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One of the things Logan learns about Wade, after their three months of cohabitation, is that he’s an incredibly light sleeper.
This makes Logan’s life difficult for two reasons: first, his natural predisposition to nightmares is now affecting one other person besides himself; and second, this makes it extremely difficult for Logan to return to the apartment late at night whenever he’s been out. Or at least, to return without drawing attention to his late night escapades.
“Oh, hi peanut,” Wade sticks his head out of his room to say now, thwarting Logan’s attempt to tiptoe past his door undetected. “What were you doing out so late?”
“Drinking.” Logan brushes past, grateful for the dim lighting in the hallway. “Gonna go shower. Night.”
“Aw, come on, you’ve woken me up now,” Wade bemoans. “Plus, I’m starving. Can you make me a grilled cheese?”
“No, make it yourself.” Logan pushes his door open.
“Please, you make it better,” Wade wheedles, bullying his way in front of Logan and blocking his path. “Pretty please with a cherry on top.”
“No. We make it the exact same way, you just can’t be bothered.”
“I’ll buy all your whiskey for the next week.”
“Fucking fine,” Logan groans in defeat, letting Wade propel him towards the kitchen by the shoulders. “But you’re getting the expensive shit. Japanese.”
“Fine by me,” Wade chirps. “You know how it is, being the sole breadwinner in this household. More than happy to provide for my beautiful wife and dog.”
“I’ll get you this month’s rent by the end of next week,” Logan says absently, flicking on the living room and kitchen lights on his way to the fridge, and startling Mary Puppins in the process. She whines at them for disturbing her sleep and trots off into Wade’s room.
“Jesus, what the fuck happened to you?” Wade says as light floods the room, stopping in his tracks to gape at Logan.
Logan looks down at himself instinctively; he'd forgotten how bad it looked. His jeans are dark-washed enough that the bloodstains aren’t obvious on first inspection, but his shirt (which used to be white) is a lost cause, soaked red and slashed in several places, under which the newly healed skin still looks raw.
“Nothing, looks worse than it was,” Logan says, grabbing the apron hanging from a hook on the wall (‘Real men bake cookies!’ is written in cursive on the front). He quickly ties it so the worst of the bloodstains are hidden. “Just a couple guys looking for trouble at the bar.”
“Well, I hope whatever you did to them won’t come back to bite us in the ass,” Wade says, frowning. “We may be good for rent, but we do not have money for a defence attorney.”
“Don’t worry, they’re not gonna press charges.” Logan grabs a pan and turns the gas on.
“I’m almost afraid to ask,” Wade says, rummaging in the fridge and passing Logan a small block of butter, which he chucks into the pan. “But are they still alive?”
“Yes, they’re alive,” Logan says darkly. He put two slices of bread face-down into the pan of melted butter.
“Thank the Lord for small mercies,” Wade mutters, and Logan breathes a sigh of relief when it becomes evident Wade’s not going to press any further. He's so relieved he almost forgives Wade for the way he then sits his ass down at the kitchen table and proceeds to be of absolutely no help, instead keeping up a running commentary on his day at work with Colossus (stabbed four people; killed none), what he had for dinner (quesadillas and a tub of guac), and what movie he watched on Netflix (Finding Dory) before Logan got back.
“Here you go, princess,” Logan says eventually, setting the grilled cheese down in front of Wade.
“You’re the best, pookie bear,” Wade says, around his first mouthful of cheesy carb. “Argh – hot, that was hot! Is my tongue still there?”
“You saw me take that off the stove fifteen seconds ago!”
“I forgot,” Wade says, fanning his tongue, his eyes watering. “I got distracted by the cheese.”
“Drink some milk,” Logan says. He pulls off the apron and checks that all the dishes are soaking in the sink. “I’m going to bed. You’re doing the dishes.”
“That wasn’t the deal!” Wade shouts after his retreating back. “Maker of the grilled cheese should make the dishes go away too. Bitch, get back here, or I am not getting you that Japanese whiskey!”
“Boo fuckin’ hoo!” Logan flips him the middle claw and shuts his bedroom door a little harder than strictly necessary.
-
Now Wade isn’t usually one to pry into his roommate and recently-turned best friend’s business, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Especially when said times involve a suspicious amount of blood being shed, and evidently not whilst Logan’s on X-men payroll. (Though not for lack of trying on Colossus’ part; every time Wade’s out on a mission with him, he makes sure to ask where Logan stands on ‘joining team of elite soldiers’.)
