(disclaimer in first part)


~~~~~~~~

Jean finished spraying the disinfectant over her clothes. The shaking of her hands made the job difficult. Rogue went from a 104-degree temperature to 94. She begged for water, then threw it up. They bundled blankets on her during a chill, only to have her toss them off, sweat-soaked, fifteen minutes later. She dozed for awhile and woke up from nightmares. Sometimes they left her delusional, and it took Jean and Hank both to hold her still so she wouldn't harm herself. They feared they'd have to strap her down if that got any worse. Her migraines were so bad she pleaded for all the lights to be turned off and lay curled on her side, eyes shut tight, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Recently she'd developed a terrible, hacking cough that sometimes brought up blood.

It was exhausting work for the two doctors, not to mention painful. And nothing seemed to help; that was the worst part of all. They'd tried five different kinds of medication without results and then stopped, fearing it would only worsen the situation. Xavier had taken Hank out a few hour ago to consult with hospitals and medical experts in conference calls. He faxed blood samples, tissue samples, and test results to clinics all over the world. No one had any clue how to help this girl. Jean would have participated, but she knew how distant scientists would treat it: a fascinating medical anomaly. A *case*. It was not a case to Jean, it was Rogue, a dear friend in severe pain, whom she couldn't help in the least.

She stood trembling for a few moments in the little bathroom. Dully she noted that the sun should be rising about now. She and Hank had worked through the night, and he'd ordered her off to get some sleep. Scott was waiting for her outside, as were Ororo, Professor Xavier and some of Rogue's teenage friends. No one was allowed into the med room for fear of spreading the infection. Christ, what would she do if this became an epidemic? No, it was best to keep Rogue quarantined. Jean herself should be safe enough, having showered and gotten into fresh clothes, then disinfected those just to be sure.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Scott was indeed standing just to the left. He handed her a sandwich and slipped an arm about her waist. The tender gesture, so very Scott-like, made her want to burst into tears. Ororo held out a cup of coffee.

"Does it have a shot of whiskey in it?" she murmured, drawing slightly hysteric laughter from the small congregation. The boys had left, but Jubilee and Kitty were huddled on a bench. They stood up quickly.

"Is . . . is she doing any better, Dr. Grey?" Kitty asked, hope filling her eyes.

Jean bit her lip, which was answer enough. Then she remembered their little field trip. It would be leaving at noon. "Shouldn't you be packing?"

Jubilee blinked. "Are you sure we oughta go, with Rogue here and . . ." They looked to the professor for an answer, and he nodded.

"There's nothing you can do for her right now," Xavier said gently. "She's still too ill to see anyone. Go on, enjoy yourselves, and we'll contact you if there are any changes."

The man was peace itself, Jean thought, not for the first time in all the years she'd known and loved him.

Bobby appeared to take each of them by the elbow. He looked at Jean, worry in his eyes. He hadn't slept either. "Tell her we love her, all right?"

Jean attempted to smile. The three young people moved on to catch a few hours of sleep.

Before Scott led her off to do the same, one more concerned mutant showed up. The breath caught in Jean's throat. It was the young German boy, Kurt Wagner, who called himself Nightcrawler. He bore a strong enough resemblance to Mystique to be unsettling; she knew Ororo and Scott felt it too.

He clasped his furred hands together and said softly, "Please, is Rogue doing badly?" His English was very good, and his accent didn't impair her understanding at all.

Xavier answered. "She's quite sick, Kurt, but we'll let her know you stopped by."

If a blush could be visible under such a complexion, Kurt had one. "No, she probably does not remember who I am. It is only . . . she was kind to me, once, and I wanted to see how she is."

"I'll tell her," Jean said, again trying to smile.

He nodded, looked at each of them in turn, and teleported out of sight.

Ororo blinked in surprise. "I didn't know he could do that."

"He's an interesting boy," Xavier said.

Feeling Scott's arm tighten around her, Jean realized that she was falling asleep on her feet. "Let's get you to bed," he said into her ear.

"Just for a few hours," she protested. "Hank has to get some sleep too."

"Sure," he said, intending to ignore her completely on that topic. She wouldn't remember the trip up to their room, or how she got changed into a soft cotton nightgown. She would only remember her fiancé's arms locked around her and his hands stroking her hair as she fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.

~~~~~~~~

Driving fast, a motorist could usually make it from the small Canadian town of Petersville to Westchester, NY in two days.

It took Logan fourteen hours.

He punched his code into the gate and roared up to the mansion, leaving the bike in the garage. After a year away, he wasn't too sure of the layout, but he could catch her scent as easily as if her path had been marked.

The students had only just begun to stir. Bolting past a few sleepy teenagers on their way to breakfast, he tracked the Marie-scent to an elevator.

Jean was on it when he stepped inside, looking fatigued. "Logan," she said without emotion. "I was just on my way down."

He nodded tightly, wondering if the attraction between them was still there after all this time apart. She was beautiful like he remembered, yes, and maybe if things were different he'd give a second thought to being alone with Jean Grey in an elevator. As it was, the Marie-scent was taking all his attention, as it grew closer and he grew more worried. There was a violently wrong edge to it, something which made his hackles raise.

They reached the lower levels, exiting in the little antechamber where the uniforms were kept. The medical bay was down the hall and to the right -- the doors all looked the same, but he did remember that. And now he could hear noises. A stranger's voice, raised but not in anger, and Rogue's cry. Logan felt a desperate rage boil up in his blood. He pounded on the steel door. "Open the fucking door!"

