A/N: Ok, so, this was originally just a small little drabblish thing I wrote for myself, but it turned into a pretty damn long oneshot. I'm working on a longer Ryro fic (this is my favorite pairing from X-Men), but I thought I'd put this up to see what people think about my writing and such. So please, please review! Praise is nice, so is constructive criticism, but PLEASE don't flame me, I don't care if you don't like Ryro or whatever, if you don't have something constructive to add, DON'T be mean. Anyway, with that said, read on!

NOBODY BUT YOU

"Heh… Hey, girlie. Where you goin'?"

Marie spun around, squinting in an attempt to see through the shadows pooled at the entrance to the alley down which she had just started to walk. She saw three tall, bulk men silhouetted against the dim light of the street lamp in the street beyond. Note to self: no more short cuts down dark alleys, Marie thought dryly, feeling strangely calm despite the sudden precariousness of her situation.

Realizing they were waiting for an answer, Marie decided to oblige—she wouldn't be able to get far running, as from what she could see, the men looked quite fit, and she was exhausted from a long session at the gym. "Yeah, I am," she finally replied.

The three men laughed unpleasantly, walking down the alley towards her; she was paralyzed, knowing that running would be worse than useless, and yet attempting to defend herself against three larger, stronger males wouldn't be much better. She wouldn't go out without a fight, of course, so she didn't have much choice in the matter. The three men surrounded her, the middle one—apparently the leader—standing a few feet in front of her, the others moving slightly behind and to either side of her. She was definitely trapped now.

"Look, if it's money ya want, take my wallet," Marie said, pulling it out of her back pocket and holding it out to the man before her. She wasn't naïve enough to think that money was really what these men were after, but it was worth a shot, at the very least.

The man came closer, within arm's reach, and grabbed the wallet, immediately tossing it over his shoulder and leering at her—there was just enough light in the alley to make out his facial expression, now that he was closer. For the first time, Marie felt a pang of fear in her gut, but almost instantly anger flared up much brighter, and she set her chin in defiance, refusing to give in to these men or her fear.

"Nah, money ain't what we're after," the man was saying, confirming her suspicions while the woman was desperately trying to figure out how she would be able to fight her way free of this sticky situation. Her instincts decided her conscious mind was taking too long; when her attacker grabbed her left shoulder roughly, they kicked into overdrive.

All the martial arts training she'd had at the X-Mansion certainly came in handy, her reflexes still sharp, body still agile—she hadn't quite practicing just because she'd left the X-Men. Her left arm shot up, roughly smacking his hand from her shoulder as she curled her right hand into a fist, punching him in the throat. As he was gasping for breath, eyes wide with shock, her right foot connected solidly with his groin. All of this happened in the space of about three seconds, but by the time Marie tried to dodge around the attacker now kneeling on the ground, the two men behind her had lunged forward, each grabbing one of her arms—she struggled, but that only made them painfully tighten their grip.

Meanwhile, the man she'd just kicked between the legs had gotten to his feet, breathing heavily and looking very pissed. "You bitch!" he shouted, back handing her viciously across the face. Marie's head snapped to the right, and she bit her tongue to keep from crying out in pain, biting so hard she tasted blood. Given what she was sure would be coming next, she began to wish, for the first time in earnest, that she hadn't been quite so quick to get the cure.

"You're gonna pay for that, bitch," her main attacker growled, and before she even realized what was happening, he shoved his fist into her gut. The pain was intense and, if it weren't for the men holding her arms so tightly she thought her shoulders might pop from their sockets, Marie would have doubled over in pain. As it was, she couldn't hold back the cry that tore from her throat as the pain flared to life in her solar plexus. Tears of pain began streaking her face when he punched her in the stomach a second time, and a third—Marie knew in the back of her head that her stomach would look like hell when the bruises showed up. Apparently, enough of his rage had been vented by now that he could get down to business.

With his thugs laughing darkly in Marie's ears, he reached for the top of her blouse, viciously ripping it open, the buttons tearing free of the material and scattering all around the alley; underneath, she was wearing a flesh-colored bra that definitely wasn't anyone's idea of sexy lingerie, but that didn't seem to deter her attackers. The leader ran his hands along her sides, having them wander freely about her torso, laughing cruelly as she shuddered with revulsion, the tears of pain becoming those of shame as she felt completely powerless to stop this gross violation of her body. Her attacker reached into his own pocket with one hand, withdrawing a switch blade, which he snapped open right in front of her face. Marie couldn't help an involuntary gasp, her eyes widening with fear—what was he planning to do: gut her, or rape her? or, worse… both?—that only made him laugh harder, before he set the blade at her neck, careful not to break the skin as it traveled down across her chest and between her breasts, obviously to cut her bra away.

