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"Jean."

She jerked from the microscope, almost knocking over the test-tubes carefully arranged at her elbow. He couldn't do it often--surprise her like that. Damn, she was concentrating harder than she thought.

"Scott." He smiled when she looked up--a particular smile, meant only for her, and she grinned quickly. With all that confidence that even his youth couldn't diminish, he crossed the lab, a gentle hand sliding around her waist.

"You done?" A breath in her ear, a different question in the two words she wanted to answer a different way.

"Not quite." With a regretful tilt of the head, she brushed a kiss across his cheek. "Another hour. I want to finish updating the med records."

He didn't complain--if there was anything grafted into Scott Summers' soul without appeal, it was his sense of duty. Even at ten o'clock at night. So he nodded, stepping back with another smile, occupying himself with her computer while she watched him. The brush of neatly trimmed hair on his collar, the sharp lines of his clothes. So very Scott, with perfect posture and quiet movements, knowing she would need the silence to concentrate.

Microscope. Right. Back to work.

"We got a call from Logan," Scott tossed over his shoulder. Jean blinked, a little startled by the change in topic, turning around to view her fiancée's broad back.

"He found her?"

Scott half-turned, nodding.

"Traced her through two motels. He thinks it'll be another day before he catches up. But he did ask that you be ready to test her the second she's in the school." A pause, and Scott's voice dropped. "I guess we've got confirmation now."

It would be interesting to speculate how Logan had determined for certain Rogue was toying with narcotics when he hadn't even seen her yet--in fact, Jean had been itching for almost a year to sit him down and run him through the whole battery of sensory tests and try to get a pinpoint of his limits.

"Yeah. How was he?"

A low laugh.

"Not very happy." Then silence, and Jean opened her mind, letting herself catch the feeling of him--anger, yes, frustration, definitely, and running under it all, that curious Scott-specific sense of personal failure, that one of their own had somehow gotten this far without being nudged back properly, and it hurt her.

"Scott, no one knew."

It was hours of trying to get through to Rogue in their weekly therapy sessions, how fast she was learning what disturbed them, how quickly she adapted to telepathic and empathic nudges. When she deliberately summoned all of Eric left in her to throw the Professor off, when she murmured with a gentle grin the images Logan had of Jean in his head.

She wasn't sure. God, she couldn't be sure at all, even clamping her shields down, a flush burning into her cheeks, the Professors' gaze on her. After time, you would think that attack would fade. Rogue used it when she was cornered, the one way she knew could bring Jean down, assaulting her with images that forced her to throw her shields up so hard she couldn't feel anything but the hammer of her heart and the unnatural arousal stealing up her body.

"We should have."

Jean was in the present with a jerk and blinked at Scott, who was watching her with a tight mouth. Still thinking about Rogue. {Rogue. Right.}

"Even the Professor didn't guess until her accounts were drained." Jean turned to her microscope, knowing she wouldn't get anything else done tonight. A pause. "When she gets back, we'll start all over again. Try to find out what went wrong. Help her."

"Yeah." Soft. Before she could drag up any more uncomfortable memories, Jean began to reorganize her space. "You want to help me clean up?" A pulse of heat low in her stomach, and Scott turned around, as aware as she was of what was moving in her, even if he didn't know why. Crossing the two steps between them, lifting her onto the wide, low table, while she pushed the files carefully out of the way, scope out of range, lifting her head to gaze in his eyes.

She closed her eyes at the first brush of his fingers against her skin.

"At your service, Jean."

* * * * *

The air was painfully dry--Phoenix was a true city of the desert, not so much born as created in a sheer act of will, but lovely for all that, if you had any aesthetic taste. And if you didn't absolutely hate the sight of it.

After two days, Logan learned whole new dimensions to the word hate.

"I'm going to fucking lock her in her room." He had a litany he used driving between spots. It helped. "I'm going to tie her to her bed for the fucking next year. And I'm going to rip out the throats of every fucking person who dragged her along on this little road trip." In the back of his mind, though, he knew that little Marie was not exactly a follower. This little exercise had been all her idea--the trails of motels and frightened managers proved that. Hell, the city proved that, and yes, after two days, one police raid, and an extremely unhelpful interrogation of a motel manager, he knew this was a Marie-type message to him. Fuck if he knew what it was, though.

Fuck if he could figure out why, either.

Logan groped in the passenger seat for his box of cigars, recently bought--so that'd been worth it, his contacts here had gotten him Cubans--and considered the variety of punishments he had in store for the little brat, not the least of which was treating her to a lecture unlike *anything* she'd hear at the Mansion.

