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1) The Tree
The car was barely in park when Logan rolled out of the driver’s seat and into the dreary afternoon. He stared up at the clouds, breathing deeply, in through his nose, out through his mouth, watching the puffs of condensation form and dissipate in the crisp air. His knuckles itched with the urge to let his claws rip through his thin skin and thick gloves.
Behind him, a car door slammed shut.
“Hey, Logie Lou Who, you almost locked the keys in the car!”
Two hours. Two hours to drive to the upstate Christmas tree farm that Wade had gleefully found on his phone while perched on the toilet during his 3 A.M. constitutional. Two non-stop hours of Wade’s Holly Jolly Ho-Ho-Ho In The Club playlist, complete with Wade’s off-key karaoke and one-man-air-band accompaniment.
The residual ringing in Logan’s ears sounded suspiciously like jingling bells.
“Hey, Ground Control to Major Logan,” Wade waved his hand a hair’s breadth from Logan’s nose, “let’s get to tree hunting before we’re stuck with the envy of the Charlie Brown cinematic universe.”
With that, Wade scurried away from the muddy parking lot, toward the little ramshackle holiday village bustling with families and shouting children. Sighing, Logan shoved his hands into the pockets of his winter coat and plodded after him. By the time he made it to the long line for tractor rides into the tree fields, Wade was bouncing on the balls of his feet with barely contained excitement.
“This is going to take for-fucking-ever.”
“No Grinch vibes at the Christmas tree farm, please and thanks. Taylor would never put up with that shit.” Wade patted Logan’s arm placatingly, then pointed at a small beverage stand about fifty yards away. “Hallmark rules say we need some hot chocolate. Bee-are-bee, honey badger.”
Logan watched as Wade bounded away, the tails of his scarf catching like a kite in the breeze behind him. Despite his initial irritation, Logan couldn’t help the small half-smile that twitched across his lips at Wade’s childlike reactions to the holiday scene. Try as he might, Logan couldn’t remember the last time he truly enjoyed the holiday season, much less participated in any obligatory seasonal cheer. But standing there, surrounded by trees, with that familiar, sharp scent of pine and petrichor hanging on the air: it was comforting in a way he couldn’t quite describe. And Wade, for all that he seemed to inherently know how to push each and every one of his buttons, also had this way of pulling Logan along on these stupid adventures that made Logan reluctant to regret them in the end.
His reverie was suddenly broken by a distressed child screaming at the top of their lungs in fear. An onslaught of grisly memories flooded his mind along with an accompanying surge of adrenaline, setting him on high alert, hackles raised, as he spun around toward the sound.
Wade was striding toward him with purpose, his empty hands pulling at his scarf to snug it around his nose and lips before tugging his beanie down further over his brow. Next to the beverage stand, two parents crouched in the gravel as they comforted the sobbing toddler.
“We’re leaving,” Wade said in a low voice as he paused briefly next to Logan, then continued on his single-minded path back to the parking lot. By the time Logan reached the car, Wade was already sitting in the passenger seat, engine running. Apart from the coughing drone of the heated air from the vents, the car was noticeably, heavily silent.
“What the hell happened?” Logan asked, even as the obvious series of events tempered his tone.
“I just want to go home,” Wade muttered dejectedly through his scarf as he stared blankly at the glovebox.
For a moment, Logan just watched him, considered on insisting that they take a few minutes and then go back, that they shouldn’t let a little kid who didn’t know any better ruin the trip that Wade had been so eager about.
But then Wade sniffled discreetly in a clear but futile attempt to keep Logan from hearing, even in their close quarters. Sighing quietly, Logan shifted the car into drive, navigating around the groups of people milling about in the parking lot before pulling onto the rural two-lane highway.
For some time, they drove in sullen silence, broken only by the occasional sounds of Wade shifting in his seat and Logan awkwardly clearing his throat. Snow had begun to gently fall, dusting the trees lining the nearly abandoned road in a scene fit for Currier and Ives.
“Fuck this,” Logan rumbled, wrenching the car onto the shoulder and throwing it into park. He reached over and unclicked Wade’s seatbelt before heaving himself out of the driver’s seat and stalking around the hood.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Wade demanded as Logan threw open the passenger door, a unique combination of curious and irritated, though he didn’t resist when Logan dragged him out of the car by his elbow.
Logan only responded by pulling him into the thick grove of trees, gaze searching, stopping abruptly when he found what he was looking for: a small stand of young spruce trees, straight and full under an opening in the dense forest canopy.
“Which one do you want?”
Wade’s eyes, the only visible part of his face beneath his winter beanie and scarf, scrunched quizzically.
