Archive of Our Own ^beta

"Aw, aren't you gonna beg for mercy? It's cute when you guys beg for mercy," Deadpool sighs, twisting his katana in this bastard's thigh.

The guy doesn't beg for mercy, just kind of shrieks and writhes. Logan groans from his spot by the door.

"You almost done in there?" Logan asks, eyes flicking up to the clock on the wall. "We're cutting it close."

It's been nice to have Logan along for these types of jobs. Getting back into mercenary work has been easy, really, but it's way more fun using the buddy system than going it alone. More efficient, too--they're able to get more jobs done faster this way.

Wade probably could have done this one alone, but honestly, it's nice just to have the excuse to spend time with Logan. It's like a date. A platonic friend date with his entirely-unavailable, painfully straight roommate-slash-man he has a huge, pathetic, un-acknowledged crush on.

Fuck. Does narrative count as acknowledgement? Wade grits his teeth.

"Yeah, peanut," he calls, "almost done with our little friend here, don't you worry!"

"W-why are you doing this," their target gasps out, tears and snot streaming down his face. Wade leans a little heavier on the boot holding him down and the guy wheezes, fingers scrabbling pathetic at Wade's ankle. If Wade leans just a little harder on the guy's sternum, twists his heel a little to the side, he could break a rib. Just for fun.

Nah. Might be overkill.

"Chloe says hi," Wade says. "Well, her big sis does. Mostly her big sis's money does, actually. Normally I don't do jobs like this for so cheap but oh, when I saw what you did, well. I figured I could--oh, pro tip, don't squirm like that, I'm super close to your femoral artery and trust me you do not want that baby nicked." Wade sighs. "What was I saying? Oh, yeah! You inspired me to issue a little discount, Jakey."

"W-wait," Jakey blurts out, and he keeps fucking squirming, against Wade's direct advice. "Whatever they're paying you, I--I can pay more. I swear."

"This really isn't so much about the money at this point. Especially after all those photos of yours I saw. You've got an artist's eye for composition, I gotta say!" Wade twists the blade just a little more and the man shrieks. "Shame you couldn't have picked subject matter that didn't make me really, really wanna fucking kill you."

"She--she liked it," the man says, pathetically, "she agreed, she--she wanted it!"

"Oh, I wouldn't have said that, bub," Logan sighs. "Deadpool. Hurry the fuck up."

"You know, Jake the Snake? I wasn't actually hired to kill you," Wade says.

"You weren't?"

"Nope! I was just hired to rough you up and scare you away from Chloe, forever."

"I w-won't go near her ever again!"

"First right thing you've said all night," Wade says. The guy writhes a little more and a fresh gush of blood works its way out from around Wade's katana. "Oh, you stupid bastard. I told you not to squirm and look what you went and did."

"I--I'm gonna bleed out!"

"Actually, good news! You're not gonna do that. Peanut, how much time do we have?"

"Two minutes tops if you really wanna make it back in time." Logan shrugs. "Maybe less with traffic."

"Mmkay. Well, fuckface, looks like it's your lucky day."

"You're--you're letting me go?"

"Hah! Nope, can you fucking imagine?" Wade pulls his left sidearm, cocks it against his shoulder. "You're lucky I don't have time to really have fun with you. Nighty night!"

He squeezes the trigger. Jake's horrible little life ends before he has the chance to scream.

Oh, these types of jobs just give Wade the warm-fuzzies.

"Alright, kitten whiskers! Let's fucking go."

"About time," Logan grumbles, and kicks their mark's body for good measure on the way out the door.

-

"Aw, shit! We're late! We've missed the first ten minutes!"

"It's a dating show. It's not like there's any story beats to miss."

Sister Margaret's is as filthy and dark and gross as it ever is. Wade loves it. And Weasel agreed to put on The Bachelorette for him. Wade's gonna try to start to get people betting on who gets roses and who doesn't--he thinks he can probably make some cash that way, and he was able to convince Weasel of it too. It'll be fun to have something to gamble on besides the ever-present dead pool.

The other patrons at the bar are also paying attention to the show, seems like. Which is funny, Wade thinks, and half the reason he asked Weasel to put this shit on instead of football or what the fuck ever.

"No story beats?! Jesus," Wade groans. "It's almost like you've never watched this show!"

"Yeah, almost." Logan snorts, taps the counter for his usual. "Thanks, bub," he says as Weasel slides him a glass of whiskey.

"Don't worry, I think I can put together the plot so far for you. So it looks like they're halfway through the introductions and she's not super wild about any of the guys so far, but--"

"Um, Mr. Deadpool?"

The voice is small and quiet and Wade looks over his shoulder. Immediately he forgets all about the plight of the men onscreen. "Kirsten? Sweetie, this is a bar, and not a nice one," he says, turning to face her, "you're not supposed to be places that serve alcohol like this for another--what, three years?"

"Four," the blonde girl says, a little apologetic. "I'm not gonna try to drink. I just, um--wanted to say thanks, and, um... m-make sure you got paid, myself." She fishes a wad of cash out of her pocket, holds it out with shaky fingers. Wade smiles and accepts it, doesn't bother counting it before he tucks it into one of his side pouches.

"Thanks, kid. Oh, and--listen, just between you and me?" Wade leans in, conspiratorial. "I wouldn't worry about him anymore. Let's just say his mind has been expanded."

Logan snorts. Kirsten blinks, confused. "What?"

"I mean I killed him," Wade explains. "Blew his brains clean out."

Kirsten's eyes widen. "I--I don't have the money for--"

"No, no! Little extra service on the house. I like to go above and beyond. Just make sure to leave a five-star review on--"

The girl abruptly flings her arms around Wade, hugs him tightly, her ear and cheek pressed against his chest. "Thank you," she says, voice thick.

Wade stiffens at the sudden contact, then immediately relaxes and hugs her back. "Hey, no biggie." He pats her on the head with one gloved hand. He feels like Santa Claus, just with more guns. "You got a ride home?"

"Yeah, I drove here..."

"Okay, kiddo." Wade carefully dislodges the girl from his arms, his hands on her shoulders; he puts a respectable distance between them and looks her in the eyes. "Now I need you to go home and give your little sis my love. And then never, ever come back here. All right?"

The girl smiles, nods, wipes happy tears from her eyes with the heels of her hands. She looks lighter somehow, younger. Like a weight has been taken from her. "Okay," she says, taking a few steps back. "I--thanks. Again."

Wade blows her a kiss and watches her float out of the shitty bar. He watches her get into her car and makes sure she drives off safely before he turns his eyes back to the TV.

"Think she was sweet on you," Logan chuckles into his glass.

"She's seventeen and I killed her baby sister's rapist. Of course she was sweet on me." Wade shakes his head, shudders. "She's a good kid. Hope I never see her again."

"You did right by her." Logan regards Wade, his eyes soft and crinkled prettily at the corners. There's clear approval there, and Wade feels warm all the way to his booted toes.

"Well, I do pride myself on excellent customer service."

Wade keeps up a running commentary as the episode continues on. It's a season premiere, so it's two whole hours of absolutely gripping heterosexual bullshit, and Wade cannot get enough of it. From a purely anthropological perspective, it's fascinating. He has to wonder if straight people really live like this.

"Do straight people really live like this?" he asks as the show lapses into a commercial break.

Logan shrugs and finishes his glass, taps the counter for a refill.

"Weasel? Do straight people really live like this?" Wade asks as Weasel pours more liquor into Logan's cup.

"Fuck, man, I dunno, I mean, probably, most of us," Weasel says with a shrug.

"Wait, what?" Wade slams a hand on the bar. "You're straight?"

Weasel whines. "Stop asking me hard fuckin' questions, dude."

-

Wade sometimes finds himself trying to unlock Blind Al's door instead of his own, years of muscle memory working against him. He and Logan live across the hall from her now; the rent is cheap, for one thing, and Wade was high-key unwilling to move too far away from her.

She immediately replaced the two of them with another guy. Wade is pretty sure she's banging him, but he doesn't want to think too hard about it. Either way, he kind of misses living with the old bat, and he visits her on the regular.

But the new apartment is an upgrade--two bedrooms, for one thing. And just on the right side of affordable, with Logan and Wade picking up work from Sister Margaret's.

"We good for this month? How much did you win last night, again?" Wade asks as he swings open the apartment door and steps aside to let Logan in first.

Logan shrugs. "Eight hundred."

"Holy fuck, peanut."

"We're good for the month. Next month's fuckin' iffy." Mary Puppins squirms out from under the couch and dashes over to shout at the two of them for her dinner. Logan reaches to pick her up, tucking her under his arm like a football while he grabs her leash. "Shh, shh. Workin' on it, your highness."

Wade doesn't look too long at Logan holding the dog. If he does, his heart will start fucking hurting, and he can't take that shit tonight.

Logan and the dog aren't out long, just long enough for her evening pee, and then they're back inside and Logan's helping her out of her boots.

"You thought any more about what Colossus said?" Wade asks as he digs around in the fridge for Dogpool's nightly meal. "Might be steadier than cage fighting."

"It's MMA," Logan says, setting the dog down next to the plate Wade places for her. "And--yeah. I've thought about it."

"And? No pressure, obvi."

"Answer's no."

"Okay," Wade says, grabbing a cold slice of pizza out of the fridge for himself and making his way toward the couch.

"That's it?"

"Yup."

Logan settles down on the opposite side of the couch, reaches for the remote and tosses it to Wade, who catches it. "You don't usually let shit go that easy."

Wade flicks open Netflix and clicks onto Cutthroat Kitchen, which they're halfway through. "Yeah, well, when it's about asking you if you're cool with staring into the shining faces of all your dead friends, I figure it's better to let you work through that post-traumatic maelstrom on your own schedule."

Logan blinks. "I... okay," he says quietly.

Wade hits the play button and Alton Brown begins gleefully torturing people onscreen. Mary Puppins finishes her dinner and hops up onto the couch with them, climbs up into Logan's lap and flops there. Logan automatically pets her, smoothing down the wild tufts of fur atop her head. God. Killing Jake the Snake was fun--a real highlight, honestly--but this is Wade's favorite part of the day, just quietly wrapping up the evening on the couch with Logan and the dog.

It's always his favorite part of the day.

He tries not to examine that too closely. But Logan is petting the dog and chuckling as Alton Brown attaches BDSM equipment to chefs, and he's relaxed and comfortable and lovely, and--nope. Not examining that too closely, remember? Wade swallows and shoves that warm, full feeling back down his throat and firmly into repression where it belongs.

-

The episode wraps up and the dog is asleep and drooling on Wade's leg, and Logan is visibly fighting sleep.

Neither seems to want to be the first to suggest going to bed. They end up like this most nights, in various configurations of the three of them. Right now, Logan and Wade have ended up close enough that their legs touch; the dog is flopped over them both. Logan's arm is slung lazy across the back of the couch behind Wade's shoulders.

They're not cuddling. They're not cuddling. But god, does Wade wish they were.

He kind of misses the pull-out couch in Althea's living room, honestly. Misses how it forced him and Logan into close proximity all night. Misses how sometimes he'd wake up before Logan and find himself firmly wrapped around like an overgrown, cancerous body pillow.

This is all he gets now. The warmth of Logan's thigh against his own, and Mary Puppins snoring, tits-up, lying across them both.

And it's good enough that Wade doesn't wanna cut it short.

"Alright," Wade finally says, "come on, sweet little cuntchkin. Bedtime."

"Don't call me that."

"I was talking to the dog," Wade says, "I've got other cutesy pet names for you."

"Don't I know it." Logan yawns, blinks sleepily. He's adorable, Wade thinks. It's awful. "Sleep good, bub."

"Yeah," Wade says, scooping Mary Puppins into his arms and standing, with great effort. "You too."

-

Mornings are just as hard as evenings, honestly, but in a slightly different way. Logan is sleep-rumpled and padding around the house in nothing but his pajama pants and it's frankly an act of psychological warfare that Logan has no idea he's committing every morning.

But Wade bravely endures it. Bravely watches the muscles of Logan's back work under his skin as he starts the coffee machine and begins preparing breakfast.

"You left hairs in the sink again, you animal," Wade says, sidestepping Logan so he can grab Mary Puppins' breakfast from the fridge.

"You want me to grovel?" Logan's voice is rough and baritone with sleep.

"Yeah, baby. Grovel for me. Get on your knees and--"

"Keep fuckin' dreaming," Logan grumbles. "You want toast? We've still got the cinnamon-raisin stuff."

"Ooh, yes, please."

-

The thing is, Logan is still thinking about what Wade asked him last night. And he has thought a lot about what Colossus had said. Logan knows he should take the X-Men up on their offer. He really should. It's been made clear that the invitation is standing indefinitely, and Logan knows he could use the paycheck.

He could afford a nicer place, easy. If he didn't choose to just live in the mansion.

It's just that the idea of joining the X-Men and having to look Scott and Storm and Beast and Charles in the eye makes him feel frantic, makes him feel roiling and sick low in his stomach, makes him want to start running. And if he starts running, he isn't sure he'd ever fucking stop.

Wade moseys around the kitchen behind him as he butters the cinnamon-raisin toast. He's singing some little nonsense song to the dog, who dances and huffs at his feet as he cuts her stupendously expensive dog meatloaf into smaller chunks so she doesn't choke herself to death. "Dogpool, full of dog drool," he trills as he sets the plate down for her, pats her as she starts scarfing it down. Continues his meandering little tune. "Sweet thing, she makes your heart sing..."

Besides, if Logan had that X-Men paycheck and could afford a better place, he wouldn't have an excuse to stick around and listen to Wade sing sweet nonsense words to the dog, would he?

Altogether better to avoid the X-Mansion for now, Logan thinks.

"You want eggs?" Wade asks, straightening up and dusting his hands off. "I'm fantasizing about an omelet. You want an omelet?"

"You can make omelets?"

"Yeah."

"You. Omelets."

"I can make exactly one type of omelet because I learned how to do it from a YouTube video and made nothing but omelets until I got it right! So, yeah!"

Logan blinks. Feels his mouth twitch into a little smile. "Sure. Why not."

Wade somehow turns out two fucking flawless French omelets in, like, ten minutes. And it tastes good. "How the fuck," Logan says, blinking, "can you screw up Kraft dinner so bad it's fuckin' inedible and then make this."

"Wolvie likey?" Wade grins, puffing up.

"This is great, I just wanna know what else you can make. You've been holding out on me."

"I assure you my expertise is exceedingly limited, peanut. Omelets and peanut butter sandwiches are essentially the two recipes I know."

Wade is a neverending well of contradictions and Logan struggles, hard, not to be charmed.

-

It isn't as if they never do X-Men adjacent shit. Sometimes Colossus calls Wade and asks for his expertise with a job that requires taking a fuckton of bullets, or radiation, or other shit that the average mutant can't take like they can.

A particularly memorable job had involved a rogue telepath. Logan isn't strictly-speaking immune to telepathy, but he's not easily mind-controlled, for whatever fucking reason; nobody else could get close enough to take the bastard down, but Logan had been able to shake him off long enough to get his claws dug in.

Those jobs are rare but great, the pay is good, and Logan tags along in an attempt to acclimate himself to the idea of X-Men work again.

It's fine. It's fun, even. And Wade makes damn sure he doesn't run into any strangers wearing familiar faces.

And speaking of familiar faces, Laura is at the X-Mansion. She's a student there now. She visits Logan and Wade regularly, and Logan is happy to see her every time. She may not be his child, but she shares his genes, somehow, and Logan never wanted a kid--and he still doesn't have a kid--but at the same time he feels just a little parental.

Feels just a little bit of the responsibility his other self left behind.

A phantom resting a hand on his shoulder.

Logan is grateful for the jobs the other X-Men can't do. It isn't as if Logan can work a regular job; the TVA hasn't set him up with a new social security number quite yet--they say he's in the queue, but they're working through a backlog, apparently--so as far as the world is concerned, he's legally dead. He's not gonna pass a background check and he's not gonna be able to fill out tax forms. For now, he's a legal non-entity.

Not that he thinks he probably should be working a regular job.

Prize fighting is one thing. He knows what to expect. It's well-trod ground. He's in control. He runs the show. He has no-one but himself to protect, and nobody is in any true danger. It's simple, easy, routine. Put on a good performance, don't knock your opponent out too fast, take your winnings, go home. Piece of cake.

It's one thing to encounter unexpected happenings while doing X-Men jobs, work where the problems are supposed to be solved with muscle and claw. But if he was working at the all-night diner down the street and some jackass came in a little too drunk, wouldn't take 'no' for an answer from a waitress? If someone came in and caused trouble, flashed a gun, threatened a co-worker?

Well. Logan thinks there's a non-zero possibility that he'd end up on the fucking news. And he can't afford that.

So, mercenary work, prize fighting, and the occasional superhero-adjacent contract job. It pays the bills. Most of the time.

-

Weasel scampers over to Wade and Logan the second they're through the door that evening.

"Hey," he says, "got someone looking for you specifically. Um, pretty sure he's not a cop, 'cause I tried to sell him some molly and he didn't cuff me, so..."

"Well, lots of people want the full Deadpool experience! You tell him it doesn't work like that?"

"Yeah, I tried, but--"

A man, presumably the one Weasel is talking about, shoulders up just into where Wade's personal space might be if he had any. The guy is small and slight and wearing a tight t-shirt and tighter jeans; there's the slim bulge of a wallet and phone in his pocket, but nothing else breaks up his silhouette--little guy isn't carrying.

Wade's eyes flick down to his shoes. They're not cop shoes. Guy's wearing a pair of Vans that have seen a hell of a lot of better days.

The guy sticks out a hand like he expects Wade to shake it. "I'm Jim. Nice to meet you. I need your help."

Wade, as usual, acts without thinking, goes straight for absurdity. Takes the guy's--Jim's--hand, pulls it up to his mouth and presses a smacking kiss through his mask to the backs of his fingers. "Deadpool! Enchanté. But jobs don't pick me. I pick the jobs. Sorry, but--"

Jim yanks his hand back down. "I don't trust anyone else to do this right," he says. "Please, just--just hear me out."

"Listen, if I gave equal time to all my adoring fans, I'd be doing nothing but--"

"Bub." Logan's arms are crossed, his brow furrowed; he elbows Wade in the ribs. "Hear him out."

Wade blinks. "You smell something, Lassie? Is Timmy down the well again?"

"Fucking listen to him, asshole. Then we can decide whether to take it or not."

Groaning, Wade throws his hands up. "Fine. Okay. But you're buying me a Pink Squirrel."

"No Pink Squirrels," Weasel says, "I'm out of vanilla ice cream."

"FUCK!"

"Sorry," Weasel says.

"It's fine, I'll just fucking suffer in silence like I always do, stoic and brave as usual. Okay, Jimmy," Wade says, making his way over to the bar, "what's the story?"

Jim follows on Wade's heels, leans against the bar and faces him. Logan follows after, settles onto a bar stool and motions to Weasel for his usual.

"My partner has been missing for weeks now," Jim says. "And it's not just me. A lot of guys are missing their partners. A lot of--a lot of guys like me."

"Short guys?"

"Gay guys."

"Oh, shit."

"Four guys have disappeared that I know of. All of them from the same club. I--" He looks terrified, miserable. Wraps his arms around himself. "I think it's a serial killer," he says, voice dropping low. "I--look, look at this." Jim holds up his phone. There's a grid of four photos, each of the same type of man; handsome, middle-aged, just on the right side of rugged. "Brijesh is lower left, right there, that's my man," he says. "Please. It's gotta be a serial killer, right? W-Why else are guys like Brijesh going missing, I--" He pauses, takes a deep breath, collects himself.

"Take your time," Wade says quietly. Sometimes things aren't worth joking about. A scared, mourning husband isn't something to poke at with humor.

"I don't want any more of us gone," Jim finally says. "I need to know what happened. I need justice." He nods. "I have money. All of us whose men have gone missing, we've pooled our cash together for you. You're the best. We need you. Please."

"Ah, fuck," Wade breathes. "Listen, I... okay, this is kinda outta my normal wheelhouse. I'm a mercenary, not a PI, right? I'm a straightforward hitman, or, y'know. Fuck people up for money kinda guy." Sympathy coils in his brain. "ACAB, don't get me wrong, but... missing persons cases are usually more of a 'cops' thing than a 'merc' thing."

Jim gives an unhappy, bitter bark of laughter. "The cops? Are you serious? We've been to the cops."

"And?"

"And they haven't done shit!" Jim slams his hand on the bar; the poor man is trembling. "They're up to their assholes in casework already and--and--look, face it," he says, voice dropping a little low, "guys like us aren't exactly at the top of their fuckin' queue. The cops don't give a fuck if some faggots disappear," he adds, roughly. "Nobody gives a fuck about us."

"Not nobody." It's Logan who speaks. Wade looks over his shoulder, blinking. "We'll do it."

"Oh, my god," Jim breathes, leaning heavily on the bar. "Thank you."

All right, what the entire fuck? Logan hasn't said a goddamn word this whole time and now he just cuts in? "We will?" Wade blurts out.

"I--I'll get you the money, how--"

"Don't worry about the money 'til the job's done," Logan says.

"What the fuck, peanut, that's not how this works," Wade hisses, feeling distinctly like the Bad Cop in this situation, and ain't that a kick in the head?

"That's how it works this time," Logan growls. "Jim. I'm gonna need those photos and I wanna hear everything you know."

There's tears of relief in the poor man's eyes; he radiates gratefulness and yeah, okay, it kinda gives Wade the warm-fuzzies to be helping, of course it does, but he'd really like to be paid up-front for something as open-ended as this.

"Well, if my business associate is done taking jobs pro-fucking-bono," Wade grumbles, "tell us when was each victim was last seen, who they were last seen with, anything you can think of. No detail is too shitty and small."

Jim nods. "Okay," he says, "So last month..."

-

"So," Wade says an hour or so later over his Pink Squirrel, because he whined until Weasel UberEatsed a carton of vanilla ice cream. Jimmy spilled his guts (metaphorical), told them everything he knew, thanked them up and down, gave them his contact info, and left not five minutes ago. Wade has to say, the plot here is a little intriguing, if largely for the subject matter. "Hot gay DILFs are going missing from The Smokehouse and it's up to us to catch the DILFinator. The DILF crusher." He snaps his fingers. "The DILF Destroyer!"

Lines deepen between Logan's eyebrows. "The fuck is a DILF?"

"Dad I'd Like to Fuck," Wade chirps, "so, like, distressingly hot middle-aged men."

Logan blinks. "Oh."

"Can't help but notice every dude Jimmy mentioned was reported missing by their partner, husband, fiancé, whatever." Wade hums. "You think that's another common thread or just a coincidence?"

"That they were all in relationships? I dunno." Logan's mouth twists. "No way to know. Maybe more have gone missing but nobody's reported 'em. If they're single, who's gonna do the reporting?"

"Fair, okay." Wade slurps the last of the foamy vanilla concoction out of his glass. "You think--"

"I think now is when we go home," Logan says, "and hope your dog hasn't shit on the floor."

"She's your dog too!"

Logan scoffs, standing. "The hell she is."

Wade stands as well, waves goodbye to Weasel and heads for the door alongside Logan. "I can't believe you're talking about your own daughter that way."

"She's a roommate I find only slightly more tolerable than you," Logan says. Nevertheless, he opens the door and holds it for Wade to step through first.

