Note: Standard disclaimers still apply. I don't own any of this; I just enjoy playing.

I'm delighted people are enjoying the story. Hopefully, the upcoming events won't disappoint. For me, the story is starting to get to be really fun now.

Chapter Six

Marie lay on her belly in bed, flipping through a celebrity magazine Theresa had loaned her. She couldn't muster a lot of interest in the protests of an exceptionally exotic and green-eyed actress who was refused work on the pretext she might be a mutant. "Plight' seemed an awfully strong word for the woman's situation. "Stick to 'how to become skeletally thin in ten days by eating watermelon', and stop trying to be relevant," she muttered at the glossy pages.

At least the pictures were pretty -- beautiful people in beautiful clothes visiting beautiful places. The magazine presented a world it was safe to envy since you were unlikely to meet anyone who actually lived in it. Things got a lot more complicated when what you envied lived right next door.

Marie sighed and rolled over onto her back. Now that she'd had time to reflect more, she realized envy was the root of much that troubled her. She envied people their ability to control their powers. She envied their ability to touch. Even Bobby was a desperate grab to have a balm for that envy -- if she had a boyfriend she wouldn't need to envy every girl who did.

Looking at it all in that light, she had lousy reasons for trying to keep him when Kitty could offer him so much more. As soon as the professor released them from their rooms she would find Kitty and make peace.

The decision felt right, but hollow. "I'll be alone again," she whispered, and she flipped past more pages of happy, beautiful people together. After a few moments, however, she tossed the magazine away and rolled onto her back. What difference did alone make? She'd always be alone in every real sense.

Marie rested her hands on either side of her face. The touch of skin to skin still comforted in its pathetic, lonely way. She didn't need to be beautiful, or to have fancy clothes, or to go to fancy parties like the people in Theresa's magazine. She didn't need an illusionary boyfriend to assuage her envy. She no longer even certain the cure could give her what she needed.

She'd thought all she needed was control of her powers. But, she really needed a way to make the powers matter. She'd thought all she needed were friends and someone to love. But, that wasn't right either. Her touch no longer comforted and she let her fingers slid down her cheeks, away from her face. What she needed… all she needed… all she wanted…

"Rogue?" The sudden whisper, so close to her ear, startled Marie. She nearly jumped off the bed, though she knew the tense, desperate voice.

"My god, how did you get in here?" She'd locked her door. She knew she would have heard if he'd opened it. Only now, after he'd spoken, did she notice the heavy feeling in the air to her right that she associated with Cyclops' presence.

"I can walk through the door when I'm like this. I'll explain another time. Right now, there isn't time." His voice had an edge of panic to it she'd never heard before -- panic he was clearly fighting hard to control. "I need to ask you to take a huge risk."

"What risk?" Marie knew she would do it, whatever it was. He wouldn't be asking with that desperation in his voice if it weren't important. The thickened air she'd come to associate with his presence settled close to her on the edge of the bed.

"I need …" He stumbled a bit and she felt his presence pull away, as if he were uncertain how to explain, or perhaps if he should at all. She had to strain to make out his next words. "I need you to let me touch you. I think you will be able to bring me back into reality."

"I won't hurt you," she blurted. Where had that come from? She always hurt when she touched, and yet, she was certain he would be fine. She nodded, and with more conviction repeated, "I won't."

"But, I might hurt you." Still, he moved closer. She felt the air around her press against her skin.

"You won't." It was another certainty spoken without thinking. She liked the sense of control this conviction brought. Marie's body started to tingle as she knelt right next to where she thought he must be sitting.

"That's very brave, but you need to understand what you are risking. If, instead of you unfolding me into reality, I fold you into this space where I am, we'll both die. There's no other escape from here."

The panic had left his voice, replaced by a firm, controlled calm. It was that calm, coupled with her own belief that they could not hurt each other in this that made her nod. "I understand. I want you to do it."

"Be sure, Rogue. If this goes badly there won't be any coming back, for either of us." Despite the grim words he seemed relieved.

"I understand," she insisted, her accent thick even to her own ears. Nervousness fluttered her stomach, but she wanted the risk. The danger itself was important. It made her choice weighty, like the air he inhabited.

And then it came, the warmth of touch. He put a hand on each side of her face, enclosing her in that warmth.

Marie closed her eyes. Male hands felt nothing like her own. Hers were slender, sleek as silk. His were harder, larger. Rough thumbs burnished the corners of her mouth -- calluses from hours retooling his bike and the cars.

She rested her own hands on his upper arms. The weightiness around her lessened as the feel of him became solid and real. Her own fingers tightened around leather. She traced the thick seams of the jacket he wore down his arms. The cuffs were turned back. Her hands found skin at his wrist, tight skin and stiff, male hairs. She pressed her palms against his hands until she felt each tendon, each thick bone. Her fingertips skimmed his short nails.

She drew in a deep breath, searching for his scent, but still only caught her own. Still, this felt so much more real than before.

