"How long have you been sick?" Jean demanded as she levitated the professor out of his wheelchair onto an exam bed so that Hank could help him into the pajamas Scott had fetched. Scott was hovering now, radiating anxiety and distracting her. Before the professor could answer, Jean turned to him, saying, "Please go help Edna transfer Bobby to one of the prepped beds in the diagnostics room. We had two boys come in this afternoon, so he'll have company."

"Jean, there is no need -"

"Charles - shut up." She was so angry, she was shaking. Scott hesitated, then hurried off as Jean prepared an IV. "You should have come down here as soon as you knew; we could have -"

"You could have made me comfortable. That is all."

"But you've been with students -"

"They have not been allowed in my office since Tuesday. You have been too preoccupied to notice. And I have not had dinner with Erik, either. I simply hope that I did not inadvertently infect him before realizing I was infected."

"You've known since Tuesday?" Jean snapped, glaring at Hank, too.

"I told Hank he was not to inform you, or Scott, until I gave my consent."

"Lovely. Thank you, Charles, for treating us like children!"

Xavier smiled and reached up to grip her arm. "You are," he said softly. "You are my children."

She was touched, but wasn't going to let that deflect her anger. "We're grown ups."

"I know." Xavier coughed. "But parents prefer to protect their children, when they may. You are angry now mostly because there is nothing you can do."

"I'm angry because you didn't show me the courtesy of telling me the truth sooner." Jean raised her eyes to Hank, who was being conveniently quiet. "You, too," she said. "Don't think you're off the hook just because he told you not to tell me."

Still with that annoying smile, the professor settled back with Hank's help. "Jean, what's done is done. Go talk to Scott. He needs you."

She stalked off. Scott had, indeed, cleared Bobby out of an exam room, and was now trying to change the sheets despite the fact he was sobbing almost too hard to see. With the beams under control, he could cry again with his eyes open, and she found him yanking futilely at white sheets while swearing, his face wet. She pulled him to her and let him cry against her neck. She was crying, too, and they clung hard.

After a few minutes, he pulled away, embarrassed and wiping his eyes. They looked even bluer against the redness. Then together, they made up the bed. She could have done it herself in a matter of moments, but it seemed important for them to do this together. When they were done, she headed for the door, but he grabbed her wrist, pulling her back to press his forehead to hers. Her hands were gripped in his between them. He seemed to be struggling for something to say, finally settled on, "I love you."

She raised her chin enough to kiss him. "I know. And ditto."

She went outside then for a little while. She needed the air, and the privacy to do her own crying where she didn't have to be strong - for Scott, for Xavier, for the students, for Warren. Hank found her sitting on a bench. "I'm still mad at you," she told him as he sat down beside her.

"I know," he replied. "I could say I was just following orders, but that's only partly true. I wanted to protect you, too." He had his hands folded in his lap, and was clearly trying to think of the best words. "I'm sorry. But the professor's right about one thing - you're mad because there's nothing you can do. Nothing I can do, either. That's always the problem for people like us, isn't it? We have all this knowledge - as doctors, researchers . . . and we still can't save them."

He looked down at his hands, moving his thumbs up and down compulsively. She thought he might be talking more about himself than her. She'd always been the smart girl, growing up, but for Hank, his genius had defined him. "I don't have any words of wisdom," he went on finally.

Reaching out, she covered his hands with one of hers. "You don't need any. Just sit with me a while. I think we could both use a minute out of there."

So they sat.

At the knock on the door of his little private room Friday morning, Warren glanced up to find Ororo and Kurt, Ororo dragging an IV pole to match Warren's. "I heard you were stuck down here, too," he said, waving them both in. Kurt helped Ro settle comfortably into a chair; she smiled back, dazzling, and Kurt ducked his head shyly. Warren wondered if Ro would ever figure out what was right under her nose. She deserved a good man, but as long as he'd known her, she'd been . . . distant. Of course, given what he knew of her life before she'd come to America, he couldn't say he blamed her, and Scott was, predictably perhaps, her closest friend at the mansion - which wasn't saying much. He hoped Kurt could break through the walls. Both Scott and Ro would trust someone with their lives before their hearts.

She turned to him, then. "Jean has allowed me to visit, as I am not yet confined to bed rest." She bent forward, studying his face. "How are you?" Kurt had perched himself on the foot of Warren's bed, odd feet gripping the steel bars. He appeared equally concerned.

"I'm feeling better - better than yesterday, anyway. Yesterday, I figured I was circling the drain, but today, I'm not coughing as much, or as achy."

Relieved, Ororo smiled and reached over to grip his hand on the sheets. "I am glad, Warren. Did you hear about the professor?"

"Scott told me last night." Warren sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Damn fool. Jean said he pumped himself full of Advil and Tylenol to hide his symptoms and kept going as long as he could. How are the students taking the news?"

"They are understandably upset. The professor has been their anchor." She frowned and seemed to be struggling with how to say the rest. "As much as they admire Scott, and Jean - and me - we are not Charles Xavier. We shall all be adrift."

"Nein," Kurt protested softly even as Warren said, "You're all three stronger than you know. The professor didn't pick you for no reason."

