A/N: A little thing I've had bouncing around my brain for awhile now. Takes place sometime after X2 - pro'lly a few weeks later.Rogue writes a secret letter to John – one she'll never send, he'll never see. It's not exactly Ryro, just…strong friendship, though feel free to read Ryro-ness into it, if you'd like. :)

Rating is for use of one swear word, which totally slipped in while I was typing (and I never cuss, myself, so that was...odd), and somehow really fit, and had to stay. I was literally in tears while I was writing this whole thing, so...I hope you guys like it. :)

Dear John,

Wow. I don't…know what I'm supposed to write…It's not like you'll ever see this, so I guess I can say whatever I want, but…I don't even know what I want to say.

We're supposed to be writing letters, for this "class". Letters we're not supposed to send, and we don't even have to show to the teachers, because this isn't really a class, even though they act like it is. Counseling; therapy…'cause Dr. Grey died, at Alkali.

But you didn't know that, 'cause you weren't there.

I always thought I understood you, John. I mean…I /knew/ you. Better than I knew anyone else, really. But I can't understand this. Why you left…

No, I guess I can, actually.

Guess it's more like I can't understand why you didn't say good-bye first. Didn't you owe us that, at least? Owe me that? I guess I should have guessed it, though. I thought maybe you were going to meet up with the others, help, and come back with them, but…

If I'd known, I would have gone with you.

Not to Magneto, maybe, but…followed. Tried to make you come back Maybe if I'd followed, you wouldn't have even thought of going with him..? If you weren't alone?

This "assignment" is supposed to be therapy for Jean's death. I miss her sometimes, yeah, but…she was a teacher. A doctor. A nice person, yeah, but we weren't close.

You were my best friend. I miss you more.

Shit, and you're not even dead. You're just…not here. Somehow…knowing you're not here, but you're alive, makes it even more painful, because you were there with Bobby and me in the jet, and chose to walk away from us. Chose to leave us.

Why didn't you ever feel like you mattered enough, here? Wasn't it enough to have Bobby and me? Our little circle – no one ever intruded when the three of us were doing something. It was like…some kind of unspoken rule, that our group was not to be intruded upon, that our circle was not to be broken…

You broke it, though.

Now it's just Bobby, and me and it…doesn't work the same way. Can't. We're missing a part of it. He misses you too, you know. He doesn't say it – he acts more angry about it – but I know. Your side of the room hasn't been touched, and he's stopped complaining when he trips over your clothes all over the floor – he just gets this look…

Why couldn't we have been enough to keep you here? Make you feel wanted here…like you belonged?

And when it was just me and you, all those times you'd pop in at the convenient time when I was having a nightmare, and we'd end up being up 'till six in the morning, when everyone else was waking up for classes and stuff. And even when the nightmares weren't happening, you'd still find an excuse. We'd both find excuses, actually – sleeplessness, boredom, being hungry…whatever it was.

And you're the only person who wasn't afraid to touch me. Still are. I've probably got more of you in my head than anyone else, at this point. You're one of the loudest voices. It hurts, being able to hear you talking to me, telling me things that are just so typically you, when it's not really you, because you're gone.

I don't really think you ever realized how much Bobby and I cared about you.

I don't think we ever realized how much we cared about you.

Care. Not 'cared', because…well, we still do. I still do, anyhow.

I honestly dread the day we fight Magneto next. Dread the day I have to fight you, because I just won't be able to. Will you be able to? Be able to look me in the eye, and light me on fire, or something?

'Cause that's what Magneto'll ask of you, you know. He'll have you kill for him. He tried to kill me before; he's not afraid to kill to get what he wants. He expects his 'followers' to do the same. He's in my head; I know these things.

He'll have you try to kill me. Bobby. Anyone and everyone who stands in your way, in his way.

Will you?

I…honestly wish I knew the answer to that one myself. I wish I could say I knew you wouldn't, but…I don't know that. Not anymore. You're gone, you've changed, and you're under the roof of a maniac, and you…just aren't John anymore, are you?

Pyro, right?

Just like I'm Rogue?

And, yeah, I've been crying since …the third paragraph, pretty much. You'd love to see me now, I bet. You'd laugh. I'm a mess. But whatever, it's not like you'll see…and that's actually worse. I think I'd rather if you saw me like this, if it meant you'd be back.

Do you ever plan to come back? Or is it permanent? If you do come back…will you be the same person?

If I do see you again, you know I'll never try to convince you to come back. You made your choice – and, yeah, I miss you, and want you to come back, but it's not my decision to make. I can protest it all I want and drive you further away, or I can accept it, and try to stay friends with you. Because I'd rather be your friend, rather not push you away.

But I do want you to come home.

And, yeah, this is your home. I think…somehow you never seemed to think it really was. It always has been. I can't say it always will be – people do chance, as much as it sucks, but…it still is, for now.

I think…as a fitting way of making sure no one reads this, since it'll never get to you anyway, I'm gonna burn this letter. Wouldn't that just be…twistedly right, somehow?

I miss you.

Come home.

…It's not right here without you.

Rogue

With a gloved hand, she wipes the tear-smeared mascara from her cheeks, and gets up from her chair, holding the thin sheets of paper in her other hand. She reads over it a moment, then pulls something from a pocket, heading into the bathroom that joins to her room.

There, she sets the paper down on the counter, and the slim silver lighter on top, and removes her gloves, setting them down on the other side of the sink. Picking up the lighter first, she smiles slightly, and opens it.

It's a gift she'd been given for her birthday last year, from John. A Zippo, like his, only without the shark emblem on it, 'cause she'd stolen his once, and he knew how much she'd enjoyed playing with it. She thumbs the wheel, and the flame springs to life.

She lifts the first paper, and touches the corner of it to the flame. It catches slowly, at first, and begins to blaze, a faint hissing sound reaching her ears. She lets the flame creep it's way up the page until it's getting too close to her skin, then lets it from her hand to flutter down into the sink, where it continues to burn away until it's only ash. She's crying again, but she picks up the second page, and does the same thing with this one.

Only ash remains, and she turns on the water, rinsing it down the drain.

He'll never read it.

She snaps the lighter closed, and pockets it again, picking her gloves up, glancing up at herself in the mirror.

She's a mess. Her cheeks are streaked with mascara and tears, and she's paler than normal. She smiles, and it's not as hard as she thought it would be, somehow, because…she feels better. Somehow, it wasn't the writing of the letter that took some of the weight off her heart – it was the burning. Somehow it just…fit. Made things right.

She still misses him.

She still wants him to come back.

She still knows it'll never be the same without him. That he'll change, she'll change – they'll never be the same people they were.

But she'll be okay.