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It's been a couple'a weeks since the Canuck has been back in town and not a lot has been going on. Both good and bad, he guesses. Although it's making him get antsy so when he found out about Jean and Scarlet taking the jet for a spin, he volunteered his 'company' so he could get out and stretch his legs a bit. Sitting in the back, Logan looks slightly uncomfortable. His weight is shifted to one side, resting his elbow against the arm of his seat and chewing on a thick cigar. It's not lit because he doesn't want to suffocate the others but he's a few more turbulent bumps away from changing his mind. Not really sure of the girls' plan, he also doesn't particularly care. He hasn't seen these two in a long time and is content to tag along. The jet shifts abruptly again. "Fuck it," he grumbles to himself and produces a lighter from his jacket and scorches the tip of his cigar.
*
The idea to fly may originate from Scarlett, although she worships the sky every morning when dawn breaks. Enterprising young woman, to perform her yoga asanas literally in the cloud deck, worshipping the rising sun at a height of five thousand meters. Learning to pilot a jet is another matter altogether, and she remains attentive to every detail. Piloting is a new skill to add to the gamut a smart girl can earn, right up there with tactical brilliance and homemaking. All the smart ones in Columbia know how to tote around a five pound bag of sugar like a baby, right? Her toes point forward and she sits upright, any lack of sleep far from evident in her pearl-fair complexion. "Technically, moving to Mach speed over the city is a terrible idea. Outside that, what then? What happens when you engage the engines lower than twenty thousand feet?" Enterprising girl, considering the business they're about. She glances back over her shoulder at Logan, nodding to him. White peonies laced through her elaborate braids nod in turn, a fiery halo framing her face. She smells of the flowers and her typical neroli, perfume dabbed at throat and pulse points. The gun oil, metal, and icy breath of the stratosphere are all unique — strange, too. Not usual.
*
Flying.
Jean has certainly done it enough. Helming the controls of the Blackbird or throwing her body through the sky with use of her TK, flying was slowly becoming a bread and butter thing for her, and can almost finesse as much as Rogue could, who was, in her own opinion, second to none. Auto-pilot didn't need to be engaged, there was something about feeling the rubber beneath her gloves, even as she steers and keeps the headgear turned up to listen to the flight paths to avoid flights of fancy and oncoming danger.
Logan's swear and prompt lighting of the cigar gets her eyes slanted his way, a grin crossing her lips as she turns to focus upon the open sky. The wing of the blackbird tilts up, slicing through a thick cloud with a spritz of water hitting the shield which dries almost immediately due to their speed.
"I'm not too sure. We could probably find out, though." She murmurs to Scarlett, drawing the speaker up to rest against the ear muzzle. Or muffin. Whatever it's called. "Flight paths are clear though, if we go low I'm pretty sure we have free reign unless a helicopter is out taking a survey of the city."
*
For a nigh-immortal man, Logan has an inexplicable discomfort with flying. Maybe it's something to due with his senses being a little more keen than others, it just seems to be somewhat disorienting. The cigar helps, though. He takes a long pull, the thick fog of smoke billowing up from his lips and curling through his chops and hair, almost enveloping his entire face.
He returns the gaze of both Rogue and Jean with a simlpe nod back in their direction, then goes back to peering out the window as they pierce the clouds. Balling his right hand into a tight fist, he idly presses the tips of the fingers on his left hand between his knuckles, feeling the tip of his claws pushing back but not quite breaking the skin. 'Christ,' he thinks to himself as he listens to their plan to 'see what happens' when they crank this beast up below regulation altitude. If they swing far enough north he can just jump out and go back to living in the woods.
