By the time night began to fall, the two of them had stacked enough logs and kindling to last for at least three days of constantly keeping the fire going. They had found a piece of tent canvas amongst the debris trailed behind the jet, too torn up to be useful as a shelter but still big enough to stretch between a couple of trees in the wake of the cockpit, dipped in the middle to hopefully collect some rainwater or condensation they could later boil to supplement their water supplies if needed. Logan had set a couple of rudimentary animal snares, hoping to add to their food rations.
As expected, as the sun dropped below the horizon, the temperature followed it. Having exhausted the daylight to work by, they went back into the jet, where Logan immediately crouched beside Gambit. Although he moved near-silently, Gambit stirred, and forced his eyes open, blinking slowly. Logan waited until the red gaze settled upon him, the usual bright glow looking oddly muted and dimmed.
"Mon amis," he mumbled, his voice hoarse yet hopeful, "rescue here?"
"Not yet, Gumbo," Wolverine shook his head, sadly, "lemme take another look at that wound o' yours."
"Non," Gambit gasped, breathlessly, clutching at his side with his right hand, "s'il te plait ne... ca fait trop mal..."
No, please don't... it hurts too much.
"Je connais, mon amis," Logan replied, as Rogue's head snapped around in surprise, "mais je dois."
I know, my friend. But I have to.
Gambit put up no resistance as Logan carefully lifted away the corner of the two blankets covering him, revealing the white bandages around his torn waist. There was only a slight trace of blood seeping through, but Logan decided there was not enough to warrant changing the dressing just yet – they had precious few bandages remaining and he was reluctant to cause the man any more pain than strictly necessary. He carefully sniffed the air – the smell of blood was strong, but he could not detect any scent of infection – yet. He knew all too well it was still too early to tell, it would take at least a couple of days for any infection to take hold. Tomorrow would tell for sure whether the Cajun had a greater ordeal to survive.
"Hey, you," Rogue had appeared next to Logan, clutching a ration pack and a bottle of water, "how're ya feelin'?"
"Gambit fine, chère, jus' fine," he tried to sound reassuring, "he t'inkin' o' takin' you dancin' tonight."
"Well, how about dinner and drinks first, sugar?" Rogue held up the ration packet and water bottle, suggestively.
Gambit screwed his face up, shaking his head; "Sorry, chère – Gambit don' feel like eatin'."
"C'mon, Gumbo, ya gotta wine an' dine a lady afore y'can take 'er dancin'," Logan grinned, "even you must know that."
"Ya need ta keep ya strength up, sugar," Rogue urged him, a pleading tone creeping into her southern drawl, "c'mon, Gambit – ya gotta try."
Gambit swallowed, hard, and Logan could see that the very thought of food was making the other man feel nauseous.
"Anyt'in' for you, chère," he finally whispered, reluctantly, "but – Gambit – he can feed himself, oui?"
Rogue nodded, and split open the rations packet. It was something dehydrated but nutritional, and she broke a piece off, placing it in his shaking hand. He took it and regarded it with some trepidation, but at her noise of encouragement, he obligingly put it into his mouth, and chewed slowly. Even the effort of eating looked exhausting. Logan decided to leave them to it, and went to patrol the perimeter around their downed aircraft. Rogue stayed glued to Gambit's side, alternating between handing him little pieces broken from the ration bar and helping him to take tiny sips of water. It took him over half an hour to eat about a third of the ration bar and drink less than a fifth of the bottle of water, when he held up one shaking hand, staving off her attempt to break off another piece of food.
"No more, chère, please," he groaned, in little more than a whisper, "Gambit not feelin' too good now..."