Ororo ignored that. "In any case," she said, "Scott is upstairs, attempting to organize documents and talk to any children who are upset after last night's news. Jean and Hank are completing the tests on Emma's biopsy."

"How are the rest of the kids down here - especially Piotr?"

She shook her head. "Both Piotr and Bobby appear to be worsening, and Jubilee isn't far behind. Rogue began coughing last night, and Logan healed her, then sent her up to the third floor."

"I'm glad for Rogue, at least. She's a good kid; Scott thinks she has real promise."

Despite her obvious upset, Ro snorted. "Scott has found someone who is as plane drunk as he is, and knows what to do with a wrench. I perform plane maintenance because it is necessary. She performs it because she likes to. I cannot say if that is part of her own personality, or something she gained after absorbing Logan."

"Or Erik," Warren added. "Erik built this sub-basement, before he left Charles."

Ro's lips thinned. "Or Erik," she conceded.

"Speaking of which, has anyone told Erik about the professor?" Warren asked. "He may be Magneto, but he and Charles -"

"Scott has agreed to tell him."

Warren rubbed at the bridge of his nose. "Heaven help us."

"You wanted - no, you demanded to see me?" Erik asked, standing in the door to Charles' office, hands behind his back. At his elbow, Mystique pursed her lips to keep from laughing at his tone.

Summers put down his pen and leaned back in the chair behind Xavier's desk. She'd heard that Jean Grey had done something to heal his eyes, but this was the first time she'd seen him without the glasses. He'd always been pretty in that way she didn't like in men, all smooth skin and fine features and full mouth. Insipid. The eyes, though, she hadn't expected; they undercut the effect - calculating and cold, and as impassive as the red quartz had been before. He looked tired, too, and clearly hadn't shaved that morning. "Have a seat," he said, gesturing.

Erik complied, poising himself on the edge of the leather chair in front of the desk. Mystique stood at his back and Summers fixed his attention on her instead of Erik. "In this house, Raven, please show some consideration for the age of the occupants and cover yourself like a normal human being. Convenient scales or not, I don't want you running around here nude."

Furious at his cheek, she opened her mouth to retort but Erik raised a hand. "Mystique" - Erik laid emphasis on her chosen name - "prefers to be seen as her natural self."

"I didn't ask her to morph. I asked her to put clothes on. Real clothes. A grown woman walking around in the buff is a distraction to teenage boys." He glanced back up at Mystique and his eyes showed no more feeling than they had before - no typical male reaction to her either. He may as well have been made of ice. "It's called 'flashing.'"

She broke out laughing. "You are . . . unbelievable. The prostitute turned prude. For your information, I'm sure every teenaged boy in this house has either accessed a porn site or looked through a girlie magazine. Get your head out of the 1950s, Cyclops."

"The ex-prostitute" - he stressed it - "knows all about sexual manipulation, so don't pretend I'm unaware of the many layers to your choices." He still appeared perfectly relaxed and she hated him for it . . . hated Erik, too, for not intervening. "First, without clothing, you can conveniently morph into anyone at any moment without needing to hide the evidence. Second, being nude constantly throws off others and gives you an edge. I have no doubt the kids check porn sites, but it's one thing to see nudity when prepared and curious. It's quite another to have a naked woman walk past in the hallway when you're sixteen and standing next to the girl you have a crush on, and you've suddenly got an embarrassing hard-on. You may find that funny, but I find it cruel." Now, for the first time, he stood, slamming both palms on the desk. "They're kids, you sick fuck. Why don't you try seeing to it that their lives aren't quite as shitty as ours were?"

Absolute rage warred with an infuriating humiliation in her belly - and an even more infuriating admiration for his strategic awareness of why she wore no clothing. It took her half a minute to control herself enough to reply. Erik still sat silently, watching Summers. "What an arrogant prick," she said at last. "Don't presume to judge me, or imply that I don't care about the children."

"Then show it by respecting their innocence. At least some of them do still have a little. Put some clothes on."

She held his eyes, which changed not at all as she morphed clothes onto her form. "Will this do?"

"Until you can get real clothes from your room, yes." He sat down again.

Erik suddenly began to clap, slowly, but it was a genuine expression of appreciation, and it pissed off Mystique even more. "The cub has finally shown that he has claws."

"The cub always had them, Erik, I just keep them sheathed most of the time because it's what one does in polite company."

"You called me 'Erik.' I'm touched, Scott. Now, I presume you summoned us down here for some reason besides ordering my protégée to cover herself?"

"Yes." Summers' jaw tensed. "Last night, Charles Xavier was taken down to the medbay." He hesitated a moment, perhaps as much for himself as out of courtesy to Erik. "He has Legacy." Another minute pause. "I thought you'd want to know."

"I want to see him." And there was no humor at all now in Erik's tone.

Summers punched a button on the phone sitting on the desk and spoke into the intercom. "Hank, you there? Magneto would like to visit the professor. Is it a good time?"

As good as any, came the voice on the other end.

"I'll bring him down in a minute then."

But Mystique wasn't watching Summers. She was watching Erik, who gripped both chair arms. She set a hand on his shoulder, squeezing once. She hurt for him, but she also resented the fact that, even after so long, the news his old friend - his old enemy - had a terminal illness could leave him so shaken. Then another thought occurred to her. "They've been eating together in Xavier's room," she said. "Could Xavier have given Erik the virus after all?"