Sobbing now, Marie couldn't even form the words to beg to be let go—moments ago, she was fighting like a wildcat to get free, but now she simply couldn't move, couldn't do anything, except move as little as possible and hope these men weren't in a killing mood. She was scared out of her mind, and felt sick to her stomach, not just because she'd been punched there repeatedly, but because she just couldn't believe this was happening to her. A year ago, she'd been morose about the knowledge that she was going to die a virgin, because even a kiss was hard to pull off, with her power the way it was. Now, she would give anything to still have her powers, if only because it would have meant these men would get a nasty shock by touching her. But there was nothing she could do, and that sense of helplessness was slowly killing her—she'd never felt like this before in her life, not even when Magneto had strapped her into that machine and nearly killed her. She would take that experience again over this one now, any day of the week.

Something had made the man stop before the blade reached the material of her bra, however, and though her vision was blurred by tears, she thought she could see a flickering light at the end of the alley. Am… am I dead? Did he kill me? Marie wondered for a while moment, blinking rapidly in an attempt to clear her vision. There was talking... something was going on.

"Who the fuck are you?" the man in front of her was asking, having turned around, his switchblade now pointed at whoever was standing at the end of the alley.

"I said let her go. Or you're fucking dead," came a strangely familiar voice, and Marie's eyes widened in shock. But… it can't be… is it? She could see better now—the flickering light wasn't a 'light at the end of the tunnel' kind of light, but light from what looked like a lighter… "John?"

Marie's whisper went unheard by everyone but Pyro, whose eyes flickered to the barely-visible figure held tightly by two goons. The only reason he knew who it was, was because he'd seen her walk down the alley, and he'd seen the three men go in after her. He'd actually been on the way back to the headquarters of the Brotherhood, and would have kept on going, but he had a nose for trouble, and everything about the guys who had followed Marie screamed danger. Seeing her like she was made the anger always simmering just under the surface very nearly boil over; he was practically trembling with the effort of not just roasting the guys right where they stood, and that was only because if he did that right now, he'd hurt Marie, too.

"What're you gonna do about it, punk?" the man in charge said, before gesturing to one of his men; the other took Marie's other arm and held her tightly, while the first charged forward, pulling a switchblade and rushing Pyro. The men couldn't really be blamed for thinking he'd either be easily scared off or killed—he was shorter than they, and a great deal less physically imposing.

Big mistake, Pyro thought with a grim smirk, as he grabbed the tiny flame from his Zippo and caused it to grow into a veritable river of fire, blasting the man rushing him when he was just feet away; he was dead, burnt to a crisp, before he hit the ground. Redirecting the flame, Pyro sent it at the leader of the small gang, who had thought to try rushing him as well—incredibly stupid, since he'd just seen what this mutant could do. "Mutant freak!" he shouted, but whatever else he'd been about to say was drowned out by the fire as it overwhelmed him easily. The third goon wasn't quite as stupid as the first and second had been—he threw Marie hard to the side, causing her to hit the alley wall and slide down to lay in an unmoving lump, before running in the opposite direction. Pyro was in far too much of a fiery rage to let him go, and the flames caught up to him and consumed him, just as easily as they had the other two, only dying out when he fell, a burned corpse.

The Brotherhood mutant was breathing heavily now, exhilarated, and feeling alive as he only ever did when he made fire do what it did best—kill, maim, and destroy. It was several seconds before he remembered what had caused the rage to override every other thought, feeling, or emotion in his mind in the first place. He was at Marie's side an instant later, slipping his arm around her and pulling her away from the wall, so she was face up.

She was barely conscious, her eyesight already dimming, but she would recognize that face anywhere. "J-… John…" she murmured, tears beginning to slide down her face again, completely ashamed that he'd seen her this way—weak, helpless, completely dominated by the men who'd been intent on hurting her. Hesitantly lifting one hand, she gently touched the side of his face, as though trying to make sure he was real, and not just some kind of dream conjured by her subconscious refusing to let her face what was happening. Her hand fell as she lost consciousness.

~*~

The first thing Marie felt, as she slowly regained awareness, was pain. She hurt, all over, as though she'd been on the bottom of a dog pile of professional football players, or perhaps more like a ton of bricks had crashed down upon her body. The pain was heavily concentrated in her gut, where she felt as though a ball of fire was trying to eat through her abdomen. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, and it hurt like Hell, just like everything else in her body—and to top it off, she had a raging headache, as though a little gnome was attempting to hammer its way out of her skull.