Rogue sighed in dismay, but nodded in acquiescence, wrapping up the remains of the ration pack and setting it to one side, along with the water bottle. Remy's face had taken on an ashen hue as he lay slumped against the pillow, and for lack of anything else to do, Rogue eased herself down onto the mattress beside him next to his uninjured side. Hesitantly, she rested one hand on his bare chest, as he obligingly moved his right arm to wrap around the back of her neck, loosely caressing her shoulder. With her hand on his chest, she could feel his heart beating, weak but steady, beneath her fingers, and his breathing, shallow and quick. A sudden sob choked in the back of her throat, and she rolled over into him, allowing the damn to break, and he wrapped his arm around her back as she sobbed helplessly into his shoulder.
"S'okay, chère, let it out," he mumbled, soothingly, rubbing circles on her back, "s'gonna be okay, chère. Gambit loves you. You'll be okay..."
"S'not me ah'm worried about, ya dumb Cajun swamp rat," she sniffled, without any malice in her tone, still clinging to him as tightly as she dared, "with mah powers ah could've had ya outta here in two shakes of a squirrel's tail, an' here y'are, sufferin' like this, just 'cause ah had to go an' get meself caught by those no good, dirty, rotten, filthy, stinkin', low-life Genoshans..."
She trailed off, sniffing back her tears, even as Gambit's right hand continued to stroke lazy, comforting circles on her back.
"S'okay, chère," he repeated, faintly, his voice weakening, "dey'll come for us, you'll see. Not long now... you'll... you'll see..."
His right hand suddenly slipped limply from her back, and she gasped, grasping the collar of his coat with the hand that had been resting on his chest.
"Remy?" she called out to him, helplessly, "Remy! Aw, no..."
The exertion had been too much; Gambit had lost consciousness, overwhelmed by his pain and exhaustion. Another tear tracked down Rogue's face, as she snuggled up closer to him, telling herself it would help to keep the injured man warm, and absolutely not because she simply wanted to listen to his breathing to reassure herself that he was still alive.
...
...
Logan returned to the downed jet having completed his patrol, to find Rogue curled up next to Gambit on the mattress, fast asleep, one hand resting on the Cajun's chest, atop the blankets wrapped around him. Wolverine quirked a wry grin, knowing that under normal circumstances, the other man would have been over the moon to have his dream girl in his arms. It was a shame he was too out of it to appreciate the rare opportunity to hold Rogue close to him. Wolverine picked up the other blanket from Rogue's bed, and gently draped it over the sleeping woman. She stirred, but did not wake. Gambit did not react at all. Wolverine's amusement evaporated; the Cajun was not normally a heavy sleeper, and the uncharacteristic stupor was indicative of his failing strength.
Realising he was stuck with first watch again, Logan stoked the fire and took to silently pacing around the cramped remains of the cockpit. Like Rogue, he rebelled at inaction; it went against every instinct he had not to just charge off in search of escape, but as the default 'leader' of their little group, he knew he had to rein in his temper and think about what was best for everyone. Survival meant being found. Being found meant staying in one place. Staying in one place meant driving himself crazy. But, if it meant survival, he would have to take it.
Suddenly, he stopped his pacing, and paused. He sniffed the air, and dropped into a defensive position, unsheathing his claws without consciously registering he'd done so. The hairs prickled across the back of his neck, and every instinct was screaming at him that danger was coming. He growled low in his throat, and then he heard it – the whine of something that sounded like an approaching jet engine. Confusion washed over him momentarily – could his instincts be wrong? Had Charles Xavier realised something was wrong and sent recue early? Was that the sound of an approaching friendly jet?
"Flight wreckage located," intoned a monotone, mechanical voice, in the distance, "proceeding with investigation. Location reported to base."
"Shit!" hissed Logan, and then he raised his voice, "Rogue! On your feet! Rogue – we got a sentinel incoming!"
"What?" Rogue snapped awake, jerking upright, inadvertently jarring Gambit, who cried out in pain, also jolting back to consciousness.
"Sentinel!" Logan snapped at them, "We're gonna have ta make a run fer it! I might be able to slow 'im down, but we ain't got good odds here..."
"Logan – without mah powers..."
