To be fair to Darlene, John brought a lot of unexpected wildcards to any face-off, not the least of which was his being a mutant. He hadn't been lying when he told Elliot that he didn't have the desire to kill anyone (at least not any strangers), and he wouldn't go that far with her if she made any kind of physical move, but she'd get a very close up look at pyrokinesis for trying.

In fact, as soon as she changed her position, he grabbed his lighter from the pocket of his pants and started to play with it in a way that could've have been nervous habit or subtle threat just as easily. Maybe some blend of both. He'd flip the lid open, strike it lit, then flick it closed again, over and over, all with one dexterous hand: the clink-whoosh-clank on loop tended to drive people out of their minds, which could often give him another layer of power (and, well, it was in large part nervous habit.)

"I don't need the soap opera either," he sighed, "but it's really clingy breaking into his apartment 'cause he doesn't want to move in together yet. Like, stalker-creepy. I can't believe he didn't dump your ass already if you've been doing this for awhile." It was a natural assumption, yes, but also a hilarious one.

When she continued, something in her words finally planted a sharp enough burr under his ass to make him leap to his feet, lighter flipped open and held in the lit position as his earlier dismissive tone turned into an outright snarl. "Elliot's not taking care of me, 'cause no one needs to take care of me. I'm seventeen, I'm not a kid, and I've been on my own since I was twelve. This is a place to stay, not a foster home."

Then he shoved his tongue into the lower corner of his cheek and glanced away, glaring at the far wall with absurd intensity: from dismissive to furious to sullen. This one had moods.

"John. John Allerdyce."