Gentlemanly. Chivalrous, even. It's disgusting. Wade is enchanted, as usual. "You scoundrel! Mary Puppins is our flesh and blood child whomst I birthed from mine own loins."

"Don't ever fuckin' say the word 'loins' again."

Wade ignores him. "Our very own spawn whomst you impregnated me with on that fateful snowy night in Grosvenor Square. You told me you'd marry me, you know. But instead you ruined me with a child out of wedlock. I'll never have a London Season now. And it's all your fault, you blackguard."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"My God, you haven't seen Bridgerton, have you? We've gotta fix that. Vanessa says the costuming isn't historically accurate, like, at all, but the casting! Holy shit!"

They're in their civvies, mostly, Wade still in his Deadpool mask; he takes it off and shoves it in his pocket, takes a big unobstructed breath of cold night air. The walk back home is kind of long; fortunately, there's a bus that runs late and often, even at this hour. They've still gotta get to the stop, though. Wade doesn't mind walking. Especially not with Logan beside him.

Logan, who sighs, grumbles. "Can we finish Cutthroat Kitchen first, at least?"

"Anything for you, kitten whiskers."

-

Miraculously, the dog has neither shit nor pissed on the floor by the time they make it through the apartment door.

"Yarp!" she shouts immediately, ramming face-first into Wade's legs, then Logan's. "Yarp," she says again, louder, when Wade reaches to pet her.

"Hey, Countess Chlamydia, how's it hanging?"

Logan immediately kneels to help the dog into her little boots. He used to throw a tantrum about the boots, insisting that surely the dog would survive a trip outside without them just once. Unfortunately, Mary Puppins had refused to take a single step on concrete without her shoes on, instead opting to lie down and dare Logan to drag her by the leash.

She was more willing to let herself get strangled than compromise on this issue for even a moment. If nothing else, that stubbornness alone confirmed her status as a Deadpool variant.

"I'll take her out," Logan says, attaching her leash to the back of her suit.

"Not your dog, huh?"

"Fuck off," Logan says with all the vitriolic, biting venom of a sleeping kitten before he opens the door and Mary Puppins leads him out and down the hall.

Wade chuckles, prepares the dog's dinner and pushes a couple of fruit danishes into the toaster oven--he'd gotten a twelve pack at Costco and they really needed to go through them. Logan likes the cherry ones best, so Wade gamely takes apple.

The toaster dings right as Logan and Mary Puppins are back through the door. Logan breathes deeply, obviously smelling the warm pastry, and he smiles. Unclips Mary Puppins's leash and helps her out of her boots.

Wade approaches with a cherry danish and a glass of milk. Logan takes them. "What's this for, bub?"

"Midnight snack." Wanted an excuse to stay up with you just a little longer. They stand in the kitchen, leaning on the countertop, working through their pastries while the dog scarfs her dinner down at top speed.

"We'll go to the Smokehouse tomorrow and talk to the employees."

"Sounds like a plan, peanut." Wade finishes his danish, sucks remnants of sticky apple filling off his fingertips.

He doesn't miss the way Logan's eyes follow his hand, but he can't quite read the expression on his face.

-

The Smokehouse is an unassuming thing from the outside; the building looks to Wade like it might have been an automotive shop once upon a time. There's not much parking, and the building itself is located off the main drag--Google Maps got a little confused with the directions--but the flags hanging in the windows clearly indicate they've found the right place.

Logan tries the door. Grumbles when it doesn't budge. "Fuck."

"Peanut, what were you expecting? It's eleven AM."

"What, queers don't day drink?"

"I mean. They for-sure do, but--hey. Maybe you shouldn't be saying the word 'queers' like that, actually."

Logan snorts a little laugh. Extends a claw just a little and raps on the glass door with the back of it, not hard enough to scratch, just to make a noise. No answer. He grunts and circles around to the back of the building and Wade follows him.

"We just gonna break in?" Wade asks.

Logan shakes his head. "Don't think we'll have to. There oughta be a bell here for deliveries--there we go." Logan taps the small button on the wall by the employee entrance.

"If they didn't answer the front door what makes you think they'll answer this one?" Wade groans. "There's nobody--"

The door swings open. A tall kid with a couple facial piercings and blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail stands there. "You're not the Absolut truck," he says slowly.

"Nope. We've got a couple ques--"

"We're closed. We open at five," the kid says, and makes to close the door.

Wade shoves his steel-toe-booted foot in the door before he can. "You know anything about the missing DILFs, Legolas?"

The kid's eyes widen. "I've already talked to you guys," he says.

"Us guys?" Logan asks.

"The cops."

Logan snorts. "We ain't cops. We're--uh--"

"Freelance police!" Wade jumps in. "He's Sam, I'm Max."

"Private investigators," Logan says. Wade doesn't miss the long-suffering sigh he gives. "Mind if we come in and ask you a couple questions? Won't take much of your time."

Logan's on his best behavior, the kind of calm friendliness he showed when he met Blind Al for the first time. The kid looks him over, and Wade can see the wheels turning in his brain.

"Sure," he says, finally, visibly deciding that Logan is hot enough to make entertaining this whole thing worthwhile. He steps aside. "You said your name was Sam?"

"It's--"

"Yes! It's Sam. I'm Max, like I said."

The look Logan gives him could kill, if Wade could die.

"I'm Derek. C'mon in."

They follow Derek into the building, through a storeroom and into the club proper. It's quiet and well-lit during the day, apparently, though Wade can already tell what kind of place this is at night. It's styled kind of like an old speakeasy, a long bar taking up one end of the space and a wide dance floor taking up the center. There's a small stage at one end. Obviously there's live entertainment here on occasion, though the thin layer of dust that coats the surface says it's been a while. A few secluded booths and tables a with plush chairs are scattered around the periphery.

Wade can see speakers and lighting overhead. There's even a hazer which presumably adds a nice smoky atmosphere to the space. Smoking may be illegal inside, even in places like this, but damn, does it add to the ambience.

It's a little dirty around the corners, the floors just a little sticky in places, but honestly, who gives a shit?

"Now what can I do you for?" the kid asks, returning to his tasks behind the bar, washing glasses.

"Me? For free," Wade says. "Sam here charges premium, though."

Derek's eyebrows quirk. His eyes rove shamelessly over Logan. "That so?" he asks, amused.

Logan growls and disguises it ineffectively with a cough. "We just want to know a little more about the recent disappearances. That's all."

"I'll tell you what I told the cops," Derek says. "Four regulars just stopped showing up. Maybe a week between each one."

"Surely regulars dip all the time, though," Logan says. "Why were these so noteworthy?"

"Their boyfriends freaked, that's why. I mean, maybe more have been snatched, hard to tell? Plenty of people visit once and never come back. But all the ones I know about, I know about because of Jimmy and Wilbert and the rest of the boyfriends."

"Did these four guys have anything in common that you noticed?" Wade asks.

"Yeah," Derek says. "They were all tall, sexy, older, and fuckin' built." His eyes stay on Logan. "Y'know? They all looked like you, Sam."

Three separate thoughts scream through Wade's head at once:

1. Haha! Logan's getting hit on!

2. Hey! I should be the only one hitting on Logan!

and finally

3. Wait. The kid kinda has a point. They all do look like Logan.

He shakes his head as if to reset his brain, filing that last thought away for later examination.

"And they were all pretty handsy with their boyfriends, actually. I mean, it's a gay bar, everyone's handsy... but like. I dunno." The kid shrugs.

"How so?" Logan tilts his head.

Derek smirks. "I could show you, if you like."

Wade chokes on a laugh and Logan's brows shoot up. "I'm flattered, kid," he says, "but I'm old enough to be your dad."

Your great-great-great-grandpa, more like, Wade struggles not to say.

"I'm into that," Derek says, bold as anything, and honestly Wade has to admire the moxie on him.

"Not interested," Logan says. "But thanks."

"Nice, let him down easy," Wade says. "Can we talk to the owner?"

"The owner? I mean, sure, I can get you his info. But it'd be a waste of your time." The kid shrugs. "Josh owns a few bars around the state and doesn't come around here often. He didn't know shit about what was going on. I'm the one who runs the damn place."

"Is that so?"

"Mhmm. 'S why I'm here at anus o'clock in the damn morning." He crosses his arms. "Listen, I'll help you any way I can. I don't need to lose any more customers."

"Best way you can help," Wade says, "is treat us like any other guys if you see us around."

"Oh, shit, you're gonna do undercover fuckery?"

"It's definitely a possibility."

"It is?" Logan's eyes swivel to Wade.

"Oh, it very much is."

-

They spend the evening kind of staking the place out. Watching people arrive and leave. Getting an idea of the rhythm of it, just for an idea of what they're getting into. Wade trawls the Instagram profiles of each victim while Logan keeps his eyes on the doors.

There's no real leads that stick out like sore thumbs. No mysterious common thread liking the posts of all four guys or leaving creepy comments. Wade had kinda hoped it would be that easy, but he hadn't expected it.

The club closes at a little after three AM. Wade and Logan stay on watch until Derek goes home. Poor kid really does keep the place running, Wade thinks. Jesus Christ.

-

Mary Puppins has indeed shit on the floor by the time they get back to the apartment. She did it in the bathroom, though, which was considerate of her, Wade thinks. Easy to clean up.

She's just finished her dinner and she's being held by Logan now, who paces back and forth, deep in thought as he strokes the soft white fur that stands as if electrified upon her head.

Logan's been pacing and holding the dog for several minutes now. He reminds Wade of that one Always Sunny episode, Charlie Kelly in the Pepe Silvia scene, you know the one, with the red string and so on? Not exactly, of course. But it's the same energy.

"You good?"

"Just thinking about our next move."

"Mm." He's more invested in this than Wade's seen him get invested in any of the hits they've shared so far. "Why were you so keen to take this job in particular, peanut?"

Logan grunts. "I wasn't keen."

"You totally were. You're the one who took it and said we'll get paid after."

"Ngh," Logan grunts again. "I just... what he said. About the cops not caring. I--"

"The cops never care. ACAB."

"I just don't fuckin' like it when people get passed over for bullshit reasons," Logan says. "That's all."

"Ohhh," Wade says, a lightbulb going off. "This is you doing the paladin thing."

Logan stops in his tracks, brow furrowing. "What the fuck?"

"I meant, minus the religious shit. You know, a paladin! A bringer of justice! A protector!"

"What the fuck," Logan says again, then, under his breath, "if anything I'm a barbarian, bub."

"Wait, you've played--?"

"Nope," Logan says too quickly, setting the dog down. She stumbles over to her bed, flops down and huffs like she pays rent. "I'm going to bed."

-

Wade wakes up early, feeds the dog, and walks her down while he gets breakfast from the coffee stand a few blocks down that Logan likes. It's spendier than Starbucks, but it also isn't total shit, and he knows he's going to have to really make sure Logan's in a good mood before he suggests what he's about to suggest.

Honestly, he expects claws somewhere fairly vital for suggesting what he's about to suggest. But despite the fact that he knows it's going to be a very unpopular idea, he doesn't have a better one.

Mary Puppins kicks her boots off when they're back in the apartment and it's really only maybe a minute before Logan is emerging from his bedroom in his pajama pants, appearing to be still half-asleep. He breathes deeply, scenting the air, then looks at Wade and gives a rare, unguarded smile. "You got Woods," he observes.

"Oh, I got wood, babe, wanna see?" Wade sets the bag and cup holder down on the counter.

"Woods. The coffee stand." Logan rolls his eyes and digs his sandwich out of the bag, nabs his Americano from the cup holder. "Thanks, bub."

"Yeah, totally," Wade says. Logan takes a sip and gives a disgustingly sexy groan of pleasure, which--okay, Jesus Christ, keep it in your pants, Wade.

Logan returns to his room and comes back a few moments later with actual clothes on, which is both the worst thing in the world and also a huge mercy.

"So," Wade says, leaning against the countertop, "great news. I figured out how to find our killer."

Logan raises a brow. "Oh, have you?"

"Mmhm. It's perfect. It's guaranteed to work."

"Guaranteed," Logan repeats, eyes narrowing. "You gonna tell me what your little plan is?"

"It's simple. It's so, so simple." Wade takes a deep breath. "It's been almost a week since the last guy disappeared. We know they've been disappearing about a week apart."

"Get to the point, Wade."

"Okay." Wade rips off the band-aid. "Honeypot strategy. We find the DILF hunter by baiting him out with the best, most irresistible DILF possible. And that DILF," Wade says, "is, in fact, you."

Logan snorts. "Yeah. Sure."

"I'm fuckin' serious! We offer him something he can't refuse. He approaches you, you leave with him, and when he tries to kill you, you kill him right back! It makes so much sense!"

The look of incredulous horror on Logan's face is frankly hilarious, but somehow Wade keeps from laughing, probably because he's so nervous. "Absolutely fucking not," Logan says.

"Why not?!"

"It's not gonna work." Logan shakes his head. "I'm not the right type."

"Bullshit! You're exactly the right type. You heard that kid yesterday, all the victims looked like you!"

"Yeah, and all the men who've been killed had partners. Who's gonna be my fuckin' partner, huh?"

Wade holds out his arms. "You're looking at him. One fake boyfriend, served up hot."

"Oh, fuck no."

All right, that was entirely expected, but it still stings a little. "Alright, not hot, but lukewarm at least! Tepid, maybe? Come on, Logan! I know I'm no Ryan Reynolds, but--"

"Not the problem, bub!"

"--All we have to do is dress you up a little slutty and hang out in the club for a few nights! This is going to be so easy!"

"Fuck you," Logan snaps, eyebrows slammed together. "Not happening."

"Aw," Wade jeers, all false sympathy, because okay, he's actually kind of annoyed now, "is all your big Wolvie machismo really so fragile that a little body glitter threatens you this bad?"

Logan picks up the dog and her boots and her leash, kicks his shoes on and storms for the door.

"Hey, I already took her for a--"

"I'm taking her for another," Logan growls, and slams the apartment door shut behind himself.

Wade scrubs his hands over his face and screams quietly into his palms. "Weak-ass heterosexual motherfucker," he swears through gritted teeth, then takes a deep breath and composes himself.

He's just going to have to come up with a different plan. Maybe Wade can be the bait?

He snorts, derisive at his own desperate thoughts.

As fucking if.

Back to the drawing board.

-

Logan gets halfway down the block with the dog and her boots still in his arms before he calms down enough to actually stop and crouch down to set her on the ground and help her into her stupid goddamn shoes.

"Your dad is a fucking idiot," he says, pulling the Velcro on her last boot and securing it down.

She blinks her huge wet eyes up at him. "Yarp," she says, sagely.

"Glad you agree."

He attaches the leash to her suit and she waits for him to wrap the other end around his wrist before she sets off at a trot. She seems a little confused that she's going for another walk so quickly after her first one, but she's not gonna complain about it.

Logan grits his teeth hard.

Yeah, the idea of trying to fucking honeypot is painful enough. Wade himself had said Logan had a "don't-get-too-close, I'll-only-break-your-heart vibe."

A fucking honeypot, indeed. He has all the charm and sweetness of a hungry leopard with a headache.

He might have the look, he'll give Wade that much. But he doesn't have the personality.

Wade does, though.

Wade with his flirtatious, unserious nature. He flirts with everything that moves and some things that don't. Which explains why he hits on Logan so much. Logan isn't stupid enough to think Wade's lascivious little jabs are serious; he's seen the man jokingly offer to suck a 7-11 cashier's dick in exchange for a Klondike bar, for fuck's sake.

He's pretty sure he'd rather get chained to a boulder and have a eagle eat his liver every day, Prometheus-style, than go through with this plan.

It'd be less torturous than play-acting as his charming, doe-eyed, and totally uninterested roommate's boyfriend for even one miserable goddamn second.

Does the motherfucker have any concept at all of what he's doing to Logan?

No. Wade doesn't have any concept of anything whatsoever.

Logan realizes the dog is leading him toward the subway station. She starts trotting down the stairs and Logan follows her.

"Where are you going?"

She huffs and leads him toward the line to Central Park, forces him to swipe his card to get through the turnstile, because the little thing just walks underneath it.

"You want the park?"

"Yarp," she says, loudly, affirmative.

Maybe she knows he needs a longer walk than normal.

"You're a smart lady," Logan says. "Smarter than your father, anyway."

She sneezes in agreement and together they wait for the subway.

The worst part of this whole goddamn thing is that Wade's actually, maybe, right. They don't have any real leads. And if the pattern of the last four-ish weeks is followed, then another guy is gonna disappear soon unless they do something.

The dog leads him onto the subway and jumps into his lap when he sits down. He strokes the fur atop her head, and she twists to lick his hand with her godawful tongue.

He leans his head against the window and clamps his eyes shut.

-

Wade's been at home for a few hours doing that thing where he gets stressed out and cleans something.

The bathtub is the target this time, even though the kitchen sink is in much, much more dire need of attention. Wade scrubs the damn bathtub to within an inch of its life, just to feel like he's accomplished something. Then he moves on to the bathroom sink, which also doesn't need cleaning as badly as the kitchen sink does.

He's trying hard to think of what to do next, maybe try to get Derek to install him and Logan as the club's bouncers so they can try to intercept when someone leaves with a suspicious person? But then how the hell do they know who's just leaving for an innocent hookup and who's about to get fucking murdered?

It's a bad situation and Wade is pretty pissed off about it, actually.

He's so pissed off that he actually is halfway through cleaning the truly grody kitchen sink when the apartment door opens and Mary Puppins yarps a greeting.

"Hey," Logan says. He looks--well. Gorgeous, as usual. But calmer. Almost... defeated?

"Hey," Wade says. "Glad you decided to come back."

"I wasn't gonna kidnap your goddamn dog," Logan says, rolling his eyes.

"Our dog."

"Whatever." He kneels to help Mary Puppins out of her boots. "I thought some more about what you said."

"Oh?"

"Yeah." Logan straightens up, hangs the dog's leash on the hook by the door. "And you're right. That's gonna be the best way to do this."

Wade thinks his eyeballs are gonna roll out of his skull Looney Tunes style.

"I don't have to like it," Logan continues, "we just have to get the job done."

"Fuck yeah, peanut!" Wade pumps his fist. "Knew you'd come around!" He didn't know that. "C'mon, we've got shopping to do!"

Logan looks a little terrified. "Shopping?"

"We gotta doll you up!"

"Oh, fucking god."

"Don't worry, Wolvie! You're gonna love it!"

"I'm not gonna love it," Logan says to the dog, who sneezes.

-

Wade doesn't make Logan follow him into the Sephora, because he thinks that might be too much for him. He grabs a few items, pays for them, gets back to the car and piles into the passenger seat.

"Onward!"

"That was fast," Logan says, cautiously.

"Only needed a couple things."

"What did you get?"

"Oh, you know. Potions. Elixirs. Glamours, even."

Logan snorts. "Good luck glamouring me, bub."

"Oh, sugar tits. You have no idea."

-

Wade picks out a simple outfit for Logan. Simple in the way a dagger is simple. Things don't have to be complex to be deadly. And Logan's gonna kill people with this.

Logan looks down at the clothes in Wade's hands. Takes them with a defeated little sigh and slinks into his bedroom with them. Is in there for only a few minutes and then the door opens back up and yeah. This is gonna knock people dead.

It's just Logan's tightest, slimmest pair of jeans and a white t-shirt from the back of Wade's closet. The shirt barely fits him--which is perfect, it strains over his chest and around his arms, rides up a little on his stomach and shows off an insanely enticing stripe of skin. The neckline of it is just a little low and it's disgusting the way it shows off the barest hint of collarbone. The jeans fit him nicely, if snugly, and make his ass look every bit as fantastic as it is.

(Wade picked those jeans out for him when they went shopping shortly after Logan moved in; Logan never wears them because he thinks they're too tight. Which is a travesty upon all of god's creatures, Wade thinks.)

He looks incredible. Wade wants to chew on him like a fucking rawhide stick.

"Uh," Logan says, shifting on his feet. "This is too small for me, bub."

"That, peanut," Wade says, "is the whole point."

Logan actually fucking goes a little pink in the cheeks, his jaw flexing. "...Oh. Right."

He radiates discomfort. Unfortunately, it's gonna get worse.

"Alright, come here," Wade says, digging in the Sephora bag for his potions and glamours. "Time to pump this up to eleven."

"Do we have to?"

"Pretty sure you'll get dress coded if you don't have body glitter on."

"No fucking glitter," Logan growls. "That's--you said these guys are dads? Dads don't wear glitter. This is stupid."

"First of all, some of them do, and second of all, being a DILF is more an age range than a literal fatherhood thing--"

"I don't need it."

"At least two of the vics wore this kind of stuff, Logan."

"Just two of them! I don't need it!"

"It might help! Do you wanna catch this asshole or not?"

Logan grits his teeth.

"That's what I thought. Now cowboy the fuck up and deal."

Wade uncaps the glitter stick and unceremoniously (and inexpertly) swipes it on the exposed skin of his neck. It's a thin, fine holographic sheen and it shines in subtle little rainbows even under the apartment's incandescents--it's gonna be stunning under the club lights, Wade just knows it. He didn't pick the most garish, chunky one they had on offer, he showed some restraint for once. And it's paying off.

It was also, like, forty bucks. So there's that.

Logan is unimpressed.

"Ah, fuck, it's sticky," he complains, automatically wiping at it with his hands, which just makes the situation worse for him, really. "Jesus shit, Wade, I swear to god--"

"Yeah, really get in there, smear that shit all over," Wade enthuses, watching Logan frantically drag his palms on his arms and jeans to try and get the sticky glitter gel off his hands. "Just a little here..."

Wade dabs the stick on Logan's cheek and the man growls and jerks back. "That's enough goddamn glitter!"

"Oh, c'mon, it's not that bad!" Wade smears the stuff across his own cheekbones, rubs it in. "How do I look?"

"Shiny," Logan grumbles, "now are we done?"

"Not yet!" Wade pulls a slim pencil from the bag. "One last thing. The cherry on top."

"Fuck is that?"

"This," Wade says, "is the shittiest, smudgiest black eyeliner the fine salesperson at Sephora could sell me."

"Eye--you're joking. Please say you're joking."

"I'm serious as a fuckin' heart attack. Now sit down and stay still unless you want a wooden pencil through your eyeball."

Logan growls again. Miserably, through his teeth. But he does sit in one of their dining table chairs, set his jaw, and look up at Wade with a facial expression that can only be described as resigned fury.

"Good Wolvie," Wade says. "All right. Maximum effort." Wade takes a deep breath and goes in with the pencil. Drags it in a thin line across Logan's lower lashes the way he's seen Vanessa do it in the mirror a million times. God willing, when Logan blinks, it'll smudge all to hell and give him the perfect "I was a Green Day fan in the late 90s and I never stopped thinking they were sexy" type of authenticity--or the "I'm trying to impress my millennial boyfriend who grew up listening to MCR" type of authenticity. Either one works.

And yup. The effect ends up being kind of subtle, actually, because Logan instantly and automatically wipes his eyes with his fingers, not only smudging the small amount of liner but also spreading glitter there.

"I'm a fucking visionary," Wade says. "I deserve a Nobel prize for this."

"I hate you," Logan bites out. "I look like an idiot."

"You look like you're going to get eaten alive in there, actually. God, this is really doing it for me."

"Shut the fuck up," he snaps. "Get ready to go."

"Alright, big boy!" Wade heads to his own bedroom to do as Logan instructs. "You work on getting in character. Think fatherly thoughts! Fantasize about building a deck or charcoal grilling or being emotionally unavailable!"

