Author's Note: Thanks for all the love you are giving my story. I write largely to see other people's enjoyment, so this is wonderful.

This chapter and the next are on the long side. I'm not a fast writer, so there may be a slight delay in getting the next installment up, but don't give up on it. I won't take too long.

Chapter Seven

Rage gone, Logan stared at the empty alcove. He swept his hands through the space, claws now safely sheathed, but felt nothing. The heavy door at the back of the alcove led to a storage room, he thought, but it hadn't opened to allow any escape. Scott, or what had appeared to be Scott, had simply vanished.

"Come on. Stop playing." Logan growled a few more curses.

"Logan, are you coming?" Storm called from the hanger entrance.

"Get the professor."

"What's going on?"

"Just get him," Logan ordered, and she went obediently. The fact unsettled him. He got that increasingly familiar squeezed feeling. Life was pushing him down a narrowing path he'd never asked for and didn't want. Damn it, Scott. I wanted your girl, not your job.

He stared back at the empty floor. A moment ago, Scott had been kneeling there, real and solid. Hell, he'd been bleeding. Now even the dark smear of blood that had stained the polished floor was gone. Logan sniffed the air. He smelled nothing. There wasn't even a metallic tang in the air to mark the blood.

Every sense told him he'd been fighting an illusion, and yet something, perhaps only the texture of the air, warned him that all his highly developed senses lied. He knelt slowly, even more slowly stretched his open hand toward the floor. Come on, man, just a hint. Give me something.

"Logan," Charles' voice startled him. He'd been so intent on what he was doing he'd missed the whir of the wheelchair's approach. "We have to go. Jean is dangerous."

"Scott was here."

"That's not possible." Charles not only sounded certain, he smelled and looked positive as well.

Logan eased his hand back and rested it on his bent knee. He wasn't as convinced. Something had been there, and an itch along his skin told him something still was. "He looked pretty damn real. And I made him bleed."

"The mind is good at filling in details where needed. We can't know what Jean may have put into yours, or why."

"You think Jean is making me see things?"

"I don't know. But, believe me when I say whatever you saw, whatever you fought, it was not Scott."

"If you say so," Logan agreed. He rose quietly, still staring at the floor. Charles was the smartest man he'd ever met. He had to know, right? Logan still wasn't convinced.

He'd made a mistake trusting his physical senses alone. He hadn't smelled Scott, and the figure in front of him had been at least three days from the last shower so he should have smelled something. Jean had said, well hinted, that she'd killed Scott. So he'd acted. His instincts had never failed him before, but now those very instincts were telling him he'd gotten it wrong.

-----

Scott sucked in great gasps of air when Logan finally stopped pressing down on his chest. He knew the intent hadn't been to suffocate him, but he hadn't been able to move out of the way fast enough to avoid being slowly crushed against the floor.

Out of time, his mind echoed. Out of time for examining the options, for planning. He could only lie on the floor as Logan stood and followed Charles toward the hanger. They were going to confront the Eater of Souls thinking it was Jean, or Phoenix. Someone was going to die, maybe several someones. And Scott didn't know how to stop it.

He tried to sit up and his body screamed as though he were being ripped along the seams Logan's claws had made. By the time he got to his knees he was sweating and his head was spinning. It was shock from the injury. He knew that. But, he had to fight the weakness. He had to get up.

He could stop Charles and the others if he managed to get to the communications handset in his room and contact the Blackbird. Logan will listen now. He recognized me at the end. But Scott's room was four stories up, and he'd have to go back to Rogue's first so he could become solid again. He couldn't work the comm folded.

Scott tested the raw gashes along his ribs carefully. His jacket and T-shirt had been slashed cleanly, and the skin underneath as well. The wounds were deep, but he didn't think deep enough to sever muscle or reach bone, nothing fatal. Still, he wasn't in good shape. His mouth was dry, his vision wavering. That could be shock, dehydration, probably a combination of both causes.

The real danger, however, was the urge to lie back down on the floor and close his eyes. If he did that, he would die. So would others. His mind flashed back to that moment when Phoenix closed him into the jet. That was the last time he'd fought with his whole being for something, and the first time he'd truly failed. This moment felt like that one.