"I don't know. Jean will take a blood sample and run another test while he's down there."

She looked up finally. Summers wasn't even watching them, but working on papers. He looked . . . bored. "You don't even care?"

"I care about a number of things, Raven," he replied without looking up. "Right now, I care about paying the bills so the power company doesn't shut off our electricity." He looked up. "You can go back to your room. I'll take Erik down to the sub-basement in a moment."

"You are one cold son of a bitch."

That, finally, got an expression from him besides the poker face. The corners of his mouth tipped up. "Thank you."

For just a moment, she considered leaping the desk and strangling him, but then both her common sense and her pride re-awoke. She couldn't believe she'd let Xavier's pet pretty boy get under her skin like that. "Fine," she said in an amused voice. "I shall re-confine myself to my quarters." And bending, she laid a hand on Erik's face, kissed his cheek quickly, and headed out.

Summers' voice followed her. "Remember Raven, Jean knows where you are at all times, no matter what you look like. Put on some clothes, and stay on the third floor."

"Fuck you," she replied pleasantly as she let the door go.

"You're not my type," she heard before it shut.

"Oh, but I could be," she purred, and just for the hell of it, morphed into Jean Grey. There was no intended purpose in the transformation besides spite, yet the change gave her an idea.

He was a strategist, as Erik had warned. She still hated his guts but had learned a new respect for him today, and she knew that if she were he, she'd remind someone about Jean's telepathic mind net only if it weren't perfect. Not a bluff so much as a seemingly casual reminder that he hoped she didn't examine too closely.

"Jean knows where I am at all times, Cyclops? Let's test that theory," she muttered, and instead of returning to her room, headed down the hall to the den where the kids often gathered. Scott's challenge to her concern for them had pissed her off. She cared more than he could know about the ones who couldn't pass; she cared so much, in fact, she'd take some away from him.

As she entered the lounge, several kids looked up. "Dr. Grey!" they said. "How's the professor?"

"Doing well for now," she replied, smiling at them and coming over to sit on the couch among them, squeezing the hands of those who looked especially anxious, including a young boy who Brotherhood intelligence told her was Artie Maddicks, a mute with a snake tongue and deadly poison fangs. He could be useful to them, when he got older. "How are you, Artie?" she asked.

He appeared momentarily startled, then smiled and nodded. "Good, I'm glad," she said, giving him another warm smile before turning to the others and listening to their questions. These, she bluffed answers to and asked a subtle few of her own, hoping to begin a mental list of any who - like St. John - might not be sold on Xavier's theory of peaceful co-existence.

Artie was completely confused when Dr. Grey spoke to him verbally instead of telepathically, and was even more confused when she didn't respond to his own greeting. So he stood next to Illyana - Piotr's little sister and Terry's roommate - listening for a while.

After ten minutes, he was virtually certain that whoever this was, she wasn't Dr. Grey, and he didn't like some of the questions she was asking. He waited five minutes more, then smiled and waved, heading out casually so it didn't arouse suspicion. Clear of the room, though, he dashed for the professor's office, but Mr. Summers wasn't in there. He was about to try contacting either Dr. Grey or the professor telepathically, but wasn't sure if he could manage it, when a blond man Artie had never seen before came down the stairwell and headed towards the elevator himself.

Who on earth was this? But Artie hurried over, tugging at his sleeve and pointing to the elevator. On his palm pilot, he typed, "Need 2 C doc," then faked a silent sneeze.

"You're sick, too?" the blond man asked. Artie nodded, and the other said, "Come on, then," as the elevator opened. "I'll get you to the medbay." He glanced at Artie. "You can't talk?" In reply, Artie opened his mouth to show his tongue. "Oh," the blond replied, looking startled. "I'm Alex Blanding, by the way - Scott's brother. Mr. Summers, I mean."

Artie smiled back. The other had hesitated no more than a second upon seeing the tongue; in Artie's experience, that was a pretty calm reaction. As soon as the elevator doors opened, he dashed out and ran for the medbay, leaving Mr. Blanding to shout behind him.

Inside the medbay doors, he spotted Dr. Grey working with Dr. McCoy at one of the computers, and instant relief washed over him. He shouted telepathically, Dr. Grey!

Turning her head, she saw him there, and he felt her instantly riffle his memories. Then shoving a vial of something at Dr. McCoy, she raced out the door. Artie followed. Alex Blanding was still in the hallway outside and stared at them both as Dr. Grey hurried for the elevator. The doors flew apart and she ran in, Artie still following. The elevator shot up - faster than it usually did, Artie thought. When the doors opened, Dr. Grey stalked out and headed down the hall toward the den. As she moved, Artie saw the air around her crackle and ignite, leaving an aura in her wake like wings of flame. Startled, he fell back against a wall.

"Mystique!" she thundered in a voice that was louder than human normal. It shook the walls.

