dark and dangerous like a secret
that gets whispered in a hush
(don't tell a soul)
when I wake the things I dreamt about you
last night make me blush
(don't tell a soul)
and you kiss me like a lover
then you sting me like a viper
I go follow to the river
play your memory like a piper

and I feel it like a sickness
how this love is killing me
I'd walk into the fingers
of your fire willingly
and dance the edge of sanity
I've never been this close
I'm in love with your ghost

you are shadowing my dreams...

---

Rogue watched him sleep. She did that a lot and, if he ever knew it, he never let on. In the night, when she awoke from her nightmares, she'd sit beside their bed and just...watch him. The rhythm of his breathing, the slight shifting of his body.

She'd watch and she'd wonder how they got there, where they were. Together, but separate. So separate.

He'd never admit it, not even to himself, but he knew. He felt it, the wrongness of what they had, what they'd become.

No, he'd never admit it.

He prided himself on being the strong one, the leader who pulled everyone together, kept them from falling apart.

Rogue watched Scott sleep and, for the hundred millionth time, she wished that she could give him the love he deserved.

She wished that he could do the same for her.

But wishing wouldn't erase the lines of sadness that bracketed Scott's eyes and mouth, and wishing wouldn't call a halt to the constant nightmares she endured.

In her dreams, she was back in her college apartment. It was the night Logan came to her, the night he twisted and broke her. But when he touched her in her dream, he wasn't distant and cold, and he didn't stop. He didn't leave her dangling on the edge of an insane release, but took her over it, falling along with her. And her name was both a prayer and an exultation on his lips, her face reflected in his eyes like an icon of grace, of love.

In her dream, Logan loved her. He loved her with his body and his heart, and he didn't hurt her. He never let her fall to the floor, never picked up the telephone to call Scott.

The dream was a nightmare because it was a dream. Because Logan had walked out on her that night, and she hadn't seen him in almost a year. It was a nightmare because he was not the man lying in her bed, and she hated herself for wanting him to be.

She gave up on the possibility of sleep; too many demons waited to chase her into the slumbering world tonight. So Rogue rose silently from her chair and opened the door. She'd go to the gym or, if necessary, the Danger Room. Physical activity always helped to assuage or at least temporarily banish the ache inside her. Tonight, she needed that release.

The door shut behind her, and eyes closed behind ruby-quartz lenses. Scott sighed, waiting for the nearly-tangible sadness to fade from the still air of the bedroom. The misery and dissatisfaction weren't all Rogue's; his own rose up to mingle with hers in a dance of wretched melancholy.

"I miss you, Jean," he whispered aloud, and the words felt so wrong, so forbidden. Oh, he didn't want Rogue to be Jean, replace her; it would never happen, and Scott was, above all else, a practical man. What he and Rogue shared was mostly companionship. Neither was looking to substitute for love lost.

Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly cynical, Scott thought that maybe all they were doing was just passing time in each other's arms.

Scott remembered the devastation he'd seen on Rogue's face the night Logan had called him. He remembered, and his fists clenched unconsciously. She'd never told him exactly what happened that night, but it had taken months for Rogue to claw her way back from the edge of the despair Logan had left her in. Sometimes, that same desperation sank its claws into her, and she fought.

Jesus, she fought so hard. Sometimes he thought it was all she knew how to do anymore.

The first month she'd spent alone. The second and third, with the Professor, talking over her situation. Xavier had agreed to arrange for her to take a year off from school with her promise that she would return after that. In exchange for the hiatus, she would accompany Scott and Ororo on any missions that arose.

She seemed to like that idea. From the fourth month on, she'd thrown herself into a rigorous physical training program, and Scott still wondered what it was exactly she had been fighting - was it Logan's ghost, or was it herself?

But, for the first time in a hundred days, she had purpose. And, in a way, it brought her back to life. She ventured outside her room, helped teach classes, and worked harder for the team than anyone else.

Scott had asked her once why she had decided to stay, and she stared at him as if what he asked hadn't quite made sense. "I stay because this is my world now," she told him, "my life. The team." At the time, he'd admired her resolve, her strength. Now, he saw her answer for what it had been.

An admission that Logan had broken her.

She didn't want to go back to college, didn't want to make her way in the outside world. She'd lost the will to make a life for herself outside the sanctuary of the Professor's compound, and it made Scott furious. She hadn't come to terms with living a life without Logan; she'd resigned herself to merely existing for the remainder of her days.

So he took it upon himself to give her what Logan hadn't.

Scott had always loved Rogue as a friend, and it wasn't difficult for him to look inside himself and find desire for her. So he wooed her, in every way he knew, with flowers and surprises and soft words that Logan would never say. For two months, he tried to show her that love had not died the night Logan had walked away from her.

Finally, she said she believed him, and he'd taken her into his bed that night. She'd cried, and so had he, and he still wasn't sure why. Was it relief tempered with guilt? Hope edged with the cold realization that sometimes second-best was all you could have? He didn't know.

In some ways, he didn't want to know.

Lately, Scott had been wondering if maybe all the things he'd told Rogue had been true. Could people move on? Was it possible to step beyond the end of a perfect love and find something new, something that was also love and also perfect, though not the same at all?

He wondered.

He was with Rogue, and he was miserable. He was more alone by her side than he'd ever been without her, and he knew why.

He loved her. He was utterly devoted to her. But it wasn't enough. Wanting desperately to be in love with someone doesn't make it happen. It wasn't a matter of alchemy; he'd tried, but throwing friendship and affection and loneliness together hadn't yielded the gold of passion.

So it was true. He missed Jean, but he also missed what they'd shared. He wanted it again, wanted to feel the eagerness of that kind of ardor, a feeling in which Rogue no longer believed.

He shifted onto his side and briefly entertained the notion of going after Rogue. He discarded the thought; she wanted a fight tonight, and he'd been carefully avoiding one.

---

Charles Xavier wheeled into the medical lab and blinked at the sight of the school's doctor, Robyn Murray, hunched over in front of a computer terminal. A half-eaten sandwich lay on a plate near her elbow, next to a can of something called Jolt Cola.

She looked up. "Hey there, Prof."

"Robyn," he greeted, moving closer. "Isn't it rather late to be working?"

She stretched and ran her hands through her short blonde hair, shaking her head. "I was just going back over some of the results from those skin tests I ran on Rogue the other day."

Her dedication to research was one of the reasons Charles had hired the petite woman. When it became clear that he needed to keep another doctor on staff at the school, he'd exhausted every contact he had trying to find one who was not only sympathetic to mutants, but also experienced in genetic research.

Robyn was both. She was human, but she understood the school's protective mission, perhaps better than anyone. In her late teens, her family had discovered that her younger sister, Nora, had a limited ability to rearrange organic matter. While they tried to keep it quiet, whispers eventually leaked out in their small Southern town.

The gossip and speculation wasn't so bad, but then tragedy struck. One night, when Nora was home alone, several drunken young men took it upon themselves to "take care of the mutie." They showed up at the door with a shotgun and, when Nora refused to let them in, they broke the door down.

Nora was dead when Robyn found her, and so were two of the young men. Since that night, Robyn had devoted a large part of her energy toward genetic research and the fight for mutant rights.

"Speaking of Rogue," Charles began, "have you seen her tonight?"

Robyn hesitated, then shrugged. "I'd say she's probably asleep," she lied smoothly, turning back to her terminal. "You're right, after all. It is late." She initiated the computer's shutdown sequence and stood. "What are you doing still up, Professor?"

Charles eyed her for a moment. He knew that she'd lied about seeing Rogue, but he didn't know why. He wondered if he should ask, or if everything would be revealed in time. "I've just been using Cerebro," he replied, turning around and heading toward the door.

"Oh? Is there a problem?" Robyn inquired.

Charles stopped and faced her again. "Not really. I've just been searching for someone for a while now, and I... Well, I can't seem to locate him."

Her brow furrowed. "Wouldn't that usually mean--?"