He could have done nothing to save her. She refused to let him. For some people that inevitability would prove a comfort, but for Scott it was crippling. Those moments when he'd been forced to simply sit by and watch disaster coming had been the worst of his life. "Not again. Let me die trying," he whispered. "Just that."

At first all he could manage was a crawl. Then he reached the emergency stairs and could use the handrail to drag himself to his feet. At the first landing, he was sure he'd never make it. By the third, he had absorbed the pain into the rhythm of his movements. His strength was returning. He was coming out of the initial shock.

He made it to Rogue's door and he gritted his teeth as he twisted through it. Scott was back on the floor at the end, breathing hard. But, he had only feet to cross now.

Rogue lay on her stomach, one leg bent at the knee, bare foot kicking lazily in the air as she flipped through her magazine. Her other leg stretched out along the mattress, toes dipping over the edge. She hadn't noticed him, not a surprise. Scott couldn't take the time for niceties this time. He simply stretched out one blood-smeared hand and grabbed hold of her dangling foot.

She bolted upright and screamed.

Somehow, he managed to keep hold of her as she twisted. She must have seen him then, because she stopped kicking.

"You scared the life right out of me." Her accent was thick which Scott was beginning to realize meant she'd been truly frightened. Her eyes widened farther as she focused on him. "You're hurt. What happened?"

"My first plan didn't work out. We have to move on to the next option."

"Have to move you to the infirmary, you mean." She caught hold of his hand to retain contact while shifting both feet off the bed. His fingers left a dark red ring around her instep.

"No. I lived with a doctor long enough to know how they think. They'll drug me. I need to contact the jet." He struggled to his feet with Rogue's help, but had to lean most of his weight against her. She was stronger than she looked because she held him without stumbling.

"In case you didn't notice, you're leaking blood all over my floor."

"I don't think it's as bad as it looks."

"If it were as bad as it looks you'd be dead." Rogue scowled when he refused to sit down on the corner of the bed. Apparently, she wasn't going to let this doctor thing drop easily.

"If you take me down to my room and help me use the comm handset I left there, I promise to go to the infirmary. Deal?"

Her expression said she didn't like it, but she muttered, "Deal. If you die on the way, though, you better leave a note explaining I'm not responsible. I'm tired of people not believing me."

-----

Marie admired Scott's determination, driven as it was by love. She coveted it really. But, this was a bad idea. Scott needed to be in the infirmary. Still, she could hardly knock him out and carry him down there. He was heavier than he looked, and likely even in his weakened state he could probably kick her ass in a fight if she tried. So, she kept her arm away from his wounds as best as she could and helped him navigate the mansion's halls toward the room he'd once shared with Dr. Grey.

The detached expression on Scott's face scared her more than his wounds. He seemed so far away. She thought about how often he'd disappeared into private misery in the past year. Now, with him disappearing physically as well, if he lost himself in such single-minded purpose they could have a real problem.

"You're going to hang around, right? No vanishing now?"

"I don't think I can vanish if we have skin to skin contact," Scott told her. "The first time I touched you I seemed to stay unfolded for about ten minutes, maybe a bit less."

"I think you need to explain this folding and unfolding thing a little better." If she could keep him talking, maybe she could keep him from disappearing mentally into whatever dark place he might be slipping.

"Okay." His voice sounded stronger than before. "There's three dimensions, right? Up and down, right and left, forward and back, all at right angles to each other."

"Like geometry, right? X, Y, and Z axis."

"Yes. Now imagine that there's a whole other set of dimensions, another up-down, right-left, front-back at an angle different from the ones you're used to. You can't see them, but they are there. That's where I go when I vanish. I fold out of sight, into those places."

"How did that happen?" They reached his room. He pressed a very solid hand against the security plate. Marie turned the knob and opened the door.

"Jean was trying to save me from the Eater of Souls."

Just the name -- Eater of Souls -- made her shiver, sharp and sudden. The intensity of that reaction stunned Marie. Or maybe it wasn't his words eliciting that visceral response, but the place they'd just entered. Marie surveyed Scott's room for the source of her sudden dread.