The other "Dr. Grey" emerged from the den, curious students behind her. As she moved, she changed, turning blue with hair even redder than Dr. Grey's. "My Jean, you're looking . . . fiery." But the blue woman didn't appear frightened.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"Just visiting." She turned back to the students behind her. "It was nice to meet all of you, especially you, Illyana." And she calmly walked up the hall, past Dr. Grey - still with the flame wings and glowy eyes - but stopped near Artie (half hidden behind a column). "Your informant, I presume?" She glanced back at Jean. "Not as omnipotent as you pretend, are you?" And she continued on to the staircase, mounting the steps.

When she'd gone, Dr. Grey . . . diminished, returning to her usual self, a tall woman in a white labcoat. She studied the scared faces. "Don't listen to a thing she might have said. Remember - she pretended to be Bobby so she could try to kill the professor and drive Rogue away to where Magneto could kidnap her. They don't care about anything but their war. We're all just pawns." She ran a hand through her hair then, looking surprisingly vulnerable compared to the firebird woman of a moment before. "I need to go back down to the sub-basement."

"Dr. Grey - how is the professor?" Jamie Madrox asked.

"He's very sick," Dr. Grey admitted. "We're doing everything we can."

"Thanks," Jamie replied, and Dr. Grey headed back to the elevator.

Once she was out of earshot, Illyana asked, "Did you see her go all weird and demon-eyed?"

"Yeah, I thought she was gonna kick Mystique's ass," Jamie replied. "Too cool."

Illyana glanced at him. "Are you insane? I'd feel safer with Mystique than Dr. Grey these days. I'm going to see my brother and parents." And she walked off. Scratching his nose, Artie wondered if he should tell Dr. Grey or Mr. Summers what she'd said?

"What the hell was that all about?" asked a voice behind Hank.

After Jean's abrupt departure, Hank had been left with Scott in the main medbay, and now, they turned to see a tall, blond stranger standing just inside the medbay doors. "Alex," Scott said, walking over to the other man and ushering him further into the room.

Ah, Hank thought - so this was Scott's younger brother.

"It is very good to make your acquaintance, Mr. Blanding," Hank said, gloving up to offer a hand, which the newcomer took. "I'm Hank McCoy."

"Good to meet you, too. And 'Alex' is fine." He glanced at his brother. "Scott said you're an old friend?"

"Yes. I was still doing my residency when Scott first arrived here, years ago. Now, I work for the CDC in Atlanta. I was called to New York when Legacy first surfaced." Scott had warned Hank that Alex knew nothing of the X-Men. "Thank you for agreeing to come down and submit to a DNA test. It's very important that we be able to type your X-gene - and thank you, too, for trusting us with the knowledge that you are a mutant."

Alex looked down, then eyed Scott sidelong. "My father's a doctor - my adopted father, I mean. He didn't have the usual prejudices, I guess you'd say. We've kept my mutancy quiet due to the current political situation." He paused, adding, "After meeting Scott, and he was, well -"

"- blunt about being a mutant," Scott finished.

"I went ahead and told him I was, too, when I got here last night. Seemed stupid to hide it."

Hank was nodding as he pulled out a swab and test tube to take a buccal sample. "If you'll open your mouth wide? This will only take a moment." Alex did as instructed and Hank swiped the inside of the cheek area, then popped the swab in the test tube and sealed the top, writing Alex's name on the side label. "I trust that Scott has briefed you on proper precautions, being in this house at the moment?"

"Yeah," Alex replied. "I'm being careful."

"He didn't pick the best time to come visit," Scott said.

"You sounded pretty upset about everything in that email," Alex retorted. "I wanted to come."

This frank revelation of Scott's emotional state had obviously disconcerted Scott; Hank knew he preferred to conceal his feelings if he thought them weak. "I am upset," he agreed now, "but you being here where you could catch the virus doesn't make me feel better. You should go home."

Alex didn't reply to that, and Hank watched them surreptitiously. Despite their years apart, they had many of the same mannerisms, no doubt acquired as children. They also appeared to share the same stubborn streak. Placing the test tube safely in a stainless steel holder, Hank turned back to Alex. "If I may be so bold . . . what, precisely, is your mutation?"

"I, uh, shoot these yellow fire-bolt thingies out of my hands."

"Thingies?" Scott asked, half-laughing.

"Well I don't have a name for them. I can heat stuff, too, like a microwave."

Playing a hunch, Hank said, "I'd like to take a few x-rays of your hands and chest area."

"X-rays won't tell you anything," Alex warned. "They won't come out at all."

"You white them out, don't you?" Hank inquired, suppressing a smile. Alex nodded. "So does your brother. And if the cause is the same - an energy conversion involving high levels of radiation - you may have won the mutant lottery when it comes to Legacy, Alex."

"Why?"

"My body fries bacteria and viruses," Scott replied. "It's a side-effect of my mutation. When's the last time you had a cold or the flu, or anything like that?"

Alex obviously had to think about it. "Uh - not since high school."

"Before your mutation manifested?"

"Yeah."

Scott turned to look at Hank, who simply nodded. "I will run some additional tests, to be sure."

"How are you feeling?" Scott asked, sticking his head around the door.

Warren glanced up from his laptop; he'd been trying to answer the email he hadn't felt up to answering for two days. "I thought your brother was down here?"

"He's with Hank, who's running tests. They think Alex may be like me with a mutation that inactivates viruses." Warren nodded and tried to suppress any resentment about that as Scott walked over to sit down on the side of the bed. "You look better," Scott said.

