#stillheals

          Forty-eight days since he’d last seen her. Forty-six days since he’d been taken. Thirty days since the treatment happened. Four days since he stopped feeling the claws around tense muscles. Logan had always been a man with weary, old eyes, but there was a certain hollow in his gaze when he made the mistake of making eye contact. The hollow that matched the wide space between his knuckles.

          He coughed, and it wracked through his smaller frame. He was lighter - too light. Every movement he made threatened to knock him over, always overcompensating for a weight that wasn’t there. But despite the anxious hands that came to give him support, he kept trying to wave them off. A slight stumble on the ramp was enough to raise enough concern for a firm arm to drape over his shoulder, keeping him steady the rest of the way down. Logan raised a tired head, taking in the hangar. He was exhausted, but like hell he’d be shepherded off to the med bay. For the first time since the facility they’d found him in, Logan spoke - funny enough, repeating the same words he’d uttered then.

“ let me guess, you saw me on tv. “ probably more than once.

          It wasn’t me, it wasn’t me-

                    But that doesn’t matter, does it? It was still his hands that drew blood last. It didn’t matter that he was stanching the bleeding. It was still him that could have held Charles together, just a little longer- There’s no point in sleeping. Every time he tries, it’s the same visions. What’s the point of closing your eyes when you already know what you’ll see? Logan’s eyes snap open, and he sits up in his bed with a groan. He scrubs his hands over his face. He misses the weight of the hair the kids had chopped off - he looks in the mirror now and, even with the hair growing back, it’s like looking at a different man.

          Logan isn’t sure if it’s the person Charles wants him to be. That might be what scares him most. But there’s no room for that anymore, is there? No room for the who, only the what. He’s a soldier, he’s a guardian, he’s a protector. And with Laura asleep, he ought to go out and protect her. But they made it across the border, him and her and her family. There’s nothing to protect her from. Right?

          There’s pros and cons to every place. Pros of Eden? Safe haven. Freedom. Some damn good cigars. Cons? For a guy that’s been living in the desert for the past year or so, it’s fucking cold. Still, he takes his smoke break, bundling up in a thick jacket that isn’t his - none of the stuff here is his. Well, there is, only it’s not something. It’s someone. Years at Xavier’s has taught him to blow the smoke into the breeze, carrying it away from the kid’s easily irritable nose.

          He’s not good at this; he’s never been good at this. But they need to talk - he’s not stupid enough to not be aware of that fact. Now’s a good a time as ever. Cigar still between two teeth, he wanders closer to the girl.

     shhhh i’m responding hella late but imagine we r on the holiday again...