"Yes, Robyn, it would. But I don't believe this person is dead." He smiled a little sadly. "Get some rest," he said, then wheeled out, the door whooshing shut behind him.

~Damn Rogue, anyway.~ Robyn sighed and shook her head. She'd been hard at work, analyzing epidermal samples, when she'd heard booted footfalls in the corridor.

Not surprisingly, it turned out to be Rogue, headed for the Danger Room.

Tonight marked at least the tenth time Robyn had caught Rogue using the combat simulation facilities unauthorized. It was dangerous to go in alone, unsupervised, and Rogue knew that. But she'd sworn that she would be fine, and had begged Robyn not to tell the Professor about her late-night sessions.

Well, maybe "begged" wasn't the right word. Rogue didn't beg; it wasn't in her hard, no-nonsense nature. Instead, she'd stated plainly that she wished Robyn wouldn't turn her in...which was really the closest Rogue ever came to begging.

Robyn had agreed at the time because she hadn't wanted to alienate the strange young woman who'd come back to the school several months after she arrived. But, as she'd grown to know Rogue better, she had started to worry. What drove the young woman to late-night visits to the Danger Room wasn't combat practice or insomnia or even boredom.

It was anger and loathing.

Robyn squared her shoulders and breathed deeply. It was time to see what the hell Rogue was doing in that room.

---

"You'll never beat me, kid, so you may as well hang it up," he muttered, his words muffled by the cigar dangling from his mouth as well as the enthusiastic yells coming from the crowd.

"Like hell," Rogue retorted, panting. She struggled to focus her attentions past the screaming spectators, past the loud, thumping music. Squinting, she threw a kick toward his denim-clad knee. He moved back, evading it easily.

A laugh rumbled out of his throat as he looked down at her, lying on the faded blue mat covering the cage floor. "What's the matter, can't get up?" he taunted, leaning down. "You hurt?"

The noise that ripped from her throat may very well have been termed a growl. She dropped back and kicked both feet at his face, smiling as she felt the soles of her boots contact. With a feral grin twisting her face, she sprang up, ignoring the gasps and hoots that rose from the audience. She knew she didn't have much time; the kick that would have felled any other man would only momentarily stun Logan.

He staggered back a little, shaking his head as if to clear it. "Dirty trick, Rogue, playing injured like that."

"Learned it from you," she threw back, circling him. She brushed a bare hand against her aching nose, grimacing when it came away covered in blood. "You nearly broke my nose," she complained bitterly.

Her bellyaching prompted a wide grin from Logan. "I hate doing things half-assed. Want me to finish the job?"

"Fuck you," she whispered, watching his movements carefully.

His smile turned into a leer. "Name the place, darlin'," he drawled, hooking his fingers into the belt loops of his jeans.

Droplets of sweat slid down his bare chest, and Rogue unconsciously licked her lips, staring him down, searching for an opening that would allow her to take him down.

She found none. So they circled warily, two fighters intent on winning. "Make a move already," Rogue finally mumbled under her breath at her opponent.

"What kinda move?" Moments after he spoke, his body mimicked the lazy tone of the words, uncoiling and leaning against the metal bars of the cage. His shoulders were flush against the metal, a posture that thrust his hips forward. "'Cause what I've got in mind right now... Well, let's just say it involves pinning you in more ways than one." His eyebrow arched wickedly, and Rogue heaved a shaky breath.

"Command, freeze program." Instantly, she was met with silence. She stared at the man before her for long moments, then rubbed her hands over her face, wincing when her fingers hit her sore nose. "Command, load location L-2446."

Her surroundings wavered and faded, the bar and cage fading into nothingness before being replaced by a reproduction of her cheap college apartment.

The replica of the man she hated and loved with equal measure still leaned against the now pale, beige-colored wall, his body still, face frozen in an expression of contemptuous desire.

"Command, resume program," she whispered.

"So, what d'you say, kid? Let's forget all this and call a truce," he urged, looking her up and down.

"Get your mind outta the gutter, Wolverine," Rogue ordered. "You'd better focus, or I'm gonna kick your ass this time."

His eyes hardened. "You and what army, Rogue?" He came off the wall in one deceptively easy motion, long strides eating up the distance between them. "Huh?"

He ducked the fist she aimed for his head and grabbed her arm, twisting it and spinning her around in front of him. "You make this too easy, doll," he growled into her ear.

Rogue hissed, "So do you, Wolverine," and kicked backwards, landing her heel on his kneecap.

He merely grunted, then laughed and threw her facedown to the carpet, climbing on top of her. "You should stop fighting me, you know. Just give in."

"What the hell for?" she asked acidly. "So you can break me again? It'll never happen," she vowed. "Never."

"You know you can't stop me," he rasped in her ear, pulling her head back with one hand wound in her hair. "As soon as I walk back in your life, you'll be right back in the palm of my hand, no matter what you say."

Rogue squeezed her eyes shut. This was always the hardest part of the program - it was the part where Logan tried to seduce and then hurt her, just like he'd done a year ago. "Forget it," she panted as his tongue traced her earlobe.

"Why? You can't forget it, either," Logan growled, leaning up and rolling her onto her back. "You can't forget what it felt like to have me touch you..." He ran a hand up her shirt. "Can you?"

Rogue shuddered beneath his hand for a moment, then shook her head. Gathering all her formidable strength, she threw herself upward, flipping Logan over onto his back, landing on top of him. He didn't seem to mind, merely grasped her hips with both hands, easing her body more closely against his.

"Now who's playing dirty, Logan?" Rogue was struggling for control when she heard the voice calling her name and looked up. Robyn stood high in the observation booth, staring and waving one hand.

The man underneath her shifted. "Bad move, darlin'," he informed her. Seconds later, she felt an iron fist bury itself in her abdomen, knocking her off him and onto her side on the rough carpet. She gasped in pain, tears welling in her eyes as she rolled, an arm clutched protectively over her stomach.

Logan sat up and reached for her, threading his fingers through her hair as she choked and struggled to catch her breath. "If I told you once, kid, I told you a thousand times," he murmured almost tenderly. "You can't trust me."

Rogue's mouth opened and closed convulsively, and she closed her eyes against the hazel ones staring down at her. "Command, freeze program," she wheezed finally, dropping her face to the floor.

"Rogue! Rogue, are you okay?" Robyn's voice filled her ears as the young doctor came running into the Danger Room.

Rogue dragged herself up onto her knees, still holding an arm to her body. "I'm fine, Robyn."

Robyn eyed Rogue skeptically for several moments, then turned her attention to the man sitting frozen on the floor. "What the hell kind of program is this, Rogue?" She circled him slowly. "I thought this place only had animatronics..." she mumbled absently. "But he looks so real."

Rogue stood on shaky legs. "Ever seen Star Trek?" she asked shortly.

A confused look twisted Robyn's face. "Yeah," she answered, puzzled by the seeming non sequitur. "What about it?"

"Alien technology is a wonderful thing," was all Rogue said as she cast one last look at the man on the floor. "Command, terminate program."

Robyn watched in awe as the room around her dissolved into bare grey walls. The man at her feet became nothing more than a robotic skeleton. She jumped as it rose, gliding toward an open crevice in one wall. "Holy shit," she breathed.

Rogue was already out the door, stopping beside it to pick up a towel and a bottle of water. Robyn scurried out after her. "Rogue, what the hell kind of combat program was that?"

She took a long swallow of water before answering. "I wrote it myself."

"I didn't know you knew computers," Robyn observed.

Rogue's eyes were hard, forbidding. "I learned, okay?" She turned away and began walking down the corridor.

Robyn didn't move. "So who was that guy?"

Rogue stopped in her tracks, turning slowly. "What guy?" she asked guardedly.

The blonde woman snorted and yanked a thumb in the direction of the Danger Room. "The guy in there. Mr. Congeniality? You know, the one who sucker punched you in the gut?" She took a few steps forward. "You know, you really should let me look at that."

