Logan ran up the ramp into the jet, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He paused to watch it glide up, a smooth combination of machinery and silk. He turned, eyes going first to Cyke, who stood next to him. Then, they slid to Rogue, her head titled back against her seat, eyes closed, already belted in. Storm settled into the seat in front of Rogue, Jean into the co-pilot's seat. Scott moved past him, preparing to take off.
Logan ran another hand across his face, wiping at the sweat on his upper lip. The scent of his own blood was thick in his nose. He made his way over to the seat next to Storm, cracking his neck.
"Good fight?" Storm asked, eyebrow lifted, an amused smirk tilting her lips.
"Yeah," he grunted, distracted. His sinuses were clearing of his own scent, but another, more disturbing scent was making him twitch in agitation. He sniffed the air, trying to figure out what it was. He ran his eyes over the jet's occupants again.
"We're taking off."
Cyke's warning had Logan clenching the armrests involuntarily as he turned to look at Rogue. The jet lurched upward. Her arms slid from the armrests, one landing in her lap while the other dangled limply, her fingers brushing the floor. Her head lolled to the side, white locks falling across her face.
"Shit."
The scent was suddenly, unerringly the one scent he didn't want it to be. Logan fumbled with his seatbelt, growling in frustration when it wouldn't open. He gave in and clawed the straps open as Storm called his name.
"Rogue. Rogue. Dammit, Marie."
He clawed at her seatbelt, already moving his nose down her body, trying to find her wound. It was on her side, the scent of blood sharpening slightly. Storm and Jean were behind him, talking, but he didn't know to who, didn't care. His fingers found the tear in her uniform, a thin slice that was unnoticeable unless you were looking for it. Another angry growl escaped him as he slit her uniform open. The smell of blood overwhelmed him briefly.
"Fuck."
It was long and messy and still bleeding heavily. Logan brought his fingers to his mouth and bit down to remove his glove, then hesitated. He knew Marie didn't like to have other people in her head, even him, but he doubted she would make it.
He looked up at Jean, feeling lost and knowing it showed in his face. Her hand gripped his shoulder tightly.
"Do it," Jean said. "Just enough though."
Logan removed his glove and slid his fingers against the soft skin of Marie's stomach. For a brief moment, he was back in that horrible minute five years ago on the Statue of Liberty when he thought she was beyond his help. Then, he was inside her, his own side flaring with pain. A stronger wave of pain overwhelmed that brief spark as she tried to pull him into her completely. Hands on his shoulders freed him from her body's grasp, and he landed on the floor of the jet gasping. The world darkened around him.
He woke propped up against the side of the jet. Marie was stretched out before him, covered with a blanket, still unconscious.
"Jean," he groaned, pushing himself away from the wall and toward Marie. She appeared next to him as he pulled back the blanket to check on Marie's wound.
"She's fine, Logan."
He grunted and pulled up the tank top she wore beneath her uniform. He peeled back the bandage to watch as the wound continued to heal.
"It was deep. It had to fix the internal damage first."
Logan nodded; he knew how his own mutation worked. He watched for another minute, then replaced the bandage and covered Marie with the blanket again. He moved back to his seat.
"Why didn't she say anything?"
"Maybe she didn't know?" Storm suggested.
"How could she not? That was a nasty wound," Logan growled in response.
"Adrenaline."
Logan looked back at Jean, who had remained next to Marie. He studied Marie for a moment before grunting and settling back into his seat.
"She's gonna be mad at me," he grumbled.
Storm laughed.
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