POV: Rogue

I don't profess to have senses as strong as Logan's, but I don't need them when the smell of coppery, tangy blood practically fills our bedroom, waking me up. I roll out of bed and take a defensive position even before I open my eyes. Once I scan the room, though, I don't see any danger. It's just me and Logan. He's sitting on the bed, facing away from me and looking down, not even noticing that I'd gotten up.

"Logan?" I ask as I walk around the bed to face him.

Where from the back he looked perfectly fine, from the front, he looks like he just came out of a war zone. His claws are out and coated with blood as are his arms, chest, stomach, and legs. Old blood has formed an alarmingly-wide puddle on the carpeting at his feet. The only wounds I can see are bone deep slashes in his right thigh, and as I watch in shock, he slices into his flesh again with a frustrated growl. I'm at his side in an instant, grasping his wrists and holding the blades away from his body.

"Logan, what the hell are you doing?" I demand.

He looks up from the wounds as if noticing me for the first time.

"Itches," he mumbles.

"What?"

He starts to shift around like a little boy in a starched suit and his attention falls back to his leg again.

"Itches."

He looks at my gloved hands holding his wrists, sheathes his claws, and grasps my hands with his opposite hands. Then, he pulls both of my hands into one grip. Even though his hands are slick with blood, the glove material provides enough traction that he can maintain a hold. Now that he has me out of the way, he releases his left-hand claws and slices at his healing leg again.

"Logan! Stop that!" I command, putting my leg on top of his wounded one to protect it.

He growls in frustration and tries to move me out of the way, but he won't release his grip on my hands so he can't get me far enough away.

"Marie," he warns, but I ignore him. Whatever's going on, I'm not going to allow him to hurt himself any further.

After about a minute of this, he stops and releases my hands, looking down at his leg in surprise.

"Stopped again," he says in low tones. Then, after a moment's contemplation, he adds, "Still hot."

"Logan?"

He doesn't answer, apparently still captivated by his thigh, but he doesn't seem to be hurting himself anymore so I think it's safe to risk it. I run to our bedroom door, unlock and open it, and shout, "Jean!" down the hallway.

After waiting a few seconds, I shout her name again, my voice rising in pitch as my worry increases. Finally, she rushes out of her room at the end of the hall and runs toward me with Scott close behind her.

When she reaches me, she asks, "Rogue? What is it?"

I just turn and let them see Logan. It's like he's in some sort of trance, mumbling to himself and rubbing his hands over the healing tissues. Jean gasps and rushes to his side while Scott looks around the room, trying to see what might've caused this.

"Logan, what happened?" Jean asks, and I answer for him.

"He cut himself. He said that it itched."

"Itched," Logan agrees.

After running tests in the Med Lab for hours, Jean finally sits down to talk to us. During that time, Logan had healed and gone back to his usual, alert self. However, we both are more than ready for answers as to what had caused his strong reaction in the first place.

"Well, Logan," Jean begins, "you're running a fever, but I don't see any indications of increased histamine in your system."

"What?" Logan and I both ask.

"I can't find a reason for why you would be itching," Jean clarifies. "I also don't know what's causing this fever. All the viral and bacterial tests I ran came back negative."

Logan gets up from his chair and starts to pace Jean's office. "Jeanie, I didn't just do this for fun. Somethin's wrong."

Jean holds up her hands up in surrender. "I agree. It's just going to take more tests to narrow it down."

"What kinda tests?"

"You seemed slightly disoriented when I first saw you. I'd like to take a spinal tap and check for meningitis."

"I wasn't disoriented. Just confused 'bout what was goin' on."

"Yeah," I agreed. "Logan can't get sick like that with his healing factor anyway."

"We don't actually know the limits of Logan's healing factor," she explained in a voice she usually reserved for students. "He has a fever, and whatever's causing it needs to be treated."

Needless to say, she talked us into it. Logan was now sitting on a hard exam table dressed in a revealing, paper gown for the second time today. I don't mind the revealing part, but the outfit and our location leaves much to be desired. Jean's in the middle of explaining what a spinal tap is like when Logan startles and he releases his claws.

Jean reacts before he can make a move, freezing him in place.

"Itches... it's movin'... itches," Logan whines.

"Moving? What's moving?" Jean asks, as I watch my husband helplessly strain against her hold.

"Itch... movin' up... my back," Logan grinds out, his face twisted in uncomfortable agony.

"Jean?" I anxiously ask. "What's going on?"

"The itch is moving?" she asks Logan, ignoring me. She walks around the bed that he's sitting on so she can see his back. "Where? Where is it on your back, Logan?"

"Middle... movin' up," he answers in a shaky voice.

"Jean, do something!" I demand.

"I don't see anything," she says, then she puts her hands on his back, drawing a moan from his clenched lips. "Where is it now, Logan?"

"Shoulders... movin' up... neck."

As soon Logan says that word, his body collapses bonelessly across the bed. In only a split second, I collapse in much the same way, falling into a twisted heap on the floor. In my line of sight, I can see Jean sprawled on the floor on the other side of the bed.

I try to get up, to go to Logan or crawl towards Jean, but I can't move. I can't move anything! My legs, my arms, nothing responds. Not only that, though. I can't feel anything below the neck, either. My cheek feels cold on the metal floor and my forehead aches where it struck, but my arms and legs are gone, nonexistent. If I wasn't still breathing, I might think I'd been decapitated.

"Marie?!?" Logan calls out desperately from far above me.

"Logan, I can't move! I can't feel!" I answer in panic.

"I can't either, darlin'," he answers in a voice that is equal parts anger and fear. "What about Jeanie? Where'd she go?"

"She's on the floor, too," I answer. That's odd. Why doesn't she speak up? "Jean?" I ask, but no answer comes from her still form. "Jean?" I ask again with still no response. She's facing me, but her red hair is drawn across her face, so I can't see if she's awake.

After about a minute of silence, I speak again, "Logan?"

"Yeah?"

"What happened?"

"Dunno. Must've had somethin' to do with the itchin'. Moved up to my neck and now I can't move."

"But Jean and I didn't have any symptoms. Why're we like this too?"

"Can't answer that, darlin'."

"Do... do you think someone'll come find us?" I ask, my slightly shaking voice giving away some of my fear.

"Scooter's bound to any second. He and Jeanie got that mind-link thing. He'll know that somethin's wrong with her."

Yeah, that's right. Scott'll be here any second.

A seeming eternity passes, probably a minute or so, and still no Scott. I start counting the seconds so I can better judge how long it's taking. After about ten minutes, I hear a shuffling above me.

"Logan?" I ask.

"I'm healing, darlin'. Gimme a bit longer and we'll be fine."

I start counting again.

It takes another fifteen minutes before a clumsy Logan is crouched at my side, straightening my body out on the floor. When he's done, he draws his bare fingers through my hair in a comforting gesture and for the moment, it's everything I need. I can't take more than a moment, though. I'm not the only one lying on the floor.

"Logan, check on Jean."

I'd been worrying about her all this time. She'd probably been knocked out by the fall and could be seriously hurt.

"Don't have to, darlin'," he answers in a gentle voice, tinged with sadness.

"What?"

"She's dead, Marie."

"What?!?" I yell.

"Probably been dead since she fell."

"What?! How?"

Logan opens his mouth to answer and then jerks his head up instead, listening to something I can't hear. Then, he quickly starts gathering my limp body into his arms.

"Logan..." I start to ask, but he stops, placing a finger over his lips.

"Quiet, Marie. We've got company."

I listen as he quietly stands up, holding my dead weight. There are voices, unrecognizable men's voices in the lower levels of the mansion. We've been invaded.