by Mara

Summary: Jean finds that train rides are good places to think deep thoughts.

CONTINUITY: X2 didn’t happen, okay?
NOTES: This is based on a Challenge in a Can from
http://www.dymphna.net/challenge/: Jean/bittersweet/jewelry. Tremendous thanks
are due to Domenika, Naomi K., and Victoria P., all of whom provided assistance
on New York commuter trains to this Washington-area commuter. This story was
written in October 2002, but abandoned nearly completed. Minisinoo and Ozchick
tried to convince me to finish and post in February 2004. Thanks to both of them
for helpful suggestions I’m sure they’ve forgotten about!

* * * * *

The hiss of the rattling heaters almost drowned out the other sounds of the
train, but Jean could faintly hear the clickety-clack of wheels and it soothed
her. As she stared out the window, half her mind watched the passing scenery:
industrial parks, gray and dreary; aluminum-sided houses, almost painfully neat
in their identical rows; rows of trees, planted to beautify the train tracks.

Around her, people heading out of New York City into upstate napped, read,
chattered on cell phones, and looked out the window. It was the usual assortment
for a commuter train off-peak, commuters in suits and ties rummaging through
briefcases, and occasional tourists or one-timers using the train to get in and
out of the city without driving. The tourists clutched their paper tickets,
while commuters tucked their monthly passes away.

The train whistle blew several long blasts and Jean glanced down at the papers
in her lap. She’d brought the seniors’ biology exams along on her trip,
intending to grade them, but she was distracted by the world outside the window
and the press of her own thoughts. Her meeting with other doctors working with
mutants had gone well, and that’s where her mind drifted.

“Did your husband give that to you?”

Jean looked up, startled by the words from the stranger next to her. “Excuse
me?”

The Metro North train was surprisingly full for mid-afternoon, so Jean could
hardly have complained when an elderly woman sat in the aisle seat of the three-
seater. Now, the woman smiled at the confusion on Jean’s face. “Sorry to
interrupt your thinking, dear. The necklace is so lovely, though, I was just
wondering if your husband gave it to you.”

Jean looked down at the charm on a silver chain with which she’d been fiddling
and let it slide through her fingers. A bird caught in flight, wings
outstretched, it was a piece of jewelry she loved, but rarely wore. Why had she
put it on this morning? “Yes, my husband did give it to me. Several years ago,
before we married.”

“You were thinking about him.” It wasn’t a question.

Jean reached out with her mind, paranoia making her wonder if this was a
telepath, a trap of some sort, hidden in the guise of an old woman in a tidy
green polyester pantsuit.

Apparently unaware of Jean’s test, the woman continued. “I’m sure that’s just
how I look when I think about my husband Arthur, God rest his soul.”

“I’m sorry,” Jean murmured automatically. The woman didn’t seem to be a
telepath, just perceptive.

“Thank you, dear. He died five years ago, so I’ve had some time to get over it.”
But the woman blinked a few times, pushing back tears before smiling at Jean
again. “But I do still miss him.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you were thinking good thoughts about your husband. So many unhappy
marriages these days, I find it upsetting.”

Jean picked the charm off her chest and looked at it again. “I wouldn’t say we
have an unhappy marriage, it’s just…difficult. We both have so many
responsibilities.”

The woman patted her hairsprayed coiffure and leaned her head to one side as she
regarded Jean. “Responsibilities.”

Jean felt her face flush. Why did she feel a need to justify herself to this
stranger? She frowned and glanced back at the papers in her lap.

The woman seemed once again to sense her thoughts. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to
interrogate you. You just looked as if you were worrying about something, and it
might help to talk.”

Sighing, Jean relaxed. Not everything is a threat, she told herself, and not
everyone you meet is a supervillain. “You’re right, I suppose I was worrying a
bit.”

“If you’d like to talk about it, I’ve ‘been around the block a few times,’ as my
son says. Perhaps I could give you some advice.”

“It’s a complicated situation.”

“Aren’t situations involving other people always complicated?”

“I suppose so.” Jean laughed, and leaned back in her seat, freed somehow by the
anonymity of the train. Outside, the air was chill and damp, and numerous mutant
problems awaited her, but for now, she was just a woman on a train with marriage
problems and someone willing to listen. It was almost as if they were outside of
time and space.

“So what *is* the trouble, then?”

“Too many things to do, not enough hours in the day.” Jean held the bird charm
in her hand, sliding it back and forth, reminded of the day Scott gave it to
her. “I feel as though we’re moving apart.”

“It doesn’t take a great deal of time to keep your marriage alive.” Jean looked
up at the woman, who was looking at her diamond ring with a fond smile. “Arthur
and I ate breakfast together every morning for 42 years. Sometimes that
breakfast consisted solely of a piece of toast and some juice, but we only
missed breakfast if he was out of town.”

Jean chuckled at the thought of her and Scott facing each other over a breakfast
table, surrounded by arguing children and teachers discussing lesson plans.
“That sounds lovely, but it’s not entirely practical for us. By the time I get
to breakfast, Scott is already…,” shooting robots in the Danger Room,
“exercising. And then our teaching schedules and other duties keep us separate.”

“It doesn’t have to be as formal as breakfast. When was the last time you told
him you loved him?”

Jean had to think about it. Of course, Scott could feel her emotions to some
extent through their psilink, but she couldn’t say that, and she suspected that
wasn’t quite the same thing.

“You’d be surprised how helpful it is to look him in the eye and say you love
him. Men need constant reminders of these things.”

“I’ll try that.” Jean looked down at the bird again. “I know I like it when he
says it.”

She could see Scott’s hands holding the necklace and wearing a cockeyed grin.
“I’m not sure why,” the Scott in her memory said, “but the bird reminds me of
you, so I had to buy it. I love you, Jean.”

Two blasts on the train whistle reminded her where she was; the memory faded and
Jean let the bird drop back onto her chest.

“It’s important,” the woman said, leaning forward in her seat. “You never know
how long you’ll keep your husband, so be certain that if the Lord takes him,
you’re ready.”

Jean had a sudden vision of Magneto pinning Scott to the wall inside the Statue
of Liberty. “It could happen at any time.”

“Life is dangerous.”

“And considering that we’re school teachers, ours are considerably more
dangerous than one might expect.” Jean managed a smile.

A few seats ahead of them, a mother and child argued over a piece of candy, both
obviously exhausted from a day of sightseeing. Jean was tall enough to see the
look on the woman’s face as she tried to explain the necessity of dinner before
dessert.

“Do you have children?”

Jean looked back. She’d momentarily forgotten the old woman, who was regarding
her now with some amusement.

“No, not yet. Well, unless you count our students. The school is residential, so
we’re in loco parentis for some very…troubled students.” Jean sighed, reminded
that the matter of Rogue’s mutation still had yet to be solved, and she’d
promised to do some extra tutoring for Jubilee, who was having trouble in
chemistry. Not to mention the necessity to keep Angelo and Jono busy and out of
trouble. So much to do and so little energy.

“That’s difficult work, working with troubled youngsters. I was lucky enough to
be blessed with wonderful children. Although,” she smiled a mischievous smile,
“my youngest could be quite a handful. The mouth he had on him!”

“We have a few of those as well.” Jean chuckled, reminded of the time she caught
Logan and Bobby having an awkward conversation about why *Logan* could use
certain words, and Bobby couldn’t.

“It sounds as though the students are very important to you.”

“Oh, they are. No matter how difficult they can be, our jobs are so important.
It wasn’t what I planned to do, perhaps, but now I couldn’t leave. And Scott
feels the same, I know.”

“But is it more important than your marriage?”

“They’re not comparable.” Jean frowned.

“But they do compete.”

“I suppose so. And Scott wants me to avoid certain…” she paused, searching for
safe words, “activities. He worries so much, that sometimes he tries to coddle
me.”

“Because he loves you.”

“Yes, but…when I left this morning we fought over it. He says I’m being too
stubborn, doing things I don’t have to just to prove something.”

“Is he right?”

“Sometimes.” Jean managed a wan smile. “But not all the time. I do what’s
necessary to get the job done. He’s just taken so much on himself, he feels
responsible for the whole world and it maddens me to see him like that. So we
fight.”

“But you’re wearing the necklace he gave you,” the woman said, pointing.

Jean realized her hand had crept up to hold it again. “Yes,” she said slowly, “I
suppose I was thinking about how happy we were when he gave it to me.”

“Your school is residential, you said?”

Jean nodded.

“Then perhaps you haven’t considered that you owe it to your students to work on
your marriage.” The woman smiled.

“I’m not following you.”

“As teachers, you’re role models to your students, and it’s your responsibility
to give them the best model for their future life that you can. Show them that
work is more important than a spouse and that is the lesson they will take with
them.”

Jean stared down at her hands. “I never thought of it that way.”

“Mamaroneck,” the conductor called over the loudspeaker.

The woman glanced out the window. “This is my stop.”

There was a squeal and a shiver as the train slowed down and made its way along
the outdoor platform.

The woman stood up in her seat, but didn’t enter the aisle. She turned back long
enough to say, “Good luck, Dr. Grey.”

Jean froze. “How…”

“My grandson and I saw you on television last year when you testified before
that congressional committee. My grandson loves C-SPAN.”

Jean was speechless.

The woman looked past Jean, her expression worlds away. “I remember when blacks
went to separate schools. I was born not long before Hitler killed the Jews. You
do very important work, Dr. Grey. But remember what I said: Your marriage is as
important as that job.”

“I’ll remember.”

The train shuddered to a stop and the woman made her way out of the train onto
the platform, late afternoon sunlight slanting across the tracks. Still dazed,
Jean watched the woman–whose name she’d never learned–walk down the platform.
With a slight jerk, the train pulled away, taking her back home, back to her
husband.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: The Rosh Hashana sermon of Rabbi Jacob Bloom of Congregation Beth Tikva.

by Mara

Summary: Often both sides of an argument seem clear-cut to the participants.

CONTINUITY/SPOILERS: X3 spoilers ahoy! Be aware, however, that in my
version of X3, the Phoenix storyline *didn’t* happen.

NOTES: This story is MsCongeniality’s fault, for giving me the idea
while we were discussing the multitude of scenes missing from X3.
Thanks to Minisinoo and Xandri for betareading.

* * * * *

It was fortunate, Warren thought, that he was no stranger to boarding
school living. Otherwise, he’d be at a total loss as to how to take
care of himself in the chaos of the Xavier School for Gifted
Youngsters.

Visions of frying pans and fires danced in his head as he meandered
around, watching and listening to the students who gathered in hallways
and bedrooms and common spaces to discuss the weird goings-on. One
teacher had apparently died recently, another was so depressed that he
was never around, and the headmaster seemed to *know* this Magneto who
was threatening everyone.

Warren rather liked the hullabaloo because it kept his mind off his
*own* woes, and right now, that could only be a good thing. And the
anonymity of just being ‘Warren,’ not the scion of the Worthington
fortune, was refreshing.

He’d managed to scrape up something to eat, and found other necessities
of life, and now was looking in wonder at the variety of mutations
around him.

Due to his ‘position’ once his wings had appeared, he’d been pretty
isolated. He’d had a few agemates with little mutations they’d
successfully hidden from their parents: Dylan, who could project a
small beam of light no bigger than a flashlight, and Sonia, who could
lift things like feathers or paper with her mind.

But here a young boy casually sped down the hallway an inch off the
ground while a girl in a bright yellow jacket chased after him,
projecting sparklers from her fingers. One of the teachers apparently
controlled the weather and there was the guy who was blue and furry. It
was hard to take in.

Glancing at his watch, he turned down another hallway, looking for
Rogue’s room. He’d managed pretty well on his own, but he had a few
questions and Ms. Munroe had promised that Rogue would help him.

Approaching the door, he noted how most of the woodwork glowed with age
to match the exterior of the mansion. But there were so many patches
and repairs, something most people who hadn’t grown up in a similar
environment would notice. Why were–

Oh.

Warren felt stupid. A school for mutants probably *did* need more
repairs than the average pile of stones.

He knocked on Rogue’s door, noting a section of floor that had been
replaced. There was no answer and he was about to turn away, when he
was certain he heard a sound. With a slight frown, he knocked again.
“Rogue, are you there?”

Another silence and then, “Uh, Warren?”

“Yeah. Are you busy?” He used his most plaintive tone, the one that
always made his governesses give him another cookie.

