you two, but it's simply an expression.

He smiles, but it's not the genuine, almost warm smile you received earlier, but kind of ice cold and sneering. "Not really," he says, "but we'll get there. I'll make the arrangements."

There's a whole lot of things you never thought you'd hear him say and now you realise I'll make the arrangements falls within that category perfectly because it feels like it was someone else saying the words. That sounded too official to come out of his mouth. Too mature.

Now it's time to end this. You won your battle and you don't want to face another one right away.

So you say, "you do that," and grab your purse just to underline the fact you indeed are done with this thing. "Now, excuse me, I promised the babysitter I'd be home soon."

He rotates his shoulders - to ease the tensed muscles, no doubt and says, "Oh, about that-"

And as scary as it is, he doesn't have to finish the sentence because you're way ahead of him, "Of course you do," you interrupt him with completely conversational and normal tone, but neither of you seem too surprised by it, "Yes, I know, you want her to have a decent babysitter. A mutant in other words."

"Yep," he says, a victorious grin on his lips.

You, on the other hand, are way too past that and only later you start to question it - the way his smile deepens even further when you tell him, "Whatever. Find her one, then. Go ahead and invade our life, see if I care. As long as you don't show your face to her - unless you intend to make it a habit."

And all that you say with that normal tone of yours. Almost as if this freak show taking place could even be compared to a real conversation.

"Don't worry," he tells you (funny how it doesn't stop you from worrying) playfully, "I don't."

"Good." Now you adjust the purse's position on your side and on your shoulder and say with a tired smile, "Goodbye John, have a fantastic life ruining mine."

You don't wait for the reply you know you'll get, but turn around instead and start walking towards the door - just for effect.

No, of course he can't let you walk away with the last word and when your fingers wrap around the handle and you open the door, that's when you hear him mutter, "Oh, count on that one - see you around, Roguey."

You choose to ignore it and only slam the door shut behind you.

Whatever, Pyro.