"I said shut up!"

Wade doesn't put nearly as much effort into his own outfit because frankly he doesn't have to, he's not the focus of the evening and he doesn't have to look good, which is a damn good thing, because. Well, look at him, right? He chuckles and shimmies into a nice pair of jeans and a t-shirt with three howling wolves on it. Proceeds to cover it up most of the way by shrugging on a hoodie.

He's disgustingly recognizable due to his, well, everything. He briefly considers pulling his hair system out of retirement and abandons the idea just as fast. Nobody who isn't either a regular at Sister Margaret's, a close friend, or an X-Man recognizes the weird-looking apparent burn victim as Deadpool.

It's whatever. It's fine. All he has to do is show up and be attracted to men.

Easy. He does that every day.

Logan's already got his shoes on by the time Wade comes back out, his normal boots, and honestly--it adds to the whole look. He's easily the most fuckable 200-year-old Wade's ever seen.

"You're easily the most fuckable 200-year-old I've ever seen," Wade says.

"Seen a lot of those, have you?" Logan snorts. "C'mon. Let's get the hell out of here."

-

The Smokehouse actually has a fun ambience at night. The music is loud and the place is dark around the corners and lights flash low in bright colors. The hazer offers a smoky glow.

And the place is full of guys. Of course it is. Mostly young guys, though, which is interesting--and good, Wade thinks. Means Logan's going to be the optimal target for the DILF hunter.

The music is very loud. Wade's a little glad his cochlear hairs grow back when they split.

Logan parks his ass at the bar immediately and asks for a glass of whiskey, which the bartender serves him.

"Don't get piss drunk, peanut," Wade warns in his ear. "Gotta watch out for--"

"I fuckin' know," Logan growls. "Leave me alone."

"Alright, snookums!" Wade singsongs, leaning in to plant a smacking kiss against Logan's hair. "I'm gonna socialize!"

Logan's got the bar and surrounding area covered. Wade gets to cover the rest of the club. Mostly the dance floor.

And the thing is, Wade loves to dance. He doesn't really give a shit whether or not he's good at it, but oh, it's a special kind of joy to move his body to a rhythm, repetitious motions, happy exertion. Working through his moves, letting the music flow through him from head to toe?

It makes his brain shut the fuck up.

A remix of a Lady Gaga tune pounds heavy bass through the air and Wade lets himself have some fun.

-

He's a few songs through and he's catching his breath on the sidelines, being talked to by some twunk with bad taste in shoes and worse taste in men. Wade only halfway listens, making appropriate noises in response to whatever the hell the overgrown jock is saying; his attention is on Logan at the bar.

Logan, at the bar, who is being chatted up by some guy.

He doesn't know what he was expecting. But it's not--this. Logan's smiling. He's flirting back. Wade would know that body language anywhere, the way he cants his shoulders toward the other man. Laughs at things he says. Tilts his head in that awful, adorable way. Maintains eye contact and blinks slow, his horrible Disney-prince lashes fluttering.

As uncomfortable and as straight as Logan is, he's taking the job seriously, and that's a good thing, right?

But does he have to flirt back so convincingly?

Christ. He's irresistible. No wonder this universe's Wolvie got so much action. If his game was anything like Wade's Wolvie, then he could charm the panties off a nun.

Wade's Wolvie?

Fuck.

"And that's why the Yeezys were actually worth it," the twunk says. "They're more of an investment. Oh shit, it's Chappell Roan, you wanna dance?"

Wade grits his teeth and weighs his options. Grind on the dance floor with a 25 year old in ugly sneaks or watch the bar and stew in acute, excruciating jealousy while Logan laughs at the jokes of yet more men approaching him? Men whose jokes are definitely not as good as Wade's?

"Okay," Wade agrees, "sure."

-

The twunk in the stupid shoes dances like shit, but it's fine, because he loses interest in Wade soon enough and a different guy in less stupid shoes and a slightly worse haircut moves into his place. The lights are low, and Wade suspects there's probably ketamine or MDMA available somewhere, which explains why people are actually approaching him. Maybe the glitter distracts from his... everything else, or maybe it's just not very visible, or maybe these dudes are just desperate.

Either way, it's fun to get in a somewhat-hot stranger's personal space and move appropriately while you both sing half the words to Dancin' On My Own. The kind of bonding experience with someone you're unlikely to see again that reminds you that maybe humanity is actually not too bad, right?

Then the song is moving along to one that Wade doesn't know and he looks back over and sees someone leaning in to say something in Logan's ear and nope. Humanity sucks, actually. There is no goodness anywhere.

Wade briefly considers going to the bathroom, pulling Baby Knife from her leg holster, and just hauling off and stabbing himself with her so he stops thinking about Logan for one goddamn second and instead is briefly forced to think nicer things like "Ow! I've been stabbed!" Then he remembers that self-harm is generally frowned-upon, not a great coping mechanism, and also it would be awful for poor Derek the manager if Wade got blood all over the bathroom. Biohazard and all. And the poor kid would have to clean it up.

No, cocaine is a much better coping mechanism than stabbing, however he can't even do that--he's got to stay alert. Real alert, not cocaine alert.

He's thirsty. The bar has drinks. And he can interrupt Logan's hopeful paramours for as long as he's sipping a Pink Squirrel.

An unfairly pretty man with the most magnificent, cloudlike afro Wade's ever fucking seen is talking to Logan when Wade moseys up to the bar. Logan's listening to him, paying his full attention to whatever he's saying--well, maybe not his full attention, actually. Because when Wade approaches, Logan's gaze snaps to him, and he smiles this bright, pleased-to-see-him smile, and he holds out a hand toward Wade, and Wade's heart skips beats like it's threatening to go on strike.

He had forgotten for a second that they were fake boyfriends. How the fuck had he forgotten that? He takes Logan's hand and Logan immediately twines their fingers together and part of Wade is expecting claws through his hand but it never comes, of course it doesn't, because Logan is being a professional.

"Hey, sweetheart," Logan greets him, eyes warm, and Wade about dies. "Havin' fun out there?"

Wade nods. "Mhm," he says, trying not to sound too strangled.

Magnificent Hair leans out of Logan's personal space, smiles. "Oh, is this your...?"

"Oh, yeah, this is my partner W--Max," Logan says, and wow, 'partner' is a serious word, right? Way more serious than 'boyfriend.' It makes Wade's heart jitter again.

"Aww, you two are so cute," Magnificent Hair says, and the weird thing is he seems to actually mean it. "How did you meet?"

"Oh, in a crappy bar in my hometown," Logan says. "He swept me off my feet. I was kinda spinnin' my wheels and he pops up outta nowhere and takes me on the road trip of a lifetime."

"That's so sweet!"

Wade taps the counter.

"What can I get you?" Derek asks, floating over to Wade.

"Give me a Pink Squirrel," Wade says.

"A pink what?"

"Sweetheart, they're not gonna have creme de noyeaux here," Logan chuckles. His thumb swipes across the back of Wade's hand, casually affectionate, and it burns.

Wade's hairless brows shoot upward. "You know what goes in a Pink Squirrel?"

"Of course I do," Logan says, rolling his eyes--and Wade is genuinely kind of shocked silent at that, because he's been having Weasel make him Pink Squirrels for years and he's never told Logan the recipe for the stupid things, so what the fuck gives? He looked up the recipe on his own?

"Well--whatever, you can use an amaretto instead. Amaretto, white creme de cacao, vanilla ice cream."

"Uh." The bartender hesitates. "I can do a martini with cotton candy vodka?"

"Fuck yeah, that'll do," Wade says, and the kid looks immensely relieved, turns to knock the drink together. Logan chuckles.

"Your sweet tooth is something else, bub," he says, sounding fond.

"Guess that explains why I like you," Wade replies with a wink, trying to be smooth, and Logan's eyes widen just a little. Wade can see his jaw clench.

Ah. This isn't nearly as easy for him as he's making it look. Somehow that makes Wade feel a little better.

"You guys are precious," Magnificent Hair coos.

"He's precious, I'm just Max," Wade says as the bartender slides him the cotton candy martini; he slams it back in three solid gulps. It's not enough liquor to get him drunk; if he's lucky he might get a mild buzz that lasts a whole four and a half minutes.

"Alright, you go enjoy yourself," Logan says, untangling his hand from Wade's.

"Wanna come dance with me?"

That jaw clench again before Logan speaks. "Oh, you know I'm not much of a dancer, bub. You have fun."

"Alright, snookums!" Wade leans in and presses another smacking kiss to Logan's hair. And he thinks that over the bass beat in the air he might just be able to hear Logan growl at him.

-

Logan doesn't experience even one attempted murder all night.

Bummer.

It's almost three AM now and the Smokehouse is closing down for the night. Wade and Logan make sure they're the last to leave, and they keep up their little act all the way out to the car, and then Logan's facade shatters like so much sugar glass.

"Fuck," he says, shaky, resting his forehead against the steering wheel for a second.

"You okay, peanut?"

Logan nods. "Just. Enjoying the quiet. Please. Give me a minute."

Right. Wade cringes in sympathy. Logan's senses are more, well, sensitive than the average person's. Even the average mutant's. The club was loud and flashy and crowded by Wade's standards, and he gets off on that kind of shit; he can only imagine the sensory nightmare it must have been for Logan.

Logan, who also had to play nice the whole evening.

So Wade gives him as long as he needs to quietly regroup, which turns out to be almost three whole minutes of silence and breathing deep breaths with his head still against the top of the steering wheel. And then he straightens up, turns the car on.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

"You did great in there," Wade says. "You seemed sooo normal."

Logan grunts.

"You get any leads?"

"A few possibilities," Logan says. "Couple guys didn't wanna take 'I have a partner' for an answer. Stayed pretty pushy. We'll look into 'em tomorrow."

"Awesome. Love to hear that. So how was your big gay experience? You like it? A little too much, maybe?"

Logan doesn't respond. Pulls the car out onto the main drag.

"Sorry they didn't play any Metallica. Or Glen Miller. I dunno what your style is. Maybe we can request some stuff from Derek."

Logan stays quiet. Eyes on the road.

If Wade knew what was good for him, he'd quit while he's ahead. But Wade never quits while he's ahead, he gambles and presses and pushes incessantly.

"You seem kinda freaked out still. Did you see a hole in the bathroom stall? I know those are scary but it's actually so simple. They're so that when two men who love dick very much--"

Logan finally speaks, voice rough and snappish. "I know what a fuckin' glory hole is for, bub." His hands clench on the steering wheel. "Been on both sides of one years before you were even born."

Wade doesn't consider himself easily stunnable into silence, but that statement does it for almost three whole seconds. Wade's brain returns nothing but error messages. Total system meltdown.

"I--what," he chokes out, voice high and pathetic, "I thought you--I thought you liked women!"

Logan's mouth twists, annoyed. "You ever actually see any evidence of that," he starts, "or are you just makin' shit up as usual?"

Jiminy fucking Christmas.

No, he never has seen evidence of Logan being attracted to women, has he? Not this Logan.

Other Logans, yes. Patch had chicks hanging all over him. This universe's original Logan had been rather famously a slut, not to mention head over heels for Jean Grey.

But he hasn't seen this Wolverine put the moves on anyone at all.

"I. Okay," Wade says, tongue feeling dry and thick and ridiculous in his mouth, "no, you're right. That was--like--mad heteronormative of me. Fuck. Listening and learning."

Logan grunts, looks back out on the road, and Wade tries really fucking hard to adjust to this wild shift in his world view.

Tries really fucking hard not to imagine Logan on his knees, eyes half lidded, moaning around a stranger's cock buried in his throat, lips reddened and wet. Tries even harder not to imagine Logan feeding his cock through the hole, eyes fluttering closed and pretty mouth falling open with a low groan as some stranger sucks him down.

Logan fucks men. Logan fucks men.

This revelation feels life-changing, though it shouldn't.

Sure. Logan fucks men. Plenty of people fuck men. That doesn't mean Wade has a goat's chance in a velociraptor cage. He's not Logan's type. He's not anybody's type. He'd been sort of grandfathered in with Vanessa, someone who'd already loved him before he was this. But now that's over. And Wade has yet to meet someone with a fetish for hairless raccoons with late stage scabies.

Wade's flirted with him enough that if Logan were interested, for real, he'd have taken Wade up on one of his creative, varied, and multitudinous propositions by now.

Fuck.

Logan is pointedly refusing to look at him, staring out at the road, and Wade can't take the silence but like hell he's going to risk talking about the bar again, or glory holes, or how Logan's face and chest probably go pink when he's--

"Hey, you wanna hear about the history of Steven Spielberg animated television shows?"

"No."

"Okay, cool! So the first one was Tiny Toon Adventures, but honestly my favorite is probably Freakazoid, because..."

-

Logan doesn't sit on the couch that night. He leaves Wade to feed the dog and take her out while he ducks into the bathroom to shower. By the time Wade's finished with Mary Puppins' evening routine, the bathroom is free and Logan's bedroom door is closed.

"Fucking nutbunnies," Wade whispers, eyes closing. No Cutthroat Kitchen tonight. It's late, yeah, but that hasn't stopped them before. Wade hugs the tiny dog against his chest, sighs deeply. "Alright, kiddo. You wanna bunk down with Dadpool tonight? Yeah?"

Mary Puppins huffs her agreement and plasters his chin with gross dog kisses.

"Okay. I'll be right in."

He sets her down and she trots into Wade's room, leaps up onto the bed and immediately burrows under the covers. Wade chuckles, moves into the bathroom to wash off the sweat and glitter and other mens' cologne.

If he jerks off in the shower, unable to keep his mind from lingering on Logan's words about being on both sides of a glory hole, no he fucking doesn't.

That would be cringe.

The evidence of the night's misdeeds washes down the shower drain. He turns off the water and towels dry, brushes the sickly-sweet taste of cotton candy vodka off his teeth. Turns off all the lights and closes himself into his bedroom, climbs under the covers.

The dog wedges herself against his thigh, still totally under the covers. She sleeps like a rock, doesn't move all night. A truly excellent bedtime companion. Usually her presence helps Wade sleep--some caveman part of his brain soothed by a watchful canine companion. Well, watchful and canine in theory, at least. But her slow breathing and warm presence is nice and calming, and calm is hard to come by.

So the fact that Wade sleeps like shit tonight is inexplicable.

Totally inexplicable.

-

Wade picks up breakfast from the good coffee stand for Logan again.

"Because you were such a brave boy last night," Wade says by way of explanation when Logan raises an eyebrow at him.

"Fuck off."

"Hey, I'm not trying to be condescending! You did great!" Wade tears into his own sandwich. "And thanks for finally coming out to me, I guess?"

Logan huffs. Sips his Americano. "I didn't come out."

"Um, the that-never-happened thing is cute and all, but the 'I like guys' genie isn't one you can just stuff back in the bottle, peanut."

"I didn't come out because was never in anywhere to come out from." Logan rolls his eyes. "It wasn't some kind of big secret I was keepin' on purpose. Who even gives a shit?"

"I mean--"

"Drop it, Wade."

Wade raises his hands in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. You win." He slurps a mouthful of caramel milkshake masquerading as coffee. "So what's the plan?"

Logan thumbs across the notes app on his phone. "Got names and workplaces from all the potential suspects last night."

"What--how?"

"Talked to 'em. They were all real chatty." Logan shrugs. "I say we check 'em out."

"Right. And if we find a pile of skulls in a shed in one of their back yards, we've found our guy?"

"Yup. Though I don't think it's gonna be that easy." Logan scrubs a hand over his face, annoyed. "So unless we do find a woodshed full of human fuckin' skulls, I guess we go back to the Smokehouse tonight."

"Sounds like a plan, big boy." Wade pauses. "Why's it called the Smokehouse, you think?"

Logan stares at him. "'Cause it's full of sausage," he says slowly, and Wade laughs until his diaphragm hurts.

-

They don't find a woodshed full of skulls. They don't even find a trash can with so much as a single human bone in it. Every single man on Logan's list appears squeaky-clean. Best Buy, Costco, and Dave & Busters apparently have the most non-murderous employees money can buy, at least based on what they can gather from the outside.

"This one's gonna be at work 'til six," Logan sighs, looking up at the last home on the list.

"Are you asking if I wanna do a little breaking and entering? Because the answer is yes, of course I fucking do. B&E is my third favorite major crime."

Logan groans.

"Before you ask, the first two are murder and grand theft auto! But mostly for the video game franchise." Wade skirts around the back of the condo, finds the breaker box. "Yahtzee," he purrs, flicking off the master breaker.

"Fuck are you doing?"

"Knitting a sweater, what does it look like I'm doing?" Wade rolls his eyes. "No power means no burglar alarm and no surveillance if he's got a fuckin' camera doorbell or wiretapping Amazon bitch or some shit."

"Hm," Logan grunts, approvingly.

"Now," Wade says, trotting back around to the front of the condo and flicking open the garage keypad, "if he's anything like me..." He punches in a code and the garage opens on the first try. "Yahtzee," he says, again. "God, I'm good."

"What the hell--how did you know that?"

"I didn't. Lucky guess! But these babies are four-digit codes and I figured 6969 was a safe bet for this guy. Either that or 1234."

"Jesus Christ," Logan murmurs, following Wade into the garage.

The door into the house swings open, unlocked, when Wade tries it. "That's why you should always lock your garage doors, people," Wade says to no-one in particular. "Now, peanut, let's make like Dr. House and do some unethical, unwarranted investigation."

"What?"

"Oh my god, you haven't seen House. We've gotta fix that."

"I thought we had to watch Bridgewater next."

"Bridgerton! You remembered! And yeah, but we'll watch House after that. Now wipe your feet, we don't wanna be rude."

-

They find jack shit in the guy's house but a pissed-off cat and a vast collection of butt plugs with various fox tails attached, and they leave without a trace. They even lock the garage door for the homeowner on the way out, because they're nice like that. He wouldn't want any weirdos breaking in, right?

"Scratch Yancy off the list, I guess." Wade sighs, looks at his phone. "We oughta get back home and start getting ready to go, peanut. I can already hear Mary Puppins clamoring for her afternoon snack."

"I still think it's excessive to feed her three times a day."

"She's a growing girl!"

"The vet said she's at least six."

"She has a healing factor! That takes up energy!"

"Alright, bub," Logan sighs. "Whatever you say."

-

"I can't go out in this," Logan protests.

The white tank top is sinfully tight--again, it's one of Wade's--and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. "Oh, c'mon, you used to wear shit like this all the time!"

"Wh--around the house, maybe."

"God, you really are from a different universe. Okay, um..." Wade roots around in his closet. "There we go! Put this on," he instructs, holding out a thick leather bomber jacket that's going to look fucking smashing.

Logan takes it. "Is this yours? It's not gonna--"

"It's mine in that I stole it from the house of a drug lord I murdered for money," Wade says, "it's a little big for me. Try it on."

Logan shrugs on the jacket over the tank top.

"Oh, yeah, peanut. That's it, right there," Wade praises.

He gets a scoff in reply.

-

The Smokehouse is just as loud and hazy and flashing-lights-y on a Friday night as it is on a Thursday.

Louder, actually. More people. Wade stays a little closer to the bar so he can see it easier, since there's just more bodies on the dance floor.

He has more people wanting to dance with him, too, which is funny. It's probably because more people are willing to get shitfaced on a Friday night and their inhibitions are down as a result. Vodka goggles might take Wade from a zero to maybe a solid four, who knows?

Well, drunk or not, Wade dances with the people who approach him, and it's harmless fun. People seem handsier tonight, also, and damn. Wade had forgotten how nice it felt to have someone's breath on your neck, someone's palm on the small of your back.

It's mostly hard, consistent EDM beats tonight, which is conducive to the nasty kind of dancing the crowd seems up for and that Wade is perfectly happy to go along with.

And every time someone gets just a little too touchy, or Wade feels the telltale poke of some guy's boner against his hip or thigh or ass, he gets to give his cutest, most charming smile, skirt out of the way, and say "Sorry, babe, but I have a partner."

And isn't that nice to say? Even if it isn't true. The word feels good in his mouth. Partner.

"He doesn't have to know," one of the guys slurs in Wade's ear.

Wade chuckles, jerks his head toward the bar. "That's him at the bar right now. In the white tank."

"What, does he--" The guy looks over, catches Logan's intimidating stare. "Oh fuck," the poor bastard says, going white in the face and darting away from Wade as quickly as possible.

Wade laughs so hard his stomach aches. Logan got rid of the jacket a while ago, which was part of Wade's evil plan--he knew the club would be too warm to keep a heavy leather jacket on. So now he's got his huge muscular arms and chest on display and he's continuously surrounded by men trying to ply him with drinks and conversation.

If he actually were Wade's partner, Wade might be jealous.

But they're not actually together, so Wade isn't jealous at all. Not even a little bit. Not even one tiny, infinitesimal bit.

Maybe if he keeps thinking that, it'll start being true.

-

The bar is open til four AM tonight and the place doesn't fully clear out til close to five. Yet again, Logan and Wade are the last to leave.

Logan clamps his eyes shut when they get into the car, holds the steering wheel so tight his knuckles go white. Wade knows to stay quiet this time. Doesn't say a damn thing, lets Logan have his several moments of quiet to decompress.

He listens as Logan's breathing slows down. Watches his grip on the wheel finally loosen a little.

"Okay," Logan finally says.

"Okay?"

"Yeah." He starts the car. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"Keepin' your mouth shut a second." Logan sighs. "Know that's hard for you."

It could be a mean thing to say, but somehow Logan doesn't make it sound that way. He just sounds understanding. Wade smiles. "You get any new leads?"

Logan shakes his head. "One or two. Nothing promising." He looks out on the road, his jaw set. "You were popular tonight," Logan grunts.

"Yeah, more drunk assholes with low standards for dance partners."

Logan snorts. "You coulda had your pick of the litter," he says, eyes still firmly on the road. His tone is unreadable.

"What?" Wade laughs. "No, what the fuck? None of them were actually hitting on me, Logan."

"Didn't look that way to me."

"You're insane. You're the popular one, asshole."

-

Mary Puppins peed in the shower. Which was extremely thoughtful of her, Wade thinks. He feeds her in exchange for her consideration while Logan showers off.

"All these late nights are getting to me, peanut," Wade sighs, pulling two danishes out of the Costco package when Logan comes back out in his sleep clothes. "No time to watch Cutthroat Kitchen."

Logan chuckles wearily, takes the cherry danish. "Yeah," he says. "I miss Alton too."

They stand in the kitchen, eat their snack.

"G'night, bub," Logan says, backing toward his bedroom door.

"Goodnight, kitten whiskers."

-

Wade gets around six hours of broken sleep and hauls himself out of bed at around eleven.

He gets Woods for himself and Logan again.

-

Again Logan's leads are busts. Onto the Smokehouse for the third night in a row.

Even Wade's getting tired of this.

-

Logan, in all honesty, would rather have his penis repeatedly flattened with a hydraulic press than go to the Smokehouse for one single second further.

Unfortunately, getting his penis repeatedly flattened in a hydraulic press wouldn't find the bastard who keeps fucking killing queers, so it's not really an option to begin with.

So here he is. In a loud, hazy, miserable bar at one in the goddamn morning on a Saturday night.

Watching Wade Wilson slut it up on the dance floor.

The music is terrible. Thumping and bass-heavy and lyrically bankrupt.