So the next time Logan announces after dinner one Friday that he’s heading out for a drink, Wade pretends to be deeply engrossed in the Harry Potter Lego set he’s building. As soon as he hears Logan’s footsteps disappear down the stairs of their walk-up, he practically throws himself down the fire escape in his haste to tail the man.
He follows Logan from a distance for at least ten blocks, until he turns and disappears into a red-bricked building that looks to be a disused boxing gym. A faded sign above the door proclaims it to be the ‘#1 Muay Thai class in the tri-state area’. All the windows are either boarded up or taped over, and if Wade strains his ears, he can faintly hear a deep thumping bass coming from a lower level.
“Has our innocent little honey badger been sneaking out for secret raves?” Wade whispers excitedly, more to himself than anything else. He rubs his hands together with glee. “Oh, I’m glad I wore my big boy underpants, cause this is gonna be good.”
Wade’s done a lot of stupid things in his time (see: both the first and the second movie). But he’s also learnt from his mistakes, and underground club or not, he’s not about to walk into an abandoned building and loudly announce his presence until he knows exactly what he’s dealing with here. He cuts through an alley and heads around to the back, where his tingling Spidey senses – and a mercenary career with a respectable number of B&Es under his belt – helpfully inform him that if he jimmies open a rusted fire door lock, he’ll be home free.
The music noticeably increases in volume as soon as he steps foot into the building; Wade pauses, more than a little surprised at the quality of the soundproofing. Looking around, it’s clear that the high-ceilinged space has been out of use for a while, judging by the thick layer of accumulated dust spread across just about every surface, from the floor around the boxing ring to the benches and lockers lining the walls. The only break in the dust is a path marked by overlapping sets of boot prints, which Wade follows to a set of swing doors on the other side of the gym.
Pushing the doors open and treading lightly down the stairs he finds behind them, Wade winces as the thumping bass grows louder, as well as what sounds like a lot of voices clamouring all together. He pulls his hoodie up past his ears and wishes fervently for the ear plugs he wears to sleep on nights when Logan’s nightmares don’t let up.
“…next up is the match you’ve all been waiting for tonight!” A booming voice announces through loudspeakers, to a volley of cheers and catcalls. “The Hulk against the Wolverine, the Woool-verine against the Huuuuu-lk!”
“The fuck?” Wade rounds the final bend on the stairs to find himself at what is most definitely not an underground rave.
The floor curves at a gentle slope downwards, and rough steps have been hewn into the concrete so that spectator stands could be affixed to them. All four walls are currently packed full with a cheering and jeering crowd that look like they eat biker gangs for breakfast. And in the centre of the room is a well-lit caged ring, where his bestie Logan is currently facing off against the fucking Hulk. It’s quite a sight to behold: a shirtless, gigantic hulking wall of muscle, facing off against the Hulk in his favourite angry green and signature torn-off pants.
“Jesus.” Wade huddles in a corner of the stands, trying to look inconspicuous in the hoodie. However, side note: he is so touching himself later; he’s not even sure whether Logan or the Hulk is more of the turn-on at this point. Because this, nerds? This is what comic book wet dreams are made of.
A buzzer sounds and the Hulk lets out a roar that’s almost drowned out by the crowd’s clamouring cries, before launching himself across the ring with the speed and agility that most monster truck-sized things lack. Logan ducks and swipes his claws low at the Hulk’s legs as he passes, and Wade doesn’t need to hear the ensuing bellow that echoes throughout the enclosure to know that he’s just sliced neatly through the Hulk’s Achilles tendon.
“Yeah, that’s my baby girl,” Wade murmurs, forcing himself to relax his balled fists. He anxiously wipes his suddenly-sweaty palms over his jeans.
The Hulk, to his credit, is barely slowed down by the hit. He surges after Logan and sends him flying into the chain-link fencing the arena with a large fist to his back. Before Logan can get his feet under him, the Hulk takes a giant leap and starts pummeling Logan where he’s slid to the floor.
“He better stay down, I got twenty to one odds riding on this,” the large man next to Wade, who bears a striking resemblance to Fat Gandalf, mutters.
“Excuse me, that’s my friend in there,” Wade says, indignant, because he's nothing if not a loyal friend. “And I’m sure he’s going to kick the Hulk’s ass.”
