The first grey fingers of dawn crept over the horizon, bringing the twisted metal carapace of the Blackbird into sharp relief. Gnarled metal joists and torn panels cast strange shadows across the debris-strewn floor, and a low fog clung to the ground, leaving everything covered in a thin film of condensation. Only the area around the fire remained relatively dry; both Wolverine and Rogue had kept the fire going throughout the night, the former making sure they had an ample supply of logs gathered from the surrounding trees – there had been plenty of broken branches and felled trunks in the wake of their crash. As the sun dragged itself slowly over the trees, Rogue stretched and yawned, then pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders, shivering and holding her hands out towards the fire. She had taken the second watch, though the night had been thankfully quiet.
Opposite to where she was perched on her mattress, Wolverine stirred, grumbled something under his breath, and raised a hand to rub the sleep from his eyes.
"Huh," he muttered, hoarsely, "tell the hotel their beds are lousy an' I don't think much of their room service."
"Ah'd kill for a cup a' coffee," Rogue agreed, her own voice sounding just as scratchy.
Stretching slowly and sitting up, Logan glanced across at the third member of their group.
"How's he doin'?"
Rogue opened her mouth to answer, but someone beat her to it.
"Gambit been better, mon amis," replied a weak voice, barely recognisable save for the distinctive Cajun accent, "but I'll be fine... putain, il fait froid quand meme..."
Damn, it's cold though...
Rogue frowned to herself, mouthing the words, as if she was trying to translate the meaning. Logan snorted a laugh, and reached out to stoke the fire with one claw.
"Yeah, well, was just sayin' the hotel's lousy and I'll add the lack o' heating to our list of complaints," he replied, sheathing the claw, "I'll gather more wood shortly then scout further afield, see if I can find us a water source, maybe hunt down some decent meat. See if we can get a meal in ya, Cajun."
Gambit shuddered, clearly not enamoured with the idea of eating anything. In the light of the rising dawn, Logan got a good look at the younger man, and his heart sank slightly. He looked far too pale; there was a blue tinge to his lips and his eyes were sunken, with deep shadows around the sockets. The red welt on his forehead had darkened into an impressive bruise, leaving Logan wondering about the possibility of a concussion. Half-lidded, dull red irises seemed to gaze listlessly at nothing, and there were beads of sweat on his brow despite his obvious shivering. Logan sniffed the air, and, getting up, crossed over and kneeled by Gambit's right-hand side. Rogue also instinctively moved closer, but remained by his head, careful not to come between him and the warmth from the fire.
"Gotta check your wound, Cajun," Wolverine told him, "just a quick look..."
Gambit nodded, reluctantly, and Logan pulled back the blankets. Clad only in his distinctive brown coat and uniform trousers, his shivering increased as the damp morning air met his bare chest. A pained groan escaped clenched teeth as the involuntary movement jarred his wound. The bandages, wrapped tightly around his midsection, were once more tinted reddish brown with blood, and Logan sighed.
"We're gonna have to change the dressin' again," he told them both, and would have sworn Gambit went even paler at the thought, "gotta try an' keep the wound clean, Cajun, no two ways 'bout it."
"We ain't got many bandages left," Rogue said, hesitant to cause more pain to their injured comrade, "maybe we should wait a while..."
"Non, chère," Gambit sighed, weakly, "Logan, he right. Sois juste rapide... just be quick."
"Like a flash," Wolverine grinned and drew one claw, "Rogue, get ready, darlin' – we're gonna clean an' redress the wound. Do yerself a favour, Gumbo – pass out now, an' ya won't feel a thing."
Rogue fetched the first aid kit, her heart skittering in her chest. She understood the necessity behind their actions but the thought of causing Gambit any further pain made her want to take off for the nearest horizon. For the thousandth time since their crash, she cursed the collar around her neck that kept her tethered to the ground like a lead balloon. She gathered together what she needed, and knelt opposite Wolverine, her back to the fire. She felt the warmth creeping up her spine as she slipped her gloves off. The only advantage of her collar – she could finally touch her friends without hurting them. Gently, she took one of Gambit's hands in her own, clasping it. He returned the gesture with a slight tightening of his fingers, and she was shocked by how cold and weak his hand felt in hers.