"Fuck." Biting off the tip, he groped for his lighter, wishing for the tenth time that the car had a built-in lighter, because damn if he wasn't losing his every second of every day. Stared out the windshield, pulling up the crumpled piece of paper with a watery address scrawled across it, close to the airport. The idiot hadn't taken as much persuasion as Logan had really wanted to utilize, and that just made his mood worse.

Abandoned warehouses. Perfect.

Three blocks away, Logan parked the car, knowing for a fact that any thief who tried to lift that baby had quite a shock coming to him, and tucked the keys in his boot before pulling out another cigar. He was way too fucking old (memory problem aside) to be wandering around this sort of place. Even from here, he could pick up the beat of the music, the scent of sweat and youth, alcohol and God knew things he didn't even *want* to identify carrying on dry air, just above the rot of abandoned buildings and the smell he'd long associated with decay, carried on cold, dry air.

It was an easy walk--they weren't hiding themselves too well, which meant he really didn't have all that much time. God, in a crowd, though, finding her would take awhile. And screw trying to ask around--if these kids weren't too high or drunk, Logan was willing to bet that saying a young girl with white streaks was gonna be a description of half the girls here. Broken pavement under his boots, the air that odd dry cold that just felt unnatural to a man who'd lived most of his winters surrounded by snow and ice. Made him edgy. Probably not the best thing to be in a group of barely-teenagers. Damn.

Because he was Logan and he liked reconnaissance, he took the back way, coming inside a darkened area full of remarkably vocal people--oh fuck, the scent was enough. With care--and not a little amusement, though shit, he shouldn't be amused--he picked his way to the wall, following it to the main room, coming out in brilliant illumination from what very well could have been dozens of revolving lights along the high ceiling Giving them a look once his eyes adjusted, he recognized the meld of technology and someone's very convenient mutation in the rippling colors.

And they called this music? He could feel the steady, addictive beat in the balls of his feet, working its way through his body effortlessly.

Logan stood perfectly still, letting himself adjust to the incredible sound, the smell--God, it was strong, how the fuck was he supposed to pick her out of this mess? But really, it wasn't an option not to--and the very fact he'd found this little party this easily, that these kids were advertising big time--well, that meant he had to get Marie and get her out in under an hour. Police intervention he did not need, thank you.

Slowly, he opened his senses, using them as he rarely did, trying to focus on scent after scent, searching for familiarity in the scramble of light and color and sound. Damn. He was picking up everything in here, everything in the room he'd just abandoned, and he couldn't pretend it wasn't having an unhealthy affect on him. Probably not a good idea to stay long.

With an act of will, he assessed the masses of twisting bodies of kids that by rights should have been at home in their pajamas, playing with their fucking dolls or whatever kids played with now. A girl who barely looked old enough to have reached puberty, dressed in little but stretch silver net, sliding up against him, and Logan didn't like himself any better for his instinctive reaction to the smell and feel of female flesh. Or for the fact he willingly slid one hand down her back, the feel of silky-soft skin padding her small bones, full red lips parting invitingly, pupils so dilated that she probably didn't have a fucking clue what the hell she was doing.

Fuck you, Logan, you've got to get going. This ain't what you wanna be thinking about. But he'd never stopped to control himself in his life, never needed to. That kind of self-discipline was utterly foreign. And shit, did he need it now.

God, she did smell good.

"Hey, baby, wanna dance?" Throaty, Midwestern twang. Not quite a native, completely not the girl he was looking for, and for all that, it took him a moment to register that he did *not* want to stare at her much longer. Blonde hair, lined blue eyes, and--

Get off it, Logan. You do not want to dance. Pushing her away, forcing his hand not to linger on that wonderfully silky skin--shit, the second he got Rogue home, he was going into New York and picking up the first willing woman he saw. He ducked through another knot of writhing--dancing?--teenagers, the heat beginning to get to him, sweat beading on the back of his neck. Finding a corner, he dropped his jacket--nothing important in it anyway--and went back in, mentally arming himself for being surrounded by young, high, extremely attractive and oh-so-willing girls. This had to be some sort of torture.

And he snapped his head around at a cool breeze in the overheated room, carrying a familiar scent. Snagging a chair, Logan pushed a stumbling boy out of his way, climbing up--

--and fuck, he shoulda known. In the center, surrounded by a mass of mutant teenagers--he knew the difference between human and mutant scent--moving faster than the others. Flashes of silver white on dark brown, he'd know her anywhere. Sliding with utter and uncharacteristic abandon against another body--or three others, it was hard to separate the rest of the mass when he had his focus, leather-clad arms above her head, moving in rhythm to the heavy beat.

