Disclaimer: I do not own any of the X-Men.

Trust Me, I'm All You've Got

Chapter 1

Looking outside the window of her small apartment, Marie gazed at the outsides of New York at night. It was around eight. People filled the busy streets outside. Bright lights from lampposts and shops shone outwards. Yet inside her apartment, it was dead quiet.

She turned around, and glanced slightly at the person on her couch. He was out cold. Had been for the last few hours. His clothes were messed up and dirtied and ripped. His hair was wet and messy as well. His one arm was covered in a small bandage, and it's sleeve was drenched darkly with blood. He looked so calm, from what she saw. He didn't even know she had taken him in. That's what worried her. As she looked on outside at the loud city, she could estimate over five people, maybe ten perhaps though she hadn't thought of it much, would disagree to let the person on her couch even five feet from her. Yet there they were. And she knew that if the other people would find out, she'd be in deep trouble, and the person on her couch would practically die.

But it didn't matter. She didn't really care about what the other people think or would think. She just folded her arms and walked into her room, carefully closing the door behind her.

xXx

Next morning.

Nine o'clock. The blue curtains were shut tight, but some source of light still managed to pass through and light the dimly lit room. The lights had been shut off from the night before. The couch wasn't that comfortable. It was lumpy and hard rather than soft. It woke him up with an aching back. Pyro sat up, and looked over his bandaged arm. There was a blanket on him, which he disregarded on the floor. He looked around the tiny living room. There wasn't much of anything anywhere. There were boxes filled with junk everywhere. There was just the couch, a rug, one table and a chair. There was a laptop on the chair. No picture frames. Nothing. He stood up, bent down and picked up the blanket, throwing it back on the uncomfortable couch, and walked around the tiny space. He found the first door, and opened it.

If there was one place he'd never want to be it was in her company. Her. She was asleep on her bed, blankets messed up all over her. There wasn't much of anything in this room either. The curtains were wide open, drenching her in sunlight, yet her eyes were closed and her pale face emotionless. She was so quiet. So peaceful. He leaned on the door, and looked around. The light above was broken. It's bulb was out in the open, cracked. The walls were covered in faded green paint. Her bed was for one person only, and the small cabinet was open, her surplus clothes bulging in it. He continued to watch her sleep. Then after what he guessed was twenty minutes – there was no clock in sight – he turned and left. He was at the door when he heard loud footsteps, and in a rush, she was at the bedroom door.

"John."

He turned to her silently. Was she expecting something? A 'good morning' or a 'hello'. He didn't care about her. Not anymore. He didn't even want to speak a word to her.

"You…you shouldn't go anywhere," she said finally, breaking the silence. It was only then that he realized her attire. It was a long jersey, so long it came to her knees. She wasn't wearing anything else, but her hair seemed so perfect it was impossible that she'd just woken up.

"Why?" he said, unable to not dignify the statement with a response. Yet he made sure to keep his tone emotionless, even with a tad of hostility.

"There are a lot of people around. If they see you they'll call the cops." She didn't go on but he understood.

"So, what am I suppose to do?" he asked her gruffly.

"I don't know," she said softly, folding her arms. "Stay here?"

He didn't reply. Then she moved to the even tinier kitchen, which made up part of the living room and opened the fridge. Then she looked at him.

"Do you want anything?" she asked.

"Why are you trying so hard to help me?" he demanded suddenly.

It hurt too much to be in the same room as the woman he had tried to forget. He had successfully even done so, and now here he was, in her apartment. He had liked her. Tried to befriend her on the first day. Stuck to her from then on. He would've even probably asked her out if the Ice Prick of a bestfriend he used to have didn't beat him to the punch. She was something he had wanted badly. Wanted badly to care about. And that itself was something rather rare with him. He didn't care about people that much, if not at all. He didn't bother, knowing that they wouldn't ever return the caring. He disregarded people's pathetic attempts to befriend or care about him, because he knew it all came from pity or fear, not from the heart. It wasn't as though that many people ever cared for him anyway. Why should they? He was a good for nothing, good at nothing bastard who was obsessed with fire and had the temper that could flare up as fast as lightning. Oh, plus the side of him that was a true jackass, with a stick of sarcasm up his ass, as he used to put it. He was okay with that. It was who he was. People would just have to deal with it.

"Because you're my friend, John," she said timidly, straightening up and looking at him with her deep, beautiful, brown eyes.