"Yer like a block of ice, sugar," she told him, placing his hand down by his side, "alright – let's make this quick."
Despite Logan's suggestion, Gambit was awake, and could only nod reluctantly. Wolverine carefully sliced away the soiled bandages, exposing the raw wound to the cold air. Rogue caught Gambit's hand as it automatically went to grip the injury protectively, and she grabbed a bottle of water.
"This is probably gonna hurt," she said, by way of apology, "an' it's definitely gonna be cold."
"Already hurts, chère... déjà froid."
Already cold.
She nodded, and carefully poured some of the water over the open wound. Despite her warning, Gambit hissed a curse and his whole body stiffened in response to the icy liquid splashing over his skin, which only jarred the injury further. His back arched in pain as Wolverine grabbed his arms, pinning them to his chest while Rogue used a rag of cloth to sponge the wound clean. She kept up a muttered litany of apologies, tears stinging her eyes as she worked, and she swore as she saw fresh blood seeping slowly from the wound, staining the very cloth she was trying to clean with. Tearing open two more dressing pads, she got the rolls of bandages ready, and with everything in place, she nodded to herself, and to Wolverine.
"Okay, Logan – lift him."
The muscular Canadian obliged, and Gambit could not prevent the cry of pain that tore from his throat caused by the movement of his injured side. Rogue fumbled to get the dressing in place, and once again wrapped the bandages around his midsection, making sure they were tight enough. By the time she was finished, Gambit was trembling uncontrollably, a mixture of cold, pain and exhaustion wracking through him, and sweat stood out on his pallid face.
"All done," Rogue dashed a tear from her eye with the back of her hand as Logan carefully lowered their friend back into a reclined position, drawing the blankets back over his torso, then patting his shoulder in a rough yet gentle gesture of reassurance. Gambit groaned, still gasping from his ordeal, shuddering beneath the blankets.
"Take it easy, Cajun – the wound still looks clean, for now," Logan told him, gruffly, "right – I'm gonna go scouting. Rogue, keep an eye on him, an' see if you can get the beacon workin', darlin'."
"Sure thing," Rogue's voice shook with emotion, but her gaze was steady as she nodded to Logan.
He nodded back, turned, and headed out the back of the aircraft, sniffing the air as he went. Rogue watched him go, and then turned her attention back to Gambit. His breathing was only just beginning to even out, though he still shivered and shuddered weakly, pain etched into his features. She felt her eyes well up again – she had never felt so helpless, due to her inability to alleviate his suffering.
"Oh, Remy," she choked back a sob, "ah'm so sorry – ah wish ah could jus' fly us all outta here..."
"Me too, chère..." he whispered, trying to give her a wan smile, "no' your fault, petite. Gambit still here, he no' leavin' you no time soon..."
He managed to work one hand free of the blankets, and, reaching up, he tenderly used one thumb to wipe away the tear that spilled down her cheek. She pressed her hand to his, revelling in the rare sensation of skin-to-skin contact without the pain of draining his powers and life force. The palm of his hand was like ice on her cheek, but she held on nonetheless. She felt a strong shudder pass through him, and reluctantly, she took his hand away, tucking his arm back under the blankets.
"Get some sleep, sugar, you'll feel better soon, ah promise," she murmured to him, planting a soft kiss on his cold, ashen cheek.
"Oui, chère... mais ne fais pas du promesses que tu ne peux pas tenir..."
Don't make promises you can't keep...
She waited by his side until his breathing evened out and she was sure he was properly asleep, before she climbed stiffly to her feet. Stretching out her aching limbs, she set herself to work to try to keep herself occupied, even as she prayed for rescue.
Professor! Please! Why ain't ya answerin' me? Professor!
...
...