Logan pulled his glove off of his right hand and tucked it in his pocket. “Pick one,” he coaxed, unsheathing the claws of his ungloved hand with a smooth snikt. A few drops of his blood dotted the snow blanketing the forest floor before the wounds sealed shut; he only noticed the stains there because he caught Wade staring.
“Hey,” Logan prompted gently, and Wade gave him a long look before he pointed at a stout blue spruce, the height just slightly taller than Logan himself. “You got it, bub.”
Kneeling in the snow, Logan considered the best place to cut the trunk before he pulled back his fist, hacking into the truck with a grunt. The leading edge of his innermost claw connected with precision, one, two, three times, before the tree toppled over with a soft thud. Logan carefully wiped the sap and bark from his claws with the peeking tails of his flannel before retracting them and pushing himself up from the ground.
Turning back toward Wade, he brushed his hands against his jeans as he sauntered the few steps to stand in front of him.
Slowly, Logan unwound the scarf from around Wade’s face, tugging on the loose fabric to pull him close and hold him there as he pressed a long, firm kiss to his dry, chapped lips.
“Leave this off on the ride home,” he murmured as he pulled away. “I wanna see that mug of yours.”
Wade’s mouth trembled ever-so-slightly, and he replied in that soft tone that Logan now recognized he only used when emotion threatened to get the better of him. “You’re supposed to keep your eyes on the road.”
Logan smirked, gave him a deliberate, salacious wink. “Doesn’t mean I can’t admire the scenic view,” he said, satisfied when it drew a genuine huff of laughter from Wade.
“Did those lines work back in the 5th century, old man?”
“They work now, and you know it better than anyone.”
“That’s ‘cause I’m easy.”
“You ain’t anything close to easy, bub,” Logan chuckled as he walked back toward their tree, grunting as he hoisted the trunk-end up onto his shoulder, spitting needles out of face as he adjusted the weight. “But that’s what makes this fun,” he finished with a smile.
On the short walk back to the car, sap dripped sticky into his hair, loose needles slipped and scratched down his collar, and branches jabbed into his side and thighs as he maneuvered around the brush. Yet, all he truly felt was Wade’s hand and fingers spread warm and sure beneath his jacket, against the small of his back.
2) The Nightmare
Logan’s lungs burned as he sprinted through the smoke-filled building. He had only one goal in mind: find the bad guys and save the hostages before there were any more innocent lives lost.
God, the fucking screams over the radio when the ringleader popped one of the office staff in the middle of their corporate Christmas party. In his old universe and his new one, the terror sounded the same. They all bled the same. They all died the same.
Goddammit.
“Come in, Roy Rogers, got your ears on?” came the tinny voice over the handheld radio.
The film of sweat coating Logan’s skin made his thumb slip on the push-to-talk button. “Wade, what the fuck is going on out there?!”
“Eye-dee-kay, mijo, I got tired of standing around with the feds with my thumb up my ass. And you know how much I love asspl–”
“Wade.” The security door to the stairwell gave way when Logan threw his full weight against it, and he dashed up the stairs two at a time, heading up toward the roof.
“Focusing, got it.” Wade sighed through the radio. “Everyone is up on the roof, Bruce. But I really don’t think you should go up there.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Logan panted in confusion.
Even through the growing static, Wade sounded devastatingly sad. “I mean it, Logan. Stop. Walk away.”
An explosion rocked the building, the reverberations briefly knocking Logan painfully to his knees before he scrambled to his feet once again.
“I’ll bring the hostages down, be ready.”
Wade’s somber Logan, don’t, was all that came through the radio before Logan crushed it in his fist. He bounded up the last few flights of stairs, throwing the door to the roof open and dashing into the cold night air without a second thought. Claws at the ready, he spun around, trying to catch sight or scent of the hostages and their captors.
Suddenly, he caught a scent, the metallic tang of copper and rot. Blood. He smelled blood, though there appeared to be no trace of anyone on the roof.
His hands suddenly felt sticky and warm, with a syrupy wetness dripping down his fingers and claws. In horror, he raised them to his face: his skin was stained with dark crimson, the silver of his adamantium coated thick with coagulated blood.
“Wha-what?!”
Slender, powerful fingers suddenly wrapped around his ankle and squeezed hard. Logan stumbled back, falling flat on his ass as he tripped over his own feet in shock.
It was Jean, her face pale and drawn, her bloody hand reaching out for him as she lay curled and dying on the graveled surface of the roof.
“Logan,” she moaned weakly, “whhyyyyyy….”