"I feel a bit better - enough to sit up without getting nauseous."

"Did you tell Jean?"

"This morning. She took some blood and urine and ran off like a kid at Christmas."

Scott snorted, but didn't sound amused. Instead, he ran a palm along the top bone of Warren's wing. "I'm afraid to hope."

"You and me, both. How's Piotr?"

"Not good. He's got half his family at the mansion. Hank's told him to metal up periodically; apparently, it helps to slow the infection. But he can't hold that form forever. He still has to eat. War, I don't know if he's going to see Monday." He dropped his hand from Warren's wing. "And you caught it before him."

"Yesterday, I didn't expect to see the end of the week, never mind Monday. Today . . . "

Before either could go further, Bobby Drake appeared - coughing - in the doorway. Warren looked up and Scott turned. "Bobby? What are you doing out of bed?"

"I wondered if I could talk to Mr. Worthington?"

Surprised, Warren shifted his gaze to Scott, who shrugged and stood. "I'll see you later," Scott said. "I've got to get back to work."

Bobby let him pass, trying not to cough on him, then came in and shut the door. Like Ororo, he was dragging an IV pole, and sat down in the chair Ro had occupied earlier. Warren's room was starting to feel like Grand Central Station. "What's up?" Warren asked. "And you can stop calling me 'Mr. Worthington.' You're not a student anymore. 'Warren' is fine."

"Okay - Warren. You remember the night you found me eating ice cream?"

"The night I infected you, you mean?"

Bobby shrugged. "Not your fault." And Warren was a bit relieved that the boy didn't blame him, even if he still blamed himself. "And yeah, that night - we had a talk. You said you, uh, were pretty tolerant, and, uh, you asked me some questions."

Warren had a good idea now where this was going. "I am tolerant, Bobby."

But Bobby didn't reply immediately, sat playing with the line on his IV instead and coughing every 20 to 30 seconds, a rattling sound none too different from Warren's yesterday. Warren let silence do the work, and finally, Bobby admitted, "I was in love with John," but his confession sounded more tired than shy or anxious, as if he'd been 'round and 'round with it in his own head to the point he just needed to say it aloud. "At least, I think I was."

"What makes you unsure?"

"Well, for one thing he was a guy. I don't . . . I didn't think I . . . I like girls. Or at least, I used to, before meeting John. Do you think it could be - I don't know - a fluke?"

"I think it could be that you like girls and guys both."

"You mean, like, bi-sexual?"

"Yes, 'like bi-sexual.'"

"Isn't that just a denial of being gay?"

"Not at all. I'm bi-sexual, Bobby. I like women. And men." Maybe he shouldn't have admitted that, but just now, it seemed important to be honest. Bobby was gaping.

"So you and Scott . . . "

". . . are very close friends. Scott's straight, as I told you before. But yes, I loved him - still do, but it's changed with time. That happens. I wouldn't trade our relationship for any society-page wedding. Love is love. If I've learned nothing else in 30 years, I've learned that. Stop worrying so much about labels and internal plumbing, and be glad if you're lucky enough to find it."

Bobby turned his head aside, interrupted by a terrible coughing fit, before he could manage, "That's just it. Maybe I did find it - but I lost it, too. He's fucking dead."

Warren started to say, "But you're not," or remind Bobby he was 18; he'd find it again. Platitudes. "I'm sorry," he said instead. "It hurts like hell when you can't have what you want most."

"Yeah," Bobby replied. "It does."

Logan arrived in the medbay at noon on the dot, climbing onto an exam table and holding out his arm. "Let's go," he barked to the room at large. Jean and Hank both looked up, trading a glance.

He's prompt, Hank sent. Did he get that from the military?

He's feeling frustrated, Jean replied. Giving blood is what he can do. You'll have to watch him to be sure he doesn't try to give too often. But she made no move to rise, kept her nose buried in the most recent blood work on Warren. His antibodies were definitely up; he was responding to the serum. Hank watched her a minute, then sighed and rose to take Logan's blood.

When he was done, Hank called, "Would you please get Logan some orange juice? I'm taking the draw to the separator."

Jean pursed her lips but could hardly argue. It was just orange juice. Rising, she went to the fridge and took out one of the stock of bottles they kept there, bringing it to Logan. He took it, barely looking at her, and drank it down, then handed her back the empty bottle. "How long're you going to keep avoiding me?" he asked, still not looking at her.

"I'm not avoiding you -"

"Coulda fooled me."

"Logan, whatever we had . . . or thought we had . . . I came back for Scott."

"I know that." He turned then to look right at her with those all-color/no-color eyes. "But the only way you're gonna shut the door is to walk up and shut it. Right now, you're hurrying past."

And there it was - some pull in his eyes, some compulsion. She could know. She could reach out and touch his mind and take it all - everything he remembered about whatever it was they'd shared. She could understand. She could remember.

Turning on her heel, she fled to her office.

Hank was storing Logan's serum and assessing their stocks so he could talk to Jean about who would get the serum therapy, when he realized they were one vial short. Some of Emma's serum was missing. At first, he thought he'd simply miscounted or that it had been moved accidentally, but a hurried search turned up nothing.

