Scott wasn't surprised that all the other X-Men stared at him when he walked into the conference room for Jean's briefing. He was never late, after all, and today he forced himself to wait until five minutes after three before leaving his office. He hadn't seen Jean since Wednesday night, and he didn't want to be in the middle of a discussion with her when the others arrived.
"Sorry I'm late," was all he said as he took his seat. Jean frowned at him, but no one else saw it, focused as they were on him. Logan raised one eyebrow but otherwise didn't comment.
"You ready to start?" he asked Jean, who sat at the opposite end of the table from him. Normally, that would raise eyebrows, but her laptop rested on the table in front of her and the projection screen had been lowered. That she had some kind of presentation explained why she sat there instead of her usual place close to him.
"I did meet with Magneto last Saturday," she began.
"Why?" Logan asked. Scott could anticipate her answer.
"He used to teach here, with the professor," Jean said. "We weren't always enemies, and he asked as a favor to that friendship. Yes, it could've been a trap. Yes, I could've, and maybe should've, called the police or someone. But I didn't."
"What did he say?" Scott asked before Logan could argue the merits of her meeting with Magneto any further. That meeting was over and done, and now they needed to focus on the results of it.
"He reminded me of some research Worthington Laboratories did a year or so back. The research looked promising, but ultimately it led nowhere, and Worthington announced they'd misinterpreted early data, and that was the end of that." Jean lifted a small binder. "I have the early articles, still, if anyone cares. But Magneto told me they kept on that line of research and gave me copies of their unpublished results. I think we can all figure how he got that."
"What kind of research?" Scott asked.
Jean looked up to meet his gaze, and not for the first time Scott was grateful for the glasses shielding his eyes. He had no idea what she'd read in his gaze, only knew that it would be naked before her.
Her own gaze was -- compassionate? That was the best word he could think of. Compassionate, but also hesitant. "Mutant genetics."
"Narrow that down." The words came out a little more sharply than he'd intended, but her expression unsettled him.
She straightened in her seat. "They claimed to have found a way to enable mutants to control their powers. Completely."
Nothing else she could've said would've made the assembled X-Men react the way that did. Marie squealed -- literally squealed, and Logan winced at the piercing sound. Bobby looked dumbstruck. Kitty asked technical questions, and Ororo and Peter asked philosophical ones.
Scott sat still in his chair, absorbing what Jean had said, while the storm of questions and reactions swirled around him. "Control their powers. Completely." It's what he'd always wanted, and not just because he'd blown out half of a wall when his powers had manifested.
He was just glad no one had died or been seriously hurt when it happened.
He'd spent months with his eyes closed by force of will, until Hank McCoy and Jean had brought him the first set of ruby quartz glasses. Seeing the world tinted red was a small price to pay for being able to see at all, and most of the time he truly believed that. But it was an external control on his powers, and he'd always wished for his own control, not the artificial control granted by an appliance.
Lately, that desire for control had become almost overwhelming. He knew exactly why, too. He'd just lost total control of himself and his powers -- more accurately, Stryker had taken what little control Scott had over his power and twisted it. Scott would never, ever forget what it felt like to attack Jean, trying to stop it, and not being able to. He'd never felt so helpless, so out of control, raging inside even as his hand moved to the controls of his visor and opened it wide.
Part of his mind registered Jean's simplified explanation of how the treatment worked, the diagrams and charts she projected for everyone to see, but the thought of control -- complete control -- thrummed inside him, a seductive beat.
Marie asked about side effects, and he focused his full attention on Jean as she answered, "Worthington didn't note any in their case files."
"Give it to me." Scott's simple words brought the rest of the X-Men to silence. It must have sounded like a rash decision to them, he realized. But he'd heard and processed Jean's explanations at the gut level, where he made all his decisions, and knew it was the right one for him. Whatever happened.
"Just because Worthington didn't note any side effects doesn't mean there aren't any," Jean said.
"I know." His conviction to take this treatment grew. "But we'll have to test it sometime. And unless you've got mutant guinea pigs in your lab, you'll need a subject. I'm the best choice."
"Marie --" Bobby began, but Scott shook his head.
"No." He gentled his voice, looked at Marie as he spoke. "Two reasons. First, this is untested, and Jean will correct me if I'm wrong, but you're not eighteen yet, so your parents would have to give their consent."
Marie's eyes widened, and Scott knew she hadn't thought of that.