"Rogue? Can you see me?" His voice sounded strained. Each word came out measured, edged.

"No," she answered truthfully. She could never see, only touch. That was the rule. The illusion would break if she looked. But, this felt so real. He sounded so real. Maybe she could risk--

"Could you try opening your eyes before answering?"

"Oh! Right!" God, she'd drifted off into her touching fantasy there. Her cheeks grew so hot it was a wonder he wasn't scorched. "I'm sorry."

When she opened her eyes she stared into his familiar face -- well familiar save for one thing. He was wearing neither glasses nor visor.

"Can you see me?" he prompted again. He didn't look angry, or embarrassed. He was a bit messier than usual. His hair was tangled, his clothing rumpled, and his beard was growing in. Yet, the lost look she'd come to associate with Cyclops' handsome face had vanished. In its place was a look so determined and desperate, she couldn't turn away.

Suddenly, she couldn't think of how to answer. Yes, she could see him, but not as she'd ever expected to. What fell out of her mouth was, "Your eyes are really blue."

She missed the feel of his hands the moment he removed them from her face. "The eyes are a complicated story, and I don't have time for complicated stories right now. Jean left. I have to stop them from hurting her. Or, from it --" He shook his head. "No time."

The urgency Marie sensed in his voice when he first arrived surfaced in his expression. His mouth tightened and his brow creased. At the words, 'Jean left' his tension peaked, as if the thought alone stabbed. She'd always known he loved the doctor, just never saw it etched so sharply on his face.

Love fueled the determination in his eyes. She didn't need him to explain that he was going to save Jean, or die trying. He didn't need to tell her why that was true. She understood from that single look.

What must it be like to have someone love you like that … to deserve it?

He stood. "I have to go."

Marie nodded. And then he was gone. But, she understood why he hurried. It was love. She understood finally, what she truly wanted.

-----

"I don't know who you are," Logan said. His claws erupted as he turned to face Scott. "But you've made three fatal errors."

Okay, this is going to be bad. Scott edged sideways in the narrow corridor that lead to the Blackbird's hanger as the other man stalked him.

After leaving Rogue's room, Scott had raced back to the lower levels. He'd chosen to talk to Logan rather than Ororo or the professor. Logan, whether he liked Scott or not, at least cared enough about Jean to listen. That had been a serious miscalculation. Logan wasn't in a listening mood.

There was little maneuvering room in the corridor, and Logan had already captured most of it given the reach of his fully extended claws. The stark, cold overhead light glinted blue on each blade.

"One, Summers can't show his eyes. Two, you don't smell like him. In fact, you don't smell alive at all."

Logan took a swing and Scott managed to duck a blow that, if it had connected, would have sliced his skull like a loaf of bread. Scott countered with a punch to Logan's gut, the only place he could strike without breaking his hand, and winced. He might as well have punched concrete.

I'm folding again, he realized. Rogue's touch had given him only a temporary sojourn in reality.

"Add a fourth mistake. Scott don't punch like a little girl."

"Logan, listen to me. The professor is wrong." Another swipe of those deadly claws forced Scott to dodge right. Pain seared his ribs anyway. He hadn't been quite fast enough that time. "I have to tell you about Jean."

"I know about Jean." Logan was shouting now. "And that's the last mistake. I know Scott's dead. Jean killed him."

Scott had managed to back out of striking range momentarily. His whole left side felt like it was on fire. And Logan was closing fast, claws straight out to spear him.

I can't die. Who will save Jean? Scott's only way out was another dive to the right again, which put him on the floor, in one of the rounded alcoves next to a locked door. He heard the claws ring against the metal wall. Scott put a hand to his ribs. His T-shirt stuck to his skin, heavy with blood.

"God, Logan. Listen to me!" His voice vibrated on the edge of panic. That wasn't how he wanted his last words to sound.

Logan pivoted like a cat. He was panting hard. He still looked angry. "What are you? Why these games?"

From somewhere, Scott grabbed a measure of calm. He struggled up to one knee, but that was as far as he would get to standing. If this didn't work, he'd die on his knees and he hated that thought. "Which one of us is the dick now, Logan?"

Logan's eyes widened. "It can't be… she said she--" Then his gaze darted wildly, searching. "What's happening?"

Scott felt as if he were on a rapidly descending elevator. His insides seemed to want to push up through his throat. The nearly weightless sensation chilled him. He knew what that feeling meant. He'd folded again.

"No! Listen, Logan. I'm here. Damn it, you have to listen to me."

"Where the hell are you? Come back." Logan cursed savagely. "Stop running out on us, you bastard."

"I'm not running." Scott barely found breath for the words. His head was spinning and he knew it was shock from the pain and blood loss coupled with the stress of folding. If he passed out, he might not wake up again.

Logan searched angrily, still swearing and shouting his name. But, the sounds seemed so far away. Scott sagged back against the curved wall, clutching his ribs with both hands. The edges of his vision darkened. He was losing consciousness.

He'd run out of time.