They made painfully slow progress, only stopping for the occasional break, but even Wolverine was forced to admit to himself he was impressed Gambit was still gamely forging ahead, despite looking like he was about to keel over at any second. Eventually, the forest foliage began to thin out, and they found themselves standing on a rugged heath, beyond which the beckoning sea glistened in the distance.

"Well, would ya look at that," Logan pointed.

"A cabin!" Rogue exclaimed.

Sure enough, on the edge of the forest, there nestled a tiny log cabin. It was in obvious disrepair, but could at least offer them some temporary shelter. They skirted the edge of the forest to avoid being seen by any prying eyes, and Logan tried the door.

"Locked," he grunted.

A swipe of his claws solved that particular problem, and he pushed the door open, gesturing for Rogue and Gambit to enter; once inside, he nestled the door back in the frame as best he could, closing out the world for now. He cast a quick glance around. The cabin was a one-room affair; it featured a small hearth with a chimney against one wall, a single rusty metal bed frame with a thin, stained mattress, an over-stuffed armchair that had more holes than canvas left on it, a small table, a log-fired stove, and a few cupboards, most with doors hanging off. The whole cabin smelled damp and dirty; clearly, it had been abandoned some time ago.

Logan quickly flipped the mattress over on the bed – the underside was not much cleaner, but less dusty. Rogue took the hint, and carefully lowered Gambit into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. He would have toppled right over had she not kept tight hold of him; after their trek through the jungle he was clearly exhausted, trembling uncontrollably, gasping for breath and almost doubled over as both hands clutched his wounded side. Wolverine was already tearing through the cupboards with haste, and eventually found what he was looking for – blankets. They were old and moth-eaten, but thankfully dry and relatively clean, having been kept in an air-tight linen chest at the foot of the bed. He rolled one up into a makeshift pillow, and Rogue helped ease Gambit back until he was lying down, on his back, both shivering and sweating with the agony, exhaustion and fever. She fetched their only blanket from the backpack, draped it over him, and then added another one from the linen chest for good measure.

"It's freezin' in here," she commented, rubbing her arms for good measure, "think we can get a fire goin' in that hearth?"

"Reckon so, darlin' – saw some logs outside, I'll go fetch 'em. You take stock o' what we got here. Cajun... you get some rest, pal. You've earned it."

Gambit only groaned, sickly, shuddering underneath the blankets; too far gone to form a coherent response. Rogue gently tousled his hair affectionately, before she began picking through the cupboards, pulling out anything that seemed even vaguely useful, setting out a selection of items on the rickety table. Wolverine came backwards and forwards with armloads of logs, piling them by the fire.

"There's a well out back," he told Rogue, with a gesture indicating the direction, "water smells fairly fresh, but we'll get the stove goin' and boil some up, just in case."

"Ah found a pan we can use," Rogue waved her hand over the objects laid out on the table, "we got us some tinned meat an' potatoes, some beans, couple'a plates, nothin' fancy, but at least we got some food."

"Any medical supplies?" Logan asked, casting a significant glance at Gambit.

"Nuh-uh," Rogue shook her head, biting her lip, "'an' we've only got one roll a' bandages left. Maybe we can tear up some a' these sheets, boil the strips clean, an' dry 'em in front of the fire..."

"I'll get the hearth and stove goin'," Wolverine said, by way of agreement, "you go get the water."

Rogue nodded, and eased her way out through the broken door. Logan stacked the wood into the hearth first, wanting to warm the room before trying to get the stove going. Patting down the pockets of his black and yellow uniform, he growled a curse. His lighter was gone – he must have dropped it fleeing from the jet and through the jungle. He quickly rifled through the supplies Rogue had set out, and then rummaged through the cupboards again just to make sure she hadn't missed anything. Eventually, he discovered a matchbox, but his relief was short-lived when he found that the box was empty.

"Aw, dammit," he groaned, hating himself already, but knowing he had little choice in the matter.

He crossed the cramped room, and crouched beside the bed, resting one hand on Gambit's shoulder. He could feel the younger man twitching and trembling, a terrible combination of the cold room along with his pain, fever and exhaustion. Gambit seemed only semi-conscious, and it took a long time for those hazy red eyes to come back into focus, finally settling on Logan's grim countenance.

