A Stolen Season - Part Four

by Khaki


POV: Rogue

I'm so scared about so many different things right now that I can barely keep them straight. Even just focusing at what's currently happening, I'm dealing with more than enough to terrify practically anyone.

Logan's been shot in the head. I watched helplessly as he whipped forward, his skull clanging on the steering wheel at about the same time I heard the rapport. He stayed in that position, slumped over, so I have a good view of the injury. It actually blew part of his scalp off and the wound bled heavily for the few seconds it took his healing factor to kick in. Once it did, the bleeding slowed and his scalp started regenerating. He seems to be healing, but the fact that he was shot in the head has added to my worry because...

Logan's unconscious. Even though the adamantium protected his skull, getting hit in the head that forcefully will probably knock anyone out. In any other situation, it wouldn't be so bad but...

Logan's driving. His foot's eased up on the accelerator now that he's out, but it's still there and we're still speeding up. The only reason we're going straight is that both of his hands are caught in the steering wheel. At any second, a bump on the road could knock one of them loose, causing the car to veer off the road. I could even deal with that if it weren't for the fact that...

I'm paralyzed. I can't move; I can't take the wheel or push on the brake; I can't even see where we're going. I'm practically lying down in this reclined seat, and the only thing I can actually do is scream at Logan to wake up.

"Logan!"

Nothing.

I watch as the top of the school gates rush past our convertible. The road is only straight another two hundred feet or so before it ends and we have to turn onto the main road.

"Logan, please, wake up!!"

No response.

We've reached the first of the trees that shade the road. Only about 150 feet to go.

"LOGAN!!!"

"Hmph." Logan's groaning, and he's moving his head a little, but he's still not sitting up.

There's the tree that was struck by lightning last summer when 'Ro and Remy split up. Only another 100 feet.

Logan's moving his head back and forth a bit, and he's trying to pull his hands free from where they're caught.

"Logan! No, you're driving. Keep your hands on the wheel!"

He groggily turns his head just slightly back in my direction and squints at me like he can't quite get his eyes to focus. I can see he doesn't really know what's going on yet and yelling at him isn't going to help him move faster. I have to be calm and give simple instructions.

"Logan," I say, but despite my efforts, my voice is shaking. "Put your foot on the brake and stop the car."

We only have about 50 feet left, but Logan still isn't stopping. He just blinks at me then turns back around to look down at the steering wheel like he doesn't know why it's there. Finally, he slowly lifts his head to face the road.

*SCREEEEEECH*

Logan slams on the brakes and spins the wheel around to turn us onto the main road and away from the forest that we'd be racing towards just seconds earlier. We make it with about two feet to spare.

Before we'd left, Logan strapped me into a seatbelt, but the shoulder strap doesn't move along with you when you recline the seat. My body shot up and forward, jerking against the shoulder harness before bouncing back onto the almost flat seat. If I could feel anything, I might be sore, but as it is, I'm just relieved we're still alive.

"Marie, you ok?" Logan's blinking at lot and turning his head right and left, but he's awake now and watching the road as we pick up speed again.

"Yeah, you?"

"Gettin' there."

We sit in silence for a few minutes, then I ask the question that's been bugging me since we got out of the Med Lab, "Logan, why did they leave us?"

Logan turns back at me for just a second with a puzzled expression on his face. "What?"

"The school was attacked. It took at least thirty minutes for us to get out of the Med Lab, and by that time, they'd already left. I understand that there was a battle going on and they probably had to retreat, but if not for us, I would've thought Scott would at least come back for Jean. Oh, unless he knew she was dead. Maybe..."

"They didn't leave us," Logan answers so softly that I barely hear it. His voice has a rough edge to it that I've never heard before, like it hurts him to push out the words.

"They were coming back?" I ask. "Are we rendezvousing with them?"

"No," he answers curtly, his posture tensing and his eyes fixed straight ahead.