This goes to the strippers and the fuckin' porn stars
and them mother-motherfuckers showin' shit on the bar

Christ, the way he moves is fucking hypnotic. Captivating, even. No wonder he's had guys hanging off him all night. He has perfect control over his body, just like he does when he's fighting. His hips move to the beat, his shoulders shimmy along--he executes moves with the same precision and energy with which he fights and kills.

The same joy, really. Wade's clearly having a good time out there, smiling bright under the lights.

He's gorgeous. And he has no fucking idea.

Logan grits his teeth.

There's a handsome, tall man pressed against Wade so tight that Logan's pretty sure a slip of paper couldn't fit between them. He wants to get up and yank the man aside, peel him off Wade's body and--

And fucking what? Logan takes another mouthful of his shitty beer. Wade isn't his fucking boyfriend.

Wade hits on him, yeah. But Wade thought he was straight and hit on him anyway. He wasn't ever expecting his advances to go anywhere. He's not actually interested. It was all a big fuckin' joke.

It's always a big fuckin' joke with Wade, isn't it?

This goes to the strippers and the fuckin' porn stars
and them sexy motherfuckers showin' shit on the bar

Wade's partner leans in and whispers something in Wade's ear, and Wade lights up, tips his head back and laughs, clinging to the stranger's shoulders.

The bottle in Logan's hand shatters.

"Ah, fuck," Logan swears. Shards of glass stick out of his palm, alcohol stinging like a bitch as it gets into the wounds; the beer waters down the drops of blood and they spill onto his pants and Jesus Christ these were good jeans, once upon a time.

"Oh shit, dude!" the bartender says. "You need first aid?!"

No, what he needs is a fucking lobotomy. He doesn't say that, though. Logan shakes his head. Picks glass out of his palm and watches the wounds heal up. "No. Just some napkins. I'll get this cleaned up, sorry."

At least it's something to do other than watch Wade grind his hypnotic fucking hips against strangers.

-

No DILFs have gone missing on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday nights. This means that Logan and Wade can safely take a few days off to not only recuperate but do a little more investigating outside the club.

Wade meets with all four guys who have lost their significant others. This is the last one on the list.

The widower across the table of the coffee shop is young--early 20s. Too young to have lost his boyfriend like this. "You Wilbert?" Wade asks, sitting down.

"Will. Yeah." The kid turns big blue eyes up to Wade. "How can I help?"

"First of all, I wanna say we're gonna find the fucker that took Mel."

"Thank you," Wilbert says softly.

"What can you tell me about him? Personality wise. Trying to put together a profile here."

-

There seems to be no real common threads in personality other than each of the men taken were kind, sweet, affectionate.

They all liked kissing their partners. Holding hands. Dancing.

Fuckin' great.

-

They use the next few days to do the same sort of unethical, unwarranted investigations on the other suspects' dwellings.

One of the guys has a doodle mix that is remarkably unhappy that Wade and Logan are letting themselves in uninvited.

"Ah, fuck," Wade swears as the dog starts yelling, baring its teeth at Wade, "shut up, man, shut up, please, you're gonna make the neighbors worry--" He reaches out for the dog, and the poor animal does not take that well. Wade can hardly blame him, really. The dog growls, eyes wide and terrified as he bares his teeth and snaps.

"Wade, stop," Logan huffs, stepping between Wade and the dog. "Hey. Bub," he addresses the animal. "Quiet down. We're not here to hurt you."

Shockingly, the dog actually... calms down. His eyes slide between Wade and Logan for a second.

"That's it. We'll be outta here in just a second. Just hold on, bub."

"Why the fuck is the dog listening to you?" Wade hisses.

Logan shrugs. "Why the fuck didn't he listen to you?"

"Jesus Christ," Wade grumbles. "Fine. Guess that's just another one of your fuckin' powers."

"It's not a power, shut up," Logan says. "I'll handle this area. You go down the hall and check out the bedroom."

"Yessir," Wade says, saluting quickly. "Right away, sir."

-

They don't fucking find anything. Wade's starting to get frustrated and he has to tell Jimmy as much when the man calls him to ask for a status update.

"Haven't found shit yet, dude. Give it time."

"Okay," Jimmy says. "I mean--it hasn't been long."

"And nobody else has gone missing from the Smokehouse so far. So I still think we're on track for our little plan to work."

"I really appreciate everything you've done so far. Even... even if you don't find out what happened to Brijesh."

Jimmy sounds as sincere as he is sad.

"We'll find the guy, Jimmy. I got a good feeling about this."

-

Friday rolls around and it's time to try and get Logan killed again.

Logan's getting the hang of dressing like a slut for the Smokehouse. Today it's a tight button-up with the first several buttons undone--and a pair of shorts. Short shorts. Cut-offs, to be precise.

Daisy Dukes, if you're nasty.

"Those look... familiar," Wade says, blinking. "Wait--did you cut the legs off your nice jeans? Fucking--why?"

"They got stained," Logan grumbles. "Didn't want to just throw 'em out. Shut up."

"Hey, I'm not complaining about your journey to jorts. You've got nice legs, peanut."

"I said," Logan growls, "shut up. Let's go."

-

It's strange how easily Logan seems to slip into character, especially because Wade knows it's not actually easy at all. He sits at the bar and chats to the bartender and smiles at strangers and laughs at their jokes and flirts like he was born for it, and it's truly insane, Wade thinks.

A thumping techno beat rolls through the air and Wade rolls with it.

It was the glitter freeze
Doctor F, you wouldn't credit
Or believe this

The song eventually ends and transforms into something else and Wade steps off the floor to mill around the club, listening in to conversations as casually as he can.

Unfortunately he hears something he really, really doesn't like.

"...Yeah, he's gotta be a cop, right?" a twink in a tight Paramore tee says to his friend. "Look at the shoes... who the fuck goes clubbing in brand-new hiking boots like that?"

"Huh," his friend says. "The watch too. Hell is he doing here? He's just... sitting there. Watching..."

Jesus fucking Christ. The shoes. The nice watch Logan bought the other day. Wade shouldn't have let Logan dress himself today, of course they think he's a fucking cop, and this has the potential to ruin their entire plan if this rumor goes anywhere. Wade makes a beeline for Logan, grabs him by the shoulder; Logan's eyes widen, leaning in automatically so Wade can speak quietly in his ear.

"You need to get up and dance with me right the fuck now."

"What?"

"They think you're a fucking cop, Logan, take off that watch and--" Wade runs his hands through Logan's hair, mussing it up even more than it already is. Logan growls low in his throat but doesn't pull away. "If we don't act real fuckin' natural, like we're really on an actual fucking date together, and convince them you're just some guy out with his boyfriend--if it gets around that you might be a fucking cop, we can kiss this whole goddamn job goodbye."

"Shit," Logan swears, tugging the watch off his wrist and sliding it into his pocket. "Okay. Fuck. Okay."

Wade hates to pull Logan even further out of his comfort zone but that's exactly what he does, grabbing Logan by the newly-naked wrist and pulling him away from the bar.

Logan looks like a deer in the headlights, blinking unhappily under the flashing, multicolored lights. He doesn't know what to do. Wade guides Logan's hands to his waist. "Follow my lead," he hisses. Logan's eyes flick down Wade's body, then nervously from side to side; Wade reaches up and grabs Logan's jaw, directs him back. "Eyes on me, peanut. Pretend like you wanna be here."

Wade sways his hips to the shitty remix of Britney Spears' Circus that blares over the speakers, slipping a foot almost between Logan's to slot closer; his arms slip up to rest thrown over Logan's shoulders. And, god, Logan, for his part, is actually trying. He's more uncomfortable than Wade's seen him in his life, but he's matching Wade's tempo, swaying with him, hands at his waist pulling him close in this tremendously convincing way. His body is hot and solid and this is closer than they've ever been. Logan leans in to speak in Wade's ear.

"Like this?" he asks, his ample scruff scratching against Wade's cheek, and Wade tries hard not to shiver.

"You're doing amazing," Wade reassures, "now pull back and look me in the eyes and laugh like I said something really fucking funny about how they'd save on hazer fluid if they just sold weed."

Logan does laugh and it feels. Real, actually. Christ. His sweet dark eyes crinkle at the edges and the way he's looking at Wade is soft and gentle, like he's finding comfort in him even on this crowded dance floor, even though he'd rather be anywhere else but here.

God. He's a good actor. Better than Wade had given him credit for, even.

"They watching?" Logan asks quietly. "The kids that said I was...?"

Wade pulls him in, rests his chin on Logan's shoulder and glances around behind him. Yeah, they're watching. Like they're trying not to. Surreptitious. "I think we're on the right track here, yeah," Wade replies in Logan's ear. "You should kiss me at the end of the song."

"What?"

"All the dead guys were big into PDA." Wade nuzzles against Logan's ear, mostly for the theater of it.

"Jesus fuck," Logan says under his breath.

"Yeah, peanut, I know, I'm sorry, but--"

Logan doesn't wait for the end of the song.

He tilts his head, brings a big warm palm up to cradle Wade's jaw, and kisses him.

He wore chapstick, Wade thinks, dazed. His lips are soft. And then he isn't thinking anything at all, because Logan kisses really well, lips sliding against Wade's like he's kissing someone he cares about, like he's kissing a lover, like it's not their first one, like it's their hundredth; it's calm and familiar and perfect, and Wade sighs into it, mind going blank, forgetting entirely about the reason they're here. Forgetting about the music and the dancing and the disappearing DILFs because Logan is here, pressed up against him, kissing him.

Logan pulls back, strokes across Wade's cheek with a thumb. Takes in Wade's dazed, shocked expression and gives a lopsided half-grin, and Wade can feel Logan's chest jump with a little laugh.

"You--you wanna go sit down and do that some more?" Wade asks, jerking his head toward the perimeter of the club, where darkened booths and tables lie.

"'S what I'd do if you were really my partner," Logan agrees, quietly, and Wade crashes back to reality.

Wade swallows. Right. They're on a job. Of course they're on a fucking job.

"C'mon." Logan pulls him off the dance floor, toward one of those secluded booths with plush if slightly threadbare sofas; it's a damn good thing it's dark. God forbid someone bring a blacklight in here. Logan pushes Wade down onto the bench seat and slides in after him, immediately pulling him so close Wade's almost in his lap.

He drops his head down and when he speaks Wade can feel his breath hot against his neck, his hands on his waist. "Keep an eye out," he murmurs.

"Right, yeah, absolutely," Wade squeaks, a hand automatically sliding up into Logan's hair and the other at his back. "Both eyes, all the way out."

Does Logan really have to actually kiss his neck? Nobody's looking that closely at them, right, but--fuck, he must be really into method acting, because not only is he kissing at the column of Wade's throat but he's biting a little too, scraping sharp canines against Wade's skin. "Peanut, you--you don't have to get so into it."

"You said the vics were into PDA," Logan purrs, "you wanna catch this guy, or not?"

Throwing Wade's words right back at him back from when Logan had tried to refuse the stupid goddamn body glitter.

"Okay, kitten whiskers, carry on," he breathes, eyes sweeping the club. The twinks who had called Logan a cop have lost interest now, laughing and dancing together. Wade suspects they've successfully quashed the rumor; surely a cop wouldn't actually be caught dead making out with a mange-encrusted mole rat in public.

It's gotten so that Wade recognizes certain faces here, though it's hard to think of anything other than Logan's mouth and hands on his skin. Wade sees Derek at the bar, a few of the guys whose homes they've investigated. As his eyes slide over the crowd, his gaze locks with--someone's.

He thinks he recognizes the blonde man for a split second. Then the man tilts his head and Wade realizes he's never seen him before in his life.

"Fuck," Wade gasps as Logan nips particularly hard at him. "Lo--Sam, I swear to god."

"Keep swearing," Logan chuckles, hands tightening on Wade's waist; he uses his considerable strength to move them both further into the far side of the corner booth. "Exactly how affectionate were these guys?"

"Uh--I don't know?"

Logan visibly rolls thoughts around his brain for a second. "I'm the oldest guy here," he murmurs. "If the killer's here, his eyes are on me. We gotta make this count."

"So we put on a show," Wade says, "got it. Maximum effort."

Logan quirks an eyebrow, and then he tugs Wade into his lap, crammed between Logan's body and the booth table; he's straddling Logan's lap, and this really is too compromising a position for a public space but there's holes in the bathroom stalls and he's sure this is not the worst this booth has seen. "Maximum effort," Logan replies, and tugs Wade down by the back of the neck to kiss him again.

-

Maximum effort.

Logan's heard him use that phrase for a lot of things. Right before a fight. Right before cleaning the debris trap in the dishwasher. After he heard the tune from his favorite churro truck when he was having a particularly bad chronic pain day.

It's not used for good things. Wade does a lot of unpleasant things for money. This is just another one.

The way he kisses Logan back isn't unpleasant, though. He kisses Logan back like there's nowhere he'd rather be. He kisses Logan back with all the rampant enthusiasm of a feral dog in a leatherworking shop. Wade's knees bracket his thighs, his bare thighs because he cut his stupid jeans too short, and Logan can feel the rough denim of Wade's pants against his skin and it's--a lot.

It's a little quieter at the perimeter of the club, but not by much, and the lights don't shine as bright here, but it's still a little overwhelming and the sheer weight of Wade in his lap is grounding. It should overwhelm him more, but it doesn't, it just helps. Gives him something to focus on other than how overstimulated he feels by all the lights and sounds. He feels Wade's fingernails scraping light against his scalp as Wade kisses him back like a man starving. He's still moving to the music a little, hips rolling almost imperceptibly to the beat even now, and--

Fuck.

They have a goddamn job to do.

Arguably, they're doing the job. This is part of it. Part of selling Logan as some affectionate, sexually confident, handsome older man. The kind of DILF dreams are made of, as Wade had sighed.

When he plants his booted heels on the sticky floor and uses that leverage to press his hips up against Wade's, it's mostly automatic, his body in the driver's seat. Wade gasps against his lips and rolls down into him and--

Wade isn't carrying tonight. The hard shape Logan feels is unmistakable.

"This okay?" Logan asks, pulling back, searching Wade's eyes.

Wade nods, pupils blown wide in the dark, almost completely swallowing his irises, and Logan feels himself purr, low in his chest, grinding up against Wade again and Wade meeting him in rhythm to the music. Like Wade's giving him a goddamn lap dance, but... considerably more intimate, because the merc tips his head back for Logan to mouth wet and sloppy at his neck, and he takes the invitation because how could he not? He tastes Wade's textured skin, laps the flavor of salt-sweat-sugar from his throat to his jaw to his lips. Kisses him like he's wanted to for months, like he's been quietly desperate for since Wade beckoned him into the back seat of that fucking Honda Odyssey.

Wade whimpers into his mouth, putting on a damn good show, shoving his hands up the front of Logan's shirt and flattening his hands over Logan's chest, groping him like he's getting paid for it.

He is, kind of, isn't he? They're both getting paid for this.

Though this, specifically, wasn't really in the job description, was it? The excuse to make out and grind their dicks together in this filthy club is paper-thin, Logan knows it, he knows Wade knows it, but they both cling to it like a lifeline.

Logan knows there are eyes on them. Why wouldn't there be? It's just hard to pay attention to it when Wade is wriggling in his lap like a whore, rutting down against him like his fucking life depends on it. It feels good, it feels really good, heat pooling in his stomach as Wade digs his fingernails into Logan's pecs and scratches, slow.

"Fuck," Logan groans into Wade's mouth, his breathing speeding up, pleasure growing with every frantic roll of Wade's hips, and--is he seriously going to come? Right here in his pants?

Looks like it. That's going to be disgusting. Uncomfortable the whole rest of the night.

He makes no effort to stop.

God, Wade would ride him so well. If they were alone, if they were at home, he'd have Logan's dick up his ass, he'd be rising up and down, fucking himself on him, panting just like this, hands clinging to Logan's shoulders and neck and jaw, wherever he can reach; he'd be naked, on display, Logan's hands all over him. Logan wonders how badly his dick is scarred, wonders if he'd have to use greater pressure or lesser on it; does the scarring make it too sensitive or not sensitive enough? How easily would he come, when Logan spat on his palm and took him in hand?

How much would he come? Would his load be thin and sparse from cancer, or thick and plentiful from his healing factor? Not that it matters. Logan just wants to know so his fantasies later in the shower will be as accurate as possible.

The next song is a little faster and Wade's pace picks up with it. Their kisses lose coordination and Wade's face drops down so he can mouth sloppy at his neck, and fuck Wade smells wrong, he smells like other men. Logan pushes up against him as if he can fuck him through their pants if he tries hard enough. As if he can overwrite the scent of all those strangers with his own.

A long shudder runs up Wade's spine, his hips jerk against Logan's, losing rhythm with the music entirely; his fingers tighten in Logan's shirt and he moans out Logan's name.

Not his godawful "undercover" name.

"Logan," he whines, long and drawn-out, just for Logan to hear, shivering in his lap, and it's unmistakable what just happened, Logan can scent it on him, and that's it.

Logan purrs low in his throat, pulls Wade flush down against him as he comes in his goddamn pants like a teenager at the ripe old age of two-hundred-twenty-something, rutting shamelessly up against him here in this stupid godawful fucking booth in this stupid godawful fucking club.

Wade is laughing softly, sounding almost delirious, and Logan can't really blame him; he loosens his grip on Wade's waist and Wade tips his face to kiss him, again. Softer this time. Easier somehow.

"Would NYPD's finest do that?" Wade mumbles against Logan's lips, smiling, and Logan snorts.

"Yeah, probably not," he says, lowly.

Right. This was for the job. Of course it was. For the job, but also maybe because Wade likes to have a casual good time, no strings attached.

Unfortunately, Logan thinks he might want the strings if they feel this good wrapped around him.

He shakes himself.

"That oughta do the trick, then." Wade swallows, climbs out of Logan's lap. "I'm gonna, uh. Clean up. I'll be right back."

The booth feels cold as Wade leaves.

-

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck just happened?

Logan is really fucking dedicated to this goddamn case, is what happened, he's really fucking dedicated, he's a good man and he wants justice for the dead husbands and their widowers. And he was willing to debase himself to do it. He was willing to touch even Wade to do it.

And yeah, sure, Logan had a boner in his stupid Daisy Dukes, but that's--that's a physiological reaction, that's not something he can control. And Wade came in his jeans over it.

Fuck.

Wade tries hard to quell the panic rising in his chest. He's fucking ruined this all. Unless Logan's willing to just ignore what happened, Wade's ruined the best thing to ever happen to him.

He hurriedly does his best to wipe the jizz out of his underwear, tries hard to dry the wet patch and thanks whatever gods above that his jeans are a dark wash.

When he returns to the booth, Logan is gently shooing away yet another potential suitor; he gets up immediately. "There you are, sweetheart," he says, distracted, "hold the table down for us, I'll be right back."

And Logan bolts for the bathroom. Probably to throw up, after what just transpired, Wade thinks. Or give himself a pep talk, or just get out of the noise for a little while. Wade sinks into the booth; the kid Logan was trying to fend off leans on the table.

"What a dreamboat," he sighs. "You're one lucky fucker, you know that?"

"Yeah," Wade says, hollow. "Sure am."

The kid loses interest in Wade almost immediately, shuffling off to the dance floor.

Within a few minutes Logan's exiting the bathroom and making a beeline for the bar, and Wade can hardly blame him--but to Wade's shock, he doesn't sit down. He orders two drinks and brings them back to Wade at their booth. Sets them down and sits next to him, slings an arm around Wade's shoulders and pulls him in against his side.

Oh. So the act isn't over yet. And Logan doesn't seem any the worse for wear, really. Maybe they'll be okay. Maybe they can both be professionals about this.

Fat fucking chance. Wade has been professional about neither Jack nor shit his entire life.

"What'd you bring me?" Wade asks, eyeing the bright pink cocktail in the tall glass.

"Strawberry daiquiri. It's no Pink Squirrel, but it'll have to do."

"You roofie it?"

"Nope. Forgot to refill my prescription."

"All right, guess I'll just rawdog reality, then." He takes a gulp and fights off a brain freeze. It's tasty and sweet and cloying and perfect. "You're the best, peanut."

"Yeah, I know."

And the thing is. The thing is that Wade enjoys the night from then on.

Logan plays the part of the attentive boyfriend extremely well. He talks, he tells Wade things--inane little things, anecdotes about what the world was like a hundred years ago. Little things he's noticed about how this universe differs from the one he was born in.

"Still can't believe that Freddie Mercury is dead here," he sighs, and Wade gasps.

"You serious? You've still got Freddie?"

"Mhm. But you have Elton still, so..." Logan's eyes sweep over the bar. "Eyes at eleven o'clock. That little bastard pestered me in the bathroom. Don't think he's our guy, though. He's not smart enough."

"What a shame, to be propositioned by handsome strangers all evening."

"I could do without it, honestly," Logan grumbles. Noses against Wade's temple, yet more affectionate fakery. "Y'know what else is different here? Spock and Kirk never kissed."

Wade slams a hand on the table. "You've gotta be fucking kidding, Spock and Kirk--?"

"Gotcha," Logan grins, mischievous, and Wade groans.

"Fuck you, I got my hopes up for a second."

Logan chuckles. Twines their fingers together.

They stay half-cuddled in that booth all damn night. It's almost enough to make a man insane, really. If Wade were a lesser Deadpool, maybe twenty percent weaker of will, he could be convinced that something here was real. But sometimes it's nice to play pretend, even if only for a little while.

-

Logan doesn't need as long to decompress in the car tonight before he starts driving, probably because he didn't have to talk to as many strangers, spent most of his time on the periphery.

Still, Wade stays quiet for him. They're a little over halfway home when Logan speaks.

"So," he ventures, "about--what happened."

About how you got so excited in my lap earlier, the version of Logan that exists only in Wade's prefrontal cortex says. Hey, turns out I'm not actually sexually interested in an actively decomposing Shar Pei, and I'm actually pretty grossed out by what went down. So after this job is over, basically I want you to fuck off forever and ever, amen.

Wade's life flashes before his eyes.

This is it. This is when everything crashes down unless he plays his cards exactly, precisely right. Unfortunately, Wade doesn't know which cards this deck contains, let alone the contents of his hand. So he picks some words and just fucking says them, rapid fire.

That's what he's best at. It's gotten him out of a lot of shit.

Into a lot of shit, too.

"Hah! Oh, peanut, yeah," he forces a laugh. "Listen. Some mistakes are worth making once, right? Whoo!" He slaps his knee lightly. "Not the first stupid decision I've made with my dick, and god willing, it won't be the last. Sorry you were caught in the crossfire," he leers, "so to speak."

Logan is silent for a second, but only a second. "I see," he says, voice clipped, calm, controlled. "We all make mistakes."

"Ain't that the truth! Anyway!" He shakes himself. "You wanna hear about the latest internet drama I watched a deep dive video essay about?"

"No."

"Okay, cool! So there's this guy, I dunno what his deal is, but he sells burgers and candy bars and stuff, and--"

"Can you shut the fuck up?"

"--and he does a lot of weird, kinda self-serving charity things too, right? Well apparently some of it's actually been illegal, and allegedly--"

Logan raises his voice. "I don't give a shit about whatever it is you're fucking chattering on about!" He huffs angrily, nose wrinkled and lips drawn back in an animalistic show of frustration. "It's late, I'm fucking tired of this goddamn job, I'm tired of dealing with you right now, I'm just--" He squeezes the steering wheel so hard Wade hears something in it creak.