At first glance, the space appeared ordered, but clothes had been tossed on the floor near the window, a newspaper sprawled on the bench next to the dresser. The clutter looked unnatural here. The decor was dark, more masculine than she thought Dr. Grey would have accepted -- all orange-golds, black, and wood paneling. Taken at that surface level, it was an ordinary man's room, nothing to spawn a desire to run. Yet, that's exactly what Marie wanted to do the instant she stepped inside.

She guided Scott to the hastily made bed, and helped him shrug out of his leather jacket. Almost as soon as he dropped it on the bed, the jacket disappeared. That was a little freaky, but Marie ignored the strangeness. She knelt on the floor to inspect the wound in his side. "Eater of Souls? That sounds particularly gruesome."

"It looks even worse."

He flinched as she pulled the stiff, blood-soaked fabric away from his skin. Underneath, the gashes still wept a thin trail of bright red, but they were sealing up. He was right. Even Marie's meager first aid training told her the injury wasn't as bad as it first appeared. What unsettled her was the obvious source. "Logan did this to you?"

"We had a misunderstanding." Scott dismissed the encounter. "What matters now is contacting the Blackbird and warning Logan and the others what they'll be facing when the find Jean."

"This Eater of Souls thing, you mean." She continued to study the gashes at his ribs. Should she offer to clean them? Or would a bandage be enough? The thought of having to punch a needle through his skin to sew the cuts made her stomach queasy. His muscles contracted sharply every time he breathed. That probably meant he was still in pain. She bit her lip and touched his skin just below the wound. His body felt slightly cool, a little sweaty. "You should probably still go to the infirmary. And your shirt is ruined."

"I have other shirts." He ignored the infirmary suggestion. "I don't need you to fuss with me, Rogue. I need the communications unit I took off the bike before heading to Alkali Lake. It's on the nightstand there. Would you get it for me?"

If he were feeling all right, he would have gotten the handset for himself. Still, Marie pushed to her feet and went over to the nightstand. The unit sat next to a bottle of pills that had probably come from the medical bag resting on the floor nearby. The drawer hung slightly open and inside she saw what looked like the grip of a pistol. What the hell was that all about?

Marie's stomach twisted tighter. This corner of the room felt tight, even more oppressive than the rest of the space. The air pressed down on her. It felt almost the same as Scott's folded presence, but this had a malevolence that she'd not associated with his closeness. Neither she nor Scott belonged in this place. She picked up the handset and turned, eager to get away from the evidence of how dark his thoughts had been recently.

Scott pulled the bloody shirt all the way off and tossed it across the room toward the pile near the window. Like the jacket, it landed and then disappeared. He tried to inspect his own wounds. She watched him, trying to figure out what to do next. When he looked up, he held out his hand for the handset. "The Eater of Souls is the danger, Rogue. It has to be our first priority. I need you to understand that."

"So, tell me what's so bad about it." Her voice shook a little. She had no idea why. It was just the two of them in the room, and Scott was no danger to her. If anything, she felt more comfortable with him now than ever before. She was even thinking of him as Scott rather than Mr. Summers or Cyclops. No, it was definitely this room making her uncomfortable, or the clues lying about it.

"Jean described it as a parasite that attaches to the soul at death. When she died…" he seemed to still have trouble saying that word in association with his fiancée. "It invaded her. She's fighting it, but it's strong. She said it's evil. Having seen it, experienced what it tried to do to me, I believe her."

"What was that?"

He'd flipped the handset open and was trying to call the jet. His eyes alone turned toward her. "It tried to make me kill myself."

The pills, the gun in the drawer -- she'd already known what they meant, but having him say it aloud, so casually, made the truth more real. She imagined him alone, in despair, driven to almost destroy himself. Yet, something had prevented him. "It failed."

His gaze still locked with hers. "Barely. I kept thinking Jean wouldn't want me to."

I'm an intruder here, Marie thought. She watched Scott tap more keys on the handset. His expression shifted from focused to frustrated. This was his private, painful world and she didn't belong. So why was he pulling her into it? And why was she allowing him to?

"I can't reach them," Scott grumbled. "They aren't picking up the call."

"We should go then. You still should have a doctor look at those cuts." I want away from here. There was such a thing as too much closeness.