"Hey, Gumbo," Logan said, gruffly, "how're ya feelin'?"

The answer was obvious. Gambit's face was greyer than the mattress he was lying on. He was half-curled around his injured side, his expression tight with pain, a thin film of sweat coating his face even as he continued to shiver weakly.

"Gambit... been better, mon amis," the Cajun replied, hoarsely, "don' say... we gotta go... already?"

"Hell, no," Wolverine shook his head, "we could be here a while yet, though with any luck, rescue'll be here soon... No, I gotta much simpler problem for ya – think I lost ma lighter in the forest. Think ya got it in ya ta help me start this fire?"

"Oui, Carcajou..."

Gambit looked towards the fireplace – it was just to the left of the bed, a scant few steps from where he lay, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a couple of playing cards, and he huffed a wry, humourless laugh.

"What's so funny, Cajun?"

He revealed the two cards to Logan; the ace of spades and the eight of clubs.

"Black aces an' eights, mon amis," he wheezed, painfully, "'s a dead man's hand."

Logan's reply was cut off when a spasm of agony shot through Gambit; he choked on a cry of pain, the two cards slipping from his fingers to the floor, as he curled in on himself, wrapping both arms around his midriff, moaning softly.

"Steady, pal, steady, easy now, fella," Logan gripped the other man's shoulder, trying desperately to calm Gambit, as he writhed in agony, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't've asked ya..."

"Ahhhh," Gambit grimaced, "hah... Gambit must be dyin'... yo' no normally dis nice..."

"Blame the lack of decent food an' whiskey..."

Wolverine bent down and picked up the stray cards, and was surprised when Gambit reached out and plucked one – the ace – from his fingers. The Cajun narrowed his black and red eyes, focussing on the card, even as he gritted his teeth. His hand shook with the effort, but the card lit up with a red glow, and a flick of his wrist sent it arcing through the air – straight into the fireplace. Logan's brows lifted in admiration as the card ignited, immediately alighting the dry logs. He was about to congratulate Gambit's efforts, when the door suddenly banged open, and he turned towards it with a snarl, assuming a defensive position – only to relax immediately when Rogue stepped through, clutching a metal pail of water in both hands.

"Ah'm sorry it took so long," she grunted, placing the bucket on the floor, "the damn handle broke, but ah got some water... oh! Ya got the fire goin'! Nice work, Logan."

"Not my doin', darlin'," Logan gripped Gambit's shoulder, feeling the tremors wracking his weakened frame, "lemme get that stove goin' an' we'll get some water boilin'."

"Shame there wasn't any coffee in those cupboards," Rogue sighed, as Logan piled a few logs into the stove.

He selected a slightly longer branch from the pile, lit it from the main fire, and used it to ignite the stove. Rogue wiped the pan as clean as possible using a rag of cloth and some of the water, before half-filling the pan and setting it on the stove to boil clean. She took one of their water bottles, and crossed to Gambit's side, perching herself on the edge of the bed.

"Ya should try ta drink somethin', hon," she told him, gently, "yer dehydrated, an' that ain't gonna help ya none."

With immense care, she trickled some of the water from the bottle into his dry, parched lips. While Rogue tended to the ailing Gambit, Logan busied himself with cutting some of the sheets into strips, boiling them clean in the stove water and then draping them over the edge of the table to dry. He hoped they would not need to use them, and that rescue would come soon, but he also preferred to be prepared. He found a shallow bowl that he washed clean, and then set aside some of the water to cool.

Turning his attention to their food supplies, he knew it would do all of them good to get a decent meal. He wasn't much of a cook – of the three of them, that was definitely Gambit's field of expertise – but even Logan could heat up a tin of stewed meat and canned vegetables on their stove Hr crumbled in one of their ration packs for good measure to bulk out the meal. He mixed everything into one pan and set it simmering, hoping to break it down into a stew, so that Gambit might be able to stomach eating some. The younger man was growing weaker by the hour, and Logan knew they had little time left to get him to safety before the damage to his battered body became irreparable. The water was already beginning to cool, and Logan carried it over to the bedside, placing it on an upturned wooden crate beside Rogue.

"Here," he placed a scrap of the boiled cloth in the water, "see if ya can bring 'is fever down a bit."