How the hell did they go from little kisses and stories shared in that booth to this?

Easy. That had been fake.

"Christ, take a deep breath before you stroke out and crash the car. I haven't paid it off yet."

"Shut up, Wade."

"You're awful uptight, who the hell splooged on your jorts? Wait, no, bad analogy, that was me."

"I said," Logan repeats, voice dangerous, "shut up."

"Fine, fine. I'll tell you about the Mr. Beast drama later--that is, if you can keep your hands off me long enough to--"

He's aiming for that self-preservational sarcastic shell he's oh-so-good at putting up. And he knows he hits it just right because Logan is slamming on the brakes and his claws are ripping through his knuckles and he's fucking snarling.

Wade may not have much fear of anything physical anymore, but hearing Logan that angry and directed at him makes a small, animal part of his brain cower and send terror radiating in shockwaves through Wade's system as if he can still die.

"Say one more fucking thing," Logan says, voice low and ragged and tired. "I dare you."

Oh, there's any number of sassy, bitchy, clever little things Wade could say. A thousand of them spring to mind all at once and he kills them all before they can leave his throat.

"I'm sorry," is what he settles on when he decides to be the bigger man for the first time in his life. "I'll shut up."

Logan stares at him for a long moment. Then he turns his eyes back onto the road, sheathes his claws, and sets the car in motion again.

-

"Go shower." Logan's tone is rough and leaves little room for argument.

"I gotta walk the--"

"I'll take care of the dog. You shower, now. You smell like a goddamn whorehouse."

"In this century we call them sex workers." Wade watches as Logan picks up the dog, her boots, and her leash all in one go. "The W word is deroga--"

Logan's already left, the apartment door closing behind him and the dog both.

Wade slinks into the bathroom, turns the shower on, peels himself out of his clothes. Gets in and thoroughly scrubs his skin as if he can scrub away the day's transgressions along with the remnants of semen and sweat and other men's aftershave.

He briefly considers trying to drown himself in the shower, actually, just for the drama of it all, but that only ever actually makes him feel worse.

By the time he hauls himself out of the shower and gets a towel around his body, Logan's bedroom door is shut tight, the light inside off. Dogpool is nowhere to be found, but her empty dinner plate lies on the floor.

Logan must have brought her in to sleep with him tonight. Wade closes his eyes, swallows. Feels fucking guilty for a moment because of what he let happen.

But even so, god help him, Wade can't keep from looking forward to tomorrow night, when they'll play up their little couple act again; maybe they'll hold hands again. Maybe they'll kiss.

He goes to bed and sleeps like shit.

-

Wade does not dream about fucking Logan, or being fucked by Logan, or blowing Logan, or being blown by Logan, or jerking Logan off, or getting jerked off by Logan, or putting whipped cream and sliced bananas and chocolate sauce on Logan's tits while Hawkeye (M*A*S*H, not the Avengers) stands a respectful distance away and performs a polka rendition of Cascada's Everytime We Touch on the accordion, or any other normal, well-adjusted, pedestrian, and everyday dreams like that.

No. Instead, he dreams about lying on the couch with Logan. Resting his head on Logan's lap while Logan gently strokes his head and reads him The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

Wade wakes up in a cold sweat at four AM.

Maybe there are psychosexual implications to the caterpillar thing, Wade thinks, maybe hunger equals lust and the caterpillar is a phallic symbol.

Sure. That seems legit. It's definitely not more obvious than that, an achingly good dream of simple contact and affection; it's can't be that Wade is longing just to have Logan physically close to him, attending to him, caring for him again for real, this time. Not just play-acting.

No, that wasn't what the dream was about. That would be insane, and pathetic, and cringe.

He goes back to sleep.

-

Wade wakes up close to eleven AM when he hears the apartment door open and close.

He rubs his eyes. Wonders if he can get away with sleeping for the next six hours, too.

Nope. Gotta make sure Dogpool gets fed.

With great emotional difficulty, Wade manages to haul his shambling, wretched shell out of bed and get it dressed before wandering out into the kitchen.

Logan's there already, pulling take-out containers out of a bag. The scent of greasy diner food permeates the air.

"You went to Stella's?" Wade asks, and Logan grunts affirmative, hands Wade a plastic clamshell box.

Logan doesn't say anything, but he meets Wade's eyes for a second, guarded and unreadable, before he nods and turns to pour glasses of milk for them both.

He got Wade his favorite triple-chocolate-chip waffles. Topped with strawberries and a scoop of vanilla ice cream that's mostly melted on the walk back from the diner.

It feels like a peace offering, maybe; feels like Logan is trying to make something clear without verbalizing it.

"Thanks," Wade says softly. "What's the occasion?"

"No occasion. The dog wanted a pancake," Logan says, as if that explains anything or makes any kind of sense, "so I figured I'd pick up breakfast while we were out on our walk."

"Did she get one?"

"One what?"

"A pancake!"

Logan grunts. "No comment."

"Oh my god, did she get two?"

Logan's smile lines deepen. The sight is beautiful, and Wade could fucking cry; he thanks whatever gods are listening that Logan seems okay today. "I'm invoking my Miranda rights."

He and Logan sit at the couch and eat their breakfast over an episode of Cutthroat Kitchen, and everything feels almost normal except for the tension that pours off Logan in thick, heavy waves.

The episode ends and the credits roll. "So, I, uh. Am sorry," Wade begins, "for not just letting it go last night. I was an--"

"Forget it, bub. It's fine. Shit happens. We don't need to go over it again."

"Okay. Cool. Yeah, that's, that's exactly what I was thinking."

The intro to the next episode begins.

"Listen. It's Saturday. If the fucker is gonna strike this week, it's gonna be tonight," Logan says, fingers opening and closing.

"One more night of me as the world's worst arm candy."

One more night dancing with Logan, sitting with him. He wonders if they'll kiss tonight. If all goes well, and they find their killer, it'll be the last kiss Wade ever gets from him.

He'd better enjoy it.

"One more night of bad fuckin' music." Logan rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Hey, I happen to think the tunes they play are good!"

"That's because you have shit taste, bub."

Wade swallows. Shrugs a little. "I dunno," he says. "I got good taste in some things."

-

Logan lets Wade dress him again. A redux of the first night: little white t-shirt, tight jeans. This time he lets Logan layer a flannel over it, and--yeah, sure. He's serving slutty mountain man and it's working for him.

Everything works for him.

-

Logan is more distant and standoffish than normal during the ride to the Smokehouse but as soon as they step inside, he is nothing but easy smiles and soft glances.

"Dance with me?" Wade asks, giving his best puppy eyes.

Logan wrinkles his nose, shakes his head, apparently immune to the puppy eyes. Takes Wade's hand and leads him to a sofa on the sidelines that's deliberately small so that two people sitting are forced to cuddle up. There are other similar loveseats arranged around to facilitate conversation, looks like.

He gently pushes Wade down. "Be right back, sweetheart," he says, going to the bar to presumably get them some drinks, and leaving Wade to strike up a conversation with the guys sprawled on the other sofa in front of him.

He makes them laugh and they offer him some ketamine and fuck does it kill his soul that he can't take them up on the offer, that he has to stay fully in touch with reality tonight, because free ketamine is free ketamine, and he's not fucking stupid--of course he'd take it.

Logan returns with their drinks; he settles down next to Wade, tugs him close against his side and Wade automatically snuggles up, enjoying his warmth and solidity underneath the soft flannel.

If only he had a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar. He briefly considers finding a PDF of it and asking Logan to read it off his phone. Then he realizes that's insane, even by his standards, and tries to think about more normal things to start a more normal conversation with.

"You guys think that gerbilling is a real thing?"

Logan chokes on his whiskey.

-

They stay snuggled on that couch for close to an hour, Logan periodically pressing little kisses to Wade's temple when there's a lull in conversation; it's mostly the two of them talking to each other, really, about nothing much in particular. Quietly sharing stories, laughing together. And it's fucking wonderful.

"Alright," Wade finally says in Logan's ear, "I'm gonna dance. You go to the bar and try to get yourself killed."

Logan snorts a laugh. "My favorite," he says flatly, rolls his eyes--but there's a smile there. He stands and moves toward the bar. "Have fun, bub."

"I always do!"

There seems to be an "early 2000s nostalgia" theme with the tunes tonight, which is horrifying, seeing as the early 2000s were literally yesterday, but Wade gamely bops along to ATC's I'm In Heaven and loses himself in vapid, bubblegummy eurobeat.

ATC moves along to the Backstreet Boys moves along to N*SYNC.

Which is how Wade finds himself dancing with a guy who frankly cannot dance but is trying his best, and it's kind of cute how he flails around, and Wade is just about to take him gently by the hands and show him some easy moves when another guy steps in, literally, between them.

"Walk away," New Guy says to Can't Dance, and Can't Dance's eyes go dead and blank and he instantly does what New Guy says, shuffling off.

"Hey, what the fuck?" Wade snaps at New Guy. "I was just about to teach him some shit! It would have been a public service."

New Guy, who lays his goddamn hands on Wade's hips. "Wanted to see your moves a little closer," he says. "I've been watching you for days."

"For days?" New Guy is slight and young, with shaggy blonde hair and clear blue eyes, and--Wade's definitely seen this guy before. His nose wrinkles. "Wait," he says, reaching to lay his hands over New Guy's and pry them off him. Nonviolently, because they're in public, and working. "I know you. You're--"

"You don't know me," New Guy says, layering something sweet and syrup-sick onto his voice, and the words sound like--they sound like--

Like the most truthful, honest thing Wade's ever heard.

He's absolutely right. Wade doesn't know him. Has never seen him before in his life.

"Huh," Wade says slowly. "I could have sworn... no, nevermind."

"That's right," New Guy says. "Good boy. Now dance for me, Max. Nice and pretty."

God, what a good idea. Wade's never heard a better idea in his life. He loves to dance. That's why he's here. As if in a dream, he feels his body moving as he executes bits from his very favorite routines. It feels good. It's so nice to obey, isn't it?

Wait, what? That bit of internal monologue doesn't feel very in-character.

Huh, Wade thinks, well, looks like we found our guy.

Wade hates mind control. He hated having his brain fingerblasted by Cassandra Nova. He doesn't like it when Chuck pokes around. And he really, really doesn't like this.

Oh, fuck you with a rusty pitchfork, how about that? Wade thinks as loud as he can. Can you hear me? You suck dicks! In the hyperbolic bad way, not the actual fun and awesome way!

New Guy doesn't respond, not even a little, just watches Wade dance, and Wade thinks a few things at once.

1. This guy's power seems to be control or hypnosis, rather than telepathy. It sure doesn't seem like he can read what's going on in Wade's brain.

2. Wade seems to be able to resist it at least a little--he thinks he could choose to stop dancing, even though the suggestion is... pressing. Maybe it's because his brain is a constantly-regenerating pile of cancer cells with a soul wrestled into it, who knows?

And 3. He needs to let New Guy think he's totally hypnotized, let him spirit Wade away to his murder shack or whatever, and then Wade can say something devastatingly witty and then stab him to death with the baby knife strapped to his thigh.

His eyes slide to the bar. Logan isn't there. He isn't fucking there. Is he in the bathroom?

"Eyes on me," New Guy says, and Wade obeys before he can stop himself. Jesus, that's strong. "Forget him."

Forget who?

No! Fucking no, that's a line you don't get to cross, you bitch. Wade grits his teeth and struggles hard to keep Logan's name and his handsome face and strong hands and pretty claws and rough voice in his mind. You don't get to take him from me.

On the outside, though, Wade nods as dumbly as he can manage. Gives a calm, serene smile. Tries to remember how MDMA felt before his mutation and exude that general aura of unnatural well-being. A perfect, placid thrall.

He deserves an Academy Award. 'Placid' does not come easy to him. Neither does 'perfect,' but that's neither here nor a kettle of worms, or whatever the saying is.

"I think I need one like you," New Guy says, regarding Wade thoughtfully. "A dancer."

"Me?" Wade can't help but ask. "But I'm..." Scarred? Hideous? Not your type?

"Don't give me your opinion, Max, I didn't ask for it." He smiles. "Sure, you're not much to look at. But you'll really liven up the place, I think."

Actually, I'm gonna deaden it! Or just you. Wade keeps on smiling. "What place?"

"I'll take you there. I'm your master now," New Guy says, and Wade bites his tongue against a violent chortle because god this is so clichéd and also he's what, twenty-two? Come again? The master of what exactly, buddy? Mommy's basement? A Minecraft server? Weenie Hut Jr?

"Oh, yes, master," Wade says instead, trying very, very hard not to laugh.

God, this whole thing is so fucking ridiculous. It was supposed to be Logan. It was supposed to be Logan, not him. Wade hasn't been dressing up, not that any amount of dressing up would render him more desirable to anyone; all he's been doing is playing Logan's boyfriend and doing an awful lot of dancing. Looks like it's the dancing that's gotten him into this mess.

Logan was perfect for this. And it didn't fucking work.

The best laid plans of mice and mercs, Wade thinks, a little delirious. The road to the murder shack is paved with good intentions. Or whatever.

"You want to come home with me right now. You don't want to tell anyone where you're going. You want to leave your phone here."

"Master, let's go home," Wade whines, tilting his head a little, aiming for as cute and charming as he can get, which he knows isn't much. "I didn't bring my phone tonight."

A bold-faced lie. It hurts a little to tell, since he itches to pull his phone from his pocket and drop it on the floor. His hands flex at his sides with the effort it takes to keep them still.

Master--no, New Guy--slips one of his hands into Wade's.

God, I am going to love killing you, Wade thinks, closing his fingers around New Guy's.

New Guy leads him to his car; it's a nice car, Wade notes. An Audi of some flavor. His brain feels too hazy to narrow it down further than that. New Guy opens the passenger door for him, a parody of chivalry, and Wade slides in.

Time seems like it just isn't passing quite right. New Guy gets in the driver's seat. "You're very relaxed," New Guy tells him. "You feel so calm and happy about all of this. You're so excited to go home with me."

Wade nods. "Y'know, I can't help but think of how totally fucking stoked I am to be in this car with you right now, Master!"

Wade thinks that might have been laying it on a little thick. Fortunately, Ma--New Guy seems to like it.

"Good boy."

New Guy starts the car and pulls onto the main drag and then onto the interstate, heading north.

"Where exactly is home?" Wade asks.

"Not far."

Wade's phone buzzes softly. Logan's probably trying to call him. Fuck. Is he scared? Is he wondering where Wade is? Does he suspect the worst? No. How could Logan suspect that? Who the fuck would want to roofie or kidnap him, of all people? No. He probably thinks Wade just lost interest and wandered off to the barcade down the road.

Wade hums. Waits til he's fairly sure New Guy is paying his full attention to the road before carefully, slowly pulling his phone out of his pocket. If shit goes south, Logan needs to know where he is.

He holds his phone down between his leg and the door. Flicks open his messages to Logan--sees that yes, he did indeed try to call--and holds down the audio message icon. The phone silently begins recording.

"Yeah?" Wade asks. "How far is not far?"

"You don't need to know where home is."

Damn, this guy's annoying. Wade briefly considers just stabbing him right here and now, but discards the idea quickly. If Wade just murders the guy now, he risks causing a pile-up on the interstate. Besides, he'd kind of like to see the murder shack.

And Jimmy and company deserve to have any mementos from their partners that this sick fuck might be keeping at said murder shack.

"I know I don't need to know. I'm just a curious, good little boy, Master. Well, I'm forty-six. But I'm still curious about--"

"I said, you don't want to know where home is."

"Right. Right. Okay. Can you tell me a little about home, though? Like, the floor plan? Open concept, or--"

"God, you're chatty," New Guy grits out. "I thought it'd be cute for a while. But it's just annoying."

"That's exactly what my college girlfriend said about me, like, verbatim, right before she--"

"Be quiet. Stop talking." New Guy's eyes flick over to Wade, and he raises his eyebrows in shock. "Is that your fucking phone?"

"Um," Wade says, holding it a little lower, "is that a trick question?"

"Give me that," New Guy says, holding out his hand, and Wade slides his thumb off the audio message icon, sending the recording. He hits the power button to turn the phone off. "I said give me that," New Guy says louder, and Wade feels himself drop the phone in his hand.

New Guy opens the window and throws the phone out onto the highway.

"Oh, fuck you, man! That was brand new!" Wade blurts out.

"Be still," New Guy says, more forcefully than before, and Wade feels every single one of his joints lock up. He can't move. He can't move. "You're a tough nut to crack, hm? Tougher than the others. Well." New Guy laughs. "I've never met a man I couldn't charm."

Fuck.

New Guy lays his power on thick. His voice echoes in Wade's brain, sliding down his spinal cord sticky and clinging and burning like molten sugar. "You want to be a good, stupid, obedient boy for Master," he says, and Wade feels his mind slipping sideways, it feels like drugs, it feels like propofol felt back when it still worked on him; feels like the hazy half-remembered moments between unconsciousness and a nice woman in a lab coat telling you to count back from ten.

"You don't want to do any more thinking," Master says, and Wade's brain goes dark.

-

Two fucking minutes. Logan was in the bathroom for two fucking minutes and now Wade is gone.

Logan casts around the club, eyes wide, searching. He pushes across the dance floor, trying desperately to catch Wade's scent.

It's faint and masked by the hundreds of other pungent odors of alcohol and perfume and sweat and hair products and laundry detergent, the smell of strangers thick and oppressive in the hazy club, but Logan could pick out Wade's scent anywhere.

He was here. And now he's not.

Logan steps out of the club, bursts out into the night and inhales heavy through his nose and mouth. Wade's trail circles around to the small parking lot, and then it's gone.

"Fuck," Logan curses, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing Wade's number.

No answer. Of course there's no fucking answer.

Wade has his location turned on. Logan flicks through to view it. He's on the interstate. Northbound.

A message comes through. From Wade. A voice memo. Logan hits play instantly as he gets in the car, turns the volume up to max as he fucking floors it for Wade's location.

He hears Wade's voice. "How far is not far?"

"You don't need to know where home is."

Who the fuck is that?

"I know I don't need to know. I'm just a curious, good little boy, Master." He hears Wade pause. "Well, I'm forty-six. But I'm still curious about--"

God, it's a good thing his mouth can't get him killed.

"I said, you don't want to know where home is."

The other guy sounds--young. Haughty. Arrogant. Like he's stating unmistakable fact about what Wade wants. Like he's dictating what Wade wants.

It's a tone Logan has heard before. It's a tone that doesn't work on him super well, and it's a tone whose users usually end up with a lethal case of Claws In Vital Organs.

"Right. Right. Okay. Can you tell me a little about home, though? Like, the floor plan? Open concept, or--"

"God, you're chatty. I thought it'd be cute for a while. But it's just annoying."

Anger flares hot in Logan's chest and he feels a snarl bubbling in his throat. Wade isn't fucking annoying. He's exactly the way he fuckin' should be. He's--okay, yeah, he can be annoying, but that's one of the things Logan has ended up loving about him, one of the things Logan looks forward to listening to in the evenings as Wade makes lascivious comments about Alton Brown or sings stupid tuneless songs to the dog as he prepares her dinner or dances in the kitchen to really irritating music blaring off his Bluetooth speaker.

Logan doesn't know what he'd do without that comfortable annoyance now, he's become accustomed to it, second nature to him now, accustomed to Wade, accustomed to--

Did Logan just think the word love?

Jesus fuck. Okay, he can analyze that later. Now it's time for action.

"That's exactly what my college girlfriend said about me, like, verbatim, right before she--"

"Be quiet. Stop talking." A pause. "Is that your fucking phone?"

"Um, is that a trick question?"

"Give me that."

The recording ends.

Logan is maybe six miles down the highway when he arrives at Wade's supposed location; he pulls the car over on the highway, which is a terrible idea, gets out and looks around.

Black shards of glass and metal lie across the road. Mangled red plastic the color of Wade's phone case is also visible.

Logan lets out a low, guttural scream through his teeth, claws itching to slip out and attack something, anything, but there's nothing, he's standing on the side of I-95 northbound and he has fucking nothing but a muffled audio recording.

He inhales sharply, trying to force his panic down. Going ballistic isn't going to help anything right now. He focuses on the fact that Wade simply cannot die; it's a cold comfort when he knows full well how much he can suffer.

Logan needs help.

His first thought is Cerebro; Cerebro can find any mutant at all. But Wade isn't technically a mutant, is he, he's a mutate, his mutant genes had to be forced out. Cerebro is calibrated for mutants specifically, and if this universe's Cerebro works like his old one's, it would take days to recalibrate.

So back to the drawing board.

He needs to find someone who recognizes that voice in the recording.

-

"Derek!"

He calls across the emptying club to the manager who's gently chasing people out for the evening.

"Sam?" the kid asks. "Where's Max?"

"He got taken," Logan says, "he sent me a voice recording, I need you to listen and see if you recognize the voice with him."

"Shit, yeah, of course! Play it for me."

Derek listens intently to the recording. His mouth twists. "Fuck, I wish I could put a name to that voice," he swears, "I know I've heard it before. Fuck." He steps back, calls into the storeroom. "Tyler! Need your ear!"

The new kid comes out from the back and listens intently. "Oh, shit," he says slowly, "I think that's one of the guys. One of the guys whose boyfriends disappeared. Fuck, what was his name..."

Logan's already back out the door, getting in his car. He flicks open his contacts and clicks a recent one. Jimmy the bereaved husband picks up on the fifth ring. "What's up?" he mumbles, clearly just awakened; it is almost five AM.

"Send your location, right now," Logan says, "I need your help."

"This is kinda forward..."

"Wade's gone. Same motherfucker that stole your man took him. I got a lead but I need your help, now send me your fuckin' location!"

"Oh shit, yeah, of course," Jimmy blurts out, and seconds later Logan's phone pings softly with a shared location. "I'm--I'll be waiting outside my place. Holy shit."

-

Jimmy's eyes widen in shock as he listens to the recording in the passenger seat of Logan's car. Then his brows slam together in rage.

"That's Wilbert," he says, "that's--Wilbert's boyfriend was the first to disappear. He--fuck, oh my god. He was playing us all along, I--"

"Where does he live?"

"Kinda far, he's on the south side, get on the highway, I'll point out the exit!"

"Jim, you shouldn't come along, this guy's fuckin' dangerous and--"

"You'll have to pry me out of this car by force," the man says, eyes flaring with a ferocity Logan doesn't often see outside himself. "He killed Brijesh, I'm going to rip his fucking heart out."

"Fair enough," Logan says, and takes off down the road.

-

Wilbert's apartment is in a small dingy complex and there's a keypad lock on the door. If Wade were here, he'd probably guess the passcode.

Logan has neither the time nor the patience for that. He unsheathes his claws and drives them through the doorframe, tearing straight into the hinges and rending them apart.

"Jesus Christ!" Jim yelps. "You--you've got claws just like--holy shit, are you Wolv--"

"Not the one you're thinking of, it's a long fuckin' story." He wrenches his claws free, gives the door a kick, and it falls down and out of their way. "Wade!" he calls, stepping inside and casting about. "Wade!"

Jimmy skirts around him into the apartment. "Wilbert, you motherfucker!"

Logan inhales deeply, scenting the air. He can pick up someone's trail, yeah, traces of sweat and stress and aftershave, but it's stale. The air in here is stagnant, dusty.