Logan snorted. "Like we're so good at following rules."
Scott glared at Logan. Even if he had broken up with Jean, he still had to protect her professional credentials. "We adapt rules where we need to because we're mutants. Breaking this one could cost Jean her medical license, her professional reputation, everything she's worked for. Anyone not eighteen will have parental consent, or they won't get the treatment."
"Assuming it works," Jean said quietly.
"Assuming it works," Scott agreed. Then he looked at Marie. "I know you want this, badly, but some rules we don't bend."
Marie swallowed, obviously disappointed, but nodded. "Guess I need to call my parents. I mean, if it works for you."
"What's the other reason?" Bobby asked, not yet willing to drop the subject.
Scott looked at each of the X-Men in turn before saying, "I won't ask any of you to do anything I'm not willing to do."
Oddly, it was Logan's acceptance he looked for. Ororo's suggestion that Logan take over as his second in command had stuck with him since she made it. Whatever his personal feelings about the other man, Scott had seen at once that Logan had combat experience and solid instincts that Ororo didn't have. And since Logan had chosen to stay with the team rather than leave, Scott had to admit that he'd taken the team concept to heart. However reluctantly, Scott was coming to trust that Logan could be the second that he needed.
Logan nodded, once. "Can't argue with that." The others nodded, with varying degrees of acceptance.
Scott gave a mental cheer behind tight shields, and looked back up at Jean. "It's just a shot, right?"
Jean tried to keep her expression neutral, but she couldn't keep concern from her voice when she said, "For all practical purposes, yes. The compound is injected in liquid form, obviously, as a containment precaution. It's piggy-backed onto a virus that seeks out certain receptors and makes somatic modifications to the defective X-genes in them."
"How long does it take?" Scott asked.
"Theoretically, based on Worthington's notes, within about four to six hours after injection, you should see improvement."
"Any preparation? Should I be fasting?"
"No, but I will want baseline readings before you get the injection."
Scott glanced at his PDA. "I'll be there at five thirty."
Peter looked up. "Are you still coming to the Danger Room session at eight?"
"Absolutely. You might join us, Logan," he added. "You can see what the Danger Room's really like."
"Can't wait." There was some sarcasm in the tone, but Logan's grin belied his anticipation.
- - - - -
"You're not wearing your uniform?"
Logan turned from where he leaned against the Danger Room door at Peter's question. "Think I'll need it?"
Peter grinned. "It's not a cakewalk in there."
"Doesn't mean I need body armor. You either, for that matter," he added, as Peter shifted to his armored form.
"You should get used to fighting in it," Scott said as he came up, Bobby in his wake. "Special forces types train in full uniform and gear just for that reason."
"We're not special forces," Logan pointed out.
"In a way, we are," Scott said. "Mutant special forces." He nodded to Kitty and Marie as they arrived. "And we'll be training with regular special forces in a couple of weeks. Some of them saw a video clip of one of our training sessions and want to try it."
"Sounds like fun," Logan muttered. He understood Scott's reasoning for allying the X-Men with the government, but he'd never be comfortable with it, not after what government people, however rogue they may've been, had done to him.
Scott clapped him on the shoulder. "Think of it this way -- they'll have their asses kicked for a change."
Logan couldn't help chuckling. "Handed to 'em on a platter, you mean." Then he frowned.
Scott had taken the shot several hours ago, and something seemed off about him now. Logan sniffed unobtrusively. A hint of Jean overlay Scott's own natural scent and that damn aftershave, which made sense because they'd had to be close for her to inject him. But under that, Scott smelled normal, and that bothered Logan. If this compound changed people at the cellular level, shouldn't they smell different?
"With roasted potatoes and a nice cabernet. Ready?" Scott glanced at the younger X-Men.
"Does it matter?" Peter asked with a grin.
"No," Logan and Scott chorused. Logan traded an amused glance with the younger man, then followed him into the Danger Room -- and had to forcibly stop himself from staring.
He'd seen the grid that normally lined the room. He'd seen the interior of Liberty Island that Scott had created. Neither of those prepared him for the South American ruin that greeted him now.
"Defensive fortress?" he asked.
"Partly that, partly just a city," Scott said. "I based the design off the ruins at Machu Picchu in Peru."
"It can't actually hurt you, can it? I mean, if you fall?" Marie sounded nervous.