She saw the automatic denial forming on Rogue's lips. Then, a slight movement on the younger woman's part produced a grimace, and she nodded. "Okay." She limped slowly toward the infirmary, allowing Robyn inside first.

"Get on the table and remove your shirt," Robyn ordered as she moved to sheathe her hands in latex, slipping effortlessly into doctor mode.

"Gee, I never knew you cared," Rogue quipped sardonically. But she obeyed Robyn's voice, levering herself onto the smooth padded surface and dragging her shirt over her head.

The first thing Robyn noticed was the wealth of contusions that marred the woman's pale skin. "Jesus Christ, Rogue... You're covered in bruises..." They ranged widely in age from fresh to nearly-healed. Some were a sickly yellowish-brown, while still others were angry violet and black.

Robyn stifled the questions that rose immediately to her lips. She didn't need to ask them anyway; she knew exactly what had happened to Rogue. She'd seen it happen not ten minutes earlier.

Instead of demanding explanations she didn't need, Robyn studied the stiff line on Rogue's spine, the proud, stubborn lift of her chin. "How do you hide these from Scott?" she asked.

It wasn't what Rogue had been expecting, and the her steady gaze faltered, dropping from the wall to the floor for a brief moment. "It's not hard to hide. I stay covered most of the time anyway."

She knew her words would elucidate everything for Robyn, everything she wasn't saying flat-out. She knew that most people who lived together saw each other naked from time to time outside of the bedroom, but not her and Scott. Truth be told, they'd never shared the kind of closeness that allowed for the lazy abandon of clothing, even in the sanctuary of their quarters.

"I see." It was all Robyn said in answer. Then she exhaled in a soft sigh. "Lay back and let me take a look at your stomach." Rogue complied, and Robyn began to gently palpate her flat abdomen. "Let me know if it--"

"Fuck!" The harsh word ripped from Rogue's throat, cutting off the rest of her words. She continued to give mostly profane indications whenever Robyn hit a tender spot.

Finally, Robyn stood back. "Sit and let me check your nose." Rogue winced as gloved fingers searched it for signs of permanent damage. Then she sat, stoic and still, as Robyn stripped off her gloves.

The doctor's silence was suddenly too much for Rogue, and that was odd, because silence had become her preferred method of communication. "So, doc, am I gonna make it?"

No hint of amusement or levity swam in Robyn's eyes, just a hard-edged concern that made their blue color seem at once both warm and cold. "I don't know, Rogue. As far as the nose goes, no break. Your left eye's gonna shine like hell for a week or so. And you've got some severe muscle bruising in you abdomen, although I can't really rule out the possibility of soft tissue bruising, as well."

"Soft tissue?" Rogue didn't want to ask, but the question slipped out.

Robyn's stare didn't flicker. "Internal damage, Rogue."

She scoffed in answer, shaking her head. "He didn't hit me that hard, Robyn."

"Bullshit, Rogue." The words were soft and steely, and Rogue looked back to Robyn. The warmth had vanished completely from the cerulean eyes that studied her. "Why?"

Ah, the question she'd been trying to avoid. Why. Why what? She didn't realize she'd said it aloud until she heard Robyn swear quietly.

"Don't play stupid with me, Rogue. This is a serious matter. We're talking about your life and safety here." For a moment, Robyn paused, and it almost seemed to Rogue as if she were trying to control herself. She failed. "Goddammit, Rogue, you're self-destructing right in front of us, and you pretend like you don't know what I'm babbling about. That's rich."

"I'm not self-destructing," Rogue protested hotly. "I'm trying to survive."

"Survive what?" Robyn demanded. "Something that happened almost a year ago?"

Rogue paled, and her face filled with contempt. "What the fuck do you know about anything, anyway?"

"I know that when you came here, you weren't like this. You weren't badass Rogue, the woman who spent all her time fighting imaginary enemies."

The dam of emotion inside Rogue broke, and she jumped down from the table, grabbing her shirt and carefully avoiding contact with the shorter blonde woman. "You don't know shit, Robyn. I fought the enemy, I did. But I did it on the inside, and that was never gonna accomplish anything. Now, I fight on the outside, where I can have something to show for it."

"Oh, hell yeah. You've got an awful lot to show for it - a shitload of bruises and a swelled nose."

"Do you even remember?" Rogue whispered, tears clogging her throat. "Do you even remember what I was like? I wasn't even a person; I was a shell, and I walked around all the time in a fog. So I changed things. I took the pain, and I changed it into something else." She swiped an angry hand across her cheeks. "And I'm a lot better off now than I was then."

"Funny," Robyn told her calmly. "But from where I stand, you're worse off than ever."

Rogue met her eyes for a single second, a heartbeat, then turned away and headed for the door. "Fuck you, Robyn," she called back as the door slid closed behind her.

Robyn's shoulders slumped, and she ran a shaky hand through her disheveled hair. "Glad I could help," she mumbled to the empty room.

---

Charles Xavier stared at the papers on the desk before him. The numbers swam together, and he made a sarcastic mental note to stop asking to see the school's complete financial reports. A brief, blessedly numberless summary from his accountant would do just fine.

With a sigh, he shoved the heavy sheaf of papers into his desk and locked the drawer with a deft twist of his wrist. He'd tried to sleep, but slumber eluded him. Then he tried to concentrate on the budget reports, but that was proving impossible as well.

If only he could find Logan...

He shook his head tiredly. He was worried about his team, specifically Scott and Rogue. He had been experiencing so many vicarious feelings of unhappiness and despair from those two, and he was growing weary of it. Yet he knew that there was nothing he could say to either of them to make things better, no wise words to help them heal. He knew of only one thing that could bring all the melancholy to an end, provide some closure.

He had to find Logan, bring him back.

But there were several problems with that course of action. For starters, he didn't really know for certain whether having Logan back in their lives would help or harm the despondent couple. Secondly, he'd been trying to locate Logan for two solid months and had been wholly unsuccessful.

As far as the first point went, Charles placated himself with his personal belief that change, no matter how unexpected or unwanted, was never bad. It was the thing that made people, humans and mutants alike, grow and mature.

As for the latter point, he'd spent night after fruitless night working with Cerebro, trying his damndest to uncover Logan's whereabouts. So far, all he'd found were blazing headaches and sharp disappointment.

Robyn's words from earlier drifted back to him. ~Wouldn't that usually mean--?~ He shook them away. Logan was not dead; he couldn't be, because the one thing Charles Xavier hadn't been able to shake away was the sinking knowledge that Logan was the one man who could save his team.

It was as before - they needed Logan. Only, this time, instead of fighting the enemy, they were fighting themselves. And they didn't need Logan to battle alongside them; they need him to stop it.

Charles shut off the lights in his office and wheeled out the door, heading down the hallway to his quarters. He halted when he heard quiet footsteps behind him. Reaching out with his mind, he identified the person.

"Rogue."

"Professor Xavier."

He turned around just as Rogue stepped out of the shadows and into a swath of moonlight pouring through a high window. Charles caught his breath at the sight of her battered face, and she raised a self-conscious hand to her nose.

"Robyn's already looked at it," she informed him defensively. "It's gonna be fine."

"How, Rogue?" His voice was soft, and his mind was in turmoil.

"I was stupid," she confessed. "I was in the Danger Room alone, and--"

"Rogue." He forced the shock away from his features, replacing it with a steely determination. "You are not to use the combat training facilities alone. You know that." He fell silent, but she said nothing, simply stared at the floor. "I'm afraid this cannot go on, Rogue. You mustn't ignore the rules I have set forth here at the school."

"You want me to leave?" she asked suddenly, fixing a cool stare on him. "I can. I made it on my own before. It's not that tough."

With a stab of pain and bewilderment, Charles noted the hope radiating faintly from her mind. Part of her wanted to leave. Part of her wanted him to demand that she go.

"I won't banish you from your home, Rogue," he stated softly. "If you leave, it will be your decision, and yours alone."