Logan chooses that moment to prove him both spectacularly right and wrong. He rolls out from under the Hulk’s repeated punches, and tackles the big guy from the side with his teeth bared in a ferocious snarl and his muscles bulging in a way that gets Wade’s panties just a little soaked. For a moment, it seems like the tide is turning in Logan’s favour, as the momentum of the tackle sends them both to the arena floor, and Logan wastes no time sheathing his claws into the Hulk’s sides. (Clearly, full-contact here included your opponent’s innards.)
“Hulk hate little man!” the Hulk roars, shaking off the claws like they’re toothpicks and regaining his footing. He picks Logan up by the belt loops and smashes him repeatedly against the floor. Wade winces in sympathy; being on the receiving end of a patented Hulk Smash once is more than enough for a lifetime.
The buzzer sounds again, and the Hulk lifts both arms in victory as the stadium erupts into pandemonium. Wade watches the Logan-shaped crater in the middle of the ring with his heart beating somewhere in his throat.
“What was that you were saying about your friend?” Not-Fat Gandalf chooses that moment to lean over.
“Oh, fuck off and go get your money,” Wade snaps, shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and standing.
He stays and watches until Logan picks himself up and limps slowly away from the ring, grimacing in pain.
-
“So,” Wade says, the moment Logan steps through the front door. Wade hasn’t moved from his spot on the couch, although the Lego set he’s been building still looks far from complete from where Logan's standing. “Another long night of drinking?”
“Sure,” Logan says. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out an envelope stuffed full of cash, and drops it onto the coffee table next to the half-assembled Hogwarts castle. “’S the month’s rent.”
“They paid you to lose?” Wade says. He looks aghast, Lego pieces forgotten as he gingerly pokes at the pile of money, counting the bills.
Logan’s blood runs cold. “The fuck are you talking about?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Wade snaps, springing to his feet. “Was I meant to pretend it’s perfectly fine that you’re running around regularly getting the shit beaten out of you for a few grand? Who was it last week? Blade? Every single person who stabbed Julius Caesar?”
“You followed me!”
“You came home last week covered in blood!”
“You come back from work covered in blood every day!”
“Yeah, at least I go to work,” Wade hisses, rounding the coffee table and jabbing a finger into the centre of Logan’s chest. “Unlike some people who just sit around on their asses watching TV and reenacting the first act of the Hangover before they go out and beat people up just to get their rocks off.”
“Fuck off, bub, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Why the fuck are you so bothered anyway?”
“No, seriously. Why not just join the team at this rate?” Wade plows on, undeterred by the simmering air of violence as Logan clenches his fists, his claws trembling beneath the surface of his skin. “Colossus said it’s an unconditional offer. And you’d be doing the same thing, more or less, just getting paid more for it.”
Logan sets his jaw. “I can't do it, Wade - not again. You know why I can't.”
“No, I don’t,” Wade says irritably. “Is this because of what Paradox said? You know, you don’t get to just waltz in here with your heroic self-pitying shtick and act like you’ve got bigger problems than everyone else around you. We’ve all got to live with shit, peanut. You’re not special.”
Instead of rising to the bait, Logan just sighs heavily as he stalks over to the liquor cabinet (which in reality is just a repurposed bookshelf, but it gets the job done). Logan pulls out a bottle from the shelf and frowns, checking the label, then peers closer at the rest of the clearly recently acquired bottles.
“Japanese whiskey? And gin?” He arches an eyebrow at Wade, who at least has the good grace to flush, his interrogation evidently forgotten. Logan hasn’t had a single sip of alcohol, but he fancies he can already feel the warmth pooling in his belly.
“There was a sale?” Wade says weakly, which in and of itself is an admission of guilt. Something that feels traitorously close to hope curls its insidious fingers around Logan’s ribcage. “It was a bundle deal. We’re not that broke, I swear.”
“Well,” Logan says, twisting the cap open on the bottle of whiskey and pouring several fingers into two mugs. “No sense in wasting good liquor.”
They toast to that. And then to Mary, when she wanders in, tail wagging, and begs Wade to let her sit in his lap, which is how they end up migrating back to the couch. They toast to a whole host of other things as well, from Dopinder’s new fantasy football league to Yukio’s homemade milk bread sitting on their kitchen counter.