"You won't fall," Bobby reassured her.
"What's the objective?" Logan asked.
Scott grinned as the door slid shut behind them. "Survive."
Logan snorted. "Shouldn't be hard."
Half an hour later, Logan had to admit that he'd been wrong. They'd stepped into the ruins proper and what he assumed were Inca warriors had appeared from the ruins. Individually, none of them were a problem, but there were dozens. Hundreds. The exercise was for the benefit of the younger X-Men, so he and Scott were taking more of a supporting role than normal, following Peter's lead.
He'd fallen into step with Scott almost instinctively when he realized Scott had chosen hand to hand combat over his optic blasts. He'd seen Scott fight a few of the Multiple Man's duplicates hand to hand, but hadn't been able to observe the other man's skill or technique in that particular battle. Now, positioned at Scott's side, Logan had to admit that the other man was good.
Not as good as he was, of course, he amended silently as he sliced through an Inca warrior. But for a guy with no mutant agility or strength or speed, Scott was good. Logan frowned momentarily as Scott wobbled on one foot as he kicked an opponent. The ground beneath them was stable and dry -- how could Scott have lost his balance?
The press of bodies separated him from Scott, but not before he caught a whiff of... sweat?
Of course Scott was sweating, given the fight, but there was something odd about the scent of that sweat. He'd have to work his way back to Scott for a better sniff before he could figure out what, if anything, was wrong. That wouldn't be easy, not with Inca warriors swarming him. He just grinned and dove into the fight. These warriors weren't just holographic projections, they had mass and resistance just like real people. They even bled when he sliced them with his claws. This Danger Room thing was fun.
He fell into familiar combat rhythm -- slice, pivot, punch, lunge, stab. This, he knew.
"What's the matter, Cyclops? Jungle fever?" Bobby's voice through the comlink caught his attention. Bobby had scoffed when Scott passed those around, and Logan told him just to wait until they were fighting, when he'd know why those comlinks were needed. Logan chuckled at the question, wondered what pithy retort Scott would have.
No retort came, and Logan grabbed the warrior he'd just clawed, using the body as a shield while he pivoted to face Scott. Scott stood surrounded by Inca warriors, and though he still fought, Logan saw that he kept himself upright only with effort. He inhaled deeply, grunted when another warrior got past his guard and stabbed his left leg, and winced at the acrid stench, so unlike what he normally scented from Scott.
Then he saw Scott miss an easy, open, kick to another opponent, and Scott fell.
"Guess it was jungle fever," Bobby quipped.
Had Scott chosen to take himself out of the fight to make it harder for the younger X-Men? If so, he'd chosen a lousy way to do it, Logan thought, angry that Scott hadn't even warned him it was a possibility.
Then he remembered Scott's reaction when he'd accused him of throwing like a girl. Scott had thrown the next items harder, certainly to prove him wrong. There was no way Scott would take himself out of a fight with jungle fever. He'd go down under a dozen warriors' blades. He'd let someone get the drop on him from behind -- maybe. But he wouldn't drop from jungle fever.
"End program," Logan ordered through the comlink, and two warriors slammed into him from opposite sides. "End program, dammit!"
That Scott didn't countermand the order just confirmed that something was wrong. Why wasn't the damned computer shutting down?
"It won't respond to that," Peter said through the comlink. "You have to give it the code phrase."
"What's the code phrase?" Logan kicked one of the warriors off him, sliced at another, trying to get to Scott.
"Peppermint oysters," Peter answered, and the ruins faded.
Logan scrambled toward Scott, and only then did the others realize Scott was still down. Even from ten feet away, he could tell that Scott's body temperature, higher than normal at the best of times, had skyrocketed. "Scott -- you okay?"
Scott lay motionless on the floor, and now Logan could see that he was shivering. He pressed his fingers to Scott's throat, felt a rapid pulse. "Colossus -- get him to the infirmary. I'll call Jean."
- - - - -
Jean. You're needed in the infirmary.
Jean started at the professor's mental call. It wasn't often that he simply barged into her mind like that.
"What's wrong?" Ororo asked. Jean had spent the last two nights, since Scott had left her, with Ororo. She'd have to go back to the room she'd shared with Scott eventually, if only to get her personal things, but she hadn't been able to face that just yet.
"Medical emergency." Her cell phone rang. She didn't recognize the number, was already halfway to Ororo's door when she answered. "Jean Grey."