For a moment, relief and anger warred for control over her face. Then her brow smoothed, and all expression was gone. "Night," she said shortly before brushing past him and bounding up the wide stairs.

Charles watched her go, his head throbbing. She was closer to giving up than he'd thought. Closer to throwing everything away because she couldn't let go of the past.

He turned and headed for the hidden lift that would take him to the mansion's lower levels. If she couldn't face the past on her own, then he had no choice but to force her to do so. It would be painful, terribly so, but Rogue had to defeat the demons that haunted her before she could move forward with her life.

He would find Logan. He had to.

---

Scott woke up alone. A quick glance at the clock told him that he hadn't overslept, and he sighed.

She hadn't come back.

It wasn't an odd occurrence by any stretch; there were some nights when Rogue passed by the room they shared and retired to her old bedroom.

Logan's old bedroom.

"Goddammit," he breathed, rolling out of bed. He didn't bother yanking on a robe over his tee shirt and pajama pants, just slammed out the door.

Two nights. Logan had spent a mere two nights in that room, but he'd left enough of a brand to sound a siren call to the girl he'd abandoned. The girl who now was Scott's... at least in theory.

In theory. Jesus Christ. Scott stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the wall. When had he started thinking of Rogue as his theoretical girlfriend? His shoulders slumped beneath rumpled cotton, and he sighed. The anger that had been roaring through him only moments before drained away, leaving him empty and confused.

He wasn't sure he wanted to confront Rogue.

But if he didn't confront her, he'd lose her.

His feet began to move again, taking him a few steps further down the corridor before slowing to a halt once more. He inhaled a shaky breath and ran a hand through his tousled hair.

He couldn't lose her.

He couldn't lose her, because he didn't have her.

He never had.

Disturbed, Scott shoved the thought away. But the more he tried to quell it, the louder it rang in his head, his heart.

He never had.

Logan. The man whose bed she sometimes still slept in, whose mirror image she battled in the Danger Room, thinking no one else knew.

Logan would always have her.

Chest heaving, Scott forced himself to admit that whatever had passed between Logan and Rogue had burned him into her soul forever. No matter how far she ran or how hard she fought, Logan would always be there, haunting her. Making her remember, making her feel... things. Things she never felt for Scott.

He knew it; maybe, on some level, he always had. And he was starting to accept it.

Scott turned back toward his bedroom and wondered, his heart heavy, what the overwhelming sense of relief flowing through him meant.

"Scott." The sleepy, exhausted voice reached his ears moments after the soft sound of a door opening. He spun back around and stared at Rogue as she emerged from the darkness of Logan's-- of her room.

"What is it, Rogue?" She was eyeing him with such concern... He wondered briefly if he could have been wrong. If maybe, given enough time, she might be able to banish Logan's presence from her mind.

Then she spoke. "It's the Professor. He's sending an alert." Her eyes cleared a little, then gleamed. "It's a mission, Scott. We're leaving this morning."

He felt it again, the cold knot in his core, but just for a moment. Then he simply nodded. "The strategy room?"

"Ten minutes."

He stared at her for another long moment. "I'll be there."

She watched him turn and go.

---

They were the first to arrive in the conference room. Rogue had suited herself in her leather uniform already, and Scott could see that she was itching for a fight. She never really came alive except in a real battle, where the stakes were life and death.

Yet more evidence of her obsession. One way or another, it was Logan's legacy that had left her so grounded in violence and the struggle for survival. It had become her only mode of expression, the only time she really felt. Scott leaned back against the table and watched her move restlessly around the room.

The lighting was better than it had been in the hallway, and Scott could clearly make out the shadows of bruises around her left eye and cheekbone. Her nose looked like she'd taken on a prizefighter... again.

"Is it worth it, Rogue?" he whispered before thinking.

There was a slight hesitation in her stride as she paced. "Is what worth what?" she asked tersely, pulling an elastic band from around her wrist.

He watched as she gathered her hair together at the back of her head in a high ponytail. "Having something concrete to fight," he clarified quietly. "Is it worth the bruises?"

Her lips compressed into a thin line and she looked away, then secured her hair with the band, tugging viciously to tighten it. Shorter wisps of platinum hair escaped to curl around her face. "It's harder to fight what you can't see," she informed him lightly but cryptically.

"Rogue--" He swallowed the rest of his words as the door slid open and Ororo and Charles entered the room. "What's the situation, Professor?" He slipped easily into Fearless Leader mode; it was a far easier role to play than the one he'd found himself in with Rogue.

"I've located an old colleague of mine. With the aid of Cerebro, I've discovered that he's being held against his will. It is my wish that you three find him and bring him back here to the school." With those words, he moved toward the table in the middle of the room.

"Who's holding him?" Ororo's brows furrowed. "And why?"

"Her name is Margaret Remington. We met at University," he replied, indicating very simply that he knew the perpetrator as well as the victim. "As for what she's trying to accomplish... I have an idea as to her motivations, but I couldn't tell for certain. Not at this point." Charles activated a switch on the table, and thousands of metal pins rearranged themselves instantly. "I've been able to draw from Maggie's thoughts enough information to sketch out a rough layout of her stronghold, but I dare not linger long in her mind. She's also a telepath, and if I search her mind too thoroughly, she may become aware of me." He paused. "She's extremely powerful."

"But not as powerful as you, right, Professor?"

"No, not quite, Scott. But I cannot risk possibly alerting her to my plan before its implementation." He faced his team. "I'm afraid I know little about her security and defenses, but I know one thing. Maggie is an arrogant woman, and she's always been overconfident of her abilities. I doubt you'll have a difficult time breaching whatever defenses she has in place. Once I've dealt with her, of course."

Something in his mentor's tone made Scott uneasy, and he shared a glance with Ororo. They both knew that the vast majority of Charles's powers lay dormant, unused, and certainly never for harm. If he were to unleash the full power of his mind on another person...

He could very well destroy this woman from the inside out.

Rogue whistled. "Jesus, Chuck. With friends like yours, who has time for enemies?" She softened the words with an endearing smirk.

The older man's answering smile was gentle but reserved. "Indeed."

Scott arched an eyebrow. "So what's the plan?"

"Ready the jet, please, Scott. We'll be along in a moment." With a no-nonsense nod, Scott hurried out the door, glancing at Rogue on his way. She was staring at the strategy table.

Charles turned to her. "I printed out a hard copy of the plans I was able to sketch out. They're in my office, Rogue."

The dismissal in his tone was unmistakable, but Rogue continued to study the table intently. "I think I've got it, Professor," she argued confidently. "I don't need them."

He drew in a breath, then said, "Rogue, Ororo and I have something to discuss. Go retrieve the plans. We'll meet at the Blackbird."

Rogue hesitated, then inclined her head in compliance. "You can tell me to get lost; it won't hurt my feelings," she informed the two with a smirk.

Ororo watched her go, then faced Charles. "She's become so much like him," she remarked quietly.

His answering moment of silence spoke his agreement. "You needn't worry. For now, she's focused on the mission." His faded blue eyes were soft and troubled.

The woman's smooth face clouded with uneasiness. "Yes, but how will she react when she finds that Logan is the mission?"

"That," he replied with a heavy sigh, "remains to be seen."

---

For once, the silence during their flight was an uneasy one. There was always a certain level of tension before their battles, the anticipation of combat, but this time was different. There was none of the camaraderie that was the basis of their cohesiveness as a team. There was just a tense hush that made Ororo shift uncomfortably in the copilot's seat as she adjusted her headset.

"How's it coming, Rogue?" Scott asked as he checked a gauge on the jet's display. He was all business.

For that matter, so was Rogue. "Fine." Her answer was clipped and distracted. Looking back, Ororo saw that the young woman's dark eyes were focused and intent as she studied the readouts she'd claimed not to need. The Professor had been right about one thing, at least; Rogue's attention was, without a doubt, completely on the task at hand.