"Thanks, sugar," Rogue dipped the cloth into the bowl, wrung it out, and folded it up, gently wiping the sweat from Gambit's face and brow, "oh, Remy... ya look right poorly, darlin'..."

She tenderly dabbed the cool, damp cloth over his face, neck and chest, avoiding the bandages as she worked, occasionally dipping and wringing out the cloth. She then folded it up and placed it over his forehead, as he groaned in sick despair.

"Gambit... he feelin'... pretty t... terrible," he admitted, shakily, "sorry, chère... Gambit startin' to t'ink... he no gettin' outta dis one..."

"Can it, swamp boy!" Rogue told him, firmly, pointing her finger at him, "yer gonna be fine, ya hear me? 'Cause ah says so, an' that's why."

"Huh... anythin' fer... fer you... ch...chère..." he stuttered, clutching at his tortured side, "m...mon dieu... l... la douleur... c'est trop..."

The pain... it's too much...

"Oh, Remy," Rogue's heart broke a little more, "ah don't know why ah can't get through t'the Professor, but ah'm sure help's a-comin' soon. Y'just gotta hang in there, ya hear me?"

Whatever reply he might have made was lost in a terrible shudder, and he moaned aloud as the involuntary movement triggered another wave of pain. Rogue gently caressed his face, soaking the rag once more in the water and soothing his fevered brow as best she could. She maintained her ministrations until he was once more asleep. Logan appeared at her side, holding a plate of hot... brown... something.

"Here," he handed it to her, along with a spoon, "it ain't much, but it's hot an' fillin' an' it'll keep yer strength up."

"Thanks," she accepted it, and realised once again just how hungry she really was.

Rogue stayed perched on the edge of the bed as she ate, and Logan sat in the sorry-looking armchair, sending up a small cloud of dust as he did so. They ate in near silence, as the fire crackled in the hearth and the sunlight outside the one window began to fade to orange as it set over the ocean in the distance. Rogue scraped her plate clean, and finally voiced the question that had been haunting her for some time.

"Logan, ah've been tryin' on an' off since we crashed, but ah can't get through ta the professor at all," she admitted, helplessly, "ah don't understand – why ain't they comin' fer us? Can't he hear us? Don't he care how much Gambit's hurtin'?"

"I don't know, darlin'," Logan confessed, in return, "I've been tryin' as well. Way I figure it, the Genoshan's have got some way o'blocking telepathic communication. He ain't sent help, 'cause he don't know we need it."

"It's gettin' dark again," Rogue glanced towards the tiny window above the bed, "how long's it been since we crashed? Two days? Three?"

"This is our third night since the jet went down," Logan told her, "tomorrow's the third day... then they should realise somethin's up when we're not back as scheduled."

"Yeah, but how long afore they decide ta send a rescue party?" Rogue sighed, glancing down at Gambit and tenderly rested her hand on his arm, "he's sufferin', Logan... he's in so much pain... Not the first time we've been late back from a mission, either... the Professor won't just send out another jet unless he knew we needed it, an' right now... he don't know."

"No... no, I don' think he does, darlin'," Wolverine said, softly, at length, "but he will, soon."

Rogue moved her hand from Gambit's arm to his fevered cheek, with a gentle caress; "Let's hope so, sugar... if only fer his sake."

Logan stood slowly, and reached for her empty plate.

"Seconds?" he offered, gruffly.

"Oh, hell, yeah," she nodded, "could do with some good ole Cajun seasonin', though..."

She trailed off, realising what she had said, but Wolverine favoured her with a wry smile; "Yeah, Gumbo's a much better cook, but I doubt even he could do much with a tin o'stewed steak, a ration pack and a few cans a' veg... I'll reheat what we've got. See if ya can wake 'im and get 'im sittin' up a bit, could do with gettin' some food in 'im."

She nodded; reluctant to re-awaken Gambit to his world of pain, but knowing he needed to eat. Wolverine busied himself by the stove, as Rogue gently grasped Gambit's shoulder.

"Remy?" she murmured to him, stroking his hair away from his eyes, "Remy, ah need ya ta wake up for me, sugar..."

He stirred, and groaned beneath her gentle touch; "Ch... chère?"

"Yeah, it's me, honey," she whispered, "ah'm gonna need ya ta sit up a bit for me... an' ya gotta try ta eat somethin'."