"I know, darlin' – get packin'. Grab whatever gear ya can, here..." he snatched up a rucksack he'd salvaged from the wreckage earlier, just in case, and threw it towards her, "pack food, water, medical supplies, whatever ya can carry. We're gonna have t'take our chances in the forest..."
Logan bared his teeth as Rogue scrambled to obey. He had no doubt he could hold his own against one sentinel for a while, but he was torn between fighting, or running with them to make sure his friends would survive their flight. The decision was made for him, when Gambit called out.
"Mon amis!" his voice cracked in pain, "help Gambit up, non? He can help..."
"Sure ya can, Gumbo," Logan snorted, but he sheathed his claws and moved to the other man's side nonetheless – without her powers of strength, Rogue had no chance of lifting the lanky Cajun from his bed, let alone carrying him through the jungle at a running pace... and that was without thinking about what such a flight might do to Gambit himself.
"Brace yerself, Cajun, this ain't gonna be pleasant..." Logan growled.
He grasped Gambit's right arm, and in one smooth, fluid movement, drew it around his neck and lifted the other man to his feet. Gambit cried out in pain and would have keeled right over, if not for Wolverine's iron grip on him. Gasping with agony, head looping in sick surges, his vision greying dangerously at the edges, Gambit panted breathlessly, hanging as limp as a wet rag against his friend, as Wolverine adjusted his grip.
"Targets located," intoned the monotonous voice, now disturbingly close, "three survivors registering; proceeding with capture and/or elimination of mutant terrorists."
The gigantic, expressionless, robotic face appeared at the rear of the craft, peering into their meagre shelter. Logan was powerless to do anything with his hands full, supporting the ailing Gambit. Rogue was simply powerless. Gambit, however, was not – not entirely, at least not yet, and especially when his protective instincts towards his friends kicked in. Wolverine felt the other man shift in his grip – at first, he thought he was losing consciousness, but this was far from the case. Gambit was simply shifting his weight so that he could reach into the pocket of his coat.
Wolverine realised what the other man was doing, and felt a glimmer of hope, even as he growled out; "Ya sure that's a good idea, Gumbo?"
"You got a better one, mon amis?" whispered Gambit, weakly, producing three playing cards.
"Not in this instant, no," Logan was forced to admit.
"Target acquired," intoned the terrifying robot, "proceeding..."
Gambit's eyes flashed dangerously, as he charged and threw the first card. Before Logan could register the blur of movement, the second and third card shot after it; three explosions sounded percussively loud, and the sentinel let out a mechanical scream, jerking back and then toppling over backwards with smoke pouring from both ruined eyes and a hole in the centre of its forehead. Gambit's aim had been perfect, as always – crippled beyond repair, the ground reverberated with the impact as the sentinel crashed to the ground, completely destroyed. However, this was not the only damage done.
"Carcajou..." groaned Gambit, panting heavily, as he raised a shaking hand to his head.
Wolverine...
"Carcajou... de... de room is spinning..."
With an agonised moan, Gambit's legs gave way and his head sagged forwards; were it not for Logan's firm grip on his arm and around his waist, the Cajun would have folded and hit the deck.
"Remy!" Rogue cried out, in despair.
"Don't worry darlin', he's still breathing," Logan told her, "now grab them supplies – we gotta run. That sentinel's soon gonna have friends over, and we don't wanna be around for that party."
Regretting his actions, but needing to get Gambit into a more manageable hold, he carefully lifted the unconscious Cajun over his shoulder, and gestured to Rogue, who was stuffing the last few items into her backpack, shouldering it on.
"Ya want me ta carry that, darlin'?" he offered, mindful of her diminished strength, but her eyes flashed resolutely.
"Ah can manage! You jus' see ta Gambit," she told him, "now, c'mon – we gotta move!"
Logan cast one last, regretful look around the cockpit of the downed jet, and, with a determined nod to Rogue, he led the way into the jungle beyond. In the distance, the whine of engines heralded the approach of more sentinels, as they began to make their escape.
