Mystique started, one hand moving just slightly, reaching out a fraction to perhaps take his arm? Perhaps slap him across the face. Her eyes widened, a flash of something there before everything hardened again.
"Idiot," she hissed, almost inaudibly, looking from Logan's arm to his face, back again. "You let them ... idiot." Not completed, thankfully. She didn't know what she would have done if he of all people had -- she didn't entirely know why she cared, but that patch of dark bothered her more than she could say. The two of them, they were the eternal ones. They were the ones that never changed, except someone had fucked with that, fucked with him, and it made her angry.
Mystique frowned, folding her arms abruptly. "I'm working on it," she told him. "They're more than just ink, though, I'm sure you've noticed that. They don't come off, not unless you'd like to dent a hack saw or two trying to take your arm off."