"Ohhh... oh no, chère..." he shook his head slightly, trying to draw the blankets tighter around himself as he screwed his eyes closed, "Gambit no' feelin' well, chère... t'ink eatin' is a bad plan..."

"It'll do ya more harm if ya don't eat, sugar," Rogue told him, softly, "c'mon... fer me... please?"

Gambit sighed and closed his eyes, and for one moment she thought he'd lost consciousness again. Then, he swallowed, hard, and gave her a slight nod. Energised by his agreement, Rogue got to her feet, and snatched a couple of threadbare cushions from the armchair. She propped them up at the head of the bed, and when Logan returned, he set down a couple of plates of the stew, before helping her to carefully lift Gambit up into a sitting position, semi-reclined on the cushions and blankets they piled behind him. Despite their gentleness, the simple act of being moved left Gambit gasping in agony, teetering on the edge of consciousness, shaking horribly.

After three days of torment, barely any food and only sips of water, both Rogue and Wolverine could see he was starting to look gaunt, normally well-toned muscles barely able to hold him upright. He slumped back against the cushions, chest heaving, eyes half-closed as he fought to stay awake, even as his right hand twitched and flickered, grasping at the jagged wound torn in his side beneath the bandages. Wolverine pressed a plate into Rogue's hand.

"Give 'im a minute," he told her, "here – eat yours first."

Under normal circumstances, the meal would have been awful at best, but after three days of only dried rations and a bit of roast rabbit, the second helping was still the finest thing Rogue had ever tasted. She savoured the hot and filling meal, not taking her eyes off Gambit as she ate. In addition to the grey pallor of his face, fever scorched a line of red across his cheekbones, and in the half-light cast by the fire, his skin glistened with a sheen of sweat. When he finally blinked his eyes open, she was shocked to his irises had faded to almost nothing, almost swallowed by the deep black sclera of his unusual eyes.

He licked his parched lips as if to speak, but she gently shushed him.

"Save it," she told him, "save ya strength. Let's get some food an' water in ya, easy now..."

Logan cleared the two empty plates away and piled more logs into the fire; he did not bother with the stove, knowing they could re-light it as needed, but the main hearth was far more important. This task done, he headed outside – he wanted to scout the surrounding area, and he wanted to give Rogue and Gambit some privacy. The other man was rapidly weakening, obviously fading fast, and it was driving Wolverine crazy that he could do next to nothing to help him.

Rogue picked up a bottle of water and, supporting Gambit's head with one hand, she carefully dribbled some of the precious liquid into his mouth. He did not even have the strength left to lift his arms to help himself, so after persuading him to drink a little more, she picked up the plate of cooling stew, scooping a small amount onto a spoon. He hesitated, but at her pleading look, nodded slightly, and she spooned a little of the meaty dish into his mouth. He gagged a little, but still gamely swallowed the morsel of food.

Rogue sat like that for the best part of an hour, gently spooning tiny amounts of food into his mouth, managing to get him to eat just over half of the plate, interspersed with sips of water from the bottle. His right arm rested limply across his stomach, cradling his wounded side; his left hand rested on the bed, fingertips occasionally brushing the side of her thigh through her skin-tight green and yellow uniform.

Eventually, he tremulously pleaded with her to let him rest, and she acquiesced, pleased to see that, at the very least, his eyes glowed a little brighter. She eased him down a little on the bed, but he remained propped up on the pile of cushions and blankets, halfway between sitting and lying, which seemed more comfortable for his injury. She checked the bandages, wincing at the yellowish stain seeping through, but decided to leave changing the dressing again until morning, deeming it best to let him rest awhile. She once more brushed his unruly hair from his eyes, and without the usual barrier of her yellow gloves, which she had tucked into her belt, she could feel the heat of the fever emanating from him.

"Rest now, sugar," she breathed, reaching once again for the damp cloth in the lukewarm water, "just take it easy, huh? Ah'll be right here when ya wake up..."

She rested the cloth against his burning brow, and the coolness of her touch was a soothing balm. He sighed, his head swimming, weakness and drowsiness rapidly overtaking him. The last thing he heard was her murmuring another quiet reassurance that she would still be there when he awoke, as his eyes slid closed, and he surrendered to unconsciousness.