A drop into another group that--what the hell was with these girls anyway?--moved too fucking close and he ducked through, keeping a trace on that scent, growing steadily stronger, toward the center group, mixing scents. And Rogue, hair twisting around her, head thrown back, eyes closed against porcelain perfect cheeks.

She was well-surrounded--he outweighed and overmatched any of the idiots near her. Pick up one, toss, really didn't care where he landed--God, the kids probably thought they was flying--and suddenly he had a delicate, leather-coated elbow and turned her around, jerking her away from the guy who was nearly at her feet, meeting dilated brown eyes lined thickly with liquid black and not a kid at all.

And his reaction was just as instinctive, just as damning, and that was it--Logan was done feeling like a fucking pedophile.

"Marie."

"Logan." Thickly drawled, richly Mississippi, completely unsurprised. She freed her elbow, a grin turning up reddened lips and her eyebrows arched. "Took ya long enough."

All in black--something small and opaque beneath clinging black gauze that covered her from neck to an inch above her waist, black gloves licking her upper arms, inches of dangerous bare skin exposed. Tiny black skirt riding low on her hips, long black stockings, black heeled shoes--raised her almost to his height. If she was leaving anything to the imagination, it was only the way she'd feel under your fingers. Sweat was beading on her forehead and made the gauze cling to her chest and back--he could smell the sweat on her, the perfume, beer, smoke, tobacco, whiskey, too many scents thickening around them and something in Logan's head began to pulse lightly at the trace of arousal. Hers.

"Out, Marie." The crowd surrounding her, perhaps picking up the impression that he was not one of them, was backing away, but Marie was moving to the music still, all liquid dark and boneless as a cat. Still staring at him with every twist of her hips that drew the eyes, and when the hell had she started looking like this, anyway?

"Dance with me, Logan." A brilliant smile, echoes of the girl in a hot Westchester summer on a thinner face. But only echoes, ones he could almost ignore.

"What the fuck are you on, Marie?" He got her wrist in one hand, twisting around to look at the others, wondering what they'd given her--and yeah, no fear, nothing but utter fascination for the stranger in their midst. Questioning them would be pointless. Forgetting them almost immediately when the music jumped a notch and the pulsing beat took them over again. Marie had stepped closer and a slow rub against him, and maybe it was in the air, it had to be, because he moved into it without thinking about it, forcing himself still at her slow smile, the light in her eyes.

"Nothin' hard, sugar. A little of this, l'il of that--" A low laugh, a slow sensuous writhing of her body with the heavy beat of the music. "Dance with me."

"We're going home."

"One dance." She slid back to the length his reach, turning in a slow circle, backing up against him, twisting his arm around her waist. His fingers brushed one leather-covered hip. "I'll go nice and quiet. Play with me, Logan. Just once. Then I'll be good--I'll be sooo good you'll be proud." Another twist against him, and he was looking down into her face. "C'mon, sugar, one dance never hurt anyone."

There were these things called right and fucking wrong. Very, very fucking wrong. So wrong that they hit all new depths even for him, and this was one of them. One of those moments that he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, was going to wake him up at night no matter what he did, because Marie wasn't a kid at all and maybe he could get back that illusion in Westchester, but he knew he couldn't here, no fucking way.

They weren't in New York and she wasn't in jeans and a t-shirt with her knees drawn up to her chest, scrubbed face smiling up at him.

She took the decision out of his hands, twisting her wrist around her own back so his arm circled her, sliding her other lightly around his waist, fingers crawling slowly up his back. Through three layers of material, he could feel the draw of her nails.

"One dance, sugar. I'll be good. I promise."

It was such a little thing. He moved without meaning to, when she slid a leg between his, head tilted back, exposing the long line of her throat. She brought her captured wrist back around, then a slow and utterly fascinating slide down his body until she rested on the balls of her feet, less than an inch from the ground, staring up at him all the time and he switched his grip to her fingers, pulling her back up slowly, feeling the drag of her body over his thighs, his groin, his chest and finally he was staring into her eyes and it was hard to remember she was walking death with a touch to that white skin.

It was hard to remember to breathe.

"Yes, baby," she whispered, grinding down against his leg, and a breath when he pulled her flat against him, sliding an arm around her waist. A breathless moment where she met his eyes, and that scent again, pure arousal now, gloved fingers digging into the back of his neck. "Play with me."

He moved with her because there wasn't anything else to do--everything was the press of her breasts against his chest, the slow draw of her fingers over his shoulders, the hips he found himself holding, glad he'd worn gloves, wondering suddenly when he'd put them on--then it was all gone in a slow hot haze when she rocked against him, slowly bending herself backward, like a fucking offering, and images of what he wanted to do with her--what he could do with her, burning to inevitable life a little subsection of his mind, everything that could be accomplished while she wore just gauze and her gloves and those heels.