It apparently worked just as well on mutant teenage girls, as a moment
later the door opened a bit. Rogue looked like she wanted to slip out
into the hallway, but Warren stood his ground, smiling at her.

The look she gave him said she wasn’t fooled, but she stepped back,
opening the door to let him step in and shutting it quickly behind him.

His eyebrows shot up when he realized her room was almost as bare as
his, because most things were packed into a box in the corner or the
suitcase on the bed. “Going somewhere?”

She turned away and continued stuffing a pile of scarves into the
suitcase. “Looks like it.”

Warren swallowed, fighting unexpected panic at being abandoned by
practically the only person he’d yet spoken to at length. But he was a
Worthington, no matter what that name meant right now, and he wouldn’t
show his fear here. Bad enough he’d– “Is this the best time to take
off?”

Her chin went up at his tone and she faced him. “I’ve got someplace I
need to be.”

Warren’s heart felt like it stopped. She couldn’t mean what he thought
she meant. “I hope you’re not thinking of getting the cure.”

“And what if I am?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

What he’d gone through to get here and she– “You’re going to run out
and let them neuter you? How could you?” He was nearly shouting.

Her eyes widened in surprise, but she lashed back. “What do you care?
Pretty boy, you don’t *kill* people just by touching them. It’s easy
for you.” She ripped off a glove and stepped toward him, hand bare.

Warren stood his ground. “You think it’s easy for me?” He shrugged off
the heavy shirt that was his constant companion, let his wings touch
the walls to either side. For an instant he felt claustrophobic, unable
to stretch any further. “How am I supposed to pass like this? But I
can’t give them up, they’re a part of me.”

“Well, if killing anyone I touch is part of me, I’m ready to rip it
out.” Rogue glared, shaking her head. “Nobody’s being forced to do
this.”

“Yes, they are! My father was going to force me!”

“But–”

“My name is Warren *Worthington*. As in Worthington Industries. You may
have heard of my father’s company.” Warren pulled his wings in,
wrapping them around his body for comfort.

She stared at him, eyes wide.

Warren’s knees were weak and he sat down on the bed. “He…when he told
me about it, he said he did it all for me. They strapped me to this
thing, and the doctor had the needle…I changed my mind, but they
weren’t going to let me go.”

“Warren, I–”

“I jumped through the window and flew away,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, sitting down at the other end of the bed. He
noticed how she simultaneously tried to get close to comfort him, while
staying as far away as possible.

“It’s not your fault my father’s a jerk,” he said, looking down at the
tips of his wings.

“No, I mean I’m sorry for saying it was easy for you. I ought to know
better. It ain’t easy for any of us.” She slipped her glove back on and
twisted her hands in her lap.

Warren closed his eyes, thinking of the years when his father tried to
hide him, then when he tried to find clothes to hide the wings.

“Warren?”

He started. He’d almost forgotten where he was. “Huh?”

“Your dad, he oughtn’t have done that. But…I’m not sorry about the
cure.”

Warren didn’t trust himself to speak.

“My first boyfriend? He, we kissed, and I nearly killed him. I screamed
and screamed and my mama and daddy were afraid of me all the time and
the doctors too. I still feel him in my head sometimes.” Rogue’s hands
were clenched so hard, her knuckles were probably white under the
gloves. “Everybody I’ve touched since this happened to me–they’re all
in there at least a little.”

“Oh.” Warren shivered. “I didn’t know.”

“I don’t talk about it much. And you’re new.” She looked up at him
through a fall of dark hair and a white streak. “I need this, Warren. I
could kill someone and not even mean it. Someday I will if I don’t do
this.”

“Can’t they teach you how to control it? Turn it on and off?”

She shook her head. “They’ve tried. The Professor, he still thinks we
can figure it out. Maybe if…”

Warren waited, but she didn’t seem to remember he was there. “If what?”

Rogue looked at him, expression even more bleak. “If Dr. Grey weren’t
dead. She died when, well, she died saving us from being drowned.”

“I’m sorry.”

Rogue looked down at her hands again. “So am I.”

She looked up again, studying his wings. He twitched once, but the way
she looked wasn’t anything like the way his father looked at them or
the doctors. She looked a little intrigued, actually. “Can I help you?”
he asked after a moment.

Rogue blushed. “I was just wondering what it feels like.”

“To have wings?”

“To fly.”

Warren closed his eyes and remembered wind sliding off his back,
freedom, the rush, like the world’s best roller coaster he never had to
get off. “It’s amazing.”

“And that’s why you don’t want the cure.” It wasn’t a question.

“I sort of did, at first. I guess.” Warren couldn’t quite remember when
the subject of an *actual* cure had first come up, since his father had
been obsessed with the subject since his wings had appeared. “It meant
so much to him and I…” He shrugged.

Rogue nodded as if she understood and Warren realized she probably did.
Absently, he ran his fingers along the flight feathers on both wings,
making sure they were undamaged.

“Your feathers are pretty,” she said, voice soft.

“Thank you.” Warren stroked the primaries. “When I was on that table–
god, this is so stupid.”

She smiled. “I promise I won’t think you’re stupid.”

Staring at the bland institutional carpeting, Warren focused on a
frayed spot just inside the doorway. “They started to strap me down and
it suddenly occurred to me that this meant I would lose my wings. How
dumb is that? My dad’s been talking about a cure for years and I didn’t
really think about it.” Closing his eyes, he remembered the pain and
fear in his father’s eyes when he broke free of the restraints.

“And then, when you thought about it?”

“The whole night before, I tried to imagine being without them, and it
was like,” he flexed his wings, searching for the right words, “like
allowing someone to cut off your perfectly good hands or feet. I
freaked.” His heart raced at the memory.

“Hey, Warren,” Rogue said, making an abortive movement to touch him,
“it’s okay, you’re safe here.”

“Are you sure?”

She hesitated and he wondered what she was remembering. “Yes,” she said
finally and there was certainty in her eyes.

Warren nodded, choosing to believe her, although he didn’t know why.

“Do you hate your dad?” Rogue asked.

“I–” He stopped to think about it. “I’m not sure. I’m angry. I did
hate him, at the time. But now…I don’t know.”

She wrapped her arms across her stomach. “I don’t think you should.
Trying to force you was wrong, but he was trying to help.”

Wanting to argue, Warren pressed his lips together and let her finish.

“My parents, they just wanted me back the way I was,” she said. “They’d
have done anything to fix what was wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me!”

“I know.” She hugged herself harder. “But your dad didn’t see that.”

Warren didn’t want to agree. But it was true. His father just didn’t
understand and he’d never tried to make him understand. He’d always
kind of figured that eventually his father would stop being so upset by
the wings.

“Warren?”

“I’m okay. I…you’re right. I’m sure he thought he was doing the right
thing.” His voice sounded oddly rusty to his own ears.

“Are you gonna be okay?” Rogue looked worried about him. “I need to
leave soon before Ms. Munroe or Bobby–he’s my boyfriend–realizes
where I’m going.”

Warren nodded. “I’ll be fine. So, I can’t change your mind?”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to kill anyone. I don’t want anyone
else’s memories in my head.”

“Then,” he took a deep breath and sat up straight, “I’ll wish you good
luck and I hope that the cure makes your life better.”

Her smile was lovely. “Thank you. I hope you…enjoy your wings. And
I’ll see you when I get back, ‘kay?”

“Maybe I’ll take you flying.” Warren managed a fairly creditable smile
for her and standing, he began the process of rebinding his wings.

“Warren,” she said hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to do that, y’hear?” She pointed at the harness. “Not
at the mansion.”

“Oh!” He froze, uncertain what to do. “I’ve never…” He held his shirt
in one hand.

“When I get back, I’ll help you alter your shirts to accommodate the
wings,” she said. “I’m a pretty good seamstress.”

Warren closed his eyes against an excess of emotion. “I’d like that,”
he said. “For now, maybe I’ll go flying.”

–end–

by Mara

Summary: When Scott loses a bet to Jean, she comes up with a…unique way for
him to pay up.

The sun was almost directly above the mansion and there wasn’t a cloud in the
sky. Under most circumstances, this would please Scott, but today he’d been
hoping for a violent hurricane. A monsoon. Maybe a tornado?

A light breeze drifted through the shrubbery, carrying the scent of azaleas.
Scott groaned and tried to step backward.

Jean patted Scott on the cheek as she herded him out the front door. “Look at it
this way: If you’re lucky, maybe Magneto will attack on the way there.”

“I *wish*,” he muttered, scowling at her as she leaned her head back and
laughed.

Ororo came down the stairs at a jog. “I could accompany you, if you need help.”

“Oh no.” Jean shook her head firmly, waving her back. “No way. He lost the bet
fair and square and he’s not wriggling out of this.” Ororo shrugged and turned
down the hall toward the kitchen, unsuccessfully hiding a smile.

Birds chirped in the trees, as if they were also laughing at him and Scott
decided the entire universe hated him. “If I’d known,” he said, almost pleading,
“that Jubilee and Angelo were *capable* of behaving themselves in class for an
entire week, I would never have agreed to the bet in the first place.”

“You’re a pessimist,” Jean said, crossing her arms.

“A realist.” Scott corrected her as he checked his pockets.

Heaving a sigh, Jean watched him. “The keys are already in the ignition. Your
driver’s license is in your wallet in your right pocket. The car is waiting and
you have to go now.”

Scott wavered. He could beg. Maybe if he offered back rubs for a month? To spend
less time working on the jet? Anything else?

Her smile beatific, Jean pointed toward the Ford Explorer sitting in the drive.
“Go.”

Scott manfully suppressed a whimper. “Ave, Caesar, morituri te salutamus.”
Turning, he trudged down the walk toward his doom.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Scott. You’re not actually going to *die*.” She closed
the front door with a resounding thud, which echoed in the courtyard.

Really, Scott thought, there was only one thing that would make this moment even
worse. He thanked whatever deity might be listening that Logan was still off on
his quest, then looked around hastily, lest the universe teleport him back in
time to witness this humiliation.

“C’mon, Mr. Summers,” Jubilee called, leaning out the window of the SUV, “it’s
almost 12 o’clock! The mall closes in nine hours and we’ve got a lot of shopping
to do.”

Scott rubbed his temples and got into the driver’s seat, glancing around to make
sure nobody was missing. No, there were Jubilee, Rogue, Kitty, Betsy, Monet, and
Paige, all lined up in their seats looking like cats with their eyes on a
particularly tasty fish.

Jean opened the door and leaned back out. “Oh, and try and look interested,
would you, Scott?”

Scott decided he hated his life.

* * * * *

Very few people knew that besides his unusual visual skills, Scott also had the
more common ability of passive absolute pitch: He could identify and name
individual notes or groups of notes. It was useless, he’d found, since he
couldn’t *produce* those notes on command, just recognize them–an extension of
his excellent memory.

All of which made for a great party trick and an absolute hatred of mall music,
which always seemed to be transposed to a different key or played at a
nonstandard pitch.

It gave him a headache every single time.

Scott paused at the door, glaring through the glass with loathing at the milling
hordes. Jubilee took his left hand and Paige his right.

“It’s okay, Mr. Summers,” Paige said in what was meant to be a kind tone, but
came out sounding like a parent trying to convince a child that shots weren’t
really that bad. “It’s just one day at the mall,” she said, “how bad can it be?”

“You’re kidding, right?” he asked as they led him through the doors.

“Okay,” Jubilee said, taking point. “We agreed we’d hit Hot Topic first, right?”

Monet sighed. “If you insist. However, I find the store quite wearying.”

Scott realized he was in the odd position of agreeing with Monet about
something. Proving that *anything* was possible at least once.

“I promise we’ll take you and Betsy someplace appropriately snooty before the
day is over,” Kitty said with a grin.

Betsy and Monet both sighed.

“As long as I get to go to Old Navy for pants,” Rogue said.

“Yes yes,” Jubilee said. “Let’s go. We’ve got important shopping to do, ladies.”

Scott followed in their wake as the strangely assorted gaggle of girls swept
semi-majestically down the corridor. He winced as the public address system
blared out a hideous instrumental version of “Stairway to Heaven.”

* * * * *

The procession came to a stop in front of something that looked like a
nightclub. “This is Hot Topic?” Scott said, his voice faint. “Are you sure–”

But the girls were already in the store and Scott dashed in, odd
lights winking off…was that a collar? A chain?