Behind her, the bodies of the X-Men intermixed with civilians, young and old, were piled haphazardly, their slack mouths open, their lifeless eyes staring blankly at him.
Logan felt paralyzed in fear, in bewilderment. “No, no, no, no… what the fuck is happening…”
“Logan.” He looked down at his hands – somehow, impossibly, he was once again holding the radio, unbroken and newly restored. “Logan, stop.”
“W-Wade? What’s happening?” Logan felt himself spiraling as Wade repeated his name over and over again, LoganLoganLogan.
It was then that Jean suddenly surged up from her prone position and pounced on him with an inhuman strength and speed, her eyes flashing, her split lips locked in snarl as she gripped the sides of his head and shook him viciously. “WHY,” she screeched, “WHY DID YOU LEAVE US? LOOK WHAT YOU DID.”
Tears sprung at the corners of his eyes as her nails dug into his scalp, brutal and unforgiving.
Logan, Logan, Logan…
“I’m sorry, Jean, I’m so fucking sorry…”
“LOGAN.”
Logan jolted up blindly, his head connecting solidly with something in the darkness.
“Aw, fuck, yep, that’s broken!”
Blinking rapidly, Logan’s eyes adjusted to his waking environment, trying to make sense of what was happening and where he was. Reality slowly filtered in through his panicked haze: he was in the living room of the apartment, on the pullout, the lights from their Christmas tree casting the room in shadow and a warm, multicolored glow. Wade was astride Logan’s hips, fussing with his own nose, wiping away the slowing trickle of blood from his right nostril. The mingled echoes of Jean and Wade’s voices – a phantom bridge of two dimensions linked by Logan alone – faded as his racing heart slowed.
A nightmare. Another nightmare.
Logan didn’t realize his cheeks were wet until Wade started wiping away the dampness. He was a solid, comforting weight atop his thighs, grounding him in what was real.
“You with me now, peanut?”
Logan squeezed his eyes shut and nodded as he pressed his face against Wade’s palm. Wade scooted forward into his lap to gather him closer, and Logan let himself be pulled against his chest. Even as Wade stroked his fingers through his hair, Logan could still feel the bite of dream-Jean’s nails in his scalp.
He was so fucking exhausted.
“So, no more Die Hard before bed, huh? Maybe Muppet Christmas Carol tomorrow? Though those fucking puppets are terrifying in their own right, tee-bee-aich.”
Logan huffed sadly against Wade’s skin.
“You wanna talk about it?”
Logan shook his head. There was nothing to say that Wade hadn’t heard before, nothing that he could fix, even though Logan had long since come to know that Wade would, if he could. He didn’t have the way with words that Wade had, and, not for the first time, Logan wished he could convey what it meant to him to simply know that Wade understood, and to have him so close despite it all. Before Wade had plucked him out of his universe, it had been a long, long time since anyone touched him with any type of kindness. The only comfort to be found had been in the bottom of a bottle.
Compared to what Wade offered him now, so freely, so easily – well, there was no comparison to be made.
“Wanna fuck about it?”
And then he made unexpected comments like that that completely turned Logan on his heel. It caught him off-guard, and Logan couldn’t help the surprised snort that escaped.
He pulled away from Wade, just far enough to look him in the eye. Wade’s mouth was quirked in a small, fond smile. His dark eyes, tired but brimming with compassion, fluttered shut when Logan trailed his fingers down the upturned line of his newly healed nose.
“Are you okay?” Logan’s voice was gruff to his own ears, raw and roughed over with sleep and memory.
“Oh yeah, nose problem at all. That adamantium noggin of yours is no match for this classic leading-man-dipped-in-radioactive-acid profile.” He smirked at Logan. “Michaelangelo wept.”
Logan rolled his eyes half-heartedly as he pulled Wade closer to press a gentle kiss to the bridge of his nose, letting his lips linger there when he heard Wade’s breath catch.
“Okay, easy there Love Actually, leave it to the other Hugh.”
“Wade,” he whispered, allowing some of the vulnerability he fiercely guarded to bleed through, gifting it to a man he knew would protect it just as ferociously.
Wade wrapped himself around Logan and rolled them back down onto the mattress. “I’m here, Logan. I’m here.”
3) The Mistletoe
The sickly-sweet smell of boxed-mix confetti pancakes pierced the veil of sleep before Logan was even fully awake and aware of it. He floated to the surface of consciousness slowly, stretching leisurely, eyes closed, focusing on the soporific pull of his muscles and the slide of the sheets against his bare skin. Even though there were no marks marring his body, Logan could feel the pleasant phantom sting and throb of bites and bruises that Wade left in his wake the night before.
Speaking of.