*
"Going that low will invite blowing out the windows, and cause damage at lower levels if I had to guest," remarks the redhead of floral extraction. She flexes her long legs, toes en pointe, a ballerina in the making. Minus the fact she lacks that lean, skinny build; nature is much kinder in some ways. She hasn't reached out ot wrench the yoke away from Jean at any rate, and the spritz across the windshield isn't the sort of thing bound to make her flinch in any fashion. One might think she was born in the sky, happy to scorn the touch of gravity for a more expansive lover. But then she belongs to the Wandervogel - literally the wandering people - so is there not something to be cherished in travel? In that narrative, she is calm and focused, her gloved hands wrapped around her knee while every detailed dial and scale receives her attention. Every spiralling current or twirl of updraft shuddering through the supple frame of the Blackbird fails to produce a commensurate degree of concern. Then again, for the three of them, it's nearly impossible to burn up in the atmosphere.
"Cut out to the Atlantic and drive south. Tristan de Cunha is nice this time of year, as well as those islands off the coast of Brazil. Ferdinands?" Portuguese is close enough to French for her to make a decent show of it. Her fingertips tap against the flex of her knee, hinge drawn back. "Unless you have any objections?" This to the pair of them. Her gaze flickers away, drawn back to the uneasy ball behind her. No telepathic powers needed to detect that. "The beach is lovely at this time of year."
*
.~{:--------------:}~.
*
Ð|´I heard that, Logan.Ð|´ Jean manages out, casting a quick glance back towards the fellow as she adverts her attention to the skies. Rogue s helpful information causes her to laugh a little, her arm raising to flip a switch here and there as she redirects her path towards the new destination that was settled. You do know that I can hold everything together for us in case that were to happen, but seeing as how Logan is about to jump out of his skin, you re right. A vacation is what we need.Ð|´
Lovely beaches, sand that glitter like crystals, greenish oceans with a slightly bluish twinge. Definitely something they need. Even though slightly remotely, she s borrowing the eyes of others and keeping watch on things at home. It was maddening, at times, but it became doable after their little stint with the Shi ar. Ð|´I m kind of regretting not asking Scott to come, though, we do need someone back to watch the homefront. Speaking of, objections, Logan?Ð|´
*
Jean's quip causes Logan's eyebrow to arch slightly as he purses his lips together, his gnashing teeth rippling the muscles along his jaw. 'No offense, darlin',' he says internally. The thought of headin' down south to spend a little quality time on the beach doesn't sound too terrible to the Canuck. 'specially if there's gonna be some quality booze. And the thought of time spent with two of the people he an tolerate the most 'round here begins to ease his nerves a bit.
Leaning back in his seat again, but in a more relaxed fashion, the corner of Logan's mouth curls into a grin as his gaze returns to the window, taking a pull from his cigar once more, "Sounds nice," he responds to them both. He lets his eyes drift closed as he exhales long and slowly, tuning out the sound of the jet as he focuses on the booze and the beach.
*
A switch here, a line there. Holiday brings a slight smile to Scarlett's expression, the thought of vanishing into the blue with freedom to cavort and throng along some Caribbean marketplace perhaps caught up in her thoughts. Maybe not; they've spent time camping in the Amazon, rebuilding communities, and lurking on beaches now and then. The redhead is probably up for damn near everything and anything. All said and done though, she closes her eyes for a little. If Jean has the matter of switches under control, then leave it to her to listen to the engines and the roar of the tight cockpit. "Nice. That's one way to put it. When was the last time you took a holiday, Logan?"
Worth the question, honestly, as she gives him a chance to express whatever goals the flight might hold for him. Jean is likewise free to select whatever fate or fortune amuses her. If it's supposed to be so relaxing, why the hell is the flame-tressed Soul-Thief braced like she expects a meteoric collision at any time?
*
"Trying to get that man to say more than a sentence is like pulling teeth.." Jean jokes, but the flight takes off. No interruptions, interjections or rebuttals. The flight plan was set and at speeds nearing Mach 1, it took no time for them to reach their destination.
One would almost hope that the Blackbird itself could float, the urge to touch down in water was great, but she chose a remote canyon, surrounded by land and a small lake/waterfall as their primary landing destination.
"Alright folks, we're here. Go ahead and unload, relax, and unwind. I need to make a few calls." Calls as in, telepathically check upon the students, issue reminders and the like. And say hello to old friends..