Someone had taken it. Straightening and shutting the refrigerator door, Hank considered. There were only a handful of people who knew the value of that serum, and only two besides himself who could actually administer it. And of those two . . . .

Teeth clenched, Hank stalked out of the main medlab for Jean's office and knocked roughly. She opened, and one look at his face turned hers guilty. She knew exactly what he'd come about. "You gave it to Warren, didn't you?" Hank demanded. It had to have been either Warren or Xavier, and Warren was a bit better today.

Jean turned back into the room to retrieve a pair of printouts from her desk. "His blood work from yesterday, and his blood work from today. I think we should give it to Piotr, Terry, and the others."

"Jean - we hadn't decided . . . !"

"I know," she said, hugging herself. "I know. It was wrong." She looked up at him with haunted eyes. "I'd do it again." He felt his jaw working, unsure how to respond to that. "We need War, Hank. The school, the X-Men - we need him. Without his financial support, it'll all collapse. Besides, if there was to be a bad serum reaction, I'd rather it happened to an adult than a kid -"

"Jean - shut up." He was torn between anger and understanding. "None of that is why you picked him, and frankly, I'm more inclined to forgive you for the real reasons. He's my friend, too." Hank looked down at the printouts. "Someone had to be the guinea pig. I'd have picked Piotr, but . . . ." He trailed off, then looked up again. "I say we ready the serum and start administering it. Emma's goes to first-generation students who're showing symptoms, and Logan's to second-generation."

"What about Charles?"

Hank shook his head. "I already talked to him. He's refused it, unless there's some left over."

"There won't be."

He met her eyes. "You know as well as I do that it wouldn't make any difference for him, at this stage."

Putting her hand over her mouth, she turned away.

"Jean, just be glad it seems to be working for Warren."

"I am." She lowered the hand. "I'm giving you some of Logan's, too, Hank."

"I'm not showing symptoms -"

"- but you will. We need you on your feet."

Together they went back into the main medbay and started prepping the serum.

At sunset on Friday, Jean emerged from the sub-basement again. She hadn't slept at all, but the cautiously optimistic results of Warren's serum therapy left her feeling able to spare a few hours to relax. They weren't out of the woods, but for the first time since Bobby had shown up in the medbay coughing, she had some real sense of hope - or as much hope as possible with the professor himself in a hospital bed. She still couldn't shake the sight of him, looking frail and old on the crisp, white sheets.

Now, she grabbed a sandwich and headed outside. She needed to feel the wind on her face, but more to the point, she hadn't sensed Scott anywhere in the building.

She found him down by the lake - long his retreat when upset or angry - his silhouette dark at the pier's end against the red-gold glare of sunlight off the surface. He was just standing there. She started down the embankment even as a bolt of red flashed out raggedly into the water, sending up a sparkling sheet like a giant hand dragged along the surface. What was he doing? Trying to scare the fish? A minute later, it came again, but even less well aimed. He took out some of the cattails on the other side, and she heard a distinct, "Dammit!" as her foot hit the pier. He turned at the sound, his face a study in frustration.

"What's wrong?" she called as she walked down to join him.

"I can't control them now!" he said, sounding somewhere south of annoyed. "I can turn them on and off, yes - but aim? Control the width or size of the blast? For-fucking-get it!" He rubbed at his brow. "Mystique won't stay in her damn room, and Erik - he disappeared into his after talking to Charles and hasn't come out since. He's up to something. Meanwhile, here I am, unable to control my beams. What the hell good will I be if they do try something?"

He was working himself up, all the frustration of the past two weeks boiling to the surface, and she gripped his face between both her hands. "Stop it, Scott. We knew you wouldn't have instant control. The fact you can turn them on and off at will this soon after is further along than I thought you'd be. It's not like you haven't had a dozen other things to do!" She pushed her forehead to his. "It'll take time, hon."

"But I need to be Cyclops now."

"Scott, listen to me." She pulled away to look into his eyes, so very, very blue. "Remember how long it took before? Months and months - years even, for the kind of precision you've got now. At least you're not starting over from scratch. It'll come."

"I had the luxury of time back then. Do I now? What if I'm needed?"

"If the alternative is living every hour of your life with that metal thing strapped to your eyes, we'll make time." She let his face go. "As for being needed . . . ." She turned back towards the house and reached out with her hand and her power both, calling what she wanted to her across the distance. It took only a minute, tearing along, before it snapped to a stop in her hand. His visor. She offered it to him. "You learned to control the beams with this, and there's no reason you can't still use it if you need to even while you're learning to control your beams without it."

He took it from her fingers and settled it on his face, then suddenly whipped his head around, opening the aperture so that a beam of red lanced out, cutting a knife-neat swathe across the water's surface. "See?" she said with a smile, "Cyclops hasn't gone anywhere."

They sat together on the end of the pier until the sun was fully down and the sky had gone black, punctuated by pinpoints of summer stars. Jean was nestled between Scott's knees, her head back against his shoulder and his arms wrapped about her. She could have slept like that, but she still had things to do, and so did he. At least they'd had a quiet hour to themselves; it was good to remember what that felt like.