If he lived through this day, Scott decided, he was going to *kill* Jean for not
warning him that there was something that looked like an *S&M dungeon* in the
local mall.

There were *corsets* over there and satin things…and…

His students were happily congregated on the other side of the store looking at
jewelry and t-shirts. Monet and Betsy were laughing at Jubilee as she waved her
hands at a rack of t-shirts, and he decided to let them sort that out
themselves.

Paige’s mouth was pinched in mild disapproval and Scott went to stand with her.
“Not your favorite store?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know what my momma would think of it.”

“Paige, c’mere,” Rogue called. “I need you to look at these earrings.”

Scott hid a grin as Paige forgot her misgivings and dashed over to inspect the
apparently vitally important accessory. Then he resolutely turned his back on
the wall of terrifying unmentionables and concentrated on keeping Kitty away
from clothing that bared too much of her skin.

* * * * *

Fortunately for Scott’s nerves, Hot Topic was the most terrifying store they
visited. Victoria’s Secret ran a close second, but fortunately, when they got
*there*, the girls strictly ordered him to stand outside the entrance with the
fathers, boyfriends, and husbands.

Scott was irresistibly reminded of a doctor’s office, with a corner full of men
avoiding each other’s eyes and trying not to blush. Leaning against a fake
pillar, he was briefly glad that he couldn’t see colors, as the overwhelming
amount of pink would otherwise be sickening.

Although the pink couldn’t possibly be as bad as the fact that the music coming
from overhead had moved on to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell.” Scott wondered if it
would really be a problem if he punctured his eardrums to survive the day.

It seemed to be days before his giggling students emerged from the store, but
his watch claimed it was only 20 minutes. He frowned at them, trying to decide
if he was supposed to ask anything. Certainly he didn’t want to *see* what
they’d bought. He squirmed at the thought. No, his responsibilities as the man
in loco parentis definitely didn’t extend to supervising the purchases of
unmentionables.

Jubilee grinned at him and the blush he’d been fighting promptly emerged. He
glared at her and she grabbed Kitty’s arm. “C’mon,” she said, “let’s go get
coffee!”

Scott sensibly dove out of the way as six girls made a run for Starbucks.
Fighting Magneto was one thing, but getting between teenage girls and a chai
latte was suicidal.

* * * * *

Betsy and Monet finally gained control of the outing and the group moved on into
the more expensive niches of the mall. Scott raised an eyebrow as he caught a
glimpse of the price tags in Lord & Taylor, and most of the girls were obviously
restricting themselves to window-shopping here.

Betsy, however, made a beeline for a complicated piece of black fabric that
seemed to have straps or…something. Monet tilted her head this way and that as
Betsy held it up in front of her, then started to mutter arcane incantations
concerning accessories and silk and…Scott walked over to where Paige was
pointing to a flowery dress that looked like nasty wallpaper.

“I’m telling you, my gramma had a housecoat that looked just like that,” she
said, covering her mouth to stifle the giggles.

Kitty nodded. “Mine too. Maybe it’s back in fashion.”

“Kitty,” Jubilee said, peering at the dress, “that pattern was *never* in
fashion.”

Scott jumped when someone sniffed. Reminding himself it might be a bit of a
giveaway to hit someone with his beams, he lowered his hand from his glasses and
looked at the woman behind him.

From the bun resting atop her head, to the glasses attached to a chain around
her neck, to the severe dark-colored suit, she was the very image of a
librarian, if hell had a chief librarian. Her tag insisted that she was the
floor manager in the store.

Jubes and the woman eyed each other warily and Scott wondered if he was going to
have to break up a fight.

“Is there a problem?” the manager said, her lips missing a sneer by a hair.

Scott opened his mouth but Rogue beat him to it. “No, ma’am, no problem. We’re
just looking at the clothing.”

“Perhaps,” the manager said, “if you don’t enjoy the clothing we sell, you might
move on to somewhere more suitable to your tastes.” She flicked a glance over
Paige’s denim and t-shirt, Jubilee’s yellow jacket, and Rogue’s enveloping
scarf. “Might I suggest the Wal-Mart down the street?”

Scott’s jaw dropped and there was a frozen moment where he didn’t know what
everyone was going to do.

“Pardon me,” Monet’s smooth and cultured voice said as she strode over. “Do you
work here?”

The manager smiled approvingly at Monet, whose long legs were encased in skin-
tight pants and her upper body draped in a maroon sweater. “Yes, I do. Can I
help you?”

Betsy came up beside Monet and smiled brightly. “Yes, you can.”

“You see,” Monet went on, “we were just about to spend hundreds of dollars in
your store, buying the latest fashions.”

“But then you insulted our friends,” Betsy said, still smiling. “So I think
we’ll go spend our money at Nordstrom instead.”

Monet gestured imperiously at Scott and the others. “Come along, everyone. We’ll
go to Nordstrom and then you must test the new Vera Wang fragrance at Sephora.”

She and Betsy swept toward the entrance in unison, looking very grownup and
graceful.

“Vera Wang?” Scott said, trailing after them. “I thought she did clothing?”

“Oh no,” Kitty said. “Don’t get M started please, or we’ll *never* shut her up.”

Behind him, Scott glimpsed the saleslady still standing where they’d left her,
jaw drooping and glasses sliding slowly down her nose.

Take *that*, he thought.

* * * * *

Old Navy was a relief, Scott decided, two hours later. It looked respectable. It
didn’t overwhelm his eyes with weird lights and reflections. It didn’t stink of
perfume and makeup and lotions. And the salespeople left you alone, which was
nice.

Most of the clothing was relatively harmless and the colors weren’t eye-
searingly awful. Scott took a deep breath and thought perhaps, just perhaps, he
might make it through the day.

Jubilee dithered over a rack full of cropped shirts, and Scott went over to try
and help. He figured it was simple self-preservation: If he helped her pick one,
it might not give him a heart attack when she wore it, and perhaps they could
leave the mall sometime this decade.

He glanced around and saw Paige and Kitty in the back of the store by a sale
rack of the odd skinny pants they’d seen everywhere, Monet hovering
(figuratively, not literally) by the door, and Rogue had her head bent over a
nearby pile of scarves, with Betsy looking on.

“I just don’t know if this color works on me,” Jubilee said. “What do you–oh,
never mind.” She popped her gum and waved at Rogue.

Behind his glasses, Scott rolled his eyes. He could never decide if she said
things like that on purpose, to needle him, or if she really kept forgetting
about the side effects of wearing red glasses. It was always hard to tell with
Jubilee.

There were several male voices a few racks away, and part of his brain paused to
listen to what they were saying.

“Dude, the one with the blonde hair is totally hottest,” one said. “I bet she’s
never done it. I could be her first.”

“No way,” another voice said, “the black chick is hotter. I’d totally do her.”

“What do you think the scarf is hiding?” a third voice said.

Jubilee was still talking to Rogue about the shirts, so she didn’t even notice
Scott sliding away and circling around the young men who were talking. All three
had the backwards baseball cap and baggy jeans look of boys trying to look like
gangsters, which wouldn’t have endeared them to Scott under *any* circumstances,
but especially not when they were leering at his students.

Not being battle-trained, they didn’t notice Scott until he stood directly
behind them. “You know,” he said, watching them jump with surprise, “any one of
those young ladies you’re eyeing could kick your ass with one hand tied behind
her back. And I wouldn’t need either hand.”

His voice grew lower as he spoke, and even the apparent leader–a particularly
repellant specimen in need of a bath–stepped back, nearly tripping over a
wheeled cart.

“In fact,” Scott continued, crossing his arms and flexing his biceps, “I would
recommend that you go somewhere else to ogle, because if you so much as stand
next to one of these ladies, I will return you to your parents minus at least
one portion of your body.”

Eyes wide, the boys stumbled away, tripping over each other in their haste to
get away from the crazy man, nearly knocking over piles of sweaters and vests.

A slow smile grew on Scott’s face. Now *that* was fun.

Betsy pushed through a rack of denim jackets and stomped up to him, scowling.
“You ruined it.”

“What?”

“I was just about to–”

“Wait!” Scott put up a hand to stop her. “Whatever you were about to say, I’m
sure it’s against school rules, so don’t tell me.”

She put her hands on her hips and waited.

“Unless…” He weakened. “Did it involve them seeing spiders?”

Betsy grinned. “Tarantulas. Big hairy ones.”

“I didn’t hear that,” he said with a firm nod. “Let’s go. I’m tired of this
store.”

Betsy grinned and efficiently rounded up her classmates to make their purchases.

Scott found himself smiling. His kids really *could* take care of themselves,
couldn’t they? And they took care of each other, which was even better.

* * * * *

Scott lost count of the stores they visited throughout the afternoon and early
evening, although he vaguely remembered something about eagles and an endless
array of stores selling music and…something about a debate over the coolness
of opaque stockings worn with shorts. That couldn’t be right, could it?

Hands laden with bags, Scott was about to elbow his way through the doors when
he stopped and tilted his head. The public address system was playing “I Will
Survive.”

With a chuckle, Scott followed his students into the parking lot.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Rogue asked as they stepped off the curb, and
she smiled at him from under her white streak of hair.

Scott slowed his walk to consider the question. Really, it hadn’t been all that
bad. They were good kids, even if he would never understand their music, their
dress sense, or many of their preoccupations. And it was sort of nice to get to
know them better. “No, it wasn’t so bad,” he agreed. “But you should still take
Jean or Ororo next time.”

Rogue laughed. “So…what are you going to do to get Dr. Grey back for this?”

Hands full, Scott couldn’t put a hand over his heart, but he projected sincerity
with all his might. “I lost the bet fairly, Rogue. I wouldn’t try and get
revenge.”

“Mm-hmm.” She paused, narrowing her eyes. “So, what are you going to do?”

Shrugging, he looked skyward for a moment. “I don’t know. Logan’s still got my
motorcycle. Maybe for my birthday, I’ll take her motorcycle shopping with Bobby
and Peter and Angelo.”

“Ooooh.” Jubilee turned around and stared at him. “That’s cold.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Scott said with a straight face.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: “An involuntary return to the point of departure is, without doubt, the
most disturbing of all journeys.”

“An involuntary return to the point of departure is, without doubt, the most
disturbing of all journeys.”
– Iain Sinclair, “Riverside Opportunities”

Marie decided that snuggling on the couch was the best thing *ever*. Not that
she’d say that to anyone, because it’d probably get turned into a dirty joke or
something. But in the privacy of her own mind, she relished the ability to rub
her cheek against Bobby’s neck and tuck his arm more firmly around her.

Well, there was also the little matter of the voices in her head fading quickly
until all she retained was an odd fondness for Canadian beer. And that was no
small matter most of the time, but just now, it was subsumed by the pleasures of
touch.

Bobby absently stroked the palm of her hand with his thumb as he debated some
arcane sports question with Angelo. Marie was content to rest there and let them
argue while the words washed over her.

A couple of the younger kids were playing a board game and Kitty and Jubes were
watching TV, so apparently they’d finally found something they could agree on.
Marie heard a laugh track and spared a moment to be glad the sound was on low,
because she loathed sitcoms.

Eyes drifting shut, she let everything wash over her, glad to be home, glad to
have everyone friendly again. The few days she’d been gone getting the cure had
been hell, and the reaction when she got back…well, that was better forgotten.

Her peaceful half-sleep was disturbed by some hubbub on the other side of the
room. If she had to get up to referee the younger kids’ game, she thought with a
mental growl, somebody was going to hear about it.

“Rogue! Rogue!” That was Kitty, and she sounded *panicked*.

Marie sat up abruptly, ready to launch herself at whatever supervillain was
threatening her friends. Bobby turned, face scrunched adorably in confusion.
“What the–” he began.

Kitty and Jubes were staring at the TV, jaws hanging down and so still they
looked like they were watching the apocalypse. “Get over here!” Kitty yelled,
not turning her head.

Shaking off the last of her sleepiness, Marie grabbed Bobby’s hand and dragged
him over to see what had them so het up. Around them, everyone else in earshot
followed, several students even leaning in through the doorway.

The phrase ‘Special Report’ scrolled across the screen and a grim blond
newscaster read his teleprompter in a voice of doom.

“–our top story: Reports are trickling in from all over the country of mutant
powers returning to those who received the Worthington Industries cure. In
Denver…”

Marie didn’t hear anything else over the roaring in her ears. The newscasters’
mouth continued to move and Bobby’s hand closed over hers, but her vision
narrowed in on the television like a tunnel, closing in.

