Good Days
He wakes to the gentle swaying of the tide, his cheek pressed against a soft pillow. The air smells good – fresh, like the ocean – and when he opens his eyes he has to squint just a little; sunlight streams down the steps and through the windows, filtering into the cabin where he lays.
Struggling up and off the bed – no, there’s no struggling, his breath is easy and there’s no pain – he gets up and stretches, relishing the ache of a restful sleep. That’s how he knows that this isn’t real; it’s been too long since he’s had a good night’s sleep, and even longer since there’s been no pain.
“Out here,” a voice, Charles’ voice calls from the deck. He sounds younger, less strained and cantankerous, and when Logan steps out into the sunlight Charles is standing at the bow, dressed in a light blue button up and khaki pants, gazing off into the distance as the breeze gently ruffles his full head of hair.
“What’re we doing here?” Logan snarls, “Did you take your medication?”
“Why hello to you too,” Charles replies, reacting with a strange mix of good humored delight and offended sensibilities. “No, ‘it’s good to see you, Charles’ or ‘blue’s a good color on you, Charles’? Or how about - ‘wow, you got the details of the boat exactly right, Charles’?”
“I don’t give a shit about any of that. You know what happens when you don’t take your meds.”
Charles shrugs but his shoulders are tense and when he turns to look at Logan, his eyes are soft and sad. “I did. Take them I mean. Today’s a good day.”
He sighs, and takes the mug offered by a grinning Charles, inhaling the fragrant scent of the Prof’s favorite blend. The man’s always had exquisite taste for the finer things – Scotch, antiques, vintage cars – but an appreciation for a good cup of coffee happens to be one of few indulgences they share.
It’s been a long time since he’s had one like this.
Not since they left Westchester.
Charles flinches, but doesn’t say anything, only coming to stand next to Logan, his own mug in hand. They watch the ripple of the waves as they lap gently against the hull; marvel at the slowly changing colors, shades of oranges and reds and purples as the sun starts to dip in the horizon.
“I don’t remember what happened,” Charles murmurs, rubbing slow circles with his thumb around the rim of the mug. “I suspect I could try, on a day like this, to sort things out. But something tells me it’s better that I don’t…” He sighs, and scrubs his face with the palm of his hand. “I think it might kill me, if I remember.”
“Hey,” Logan says, draping his arm around the Prof’s shoulders. “Not on my watch, alright?”
It manages to pull a wry chuckle from Charles’ lips, and neither of them choose to ruin the illusion, here or in the real world; to acknowledge that Charles is slowly losing his mind, piece by piece and day by day, and Logan is utterly helpless to stop it.
Instead, Logan finds himself sitting on some kind of lounger in the next instant, legs stretched out comfortably and his arms still wrapped snugly around the Prof at his side. Their mugs have disappeared, and there’s a warm blanket on their laps, and the sky is filled with twinkling stars as the boat rocks gently in the moonlit waves.
“I’ve always liked the water,” Charles whispers, as he reaches absently for Logan’s hand. “I used to swim in the lake all the time as a child. And I was on the swim team at Oxford, did I tell you that? Not a big fan of beaches, I’m sure you know, but oceans…”
“I know.” Logan squeezes Charles’ hand. “I know.”
“You know this is probably as close as we’ll ever get, don’t you? I don’t think I'm going to make—”
“Shut up, Charles,” he snaps, because he doesn’t want to fucking hear it. Not now, not ever. “Just shut up.”
Charles laughs, tired and mirthless, but doesn’t argue. He pulls Logan’s hand into his lap instead, and then brings it his lips, pressing a tender kiss on the scars that crisscross the battered flesh. He looks down at his own chest then, and sees the slashes, and the badly healed wounds; sees the sparse threads of hair on Charles’ head when he turns, still resting against him, and the pockmarks and mottled veins on his emaciated hand.
“You look good, Charles,” he says, pressing a soft kiss of his own on Charles’ forehead. “Blue’s a good color on you.”