Hand-in-hand, his visor folded up and tucked into his breast pocket, they strolled back to the mansion and by unspoken agreement, headed downstairs to the medlab. No sooner had they walked through the doors though than Hank called, "There you are!" He came hurrying over, frowning. Glancing from her to Scott, he took a breath, then said, "We didn't get enough of the vaccine virus sequences from Emma's PCRs to reconstruct the vaccine itself." He shook his head. "I was hoping . . . but I can't say I'm surprised."

Letting Scott go, she headed straight across the floor to where Hank had been working on a rear table, the PCR results scattered on the steel surface. "What did we get?"

"Enough for some hints," he said, joining her. "We're better off than we were, but still - we're talking months, maybe even years."

"No!" she snarled, scattering the sheets with a mental flick. They ignited like fire moths, incinerating in seconds, and she stared at the ash-littered metal. "You had copies?"

"Jean -" She turned to look at him and Scott, both wide-eyed.

"I know." She rubbed her forehead. It seemed that every time she lost her temper these days, the flames came. They might not harm her, but papers - or other people - weren't so impervious. "Maybe it's time to think about contacting Essex, to try Scott's ploy. It might work or it might not, but we can't be any worse off than we are right now."

Scott watched her, then nodded once. "Do we know how to contact him?"

"He didn't leave me a number - or rather, I walked out first. But Emma will know how to get a hold of him, and I can get a hold of Emma." She glanced towards the door. "I'll be in Cerebro."

"And I'll go talk to the professor." Scott glanced at Hank, who appeared worried.

"I still have my doubts about the safety of this little espionage gambit," Hank admitted.

"I'm afraid we're way past 'safe' right now, Hank," Scott said. Jean had to agree. She left them there to go contact Emma.

Scott had been closeted with Xavier for twenty minutes as Hank grew increasingly anxious the more he thought about this whole scenario. While he supported the professor in his creation of a team intended to extract newly manifested mutant kids from perilous situations, he'd never been comfortable with the other extra-legal activities of the X-Men. Even if Xavier had secured a backstairs agreement with the FBI to look the other way, the X-Men were still vigilantes, not government operatives, and Hank feared that someday, their actions would get someone killed. Jean's fate at Alkali Lake - however temporary it had turned out to be - was a case in point. They just weren't trained, field-rated agents, and it worried him.

The ringing phone in his temporary "office" startled him out of his musings. Digging through the paper strewn across the desktop, he grabbed for the receiver, wondering who was calling him at ten in the evening. "Hank McCoy."

"I thought you'd be back in Atlanta by now?"

It took him a moment to recognize the voice. "Trish Tilby?"

"I called the CDC, looking for you, but they said you were still in New York. What are you doing up here?"

Cautious because Trish was both clever and suspicious by nature, he said, "Attempting to order the personal research papers of an old friend who was a specialist in mutant genetics. She died during the Blackout, but I'm hopeful her work might help us find the vaccine faster."

"I thought you said it was next to impossible to get vaccines for lentiviruses?"

Damn. He'd unconsciously spoken from the knowledge that a vaccine existed - which was exactly why he had to be careful with her. She noticed things like that. "It is," he said now. "But as this particular one has filovirus proteins, there may be something we can do."

"I heard about that - or read about it, I suppose I should say. I'm still following the story. I don't suppose I have to tell you the official death toll in the U.S. just passed a hundred?"

"I heard," he said, and that hundred didn't count the unofficial dead, either, such as St. John.

"I've been looking into what the CDC has been releasing, and was hoping I could talk to you about it. I get the impression it's a bit . . . strange for a virus to be a hybrid like this? True?"

"It is unusual, no question."

"How would that happen? In nature?"

Hank - who'd been compulsively turning a pen end-over-end - froze. While the CDC knew the virus was engineered, just as he did, they hadn't released that information to the public yet by order of the Office of Homeland Security. As it was, Hank was breaking God knew how many laws by keeping to himself the name of the man who'd created it. He should have revealed what he knew, but if he did, he'd be compromising the school's security - and that was another reason he had his doubts about Scott's plan to trick Essex out of the vaccine. When all was said and done, they'd still have to come up with an explanation for how they'd acquired it.

Personally, Hank thought they should pinpoint Essex's lab, then give the NSA an anonymous tip and let them raid the place. That way, both the vaccine and Essex would be in U.S. custody.

And just how would the agents capture a mutant like Essex?, another part of his mind asked. Magneto had been apprehended and contained, however briefly, because Scott, Jean, Ro and Logan had left him trussed up like a Christmas Turkey with specific instructions for his safe incarceration. Despite what Jean had told him about Essex after their meeting, Hank still wasn't sure exactly what Essex's powers were, or the extent of his electrical control.

The whole quandary was giving him a headache. "Hank?" Trish's voice came over the line. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, I'm still here. I'm sorry, I'm just . . . tired and a little stressed. Besides, I thought you weren't talking to me?" Maybe he could deflect her curiosity by changing the subject.

"I was mad at you, yes, but when I got back to the office, I had to admit I could see why you took offense at what I said." It was straightforward and without whining. "I'm sorry. In my business, one gets used to one's sources expecting something in return for their tips and information."

"I am a teacher -"

"- and a good one. Thank you for the lesson."