Wade’s side of the bed was unmade and cool to the touch, the blackout curtains still pulled shut. The alarm clock on the nightstand revealed that Logan had overslept over an hour past his usual waking time. The recent spate of recurring nightmares and associated sleeplessness, coupled with the shortened daylight, had thrown off his body clock, left him with a lingering headache that he couldn’t quite shake.
Logan pushed himself up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. A muted cacophony filtered through the closed bedroom door, the clatter of a suspiciously excessive number of pans, dishes, and silverware playing a counterpoint to Wade’s falsetto rendition of Last Christmas. It sounded like Mary Puppins was even getting in on the action, harmonizing with a hoarse yip and howl every few bars. The concert was interrupted by a particularly loud crash followed by an abrupt, protracted silence before the singing started again with even more seasonal fervor and glee.
Thank fuck Althea was out of town. She would’ve murdered them both at least five and a half times by now.
Sighing, Logan briefly considered sliding back under the covers and trying again in a few hours.
Against his better instincts, he stood, reaching for his gray sweatpants from where they were draped over the dresser mirror, their final destination after Wade had blindly flung them across the room hours earlier. The racket Wade was generating increased tenfold as soon as Logan opened the bedroom door. He padded heavily across the floor, irritation growing with every step as the nascent throb of his nagging headache bloomed behind his eyes, the onslaught of noise and cloying smells overwhelming his enhanced senses.
As he reached the threshold of the kitchen, Wade suddenly spun around and shouted, “Don’t move!” with the kind of urgency Logan only heard when someone’s life was on the line, or when Mary struck a particularly Instagram-worthy pose. Wade dropped the pan he had been holding into the sink with a deafening CLANG and skipped over to Logan, stood toe-to-toe with him as he stared expectantly.
“Well?”
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, took a measured, deliberate breath, in, and out. “Well what?”
“C’mon, Logie bear, don’t tell me your universe didn’t have this holiday tradition.”
“The fuck kind of tradition is this?” Logan stared incredulously at the incredible mess of dishes, open boxes, and (multiple?) milk cartons behind Wade. There wasn’t an inch of countertop that wasn’t covered in a thin film of flour. Somehow, half an eggshell was plastered on the ceiling above the stove. “I ain’t cleaning this shit up.” His headache pulsed sharply as he clenched his jaw.
Catching Logan’s face between his hands, Wade squished his cheeks. “Oh, you sweet little sugar plum gumdrop,” he cooed, tilting Logan’s head back far enough to see the bundle of green and red duct-taped messily to the top of the doorway.
Wade’s hands fell to his sides when Logan jerked away from him. A goofy smile still decorated his lips, but the joy behind it had dissipated as he studied Logan’s face. “C’mon, Loge. A little breakfast in bed, a little deck the halls… thought it might exorcise your internal Grinch demon.”
“Yeah, well,” Logan growled as he turned on his heel, “you fuckin’ thought wrong.”
Logan stalked away, back toward the bedroom. He made it only one step into the darkened room before he stopped, his misplaced anger melting into guilt as quickly as it came. In the kitchen, Wade was moving slowly, quietly, the buoyant mood completely gone, as if Logan had run it through with his claws and let the air out of the room. And for what? Because Wade was, once again, trying in his own way to help him?
“Fuck.”
He shuffled back to the kitchen, leaned against the doorframe to watch Wade. Wade, dressed in a pair of boxer-briefs that proclaimed Santa’s got a package for you! and Logan’s own worn tank top. Wade, who was all tense, coiled muscle, moving with the same stealth and grace that he deployed in the heat of battle so that he wouldn’t create too much noise, using it instead to scrub the dirty dishes under the feeble trickle from the faucet. Wade, whose heart Logan could hear pounding turbulently, even as he studiously ignored Logan’s presence behind him.
Logan reached up and plucked the mistletoe from the doorway, walked over to where Wade was hunched over the sink. He stopped just short of touching him, but stood close enough to feel the heat from his body. Wade never faltered in sweeping the soapy sponge from bowl to bowl, pan to whisk.
Twirling the stem of mistletoe between his fingers, Logan felt oddly nervous as he trailed the leaves across the slopes and valleys of Wade’s bare shoulder, down his arm, and up again. When Wade shivered, Logan leaned against his back and reached in front of them to turn off the faucet. He pressed his mouth to the solid jut of Wade’s collarbone, murmured, sorry, into the jagged topography of Wade’s skin.
The tension left Wade’s body, and he turned in Logan’s arms, leaving a trail of sudsy dampness that soaked into the band of Logan’s sweatpants when he snaked his arms around Logan’s bare waist.