*
Truth be told, a lot of Logan's time around Westchester is spent in or around his cabin and that's not too far off from what one might consider a holiday in and of itself. A nice lake view, cut off from society (other than the X-Men, of course), food. But an honest-to-goodness vacation he hasn't had in he can't remember when. He opens an eye to peer over at Rogue and shakes his head slowly, "Couldn't even tell ya, darlin'." Jean's joke illicits a faux sneer followed by another grin as he settles into the flight.
Once the jet lurches to a landing, Logan unbuckles his harness and almost leaps out of his seat, heading towards the door to get out of the cramped iron tomb. Trudging heavily down the ramp, he stops after setting foot back on the soil to take a deep breath of the fresh air and survey the surroundings. Instinctively, he sniffs around for any signs of life other than his fellow vacationers. Satisfied that they're alone, he makes his way down towards the lake. He glances back over his shoulder at Rogue as he slips his jacket off and tosses it aside, "Not a bad idea you had there, kiddo."
*
"You wouldn't be the first to lack an answer to that. Sometimes I think our failure to take holidays comes with the territory of what we are," Scarlett murmurs. Wanderlust afflicts her, riding the redhead hard. With her eyes closed, she can imagine the earth unfurling below her, a map rolled out and points marked in red pins all along the way as she seeks her destination somewhere in the torrid regions abutting the Tropic of Cancer, or further south still. She isn't lulled by the gentle progress of the needle-thin plane racing across the sky, reaching supersonic speeds. Something ironically her body is more than a little accustomed to, she has no reason to be concerned. Thus while Jean makes her course corrections and psychic calls, she unstraps herself and flits along after Logan like there's no tomorrow. Feet barely touch the deck, the instinctive suppression of whatever noise she might make betrayed by how little contact she holds ot the ground. "Not all my ideas are terrible. I'm glad you have any trust in that."
Though the glorious beauty of the canyon surrounds them, the flower child of the three plants herself in the foliage and keeps her back to the lake. While she can trust in Logan to smell out anything strange, her reconnaissance is a simpler thing, hiking in a trek through the greenery to familiarize herself with their whereabouts. Don't mind the atavistic terror of the water.
*
Scarlett certainly has that one right. When you are what they are, taking a vacation sometimes just isn't in the cards. Especially when you do what they do as well. Double whammy, really. When it comes to trusting Rogue, Logan does. Together, they've seen some shit and most of it Rogue should've have been exposed to. Absorbing his psyche is just the tip of the iceberg, he supposes at this point but he nevertheless regrets that having happened.
His eyes scan the area, still being somewhat cautious about the surroundings before any of them decide to dive into the lake. He casts a glance back towards the plane for any signs of Jean finishing up her round of 'calls' before he can feel comfortable with their location. His nose rarely ever fails him, but Jean's ability to pick up on anyone in the area would put his mind to ease completely. He kneels down and rifles through his jacket to produce another cigar (the hell does he manage to keep all of these?) and his lighter. He chomps down on the cigar but doesn't light it quite yet, "Where are we exactly, darlin'?"
*
How much of Logan runs around under that peony-studded mane of flame, it may be reckoned wiser not to question how much leaches through the water to poison the personal well that defines her self. Possibly that love of nature lay in her shattered history, or she adopted a deeper fascination thanks to the borrowed influences held over her by that shred of Logan. On the other hand, he is free to flail around and roll in the dirt or dash on the sand without judgment. Tolerance goes both ways. How else can it go?
She proceeds on a light step, standing on the soil. It takes her some time to pull off her boots, drawing the shafts down her calves and tossing them eventually over her shoulders, linked by the laces. Bare toes can sink into the sun-warmed soil better than by treading it alone. The odd twig might snap to speak where she goes, ferns and thicker semi-tropical undergrowth barring her way. When they fail to let her pass, she nudges aside the branches, walking in a long, loose stride as she can. The stray sigh of the breeze only afflicts the upper edge of the canopy, not down below. The waterfall murmurs loudly enough to cover up the noises made otherwise. Not a scent of much here, except that people have been here, and the earth is rich, overturned, cleared in places. The valley still has someone who lives there. Animals are few, the sun streaming through the boughs plentiful enough. Perhaps off the way is an equally modest cabin of sorts, albeit much more open in design than anything in the north woods or the boreal forest that Logan himself is so familiar with. It smells of jam and honey, bread and aired linen and rust, steel.