Mouth opening a closing a few times, Marie couldn’t find any words. She snatched
her hand out of Bobby’s and backed toward the door, still staring at the
television.

She ran into someone coming in the door and leapt away as if she’d touched a hot
stove.

“Rogue,” Ms. Munroe said softly, brow furrowed, “perhaps you should come speak
to the Professor.”

* * * * *

Bobby tried to take her hand and follow, but Marie shook him off, holding her
chin up through force of will. “I’m fine,” she said, marching after Ms. Munroe.
“I’ll talk to you later.”

Professor Xavier switched off the small radio on a bookshelf as she came in and
rolled his wheelchair around the desk toward her. She took an involuntary step
back.

“I won’t touch you if you don’t wish it,” he said, the mild reproof making her
face flush.

“I know, it’s just…”

He compressed his lips. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, this is a shock to all of us.
Please sit down.”

Marie perched on the edge of a chair, hands twisting in her lap. “Professor, I
need to go. I need to get to my room.” Ms. Munroe reached out to pat her hand
and Marie drew back. “Don’t…don’t touch me.”

Ms. Munroe’s face fell. “Honey, it’s all right–”

“It’s not!” Marie drew back in her chair. “Everything I went through was for
nothing, because it’s all coming back. All the fighting with my friends, the
arguments, were a waste, because I’m going to be a mutant again whether I like
it or not.” Tears dripped down her nose and she dashed them away.

“We don’t know that for certain,” Professor Xavier said, leaning forward.
“Perhaps certain mutations are rejecting the cure, or some batches may have been
faulty.” She knew he was trying to help, but she couldn’t help wondering if he
was pleased by this turn of events.

“Or…” Marie took a deep breath, “the cure is going to fail and we could give
me another dose. Leech is here.”

Professor Xavier gave her a look of such utter disappointment that she had to
turn away. “Yes, James is here. But for you to suggest that we use him in the
same way that Worthington Industries did…He is not a machine or a cow to be
milked.”

“But what if he volunteers?” She worked up the courage to look the Professor in
the eyes.

He exchanged a look with Ms. Munroe that Marie couldn’t read. “We need to think
about this–” Ms. Munroe said.

Professor Xavier held up a hand to stop her. “Dr. McCoy is on his way,” he said.
“I received a call from him just a few moments ago, and he’s arranged to conduct
research here to determine what is happening. We will not make any rash
decisions until he has studied the situation.”

Marie hugged her stomach and tried to remember how to pray.

* * * * *

Bobby found her in her room an hour later, where she was trying very hard not to
cry. “Rogue,” he called, knocking on the door, “are you there?”

“Where do you think I’d be?” she asked, clutching her pillow tighter to her
chest. “Maybe I went dancing?”

“Rogue?” Bobby sounded confused, and she could hear Jubes and someone else
whispering behind him.

Pushing her hands against her eyes, she took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry, Bobby.
I kind of want to be alone.”

“You said you’d talk to me later. It’s later.” She could imagine him, scowling
at the door in that way that made him look *just* like Mr. Summers, although he
didn’t realize it. More whispers, probably him telling the others to go away.
“C’mon, please?”

She’d have to face him eventually. Moving slowly, she bent to remove a cardboard
box tucked under the dresser. Peeking out of the half-closed lid, there was the
corner of a black scarf. The tears tried to come out again, and she grabbed the
box and ripped it open like pulling off a bandage, grabbing the first scarf and
gloves she found.

“Come in,” she said, her voice shakier than she’d have liked as she put the
gloves and scarf on.

When she turned, Bobby was watching her, looking like a kicked puppy, and she
wanted to throw herself against him and hug him until he stopped looking like
that. Instead she crossed her arms and swallowed her tears.

“It’s go–”

“If you say ‘It’s going to be okay,’ then I won’t be responsible for my
actions,” she said.

He shut his mouth.

Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths before reopening them. “I’m
sorry, Bobby, I’m a little upset.”

“I…” He looked like he’d been about to say ‘I understand,’ before realizing
that was even more dangerous. “I know,” he said finally.

“I don’t think you do, Bobby.” She sank down on the bed, her anger deflating as
reality set in. “I got a look at what it’s like to be normal and I liked it.”

“Rogue,” he stepped forward and grabbed her chin before she could move away, “I
don’t care if you’re normal or not.”

“I know, Bobby. But I do.” She took his hand off her chin and held it in her
gloved hand. “I’d forgotten what it’s like to be able to bump into someone in
the hallway and not worry. To touch you without *killing* you.”

“I’m willing to take that risk.”

“And maybe it’s not all about you.” She let go of his hand. “I don’t need any
more voices in my head, thank you very much. I don’t need to acquire new powers
and possibly kill someone in the process. I know my powers can be useful, but
they’re too much for me.”

“I’m sorry.” Eyes soulful, he looked down at her. “What can I do to help?”

She started to say ‘Nothing,’ but changed her mind. “Well, it’d help if you’d
come with me. There’s something I’ve gotta do.”

“This isn’t going to get me in trouble with the Professor, is it?”

“Probably not,” she said. “C’mon.”

*****

Bobby followed Marie down the hall, down one set of steps, across the hall past
the dining room, up two flights, and around several corners. She knew he figured
out where they were going early on, but at least he chose to say nothing, just
hovering by her side as they walked, obviously resisting the urge to hold her
hand or put his arm around her shoulders.

As she neared her destination, her steps slowed. There, ahead of her, was a
nondescript wood-paneled door, next to a painting of two ships on the ocean that
she suspected was worth more than her parents’ house.

“Rogue…”

“Here we are,” she said to stop him from talking. She was fairly sure she
wouldn’t be turned down, but…Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

Marie opened the door slowly, mock-scowling at Leech–at Jimmy–as he looked up
from his computer. “Playing that game again?”

“Doing my homework this time, I swear,” he with that sweet smile that briefly
made her forget her worries.

“But you’re still hiding from everyone.” She pointedly looked around the room.
“Classes will start again soon and you’re going to have to face the students
soon.”

“I know.” He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “I’ll deal with it then.”

Marie sighed and motioned to Bobby to come in from where he hovered just outside
the door. “Well, I’ve brought someone with me and I promise he won’t bite.
Jimmy, this is Bobby.”

Bobby stood just inside the door, blinking rather stupidly at her and the larger
than normal student bedroom. “Uh, hi, Jimmy,” he said.

“Hi, Bobby. You can come in. You won’t lose your powers if you don’t get too
close.” Jimmy turned and drew his legs up under him in the chair.

“Come in and sit down, Bobby. It’s okay.”

“I know!” He seemed annoyed at their reassurance. “I just didn’t know that you
knew each other.”

Marie looked at Jimmy, who shrugged. “We had a lot to talk about,” he said.

Marie sank down in the worn leather chair across from Jimmy. “Have you heard?”
she asked.

He nodded. “Mm-hmm. Ms. Munroe told me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“You’re here to ask if they can make the cure again for you.”

His smile hadn’t dimmed a whit and she relaxed. At least he wasn’t angry with
her for asking. She couldn’t take it if this kid who’d become like a little
brother hated her.

“Yeah.” Marie took a deep breath. “I don’t *want* my powers and I can’t spend
the rest of my life sitting in the chair next to you so I don’t hurt someone.”

Bobby stuck his hands in his pockets and gave her a disappointed look, which she
ignored. He’d said his piece and she’d said hers.

Jimmy leaned forward and looked her in the eyes. “Are you sure?”

It felt like a punch to the stomach, and she leaned back. “Not you too! I
thought you, of all people, got it. I thought you understood, I mean, with how
other people have treated *you*.”

“Are you sure?” he asked again, looking at her intently. “Because I won’t let
them take my blood if I don’t think you’re sure.”

“Rogue, maybe we should–”

“I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want
to kill someone by accident.”

“So you’re afraid.”

“No!” She breathed in a laugh. “Well, yes, but that’s not all of it. I’m like a
land mine sitting in a field, dangerous but not useful.”

“Rogue, that’s not true. If you’d been there at Alcatraz–”

“Bobby.” Beginning to regret bringing him, Marie turned. “Please…don’t. I
want…I just want to never kill someone.”

Bobby bowed his head and she turned back to Jimmy, who nodded once. “Okay.”

She let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. “Thank you.”

The door opened and Bobby jumped like he’d been hit by a cattle prod. The
Professor rolled in, followed by Dr. McCoy, neither of them looking terribly
surprised to see her.

“Rogue, Bobby,” Professor Xavier said, “if we might have some time to speak to
Jimmy…”

“Oh, right.” Marie jumped up. “You’ll let me know…”

“As soon as we know something,” Dr. McCoy said, “I can assure you that you will
be the first to be informed.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, evading Bobby’s hand as they ducked out of the room.

* * * * *

Someone had cleaned out Dr. Grey’s office, Marie noticed as she fidgeted in her
seat. All the little touches that had made it not quite so scary–the photo of
her and Dr. Summers in the woods, the drawing of the mansion Artie made her when
he first arrived–were gone. Now there were just reference books and a computer
and an empty desk chair. And her own thoughts, which weren’t much better.

She crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, picked up the textbook she’d been
carrying when she received the summons, put it down.

There were footsteps in the hall and the doorknob turned in what couldn’t
possibly be slow motion. Marie swallowed as Dr. McCoy came into the room.

She knew instantly what he was going to say–for a guy working as a diplomat, he
was remarkably bad at hiding his emotions. His entire body drooped, even the
fur.

“I’m sorry, Ms. D’Ancanto,” he said with a frown, “but if the cure fails, we
cannot give you another dose.”

Her fingers dug into the seat cushion until she could feel the staples holding
it down, and her breathing was sharp and shallow. “Why not?”

Dr. Grey’s decrepit desk chair creaked as Dr. McCoy sank into it, clutching a
fistful of printouts. He stared at them for a long moment before meeting her
eyes. “It would most likely kill you.”

“Most likely?”

He shook his head. “Don’t even consider it, young lady. I would give you a 3
percent chance of survival, perhaps even as much as 4 or 5 percent if you are in
incredibly good health, but no more.”

Closing her eyes, Marie concentrated on her breathing. When she opened her eyes
again, she asked, “Why?”

He understood. “Although I believe we could synthesize the cure here from the
young man upstairs, your body would react to it as if to a deadly disease. In
essence, if the medical reports I’ve received are correct, the bodies of those
whose mutations have returned have rejected the foreign elements of the cure,
destroyed them like an invader. Their bodies have been primed to fight the
cure.”

Marie thought about this for a moment, before something occurred to her. She put
a hand to her mouth. “Somebody’s already tried it, haven’t they?”

Dr. McCoy sighed heavily. “I’m afraid so. Several people around the country
managed to procure a second dose of the cure from the limited stocks still
available. All developed immediate and devastating reactions, so fast and
unpredictable that medical treatment was inefficacious.”

“They died.”

“Yes. All of them.” One of his fists clenched. “I believe that a few people
might survive, if their symptomatic treatment was prompt and aggressive. But
that’s only a theory at this point. I’m very sorry. And I am afraid that these
deaths are only the beginning.”

Marie nodded.

“But there is still no guarantee that your powers will return,” he said,
obviously trying to look hopeful.

“What do you think, Dr. McCoy?” She held her breath one more time.

He held her gaze, lips compressed. “I think that they will return. But we cannot
predict when, as the timeline appears complicated by numerous factors.”

“That’s what I figured.” She plucked at the scarf that hung across her shoulder.
“Guess I’d better get used to these again.”

“I am sorry. I wish…well, there’s no point in that. But know that I and others
continue to conduct research. I will keep you informed if we make any progress
in understanding what has happened.”

“Thank you.” She stood, swallowing hard.

“Rogue…”

Halfway to the door, she turned.

Sighing, Dr. McCoy shook his head. “Although I chose not to take the cure
myself, I understand your decision. And I would not have wished this for you or
the others under any circumstances.”

Marie gave him a sharp nod, unable to speak. She could feel Dr. McCoy watching
her as she left the room, and as the door shut behind her, she saw him put his
head in his hands.

* * * * *

Marie walked back to her room, feeling like she was walking through a fog. A few
people tried to speak to her, but she just shook her head and kept moving.

She stumbled through the door, nearly tripping over outstretched feet. “Wha–?”