"No. I'm going to give them time." He got up from the end of the bed, more slowly than she thought he would have under other circumstances, and put the handset into her palm. "I need to shower and think. You watch that. I set it to auto-call every two minutes. If someone responds, you get me."

"Out of the shower?" The thought was a bit startling.

He laughed then, breaking some of the oppression in the room. "I'll hear you call through the door, Rogue."

"Oh, right." She wished he'd use her real name. "Just don't disappear while you are in there, okay?"

He paused, stepped closer, and rested a hand against her face. No moment of hesitation, no flash of fear across his face that said he wondered if the touch would hurt. That trust pushed the dread away. Marie couldn't help covering his hand with her own. That was almost, not quite, right.

She went on instinct, leaning in until she could rest her cheek against his chest, curling arms around his torso. The rhythm of his heartbeat against her ear, that was right. His hands settled on her shoulders.

"Making sure I'm good and solid?" he teased.

"Something like that." Nothing like that. She just wanted to feel him breathing and close. She wanted to soak up some of that love she envied so. That love didn't belong to her, but she could borrow it for a few moments. She memorized the texture of his skin against her cheek, his sweat-salted scent, the solid weight of his back muscles and of his hands on her shoulders. She pushed from her mind the thought that these stolen sensations were all she'd ever have. She wasn't going to be that sad, angry girl anymore. She was going to be strong. She was going to look forward. She was going to fight despair, seize hope.

"I guess you really don't want to have to come in the shower and feel around for me."

She must be making him uncomfortable. Not surprising, she supposed, given that she was clinging to his bare chest. She wanted to tell him it wasn't what he thought. She couldn't find the right words. Nor was she quite ready to release him. She couldn't tell him that either.

"What if you can't save her?" she asked instead.

What if I can't save you? That was the question she couldn't ask. This room revealed the dark side of the sort of love he gave. She saw it in the pills, in the pistol hiding in the drawer. Perhaps this Eater of Souls he talked about was what pushed him toward that horrible answer, but the despondency it fed had already been in him. It was part of the love he felt.

"I can't let myself think that way," he said.

"I think you have to, Scott. She's not the only one who needs you. We all do. And you left us." She turned her head so she could look up at him, and looking into his face that way was more intimate even than resting against his body. The closeness emboldened her. "We need you more than we need her."

"More than I need her?" He sounded a little helpless.

"I hope so." She had to let him go then.

He squeezed her shoulder once before turning away. She couldn't tell if she'd reached him or not. "Watch the comm. They have to respond eventually to the auto-call."

She watched him gather fresh clothes and a towel out of the dresser drawers. Everything seemed to have a dark side -- her powers certainly, also Scott's love for Dr. Grey. Maybe all of life was both joy and agony. If she could continue to focus on the good her powers could bring him and on the strength and courage she'd seen earlier in his love, maybe she could save them both.

It seems an overwhelming task, one she wouldn't have dared take on just a few days earlier. But, her perspective was changing. She felt stronger now. When he disappeared into the bathroom, leaving her alone, she refused to give in to the sense of doom that instantly closed in around her.

She perched on the edge of his bed, cautiously. Touching him and now sitting here bothered her in ways she didn't want to look at too closely. Had she lied to herself a moment ago when she'd told herself none of this was sexual? Was there a selfish side to her desire to save him as well? She remembered how, when he first touched her, she drifted into her fantasy so easily.

After a moment, Marie couldn't stand sitting on his bed any longer. She went to the other side of the room where warm sunlight spilled from the window onto the floor. It felt less oppressive here in the brightness, as if she'd left the dark things over by the nightstand with the instruments of suicide.

She began picking up the clothes he'd tossed there. The light film of dust on the sill, the motes that floated in the air as she disturbed the clutter, seemed, like the strewn clothing, wrong. Scott wouldn't be so messy under normal circumstances. He'd be compulsively neat, ordered, controlled. Folding the shirts and straightening the papers on the bench seemed another step in fighting the chaos for him.

He's not going to kill himself. He fought the Eater's urging before. He'll fight it now. And I'll convince him we need him. She didn't like that her mind added a quiet I need him to the end of that.