"Logan, move," Jean ordered, seeing that he was about to slice out a new doorway. She pressed her palm to a pad on the doorjamb and he shoved past her.

Rogue was tossing on the bed, snared by some intense dream. Hank was keeping her from falling off and attempting to soothe her, but Logan didn't realize this. All he saw was a strange blue behemoth with his hands on Marie, while she shouted in invisible but obvious pain.

Jean felt his emotions change and spoke directly into her co-worker's mind. Hank I'm sorry but get the hell out of his way!

Dr. McCoy immediately backed up, catching a glancing blow on his forearm. Fortunately Logan considered the threat passed, and he was now bent over the girl. He pulled off his leather gloves and reached out a hand to her face. But before he could touch her skin, she let out a shriek of fury and hurled herself upright, hands tightened into fists and jammed against his chest as her eyes snapped open.

For a breathless moment he looked into those horrified depths, and then he understood. The dream she'd been suffering was his own, and in her state she really believed she'd driven two sets of claws into the man she loved.

Rogue looked down at her hands, seeing the absence of metal. Logan had not collapsed, he wasn't gasping his dying breath, and there was none of his blood flowing over her hands. The only thing she felt was the beating of his heart against her right fist. She spread her fingers flat against it, reassuring herself.

To her surprise, his eyes were wet with tears. "You got better aim than me, darlin'," he whispered. She felt a laugh rise in her throat, but by the time it came out it had turned into a sob. Collapsing into Logan's arms, she pressed as tight against him as her weakness would allow.

He found her hand and held it, pressing his lips to her forehead in a healing kiss.

Only this time the connection didn't open. He cupped her face in both bare hands, while she gazed up at him in confusion, and still nothing happened.

"Dammit," he muttered, making Rogue's face fall. Quickly he pulled her close again. "Shhh, shhh, I'm sorry, Marie." When she had fallen back asleep, he lowered her carefully. Turning to face the doctors with one hand covering both of hers, he said with narrowed eyes, "Why isn't it working?"

Jean came over and shook her head. "I don't know. Hank?"

He hesitated, and Jean didn't blame him. Logan caught in full protective mode was not a pleasant thing.

The shorter man glanced up. "Hey," he began haltingly, looking embarrassed, "sorry about that."

"Quite alright," Hank replied easily. "I'm Henry McCoy." He held out a hand, and Logan shook it.

"Logan. You got any medical expertise to share with me?"

Hank adjusted his ridiculously small glasses. "I can't be certain, but my guess is that Rogue's entire being is concentrating on fighting the disease, including the mutant cells. Therefore the manifestation of her mutation is being impaired."

Logan blinked. "So basically it's turned her skin off?"

The doctor beamed. "Precisely."

Jean peered down at Rogue. "Can we prove that?"

"Only by trial and error."

The woman nodded. "May I?" she said to Logan with a raised eyebrow. Reluctantly he stepped aside, and even more reluctantly let go of Rogue's hand. Jean took his place, removing her latex gloves and resuming his position. Rogue didn't respond, and her mutation didn't kick in.

Jean stepped back, letting a relieved Logan back to Rogue's side. "Looks like you're right, Hank. And I'd like to try something else, while we're on this breakthrough. I want to expose some healthy blood cells -- mine or yours will do -- to Rogue's infected ones."

Hank frowned. "You suspect it will not affect them." It wasn't a question.

"We haven't gotten sick yet, despite being in here for more than twenty-four hours," she reasoned.

"True." He gazed down at the girl and her attendant. Logan had found a chair and pulled it to her bedside, laying his head beside hers on the pillow, his hand folded over her smaller ones. From the looks of him, he intended to stay there.

"Perhaps it can wait," he murmured, and Jean nodded in agreement. There'd been so few moments of peace in the past day, it would be a shame to ruin this one. And Rogue's breathing was far less labored than it had been earlier; her face wasn't twisted in discomfort anymore.

As they quietly left the room, Jean thought that maybe Logan would be able to heal her anyway.

~~~~~~~~

He was pacing, pacing. Got to keep moving. Can't be still, not even for a moment, or *they* would come after him. He wasn't exactly sure who *they* were, but it didn't matter. *They* would always be there, watching, waiting, wishing to catch him off-guard and claim the prize. But he was too smart for *them*, yes, always had been.

Mystique watched her master walk rapidly from one wall to the other, her face devoid of expression. That didn't mean she felt nothing, seeing his mind deteriorate and being unable to stop it.

Their visitor waited and watched as well, floating cross-legged, dirty skirts dragging on the ground. Mystique glanced over at her, barely managing to control her disgust. Frankly, this operation was beneath them. But what Magneto wanted, he got.

Finally she saw a lucid mood take over, and he returned to his chair, seating himself as neat and dignified as though he hadn't been muttering like a madman a second ago.

"Our operation is proceeding as foreseen?" His voice had all the educated caliber that its master once possessed, but Mystique hadn't grown used to his new habit of speaking in the royal 'we'.

"Yes," said the floating woman. Gray, matted hair hung like a fungus from her scalp. "The girl is deathly ill."

"Good." He really did look like a mad scientist, rubbing his hands together with a silly, child-like grin on his face.

*Oh, Erik*, Mystique thought in despair, *look at what you've become.*

Out loud, she asked, "Will you kill her?"

The woman shrugged. "That is not my decision."

Magneto cocked his head. "Kill who?"

Mystique sighed. The Brotherhood had once been a proud, effective terrorist organization. Now they'd been reduced to exacting petty revenge on a half-grown slip of a girl and an old crippled man.

She almost wished the plastic prison had never been breached.