Logan, arms crossed and scowling from his position in her desk chair, said,
“Sorry, I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“What are you doing here?” She sat on the bed, hoping he’d go away soon so she
could cry in peace.

“I…” He fidgeted. “I heard the news from the Professor. And, uh…”

“Logan?”

“I understand what you’re feeling,” he said in a rush. “Kind of.”

That wasn’t anything like what she’d been expecting and she blinked a few times.

Having gotten that out, Logan relaxed fractionally. “Everybody keeps talking
about gifts, but they don’t get what it’s like for some of us.”

She nodded. “It’s not like I’ve got a receipt and I can return this.” She
plucked at a glove.

“Neither can I.” Logan shrugged. “I was experimented on and I have to live with
that.”

She scooted back against the headboard, drawing her knees to her chest. “Does it
help to know why you have the claws?”

“Not really.”

“Oh.” Marie sniffed once or twice. “I like my life here, but I, I don’t want to
think that it’s only a matter of time before I kill someone.” The tears she’d
been trying to ignore started to leak out. “Fiddlesticks,” she said, wiping them
away.

“Fiddlesticks?” Logan stared at her.

“My momma would be shocked if she knew how much cursing I did,” Marie said
absently, “so I’m trying to cut back.”

“Okay, but fiddlesticks?” Shaking his head, Logan looked her over. “I dunno,
maybe that shot did something to your brain.”

That made her chuckle even through the tears. “My brain is fine, Logan.
Unfortunately. I *wish* there was something we could fix.”

“If you say so.” He leaned back in the chair and waited for her to get control.

Having him there helped a little. He was pretty much the only mansion resident
who’d never judged her because of her choice to get the cure. That was restful
right now.

“Thank you,” she said eventually.

“Any time, kid.”

*****

In the subsequent days, Marie avoided the evening news and the company of most
of her peers, although Bobby and Kitty and a few others insisted she at least
come out of her room for meals. She couldn’t take the sad looks, the constant
reminders, the daily special bulletins, and the ignorant television commentary.

Dr. McCoy commuted between the UN in Manhattan and Westchester, looking grimmer
with each trip. From the short conversations she had with him, she learned that,
despite warnings, mutants were trying to take the cure again. And he seemed to
take each death personally.

Professor Xavier did his best to look optimistic, but even he could be seen
frowning into his soup upon occasion after looking at her. He and Dr. McCoy both
reminded her regularly that not every mutant was getting their powers back, so
she still had a chance. But neither sounded like they completely believed it,
and she knew they were worried about her, even if Professor Xavier seemed rather
pleased that the cure hadn’t worked for most people.

People kept asking Marie how she felt. They thought she was pushing them away
when she said “Okay,” but she didn’t really have another answer. She didn’t have
the words to describe the mixture of fear and resignation and worry and…so she
told everyone she was okay. It was a good a description as anything.

Classes went on as usual, and eventually people stopped giving Marie funny looks
when she walked down the hall, as if she’d either suck their life or their
mutation out from across the room. (She found it ironic that people were either
afraid of her for *having* her mutation or mad at her for trying to get rid of
it. It just proved that her daddy had been right when he said that sometimes you
just couldn’t win for losing.)

One or two of the younger students could be heard to say that it served her
right for trying to be a flatscan, but after they were assigned to extra self-
defense classes with Logan, that stopped as well.

Warren Worthington came to teach a business class for upper-level students, and
a woman named Elizabeth Braddock arrived from England to teach the classes in
controlling powers. Marie hoped she never had to take that class, as the woman
gave her the willies, studying her like a particularly fascinating bug.

Three weeks after the first news reports, Marie snuggled into her favorite chair
in the mansion’s library, which she liked because it was big enough for her to
draw her legs up under her, with leather arms wide enough she could rest a book
and notebook on them to take notes. It was also in the farthest corner, under a
tiny window most people didn’t realize was there, hidden well enough that nobody
would bother her.

Absently she tugged at her silk gloves, making sure they reached up under her
sleeves, and opened “To Kill a Mockingbird,” looking for the paragraph she
remembered that she was sure would prove her essay’s thesis.

Pen held in her mouth so it wouldn’t roll onto the floor, she flipped through
the book, past the scene where they go to the church, past the fire…

Before she could react, Bobby did exactly what she’d told him not to do just
last week: He swooped in around the pen and kissed her on the cheek.

Like a tractor trailer slamming into her, she was hit by a wave of cold, as her
whole body became attuned to the moisture in the air and instinctively tried to
put up a wall between her and Bobby.

MarieshowyouIloveyou/Nononono/dinnercalculuskiss/pushnopleasedont/cold/pain/fear
/pain/love/hate/sorry/love

It took all her strength, but she pushed Bobby off her and flung herself off the
chair in the other direction, skidding across the ice that now coated the floor
around them. Bobby lay still, but his chest rose once while she was watching, so
he was still alive.

Her breath was caught in her throat, she wanted to scream, but it wouldn’t come,
there was too much, Bobby was there, still there, memories of his classes of the
day, his brother, his elementary school playground, his–

“What–” someone hollered nearby.

“Help,” Marie croaked out.

“Rogue?” Kitty skidded around the corner and nearly fell on the ice. Her eyes
looked like they were going to bug out, but she didn’t pause to ask any stupid
questions, just sank through the floor. “I’ll bring help,” she said as she
disappeared.

Gasping for breath, Marie pulled herself to her knees, desperate to check if
Bobby was okay, but unwilling to get any closer. She pulled her scarf closer
around herself, whimpering once as chunks of ice flaked off it and clattered to
the ground.

Footsteps pounded down the corridor and through the shelves. “Mind the ice,”
Marie heard Kitty holler.

Within moments, a knot of people surrounded Bobby, led by Ms. Munroe.

“Is he okay?” Marie whispered.

Kitty–at the back of the group–turned, nodding slowly. “Yeah, I think so. Dr.
McCoy’s on his way, in any case.” She focused on Marie, face scrunching in
concern. “How are *you*?” she asked, stepping forward.

Marie fell on her ass trying to push away. “Stay back.”

“Rogue, it’s okay.”

“No. It’s not. I told him not to. I told him–” That was when it hit her: This
was really it. That last bit of hope that she’d be one of the lucky ones whose
powers didn’t return…gone.

Stumbling to her feet, she said, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

And she ran, as she’d always run from her power. Blindly, she ran through the
halls, automatically avoiding everyone, slamming through the nearest door and
into the woods surrounding the school. Tears blurred her vision as she tripped
and scraped her way deeper and further. Branches and thorns tore at her hated
skin, but she didn’t care, hoping it would all be ripped off.

Her breath was ragged from crying when she finally tripped over a log and was
flung to the ground. Curling into a ball, she rolled against the nearest tree
and cried and cried until she had no more tears left.

Eyes closed, she lay on the ground, wrung out and empty.

It took a long moment before she realized she wasn’t alone. Her eyes flew open,
expecting Bobby or Logan.

“Feeling better?” Mr. Summers asked, handing her a wad of tissues without rising
from his seat on the log she’d tripped over.

Speechless and still numb, she automatically took the tissues, wiping her face
and blowing her nose.

He hadn’t shaved and looked like he hadn’t slept or eaten in a week. He also
didn’t look like he was going to try and lecture her about the wonders of her
gifts, so she relaxed.

Mr. Summers wasn’t even looking at her, instead he stared down at his hands and
occasionally up at the trees, apparently content to sit there silently.

“How’d you find me?” she asked when the silence grew oppressive.

“Professor Xavier,” he said with a lopsided shrug. “His wheelchair doesn’t mix
well with oak trees.”

She almost smiled, distracted by the image of the Professor trying to follow her
through the woods.

He finally looked at her, the vague look he’d had since Alkali Lake replaced
with the teacher she remembered. “I promise,” he said, “that I will never ever
say ‘It’s not that bad’ or ‘You’ll be fine’ or any similar platitude. I may be
the only person here who has a chance of understanding.”

Marie drew her knees up and rested her forehead on them. Mr. Summers couldn’t
ever take off his glasses or he might kill someone. “It’s not the same,” she
argued feebly.

“No, it’s not. And I’m not saying it is.” He sounded stern, like when Bobby and
John had screwed around in class one too many times for his temper. “Pain can’t
be measured and compared in a test tube. Suffering can’t be weighed on a scale.
They…” his voice broke, “just are.”

Rubbing her eyes, Marie remembered her last glimpse of Dr. Grey, just before
she’d left the plane. Face grim and set, she still hadn’t looked like a woman
about to die, nobody had thought…until it was too late.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mr. Summers, who looked like he was
remembering the same thing. His jaw was clenched so hard, she expected his teeth
to break.

“I miss her too,” Marie found herself saying, and she winced.

But Mr. Summers didn’t glare. Instead he sighed, rubbing his temples. “We all
do,” he said. After a pause, he turned to look at her. “She was afraid of her
powers, you know.”

“She was?”

He nodded. “She could tell they were growing, and she didn’t know what would
happen. She had the potential, well, you saw her potential. And she was
frightened of what she might do.”

Marie watched an ant crawl around her foot as she digested that, trying to
imagine the cool and collected teacher she remembered afraid of anything. Then
she thought about having enough power in her body to hold back all the water
from a broken dam, while repairing and lifting a jet full of people. She
shuddered.

“Believe me, Rogue, we will never stop trying to find a way for you to control
your powers. Without Jean,” his voice held, barely, “it will be more difficult,
but we will try.”

Marie felt the tears trying to flow again and she swallowed a few times,
scrubbing at her eyes. “It’s just so hard, I have to worry all the time about
touching someone, hurting someone. Knowing it might never go away.”

“I know.”

Two birds dove through the trees, chirruping madly as they chased each other
around and around. Marie took a deep breath. “What do I do now?”

“Go on.” Mr. Summers shrugged. “What else can you do? Other than run away
again?”

“You did.” She turned an accusing glare on him. “Logan told me you left just
before Magneto showed up and attacked Alcatraz.”

He smiled slightly, a twitch of the lips. “I never said I was perfect. And I did
come back. If I promise to stay this time, will you stay?”

She studied him. “Only if you promise to shave. And eat dinner.”

Mr. Summers choked on a real laugh. “I promise.”

Marie nodded. “Then I’ll stay.”

“It’s a deal?” He held out his hand, the set of his jaw saying he knew exactly
what that meant to her.

She hesitated, tugging at her glove several times to make sure the palm hadn’t
gotten ripped in her run before she slowly took his hand. “It’s a deal.”

* * * * *

The TV was blaring American Idol when Marie leaned her head in, and a dozen of
the older students sprawled across the floor heckling. Nobody noticed her, which
gave her a chance to scope things out and tuck her scarf more firmly around her
neck.

Bobby was on the floor, leaning against the corner of the couch, pelting Peter
with popcorn. Although she couldn’t see his face, his laughter was obvious as
Peter tried and tried to ignore him.

She took a deep breath, stilled her hands, and walked rather unsteadily toward
him. Peter noticed her first, smiling at her with obvious approval. She nodded
to him as Kitty looked up from the crossword puzzle she was doing on the floor
at his feet.

Kitty looked briefly startled, but almost immediately grinned broadly and waved
a hand in greeting.

That got everyone else’s attention as Marie came around to the front of the sofa
and conversation came to a halt as she stood next to Bobby. “Hi,” she said,
focusing on keeping her voice even as she looked down at him.

“Hi,” he said. “Come to watch with us?”

She smiled. “Only if you promise not to sing along.”

Jubes snickered. “She’s got a point there, Icepop.”

Bobby threw a handful of popcorn at Jubes and she blew most of the kernels up
with her sparklers. Rogue took another breath and slid down to the floor next to
Bobby. He grabbed her hand and tugged her closer without saying anything.

With the greatest of care, she scooted next to him and put her head on his
shoulder. After a moment of silence, Peter said, “So, explain to me again why
these people are willing to humiliate themselves on national television?”

Jubes and Angelo groaned. “See, it’s like this,” Jubes said. “They think
that…”

Marie chuckled and tuned out the continuing debate, which she’d heard at least
three times. Bobby rubbed her shoulder with his right hand and continued pelting
Peter with popcorn with his left.

Okay, Marie thought, maybe I can do this. She rubbed her cheek against Bobby’s
shirt and he hugged her closer. Even through the layers of clothing, she could
feel the warmth of his body and it was enough. Enough for now.

