"Shoot me, Quillish; you'll have to shoot me first," Roger states with all seriousness.

The gun clicks with a final warning against his temple. "You know that would be mutually beneficial to both of us, and, as much as I have the desire- I'll have to hold back my dear friend," Quillish Wammy gives a pleasant smile and a curt nod towards his companion.

How they love to argue. Over every, little thing. Every single, damn, insignificant, illigitimate concept. How Roger can find so much empty space in his glass every morning is beyond Quillish, and he does consider himself a very bright man.

"Well, I suppose, in that case..."Roger's hand smoothly glides between the men. Past their legs, abdomins, torsos, and all the way to the Ruger Vaquero, single-action .357 Magnum revolver in his friend's hand. "I'll go ahead and do it myself then, if you please," he returns the pleasant smile, but he can never match the genuine curve of the lips or false sincerity in his voice that Quillish is notorious for. (And for that matter, he never will.)

"Nonono, that's quite all right Ol' Chap; your dying breath belongs to me, if you've forgotten," a hearty laugh,"and therefore I may kill you in whatever means I please; via bullets, food poisonig, starvation, home sickness- whathaveyou- understand? So if I choose to kill you with children, then I-very-damn-well will kill you with children.

Roger takes a deep breath, perhaps two...or five. Hell, he's hyperventilating now. Children? Quillish wants Roger, you know, the guy who cringes at the sight of a child, the one who celebrated the debut of birth control in 1960, saying 'Finally! Something to reel in those germ ridden money-vacuums.' He wants this man to be his twenty-four-hour-round-the-clock nanny for his stupid orphanage? Open that mouth Roger, those molten, steel pills will taste a lot better than the shit storm that's coming your way.

If only.

If only Quillish liked him just enough to pull the trigger.