When Gambit awoke once more, it was to a flash of pain sharp enough to make him bite back an audible cry. He settled for a tight moan escaping his lips, as he forced his eyes open. Blinking rapidly to try to focus, he lay as still as possible, trying to take a few short, shallow breaths in an effort to steady himself. Taking deep breaths only pulled agonisingly at his wounded side, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest – it matched the thumping in his head and the throbbing in his side. Raising one hand to his aching head, he tried to lift himself up a little, but this only sent a spike of pain through his waist and stomach, and he groaned, curling in on himself in a desperate attempt to alleviate the agony.
Slowly, painfully, he inched himself up until he was kneeling on his mattress, practically bent double, his right hand clamped over his left side, the wound throbbing constantly. There was no sign of Rogue or Wolverine, but Gambit could hear vague noises coming from outside the front of the jet, and he could empathically sense Rogue was nearby but out of sight. She was clearly working on something, and he guessed Wolverine must be out scouting the area. He hated lying helplessly on the bed while the other two did all of the work, but he knew there was little he could do to assist. Lighting the fire had nearly drained what little energy he had, and his own weakness bothered him deeply.
He wanted nothing more than to lie back down, but there was a more pressing need he had to attend to. He reached into his coat, and pulled out his retractable bo staff. Flicking it out to its full length, he kept his right hand firmly cupped to his wounded side. Holding the staff in his left hand, using it to support his weight, he grunted with the pain and effort, hauling himself up onto his feet. He trembled with the exertion, his legs shaking and barely able to support him.
"What in tarnation?" exclaimed a voice behind him, "where d'ya think you're goin'?"
Rogue was at his side in a flash, saving him from an undignified tumble back onto what remained of the deck plating. Gambit groaned, shuddering with pain and weakness, feeling dizzy and sick to his stomach.
"C'mon, let's get you layin' back down, ya big idiot..."
"Non, chère," he protested, weakly, leaning heavily against her and his staff, "Gambit, he... uh... he gotta go outside, chère."
"Outside? Whaddya mean, outside?"
"Call o' nature, chère," he mumbled, with a wry, humourless grin.
"Oh!" Rogue blinked in understanding, "well, okay then... ah'll help ya outside and, ah, leave ya to it..."
She eased his right arm over her shoulders, taking as much of his weight as she could without her usual superhuman strength. He kept his staff in his left hand, but after only a few steps he was almost bent double, panting with the exertion, and she could feel the tremors wracking his battered body. It broke her heart to see him suffering so much. Finally, they made their way clear of the wreckage, and Rogue left Gambit leaning heavily against a tree. Backing away to give him some privacy, she waved her hand.
"Just give a holler when yer done," she told him, walking around to the other side of the wreckage of their jet. She idly picked through the debris, looking to see if there might be anything of use.
She searched for a few minutes, before she heard Gambit call out to her.
"Ah'm a comin'!" she called back, abandoning her fruitless search.
She dashed back around to what was left of the back of the cockpit, to find Gambit leaning heavily on his staff, visibly shaking, as he used a trembling hand to swipe away the sweat dripping into his eyes.
"Aw, dammit, Remy," she sighed, "ya seem right poorly, darlin'..."
"Oui, chère," he groaned, "Gambit not feelin' too good right now... t'ink I need to lie down, maybe..."
"Let's get ya back inside, hon," Rogue slipped his arm over her shoulders, and half-carried him back into the remains of the Blackbird.
Easing him back down onto his mattress, Rogue gently swept his sweat-dampened hair from his eyes, her own eyes glistening with unshed tears as she listened to his barely-suppressed moans of pain.
"Take it easy, sugar," she murmured to him, as she helped him lie back down, "try ta sleep now, okay?"
She tucked the blankets back around him, mumbling soothing reassurances and gently stroking his hair until his gasping settled into quieter, steadier breaths; his pain-fuelled shuddering eased to the occasional shiver, and his eyes finally slid shut, surrendering to unconsciousness once more. Rogue lowered her head, concentrating with all her might.
Professor! She screamed, inside her head; Professor, please! We need you! Please help us...please!
But there was still no reply.