“So? You wanna talk about it?” Wade prompts, scratching Mary under the chin, when at least half the bottle is gone and Logan’s healing factor seems to have temporarily grown tired of doing constant battle with the whiskey.
“I did it, Wade,” Logan whispers, staring straight down into his mug of amber-coloured liquid, and he’s not surprised when its surface is disturbed by a tear that’s rolled down his cheek.
“Did what?” Wade's voice is surprisingly gentle, and that spurs Logan on.
“Killed them all, every – everyone I ever cared about,” Logan says, the words rushing out like a dam breaking: gradually, and then tumultuously, all at once. “I got back, still drinking, and everyone was either dead or well on their way. The mansion was on fire, but it was the screams that were the worst. I can still hear them, you know. Every night, they’re calling out for me to help them, save them, and I never make it back in time. I – I never make it.”
Wade is silent for possibly the longest he’s ever been silent since Logan’s known him. Logan’s not sure what he expected; he finds that he can’t look at Wade the same way he couldn’t look at Laura in the Void, doesn’t want to see the judgment in his entirely-too-expressive eyes. Then Wade nudges Mary and settles her on the far end of the couch before scooting closer, placing a hand on Logan’s shoulder. It’s grounding, and Logan can feel the warmth of Wade’s palm seeping through his thin cotton shirt.
Wade, of course, ruins the moment by opening his mouth.
“And so your trauma response is to get yourself turned into one giant open wound every Friday night for funsies,” Wade says, gaze solemn. He squeezes Logan’s shoulder. “I get it, pumpkin. I really do.”
“What? No, get your hand off me,” Logan says, getting to his feet.
Wade just smiles beatifically at him, something soft in his gaze as he scoops Mary into his arms and holds her out to him.
“Look, I’m not joining your team, end of story,” Logan says gruffly, even as he cradles Mary to his chest. “Tell Colossus sorry to disappoint.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time, I’m sure he’s used to it!” Wade calls after his retreating back, and deftly ducks the stray Lego brick Logan chucks at his head.
The funny thing is, Logan does feel better for having told Wade the truth. For showing him the ugliest part of himself and not having him recoil in disgust. Because God help him, Logan doesn’t know when it started, but he's starting to realise that Wade’s opinion matters to him the same way Jean’s did.
-
After that, they both fall into the habit of spending Friday nights drinking on the couch, sometimes to the accompaniment of whatever reality show happens to be playing on TV, Wade’s permanently icy feet tucked under Logan’s thighs. Wade stops asking where Logan’s been on the nights he comes back at two in the morning, eyes wild and all visible wounds healed. Instead he just pockets the rent that comes in staggered instalments of bloodied envelopes, picks up his phone and asks if he wants ‘Daddy D’s or Papa John’s’. Logan almost always picks the Meat Feast from Domino’s.
They complete the Hogwarts Lego set together, and Wade almost gets a heart attack when they lose the Golden Snitch inside Mary’s stomach, only for the situation to resolve itself (via gastrointestinal means) a day later. They finish the Japanese whiskey and gin, and Wade buys more without bothering to ask Logan, a shipment in bulk that takes up an inordinate amount of space in their kitchen, and Logan stops fighting the warmth blooming loose and easy in his chest every time he sees it.
The first time they kiss is when Logan storms into Wade’s room holding aloft three of his white shirts, which are now dyed pale pink (courtesy of the red-and-black fighting suit that he finds in the same wash), and Wade just smiles unrepentantly, all-teeth, and crashes his mouth onto Logan’s. The first time they have sex is approximately twelve minutes after that, with all of the laundry pushed onto Wade’s floor, and Logan wrapping a hand around both their cocks, pressing Wade into his Hello Kitty bedspread and watching as he stripes white up both their stomachs. Logan leaves Wade’s room with four fewer shirts than he started the day with, and an ‘IOU’ hastily traced with dried ejaculate onto his pectorals.
Logan doesn’t move into Wade’s room all at once. It starts incrementally, so as to be barely noticeable to either of them: first his favourite pair of sweatpants, followed by his glasses and the book he’s currently reading, and then gradually, the rest of Logan’s things find their homes in Wade’s closet, the dresser, the cabinet in the wall of the en suite. Once, after Wade’s come down the back of his throat with a shout that makes Logan pity their neighbours, he curls a proprietary arm around Logan’s midriff and promptly falls asleep. Loathe to jostle him, Logan stays put for the rest of the night, and doesn’t go back to his own room the next night. Or the next.