"Jeannie, get down to medical, now."
"I'm on my way," she said. "The professor called. What happened?"
Logan's voice held concern and compassion. "Scott collapsed in the Danger Room. He's got high fever and chills, rapid pulse. Peter's taking him to the infirmary now."
"I'll meet him there." She snapped her phone closed. Fear trumped the vestiges of pain from her ankle as she ran for the stairs. Scott collapsed in the Danger Room.
She vaulted the railing, used her telekinesis to cushion her fall, and ran for the elevator to the lower level.
High fever, Logan had said. She knew the risks that meant, from dehydration to brain damage if the fever was high enough long enough, even complete circulatory collapse leading to death. Her resolve steeled. Scott couldn't die, she wouldn't let him.
The elevator crept down to the basement. Why couldn't she have Kitty's phasing power? If she could phase, she'd already be on the lower level, running toward the infirmary proper.
Thankfully, no one was stupid or clumsy enough to be standing in the door to the infirmary when the elevator finally opened.
Scott lay on a table, his armor open -- a part of her mind noted that Logan hadn't cut it off him -- and Logan was securing a set of Scott's night goggles around his head.
"Kitty, phase his uniform off." Jean forced herself not to react to Scott's pallor, nor the sweat beading down his temples.
"What?" Kitty squeaked.
"You heard me. Now." Jean grabbed the sphygmomanometer and strapped the cuff around Scott's arm.
She vaguely heard Kitty muttering something about not needing to see Cyclops naked, but a moment later, Kitty was folding the uniform and setting it aside. The thermometer she stuck to Scott's forehead needed a minute to work, but just in touching him when she applied it, she could tell he was feverish. Oh, his body temperature ran warmer than "normal" all the time as a result of his power, but this….
The thermometer dinged and she read off the result. One hundred and five was not good, even for Scott.
"Stand still, everyone." She concentrated a moment, and the IV tower, bag of saline solution, surgical tray, hospital gown, and leads moved across the room and into their proper positions.
"Anyone have a small table fan?" She asked as she wrapped the elastic around Scott's arm to insert the IV needle.
"I can cool him down," Bobby said.
"Can you make it just lukewarm around him? Or cool the air?"
"How about a block of ice under the table?"
"That's a start. Don't freeze any of the tubes or wires in it." Jean started the saline drip as Bobby formed ice beneath the table. She knew what to do, how to treat a fever, had done it a thousand times. Why was she nervous this time?
Because it's Scott.
She took a deep breath, cursing herself for giving Terry, the school nurse, the day off. If Terry were here, she'd step aside and let Terry take over the treatment, but there was no one else qualified at the school, so it was up to her.
Two hours later, she shooed the other X-Men out of the infirmary. "Nothing to do now but wait and watch."
"We can do that, too," Marie said.
Jean smiled at her. "I know. But I want to stay these first few hours, just in case anything changes. I'd rather not lose the time it'll take to get down here."
"You'll call one of us to relieve you, right?" Peter asked. "Don't wear yourself out."
"I won't." Jean watched the others leave, then turned back to the table where Scott lay, almost bumping into Logan as she did. "Sorry."
"What's wrong, Jeannie?"
"He's got a fever, and I don't know why. There's nothing in Worthington's notes to --"
"Not what I meant." He cut her off before she could babble too much -- and she had been about to babble. Treating the fever was easy. Figuring out why he had it wasn't.
"Then what did you mean?" She didn't try to keep the irritation from her voice. He was keeping her from diving back into the notes she'd gotten from Magneto, trying to find what had gone wrong.
"What's wrong between you two?"
"What makes you think something's wrong between us?"
"You mean besides your pulse jumping just now?" Logan stepped closer. "I haven't smelled you on him -- or him on you -- in a couple days. Something's wrong."
Jean felt her face flood with heat. "It's not like we have sex every day."
"Not even sex. You haven't touched him in two days. What's going on?"
"He --" She stopped. Should she tell him? If she did, would he push even harder than he had before? And was she ready to deal with it if he did? She sighed. "We're -- having difficulties, yes." It was the safest answer she could think of. "I've been staying with Ororo."
Logan's eyes narrowed, and for a moment she thought he was going to press for details, but she felt him decide not to. "You need me for anything, even just to listen, I'm here."