"Goddamn it," Logan swears. "Nobody's here. Nobody's been here for at least a week."

"Fuck!" Jim screams in frustration, knocks some shit off a countertop; glass shatters onto the floor and Jim's rage is almost visceral enough to reach out and touch.

If anybody understands how the man feels, it's Logan, but he can't afford to trash the apartment in his anger, not right now, there's no time. "Look around," he says. "There's got to be some kind of clue around here about where the fucker actually is."

Jim looks up at him, blank, chest heaving.

"Come on!" Logan half-shouts, "Start looking!"

"I--right!" Understanding flares in the other man's eyes. "He's gotta have a computer, I'll search that," he says, and throws himself down a hallway.

Logan starts flinging open kitchen drawers. Silverware, wooden spoons, a junk drawer crammed with tape and rubber bands and chip clips. Cabinets filled with nothing but dishware and dry goods.

The fridge has a to-do list stuck to it with a magnet. Entries have neat little check-marks next to them to indicate they're done.

Avocados
Dryer sheets
Set up utilities @ new place

"That's it," Logan murmurs to himself, then bolts down the hall and into a side room, finding Jimmy at a desk. "Jim! You in his computer?"

"Yeah," Jim says, "fucker's password was pass, can you believe that? He's logged into his email, I'm looking around, it's mostly spam from--"

"Search for the word 'utilities.' Or 'water,' or 'power,' or something."

"Got it." Jim's hands fly over the keyboard. "He got an email from ConEd six weeks ago, looks like he's setting up electricity at..." There's an address, and instantly Jimmy is punching it into his phone, showing Logan the address on a map. "Here!"

"Come on," Logan says, roughly, "let's fucking go."

-

It's kind of a long freaking drive, actually, even with Logan driving in a way that's not strictly speaking "safe" or "cautious" by even the loosest definition.

The destination is even further north than the Xavier Institute, and Logan has no goddamn idea what to expect. The sun has risen now, coloring the morning pink and amber, and it would be pretty if he wasn't terrified out of his mind.

-

Their destination is a mansion.

A mansion, yes, but not a handsome, dignified one like the Institute. No, this is gaudy and tasteless. Two fountains rise up on either side of impressive golden doors. The house is trimmed with shining gold and ornate carvings. Statues of lions with wings guard the extensive, meandering lawn.

Logan drives straight up onto that lawn, uncaring, braking hard and scrubbing the grass asunder beneath his tires.

There's a man out front. Mowing the lawn. Shirtless, gleaming, tanned, muscular. Stubbled jaw, smile-lined face.

He jumps in surprise as Logan's car rips up the lawn, then just gives a grin and a friendly wave and starts mowing around the car as if it's not a problem at all.

There's another man of the same general build pruning hedges. That one waves and grins too.

"Jim," Logan says slowly, "I need you to do something for me."

"I'm not staying in the car! I'm--"

"I need you to drive this car to the Xavier Institute," Logan says, pushing the car keys into Jim's hand, "I need you to knock on the door until someone answers, then I need you to tell that person that the worst Wolverine needs backup here as soon as possible, Professor Xavier at least and maybe some muscle."

"What--"

"Do it! And make sure to say 'worst Wolverine,' verbatim, or else they won't believe you. I think we're dealing with mind control here and I'm gonna need help, so please just fucking do it. Drag Xavier here by the fuckin' ear if you have to, you understand me?"

Jim's eyes harden and he takes the keys. "Got it," he confirms. Logan gets out of the car and Jim scrambles into the driver's seat, starts the car. "Logan?"

"What?"

"Give him hell for me," Jim says, and Logan nods, slams the car door shut before Jim peels back down the lawn and out of sight.

"Hey, neighbor!" the lawn-mowing man calls out to Logan. "Your friend's in a real hurry! You here to see Master?"

"Sure fuckin' am," Logan growls, stalking for the door.

"Oh! Well, all right," the man says, dreamily. "Let me just let Master know you're here!"

"No," Logan says quickly, skidding to a halt in his tracks, "you--uh..." The man stares at him, eyes wide and dumb and empty. Logan pauses. "Ah, shit."

Every part of him wants to go in claws-first. But something in him holds him back. If Wade were here, he'd chat a little. Try to get some more information.

More information isn't gonna hurt. "Master, huh?" Logan asks. "He a nice guy?"

"Oh, yes," the man says, nodding, "Master takes care of all of us. We love him so much, and he loves us too. He told me so," the man adds, bashfully bringing a hand up to touch his own cheek as he smiles.

"Uh... huh," Logan grunts slowly, a chill running up his spine. "How many of you live here? With your Master?"

The man blinks a few times. "I don't know," he says, uncertainly. "I've never counted. A lot."

"How long have you been here?"

The man's brow furrows and he thinks for a long time. "I don't remember," he finally says, "but that's fine. Time flies when you're having fun!"

"Right," Logan says, and makes some shit up on the fly. "Well, Master's expecting me. You don't need to let him know I'm here."

All fretfulness melts away from the man's face. "Okay! Door's open! Tell him I said hi!"

"Oh, for sure, bub," Logan says through gritted teeth, pushing the door open and stepping into the mansion proper.

The front door opens up onto a huge, bright atrium, massive skylights above letting in the sun. Tall columns rise up out of marble floors, ostentatious chandeliers hang from the ceiling. There's about a million expensive potted plants scattered around and an enormous swimming pool in the center; two muscular men paddle around in tight swim trunks, giggling and splashing each other with water. A few more lay out lazy and comfortable on the sidelines, half-naked and casually eating grapes and cherries out of ornate porcelain bowls.

Logan recognizes two of them as two of the four missing husbands. Relief pours through him--they're not dead!--and then horror.

He's not a serial killer. He's a zookeeper, Logan realizes. This is a goddamn petting zoo.

"Hi," one of the men greets Logan, looking up at him upside-down from his spot sprawled on the floor. "You looking for Master?"

"Yeah."

"He's in the bedroom!"

Security here sure ain't exactly tight, is it? Honestly, that in itself sends warning bells clanging through Logan's brain. Why doesn't Wilbert need security? Is he that dangerous?

Unless Logan's looking at the security right now, he realizes with a sick jolt.

Logan gets the strangest feeling that if he made the first move toward aggression, all these friendly, lazy, happy men would get really upset, really fast. Logan could take them down, of course. But these men deserve to go back home in one piece, not be sent back to their lovers in body bags; and if they've been programmed to protect their Master, they will stop at nothing short of lethal force.

So Logan keeps his claws firmly in place, though they itch like the devil to slip out. "Thanks," he says. "Where's the bedroom?"

"Up the stairs, fifth door on the left, can't miss it," one of the men in the pool says. "Follow the music, he's with the new bunny!"

The new bunny?

Logan crosses the atrium at a run, takes the opulent staircase four stairs at a time all the way up.

He passes a man wearing only an apron and a cartoonish chef's hat in a kitchen cooking enough breakfast to feed a crowd, passes by another open door where three burly guys lie asleep on a plush bed, cuddled on top of each other like a pile of kittens, passes by yet another older man in a Speedo fastidiously cleaning a bathroom that already looks spotless.

How many guys does he fucking have here? Logan's counted eleven so far and he hasn't even found Wade yet. He hears the promised music about halfway down the hall and he pushes the fifth door on the left open.

His heart turns to stone and falls into his stomach at what he sees.

A young blonde man lies sprawled in the center of an actual heart-shaped bed; two more handsome, older men lounge on either side of him, eyes fixed on him, hands gently running up and down his (thankfully clothed) body like they're worshiping him.

But that's not what Logan notices first. No.

Another man stands on a low table in front of the bed. Unlike the others, his body is fully covered; he wears a skintight white catsuit, totally without ornamentation or detail; over his face he wears an ornate mask with long upright rabbit ears.

He is dancing. Slow and sensuous, hips swaying, hands sliding over his own body; his spine curves prettily, his head rolls luxuriously back on his shoulders.

Logan would know that body confirmation anywhere, even if he didn't recognize the dance moves, even if he didn't recognize the scars around the borders of the mask. Logan would know him by silhouette alone.

"Wade," he says, before he can stop himself, and he gets zero response; Wade doesn't say a damn thing, doesn't even twitch, just keeps on dancing. His eyes are empty and dead through the holes of his mask.

"You're new," the man at the center of the bed says by way of greeting to Logan. "Wait. You're Max's boy toy."

"Wilbert," Logan growls, stepping forward, "you motherf--"

"Stop moving," Wilbert says firmly, and Logan's feet freeze in place.

He feels the kid's mutation, his power, slide across his brain like water off a duck. He's powerful, yeah. But Logan's not easily controlled, for whatever reason; he even made Charles work for it, back in the day.

That's why the X-Men send him after telepaths.

He stays still, weighing his options as the kid starts fucking monologuing.

"Didn't think I'd get a two-for-one deal on this one, but I guess the pizza delivers itself today," Wilbert says, gleeful, sitting upright. "Oh, I'm the luckiest boy alive. See, Max here isn't much to look at, but wow, he sure can move. Don't you think so?"

Logan stays silent.

"Don't you think he can move?" Wilbert says again, laying his power on harder. It rattles Logan's brain painfully, makes it feel like an electric pencil sharpener with a screwdriver stuck in it, but doesn't do much more than that.

Usually Logan's strategy in a situation like this can be boiled down to Hit Your Opponent(s) Very Hard And Do Not Stop Until They Die. And he is itching to give Wilbert that exact treatment.

But Jim's husband Brijesh is hanging on Wilbert's arm and Logan can't afford to risk it. Jimmy thinks his husband is dead, and Logan's gonna make sure he gets to go home instead.

"Yes," he says, making a snap decision. "He sure can."

Wilbert claps his hands together. "Oh, I love this. I've never had a couple. I thought it would be harder to keep a couple under together, but you're so easy, aren't you, pretty boy? You're just like all the others, you want to be so good and obedient for your Master. You love your Master."

Logan really wants to bisect this guy down the middle, straight up and down.

He needs to get him alone. He needs to get Wilbert alone so he can murder him without the guys under thrall alerting.

He has to be the honeypot.

"Master," he whines softly, dropping down to his knees and crawling, on all fours, up toward the bed. "Yes, Master. I can be so good."

He fucking hates this. The thought of Wilbert's blood welling under his claws keeps him going.

"Yes, you're such a sweet boy!" Wilbert coos. "Max! Look over here. Look at what a sweet boy your man is being."

Wade's eyes snap over to Logan, blank and empty until they aren't, until there's a flicker of life there. His movements slow. "My man?" he murmurs. Then he smiles, just a little, his eyes softening. "He's always sweet."

"No, no, back under you go. I didn't tell you to stop dancing," Wilbert snaps, and the life in Wade's eyes snuffs out once more.

Hold on, Wade. I'm gonna make sure it hurts the whole time this motherfucker is dying.

"Of course, he's not your man anymore, Max, he's mine," Wilbert says. Turns his attention back to Logan. "He's a little tougher than you are. Needs some special care. You understand."

"I understand," Logan echoes.

He has to get Wilbert alone. There's a chance that killing him won't actually break the hypnosis. Logan's not confident that he can take two thralls and incapacitate them non-lethally with them this far down, but he isn't sure how he's gonna get the man alone without letting on that he's unaffected by his power.

"Welcome home, Sam," Wilbert purrs. "Welcome to paradise."

Paradise. He's enslaved a bunch of fit, middle-aged men to act as his fucked-up little harem, and he's calling it paradise.

This guy has more issues than National Geographic.

"Thank you, I think I'm gonna like it here."

"You already like it here."

"Of course I do." Logan slowly crawls up onto the bed. "Let me show you how much."

Wilbert's eyes widen. "My, you're eager," he breathes. "All right. Maybe a nice massage before Mel serves us breakfast."

Logan clambers closer, into Wilbert's personal space. He smells like expensive cologne and rich textiles. He smells like the men on the bed.

He doesn't smell like Wade. Logan tries to keep his shaky sigh of relief inaudible.

"Maybe a little more?" Logan purrs.

"Wow, okay, wasn't expecting that, you must really have a thing for me," Wilbert giggles, and Logan grins when he imagines rending his throat open. "Hypnosis can only do so much. Underlying tendencies always shine through a little. That's why I'm careful to choose only the nicest, cuddliest boys." He boops Logan's nose with a finger and Logan somehow resists snapping and biting it clean off. "Looks like you're a good addition."

"Make the other boys go away, Master," Logan whines, pawing at Wilbert's knee. "I don't like to share."

"That's cute," Wilbert says, clicking his tongue, "but not going to work if you live here. We'll have to work on that. Well, I do love a project." Yet more hypnosis bounces straight off Logan's skull. "You're learning to share better. You want to make Master happy, don't you?"

Fuck.

"Yes," Logan says. "Anything for Master." This whole damn thing makes him want to wash his mouth out with bleach.

Professor X could fix this guy in an instant. But if he brings, say, Scott or Colossus around? Wilbert could have them under thrall embarrassingly fast and there's a non-zero possibility that could end extremely poorly for most people involved here.

He figures he's got an hour and a half, maybe two, before Jim shows back up.

Logan's got to kill Wilbert before then.

"Come on, rest your head on my leg, there's a good boy."

Logan obeys, and immediately Wilbert's hand is stroking through his hair. It seems like a disgusting parody of intimacy. Seems a mockery of when Wade did this kind of thing when they cuddled together all night in that booth.

But that had been fake too, hadn't it?

Wade is moving with all the grace and assuredness with which he always does. But there's something missing, something crucial, a certain liveliness and simple joy that animates him.

Logan longs to grab him, shake him by the shoulders and beg him to come back, please come back, fight this and come back to him.

But he can't.

"One of you boys should go help Mel in the kitchen," Wilbert says eventually, and Logan jumps up.

"I will."

"Do you know where that is?"

"I saw the kitchen on the way here, Master. I'll go help, let me be useful to you, Master."

"Oh, I'm good." Wilbert grins. God, the ego on this guy. "Yes, yes. Go, dear. Bring enough back for everyone, now."

Logan skirts around the table Wade dances on. Pauses. Watches him for a few seconds.

Logan isn't a stranger to hatred as an emotion, but he hasn't felt it this strongly, this powerfully, in a very, very long time.

Hold on, Red.

He slips out of the room and back down the hall to the stupendously large kitchen where the man in the apron is plating up French toast and eggs and bacon, arranging four plates on a large tray.

"Hey, Mel," Logan greets the man, "here, let me grab that tray for you."

"Oh!" The man gives a big, kind smile. "Hey, thanks!" He tilts his head. "You're new here. Nice to meet you!"

"Mhm. Same to you, bub."

"The one with extra syrup is Master's," Mel says, placing several tall mimosas on the tray as well. "You got all this by yourself?"

It's a large, heavy, unwieldy tray. Logan hefts it easily, keeps it balanced with no issues whatsoever. "Yup."

"Oh, awesome! Wow, you're good at that, did you used to work as a server?"

"Something like that."

Logan turns and carries the tray back into Wilbert's bedroom. He pastes on his best smile, trots over to the bed.

"There you are, gorgeous. Right here on the bed, if you please," Wilbert says, sitting up and patting the bed in front of him and the other two men.

"Okay," Logan chirps. Leans over.

Dumps the entire goddamn tray over Wilbert, the guys, the bed, and the floor.

Wilbert shrieks; the men cry out in dismay; syrup and orange juice and champagne goes everywhere, pancakes and bacon flying. Mimosa glasses roll and shatter onto the shining floor, sending crystalline shards everywhere.

"Oops," Logan says in a way he hopes is convincing as he sweeps pancakes off the bed in an 'effort to help' only to knock off and smash a few plates.

"FUCK! You stupid, clumsy bastard!" Wilbert shrieks, aghast. "Look what you--"

"Don't call him that," Wade's voice comes abruptly; Logan looks over his shoulder and Wade is standing still, staring down at Wilbert.

"I can do whatever I fucking want with him, you stay down!" Wilbert shouts, and Wade's eyes go blank again. "Christ, bunny, you might just be more trouble than you're worth," he swears softly, climbing up out of the ruined bed and tiptoeing across the floor, trying to avoid the shattered plates and champagne flutes. He snaps his fingers at Logan and the guys still on the bed, covered in breakfast. "You three! Clean this up, right now!"

Instantly the two thralls get to work, and Logan makes a token effort just until Wilbert enters the en-suite bathroom and slams the door shut.

In the words of a talented, beautiful man: Yahtzee.

"You two should go get paper towels and new sheets and shit," Logan says. "I'll stay back and strip the bed."

Both thralls stand. "Good idea," the one Logan recognized as Brijesh said. He lays a hand on Logan's shoulders. "Hey, don't worry too much about this. Everyone makes mistakes!"

"Ain't that the truth," Logan grunts. "Go on, hurry."

Brijesh and the other man scurry off. Logan turns toward the bathroom and approaches the closed door.

Wade says nothing. Down too far even to speak, even to react to anything that's happening. "Be right back, bub," Logan murmurs to him, and gets no response. "Gotta take care of something real fast."

He opens the bathroom door.

"Hey!" Wilbert shouts; he's in the middle of taking off his filthy clothes. A huge shower with a dozen different jets is on and steaming. Good. The noise will help. "Get out of here!"

Logan steps inside. Closes the bathroom door. Locks it.

"I said--"

"Yeah, bub, I heard you," Logan says, crossing the space and wrapping a hand around Wilbert's slim neck; Wilbert makes a strangled noise, mainly because he's being strangled. "You know your biggest mistake? Shouldn't have gone after men with partners."

"Hnnnk," Wilbert says, scrabbling at Logan's hand, terror in his eyes.

"Shh, shh. Yeah, I know that made it easier. Just transfer all that love to you." His grip tightens; he can feel the egotistical bastard's trachea crumpling like wet paper. "And you've hypnotized your way into this pretty house, and you hypnotized the cops, and you hypnotized your whole little harem. You took them away from their families, you took away their fuckin' minds, you raped them in every way."

Wilbert gurgles, pathetic, helpless.

"And you counted on your gift to let you keep doin' it." He picks Wilbert up. Slams him into the running shower.

"But you didn't count on me."

Logan relaxes his spring-tensors, claws tearing free from his knuckles; he slices into Wilbert's crushed throat with one set, plunges through the left side of his chest with the other and twists, vicious, rending bone and viscera alike.

Wilbert's blood swiftly exits his circulatory system, redirected efficiently and completely down the shower drain. He jerks, makes horrible gurgling noises, his hands dropping limp. The life finally leaves the man's eyes and Logan lowers him down to the floor of the shower. Leaves the water on. Retracts his claws. Then he leaves the bathroom and closes the door firmly.

Brijesh and the other man still aren't back yet. Wade stands motionless and unblinking on that low table, and Logan's heart twists in his chest.

"Wade," he says, stepping up onto the table to get closer; he pushes the rabbit mask off Wade's face to get a better look in his eyes, half-lidded and blank and empty as they are.

Looks like Wilbert dying doesn't break the hypnosis after all. He'd feared as much.

"C'mon, Wade, you were fighting it," Logan pleads, reaching out and cupping Wade's jaw in his hands. He's desperate to see light in Wade's eyes again, hates seeing him this way, lifeless and violated and changed. He doesn't even react to Logan's touch, staring blank through him with those big dead-deer eyes. "Wade, please," Logan whispers, leaning his forehead against Wade's, closing his eyes. "God, please, come back to me."

Logan doesn't cry often, he really doesn't. But right now his breath hitches, he feels an acute pain his throat as he tries to hold back tears.

"Knew you'd find me, peanut." Logan's eyes fly open and meet Wade's, soft and smiling and alive.

"Wade," Logan hears himself say, plaintive, broken. "I--"

"I know," Wade murmurs. "I'm okay."

It's instinctive, working on base programming, when Logan tilts his head and brings his lips a hair's breadth away from Wade's and--

"Oh my god!" Brijesh's voice rings out in horror from the doorway. "Oh my god, is that blood?!"

Logan yanks back, looks down at his clothes. "Um--fuck," he says. Yeah, arterial spray is a bitch, he hadn't even noticed the little splatter on his shirt. Brijesh and the other guy's eyes are wide and dumb and glazed, obviously not free yet. "Um--"

"Paper cut!" Wade yelps. "He got a paper cut."

"Right," Logan says, "um--ouch. Oof, ouch," he says, stepping off the table and sucking on his finger, awkwardly, to sell the illusion. "I'm fine, though. Don't worry."

"Oh, wow, okay," Brijesh says. "Well, let's take care of this mess. Is Master still in the shower?"

"Maybe one of us should check on him," the other guy says, concerned, and Logan shakes his head.

"Um, no, I just did. He's fine in there. He doesn't want to be bothered," Logan says. "Here, you clean this up. Wade," he adds, "I'm going downstairs to wait for Master's special guest."

"Master's special guest, huh?" Wade's hairless brows shoot up. "He expecting someone?"

"His good friend, Chuck."

"Of course. Good old Chuck." Wade clicks his tongue. "You go. I'll make sure nobody, uh, bothers Master."

Logan hates to leave Wade's side but someone has to be down at the front door when Jimmy and the cavalry show up, so he leaps down the stairs several at a time and barrels out onto the lawn.

"Oh, hey!" Lawnmowing Guy greets him. "Is Mel done with breakfast yet?"

"No," Logan says.

"Rats!"

Logan's barely down to the end of the lawn when three cars are pulling up--one his own, two belonging to the Academy. They all squeal onto the lawn, doors flinging open.

Colossus, Charles Xavier, Negasonic, Laura. Jimmy.

"Hypnosis," Logan says quickly to the Professor as he wheels down a mobile ramp, "every guy here is under thrall except Wade. Perpetrator's dead."

Lawnmowing Guy tilts his head. "Who's dead? You don't mean--" He freezes. Logan's eyes flick back to the Professor, whose hand is firmly at the side of his own head.

"Oh, good heavens," the Professor grumbles. "My boy, whoever did this to you had no finesse at all. I'm sorry, this may be uncomfortable."

Logan reaches out and grabs Jimmy's arm. "There's someone who's gonna want to see you," he says, pulling him into the house.

"Oh my god--he's--he's okay?"

"He's fine. Come on!"

As Logan and Jimmy make their way through the mansion and back up the stairs, each man they pass by seems to shake and blink and wake up, some of them mumbling in confusion, others cradling their heads. Colossus and Laura are right there, explaining the situation, that they're safe now.

Logan flings the bedroom door open; one of the men has passed out, but is still breathing, and Wade has his hands on Brijesh's shoulders, talking to him softly, and--

"Brijesh!"

The dark-skinned man turns at the sound of his husband's voice, eyes wide and alive and intelligent. "Jimmy?!"

The two men embrace, kiss, meeting and combining like clouds in a storm. "I thought you were dead," Jimmy sobs, "I love you, I love you so much--"

"I love you too, it's been--it's been so long--Jimmy," Brijesh gasps, burying his face in Jimmy's shoulder, and it's too intimate to watch, Logan has to look away.

He meets Wade's eyes.

Wade is smiling brighter than the sun. Crosses the bedroom to meet Logan.

"You okay?" Logan asks him, chest feeling full, painful.

"Got a headache," Wade admits, "but I'm fine, kitten whiskers. I'm fine."

Logan feels pulled by magnetism, gathers Wade into his arms and hugs him tight, fingers clutching in that awful white catsuit. "Your stupid plan didn't work," he blurts out against Wade's ear, voice shaking. "I wore all that fucking glitter for nothing."