"We aren't likely going to meet much company out here. Maybe a few loggers. If it's illegal, I don't know." She gestures to a tree with a conspicuous lack of lower branches.
*
Once Scarlett's boots start to come off, Logan begins to follow suit. He uses the toe of one boot to brace the heel of the other and pulls his foot free, then does the same with his bare foot to his remaining boot. Once they're off, his feet sink into the soil under their own weight. Watching after Scarlett as she wanders around the lake to explore the terrain, he unfastens the top few buttons on his shirt and then lifts it over his head, tossing it on top of his jacket. As the sun hits his bare chest, he closes his eyes and cocks his head to the side which sends a series of metallic *cracks* down his adamantium spine. Grunting in satisfaction, he trudges over to the bank of the lake just enough so that his feet and the bottom of his jeans can soak in the warm water. Maybe next time he goes on one of his wandering retreats, he'll choose a place like this instead of the frigid Canadian wilderness. He could get used to it.
Waiting for Scarlett to return and Jean to finish up with her work before he jumps in for a swim, Logan drops down onto the soil and finally lights up his cigar. He knows the ladies are more than capable of taking care of themselves, but he can't help but maintain some sort of responsibility over them when he's around. He follows Scarlett's progress more with his ears than he does with his eyes. Lying back on the soil, he exerts a long sigh as the sun soaks into his skin, the light breeze rustling through the thick hair on his chest. He could certainly get used to this.
*
Scarlett is a rarity in that the deep pool of clean, probably warm water stirred up by the waterfall apparently holds no interest whatsoever. Logan is well positioned to hear the erratic beat of her heart, the uneven intake of breath when they break through the thinner foliage and gain a view of the sediment-rich water. Pretty shades like that only come from a balance of soil carried away by the creek and mineral deposits. Whatever wet spray lies in the air only helps to carry fragrances, making her unusual addition of a citrusy neroli easy to track her with. To the hunter, the spoils of the prey. Especially the predator that wears the clothing of an innocent lamb, the poison dart frog dressed up in bland colours of a totally harmless hopper. Approach at your own risk.
"Keep an eye out for…" Too late, he's already off. Not that nails or wires are going to evade Logan, much less stand up to the claws. Might as well tell a golden retriever to look out for the sandcastle it just bashed through. Her smile tips up, the unease briefly evaporating as he plows off in his own direction. While the man swims, she wraps her arms around herself and stalks deeper into the woods, cutting away from where the nearest splashes originate from. Hydrophobia; not typically part of the Soul Thief's worries. There probably are reasons. Maybe she can scent something off about the water. Maybe that wild mango really deserves to be inspected. "Is that a coconut palm?" A hopeful sound. Probably not, but she gives the tree a hopeful shake.
*
All is right in the world, in Jean s world at least. Children were preparing to leave the school and go to their perspective houses. The cleaning staff were already on top of the laundry, food was still being ordered for those attending summer school or staying behind because there was no one else. They were the more important. A few of the other X-Men were getting on with their lives, the absence of the three was not missed by any. Though, there were a few curiosities of where they could have gone. But it was business as normal.
Relief was there, and soon her own mind expands the area; Rogue and Logan were fine. A touch of something lingered on the surface but Jean paid it no nevermind. Down the deck she went, her uniform unzipped as she pries her arms out of their slots, a deep sigh draping from her lips as the arms of the uniform were tied along her waist.
¡jI needed this.. ¡j She murmurs to herself, tugging up the straps of her bra (which could double as a bikini!) to ensure everything was in place. While they wandered.. Jean herself fancied a swim. Mostly in remembrance of Namor and his pearl.