Ororo sighed almost inaudibly, a feeling of dread knotting her stomach. She still wasn't entirely convinced that keeping the details of their mission from her teammates was the best course of action. It wasn't only that she was worried about their reactions to once again encountering Logan; she had never considered flying blind into a situation to be a good battle strategy.

[Do you trust me, Ororo?]

She closed her eyes as the Professor's voice sounded in her mind. [Yes.] Her answer was instant and unquestioned. [But is it wise to keep information from Scott and Rogue? They deserve to know...]

There was a moment of hesitation, then, [From what I can tell, Logan has been under Maggie's control for some time.] Another pause. [I fear the worst, Ororo. I fear that Logan may be the cause of what's been destroying Rogue.]

She'd suspected as much.

The Professor continued. [Please, Ororo. I'll be with you. Just...keep an eye on them, and remember our mission.]

"I will," she whispered aloud, curling her fingers around the edge of her armrest.

"Did you say something, 'Ro?" Scott asked, glancing at her.

"How much farther, Scott? I'll need to signal the Professor when it's time," she said quietly.

"About ten minutes. You okay back there, Rogue?" His concern was evident, though he sounded reluctant to ask.

"Piece of cake," Rogue assured them, snapping her gum and twisting the end of her ponytail. "Looks like rescuing the Prof's old school chum is gonna be a walk in the park compared to some of the runs we've made lately."

"Let's not get too confident," Scott rebuked. "Arrogance gets people killed."

"Not arrogance," she corrected. "Carelessness." There was no fear or false bravado Rogue's voice, just a matter-of-fact confidence. "And don't worry about that. I don't get careless."

Ororo thought for a moment that she could hear Scott's jaw clenching. "Yeah? Then how'd you get that big fucking bruise on your face?" he inquired scathingly. "Run into a door?"

"Scott," Ororo said softly, his name a warning.

"Maybe I'll tell people my boyfriend beat me up," Rogue retorted, her tone icy.

"Wouldn't be far off the mark."

Ororo glanced at Rogue, whose eyes widened at Scott's words. "What?" she hissed, leaning as far forward as her safety restraints would allow. "What did you say?"

"Stop it, both of you," Ororo commanded. Her nerves were frayed, and she could feel her temper beginning to rise. "This is neither the time nor the place. Save it."

Rogue sat back with a snort, and Scott's hands tightened on the plane's steering controls. They both knew she was right; they needed more than anything to work together at this point.

Ororo closed her eyes. "Let me know, Scott."

"We'll be approaching the designated landing area in less than two minutes," he answered flatly.

One of Ororo's strongest beliefs had always been in the power of truth. Every lie has an inevitable, inescapable moment at which everything is uncovered, exposed. What is real and what is not is laid bare and separated, where it can be seen for its true nature.

Scott and Rogue had been living a lie; it didn't take a genius or a psychic to see that. They'd both already realized it. What remained to be seen was how they would handle what they were about to find.

[It's time, Professor.]

---

Back in Westchester, Charles Xavier's eyes darted wildly beneath closed lids. It was his charge to protect his team, to make absolutely certain that the power within Margaret Remington's mind never touched them.

He would succeed. He had no choice.

Still, regret welled up within him. He despised using his powers to hurt others, even those whom most would term deserving of his wrath. It made him ill, made him...

He shook off his worries and concentrated.

He had no choice.

---

"You gotta be kidding me," Rogue breathed, hair bouncing riotously as she jogged along a wall toward an open doorway. So far, their entrance into the imposing, blocklike building had been uneventful. "No security, no gates... This is making me nervous."

"The Professor said there wouldn't be much in the way of defense," Scott reminded her as she peered carefully around the doorjamb.

"Yeah, but I thought he maybe just didn't notice everything. I mean, this is insane." She slipped around the door and motioned for the others to follow her down the darkened hallway. "The woman's a nut. I mean, why sequester yourself out in the ass-crack of nowhere if you're just gonna leave yourself open to attack by a troop of Boy Scouts with Swiss Army knives?"

"She's a telepath, Rogue." Ororo's voice was muted, hushed. "She can tell when she has unwelcome visitors. She needs no defense."

"Not true, my friend. Everyone needs safety measures. Even the Prof, who is arguably the man, has the school wired with--" Her words halted, and she held up a hand. "Shh," she whispered, tilting her head. After a moment, she motioned for her companions to stay back.

Scott watched her disappear around the corner, his body tense. He hated having Rogue do most of the recon for missions, but it made the most sense. She was the strongest of the three physically, and her fighting skills were unmatched. So he waited, then heard her voice moments later.

"Jesus Christ, guys, get in here," she called, and Scott and Ororo raced forward.

They found Rogue face to face with a large man dressed simply in brown clothes. She was waving her gloved hand in front of his eyes, and he was... not reacting a single bit. He stared off into dead space with the blank, glazed stare of the drugged... or the mindless.

"Lobotomized," Rogue ground between clenched teeth. "Look at this." She motioned to a scarred area to the inside of the man's right eye.

"Looks like they used a leukotome." Scott said flatly, his stomach heaving.

"Great." Rogue's nostrils flared. "So, someone stuck something sharp and nasty through the socket to scramble his brain. Now Maggie has a nice, controllable minion to beat the hell out of anyone who stumbles in uninvited." Rogue stepped away from the man, who staggered slightly at her movement. Her face was stony, and fury radiated from her. "Fucking bitch," she hissed venomously.

"At least we know the Professor has managed to eliminate her powers for the time being," Ororo noted sadly.

"Keep your guard up, though," Rogue warned them, her eyes darting around, examining every inch of the hallway in which they stood. "I somehow doubt that dear Mags likes to get her hands dirty, and that means she's got at least one amateur brain surgeon hanging out somewhere."

Ororo scanned the hallway. "Is she... ?"

"That way." Rogue nodded toward one end of the hall. "According to the floor plans, hang a left and take the third doorway to the right. Scott, go with her."

"No way in hell, Rogue," he said immediately, shaking his head. "The Professor said for you and me to scout the containment area. You're not going alone."

Rogue rolled her eyes. "I can take care of myself, Scott. What if someone besides our telepath is waiting in that room, huh? What then? You go with Ororo, please. If I need help, I'll let you know." She tapped her headset with one leather-gloved finger. "Cross my heart."

He stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. "Be careful, Rogue."

"Always am." Her glib, easy answer was tempered by the small, solemn smile that curved her lips. "Now go," she added, backing away from them. "I'll see you back at the jet."

---

It had been a long time since Margaret Remington had feared anyone or anything. If she had been more humble, a little less cocky, she might have recognized that as a weakness. But Margaret had never considered herself weak by any stretch of the imagination, and time was only making her stronger.

Time and determination, that is.

She grinned and lifted a champagne flute from the tray that sat on her desk. She had reason to celebrate; it was almost time for the final stages of her plan to destroy Charles Francis Xavier.

Logan. Margaret smiled. He was such a wonderful toy to have, and so useful. She'd seen firsthand what he could do, seen it in his own mind, and she'd been overjoyed to acquire him.

It hadn't taken much to convince Erik's lovely blue-skinned friend to help her capture him. What had been really interesting was how Mystique had done it. A tiny shifting of flesh, and suddenly Logan had welcomed the mutant with open arms.

With an open heart.

By the time he'd woken from the blow to his head and the drugs, he'd been well within her psychic reach. And, oh, the things she'd found in his mind...

She kept him for a while, got to know him inside and out. Then came the time for testing. She'd sent him out on little missions, each time demanding that he bring back something different - a wallet, or a lock of hair, perhaps, from a random person snatched from the street and beaten senseless.

But Margaret had two favorite missions.

The first came when Mystique had grown irritated with that animal, Victor Creed, and demanded, as payment for delivering Logan, that he be killed. Margaret had simply smiled, knowing that Logan would not mind that mission one bit, even if he were in control of himself.

And she'd seen the satisfaction deep behind the veil of his eyes when he'd brought back Creed's heart in his bare hand.

God, she loved that look, that beaten, broken mix of victory and dismay.