"It worked great, are you kidding," Wade laughs, "I mean, sure, it totally backfired, but we got him in the end, yeah? Logan." He places his hands on either side of Logan's face, pulls him back to look him in the eye. "Logan, we got him. We did it. We're okay."

Everything in Logan's body and heart screams to kiss him.

-

For a second, Wade thinks Logan's going to kiss him for real.

And then the man is pulling back. "I'm--I'm gonna go help the others," he says, haltingly, and disappears down the hall, leaving Wade there with the happy couple.

Fuck.

Of fucking course Logan wasn't going to kiss him, why would he?

Wade's head pounds. He turns his attention back to Jimmy and Brijesh. "Hey, lovebirds," he says. "Uh, Jimmy? Looks like you got some guys to call. We gotta get these DILFs home."

"Holy shit, yeah," he says, eyes wide. "Listen, you--I don't know how you did this, just--thank you. I'll never be able to thank you enough."

"Money will do the trick! Oh, and... you're gonna wanna take good care of Mel. His boyfriend turned out to be the creep behind all this, after all. So..."

Wilbert hid in plain sight, kidnapped men he knew the temperaments of. Hypnotic bastard with power issues and delusions of grandeur wanted to be adored by all in the lap of luxury. Relatable goals. Not so relatable methods. And he was so good at it that he got cocky--went after less and less docile targets until finally he got Wade, wanted him as some kind of weird, dancing trophy, and that was it.

"Right," Jimmy says. "Fuck. Um--Brijesh, c'mon, let's--here, let's find the others, god, I've got a lot to catch you up on."

"I'm listening, sweetie," Brijesh says, holding tight to his husband's hand and following him out of the bedroom.

Wade's eyes flick to the closed bathroom door. Morbid curiosity overcomes him; he wants to see the damage with his own eyes. He opens the door and nudges it open.

"Oh shit," he laughs at the sight; Wilbert bled dry in the tub, water still pouring on him, dramatic wounds in what look like his carotids and honestly that would have done the trick all by itself but there's also a grotesque gaping claw wound in his chest; there's a jammy mess inside that looks like it might have been his heart, once. "Oho!" Wade crows. "Get fucked!"

Logan did this to him after seeing what he'd done. This level of violence was strictly unnecessary, but Logan--well. Logan was clearly pissed.

It makes Wade feel warm inside.

Wade closes the door again, chuckling, leaves Wilbert to his own very pressing business (decomposing, mostly) and trots on out of the bedroom and down the stairs to help clean up the remaining mess.

The other guys are probably feeling way worse than Wade is, but honestly, Wade isn't feeling great; being mind-controlled sucks ass, and his head pounds. These guys need clothes, Tylenol, and to have their next of kin called. In just about any order.

Curiously, Wade doesn't see Logan downstairs.

He learns, within a few minutes, that's because Logan fucking ditched.

Asshole move, really. Wade's not sure why he's surprised, because Logan's pulled a lot of asshole moves in his time, but damn, this one still stings.

"Well, fuck you too!" he shouts down the road, even though the car is out of sight. "Guess I'll just Uber home, then, asshole!"

"Nah," Laura sighs, appearing at his side. "He asked Colossus to drive you home."

"How thoughtful!" Wade spits. "Fine. Whatever. Who needs his stupid ass, anyway. Not like he could have helped out here, or anything. Fuck."

-

Even though his partner in crime-fighting-via-more-crime literally abandoned him, this is one of the jobs that's really going to stick with Wade for a long time. In a good way, mostly.

Over the proceeding day, Wade helps give unlicensed psychotherapy to like fifteen disoriented DILFs, watches as each of them get reunited with family or friends or lovers that arrive to gather them up. Wilbert's body is taken away, cleaned up, dealt with.

Everyone's relieved, crying, overjoyed. Kisses and hugs and soft words abound. If Wade felt like Santa Claus after killing Jake the Snake for that girl, he feels like Mother fucking Theresa now.

"Ah," Wade sighs, leaning his elbow on Negasonic's shoulder. "Oh, gosh. Everybody lives. For once, Rose, everybody lives."

"Who the fuck is Rose?"

"Jesus Christ, you haven't seen Doctor Who, have you?"

Negasonic rolls her eyes.

"God, the cultural education of the youth is going to shit."

-

Night is falling and they're just about to call the cops in to clean up the last of the mess, figure out who actually owns the house, take care of the remaining mundane things now that all the mutant bullshittery is squared away.

"That's my cue to leave, big boy," Wade says, slapping Colossus on his giant metal ass. "I don't get along real good with law enforcement. I always end up saying true shit like 'Hi, officers! Shoot any sleeping civilians lately?' And let's just say that doesn't make me super popular! So--"

Colossus jumps at the ass slap, scowls down at Wade. "All right, yes, let's go before the authorities get here, that's for the best. Professor?"

"Yes?"

"Is there anything else you need?"

"No, Piotr. Eloise and I have things quite under control."

Colossus turns back to Wade. "All right. Let us go."

-

Logan drives around for a long while. Just trying to gather his thoughts.

Love. He's in love with Wade. That much can no longer be avoided or called by any other bullshit name. It's love, and he's in it. With Wade.

So he fucking panicked, and he ran, because it was either that or kiss him, or say something incredibly stupid, and then he'd have fucked up their existing partnership forever.

Goddamn it.

As a bar, Sister Margaret's admittedly kind of fucking sucks. But Weasel gives Logan and Wade the friends-and-family discount, so it's easily the most cost effective way for him to get hammered outside his own home. Sure, Logan could just get a couple handles of vodka from the liquor store and take them home and pound them, but that--

That's just fucking sad, okay?

The floor's sticky under his boots. Weasel really needs to mop the floor, but Logan knows he won't for another few days. Or til ants show up. He makes a disgusted noise at the peeling sound his boots make with every step on the way up to the bar, relieved when he gets into a barstool and rests his heels on the foot rail.

"Just give me the bottle," he says when Weasel approaches.

"Jesus, you look like the ass end of a sick dog," Weasel says slowly. "On Mexican night."

"Just give me a bottle, asshole."

"Mmkay," Weasel says, grabbing presumably the cheapest bottle of swill he has behind the bar and plonking it down in front of Logan. "This okay?"

"80-proof?" Logan eyes the bottle. "It'll do."

"Sick," Weasel says, watching Logan pop the cap off the bottle and take a gulp. "So, uh... What're you doing here all alone, dude?"

I'm in love with my roommate and he doesn't love me back. He's the best thing to ever happen to me and he doesn't love me back. I almost kissed him tonight. Woulda lost him forever, I think. So I'm drowning my fuckin' sorrows in a bottle of bottom-shelf vodka in the world's shittiest dive. With the world's shittiest bartender.

"Drinking," is what he says instead of any of that.

"Cool, cool," Weasel says absently. There's an awkward pause. "It's just, normally you and Wade are a package deal, so..."

Logan snorts unhappily. "Yeah, no."

"Fuck do you mean, no?" Weasel's brow furrows in apparent confusion. "That's, like... not the impression I get from him. But whatever, I guess."

Logan narrows his eyes. "You get some kind of impression off him?"

"I dunno, man, it's--"

Logan sets his bottle down with a clunk. "Tell me the impression you get from him, Weasel."

"Like, he's a bazillion percent in love with you, dude."

He feels as if he's been struck, rearing back a little in shock. "Like hell he is."

"Nah, man, I'm serious. Like... he does the eye thing at you. Like the big eye thing." Weasel gestures vaguely with his hands, and Logan feels his stomach drop out like he's just gone unexpectedly skydiving.

"Seriously?"

"Mhm. And he can't stop talking about you. You should hear some of the shit he says about you when you leave to take a piss."

"He--he says raunchy shit about everyone."

"Not raunchy shit, man. I mean gross shit."

"Gross?"

"Talkin' about your eyes and stuff. Fuckin'... waxing poetic. Trust me, man. It's wack. Like drink a wine cooler and go for a long walk on the beach, wack. Honestly..." Weasel shrugs. "It's the way he looks at you, mostly. Haven't seen him look at someone like that since Vanessa."

Since Vanessa.

Oh, fuck. If he felt like he was unexpectedly skydiving before, he just discovered that he doesn't have a parachute. It's the same feeling of Oh Fuck.

If Weasel's right--Wade cares about him? Wade loves him and Logan ran away from him like the callous, cowardly bastard he is.

Logan stands abruptly.

"Whoa, you okay?" Weasel asks, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"I have to go," he blurts out, "Fuck, I--shit, I fucked up. I fucked up again, shit, goddamn it," he swears, throwing himself toward the exit at top speed.

"Wh--okay," Weasel calls after him, "good luck, dude, hope you work it out, or whatever!"

-

Logan isn't at home.

Wade feeds the dog an extra-large dinner because she missed breakfast AND lunch, the poor thing. Then he takes her out to pee, all still in his stupid white catsuit, which. Y'know, maybe he should actually keep it, he kinda looks a little good in it.

Then he peels himself out of it and shoves it in the trash. Showers very thoroughly, dresses in his own clothes and tries to feel like himself again.

It's not like Wade was directly sexually assaulted by Wilbert--he probably wasn't pretty enough for that, thank fucking god--but still, having your mind dominated, your agency stripped away, and being forced to dance for someone's amusement is still pretty fucking bad.

He never wants to dance again.

The thing is, he knows that's not really true, is it? In fact, he kind of needs to dance again. Right now. If he doesn't overwrite those shit memories with new good ones as quickly as possible, they're gonna stick like the rest of his scars and he's never gonna get over it.

"Fuck it," Wade sighs to himself.

Then he kicks on his shoes and heads out.

-

The ketamine isn't free tonight, but hey, Wade's got the money! Jimmy Venmo'd him! He can buy literally so much ketamine and not even make a dent in the new funds!

So he does. And it's so nice to dissociate a little, the drug putting distance between the memories of being controlled and the actual act of dancing here and now. The drug makes it feel far away, makes it feel like not such a big deal.

Makes him feel happy, makes him give less of a shit that Logan fucking left him. He feels chilled out, he feels... loose.

God. They really gotta legalize this shit for psychiatric purposes, Wade thinks, hazy, as he snorts another too-big bump in the men's room. I mean, for real. Goddamn.

"...Can you believe that? He was fuckin' hypnotizing them!" Wade says to Derek the manager when he finds himself leaning across the bar a few minutes later, the latest dose hitting his system. "Anyway, yeah! They're all okay! You didn't lose any customers at all! But y'know what?" He laughs, giddy and despairing. "I lost something!"

Derek looks more than a little worried, regarding Wade with a small grimace on his face. "What'd you lose?"

"Well, actually, I guess I never had him," Wade chuckles, bitterness slipping in even through the ket haze, god damn his healing factor clearing that shit out so fast, keeping him sane, he needs another fucking dose. "Anyway, he fuckin' left! I dunno where he is. So yeah! Fuck him!"

"Fuck him," Derek agrees, cautiously. "Um, so... I got that stuff Sam said you wanted, creme de noyeaux? You want a, uh..."

"Oh my fucking god, you got me the ingredients for a Pink Squirrel? Gimme," Wade gasps.

If Wade were a human being who could die, he would not be mixing alcohol with ketamine, because that could literally kill him, but hey. He has the power of God and anime on his side, or whatever.

Derek mixes the Pink Squirrel and slides it across the bar to Wade, who pounds it so fast he gives himself a brain freeze. "Oh fuck yeah," he moans, "you're the best! Hey, play Macho Man, I'm about to go get stupid out there!"

"I'm not gonna play Macho Man," Derek says, but Wade is already out on the floor.

God, Wade wishes he had his big stupid macho man with him.

-

Wade dances and sings along to the songs he knows and gyrates with strangers and laughs and plays and generally forgets his woes as best he can, but eventually the ketamine dealer leaves for the night (after Wade cleans out his stash) and Wade runs out of drugs, and then the bar announces last call, and--Jesus, is it really two-thirty AM? On a Sunday?

He slides up to the bar and asks for another Pink Squirrel, this time with a couple shots of vodka in it too, and yeah, it tastes pretty fucking vile, but it'll hold him over a little longer.

He did his last scrap of ket maybe fifteen minutes ago, and it's wearing off now, leaving him tired and empty.

Fuck, he misses Logan. That's the worst part of all this. It's not even just that he's horny for him.

Sure, it's that too. Wade wouldn't say no to another frantic grind sesh in one of these dark booths. But if this was just God I want to put it in his ass so bad, he could deal with it. If it was only I want the Wolverine to rail me 'til I cry he could crank one out--or crank a hundred out, probably--and move on. But no.

No, he's fuckin' pining for those soft moments in their shared booth. The moments of laughter shared on the dance floor. The little stories Logan told him. The goddamn kisses on the neck, the feeling of being liked by someone that he likes back. He pines for the feeling--fake as it was--that Logan wanted him. He wants to be held.

He wants the Very Hungry Caterpillar dream.

Talk about cringe.

The songs are slowing down now. Wade takes another gulp of his shitty-vodka-fied Pink Squirrel. Maybe he could find some lonely bastard to slow dance with. Hopefully one that's tall and broad and muscular and 200-something years old.

No, his standards aren't too high. Fuck off. He chews on the cherry from his drink, swallows it. Wonders what's next on the playlist. Wonders if he can raid Al's stash when he gets home, or if it's been totally cleaned out. Wonders if he'll ever be okay, for real.

A hand lays on his shoulder.

"I'm not interested, man," Wade mumbles, dropping his head into his hands. "Sorry. If you were here before I hauled my sorry ass outta the K-hole then it would have been a yes."

"Alright, bub. See you back home, then."

Wade whirls around so fast it's a miracle he doesn't break the sound barrier. Sure enough, there's Logan, dressed utterly normally, standing right here in the Smokehouse, the place he hates.

"What--" Wade blinks. "What are you doing here?" he asks, flabbergasted.

"Lookin' for you."

"How'd you know I'd be here?"

"Made an educated wish."

"Why?"

Logan holds out a hand. "Cause I wanted to dance with you, looks like. C'mon."

"Wait, what? Logan, the job's over." He shakes his head. "We got the guy. We got paid. You don't have to do this anymore. You know that, right?"

Logan's eyes are gentle. "I know," he says. "You gonna dance with me or not?"

Wade's heart pounds; he takes Logan's hand, slides off the bar stool. Lets himself be led to the mostly-empty dance floor. "I thought you said you didn't dance."

He pulls Wade into his arms, folds one of Wade's hands in his own and places it against his chest, places his other hand at the small of Wade's back. Wade finds his own other hand alighting softly at Logan's shoulder. The music is slow and Logan leads him, swaying gently.

Warmth and softness suffuses Wade's body. Totally different from the ket. Better, honestly.

"I said a lot of things," Logan murmurs.

It feels like an apology.

"So did I," Wade replies.

"Did you mean them?"

"You're gonna have to be specific, peanut."

He takes a deep breath. "When you said everyone makes mistakes. When you said what happened between us that night was just a stupid decision you made with your dick."

"I..." Wade takes a deep breath. "It was a stupid decision, unilaterally," he says, "jizzing in your pants in public usually is. But it was--" he pauses. He may be about to ruin everything, but Logan's dancing with him, looking at him with big dark eyes and illuminated prettily under the soft club lights. And he chose to be here. So Wade gathers his courage. "It wasn't just a dick decision, kitten whiskers," he confesses. "It was a heart decision, too. Big time heart decision."

Logan lets out a shaky breath that Wade hadn't realized he was holding. "You have no idea," he says, "how good it is to hear that."

Wade's brows shoot up. His heart leaps into his throat to strangle his brain stem. "It is?"

"Uh-huh." Logan nods. "Wade, I was scared as hell. When you disappeared, I... I was out of my fuckin' mind."

Wade swallows. Hope and relief flare in his chest, his heart's ongoing chokehold on his brain stem is getting tighter. "Logan...?"

"What if I couldn't find you, what if you were lost forever?" He shakes his head. "I've gotten--gotten real accustomed to you, Wade. To havin' you around."

"Accustomed to me," Wade echoes, a grin sliding across his face. "You're accustomed to me." He shakes his head. "So--why'd you ditch?"

Logan looks at him like he's stupid and, well, fair. "Because you said what we did was a mistake, dumbass! Because I knew you didn't--didn't want me the same way. An' I was about to really fuck things up if I stayed."

"Fuck," Wade groans, bonking his head against Logan's shoulder. "Yeah. I did say that."

"You did."

"I'm beginning to think I might be stupid." He feels Logan laughing, pulls back to look at him again. "So what changed?"

"Had an epiphany."

"You had an epiphany."

Logan smiles, lopsided. "A Weasel-assisted epiphany."

"What, he told you he thinks I'm in love with you?"

"Somethin' like that."

"Remind me to tip him a hundo next time I see him."

Logan's eyes shine. "Seriously?"

"Listen, peanut." Wade's free hand slips to rake through the hair at the base of Logan's skull. "I've become accustomed to you, too. You seriously didn't know that?"

"I seriously didn't know that," Logan murmurs, eyes fluttering shut for a second as Wade gently scratches his scalp. "I didn't think you were serious about any of it."

"Do you have any idea how hard it was to watch strangers come on to you all night?"

Logan raises an eyebrow. "Probably as hard as it was for me to watch you dirty dance with strangers all night."

"Dirty dance--what am I, Patrick Swayze?"

"I dunno, bub, you got the moves."

Wade's heart soars, he can't stop smiling, his heart still pounds like dubstep never fell out of vogue. "I'll show you the rest of my moves if you take me home right now."

The song ends and another begins. Wade recognizes it from Adventure Time. Derek really is a dweeb.

Slow dance with you, I just wanna slow dance with you
I know all the other boys are tough and smooth
and I got the blues, I wanna slow dance with you

"One more dance," Logan says, nuzzling his cheek against Wade's. "Then yeah."

-

"All right, peanut," Wade says the second they're through the apartment door, "if we're gonna bang like a screen door in a hurricane, maybe we should figure out--"

Logan's immediately in his space, pulling him close and kissing him.

It feels like that kiss out on the dance floor--that sweet, familiar kiss, natural and easy like they'd done it a thousand times. Logan's mouth opens for him, tongue flicking out to meet Wade's softly.

"You taste funny," Logan says when he pulls back just enough to speak.

"That would be the metric fuckton of party drugs I imbibed."

Logan huffs, bumps his forehead against Wade's. "What'd you do that for?"

"Um, I was depressed because the guy I'm six leagues down bad for ditched my ass at DILF Manor, and I snorted a mountain of horse tranquilizers about it."

Logan pulls a face. "Go brush your teeth."

"Then can we bone? Do the horizontal foxtrot? Get acquainted biblically?"

"First of all, there ain't nothing biblical about what I wanna do to you. Secondly--"

"Nothing? You sure about that? I skipped Sunday school but I'm pretty sure there was a whole chapter in that book about sodomy."

Logan snorts, and something in Wade rolls over and purrs in pleasure at having made him laugh. "Brush your damn teeth, red. I don't wanna get a contact high from kissin' you."

"C'mon, like you've never done Special K!"

"They didn't have that at Woodstock."

"Holy fuck, you were at Woodstock?"

"Do you want to have sex or not?"

"Alright, yes, reading you loud and clear!"

Wade scurries to the bathroom, scrubs the bitter taste of ketamine from his teeth and tongue, gargles mouthwash. Makes sure that he's as presentable as he's gonna get before he goes back to the main part of the apartment. "Okay, done! Ket drip fully vanquished, now can we--"

Logan interrupts him with another kiss. "Better," he says upon pulling away. "Give me a second, I'll meet you in the bedroom."

"Which one? We have two."

"Mine has the bigger bed."

"Oh, shit, you're right. Let's queen it up on the queen-size mattress, baby. I'm wetter than--"

"Wade. Shhh."

"Got it, your bedroom."

Wade turns and opens Logan's bedroom door, ducking inside and closing it behind himself for some stupid reason that he himself can't fathom. Logan's room is pretty clean, but in a depressing way--the man has hardly any possessions. He prefers to get hammered at Sister Margaret's or with Wade over Cutthroat Kitchen than alone, so there's not even any kind of collection of empty liquor bottles. A few trinkets he's picked up over the past few months, a side table with a lamp, a bed, clothes haphazardly spread between two hampers (presumably one clean and one dirty), and that's pretty much it.

Wade's eyes sweep over the unmade bed. It's sturdy, Logan had found the frame on Craigslist and made approving noises about the solid wood construction--now Wade gets why. The damn thing has more than one set of clawmarks in it, as does the mattress.

Huh.

Wade doesn't know how long it'll be til Logan comes in, so when the next impulse comes in, he acts on it without thinking about it too much.

He strips off his clothes, every scrap, tosses them at the hamper he suspects is the dirty one, and dives under the blankets. He's fully under the covers when Logan opens his bedroom door and steps inside, closing it behind himself. Wade's drawn the covers all the way up to his nose, only his eyes, the dome of his skull, and his fingers visible like paws peeking out over the top.

Logan's eyebrows raise, then he smiles, eyes crinkling. "Made yourself comfy, I see."

"Mmhmm," Wade agrees, wiggling a little into the mattress. "What the hell took you so long?"

"I was in the bathroom, bub. I don't need to explain that to you."

Logan approaches the bed, and Wade holds up one finger. "Turn off the overhead light," he says. "Feels like an interrogation room in here."

Logan flicks the overhead light off, leaving the room lit only by the nightstand lamp and streetlamp light filtering in through the blinds. "Better?"

"Yeah, c'mere."

Logan approaches the bed, tilting his head. "Are you naked under there?"

"Why don't you find out?"

Something shifts, Logan's eyes visibly darkening as his pupils dilate. Wade feels a little like a prey animal, the way Logan's focused in on him so wholly as he lowers himself to the bed and slides his hands underneath the covers to meet Wade's body; his palms make contact with Wade's bare shoulder and chest and Wade can hear the way he inhales sharp, like he's--excited. Anticipatory.

"You okay there, peanut?"

"Yeah," Logan breathes. "I wanna see you."

"Um... you, uh. You sure?" Wade grimaces. "This might be better as a touch-don't-look situation. I mean--"

"I know your skin is like this all over, Red." Logan tugs gently at the top hem of the comforter. "C'mon. You really gonna strip naked and then hide under the blankets the whole time? You really gonna make us do it under the covers with the lights off?"

"Okay, when you put it that way, it sounds bad." Wade's fingers loosen in the blanket. "Okay. Sure. But it's cold out there so you better work hard to warm me up if you're gonna take my blankets off."

"They're my blankets, bub."

Logan peels back the comforter slowly, and Wade feels--well. Naked, yeah. That about covers the situation. Naked in a way that goes beyond a lack of clothes; he feels stripped to the bone under Logan's eyes. Logan can't just look for long--he's not a patient man, and he is immediately pulling Wade against his own clothed body, hands running over him, squeezing and stroking, fingertips tracing scars and lingering on particularly interestingly-textured bits, apparently; he's pushing his face into Wade's neck and breathing, open-mouthed.

"Are you smelling me?"

"Uh-huh," Logan groans softly and Wade shivers, grinning. "You smell like strangers," Logan rumbles. "I don't like it."

"Well, you better fix it."

"Fuck," Logan swears, fingertips digging into Wade's back and shoulders; his breath is hot on Wade's neck. "Yeah. I'm gonna."

God, he feels--he feels wanted.