*
Upon hearing Jean finally emerge from the jet, Logan raises an eyebrow and swivels his head so he can see her wandering towards the water. Based on her appearance, he guesses everything is fine back at the mansion and the world hasn't ended without them there. Water lapping around his body as he floats on his back with a cigar billowing up smoke like a chimney from the water's surface, he holds an arm out and flicks his index finger against the lake, sending a tiny spray mockingly in Jean's direction before he returns his gaze to the sky. His jeans are completely soaked but it clearly doesn't bother him.
He rolls his head to the other side to face the general direction where he last sensed Scarlett and gives the air a quick whiff to make sure everything's still alright. He hears the shaking of a palm as she tries to urge a coconut to tumble down. A feeling that he just can't shake lingers in the back of his mind. Something just feels off. Letting his lower half sink into the water until he's upright again, he floats with only his head above water, his wild hair soaked and hugging the sides of his head, a stray strand plastered against his cheek as he surveys the area once more. He occasionally glances over at Jean to see if she shows signs of discomfort as well. Maybe it's just his inability to 'chill' as the kids say. Can't hurt to be cautious.
*
The little spray of water wasn t enough to deter Jean from entering, the only reaction that gained was a lift of her hand and a shriek as it splatters her. A low, odd chuckles drawl from her, the remainder of the suit falling away within the water and left to float before she hops, and dives forward beneath the waves.
It was fast the way she dives and swims beneath the water, propelled by her TK, and up again into the air like a dolphin enjoying her pride. A heavy splash like a divebomb nearby Logan to disrupt his wariness and relaxation occurs, which causes the water to wave and shoot close to several feet within the air.
*
Safely ensconced underneath the tree, Scarlett gives it a good shake. Perhaps several, given that her arms wrapped around the trunk provide ample leverage. Why on earth would she be likely to harass some poor palm, or whatever that hybrid monstrosity with five hundred hit points and a movement rate of 1 yard per decade? It very much might be out of amusement, more than anything. Something falls out of the tree, at any rate. A branch and old, dry leaves crash down, much to her amusement.
As long as no one expects her to go back to the pool, she's fine.
*
The Wolverine continues his uneasy gaze around the lake, peering up to the top of the waterfall as he pushes the water and loose hair from his face. Just as the water is cleared away, a big splash slams into him and douses him with water causing his cigar to extenguish. His attention is drawn back to Jean, briefly forgetting the underlying caution with their location as he wrinkles his nose and manages to look a lot more angry than he is. Not hard, doing that. The baseline expression on his face is always one of moderate perturbance anyway.
While the cigar is out, he continues to chew on it, watching Jean move about with relative ease. Considering all the shit she deals with, he reckons the relaxation is something she hasn't had much of in ages. His mind doesn't dwell on Jean for very long though, as he doesn't want his own wandering thoughts to interject her vacation mode. Closing his eyes, he inhales deeply in a meditative attempt to still himself and calm his thoughts. A little trick he learned somewhere a long time ago.
*
Another aerial that takes her out of the water, Jean twirls within the air only to create a cascading rain of lake that drops beneath her ejection. "Scarlett!" Jean cries out, hovering within the air, attempting to move from her spot but.. reluctantly of course. "Come into the water! Be a fish for a while! I know one is in there!" And down again, this time as a test. To see how far and deep she goes, nevermind the fact that it's completely dangerous.
*
Under normal circumstances, it would be a fully clad Scarlett playing around in the water, being splashed. The telekinetic and the Soul Thief ganging up on Logan might even make it a fair fight, at least when it comes to wave generation. He doesn't have the total advantage of height, for certain, and Scarlett can generate a hell of a lot of foam and noise when consciously attempting to do so. Or she can grab a frond and wave it around to blow off the bugs invariably haunting a forest. No way to escape that.
The redhead turns to her name, gaze rising. Her eyes burn too true a green to be normal, even more surreal in the shade, her face pale and equally luminous. "I'm good up here. You two play; I can keep an eye out for landslides or sharks." Sharks. Right. Inland. Sharks.
Never mind Jean probably knows full well there is a murderous shark in that psyche of hers, one that roved the depths of space murdering and killing anything until she called it to account on a Hawaiian island one day.