-
Logan feels as if he’s moving underwater, the roar of the crowd filtering, muffled, through its surface. His limbs are slow and uncooperative in the ring as he absorbs Deadpool’s punch to his gut and rolls with it, staying low and lunging at the red-clad legs so the momentum bowls them both over and he can sink his claws into his chest. The crowd cheers as he pins Deadpool down with one claw and slices his mask open with the other.
“Boo!” Cassandra Nova’s face says from inside the mask, wiggling over-long fingers at him. “There’s nothing of Wade Wilson left, I’m afraid, darling.”
He lets out a soundless yell and stabs mindlessly at her smirking face, only it’s not her face and her bald head anymore: it’s Charles’, smiling even as he coughs up blood and clutches at Logan’s wrist, tells him I hope you find your way home again.
Logan wakes up drenched in sweat, his claws stabbed clean through Wade’s Hello Kitty and Friends bolster. He winces and retracts his claws, watching as the stuffing leaks out. He’ll have hell to pay for that later. His throat feels dry and scraped raw, but he can’t be fucked to get water from the kitchen. Outside, the rain is sleeting down, pounding a relentless rhythm against the windows.
Logan groans, rolls over and grabs his phone, checking the time (2:37am). He’s got two texts from Wade sent three hours ago, telling him he and Yukio are wrapping up the day’s mission, along with a request for Logan to forgo underwear to bed for ‘easier access’ when Wade gets back. This last text is peppered with emojis, from the easily decipherable eggplant and raindrops to the more enigmatic goose and speedboat.
Logan sits up, suddenly much more alert. While it’s not unusual for Wade to stay out late once his missions are done, he usually texts ahead to let Logan know.
The rain beats a steady, miserable tempo outside as he carefully types OK into their chat and watches the little bubble pop up with ‘not delivered’.
Pushing down the sudden wave of nausea, Logan texts Are you home? to Yukio. The same ‘not delivered’ bubble mocks him.
He dials Colossus’ number, not bothering with a text. He picks up on the first ring despite the late hour. Colossus assures him Wade and Yukio’s mission was completed successfully, and the jet dropped off back at the mansion, and hangs up with cheerful platitudes for Logan not to worry as it’s probably just the weather slowing Wade down.
“Shit!” Logan’s claws massacre the bolster once more. His heart feels lodged somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
The next hour passes in a haze of whiskey as Logan alternates between prowling the length of the living room and checking his phone for new messages (none). He resolutely does not think about whether his dream was a premonition. Mary noses her way over to the coffee table at some point and Logan has to stop her from sticking her tongue down the neck of the whiskey bottle, prying her away with shaking hands.
At 3:24am, Logan pulls on the first zip-up hoodie he finds (Wade’s) on the back of the couch, and heads out. He realises as he gets to the bottom of the stairs and steps out into the still-pouring rain that he doesn’t have a fucking clue where he’s meant to go. He stands in the middle of their street, the water sluicing down his cheeks to join the dirty puddles on the ground.
“Peanut?”
He whips around, and Wade is there, dressed in jeans and a Pokémon shirt, holding the Sanrio bag with his gear, looking exhausted but very much alive.
Logically, Logan thinks he knew Colossus was right, that the horrible weather was the only thing holding Wade up, but that hadn’t stopped his mind from spiralling through a dozen horrifying scenarios, all of which ended with Wade permanently, non-regeneratively dead.
“What the fuck happened to your phone? And Yukio’s?” Logan snaps, ire rising the longer he’s standing out in the stupid rain like a fucking idiot. “You break ‘em or something?”
“Aw, baby, I didn’t know you cared,” Wade smirks, shoving his gear bag straight into Logan’s chest and rummaging in its side compartment. He pulls out his incredibly battered looking phone and waves it under Logan’s nose. “Dropped this out of the jet when I was taking a selfie for the ‘gram. Then I made Yukio drop hers when I asked her to take a boomerang of me flipping off the plane.”
Logan just growls in response and stomps back upstairs with Wade's stuff, torn between wanting to punch Wade and jump his bones. Wade trails sedately behind him.