–end–

by Mara

Summary: Henry McCoy brings a patient to Gregory House with a mysterious illness.

The young Asian woman lying in the bed looked healthy, House thought, just before she looked up at him. Then her eyes met his and he changed his mind. Her eyes were *old* and her expression said–

“Go to hell.”

“Usually it takes at least five minutes before my patients tell me that.”

“You’re a doctor?”

House looked around. “Wait, is this a test? The answer is…tachycardia. Right? How about bubonic plague? C’mon, tell me, did I pass?” He fluttered his eyelashes.

Jubilee rolled her eyes. “You’ve got to be that friend of McCoy’s. You’re just the way he described you.” Waving a hand at the chair, she closed the copy of Vogue she’d been reading. “Sorry about telling you to go to hell. I thought you were another social worker.”

“Another social worker?” House slumped into a chair, prepared to be entertained.

“Yeah, they keep coming by all earnest and trying to convince me that the school mistreated me somehow. The school didn’t do anything wrong, and if they take me away, I’ll run away again.”

House shrugged. “Okay. If you wanna stay at the school, that’s fine with me. I’m only here for the medicine.”

Frowning, Jubilee eyed him. “I guess you’re okay if Big Blue says you are.”

“Gee, thanks. I’m touched. So, what happened?”

She looked him straight in the eye. “I don’t know. I got the same headache every mutant did. Everybody was all freaked out, but we were basically okay. Then the next day I suddenly felt like crap and fell over and everyone was running around. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the lab with everyone hovering over me like I was dying or something.”

“You were.” House studied her. “I assume they’ve told you that you had all the hallmarks of a heart attack, right?”

“Yeah, but everyone says I’m too young for that.”

“What drugs did you do?”

“What?” She sat up straight and glared at him.

“Drugs. On the street. When you ran away the first time.” When she just stared at him, he rolled his eyes. “You said you’d ‘run away again,’ which implies that you did so a first time. So, tell me what drugs you did the first time you ran away.”

“I didn’t do any drugs!” She threw her magazine at him, and he batted it away with the cane.

“Prostitution?” he asked in his most bored tone.

“No way!” Her glare looked like it could bore a hole in his head.

“What’d you do on the streets, then?”

Her breathing was heavy as she continued to glare at him for a long moment. Then she held up her hands. “This,” she said. And a shower of fireworks erupted from her hands, filling the room.

“Nice,” House said, watching them in appreciation.

The door closed with a bit more than necessary force as McCoy entered.

“Jubilee.”

“Sorry,” she responded, not looking at all sorry. “But he got me mad ’cause he wanted to know what my mutation was and he figured I wouldn’t tell him.”

House’s eyebrows went up and he studied Jubilee, ignoring whatever McCoy was saying. It wasn’t often that a patient interested him as a person, but this Jubilee looked like she might manage it.

“Gregory!” McCoy said firmly.

“Hmm?” House refocused. “Oh, there you are. I was just asking some questions.”

“I’m sure you were.” McCoy gave him an especially long-suffering look. “I think perhaps I’ll stay here for the rest of them.”

“Whatever.” House shrugged. “Okay, so you were on the streets but not doing anything fun. And then you…”

* * * * *

The history took two hours, and House found himself vastly amused by the biting sarcasm of his patient. Jubilee was going to drive his team *insane* and it would be *fun*.

After the history was done, House dragged McCoy to the cafeteria and made him buy them both lunch. The cafeteria was full, which meant that the noise was bouncing off the acoustic tiles more than the designers had intended.

“What’s really going on?” House took a bite of his sandwich.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you know damned well she didn’t have a heart attack.”

“I know, Greg. That’s why I’m here.” McCoy spoke with exaggerated care. “So your famed diagnostic skill can determine why my young friend collapsed so precipitously and alarmingly.”

“Uh huh.” House took some french fries off McCoy’s plate. “And you came here without a single theory in your furry blue head.”

“If I knew what was wrong, we wouldn’t be here.”

“Right. So, what don’t I know about my patient that might help me diagnose her?”

“I–”

“Don’t bother. Everybody lies. My first job is to figure out what they’re lying about. And *you*,” he pointed one of the stolen fries at McCoy, “are lying about the circumstances of her illness. So is she. She might have gotten away with it, but you’re a terrible liar. Always have been.”

McCoy was thinking, so House went back to eating his fries, knowing the battle was half won.

McCoy opened his mouth, but House beat him to it. “I can’t diagnose her without all the data. You know that. You knew it before you got here or you wouldn’t have brought the highly anonymous data you did.”

Closing his eyes, McCoy was silent again. When he opened them, all he said was, “Not here.” He stood.

Grinning, House snagged one last fry and picked up his cane.

Without speaking, McCoy led the way to the elevator. The door shut behind them–empty, as the doctor, two nurses, and two family members about to board all stepped back at the grim look on McCoy’s face.

McCoy lifted his watch to his mouth and tapped a button. House was about to make a sarcastic comment when McCoy spoke. “Scott? I need clearance on the roof.”

“You’ll have it in two,” the voice of the man with the red shades said from McCoy’s watch.

House blinked. Okay, *that* was unexpected.

The elevator dinged while House was staring and he followed McCoy out into the nondescript blue-gray corridor that led to the roof.

McCoy strode onto the roof without even checking that House was following, and House’s surprise hit stratospheric levels. McCoy was the kind of guy who held doors for cripples even during an earthquake, so this was really serious.

His surprise entered orbit as he watched the way McCoy’s eyes swept the seating area. It was almost…military.

House opened his mouth to ask a question, but the look McCoy gave him…well, for once, it seemed like a good time to discover the wonders of discretion. So they stood just beyond the door and waited, kept company by the sounds of an approaching ambulance and the pigeons that nested in the corner.

Eventually, McCoy’s watch beeped and he hit a button. “Hank?” the voice said. “The Professor and Logan report you’re clear. Are you sure…?”

“Thank you, Scott. Yes, I’m sure.” He hit another button.

House limped over to a bench and lowered himself onto it. “This is going to be *good*,” he said with relish.

But McCoy remained unsmiling as he sank down on the bench next to him.

“Two weeks ago,” McCoy said, “agents of the U.S. government stormed the school and kidnapped several of our students. At the same time, they took Scott Summers and Professor Xavier prisoner. They would have taken everyone, save for our contingency plans.”

House sat up straight, all amusement fled. “One of the kids was Jubilee.” It wasn’t a question. McCoy’s strange behavior made sense now: He was angry. Angrier than House had ever seen him.

“Their ultimate plan involved using…” McCoy paused. “Using something stolen from us to destroy all mutants. The plan was discovered by a very powerful and dangerous man.”

“A mutant.”

“Yes.” McCoy scowled. “He also planned to use this item–”

“Which you’re not going to identify.”

“Which I will not identify,” McCoy affirmed, nodding his head, “to kill non-mutants instead.”

House waved a hand. “That part’s irrelevant. What happened to the kids?”

“We don’t know for certain.”

“What do you mean? She seemed verbal enough to me.”

McCoy’s expression got bleaker. “Jubilee is the oldest child who was taken. The others were substantially younger. They tell a jumbled tale of threats and guns and a cell, but we can’t be sure that their memories haven’t been tampered with.”

House started to ask if someone could *do* that, but changed his mind. The Henry McCoy he knew wouldn’t say it unless it was at least a possibility. His mind raced. “So for all you know, they turned her into a lab rat.”

“Yes.” McCoy sighed. “I’ve tested everything I can think of, but I can’t be certain.”

Bastards experimenting on *his* patient. “I didn’t even vote for this president,” House said as he considered how to move forward.

McCoy knew him well enough to ignore the non sequitur.

House banged his cane on the ground a few times. “Why you? I mean, why has your school got this *thing* that the government came after?”

McCoy shook his head. “I can’t tell you anything further, but I can assure you it’s not germane to this case.” He held up a hand. “And don’t presume you can lecture me twice on what you need to know.”

House shrugged, knowing he’d reached McCoy’s limit. “Tell me everything about the conditions of this cell. Everything. Mold? Spores? Were any of the other kids sick?”

McCoy took a deep breath. “I’ll do my best.”

* * * * *

Cameron, Chase, and Foreman found House deep in thought in his office six hours later. “What’ve you got for me?” he asked as they stopped in front of his desk. He didn’t look away from the rubber ball he was tossing repetitively against the wall.

“Everything Dr. McCoy told us is confirmed,” Cameron said. “There’s no damage to the heart, no evidence that anything was wrong.”

“Except?” He grabbed the ball out of the air and threw it at Chase, who caught it. “Nice catch. Now tell me what you *did* find.”

“How do you know we found something?”

“Because a healthy kid keeled over with an apparent heart attack that promptly disappeared. You’d better have something or we’re all going to be consulting ouija boards.”

Cameron shrugged. “We’ve still got some blood tests outstanding, but so far, we’ve got nothing. No viruses, her heart looks good, all scans are clean and normal.”

Foreman broke in. “She has slightly elevated catecholamines, neuropeptide Y, brain natriuretic peptide, and serotonin, but that’s it, House.”

House frowned. “Catecholamines?”

“So she’s under stress. Big deal.” Foreman scowled. “It doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure we all have elevated levels these days.”

“You still think she had a heart attack?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What about pheochromocytoma?” Chase asked.

House paused. “Vascular tumor of the adrenal gland? Nice. And it certainly would explain the catecholamines.”

“Should I look for a tumor?”

“No.” House didn’t even pause to think. “It doesn’t explain any of her earlier symptoms.” Chase threw the ball back at House and he caught it, bouncing it off the ceiling a few times. “Get me some of the other students and teachers. I want to know what’s different about her.”

* * * * *

Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital had witnessed many strange things, especially since the arrival of one Gregory House, but the testing of a selected sample of teachers and students from the Xavier School for Gifted Youngsters definitely ranked up there.

Not that most people in the hospital even knew anything out of the ordinary was happening, as one of the school’s requirements was secrecy.

Professor Xavier arrived first, masquerading as a wealthy donor. (McCoy pointed out later that the Professor *was* a wealthy donor, and Cuddy said she was glad House hadn’t known that in advance or he would have been rude. House stuck his tongue out at her.)

Summers of the red shades arrived later with a hulking youngster who House figured could probably heave all of them through a window. He made a note to have Chase draw their blood.

A striking woman with purple hair herded three young children in front of her a few minutes later. House eyed her low-cut blouse with appreciation until she turned and glared at him from across the crowded lobby. “I certainly appreciate the thought, but we’re a tad busy at the moment,” a sharp British voice said in his head.

House’s good leg slipped on the tile floor and he nearly slid off his perch. He imagined a row of fluffy bunnies hopping across a lawn. Foreman was getting her.

House was picturing bunnies so hard, he nearly missed the last contingent. At the last minute he glimpsed a man in a plaid shirt with odd hair and the kind of sideburns that went out of fashion in the ’70s, accompanied by two teenagers–one with a white streak in her hair, wrapped in a cloak. Huh, House thought as he mentally assigned them to himself. They looked intriguing.

* * * * *

With his usual blithe assurance, House appropriated a few temporarily empty rooms for the exams and he sent his fellows off–Cameron to continue testing Jubilee for everything he could think of, Chase and Foreman to test the new vict–er, subjects.

The paperwork they’d given him said his first patient was named Marie. “Okay, give me some blood,” he said as she slid into the room, gloved fingers plucking at the edge of her cloak.

She shrank back. “Pardon me?”

“Blood.” He waved peremptorily at the exam table. “That *is* why you’re here, unless you’re actually a candystriper taking a tour.”

“I was supposed to explain, my skin–”

“Is only of interest to me in a perverted sense. I’m not asking you to strip.”

“Glad to hear it,” a voice said from behind him, accompanied by a sound that sounded remarkably like a sword being removed from a scabbard.

House’s eyebrows shot up and he turned toward the now-open door. The man with the sideburns was leaning in the doorway, but nobody could have confused his pose with actual relaxation…especially since his hands had very shiny, sharp-looking metal peeking out of the knuckles.

“And you are…?” House asked.

The man stepped in and shut the door behind him, the metal sliding back into his knuckles. “I’m the guy that’s gonna kick your ass.”

“I’m so scared.” House rolled his eyes and glanced at the charts. “Since you’re here, you can give me your blood too. You must be Logan. Although I suppose Kitty wouldn’t be a bad name for you, what with the claws and everything.”

Behind him, the girl snorted.