Opening her eyes turned out to be a mistake—wherever she was, it was light, and the light in her eyes sent daggers shooting through her skull; she groaned out loud and shut her eyes again, for the first time thinking to wonder where the Hell she was, but not willing to open her eyes again to find out.

"You awake, Stripes?"

The voice came from her right, and she turned her head, slowly opening her eyes; at first, her vision was blurry, but when it cleared and the pain lessened, she realized she was laying on a couch with a blanket pulled up to her chin, and John was sitting on a chair next to her holding a glass of water, and looking as though he'd been sitting there for a while, waiting for her to wake up. "John?" she whispered, wondering if she was somehow dreaming—last she remembered, she was being attacked in an alley… and she remembered a lot of fire.

"Nah, I'm the tooth fairy," he replied sarcastically, though the cheeky smirk on his face took some of the sting out of his words. "Here, drink this," he said before she had a chance to ask any questions, shoving the glass of water in her direction, obviously not exactly comfortable with playing nurse.

At the very mention of the word, Marie realized with a shock that she did need water, very much so. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth, which felt dry as a bone. She pulled the blanket down some to withdraw one arm, carefully levering herself up on her other elbow as she took the glass and put it to her lips, moaning with relief as the cool liquid filled her mouth and slid down her throat. She felt much better once the glass was drained, though she still was in a great deal of pain; as she handed the glass back to John (who looked a little bemused at her reaction) she noticed her blouse was gone, and instead she was wearing a T-Shirt with a design of flames on the front, doubtless one of John's; she pulled up the T-Shirt a little, as though afraid of what her stomach would look like—it was horribly mottled with black and blue and purple in a wide circle, and she let the T-shirt fall back down to cover it almost immediately. Suddenly, it all came crashing back; getting punched, repeatedly, in the stomach, her blouse being ripped open, John showing up, getting thrown into a wall as he roasted the three men alive… An anguished cry escaped her lips as she let herself fall backward, covering her face with her hands, the memories bringing tears to her eyes though she tried to contain them.

Though she couldn't see him, John looked incredibly uncomfortable. Killing people attacking someone he… well, cared about might be a stretch, but certainly didn't dislike enough to let her get hurt like that, he reasoned… that he could handle with no problem; then, he could just let the anger and rage and fire take over and not have to stop and think at all. He was just no good with the comforting people business, and so he had no clue what to do in this situation. "Hey, Stripes…" He reached out a hand to touch her arm in what he hoped would be a comforting gesture.

"Don't touch me!" she screamed, at feeling his fingertips just barely brush her skin. She was crying in earnest now, turning over onto her side and curling into a fetal position there on the couch, suddenly feeling sick to her stomach—literally. "John… I'm… I'm… gonna throw up…"

"Shit!" He jumped up, glancing around his apartment and picking up the closest useful thing, settling on a thankfully-empty wastebasket and placing it under where her head was hanging over the couch—and not a moment too soon. While she retched, obviously in pain, John stood by, watching helplessly, annoyed that he was so useless right now—she wouldn't let him touch her, for whatever reason (it didn't occur to him that anyone touching her any time soon would freak her out, and understandably so—he was a guy who'd never even had to worry about that kind of situation), so there was nothing he could do except wait it out.

When her stomach was completely empty, Marie managed to gasp out a need for more water. "Fuck," John muttered to himself, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of that before hand, as he went to refill the glass out of which she'd drunk earlier. When he got back, the young woman was sitting up on the couch, the blanket pulled tightly around her, looking far too pale, and definitely a little the worse for wear, but at least not puking out her guts any more. She gratefully accepted the glass, draining it in one sitting again, after using the first mouthful to rinse out her mouth and spit it into the basket. "Thanks," she muttered, staring at the floor.

Still not sure what he should say to her, or what he should do, if he even should say or do anything, he took the basket out of the room, flushing its contents down his toilet and leaving it there—he'd rinse it out later. Marie was visibly shivering the next time he saw her, unseeing eyes still locked on the floor, as though she were trapped in her memories, reliving those awful few minutes of her life over and over again. What the fuck am I suppose to do? he mentally asked, giving a frustrated growl before sitting on the couch next to Marie, resting his elbows on his knees and looking over at her.

"Hey… Stripes. Look at me." His voice seemed to call her mind back from wherever it had been, and she slowly turned her head to meet his eyes, forcing a slight smile even through the pain evident on her face. "Are you all right?" he asked, voice a little more insistent and demanding than necessary; he just wasn't good with all the gentle, comforting shit.