But her second favorite... That was when she'd finally known that she could, indeed, use Logan to utterly ruin Charles. She'd sent Logan after the one thing she'd found that brightened his heart, the one thing he held dearest...

The girl with the white-streaked hair and the huge, sad eyes.

A frown creased Margaret's brow. That success had not been without its drawbacks, of course. Logan had come back broken, but with a new determination - death. He no longer fought her control in hopes of escaping; no, after that, he fought to break free of her long enough to end his life.

What a waste that would be.

Margaret clucked her tongue and sipped her champagne. It was tiring, keeping a man like that alive when he wanted nothing more than to die. Tiring, but also... exhilarating, in a way. She relished the challenge, honestly. Too little resistance bored her to no end, and Margaret despised being bored.

But now... . Now, it was almost time. She'd send Logan out once again, back to Xavier's perpetually welcoming embrace, back to that damned school, and he would kill them all. In their sleep, yes - she rather liked that. Logan would kill them all as they slept, and then perhaps himself, leaving nothing of Charles Xavier's legacy and life's work but a cold, dead mansion splashed with the blood of the innocent... .and the not-so-innocent.

Her cold blue eyes shot up as the door to her sanctum opened. She'd sensed no visitors, and her heart began to pound. "Who is there?" she demanded brashly, setting her glass down with a loud clink.

"Margaret." Charles Xavier stepped from the shadows, pinning her a determined gaze.

"Charles, how--" She cut off her words as she realized that he had somehow made it past her mental defenses and into her mind. Her eyes searched the room, desperately trying to distinguish what was real and what was not, as her mind fought for control. She could feel it slipping, and she knew that it was an illusion; if he was there, before her, then her mind was already his.

"Let it go, Maggie," was all he said. "You won't succeed. Don't force my hand."

The fear she hadn't known in so long was skating through her in icy frissons, chilling her. "You can't stop me, Charles. I've grown more powerful, and I'll not be ordered around. Not now, or ever again."

He sensed the resolve in her, and his eyes grew sad. "It didn't have to be this way, Maggie."

"Yes, it did," she replied softly. "You spent years, Charles, trying to quell my powers, my abilities--"

"I spent years trying to teach you what was right and what was not." His mental voice overrode hers effortlessly. "You refused to listen, just as you are doing now." He paused. "You leave me no choice, Maggie. I can't allow you to hurt anyone else."

"What are you... " Her words trailed off as water began to seep up from the cold tile floor. She raised her feet instinctively, old phobias controlling her actions. "Oh God, Charles! What are you doing? You know that I can't-- Stop it! Stop it this instant!"

His expression did not change, and he merely stood as cold, murky water enveloped his feet and lower legs. "You leave me no choice."

~It's not real,~ she thought frantically. She gasped as iron bands sprouted from her chair, encircling her arms and waist. ~It's not real. It can't hurt you.~

But the power of the mind is great and, often, inescapable. Terror gripped Margaret as she fought to stay calm.

As the water that wasn't really there touched her, she began to scream.

---

Logan jerked awake.

Something was wrong.

He sprang from his cot, rough blankets tangling around his legs and torso. Sweat poured from every pore in his body as he crouched in the corner, peering suspiciously into the darkness.

His days, his moments, were never different. They never varied. He woke, he ate, he slept. He did nothing else besides fight the overwhelming presence that never left his mind.

That never left his...

With a growl, Logan realized what had changed. The shadow that constantly filled his head had lifted, and his body was his once more.

He didn't bother wondering why. He didn't care. He was free.

With a howl of rage, adamantium ripped from his hands and into the soft flesh of his belly. He ignored the blazing pain that threatened to drive him to the floor, the sticky heat of the blood that coated his hands and claws.

He might not have much time.

He released another scream, hoarser this time, but no less enraged.

Whoever had been using him to hurt, to destroy, would never do it again.

---

Rogue's steps faltered as twin shrieks ripped the dark, still air of the hallway. One was pure terror, a cry of desperation and pleading. But it was the other that gave her pause, that raised the delicate hairs on the back of her neck.

It was a sound of insane, animal rage.

And it was...familiar.

Her breathing quickened.

A moment later, she heard soft footsteps behind her, and the screams were forgotten.

"Wanna play?"

She whirled around in time to catch a fist to the jaw. Rogue staggered back, landing against a cold metal wall, stars exploding behind her eyelids. In a heartbeat, she was in fighting stance, shaking off the pain of the blow. "Good shot," she muttered, taking an appraising look at her opponent.

He was young, tall and lithely built. That meant he'd have speed, agility. But he couldn't best her when it came to brute force.

Could he?

Rogue looked closer. Spines lined the backs of his hands and arms, and she reached up, brushing a hand against her jaw. The thick leather of her glove came away slicked with blood.

At least she knew what her mutant sparring partner could do.

"You're an intruder," the mutant rasped, his voice low and husky. "You don't belong here."

"No kidding," she retorted, circling him warily. "This dump is totally not my style. Who's your decorator - Oscar the Grouch?"

He took a swipe at her midsection, and she jumped back, deftly avoiding his spined fists. "That's a pretty nasty skin condition you've got there, pal. You should get that looked at." She moved quickly within reach to land a kick to his gut.

He countered by grabbing her leg and flipping her upwards, into the air. Rogue managed to shift her other leg close enough to land a glancing kick to his head as she fell.

He grunted and staggered back as she climbed painfully to her feet. In her struggle to get in one last strike before she fell, she hadn't had time to coordinate her landing. Her right shoulder throbbed from the impact.

Her opponent rushed her as soon as he recovered from the shock of her kick. Grunting, Rogue threw a punch that landed squarely on the taller mutant's jaw, sending him reeling. She combined it with a swift kick to his kneecap, and he howled in pain.

"Well, I guess lighthearted banter is out of the question, then." Rogue ducked a swinging arm and sent an uppercut to the man's jaw. "Too bad. A fight to the death is something I usually prefer to avoid."

She heard another roar in the distance, this one filled to overflowing with pain. She forced herself to not think about the possibility that it could be Scott. She couldn't afford to get distracted, or she'd end up dead.

"Shut up and fight," the man commanded, blocking the punches aimed for his face. "I've got others to see to."

"Over my dead--decaying--rotting--corpse." She punctuated each word with either a kick or a blow. Still, the man was barely fazed.

Instead, he smirked and nodded. "It's a deal," he crowed, grabbing her hair and slamming her against the wall.

~Oh shit,~ Rogue thought fuzzily. ~Now there are two of him.~ "You're too damn ugly for double vision, buddy," she observed, shaking her head and blinking rapidly.

He advanced on her, still grinning, white teeth flashing brightly against his slightly yellow skin. "You won't have to worry about seeing anything for long," he promised, rubbing his hands on the faded green of his shirt.

"Wrong. I haven't played all my cards yet, pal." With that, she launched herself into the air, taking a moment to enjoy his wide-eyed look of shock before dipping back down so that his head was within reach of her feet.

"I haven't played all mine, either," he announced, raising an arm. Rogue felt a moment's sting, like a pinprick or a tiny stab. Looking down, she saw that the mutant had ejected one of the spines from his hand, sending it into the leather-covered flesh of her thigh.

Okay, now she was pissed.

With a growl reminiscent of someone she once knew, Rogue threw herself on her opponent, driving him to the floor beneath her. "That's it!" she yelled, incensed, her long-gone accent returning under with force of her anger. "No more Miss Nice Mutant. Now I'm really gonna kick your fuckin' ass!"

He laughed and tried to strike, but Rogue pinned both of his arms to the floor beneath her legs. With his arms immobilized, there was little he could do to fight, and he began to struggle as Rogue sent blow after blow smashing into his face.

She paused for a moment, snatching his collar in her fist and dragging his bloodied yellow face close to hers. "Is he in the containment area?" she demanded.

"Fuck you!" He spat at her, and she rolled her eyes, bashing his head back against the tile floor before raising him again.