"You're only friend, huh?" he replied, not forgetting to add a lot of intended hurt in his voice. He wanted her to feel pain. The pain he went through all his life, plus the extra pain he bore after he met her. He took a step forward. "Am I your only friend, Rogue?" he asked her in a mock-innocent voice. "So you bestow pity on me?" He looked at her expressionless features. "Do you hope that we're going to be best friends forever?!"

Silence.

He walked away to the door, then turned to her instantly.

"I hope you feel the pain I felt."

He turned back.

"Then leave me in my pain then!" she screamed at him. He turned to her. She was breathing harshly. Her hair had come infront of her face. "Leave. Just leave. It's what you want, John. You always leave."

"I left because of you!" he screamed.

It wasn't that true. He left because he was tired of the worthless school and X-Men he had been siding with. Tired of their lack of power. He had potential. Magneto had noticed that. So, do the math, and he left with the guy. The only part Rogue played in it was that she was the hardest, and only thing that was hard to leave. She was the ball and chain keeping him in that place even though he was so desperate for out. It was hope. Hope that one faithful day, she would be his. And if you asked him, hope was the worst kind of torture. The patience he had spent that had no coming.

She looked up at him. "Sorry," she said quietly.

"Don't be," he muttered, his tone and mood switching instantly. He looked at her, his expression softened slightly. "Look." Pause. "Why'd you even bother taking me in? If I'm found here, you're in trouble too."

"I thought…" She tucked her strands behind her ear, but they fell out once more. It was kind of cute. He looked at her intently. "I wasn't thinking. You were hurt. Unconscious. I just…I didn't want them to catch you. I didn't want them to hurt you."

"And the X-Men? What'd they say?"

"They don't know." He watched as she looked everywhere but at him with discomfort. It struck him hard. She had actually not told the X-Men about him. For once, he was of more importance than them, who were her so-called friends. He was more important. More valued. Had they done something? And just then, as though she was reading his mind, she said, "They didn't do anything. I just didn't tell them."

He nodded, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. "How…how are you?" he asked, not knowing what to say. It was obvious that he wasn't about to stalk out of the place.

"Fine," she replied quietly. "You?"

"All right. Around as all right as possible."

She nodded. "Did I really make you leave?" she asked after some more awkward silence.

"No. I lied. I was…Rogue you hurt me."

"I know." She looked at him. "When I stopped you from blowing up those cars, I saw and I felt you're pain. I just…couldn't return the affection. I loved Bobby."

His turn to nod. Then it came to him. 'Loved'. "Past tense," he noted.

"We're over," she informed him.

"You took the cure," he said. "You took the cure and he couldn't deal? Or did he get bored? Knew he would…"

"Like you wouldn't have," she muttered. "Everyone gets bored, John. I just pushed them farther away by taking the cure," she added, coming closer to him. He took a step forward. "I took a big risk, and lost everything."

"Risks are meant to be taken," he said, taking a few more steps forward, now so close to him. "I care. Are you willing to take the risk of me?"

"I don't know…I can't believe that you care," she said honestly, looking up at him.

"I wished I could show you," he said softly, taking her by the chin and kissing her deeply. The kiss grew from both ends. His hands held her gently from the back and hers on his shoulders. He backed away for a moment. "But you can't see it, can you?" he asked. She smiled slightly, and kissed him back, and this kiss grew larger and lasted longer. Then he felt inside his pocket for his lighter. Nothing. He felt in all his pockets while they kissed. Still nothing. He backed up once more. "Do you have my lighter?" She shook her head. He backed up a step and rampaged through his pockets and clothes. Nothing at all. "Do you have a match?"

She nodded and took out the box of matches from the drawer. He lit one in a swift movement, and stared at it. It didn't even flinch. It was the same. It didn't do anything but burn more and more on the matchstick. He blinked to make it grow. Nothing. He slightly twitched one eyes to make it separate. Nothing. He tried hard and concentrated deeply to make it just disappear, but it wouldn't budge. Then, as it grew near to the end he was holding, he did the only thing he could do. He blew it out.

"John…?" she asked him.

He didn't look at her. He just dropped the match. His powers. His powers were the strongest part of him. He took great pride in them. At times they were the only things he could control and take solace in when things went bad. To manipulate fire. It made him feel good. Feel powerful. Feel Pyro. But now…now it was gone. Was it gone? Nothing happened to the fire. It didn't even grow, increase, disappear or split. It didn't even lessen or shrink. He felt as though the world was shrinking around him. Then he felt Rogue's soft, bare hands on his.

"Johnny?" she asked, her tone sweeter, kinder, with affection and care. He looked at her.

How…?

Review. Please…??