Still, at least it widened the smile on Marie's face a little, his gruff nature a little reassuring to her. "Yeah… I'm fine," she said, meaning mentally she would get over it—she was too strong to let a scare like that keep her down for the count for very long, though it would probably haunt her dreams for a while yet. Physically, though, was another story. "Hurts though," she admitted, meaning not only her gut and head (which felt like it had been slammed against a wall, which it had been, when the thug holding her had thrown her to the side in an attempt to get away from the fire-wielding, pissed off mutant at the other end of the alley), but everything else, too. "Where… where am I?" she asked, before he could respond to her other comments; it was something she'd wondered a few minutes earlier, but had then been too busy throwing up to ask.

"My place," was all Pyro said, shrugging as though it were not big deal that he had picked up Marie, holding her carefully to make sure he didn't jostle her and make something hurt worse, and walked the rest of the way to the apartment complex where the Brotherhood made their home. He was just glad none of the other Brotherhood members had been around to ask questions he just didn't feel like answering. If someone asked him right then why he'd taken her to his place, instead of leaving her there, or dumping her in some hospital or even just taken her back to her apartment, he'd honestly say he didn't have a fucking clue.

"You saved me." Marie sounded more than a little surprised, as though the thought of him saving her like that simply hadn't occurred to her before that night. After the last fight they'd had, Marie was sure John would want absolutely nothing to do with her—she had, after all, called him a coward as he was walking off, and that didn't seem to be the kind of insult he would forget easily.

Pyro shrugged, looking away; he wasn't comfortable being thanked, either. "Seemed like the thing to do," he said, as though the act had been nothing out of the ordinary.

Marie wasn't going to let it go that easily. "How'd ya know where I was?"

"I was on my way here; saw you and those assholes following you, that's all." The 'that's all' was obviously meant to get Marie to drop it, but either she didn't get the hint, or she just didn't care to take it.

"Ya didn't hafta follow, though, but ya did. I thought after last time we met…" She trailed off as John abruptly stood of from the couch, turning to toss a disbelieving glare in her direction.

"Fuck, Stripes, what kinda guy do you think I am? I may be a bastard but I'm not some sick fucker who would let something like that happen and not help you."

"I'm sorry…" Marie murmured. It was her turn to look away, which she did partly to hide the tears in her eyes. "I just… didn't think I'd be seein' ya again is all."

"Wish you hadn't?" His voice was low and completely serious, and Marie looked up to meet his eyes.

"No, of course not. I'm glad ya came by… I don't know what I woulda done… if ya hadn't…" As the thoughts of what would have happened to her had John not interfered infiltrated her head, Marie started to cry, burying her face in her hands. "Why… why… why…" she managed, unable to finish the sentence through her wracking sobs.

John grimaced, having a feeling that he should do something he never did, though maybe he could make an exception this once. He sat back down on the couch next to her, and with a look on his face as though the action were completely foreign to him, he put an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close and allowing her to cry on his shoulder. Right now, he was very glad that no one was in the habit of bursting into his apartment; if any of his fellow Brotherhood members saw him right now, he might have to roast them just to keep them quiet.

"Why can't I stop cryin'?" Marie finally managed between sobs, completely oblivious to Pyro's inner struggle with the 'couldn't care less' Brotherhood member in him, and the part of him that actually might care for the woman in pain on the couch next to him. The young man had no idea what to say, so he just sat there, stiff and uncomfortable, until Marie began to take shuddering breaths, as she forced herself to stop crying. "Thanks," she murmured, sitting up straighter and looking John in the face. He quickly took his arm from around her shoulders, standing up again—he didn't want her to see the effect she'd had on him. He found his break—his chance to explode in anger and completely hide anything else he might have been feeling—when she spoke again rather thoughtlessly. "I'm surprised ya brought me here."

"Why? Think I woulda just left you there for someone else to find?" John asked, turning around and fixing her with a heated glare.

Marie was shocked at this sudden display of anger, and even more so, confused. What had she said to set him off? "John, I'm sorry! I didn' mean—"

"Didn't mean what? That you think I'm a heartless bastard? News flash for you, Stripes: that's exactly what I am. I don't give a damn about anyone but myself. I saved you 'cause it was a chance to roast a couple humans. Plus, it was fun."

Marie looked as though every word he spoke was a slap in the face, or a punch to her already discolored stomach. "Ya don't mean that…" she whispered, her eyes wide and filled with pain.