"Is he in containment?" she repeated through clenched teeth.

"Who?" He was playing dumb, but she had him scared. She could see it in his wild, darting eyes.

"Don't screw me around, you fuckwit," she warned him harshly. "You know who." Actually, Rogue didn't even know who, but she figured Porcupine Guy had a good idea what she was talking about.

Sighing, she pulled her fist back again, and he stammered, "Stop! He's in the south wing. Underground."

"How far is it?"

"Down the hall to the left. There's a stairwell." With satisfaction, Rogue noted that he looked close to pissing himself.

"You know," she told him quietly, "you're in a really bad business, pal. And if I ever see your shit-ugly, spiny ass again, I'll kill you. Don't doubt it."

The color drained from his face, and his lips trembled. Rogue knew he believed her, as well he should. With a shaky exhale, she cuffed him hard on the side of his face, and his body went limp, his eyes rolling back into his head.

---

Scott and Ororo heard the screams. Neither sounded like Rogue, but they still shared a fearful glance as they neared the room that was their destination.

Ororo stood back and nodded, and Scott slammed the door open with one powerful thrust of his shoulder.

There was a screaming woman inside, one who seemed to be struggling against nothing as she writhed in her chair.

"No, Charles! Please!" she shrieked, her voice growing raspy from overuse. "I can't swim! You know I can't swim!"

Cold chills rushed over Scott as he stared at the once beautiful, elegant woman. Terror twisted her face, making her as ugly outside as Scott sensed she was inside.

"So much water," she whimpered. "Everywhere..." Suddenly, her eyes were fierce, blazing. "Damn you, Charles! Damn you for this! Damn you to hell!" She paused, quiet sobs ripping out of her as she shook her head. "No! I didn't! I wasn't controlling..." Her words trailed off as her thrashing became frantic. "Charles, you must free me. You can't let me die!"

"Goddess," Ororo breathed, backing away from the scene before them. "What now, Scott?"

"We wait here," he whispered, "for Rogue's signal. Then, when she's found this friend of the Professor's, we vacate."

Ororo averted her eyes. "Do we have to--"

"The Professor said so, Ororo." Scott's voice was disturbed but firm. "We wait. Here."

Tears filled the woman's dark eyes as their enemy shook and strained against unseen bonds. She began to gurgle and choke, stretching her neck as if above rising water. Ororo turned away.

"I can't watch this, Scott. I can't."

"I know," he agreed quietly. "I know."

---

On her way to the underground containment area that was her goal, Rogue encountered three more of the mindless zombies Margaret used for defense. It filled her with rage, the fact that this woman, this mutant, was using human beings for such things. It was no more right than the reverse of the situation would have been, if humans had been using mutants...

It made her sick.

She wrestled with her anger, pushing it down until she could lock it away. She'd accomplish nothing by getting riled up, by losing control.

She needed to stay focused.

She took the stairs three at a time. She needed to find this guy and get the hell out of that place. There was a fear and hopelessness that seemed to spill from every corner and empty room... It was freaking her out just being there, soaking it up.

"Where are you? Come on..." she muttered as she broke down door after door. Finally, she came to one that looked to be made of solid metal. She banged a fist experimentally against it and was rewarded with a thumping sound instead of a hollow clang.

"Possible bingo," she decided aloud, cocking her head to one side and examining the door's frame. It was a toss-up as to whether she'd be able to break the hinges, but she doubted she'd be able to punch or kick a hole through it.

There was a high window cut into the door, one that was criss-crossed with bars forming a woven pattern. Grunting, she hooked her hands around two of the bars and raised herself up. "Hey, buddy? You in there?"

She could make out nothing in the darkness of the cell, but she could hear ragged breathing. "Look... I'm gonna try to break down the door, so don't panic, all right? Professor Xavier sent me. You're gonna be fine." She continued to speak soothingly as she lowered herself to the ground and tried to figure out a way to remove the obstacle of the door from her path.

There was a soft grunting sound from within the cell, and an equally soft, weak voice. "M-Marie?"

She froze, shock rendering her limbs leaden, her mouth dry. There was no way in hell...

None.

Still, she clawed her way back up the door, peering inside the room once more. "Logan?" Her voice cracked, and she shuddered.

"I'm dead." The voice--Logan's voice--was wet and small. "Thank you, God..."

Rogue dropped back to her feet and rested her head against the hardness of the door. Her shock had been fleeting, and she was awash with impotent rage and fear. It made her hands clumsy as they scrambled against the cold hinges.

"Fuck." The word ripped from her throat on a sob. The hinges refused to yield, and she stood back and kicked them frantically.

Nothing.

Scott. Scott could help her. Shaking uncontrollably, she yanked off a glove and raised her hand to activate radio communication. "Scott? Oh God... Scott, can you hear me?"

His voice, worried, sounded in her ear moments later. "Rogue? What is it?"

"Get down here, Scott. The containment... Down the main hall, two rights, then a left. There are some stairs... Jesus, Scott," she cried. "Please, just hurry!" With that, she yanked the headset off and threw it on the floor, her eyes searching for something, anything, she could use on the door.

It caught her eye moments later, with the flash of something that wasn't quite right, a tiny gap between two sections of the wall. She advanced on it immediately, pulling a metal file from her uniform belt and wedging it between sheets of metal.

The tiny door swung open to reveal a control panel. With a sigh of relief, she reached for a large red lever at the bottom of the panel, giving it a vicious yank.

With a loud, brash alarm, every door on the hall opened, with the exception of the ones she'd already broken down, and bright lights washed over every inch of the hallway.

Tugging her glove back on, she ran into the room...only to skid and stumble to halt at the sight before her.

Logan lay sprawled on the dirty floor. He was clad only in a pair of blue jeans, and blood literally covered everything, including the walls. His body was marred with half-healed gashes and gaping wounds of varying severity.

But his stomach... That was the worst. In the now-glaring light, Rogue could see that his abdomen had been ripped cleanly open, the protective layers of muscle torn away. She breathed in short, ragged gasps as horrified realization splintered through her; so deep were the cuts that his insides were exposed, bulging out of the open wounds, mocking her with colors and textures that didn't belong outside of skin.

With bile rising in her throat, Rogue saw that most of the cuts were in groups of three...in a pattern that matched Logan's claws.

He'd done this to himself.

"Jesus Christ, Logan," she moaned, dropping to her knees next to him, unmindful of the blood smearing her uniform. "Jesus..."

His head tossed a little, but he didn't respond. His face was devoid of color, ashen in the fluorescent light. Her vision blurred, and tears streamed down Rogue's face as she floundered in an agonizing maelstrom of fear, guilt, and misery.

"Logan..."

She slid her hands under his head, lifting him up and into her lap. His head lolled back and forth on her leg as she clutched at the skin of his chest and throat, willing the slashes to close, to knit themselves together. When they didn't, she cursed violently.

A raw and primitive grief overwhelmed her. He was going to die.

She swiped the tears from her face with soaked gloves and let out a long, audible breath. She had to stop it. She had to. Scott and Ororo would help, and then Robyn and the Professor. Together, they could do it.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor, pounding fast and furious, and Rogue heard Scott calling her name. "In here!" she screamed hoarsely.

Scott followed the desperate sound of Rogue's voice. He found her slumped on the floor of one of the tiny rooms, cradling Logan's body in her arms. He stared, wordlessly, until a gasp of astonishment and dismay escaped him.

She raised her face to him, tears trailing clean paths down her blood-streaked skin. Fear, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. "We have to do something, Scott." He caught faint threads of hysteria in her voice as she spoke, and her hands shook as they shifted over Logan's belly.

Oh God.

Scott's stomach heaved threateningly as he realized the full extent of the unconscious man's injuries. And when he saw that Rogue was trying desperately to replace Logan's entrails with her hands, nausea erupted within him.

He dove for the hallway as his stomach purged itself. Rogue barely noticed.