In the end, they barely make it into the apartment before Logan’s claws are out and he’s slicing through Wade’s clothes, the metal kissing Wade’s sternum as he goes.
“Hey, hey, watch the Pikachu!” Wade yelps, evidently more upset at the shredded shirt than the cuts on his chest that are already stitching themselves up.
Logan yanks his own sodden hoodie off and muffles Wade’s protests with a kiss.
“You’ve got five of those that are exactly the same,” he says when they surface for air. One of Wade’s hands has made its way to the front of Logan’s rain-damp jeans, his thumb rubbing circles on the head of his hardening cock over the denim.
“Maybe that was my favourite one.” Wade narrows his eyes at him, a challenge, and tightens his hold on Logan’s cock almost to the point of pain. Logan's mouth drops open as he cants his hips into the pressure. “Maybe you should ask before fucking up my shit.”
Logan just rolls his eyes as he lets Wade lead him dick-first into the bathroom, where they quickly shuck off the rest of their clothes.
In the shower, Wade turns the water on hot because he knows Logan prefers it that way, pushes him face-first against the tiled wall, and drops to his knees in the cramped space. The first touch of Wade’s tongue against his hole lights his nervous system up like matter and antimatter, and when Wade spreads him apart so he can jab the flat of his tongue deeper still, Logan’s helpless to stop the moans spilling from his throat, just barely audible over the water beating down on their backs.
When Wade nudges the scarred head of his cock against his ass and presses in until he’s flush against Logan’s back, he stays still for an infuriatingly long beat, just mouthing at Logan’s neck, the back of his shoulder, until Logan unsheathes his claws in warning and Wade grins, Logan can feel the stretch of his lips against the thin skin of his jugular, before Wade (finally) starts to move.
For all of Wade’s teasing, Logan’s inordinately glad that it hasn’t translated into the pounding he’s getting tonight. Maybe Wade’s just as worked up after the mission, or maybe he’s just decided to take pity on Logan. Logan’s certainly not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially not when its dick is hammering away at his prostate on every stroke, and yeah, he can appreciate that his metaphor’s falling apart just as quickly and surely as he is. Retracting his claws, Logan rests his weight more firmly on one shoulder so he can reach down and take his weeping cock in his other hand.
“Ah, ah, baby girl’s gonna come from Daddy’s dick alone,” Wade huffs against his ear, knocking Logan’s hand away and pinning it flat against the wall by the wrist. He thrusts in hard, the drag of his textured cock lighting a frisson of pleasure along his insides, making Logan shudder. “Or baby girl’s not gonna come at all.”
“Fuck off,” Logan groans, although not entirely from exasperation, as he pushes his hips back, meeting Wade thrust for thrust. “Y’know I hate it when you say that.”
“Which?” Wade says, shoving his hips forwards more erratically. “Baby girl? Daddy?”
“Fucking – both,” Logan grunts, the steam rising from their abused shower making him flush.
Wade leans closer, breathes, “And what are you going to do about it?” as he bites down hard on the shell of Logan’s ear.
Logan flexes his hand under Wade’s on the wall, testing the hold, his claws straining under the skin on his knuckles. Wade’s not even trying, barely exerting any pressure to keep Logan in place. Logan knows, and he knows Wade knows, that he could break the hold in half a second and finish getting himself off in ten, that the longer he stays acquiescent, the more complicit he’s making himself.
“That’s what I thought, kitten,” Wade says smugly, when Logan admits defeat by doing nothing beyond shifting his feet slightly further apart so he can brace himself more fully on the wall, his hand staying resolutely put under Wade’s.
Thankfully, Wade shuts up after that, sliding a hand up Logan’s chest to pinch his nipples, before trailing it down to rest just a few inches shy of his straining cock as he keeps up a rhythm on Logan’s prostate relentless enough to rival the battering rain they’ve both just come in from. On one particularly hard thrust in, Wade attaches his mouth to the juncture where Logan’s neck meets his shoulder, sinking his teeth in, and Logan arches and comes quite suddenly, shouting his release into the wall as he paints the tiles white, claws unsheathing of their own volition.
“Fuck, baby, yeah – that’s it,” Wade moans, as Logan unconsciously clenches around him, still riding out the waves of his orgasm. His hand tears at Logan’s side in a way that makes him want to tease Wade about who actually wears the claws in this relationship, before Wade shoves his hips in with no finesse twice more and spills in Logan, panting open-mouthed against his back.