He couldn't resist a small smile. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"Including an answer to my question about how this virus came to be? I admit, it doesn't seem like something that would occur naturally."

So much for redirecting her. He should have known better, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Trish, there is some information that I am simply not at liberty to tell you."

"So there is more to this - ?"

"Trish -"

"'No comment,' I got it." She paused, then said, "Hank, I'm hitting dead-ends everywhere I look. No one's talking."

"Because we can't."

"And that's damn suspicious. Someone made this virus, didn't they? It's biological warfare aimed at mutants."

"I told you -"

"'No comment,' I know. Listen, I'm not going to ask you for something that could cost you your job, but this is important. If there's some terrorist group out there creating viruses engineered to kill mutants, where will it stop?" He could hear her take a breath. "So let's do this backwards. If this is a naturally occurring virus, you just tell me how it might have happened; you can be as vague as you need to be. But if it's not . . . well, just reply with 'no comment' and you haven't actually told me anything you can be prosecuted for, right? And I won't use your name. I give you my word."

Hank considered, but only for a moment. He realized that at some point, he'd come to trust Trish Tilby. So he said, "'No comment.'"

On the other end of the line, there was the briefest pause, then, "Thank you."

"And Trish - off the record?"

"Absolutely."

"We're working on it. Trust me on that."

"I do. Good luck, Hank." Another hesitation, then, "And before you go back to Atlanta, if you have time, would you be interested in dinner? No tape recorders or cameras allowed."

He blinked. Had she . . . had she just asked him for a date? "Uh, I . . . yeah. Yeah, dinner sounds wonderful, Ms. Tilby."

"Excellent. I'll be in touch."

Feeling at loose ends, Logan had come down to the medbay, though he wasn't sure what he thought he could do there. He was neither a medic nor much for offering comfort, and it killed him to walk through the diagnostic and surgery bays full of makeshift beds with sick children under bright, sterile lights. He was reminded of hospital tents in wartime.

He talked to those kids he knew, and a few whom he didn't. Bobby appeared to be in the worst shape, as he'd been the first to fall ill. As white as his sheets, he lay on his cot, shaking and sweating and coughing. But he wasn't yet bleeding, and that was the symptom they feared most. Logan sat down on the edge of the cot. "You sure you won't let us call your parents, kid?"

"No," he replied, rolling so as to turn his back.

"What happened at your house last October . . . it don't mean they'd react the same now."

Bobby didn't reply.

"You're gonna have to tell 'em eventually, even if you make it through this."

"No, I don't."

Frustrated, Logan gave up. "Hey - you tried maybe dropping your body temps down to kill off the virus or something?"

"Hank said viruses aren't that delicate; I'd just put it into hibernation. If I get much worse, though, he's going to put me in the DR and let me freeze my body as far down as I can take it, but that'll just slow things, like Pete steeling up. It won't let me fight it off." He shrugged. "Hank gave me a dose of your serum earlier, though. He says I might start feeling better by morning."

"Hope he's right, kid." Logan patted the boy's shoulder and moved on, wondering if he could talk Hank into taking another liter of blood even though it had been only nine hours since the last? Right now, it was his healing factor, not his fighting skills, that might save lives.

"Yes, that's right. We're willing to make the trade."

Scott was talking to Nathaniel Essex on the phone in Jean's office, while Jean and Hank stood to the side, listening. Jean had coerced Emma into giving her Essex's cell phone number. Now, she watched Scott's mouth thin as he replied, "Because I have 13 sick kids and three sick adults and the numbers will only go up. I don't like your terms, Dr. Essex, but I'm reasonable."

A pause. "Yes, I've told Jean we're doing it." Pause. "Of course she protested, but I told her it wasn't up for debate. Now, our terms are relatively simple. You produce the vaccine and five pints of serum from vaccinated mutants - five pints of serum, not whole blood. In return, you will receive one sample of semen from me, and will be permitted one harvest of eggs from Jean. It's been short notice, but she's already put herself on a regimen of Clomid and hCG, and estimates that she'll be ready for an ultrasound aspiration around three p.m. Sunday. You can come here to make the exchange."

Pause. "We'll consent to an exchange at another locale only so long as the vaccine and serum is turned over to us upon Jean's arrival, and can be tested for authenticity." Pause. "No, we don't take you at your word. What reason do we have to do so? You will get samples from us only on the condition that we have a verifiable vaccine and serum first. You tell us where to go, and we'll be there Sunday at ten a.m., to have time to run tests on the vaccine and serum." A pause. "No, Jean'll bring a field kit with her. We'd prefer to use our own tests, not yours."

He listened more, wrote something down, then hung up and raised the sticky pad with an address. "He bit. We meet in the war room at eight in the morning, to plan this operation. I'll go talk to Doug about what op-tech we'll need."

It was some hours later, after Jean had grabbed a quick catnap on the couch in her office, that Edna beeped her. The clock read 5:37 in the morning. Groggily, she got up and put on her lab coat, heading out into the main medbay. Edna, who'd been on night shift, called to her from one of the private rooms. Jean could hear sounds of retching even as she approached, and Edna came out into the hall. Her scrubs and gloves were flecked with pink-tinged vomit.

"Warren's taken a turn for the worst."

Jean grabbed the wall for support.