Logan glared at both of them. “Oh yeah, laugh it up, Rogue.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, still snickering, “but you have to admit it was funny.”

Logan actually *growled*.

“Good kitty kitty,” House said, waving a syringe. “Now c’mere and give me some blood.”

* * * * *

House was glaring at his computer, which was being exceedingly unhelpful, when Wilson ducked his head in.

“What’d it do to you?” Wilson asked.

“Huh?” House looked up. “What do you want?”

“I was going to buy you lunch, but if you’d rather commune with your computer, I could ask Cameron instead.”

“She’s busy running bloodwork. Or batting her cleavage at the lab to finish it faster.” House heaved himself out of the chair with a stifled groan. “Don’t think you’ll get out of feeding me that easily.”

Wilson coughed. “Never,” he said, holding the door open.

As House stepped past, he said, “But you owe me something better than cafeteria food.”

“I owe you? I know your logic is not like our crazy Earth logic, but how exactly do *I* owe *you*?”

House snorted as he ogled the buxom blonde walking past. “Well, you’re about to ask me about my latest patient, so I figure I at *least* deserve Chinese.”

Wilson shook his head as the blonde glared at House. “Why would you think I would ask about your patient? You usually talk about them no matter what I want.”

“No, I talk about the case, not the patient.” House glanced at him sideways. “*You* talk about the patients.”

“So why would I be particularly interested in your patient?” Wilson smiled at a gaggle of pretty nurses huddled around the nursing station.

“Keep it in your pants,” House said, pushing the elevator button.

“Stuff it, House.”

“Back to our original topic, you think my patient is right up your alley: plucky young girl, bravely facing an unknown fate, a mutant, sick and alone in a world that hates and fears her.” His voice lowered, turning into a parody of the 11 o’clock news.

“Assuming that those things interest me, what’s the problem?” Wilson’s smile was ironic and charmingly self-deprecating.

The elevator door opened and House pushed past the people trying to exit. “Cripple here, get out of my way.” Once Wilson had managed to sidle his way in and the elevator was descending, House told him, “The problem is that I, to my deep surprise, find I rather like the patient.”

Wilson grabbed at the elevator wall. “What? Quick, somebody call Ripley’s Believe It or Not.”

“She’s intelligent, cranky, and a smartass. It’s refreshing.”

Wilson politely refrained from making any of the obvious replies.

“So I won’t–” House stopped as the elevator door opened and they were assaulted by noise. “What the hell is that?” He smacked his cane against the door as it started to close again. Gesturing grandly at Wilson, he said, “After you.”

“What a gentleman.” Wilson stepped out and House followed.

“Huh,” House said as he stared at the lobby full of milling reporters and the crowds gathering outside the glass doors.

“What are you doing here?” Cuddy said as she grabbed their arms and dragged them toward her office.

“Oh, honey, I didn’t know you cared.” House fluttered his eyelashes. “But do we have to bring Jimmy along? He’s such a spoilsport.”

Cuddy pushed them both into her office, slammed the doors shut, and lowered the blinds so fast, House was ready to ask if she had the X gene herself.

Cuddy whirled and glared. “You were supposed to stay in your office. You didn’t answer your pager or your phone.”

“I saw it was you, so I ignored it.” House slumped down on the couch. “I take it this means I don’t get Chinese for lunch.”

“I think so,” Wilson said, sitting next to him.

“Lunch is the least of your worries,” Cuddy said as she dialed her phone. “Right now, we’re going to figure out what we’re going to tell the press.”

“Nothing,” House said, head leaned back as he stared at the ceiling.

“Nothing?” Cuddy hung up the phone. “You’re seen what’s going on and–”

“We’re not going to tell them anything.” House sat up, focusing all his attention on Cuddy. “There’s a kid upstairs who was kidnapped from her school by the U.S. military, stripped, and dumped in a cell. We don’t know what else happened, but now she’s sick and she’s my patient. And nobody’s going to get near her or invade her privacy until she’s no longer my patient.”

Cuddy and Wilson were frozen in place.

“As far as I’m concerned, the reporters and the demonstrators and the morons can all go fuck themselves. We’re not telling them a goddamn thing about Jubilation Lee.”

Cuddy let out a slow breath, putting the phone carefully back in its cradle. “Are you done?”

House slumped back in the sofa, feeling drained and a little stupid. “Yeah.”

Wilson and Cuddy exchanged meaningful glances and House groaned to himself. Great. Now they were going to expect him to give a shit about every snot-nosed kid who came through the clinic. Like *that* was going to happen.

“So,” Wilson said, “how are we going to deal with the press?”

Cuddy smile was evil and sexy. “Oh, I have a few ideas about that.”

House fought down a wave of lust. “What does that mean?”

“Well, I could go out and self-righteously explain that HIPAA prevents us from giving details about our patient’s health.”

House snorted. “If that’s your plan–”

“Please.” She gave him a disgusted look. “I was actually thinking of that congressman who caused a stink over his daughter’s care, when it was actually his own idiocy that didn’t get her treated.”

House started to grin and Wilson covered his face with his hands.

“A leak in just the right place…” Cuddy smiled. “Now sit tight while I clear the lobby and get things rolling.” She strode out, heels clicking and gorgeous ass wagging with excitement.

“You’ve had a bad effect on her,” Wilson said.

“Oh no,” House said reverently, “she was always like this. You just didn’t notice. It’s what makes her so hot.” He sighed happily.

* * * * *

Leaning against the wall eight hours later, House balanced on his good leg, absently rubbing at his other thigh. He mentally ran through the test results for the eighty-fifth time, coming up, as always, with a big fat nothing.

Across the hallway, on the other side of the nurse’s station, he could see Jubilee leaning back against her pillows, idly using the remote to change stations.

“Where are the others?” Wilson asked, leaning against the wall next to him.

“I sent them home.”

Wilson nearly fell over. “You *what*?”

House glared at him for a long moment, found he couldn’t come up with a single plausible lie, and shrugged. “I ran out of ideas for tests. When I suggested a third 24-hour catecholamine urine sample, Cameron told me I was full of shit and walked out. Chase and Foreman followed her.”

“So you didn’t *send* them home. They left.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t stop them.”

“How generous of you.”

House ignored him, staring across the hall at his patient, willing his brain to come up with something new.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Wilson asked quietly.

“What?” House turned to stare at him.

“Go talk to Jubilee. Standing around outside her room is stalkerish, even for her doctor.”

“I’m not stalking her. I’m…waiting for inspiration to strike.” Scowling, House stared at his recalcitrant patient.

“Uh-huh.” Wilson’s eye-roll was practically audible. “Look, the world won’t come to an end just because you don’t despise your patient. Some of us even manage to survive while *liking* most of our patients.”

“And see where *that* got you,” House replied automatically.

Wilson threw his hands in the air. “There’s no talking to you in this mood. Stand here and mope if that’s what you want, but your patient looks bored. Maybe giving your brain a rest will jar something loose.” And he strode off down the hallway, muttering something that sounded profane.

Tapping fingers on the wall, House looked at Jubilee. She *did* look bored. With a shrug, he pushed off the wall and headed toward her room. When he slid the door open, Jubilee grinned at him as she turned the TV off. “Finally decided to join us?”

He couldn’t help grinning back. “Guess so.”

“Yay,” muttered the room’s other occupant, the guy with red sunglasses. What was his name again? Oh, Summers. The one with the hot dead fiancée.

“And a good evening to you,” House said, bowing ironically. The other man just sighed.

Jubilee hid a grin as House slid into a chair next to her bed. “So,” she said, “I’m assuming you’re not here to tell me I can go home.”

“Not a chance. Not until I know what’s wrong.”

She sighed. “That’s what I figured.” She turned off the TV. “So, what’s next?”

“I have no idea,” House said, tapping the cane on the floor irritably. At a strangled sound from the other side of the room, he turned and glared. “What? You want me to lie to her?”

“No,” Summers said with a sigh. “But it might be a bit more inspirational if you didn’t admit you had no idea what was going on.”

“Do you want to be inspired?” House asked Jubilee.

She grinned. “Oh, I’m not getting in between you two. Fight it out yourselves. Entertain me.”

Summers’ look was long-suffering, but House got the impression that he’d kill anyone who got near her with bad intent, so that made the Summers kid not a total waste.

“What do you think is wrong?” House asked her.

“Me?” She blinked. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Yeah, but you’re the one who’s experiencing the symptoms. What do you think is wrong?”

“I don’t know.” She stared down at her hands for a little while. “I just want to go back to the school and have things get back to normal, you know? Arguing with Bobby, and trying new nail polish with Marie and stuff.” She grinned and looked at Summers. “Hell, I’m even ready to go back to class.”

“You won’t say that when you see my midterm,” Summers said with a ghost of a smile.

Jubilee glowed under his regard and House upgraded his opinion of Summers once again. “We’re missing something,” House said, leaning on his cane. “And that pisses me off.”

“Yeah, Hank’s like that too. Not that he’d say it pisses him off. He’d say–”

“That he finds his inability to access the correct answer to be indubitably frustrating.” House grinned.

“Yeah, that.”

“Tell me about the school,” House said. “Maybe there’s something there.” Summers opened his mouth, but House beat him to it. “I already know it’s a school for mutants, remember? What else could she give away?”

Summers’ mouth twitched in what House would swear was amusement, before he leaned back in his chair and waved at Jubilee. “Go ahead,” he said.

Jubilee was stifling a giggle when House looked at her and he wondered what he was missing. Maybe he could get it out of McCoy later…

House took a nap in Coma Guy’s room, grabbed yogurt in the cafeteria, and was back in his office before the others arrived. He didn’t bother to shave, figuring making them feel a little guilt about leaving him alone was never a bad thing.

They didn’t look particularly guilty, but they did look discouraged as they filed in and grabbed coffee. Conversation was stifled.

House limped from one end of the room to the other, feeling their eyes on him.

“We’re missing something,” he said when they’d stopped trying to discuss the weather.

“Maybe she’s perfectly healthy,” Foreman said. “That’s what all our tests say. Maybe this once they’re right.”

“Then what about the apparent heart attack?” Chase asked.

“Maybe it doesn’t exist. There weren’t any of the tell-tales, so maybe she just fainted.”

Chase snorted. “You think *Dr. Henry McCoy* misdiagnosed a fainting teenager as something more serious?”

“He *was* under a lot of stress, what with everybody keeling over,” Foreman said, dropping his pen on the table with a final-sounding thunk.

“McCoy knows a faint,” House said, kicking Foreman’s chair as he walked by. “If he says there was fluid in her lungs and suppressed breathing, it was there.”

“I’ve gone over the results from the other students and teachers with a fine-tooth comb.” Foreman shook his head. “I’m not seeing anything different.”

“What about Jubilee’s catecholamines?” Cameron asked.

“That,” House said, stopping in his tracks, “is the question. There’s something about them…” He trailed off as his beeper chirped and he grabbed it, barely noticing as his three fellows looked at their own pagers. “Damn it,” he said.

Cursing his slow speed, he stomped after them, each twinge of his leg a personal affront.

By the time House reached Jubilee’s room, the area around it looked nearly as bad as the front of the hospital. But because he could see Jubilee through the glass sitting up in bed and talking to someone, he decided he had a moment to stop and take stock.

Okay, those nurses in the corner he could ignore–they were in the middle of hubbub to watch the new hunky guy from Security. And the two doctors from Radiology were here to watch the nurses.

Which left some random bystanders, gaping like hungry baby birds, the head nurse, three guys from Security, Cameron, Chase, Foreman, the mutant named Logan, and several of the morons who’d been hanging around outside the hospital. (Somehow House doubted they were on this floor to get Jubilee’s autograph.)

The morons were doing a lot of yelling and one was bleeding from a small laceration in his shoulder.

The shouting escalated and House strode forward until he stood directly between the security guards and the unwashed rabble. Before anyone could move, he smacked the idiots on the knees with his cane, turning their shouts into yelps of pain. “Shut up,” he said to them.

Turning to the head nurse–Irma, an older woman who was tougher and more sensible than any three doctors he knew combined, not that he’d admit it to her–and asked, “What the hell is going on?”

She gave him a look that he suspected meant trouble later, but crossed her arms and answered. “Those three yahoos snuck up here and–”

One of the yahoos opened his mouth, but when everyone glared at him and House thumped his cane meaningfully, the man shut up.