-----

Scott braced his hands against the tile and let the shower beat his shoulders and neck. The water stung as it rolled, soap-laced, over the slashes in his side, but he liked the pain. Pain was real, like the needle spray and the slick, hard tile. After his time in those strange folded places, normal sensations were a blessing.

His thoughts were less calming than the water. Rogue's question chewed at his mind. What if he couldn't save Jean?

In some ways, the idea was familiar. Scott had spent a long time believing she was beyond his aid. He'd replayed his failure to rescue her at the dam endlessly. That torture had worn a groove in his psyche the Eater easily manipulated. Still, Jean's continued link with him had always kept the belief she was gone at arm's length. A part of him knew she wasn't truly gone, even if he'd thought she'd never come back to him.

Now, with that link severed, she felt more out of reach than she had when he knew she was at the bottom of Alkali Lake.

Scott knew all the things he would miss if Jean never returned to him. He'd miss her cuddling under his arm for late night talks, the silently companionable Sunday mornings as they passed sections of the New York Times back and forth. He'd miss her coaxing him to bring her ice cream after sex. He'd miss all the little personal things that he'd never share in exactly the same way with any other person.

And still, none of those losses were what drove him. In the end, it came down to one thing. If he couldn't save her, he'd never get the chance to prove he loved her first and always, that he hadn't wanted her alter ego more.

Scott watched the water sluice down his legs. A blood-tinged pool formed at his feet, but by the time the water reached the drain it was clear again. The change offered a reminder that reality was still a temporary state for him. Without Rogue's touch to keep him here, he would fold back up into that stiff, impotent hell.

We need you, Rogue had told him. More than we need her. Was he being selfish in his determination to save Jean? Rogue had risked herself to unfold him. She trusted him too, needed his leadership. Maybe he needed to look beyond his own emotions to the rest of his team.

Still torn, Scott turned off the water. He toweled dry enough that he could pull on clothes without the cloth sticking to his skin. Habit made him wipe down the shower and then fold the wet towel over the heated bar to dry quickly even though Jean was no longer there to worry about mold. Then he returned to the bedroom and found Rogue collecting the old newspapers he'd left on the bench.

"Don't," he began. The papers were the last edition he and Jean had read together. Rogue put them back down slowly, confusion spreading across her face. He shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's alright."

"They're old."

"I know." He swallowed hard and miraculously the lump forming in his throat vanished. "It's time to clean up around here. Thanks."

She offered him a weak, uncertain smile, but it bolstered him. It was time to let go of the past. He could try to save Jean. In fact, he needed to. But, he had to think beyond that as well. The Eater wanted everyone at the school, Rogue included. They needed him to save them even more than Jean did.

"Look, Rogue, I really don't think I need the infirmary. The scratches are all but sealed up. I'm not going to bleed to death and there are butterfly bandages in Jean's old medical bag."

"Let me see." She put the newspapers into the trash, then retrieved the medical bag, with more than necessary haste, from the floor. "I still wish you'd see a doctor. You should probably get a shot of antibiotics or something."

"Logan's claws are surgically clean. I want to meet the disease microbe that can live in his body." Scott meant it to be a joke, but as he lifted his shirt to let her work he had to hiss. It hurt to raise his arms.

"It still hurts, doesn't it? And you look worn out, sort of pale and shaky."

He did feel drained. "I think it's the folding and unfolding. The transition saps my strength."

Her fingers were light against his skin, even when she pulled a little. "Well, you're right about the wounds closing. I only needed to put on a couple bandages. But, I still want to take you to the infirmary."

"And I still need to wait for that call." He lowered the shirt again, and stared at her. "This isn't just about Jean. It's about all of you."

"You are reneging on your promise here," she scolded, but he could tell she'd lost the will to fight him about the doctor.

"I know I am. Rogue, I'm just tired. I'll lie down for a while and rest here. Give me two hours. If I don't feel better by then, you can drag me to the infirmary.

"You'll have vanished again."

Scott was certain he would not have been able to read the conflicting emotions on Rogue's face if he'd tried three days ago. Now, he easily separated the uncertainty from the stubbornness. Adversity and need brought people close quickly. Yet, he couldn't help wondering if this situation wasn't building them toward something more. He felt a growing need to protect her, not just from the Eater, but from unnecessary worry and pain.

