[ logan used to wonder if the slowness and the cricks and the difficulty he experienced when trying to pull himself off his chair was because of the adamantium in his bones being so damn heavy. the tin man needed constant oiling in the wizard of oz, and logan's always been equated to it by the kids at xavier's school. he wonders how much of that is from the metal that's been poisoning him for god knows how long, or if it's his age finally catching up with him. ]
[ his movements are slow, just as sensation crawls up his legs and to his fingertips. he's pretty sure he can taste dirt in his mouth, but he doesn't pay it much mind. the mud on his face and the blood caking his skin and clothes is only a secondary thought as he pulls himself properly from his grave and sits haphazardly — and uncomfortably — on the stones. ]
[ it takes him a lot longer than he'd like to follow her suggestion, moving from the rocks like he's some broken down bit of machinery sputtering to life every few seconds. he manages, though, and sits himself on the grass, hands bunching what he can of the blades and nails digging into the soft dirt below. ]
[ sluggishly, he wipes his hand over his face, knowing it's only pushing the dirt to sit somewhere else on his cheek. he looks out at the greenery before them, knowing that there's a stench of death and the caking of dry blood somewhere nearby. he can smell it, though his senses are in overdrive, overwhelming him as he tries to focus on one thing. ] I wasn't gone for long, was I?
[ he doesn't know whether to feel disappointed or, when he blindly lifts his hand to search for her own on the grass, relieved. ]
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[ logan used to wonder if the slowness and the cricks and the difficulty he experienced when trying to pull himself off his chair was because of the adamantium in his bones being so damn heavy. the tin man needed constant oiling in the wizard of oz, and logan's always been equated to it by the kids at xavier's school. he wonders how much of that is from the metal that's been poisoning him for god knows how long, or if it's his age finally catching up with him. ]
[ his movements are slow, just as sensation crawls up his legs and to his fingertips. he's pretty sure he can taste dirt in his mouth, but he doesn't pay it much mind. the mud on his face and the blood caking his skin and clothes is only a secondary thought as he pulls himself properly from his grave and sits haphazardly — and uncomfortably — on the stones. ]
[ it takes him a lot longer than he'd like to follow her suggestion, moving from the rocks like he's some broken down bit of machinery sputtering to life every few seconds. he manages, though, and sits himself on the grass, hands bunching what he can of the blades and nails digging into the soft dirt below. ]
[ sluggishly, he wipes his hand over his face, knowing it's only pushing the dirt to sit somewhere else on his cheek. he looks out at the greenery before them, knowing that there's a stench of death and the caking of dry blood somewhere nearby. he can smell it, though his senses are in overdrive, overwhelming him as he tries to focus on one thing. ] I wasn't gone for long, was I?
[ he doesn't know whether to feel disappointed or, when he blindly lifts his hand to search for her own on the grass, relieved. ]