Pyro snorted with cruel laughter. "I didn't? You a mind reader now, Stripes?" He crossed his arms, wondering for a brief moment why his chest felt suddenly tight, before deciding it didn't matter. What he'd said was the complete truth, he convinced himself—in this world, everyone had to be out for themselves and only themselves, if they wanted to survive. Caring about others was just a weakness some enemy would try to exploit, and whatever else he may have been, John was anything but weak. Perhaps that was why he was so pissed off on a whim right now—why he always seemed to get set off around Marie; she made him feel weak, and he hated her for it. A mask of stony impassiveness settled over his face, as Marie fought to keep from crying. "Fuck, you gonna cry again? Figures," he muttered, rolling his eyes, and letting every other feeling but disdain roll away from him like oil.

Now, Marie had about had it. Her temper, while perhaps not as volatile as Pyro's, was nothing at which to sneer, and though recent events had rendered her helpless and dependant, she despised the damsel-in-distress role she'd been forced to play tonight. Unfortunately, time couldn't be undone—there was no 'rewind' button for life. But Pyro's explosion had, almost like a chain reaction, triggered Marie's temper, and she was angry. "Fine!" she shouted, the anger she was feeling flaring to life in her dark brown eyes. "Ya don' care, I get it! I'm nothin' ta you, always have been! So don' worry 'bout me takin' up more of your precious time, 'cause I'm outta here!" Marie stood up quickly, throwing aside the blanket and ignoring the pain signals shooting through her body as she forced her muscles to work for her despite the punishment they had received.

The confusion John was feeling as he watched her walk across his apartment was, he decided, enough to make anyone go insane. Part of him was glad to see her go, knowing that she was taking his weakness with her; but the rest of him, the part struggling to get a word in edgewise, was yelling at him to go after her, stop her, apologize… apologize? Where the fuck had that thought come from? Pyro didn't apologize, not to anyone, not for anything—it just wasn't his style.

It turned out he didn't need to call out to her, for her to stop; she was still dazed, somewhat disoriented, and obviously in no condition to go anywhere. He looked up when he heard her crash against the wall beside the door, and it only took a few quick steps to get to her before she slid completely to the floor. "Fucking Hell, Stripes," he muttered, half-wishing she'd been well enough to make it to her apartment on her own, the other half glad she wasn't able to. "You're not going anywhere."

"I'm fine," Marie said, her voice practically a growl as she tried to push herself up, and out of his arms—which had caught her before she'd hit the ground.

"No, you're not. And you're a terrible liar," John added, picking her up easily, one arm around her back just under her shoulders, the other under her legs. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor—and not struggling was the better part of not getting dropped unceremoniously on her ass—Marie's arms lifted around his neck, and she suddenly felt so tired. She just wanted to sleep, for, oh… the next century? A few hours, at least. Her eyes began to droop, her body and mind conspiring to put her completely out of commission, and she rested her head against his chest as he carried her to his bedroom.

Much more gently than she would have thought, considering his very recent display of anger towards her, he set her on his bed after pulling back the covers. Marie was too tired to protest as he pulled the blanket over her. "Don't worry about it, I'll take the couch. Just sleep," John told her, before turning to leave the room.

"John?" The hesitant almost-whisper stopped him in his tracks, and he turned around slowly, wondering what she wanted. "Stay with me?"

"What?" he asked, unsure exactly what it was she wanted.

"I… I don't… I don't wanna be alone…" she murmured; right now, the thought of falling asleep alone in a dark room scared the shit out of her. She didn't want to risk the nightmares that would doubtless plague her if she had nothing to think about until she fell asleep. "Please?" She was afraid he would tell her to grow a pair, or just ignore her and leave the room.

Instead of doing either of those things, John just nodded. He didn't bother getting undressed—this wasn't some girl he'd brought back for a one-nighter, and he didn't want Marie to think he'd gotten the wrong impression. Even he could tell that the last thing she needed right now, after the ordeal she'd had, was someone else trying to make a pass at her.

He didn't say anything; he just walked around to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers, before slipping under them, pants and all. Then, almost hesitantly, he slipped one arm loosely around her waist, making it quite clear that if she was uncomfortable, she could move and he would know to back off. Instead of pushing him away, as he half expected, she leaned back into his embrace—so strange, coming from someone like him—and sighed deeply with relief. "Thank ya, John… so much…"

"No problem," he murmured into her hair, slowly getting used to the idea of actually sleeping with a woman without the other implication of the word. In fact, it almost felt… good.

For her part, Marie felt warm and comfortable, and… safe, in John's arms, as though nothing could hurt her while he was around, not even night terrors that would otherwise have attempted to sneak into her dreams.

As she drifted to sleep, she thought she must have imagined the words whispered into her ear. "Good night… Marie."