"You're probably right," he told her. "But, I promise to stay right here. You'll be able to find me easily enough and bring me back." Then he added, "Or, you could stay and make sure I don't fade."

She ducked her head. He felt instantly contrite for embarrassing her. "Rogue, I wasn't suggesting--"

"I just don't want to sit here and watch you sleep, okay. I mean, I like you and all, but talk about boring." She dug the handset out of her jeans pocket and passed it to him before taking several steps toward the door. She was obviously eager to go.

He let her cover stand. "Two hours. That's all I need."

"I'll be back then, and if you are the least bit weak you're going to the doctor." She left the door open about a third of the way when she went out.

Scott put the handset back on the nightstand and eased himself onto the bed. He felt tired, and troublesomely light, though he didn't think he was quite folding again. He glanced at the handset once more, then changed his mind about leaving it on the stand. If he folded again, he wanted it with him. Cradling it against his chest, he let his eyes close.

-----

In the jet, Logan tried to get his mind to focus on the upcoming rescue mission. He had to think of it as a rescue. Not an apprehension. Sure as hell not a take down. They were going after Jean for God's sake. He glanced across the cabin to where the professor sat staring out the window at clouds. Charles could call it whatever he liked. Logan refused to think of this as anything but a rescue.

He thought back to how Jean woke. She'd become his fantasy in those moments -- teasing and sexy, wanting him not Scott. At any other time since he met her, Logan wouldn't have hesitated. Charles' insistence that she was evil didn't frighten him. She wasn't evil. She was Jean. Nor was he seriously concerned, at that moment, about what she had or hadn't done to Scott. Hell, that he'd even thought about Scott while Jean stripped him was an aberration.

Instinct had stopped his libido. His every sense had screamed they were not alone. He'd known there was someone, or something, in the infirmary room with Jean and himself.

It was the same when Scott vanished in the hallway outside the hanger. Logan knew, whatever the professor said, that Scott hadn't completely disappeared. If he'd been able to stretch his senses just a little farther, Logan was sure he could have found the supposed dead man.

"About to touch down," Storm announced from the front of the plane. "We should have a car waiting to take us to Jean's house."

"We will need to hurry," the professor said.

Logan moved up into the co-pilot's seat. He wouldn't me much help in landing, but he wanted a quiet moment with Storm. "This mission, we have to think about--"

A signal was flashing on the panel to his right, out of Storm's line of vision. "What is that?"

Her eyes widened when she looked. "Communication alert. Why is it on silent?"

Logan hit a button and the panel slide away to release the handset. He picked it up, checked the coding. "That's Scott's code."

"But that's impossible."

"Is it?" Logan flipped the handset to open. "We're here. Who is this?"

The line sounded hollow and vacant. No one responded to his voice.

-----

Scott woke the instant he heard the handset chirp. He rolled to a seated position on the side of the bed and fumbled the unit to his ear. "Summers. Ororo, is that you?"

Logan's voice came over the link, sure and strong, but he didn't seem to hear Scott's reply. "We're here. Who is this?"

"Logan, it's me. Cyclops. Listen--"

"Damn it, if you're there, talk to me."

"I am talking to you, Logan. You need to know about Jean--"

"Is someone there. Answer me, damn you!"

Scott let out a string of curses most in the school wouldn't believe he knew. He sat up and dropped the handset onto the nightstand. There was no point in trying to respond to Logan's angry, frustrated voice. Clearly, he'd folded again and the comm signal wouldn't cross the planes of reality to reach the jet.

Why couldn't they have answered sooner? Why wasn't Rogue here to keep him from folding again? Why couldn't he catch even a thread on luck's coattail?

Scott let his head fall forward into his hands. And out of the corner he saw a long, sinuous shape protruding from the wall above the night stand. His whole body went cold at the sight. The tentacle was no thicker than his thumb, but he could see strong muscles working under the skin as it twitched. At the end, a heavy head hung, round as his fist and full of glistening, translucent globs. It was one of the Eater's egg stalks hovering close, waiting for him.

Note: I know, I know, another cliff hanger. But this chapter was already over 5K when I stopped. Sometimes, this is just how they seem to end.