He trudged back into the room, running the back of one gloved hand across his mouth, grimacing. "Sheets," he croaked. "We can tear up the sheets, make bandages." Even as he said the words, he was reaching for the tiny cot, rummaging through the coarse blankets.

She nodded quickly. "Hurry." She dug through a pocket in her leather pants and pulled out a folding knife, tossing it to him.

Scott caught it deftly in one hand, thumbing the blade out. The sheets were heavily smudged with dirt, but they had no other options, so he pulled the top one free. A small nick gave him enough leverage to tear a lengthwise strip off the fabric.

Rogue snatched it from him and wrapped it clumsily around Logan's body, tying the ends with a yank. Blood immediately soaked it through. Scott tore away another swath and knelt to help Rogue bandage Logan's torn skin.

He swallowed convulsively. "Is he--?"

"No," she cut in, her voice firm and final. "He will not die." Every line of her body spoke defiance. "We just have to get him back to the school. Robyn can help him." She brushed away the hair that had matted to his forehead. "We just have to get him out of here."

Scott's eyes, even covered, didn't miss the way Rogue's hands clung to Logan's clammy skin, as if her touch and the sheer determination behind it would keep him alive. "All right. Can we move him right now?" he asked, standing.

"I don't know." Rogue remained absolutely motionless for a moment, then glanced up at him, her expression troubled. "I don't think we have a choice."

"I think you're right." He reached up and activated his headset. "Ororo?" Crackling static was his only answer. "Shit," he swore, turning for the door.

"Scott?"

He paused, swinging back to motion to Logan. "Get him to the Blackbird. Can you do it alone?" At her nod, he spun and was gone.

---

Maggie was going to drown.

She knew it in her heart and her gut, even if her head told her it was impossible. There was no way to rationally deny the numbing cold of the dark water that crept up her body, climbing like a predatory snake, coiling around her.

It was a living thing, and it craved the air that was in her lungs, wanted to replace it. Wanted to squeeze the very life from her.

When she chanced opening her eyes, she saw Charles standing not ten feet away from her, oblivious to the fact that the water had already covered his mouth and nose, leaving only his piercing, determined eyes free above the dark, churning mass.

In a last-ditch attempt to save herself, she raised one pleading hand in his direction. "Charles, please..."

If she'd been calmer, she might have realized that, only moments before, she'd been completely unable to move. Now, she flailed frantically, too far gone in her fear to realize that her mind had broken free just a little bit...

It might have been enough, if only she'd realized it.

Instead, she watched, horrified, as the water closed over Charles's sad blue eyes. Moments later, a scream earned her a mouthful of brackish water, and she fought not to inhale.

Through it all, Ororo stared, terror and revulsion skating through her in chilling bursts. The woman named Maggie struggled violently, her mouth closed and her eyes wide with the effort she was making not to breathe.

Lightning streaked outside the window and static crackled in Ororo's ear with deafening volume. Cringing, she yanked off the headset and tried to distance herself from the scene unfolding before her. But thunder began to clap loudly, a testament to the storm that was brewing.

Ororo breathed deeply, fighting for calm, as she willed the lightning to subside. Her eyes glossed silver, then cleared again, their normal dark color returning.

A sickening gurgle bubbled up from Maggie's mouth, and her struggles increased in effort. Then, less than a half-minute later, she collapsed, falling forward from her chair and hitting the tile floor with a thump.

It took Ororo only seconds to reach her side. When she rolled her over to check her pulse, she sprang back at the sight of Maggie's glassy eyes staring straight through her.

Swallowing her disgust, Ororo hand found the spot on the woman's neck that should have been throbbing with the force of her life pumping through her veins.

There was nothing.

Scott rushed through the door. "'Ro," he panted. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," she answered woodenly, not looking up from the woman before her.

Scott's steps slowed as he approached the two women. "And Remington?"

Ororo swallowed hard and bit back tears. "Dead, Scott."

He dropped to one knee and laid a hand on her shoulder. "He did what he had to do, 'Ro."

"I know, Scott," she assured him, her voice still choked with the hot tears she refused to release. "I just wish..."

He understood, as she knew he would. His hand tightened, then was gone. "We need to go, 'Ro. Rogue is moving Logan to the jet now."

Logan. Ororo's breathing began to quicken. "She found him?"

Scott arched an eyebrow at her, not surprised that she had known exactly who they'd come for. "He's in bad shape. We've got to hurry."

---

Rogue refused to buckle back in for the flight back. She even stayed by Logan's side during takeoff, making sure he remained immobile and didn't further injure himself. Ororo didn't miss the way Scott's jaw tightened as he observed Rogue's behavior, but she waited until they were in the air to comment on it.

"She is only worried about him, Scott," she whispered quietly as he adjusted a gauge and studied the control board.

"I know." He sounded like he wanted to say more, and Ororo waited patiently for him to continue. "Why didn't you and the Professor just tell us, 'Ro?"

She had the good grace to flush, though it barely showed under her smooth, tawny skin. "The Professor thought it best, given the circumstances."

He nodded shortly. "He thought either Rogue or I would refuse to help Logan. Is that it, in a nutshell?"

"Possibly that both of you would refuse," she admitted softly.

"It doesn't matter what he's done, 'Ro. Rogue will always want him back."

There was no way for her to argue with that. "And you?"

"I don't care one way or another. The only feeling I have for Logan is a distinct and rather powerful urge to crush his windpipe." The words were cold and flat. "Other than that..."

Ororo wasn't shocked by Scott's comments; they were, she thought, to be expected. Logan had somehow hurt the woman Scott loved, as a friend if nothing more, and Scott was not the type of man to let that go easily. Sighing, she looked back to where Rogue sat next to Logan, her eyes trained on the floor and one hand resting over his heart. "Do you think Rogue similarly wants to throttle him?"

Scott snorted. "Does it look like she does?" His expression was taut and derisive. "She was literally holding him together with her hands when I found them, 'Ro. I doubt she'd try so damn hard to save his life if she planned on turning around and killing him."

"Do you mind?" Rogue's voice floated hoarsely from the back of the cabin. "I can hear you talking about me, you know." The statement was devoid of her usual sarcasm and twisted humor. "I find it rather rude."

An apology seemed flip and out of place, so Scott and Ororo fell silent. Then Ororo unlatched her safety belt. "I'm going to go check on her," she murmured, and Scott nodded in assent.

Rogue didn't move as Ororo knelt next to her. "How are you holding up?"

The gentle question brought a mirthless smile to life on Rogue's full lips. "I'm not the one with my guts falling out, 'Ro. I'm fine."

Clearing her throat delicately, Ororo tried again. "Today has been hard on us all, Rogue, but you... You've had the worst time of it."

Rogue nodded. For long moments, she said nothing, merely traced a pattern on the blanket that covered the bloodied flesh of Logan's chest. "See this?" she asked finally, dragging a fingertip across the man's throat. "These cuts? They're starting to heal, but it's taking a long time. Longer than it should."

Ororo was about to speak when Rogue tossed her head and grimaced. "'Ro? Do you think that... Could that woman be the reason Logan hurt me before?"

The question was small and helpless, and Ororo bit her lip. Rogue sounded like a lost child, trying to find her way home. "I think...it's a very good possibility, Rogue," she answered honestly. "A very good one."

The younger woman nodded with a taut jerk of her head, then squeezed her eyes shut. "He was so cold that night, 'Ro. Cold... I looked in his eyes, and I couldn't even see Logan because he was so..." She shivered, and a single tear slithered down her cheek. "He just wanted to tear me apart and I knew it. I could feel it. But it wasn't... It wasn't him."

Ororo slid an arm around Rogue's shaking shoulders as the girl's tears began to fall in earnest. The pain and anger that had been driving Rogue for the last year had dissolved into misery and confusion, and Ororo prayed that Rogue would be able to sort through it all.

And she prayed that Logan would heal, because losing him now would complete the destruction that had begun within Rogue. If Logan died, the hope that flared within Rogue now would die, too, leaving only despair.