Wade rolls onto his back, pulling Logan with him; he spreads his legs so Logan can settle between them, wraps them around Logan's still be-jeaned hips. It's only when Logan rocks said be-jeaned hips down against him that he realizes he's hard, denim almost painfully rough against him, and Logan purrs as he dips down to kiss him again.

Logan's hard too, Wade can feel it. "So--who's doing what, I'm okay with whatever," he pants when they separate for air. "Just--y'know, we should probably--"

"I'm gonna suck you off," Logan says, "that okay?"

Wade hears angels sing and he thinks he might black out for a second, his head falling back against the pillow. "Holy nutballs. Yes. What the fuck kind of question even is that? Of course I'm gonna say yes, do I look stupid enough to say no? Don't answer that."

Logan laughs, a soft chuckle, pressing sweet kisses to Wade's jaw, hands sliding down his sides to his waist; Logan follows his hands down, breathing Wade's scent in all the way down his chest and stomach. His mouth is open just a little as he does; Wade wonders if Logan has a Jacobson's organ in the roof of his mouth like a cat or a snake, wonders if he's tasting his scent. The idea is stupendously hot and he arches up against Logan's hands.

"At least take your shirt off," Wade begs.

"I will," Logan promises, and inexplicably licks a wet stripe across Wade's navel; Wade squeaks, and Logan grins. "Ticklish?"

"Don't you dare," Wade warns, and Logan lightly digs his fingers into Wade's sides. "Shit, Logan!" Wade laughs, tries to twist away. "W-we need a safeword if you're gonna do that!"

"Fine, fine, maybe next time," Logan concedes, eyes sparkling in the half-light; he dips lower, splays his hands out across Wade's hipbones and unceremoniously presses his face against Wade's dick, doing the mouth-open inhale thing again, and--it's weird, okay, yeah. It's weird, and Wade has never been more into anything in his life. He can feel Logan's scruff against his balls and that should not have him as wrecked as it does.

"Peanut," he gasps, "I--I'm gonna come in your goddamn beard if you're not real careful."

"Okay," Logan says with a half-shrug, like if it happens it happens, and Wade thinks he's the luckiest man alive, cancer be damned. Fortunately, Logan takes some pity on him and draws the flat of his tongue up Wade's dick from base to tip.

"Jesus Christ and all his funky friends," Wade moans; Logan's tongue is hot and talented, he laps at the sensitive patch of wrinkled skin at the underside, right under the tip; sucks on it a little, draws it between his teeth as a tiny tease and Wade whines. "Wolvie, Peanut, c'mon--"

"Let me enjoy this," Logan rumbles, eyes flicking up to meet Wade's, and the juxtaposition here is so strange, Wade's scarred, lumpen dick against Logan's perfect, handsome face; the half-lidded way Logan looks at him, pupils lust-blown like there's nowhere he'd rather be. "I've wanted this for a long time."

"Why?!" Wade blurts out, and Logan looks at him like he's stupid, which, fair.

"Because I think you're the sexiest fucking thing I've ever seen, in my life, bar none," Logan speaks like he's explaining a very, very simple concept, "and I've been going insane since you made me come in that goddamn booth."

With that Logan takes Wade into his mouth and it's hot and wet and plush, burning; it feels insanely good but also the revelation Logan just laid on him is kind of a big deal; he moans, half in pleasure and half in sheer disbelief, hands sliding down to stroke Logan's kitty cowlicks. "You--you came?"

Logan pulls off with a pop, looking incredulous. "You didn't know? Bub, I ran to the bathroom like my tail was on fire."

"I--figured you were grossed out! Because of what I did!"

Logan clamps his eyes shut for a second, shakes his head, before sighing and wrapping his hand around Wade's cock, stroking him slow a few times. "You've got issues," he says, finally, opening his eyes back up. "I came my fucking brains out dry-humping you in that stupid club, Wade. Do you get it now? Do you get what you do to me?"

In an act of frankly Herculean self-control, Wade manages to keep from coming all over Logan's face. He shudders, toes curling. "Shit, you've got it real bad, huh? Poor bastard."

Logan chuckles again. "Yeah," he agrees, taking Wade into his mouth again, deeper; he sinks low, putting those slutty, slutty years of glory hole experience to good use; he stays down with his lips around the base of Wade's dick, doesn't fuck around with bobbing his head much, just systematically takes him apart with rhythmic pulses of suction, works his tongue against the underside, swallows around the tip of him. Purrs. The sensation is outrageous, pleasure zipping across Wade's nerves like electricity from head to toe, live wire coiling tight up in his stomach as all his muscles start to tense.

"Logan, I'm--I'm gonna fuckin' come if you don't slow down," he warns, a little frantic, fingers tightening in Logan's hair.

"Mmhmm," Logan hums, smug, around Wade's dick. His hands curl to grip Wade's waist tighter; his eyes flick up to meet Wade's again, and then the motherfucking bastard waggles his eyebrows once and winks at him. He winks with Wade's fucking cock in his mouth and that's all it takes.

Wade makes a sound that deserves an academy award for Sluttiest Auditory Achievement, legs jerking a little and his spine curving up off the bed as the tension releases all at once, pleasure rocking his entire body as he comes in Logan's mouth, it's gotta be a lot, it feels like a lot, feels like the most Wade's ever come in his goddamn life, gallons maybe, metric tons, an Olympic swimming pool of come, maybe, judging by how Wade feels, and Logan swallows it down without any complaint, the gentleman.

And he doesn't let up, either, sucks him quite literally dry until Wade's whimpering and pushing his head away; only then does he pop off him, licking his lips as he rests his cheek down against Wade's hip, looking more satisfied and smug than Wade's seen in his life.

"Ten out of ten," Wade wheezes when he finds his voice again. "Remind me to--leave you a good review. Five stars. Would recommend to a friend, if you weren't all fuckin' mine, that is, holy shit."

Logan preens a little, presses a smacking kiss to Wade's hip before making his way back up Wade's body to kiss him, and Wade can taste himself on Logan's tongue.

"All yours," Logan agrees.

"I won't make you call me Master, don't worry."

Logan snorts. "Are we to the point in recovery that we're joking about it now?"

"I'm at that point immediately following a trauma, yeah. I speedrun that shit. Looking for the world record, any percent. Now are you gonna take your clothes off, please?"

He slides off the bed, standing. Shrugs off his flannel, tugs the bloodstained undershirt over his head. Tosses them aside. And, sure, Wade's seen this before. He has. But when he saw Logan's body under the Time Ripper, Logan was--well, he was in excruciating pain, for one thing, and also he'd been surviving off little other than bar peanuts and scotch for the better part of twenty years. Yeah, he was built as fuck thanks to being the goddamn Wolverine, and on one hand it was a treat to see, but on the other hand, his skin was vacuum-sealed to his musculature, and it was a little... scary, sort of.

Several months living with Wade has been kind to his body. He's still built as fuck, of course, nothing's going to change that. But he looks well-fed. He looks strong, he looks solid. There's a thin layer of softness over his muscles, his veins don't stick out quite as badly. Wade feels just a little bit of pride. He helped with that. Logan's more comfortable now, healthier, not starving, because of him.

"I would say take a picture 'cause it'll last longer," Logan teases, "but you actually would."

"If my phone hadn't been obliterated on the highway tonight you can bet your perfect ass that I would indeed do that. Speaking of your perfect ass, off with your pants, you harlot."

"Harlot?" Logan raises an eyebrow, amused, as he undoes his fly. "Getting historical with the dirty talk, huh?"

"I could call you a hussy instead," Wade offers, "or a trollop, or--oh, holy fuck," he blurts out as Logan's jeans and boxer briefs slip down in one go, Logan stepping out of them and kicking them aside. "Nevermind, bit's cancelled. You are literally perfect."

Logan huffs, tugs his socks off and banishes them in the direction of the hamper before he obeys Wade's grabby hands and returns to the bed. "Perfect's a strong word."

"Mm, yeah, strong, maybe, but also accurate, I fear." Wade tugs Logan close, kisses him again, hands wandering down Logan's body at top speed, touching everywhere; he'd felt him up through his clothes in that booth, but actually getting skin on skin can't hold a candle to that. "Listen, I--seriously, what do you want? I'll do anything. Even the weird stuff," he vows, "especially the weird stuff. I--"

"Wade."

"I'll be the first to admit I'm not amazing at bottoming, but for you," Wade wraps a hand around Logan's cock and strokes, once, twice; it's thick, hot in Wade's grip, and it makes his mouth go dry. Logan gasps at the touch. "I would be so, so honored to give it the ol' college try," Wade babbles on, "so--"

"Wade."

"Or I'll blow you, or we can just do hand stuff if you want, or if you want I'll--I dunno, what are you into? You wanna spank me? Stab me a little? I'm for it. I just wanna make you--"

"Wade!" Logan's hands grip Wade's shoulders. "Shut up."

Wade goes still. "Sorry. Fuck."

"I don't want the weird stuff. Not tonight, anyway." He shakes his head and proceeds to speak very, very plainly. "What I want is you. Inside me. Felt real good in my mouth, want you in my ass too."

"Oh," Wade says, "my fucking god."

"Mm. But I didn't think ahead," Logan says, nose wrinkling, "and kinda wrecked that by going down on you, so--"

"Oh my god, no, I'll be ready to go in like--seven and a half minutes, tops," Wade says all in a rush, "you seriously want me to--oh my god. The Wolverine wants me to fuck him, I'm going to rail the Wolverine." Wade paws around blindly in the side table drawer. "Where do you keep your lube? You do have lube in here, right? Please say yes."

Logan gently slaps Wade's hand and pushes him back onto the bed with one hand flat on his chest; Wade falls back with a little punched-out noise and Logan eyes him. "I have lotion," he says. "That's what I use for--stuff."

"We're not using that. Go into my room, second drawer down on the right, pick your poison."

"Pick my... okay," Logan says, blinking, getting up and walking his perfect ass out of the bedroom. Not thirty seconds later Wade hears him from the other room. "Why the fuck do you have this many?!"

"You never know!"

"Most of these are out of date!"

"Lube doesn't go bad!"

"The hell it doesn't!"

"Oh my god, just fucking pick one!"

There's a groan and some rustling noises and then Logan's back, tossing a purple bottle toward Wade, who catches it out of the air. "Astroglide silicone, classic, nice," he says, "did you grab a--"

"Your rubbers were also out of date," Logan says, "and since neither of us can contract diseases or get knocked up, I figure there's no use anyway."

STOP THE PRESSES. THE WOLVERINE WANTS ME TO NAIL HIM RAW.

"Just because we can't get knocked up doesn't mean we can't give it our very best effort!"

Logan snorts, straddling Wade's waist; his thighs are furred and thick and powerful on either side of him, his dick standing at full attention. Wade thinks he might just straight-up die at the sight. "Yeah, sure, give it your best try," Logan says. "You're gonna open me up first, though."

"Yessir," Wade says, popping open the bottle's cap and doling out a more than healthy amount into his hand, warming it. "Y'know, I really thought we'd be doing this the other way around. Just based on what went down in that booth."

"I thought so too," Logan admits, "changed my mind. We can do that later. If you want."

"Would love to, but again, you're gonna have to be patient with me, I'm not great at it."

"Well, lucky for you, I happen to be excellent at it," Logan says. "Fuck are you waiting for? Fingers, asshole, now. It's not rocket science."

"Excuse you, princess, I was being a gentleman so that I don't freeze your precious rectum with this stuff. It's pretty frigid."

"Don't say the word 'rectum' ever again," Logan says, pulling a face, "I can deal with cold for a bit, just put your goddamn fingers in me, Wade."

"Alright, fine," Wade says, "what peanut wants, peanut gets."

"Damn right," Logan grumbles, and Wade slips his hand down between Logan's thighs, fingers trailing up behind his balls. He's soft here, hot, vulnerable; lust clouds Wade's vision and he presses two fingertips up against Logan's perineum. Logan groans, rolls his head back and looks down at Wade with eyes half-closed. "You missed," he drawls, "hole's a little further back."

"I know what the fuck I'm doing," Wade huffs, kneading that stretch of flesh firmly, insistently. Logan hisses, hands flattening on Wade's chest, his cock twitching hard. "Yeah? Feels good, right?"

"Yeah," Logan admits, "y'know what else would feel good? If you actually put your fingers in my fucking ass, Wilson!"

"Ooh, angry Wolvie," Wade gasps, theatrical. "You gonna punish me if I'm too slow?"

"Do not tempt me," Logan growls, "finger me or I'll do it my damn self."

"Mmkay," Wade chirps, fingertips sliding further over Logan's hole; he feels it clench at his touch and then relax as Logan breathes, and Wade just rubs the outside for as long as he thinks he can get away with before Logan squirms, makes a frustrated little sound in his throat, and Wade sinks his middle finger inside him.

The reaction is instant, Logan groaning low, eyes fluttering shut as he takes Wade's finger all the way to the last knuckle. He wasn't kidding, he is good at this; he's tight as a vice but taking it like a champ, immediately rocking down against Wade's hand as if he could possibly get him deeper. "Yeah, like that," he sighs, "give me another."

"Another? Already? Peanut, give me a second, I'm gonna blow my load just fingering you if you make me go that fast."

"The hell you will."

"No, but seriously, you feel so nice," Wade says, rocking his finger in and out, curling it just a little, testing the muscle. "Tight as hell at the entrance and then you open up so nice, fuck."

"Wade--"

"You're so smooth and soft and hot in here. God." Wade curves his finger a little harder and Logan whines softly, eyes closing. "Bingo," Wade purrs, "Yahtzee. There we go."

"Stop fucking around," Logan grits out. "Give me another."

Wade obeys, mainly because Logan's tone leaves no room for argument, pushing another slick digit up alongside the first and twisting them together. Logan's purr shakes his whole body, Wade can even feel it here.

"Another." Wade nods and works a third in, curling them all and stroking hard into Logan's sweet spot just to hear him moan, just to make him shudder, and he does. "I'm gonna ride you now," Logan pants out, shifting up and off Wade's hand.

"Wh--oh fuck yeah." Wade's voice breaks a little as Logan maneuvers into place, reaches down to guide Wade's cock against his hole; Wade's hands slide up Logan's thighs, his furry stomach, touching all over as Logan settles down on him and there's resistance, resistance, and then finally give as Wade pops into him and Logan sinks the rest of the way down around him in one slow, insane slide, Logan groaning with it and Wade babbling. "Holy hell, peanut, you feel like a dream, seriously--better than a dream, actually, goddamn--don't move, give me a second, please."

Logan nods, wordless, just looking down into Wade's eyes and breathing deep, and he's the wildest, most beautiful thing Wade's ever seen. Wade catches his breath, wills his heart rate to slow down to a pace approaching 'reasonable.'

"Okay," he says, finally, double-tapping Logan's flank like he's spurring on a horse. "Go nuts."

Logan doesn't have to be told twice; he grins, giving a little huff of laughter, and slowly rises up almost all the way--almost pulling Wade's dick completely out of him--only to sink down again, nice and slow and easy.

"Ah, yeah," he sighs, pleasure radiating off his voice, "that's it."

"Glad it's to your liking," Wade bites out, fingers twitching. "Grew it myself."

Logan laughs louder, hands flat on Wade's chest. "Fuck. Don't make me laugh."

"Can't help it, sorry, you're gonna have to gag me if you want me to shut the fuck up," Wade says, "or--or fuck me in a really loud club bathroom where you can't hear me, but I'll still be talking, so--"

"Don't wanna gag you." He starts rocking on Wade's hips, his insides slick and gripping, muscles rippling around him. "Like your voice too much." Wade moans at that, bucks his hips only to be heavily sat on by close to four hundred pounds of muscle and adamantium, firmly pinning him down. "Stay still," Logan huffs, "you're gonna come too fast if I let you fuck up into me like that."

"Okay," Wade whines, "but can I get that thing about my voice in writing?"

"No." Logan chuckles again, resumes his movements, and Wade does his very best to stay still.

"Fuck, do you even realize how hard it is not to move right now? You feel so good and I just wanna--"

"I know," Logan hums, "but you already came once, so let me have this."

"Sure, yeah, by--" Wade's words are cut off with a whimper as Logan picks up his pace a little, rising and falling, riding him properly; he feels like a sex toy in the positive sort of way, Logan watching him and seeing him and drinking in his reactions. "By all means," he adds, shaky. "Can I touch your dick? It's so pretty, can I, please?"

Logan shakes his head. "Not yet," he breathes, shifting his hips to change his angle just a little; he does it again, leaning a bit more forward, hands moving from Wade's chest to the mattress at either side of his head. He lifts up off him and sinks back down and this time the noise he gives is otherworldly and Wade can feel his insides briefly seize up, can see his cock twitch and feel it leaking pearly fluid onto his stomach. "Ngh," he grunts, brow furrowing with concentration as he moves the same way again, and again, speeding up.

"Logan," Wade hears himself say, hands shaking as they slide over Logan's belly and chest, fingers stroking through the thick hair there; he's trying to relax, not to get too worked up, to last. "I hope this doesn't kill the mood, but I'm in love with you."

Logan's eyes widen, his lips fall open and, most damningly, his cock jumps and leaks more precome onto Wade's stomach. "Yeah," he says after only a second, smiling lopsided and tilting his head, somehow cocky, "same."

"That's it? Just--same? Can--" Wade gasps as Logan's speed increases, fucking himself harder on Wade's dick, "any chance you can say the words? I get it if not, but--"

"Yeah, sure," Logan says, breathless, flushed pink from his chest up to the tips of his ears, eyes sparkling and crinkled pretty at the corners, "I can say 'em."

When Wade snaps his hips up this time, Logan doesn't stop him; he digs his heels into the mattress for leverage and does his damndest to fuck Logan as best he can, trying to meet his angle and drive into his prostate dead-on, and the way Logan gasps and falls forward a little more tells him he's got it. "Yeah? Okay, so--so are you--are you gonna?"

Logan looks Wade in the eyes, grinds down hard, takes Wade's hand and guides it down to wrap around his cock. "I'm in love with you," he says, finally, and Wade whimpers.

"Again," he begs, fisting Logan's slick cock in time with their fucking, "please--say it again."

"I love you," Logan pants, breathless above him, hips driving up into Wade's hand and then back down around his cock, over and over; Wade can see him losing his composure, and thank fuck, because Wade is so close to orgasm that he thinks he can see God. Logan keeps going, keeps speaking, his words becoming a chant, a mantra; "I love you, I love you, Wade, love you, love you, love you--"

Logan comes first, still talking, broken with moans but still speaking somehow. "Love--love you, ah, lo-ove you, fuck," shudders wracking his body from stem to stern as he comes across Wade's fingers and stomach in thick, pretty streaks; his muscles clench and flutter in rhythm with each pulse of come that's worked from him, and most devastatingly at all he's still looking in Wade's eyes.

And Wade's only a man. He can't keep his cool in the face of that, who the fuck could? Orgasm burns through him like wildfire, every muscle tensing to the point that he's gonna be sore in the morning; he presses as deep into him as he can get, instinctively, coming as far inside of him as he can get. His whole world narrows down to this, to Logan and his love, each crashing wave of sensation rendering him wordless for once, able to do nothing but cry out and pull Logan as close as physically possible.

Logan kisses the moans out of his mouth, drinks them down like whiskey; the kiss is frantic at first as aftershocks run through them both, slowing down to something lazier, something sweet and slow and filthy as they calm down, movements stilling. Logan pulls back for air, rests his forehead against Wade's. Gives a tired, breathless chuckle.

"Never heard of someone having a kink for I love you before," he teases softly when he can speak.

"Hey now," Wade says, voice raspy, "it's not a kink, it's... yeah, alright, maybe it is." He wiggles his hips once just to hear Logan yelp softly, which he does.

"You quit that," Logan grouses, unconvincingly. "No round two, not til the morning, anyway."

"Oh my god, morning sex. Yes, absolutely. And early afternoon sex. And mid-afternoon sex. We're gonna be like Hobbits and meals, but with fucking. What about second morning sex?"

Logan buries his face against Wade's neck to hide his smile. "Elevenses," he adds.

"You know Lord of the Rings?"

"Read it when it was first published, bub."

"Just when I thought you couldn't get hotter."

Logan lifts off of him, wincing at the feeling of Wade's softening dick sliding from him. He leans off the bed to grab the flannel he discarded earlier off the floor.

"Oh, shit, that's silicone lube, that's gonna stai--oh, okay, yeah, fuck that shirt," Wade sighs as Logan ignores him, uses the shirt to haphazardly clean himself up. "Whatever, that's the lube and come shirt now."

Logan attacks Wade with the flannel next, efficiently cleans his dick of come and lube--Wade hisses, oversensitive, and Logan makes an unsympathetic noise--before throwing the poor shirt onto the hamper and reaching to pull the covers up over them both. "Dunno about you," Logan says, reaching out and turning off the lamp on the nightstand, "but I'm goin' to sleep."

"Wh--really?"

"It's late, bub."

"I know that, it's just. You want me to sleep here with you?"

"Sure looks that way," Logan says, pushing Wade onto his side, maneuvering him like a ragdoll so he can spoon up behind him and sling an arm around his waist.

"Oh... well. Okay."

Logan noses against the back of his neck, breathes deeply.

"Do I smell better now?" Wade asks after a few soft, quiet minutes, when Logan's breathing has evened out, when he's floating closer to sleep.

"Yeah," Logan murmurs. "Much better."

-

Wade wakes up to Mary Puppins jumping on the bed and yarping in his face.

"Augh," he groans as she ferociously attacks his face with horrible doggy kisses, "good morning to you too, Señora Scabies. Why do you smell like breakfast?"

Logan is next into the room, accompanied by the scent of chocolate waffles; he settles onto the bed, offers Wade a plate.

"You went to Stella's again?"

"Dog wanted another pancake."

"I'm in love with you," Wade says, quickly scarfing a bite of waffle to chase off yucky morning breath before he leans in and presses a kiss to Logan's smiling mouth.

-

"I think I'm gonna ask the Professor about Colossus's offer," Logan says that night over the season finale of Cutthroat Kitchen.

Wade's eyes widen. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Logan nods. "Seeing him at Wilbert's, it was... tough. But I was okay. I think--I think I can handle it." He shrugs, pets Mary Puppins where she lies sprawled over their laps. "Maybe I can run combat drills with the recruits, or something."

He's so proud of Logan he could explode. "I think that's a really great idea."

Alton Brown cackles onscreen and sticks a spreader bar between a contestant's arms while they're trying to cook a dish.

"Something wrong with that guy," Logan says.

"I think he's a genius, personally."

The episode draws on. Eventually, on the coffee table, Logan's phone buzzes. He grabs it and flicks the notification open. "Look at this," he says, turning the phone to Wade.

It's from Jimmy; it's a selfie of him and Brijesh, out on a date together for the first time in a long time. Smiling at the camera, their heads knocked gently together. A text comes in.

Thank you!!! We owe you dinner soon!! XX

"Aw, god," Wade sighs, warmth blooming in his chest. "Peanut? Why were you so keen on taking that job?"

Logan shrugs. "Tired of seeing family die," he says. "Tired of dead queers. Didn't want any more." He pauses. "Except Wilbert."

"Except him," Wade agrees. "And maybe that one alt-right guy? Milo something?"

"Who?"

"Nevermind. I'm glad you had us take that job, kitten whiskers. Real glad."

"Yeah," Logan says, smiling down at the photo for a second before setting his phone back down so he can pet the dog instead. "I am too."