"Marie."

"Rogue," she whispered, a slow sensuous straightening of her body, another rock against him and he pushed her into a wall, startled by how sudden it was and not even caring. "Just Rogue now." Staring down at him and he pushed her up higher, one heeled foot scraping against the concrete before he felt the sharp bite of it in the back of his thigh and he caught the soft gauze-covered flesh of her shoulder between his teeth, feeling the jerk of her body, the tightening of her hands. God, she tasted as good as she looked, even through thin cloth. Something forbidden, which made it better, much better than anyone else he'd had in a long time. The bite of her nails through thin leather and his shirt, a slow line down his back, the bruising skin he was enjoying beneath his lips "Yes, Logan--yes, sugar."

He rocked between her legs, the smell of arousal stronger, the leather of her hands sliding over his throat, finding the buttons of his shirt, ripping one off and dropping it to the floor. Her other leg came up, circling his waist and he pressed against her, lifting his head to stare at her lips, into her eyes--

--dilated eyes. Fuck, she was drugged and he'd just lost his mind.

Before anything else could happen--before he remembered he carried condoms and why the hell had he brought them?--he dropped her, taking hold of her wrist, looking for the exit. Feeling the sweat drying on the back of his neck, ignoring the pulse over his entire body, the heat that wanted release and wanted it now, with her, right in this godforsaken former warehouse with dirt ground into the concrete floor under his feet.

Marie. Little Marie, and this was a new low even for him.

She didn't fight it, didn't say anything at all when he knocked people out of his way, half-wishing one of them would try to fight him, wishing one would show even the most passive of resistance, but he couldn't tune out the music that matched the hard beat of his blood, the violent need to just stop and forget why he was here and who she was and just call her Rogue when he pushed inside her the first time.

The dry cold seemed to freeze the sweat on the back of his neck and she shivered suddenly, reminding him he'd left his jacket somewhere in there. Everything told him not to go back in there with her--that if he did, he wouldn't leave again. Not when she stared up at him, licking her lips, and--God--

"You move, I find you. And I won't be nearly as fucking understanding. Stay right here." He sounded hoarse even to himself. God, don't follow him in. Don't do it. The double risk--he'd let her run before he walked back in there with her.

But she merely nodded, leaning back against the building, bracing a foot on the stone behind her, that tiny scrap of leather riding almost to her hips and the cold was doing something at least, it was giving him some semblance of sanity. He bit his lip, turning away, knocking aside anyone in the straight line he stalked to find his jacket, ignoring the scantily-dressed girls who pressed too close because in his mind there was only one scantily-dressed girl waiting outside for him--

No, God, she was *not* waiting for him, she was waiting to be hauled home and he'd be going as far away as possible.

Grabbing his jacket from a corner, he was back out in record time, almost expecting her to be gone, but she was still standing there, and he threw it at her without a word. Quietly--almost submissive if he hadn't just seen what she could do when she chose with just a movement of her body--she wrapped it around herself, smiling a little before he took hold of her wrist and led her to the car.

* * * * *

"Jean? JEAN!"

Jean opened anticlimactically cool eyes on the ceiling, with the pulse still throbbing in her head. "Yeah, Scott?" And her voice was normal, and that couldn't be right. He was braced on an elbow beside her, all neat white cotton shirt and concerned gaze behind red glasses. Her fiancée, her lover, Scott.

"You okay? Sounded like a bad dream." He gently stroked her hair back and Jean breathed out slowly, drawing her mind back into the present, into the soft sheets she'd purchased when they moved in together, the warm comforter spread over her--it was too hot. Impatiently, she pushed it down and off, and even her nightgown seemed too warm for her heated flesh, even in a Westchester winter.

"Jean?"

A slow nod, staring up at him numbly, almost unbelievingly, feeling the fingers still digging into her hips. Smiled, letting her eyes darken, watching for his unmistakable reaction, sick exultation spiraling through her when he leaned down to kiss her, covering her with his body, a body too light, a kiss too soft, but close enough. Close enough when she bit his lip and tasted tangy iron and felt his jerk, his surprise. Slid her fingers under his shirt, drawing her nails down hard enough to make him hiss, his grip on her hair tightening suddenly, making her gasp and arch her throat for him.

Eyes closed, rolling Scott on his back, staring down at him beneath her, shedding her nightgown and closing her teeth over the pulse of his throat, feeling the sick twist inside again.

All her mental shields clamped down. She didn't want to hear Rogue laugh.

* * * * *