She was tempted, oh, she was tempted to ask for a hug, but she knew if she did she'd feel the psychic echoes of his attraction for her. No, call it what it was, desire. And she wasn't ready for that.
"Thanks," she said finally.
He watched her for another moment, then said, "Peter's right. Call one of us when you need a break."
He didn't wait for an answer, just stepped around her and out the door, and she was finally, terribly, alone with Scott.
Training reigned while she checked his blood pressure and temperature again, noted them in his chart. He still burned, his fever hovering near a hundred and five, despite the ice block that chilled her just to stand near it.
She sent his chart floating to the surgical table and, though it wouldn't tell her anything she didn't already know, rested her hand on his forehead.
"Dammit, Scott, you had no right to do this to me."
The words startled her. The anger behind them startled her even more, and in that instant, her shields wavered. His own were completely down, and she found herself touching his mind without entirely willing it.
She shied away, instinctively. She'd never wanted to read a delirious mind, had always kept her shields tighter than she normally did whenever she was around feverish or mentally ill patients. But this was Scott, and his mind was as familiar to her as her own, and she cautiously allowed the link to remain and, gradually, deepen.
She'd never seen his mind like this before. Where normally his thoughts ran like dominoes falling, each one leading into the next, now they were jumbled like those same dominoes at the start of a game. Memories from his childhood -- the brother he never spoke to anymore, his father taking him on his first plane ride -- jumbled with more recent memories of the school and the X-Men. Dreams danced in and out of the memories and sometimes jumbled with them so she couldn't tell which were which.
Seeing his memories brought back her own, and she couldn't help smiling when she remembered the first time they'd met. He was seventeen, and she was home from college over summer break. His powers had manifested a month before at a high school dance. He'd blown out half the wall in the bathrooms and hadn't heard news of whether anyone had been injured or killed.
He hadn't known anything about telepathy then, and his emotions had flooded her. Fear at what he'd done, what he could do, determination to keep his eyes closed forever if he had to, and that terrifying uncertainty as to whether he was a murderer or not thrummed in her own consciousness until she could barely concentrate on helping Hank McCoy design the first set of glasses for Scott.
Finally, she'd made some calls, pretended to be Scott's treating physician -- not too much off the truth, she thought with grim amusement, other than the timing -- and gotten answers. The relief he'd felt when she told him no one had been injured was palpable, almost a physical wave hitting her, along with a determination never to injure anyone with his powers accidentally.
She'd never sensed such a determination before, certainly not in someone so young. Not, of course, that she was that much older than he was, but six years made a lot more difference at twenty-three and seventeen than it did at thirty-two and twenty-six.
And then when Hank had finally finished the first set of ruby quartz glasses, Scott had put them on, outside, where it was safer if he opened his eyes, and laughed with sheer joy when they'd been effective at dispersing the beams from his eyes so he could see again. He'd looked at Hank and then her and said simply, "Thank you." But she'd felt the relief behind the words, relief that he wasn't dangerous now.
Beneath her hand, Scott's head moved side to side. He tried to talk, but she couldn't understand the words, so instead she focused on what he saw in his mind's eye.
The jumble of memories had settled into what seemed to be a continuous-play loop, the same moment, over and over.
He was looking straight at her. His hand lifted to the control on his visor, opened it. All the while, his mind screamed No no no!
She knew the moment, it had come in Alkali Dam, when, thanks to Stryker's mind-control drug, he'd been forced to attack her, to defend Stryker.
She started when the realization hit her, and she sank to the floor beside his bed, not caring that she sat in a small puddle of melting ice.
He'd lost that control he so desperately craved, then, had it ripped from him by a man with no scruples, no qualms about ordering Scott to do whatever he wanted. That "whatever" had been trying to kill her.
Not all hurts are physical. His words came back to her. Had he even given any indication that he was hurt, or had he counted on her telepathy to alert her? It shamed her to remember that he had said something. Oh, not directly, Scott would never admit to a hurt directly, but he'd protested that it was, in fact, him hurting her when she'd said it wasn't. She'd known Stryker had controlled him, so it wasn't really him. It was that simple. To her.
To Scott, there was so much more behind it, and she hadn't pursued it. Not when he said something, not later that night, not even the next morning. God, no wonder he thought she didn't care.
"I do care, Scott." She stood, using the grab-bars on Scott's bed to help her avoid slipping on the melted ice. "I've been lousy at letting you know, but I do care. And I'll make sure you know."