Something I'm saying is really upsetting him, and even though I'm really confused, I push my curiosity down, choosing to wait until we have a quieter moment to discuss it. Still, I have to talk about something. It's not like I can pass the time by watching the scenery. I can only see the bits of trees that are high enough and close enough to the road to be visible from my prone position.

"Logan, we have to get rid of the car," I say, changing the subject.

He relaxes a bit, probably relieved I'm not pressing the other issue.

"Yep, it's too identifiable. I'm gonna trigger the supercharger on all the straight stretches of road until we use up the nitrous oxide, then we'll look into getting another car."

I try to nod, but I can't so instead, I say, "Sounds good."

**********

Logan just doesn't feel like talking. Whenever I bring something up or ask a question, he gives me short answers and then goes back to brooding. It's making the time pass so slowly for me. The only interesting moments are the times Logan's used the supercharger. I can feel my head getting pushed back into my seat when he turns it on, and when he flips it off, he has to put one hand on my chest to keep my body from flying forward again.

With that last burst, we're pretty much out of the nitrous oxide and running on gasoline only. It's time to go looking for a new set of wheels. The title to the Porsche is in Scott's name, but Logan's sure he can find a buyer in New York City. That's where we're headed. We'll get lost in the urban jungle and come out camouflaged, ready to head for Canada.

Until we get the new car and find a place to hole up, I can't let Logan touch me. We're sitting targets right now. Whoever took over the mansion, government soldiers Logan thinks, got a good look at our car and probably has the license plate number. I can't believe that we haven't been pulled over yet. Even if we don't have an APB out on us, Logan hasn't exactly been following the speed limits. I'm not complaining, though. The sooner we get to a safe place, the sooner I'll be healed.

I just keep telling myself that over and over. I just have to hold on for a few more hours and I'll be able to move again. Of course, that's easier said than done. You never realize just how much your nose can itch until you can't lift up your hand to scratch it. Sure, Logan tried once I got so obsessively frustrated that I actually asked him to, but gloved hands just don't do the job. I wonder if anyone's ever died from itching. If this keeps up for a few more hours, I know I probably will.

**********

Finally, I'm lying on a bed in a relatively nice hotel. 'Relatively' is the operative word. It's better than most of the memories I absorbed from Logan about his standard accommodations, but Motel 6, it's not. Still, I have a roof over my head, a spring-like material under my body, and a $6,000 Jeep in the parking lot with plates we swapped with a Ford Explorer's in a mall parking lot, hoping that the owner doesn't notice the change too soon. That's more than I could say a few hours ago, but it's a huge chasm away from what I had just this morning.

It just feels unreal how I woke up in my warm, comfortable bed this morning to find my husband cutting designs into his thigh and now it's night and I'm a quadriplegic in a ratty, hotel bed waiting for self-same husband to heal me. He'd better do it quick, too. I haven't had much in the way of food or water today, but if I'm paralyzed, that means I can't control anything. Let's just say we're extremely lucky my pants are the same color tonight that they started out as this morning and leave it at that.

Logan's never been nervous about my skin before, but ever since we stopped, he's acting like he doesn't want to touch me. He brought me in first, then he spent an inordinate amount of time checking the hotel room and killing the roaches he found. Usually, he lives in a sort of peaceful coexistence with the clicking insects, but tonight, it's like he's looking for anything that will keep him busy and away from me. When he finishes searching the room at 11 p.m. and says that he wants to go out shopping for us before bed, I can't keep quiet any longer.

"Logan, you don't have to touch me. Maybe... maybe it'll wear off on its own. We can wait until tomorrow."

"No," he says sharply, spinning around to look at me. Then, his face softens and he says, "No, darlin', you shouldn't wait. It's just..." He sits down beside me and places a hand on my limp arm. "Before I touch ya and you get my memories and all. I've gotta tell ya somethin'. It's about the, uh,... about what happened today."


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