Later, when they’re dried off, in bed, and Logan has vowed to buy Wade an identical Pokémon shirt to replace the torn one, he frowns down at the top of Wade’s scarred head as a thought occurs to him. “What did you mean by the goose and boat?”
“Fuck’re you talking about, peanut?” Wade says sleepily, turning over in Logan’s arms to tuck his head more securely under Logan’s chin.
“Your text.”
“Oh, honka honka,” Wade huffs out a soft laugh into Logan’s chest. One hand skates up the length of Logan’s torso to land on his pecs, and Wade squeezes gently in demonstration. “Work the other one out yourself, sugar tits.”
Wade falls asleep promptly after that, and Logan does not manage to work it out. But Wade does show him what he meant the next day, when he wakes Logan up with his head nestled in his chest, making the most ridiculous motorboating sounds, and Logan gives himself stitches in his side from laughing.
-
“No, forget it, this was a stupid fucking idea,” Logan growls, ripping off the electrodes attached to his body and thrusting them back at this universe’s Hank McCoy as he strides off the treadmill.
“Just – hold on a second,” Wade calls over his shoulder at a disgruntled Hank, as he hurries after Logan. “I’m taking his neck veins for a walk.”
“What happened to joining the X-men is an unconditional offer?” Logan hisses, rounding on Wade as soon as they’re out of earshot in the mansion’s huge gym. “Why the fuck are they making me do tests?”
“Look, it might’ve been an educated –”
“– if you say fucking wish, I will stab you.” Logan lifts a fist to Wade’s neck, knuckles digging into Wade’s suit, letting him feel the tensed metal claws under the skin.
“Shit, baby, no foreplay in public, how many times do I gotta say this,” Wade moans, swallowing against the back of Logan’s hand and shifting in his suit, the front of which is starting to look uncomfortably tight. “Plus, money’s good. Be a lot cushier than cage fights.”
“You’re causing a scene,” Logan mutters, raking a not-entirely-disapproving eye down at Wade’s crotch. All the same, he drops his hand, glancing back at where Hank is scribbling something doubtless condemnatory on his clipboard.
“Me? Who threatened to gut me with their steak knives?”
“Who do they think they are anyway, the fucking Avengers? Can’t they just put me in the field instead of making me jump through hoops like a show dog?”
“Wrong franchise, honey badger, but you should channel this anger into something productive.”
“Like auditioning for the X-men.”
“Sure, if that’s what you wanna call it. Go, break a leg,” Wade smiles winningly, clapping him on the shoulder. “And I know for a fact you can do it with no warm-up.”
So Logan marches himself back onto the treadmill like an inmate on death row, and feels a grim sense of satisfaction when he scores marginally higher on average across the tests than the Logan in this universe.
Their first mission is a rousing success: he and Wade dispatch the mob boss and his armed thugs before the jet’s engines have even cooled off. Colossus pairs them together on every single mission after that, sometimes alongside Ellie and Yukio, but even then, he and Wade always operate as a unit.
It’s been a long time, Logan muses, since he’s been able to rely on someone else to be an extension of himself, to trust their actions and reactions almost as intuitively as he depends on his own, for them to know what he needs before he’s even voiced it. It’s there in every bullet Wade’s katanas slice in mid-air so they never hit Logan, despite them both knowing it won’t do much more than slow him down for a couple seconds. It’s there in every bottle of expensive Japanese liquor Logan tells Wade not to bother buying, but that still somehow ends up in their weekly grocery delivery. And it’s there in every gasp, every moan, every sigh that Wade drinks from his lips when they’re in bed, or on the couch, or in the shower.
On particularly bad days, when the skin around his claws itches fit to burst, and all Logan can think about is getting in the ring to drown out the screams of everyone he’s ever let down, Wade takes him by the hand and leads him to Logan’s old bedroom – which they’ve refashioned into a soundproof, padded room – and they spar with fists and claws and blades until the voices in Logan’s head fade into the background and all that’s left is the Madonna that Wade insists on blasting during their ‘training’ sessions.
Afterwards, when Logan presses Wade into the mat and sinks down onto his cock, and Wade surges up to kiss him with bloodied lips, Logan can’t help but wonder whether this isn’t exactly what Charles had in mind for him, before his thoughts scatter as the rough drag of Wade inside him slides home.