Irma sniffed. “They got past me while I was dealing with a crisis down the hall. Next thing I knew, they were hollering and shouting and this guy,” she pointed at Logan, “was waving knives at them. And who gave him permission to have knives on *my* ward?” She glared at House, assuming (with some justification) that it was somehow his fault.

The security guys shifted restlessly. “Uh, shouldn’t we–”

“You,” House said, turning to the yahoos. “What the hell were you doing bothering my patient?”

The two men and a woman exchanged wide-eyed looks. “We’re–” one started.

“Leaving right now,” Cuddy said from behind House, “before I have you arrested for trespassing.” House turned to watch her as she stalked down the hallway, looking seriously hot as she scowled at everyone indiscriminately.

Everyone except Irma looked abashed.

Cuddy crossed her arms and said very quietly and very seriously. “Leave. Now.”

The three people took off at a dead run for the stairs, with the security people following at a more sedate pace.

House tried to decide whether to be amused at their reaction, or annoyed that he didn’t get to interrogate them. When Cuddy turned her glare on him, he settled for looking innocent.

“Better you than me, buddy,” Logan muttered as he walked by, back toward Jubilee’s room.

House started to lean nonchalantly against the nurse’s station, but when Irma took a step toward him, he changed trajectory and followed Logan toward Jubilee’s room, calling to Cuddy over his shoulder. “Must check on my patient.”

Behind him, the crowd began to disperse. Cuddy stopped Cameron, Chase, and Foreman, and House wondered what she was saying to them, but not enough to tangle with her in this foul a mood.

He ducked into the room and slid the door closed behind him with a thunk. Logan smirked at him and House shrugged. “Hell hath no fury,” he said.

“She didn’t look scorned to me,” Logan said. “She looked pissed off and ready to take it out on you.”

“Well, it’s only because she loves me so.”

“Uh-huh.” Logan leaned against the wall next to Jubilee’s bed, watching the goings-on through the glass. He looked entirely relaxed, but House was sure that any aggressive move made in their direction would dispel that illusion pretty quickly.

House turned to Jubilee and Kitty (who he hadn’t seen since drawing her blood), who were watching them with some amusement. But there were definite signs of strain on Jubilee’s face, he thought, and he cursed Cuddy for chasing the morons off before he could castigate them. It would have been nice to get some vitriol out on a truly *deserving* target.

“So, what’d those refugees from the circus want?”

Jubilee glared and crossed her arms. “Don’t say anything mean about the circus. We’ve got a friend who was in the circus.”

House opened his mouth to say something snarky, but he noticed Logan using one of his claws to clean under a fingernail, and he reconsidered. “Riiight,” he said. “Getting back to the point…what did they want?”

“They wanted to preach,” Kitty said, scowling with an expression nearly identical to Jubilee’s.

“Mutants are against their religion,” Jubilee said, leaning her head back against her pillows.

Kitty was looking at Jubilee now. “Well, people like that are against *my* religion. So there.”

“I’m sure that argument was very convincing,” House said absently, watching Jubilee as well. He flicked a glance at the monitors beside her bed and took a step closer.

“You,” he said, waving a hand at Logan. “Get out there and get my lackeys in here.”

“Why?” Logan said, looking suspicious.

“Well, I thought it might be helpful to have some other doctors in the room when the kid collapses.” House was beside the bed, hand on Jubilee’s arm.

“What? What are–”

The alarms in the room were loud enough that Logan’s claws shot out of his hands and he snarled.

“Clear the room,” House snarled back. “And get my team in here. Now!”

Jubilee was gray and unresponsive, looking like any heart attack victim he’d ever seen, except that that was *impossible*.

Foreman, Cameron, Chase, and Cuddy ran in, and House handed the oxygen mask in his hand to Cameron.

“Chase, get the ECG in here. I want to see what the hell’s going on while the rest of you keep her alive.” He looked at Kitty, who seemed frozen in shock. “And get the kid out of here.”

House stepped back and allowed the more fleet-of-foot to take over, although it galled him as much as ever, and he gritted his teeth. Cuddy came to stand next to him. “House,” she said, her expression softening.

“Quiet.” He wanted to listen to what was going on.

“Right.” She sighed, patting his arm and stepping out just ahead of Chase, who was barreling in with an ECG machine, followed by McCoy.

House slapped on the leads, ignoring yelps from his team as they tried to work. He flipped on the ECG, and he and McCoy hovered over the paper as it scrolled out of the machine, expecting…well, expecting useful data.

“What’s *that*?” Foreman muttered, peering over his shoulder.

McCoy growled quietly. “I don’t know. Greg?”

“I have no idea.” Scowling, House stared at the pattern he was seeing, trying to figure out why it looked familiar. It wasn’t normal, but it sure as hell wasn’t a heart attack.

“That’s not an MI,” Chase said, standing on tiptoes to look at the paper.

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.” House elbowed Cameron. “I’m assuming our patient is stable, so take this and get everyone in the hospital to look at it. Someone must recognize this pattern.”

“On it.” She tore off a lengthy section and jogged out of the room.

“Foreman, I want a TTE. I want data while it’s fresh.”

Foreman nodded and grabbed the phone to get the necessary equipment.

Chase raised his eyebrows. “What about me?”

“Stay here and help McCoy talk to her friends. They’re going to want someone to be reassuring or something. Oh, and if she wakes up, find out what symptoms she had before she collapsed.” House didn’t wait for a response, just turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” McCoy asked, already seated at Jubilee’s bedside and holding her hand.

“To think, damn it.”

* * * * *

Cameron found him an hour later in his office, sitting with his leg up on a stool, accompanied by a tired-looking Chase and Foreman. She tossed the now-crumpled EKG strip at them and leaned against the glass wall.

“Well?”

“Most people had no idea what it was, but five said it looked familiar, although they couldn’t place it.”

House asked, “Which five?”

Blinking, Cameron thought for a second. “Chin, Reilly, Gifford, Feiler, and Weiss.”

“You went to Psychiatry?”

“You said to ask everyone.”

“True.” He pondered. “Three cardiologists, one intensivist, and one psychiatrist.”

Foreman shrugged. “We’re still nowhere. We’ve got an EKG result that nobody recognizes and that disappeared almost as soon as we saw it, the TTE showed a perfectly normal left ventricle and a weakened contraction in the middle and upper portions, which *also* disappeared. And we’ve got a patient who went from mostly dead to healthy almost as quickly.”

“Mostly dead isn’t totally dead,” House said. “That’s something.”

“Not unless you’ve got Miracle Max on speed dial,” Chase said. When House raised his eyebrows, he shrugged. “You started it.”

House tapped his cane on the floor. “I’m going for a walk. I need to think. Somebody get me the heart biopsy results.”

They scurried around him and he stomped off down the hall, turning the data over in his mind one more time.

“A perfectly healthy mutant teenage girl is kidnapped and held by the military,” he mumbled. “She’s fine when released, doesn’t collapse until later, *after* everyone else.”

House turned the corner, nearly tripping over a little old lady using a walker. They exchanged nasty looks and he kept going.

“She and the other kids who were held show nothing abnormal, no signs anything was done to them. She’s been a mutant for years, so that can’t be it.”

In his reverie, he missed the man striding down the hall toward him until he grabbed House’s shoulder. “Dr. House!” Summers said, “I’ve been calling you.”

“Well, I’ve been trying to cure the patient, so go away.” Only after he’d spoken did he remember that he’d promised McCoy he’d be nice to the kid, since…His thought trailed off.

“Dr. House?” Summers looked worried.

“Your fiancée died.”

“Yes.” His face was blank now and he took a step back.

“Died saving Jubilee.” Summers scowled at him, but House ignored that. Lost a mother figure. There was something there, a memory, if only he could remember what it was.

The EKG results. The TTE. Death of someone close. An apparent heart attack.

Summers was saying something, but House ignored him. There was something else.

There was something about the catecholamines.

“House?” Cuddy was there, brows drawn in concern.

“Catecholamines,” he said, turning on his good heel and striding back toward his office at top speed. He could hear Summers and Cuddy behind him and confused questions, but he was too busy turning the diagnosis over in his mind to answer them.

He pushed open the door and said dramatically. “The heart biopsy shows catecholamine damage, not a heart attack.”

Foreman, who held a folder in his hand, turned to stare at him. “I hate when you do that. How’d you know?”

“Because I know what’s wrong with her.”

“What?” Cameron asked.

McCoy strode in. “What’s going on?”

Cuddy said, “Dr. House was about to reveal all.”

Everyone stared at him and House tried to look like he’d known the answer all along. “Broken heart syndrome.”

“What?” nearly everyone in the room said.

“Stress cardiomyopathy. There was an article in NEJM a few years ago. It’s the result of a prolonged surge in catecholamines that stun the heart. The catecholamines are the response to overwhelming emotional stress. You know, like being kidnapped and imprisoned and having your teacher die. Stuff like that. It mimics a heart attack, except that there’s no heart damage.”

McCoy said urgently, “What’s the prognosis?”

“Complete recovery, and a relapse after recovery is incredibly unlikely.” House shrugged. “Kind of a boring diagnosis now that I’ve made it.”

McCoy gave him a broad grin. “You’re a wonder, Greg. I’m going to give Jubilee the good news.”

House watched him go, while the others talked excitedly. “You could go with him, you know,” Cuddy said.

“Nah,” House shrugged. “I’m terrible at giving good news.”

Cuddy shook her head, a small smile on her face, but she didn’t say anything else.

* * * * *

House stopped by Jubilee’s room as she was getting ready to go home, but she had a bunch of students and Logan and Summers helping, so he watched for a few seconds, then went back to his office.

McCoy and Wilson were waiting for him, already comfortably ensconced with good coffee and doughnuts. House grabbed a chocolate doughnut out of Wilson’s hand just before he took a bite, then settled down in his chair, grinning.

Wilson rolled his eyes and grabbed another doughnut out of the box. “So, another case resolved.”

House shrugged. “Yeah.”

“C’mon, you’ve gotta feel good about this one,” Wilson said. “You liked the patient for once, and she’s going to be fine.”

“Whatever.” House took a big bite of doughnut as Wilson sighed in a long-suffering fashion.

“Well,” McCoy said. “I’m thrilled that Jubilee will be fine. The school has had enough stress without any additional problems.”

“Yeah, about what’shername–”

“Greg.” McCoy’s tone said ‘Top secret, remember?’

“I was just wondering.” House shrugged, drinking some coffee. “Anyway, Jubilee will live to chew bubblegum and buy outrageously short miniskirts again. But the diagnosis…”

“What about it?” McCoy asked.

“Broken heart syndrome,” House said with a sniff. “It’s a dumb name. Who came up with it anyway?”

“I think it was–” McCoy began.

“Rhetorical question,” House said quickly. “Anyway, it makes it sound sentimental and beautiful when it’s really the body going haywire. But ‘Body Going Haywire Syndrome’ doesn’t have the same ring.”

Wilson sighed. “You don’t have a sentimental bone in your body, do you?”

“Well, there’s–”

“Stop!” Wilson put up a hand. “Whatever you were going to say…don’t.”

House gave him an innocent look, but neither McCoy nor Wilson seemed to believe it.

“What’s important,” McCoy said, “is that we know that Jubilee is going to be all right, thanks to you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” House waved a hand. “And the world is still full of puppies and kittens and flowers. Go away now. Come back when you have another interesting case.”

McCoy was undeterred, sticking out his hand and leaving it there until House grudgingly shook it. “Thank you, Greg. I appreciate your help, and so does Jubilee.”

“Whatever.” House waved them away, and Wilson and McCoy grinned at each other before departing.

When they were gone, House looked down at his desk drawer. He opened it for a moment, looking at the handwritten note lying under a pile of paperclips and sticking out of a copy of People: “Thank you, Dr. House. I hope you get lots of interesting dying people to talk to. Love, Jubilee.”

He dropped a copy of JAMA on top of it and shoved the drawer closed again.

Then he propped his leg up on a stool and pulled out his Gameboy. Somebody would be dying soon enough and he had a few more games to lose before they showed up on his doorstep.

–end–

Final author’s note: “Broken heart syndrome” is real. For more information on stress cardiomyopathy, check out Johns Hopkins University Hospital at http://www.hopkinsmedicine.org/asc/faqs.html. I read an article about it in the Washington Post Magazine about three years ago and *knew* I would find a use for it in a House fic someday.