The pounding in Logan’s head slowly began to subside as he nuzzled into Wade’s neck, breathing him in, catching the scent of sugar, white spruce dish soap, the bitterness of illness and bright zest of healing, and the salty tang of his own sweat on Wade’s skin.
Heat flushed through him when he realized what it smelled like – home. Wade smelled like home.
The unexpected emotion had him nosing against Wade’s cheek, intent on kissing him, when Wade suddenly slapped a hand against his mouth.
“Nuh-uh-uh,” Wade chastised, and Logan’s heart dropped into his stomach.
There he went. Fucking up everything again.
But then Wade moved his hand to instead wrap his fingers around Logan’s, tangled them in the red bow of the mistletoe, and pulled their joined hands above their heads. Wade grinned at him warmly.
“Have at it, honey badger.”
Logan smiled. And did.
4) The Mission
“KRAMPUS? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?”
The job was supposed to be straightforward: hunt down and run out a creep that had been stalking a sleepy little town, attempting to lure kids away with toys and candy canes but consistently evading security cameras and witnesses over the age of twelve. The local police were at a loss, and Wade, with his soft spot for both helping children and unleashing unbridled violence on said creeps, jumped at the mission as soon as it was posted on the board. When Logan came home that night, Wade had gripped his hands, the details pouring out of him, and Logan knew he would be tagging along.
Now, as the demonic creature cackled and zipped around them, as Logan shook off the evil magical toys scaling his body and attempting to tear off chunks of his flesh through his suit, Logan was having some second thoughts.
“Focus on the schnukies first!” Wolverine bellowed as he swiped at Krampus’ skittering minions.
Several yards away, Deadpool’s blades were a blur of movement as he cut through the overwhelming cluster of chomping creatures, hopping from one foot to the other as he simultaneously stomped at them. “Schnukies?! What the actual fuck!”
Wolverine grabbed a creature hanging off the wing of his mask and crushed it in his fist. “And if you see any reindeer, keep your fucking distance! They breathe fire!”
Even from the distance, Wolverine could see the eyes of Deadpool’s mask widen incredulously as he paused in his attack, completely unconcerned as the schnukies scaled his legs. “That takeout we got last night was okay, right? I think I have food poisoning. This is a fucking fever dream.”
Then, a switch flipped, and Deadpool sprung into motion again, closing the distance between them with a series of impressive acrobatics, sending the creatures attached to his body flying as he landed on his feet, nose-to-nose with the Wolverine. “Though, if this was a dream, you’d be wearing a lot less clothes.”
Growling, Wolverine skewered his claws through the minions at their feet. “WADE.”
In response, the grinning idiot sheathed one of his katanas to boop Logan’s nose. “You’re cute.” But then he spun around, lunging to the side, positioning himself behind Wolverine, swords held at the ready.
With Deadpool pressed against his back, Wolverine felt more settled, the jittery fog of bloodlust, the heady buzz of a good fight morphing into something more controllable, more focused. The Wolverine grinned wickedly. “Let’s fucking go.”
They fought together as one, anticipating each other’s movements, a formidable unit of blades and brute force slicing and pulverizing the little demons until there were no more, leaving the village square littered with their strange corpses.
Wolverine stood on alert even as his lungs burned with exertion, bloody claws drawn, his eyes scanning their surroundings for any further movement. Krampus had disappeared at some point during the melee, no trace of him to be seen anywhere.
Sheathing his katanas as he twirled in front of Wolverine, Deadpool spread his arms in victory, giggling manically. “We should’ve kept one of ‘em alive, Wolvie! Mary’s been wanting a new supernatural demon for a playmate. Ah, well.” Then, with a horrible Cockney accent, declared, “Thor bless us, everyone!”
Temporarily satisfied that the immediate threat was eliminated, the Wolverine straightened up from his battle-ready stance and retracted his claws. “That’s not how it goes,” Logan grumbled.
“Are you telling me Mr. Wolveneezer Scrooge has actually read A Christmas Carol?”
“I remember when it came out, dumbass.” Logan’s face scrunched in disgust as he looked down at his hands, covered with blood and schnukie gore, before wiping them off on his equally sullied suit.
“You remem– fuck, you’re old. You know, I never thought about this before, but you’re such a cradle robber, Log–” Wade’s voice suddenly cut off as an otherworldly wail brayed from the opposite side of the street.
A fiery surge of adrenaline and panic surged through his veins as Wolverine swung around toward the hellish sound, his lips curled in a feral snarl. They let their guard down too quickly. Amateur. Fucking STUPID.
An ethereal shimmer seemed to emanate from around Krampus’ outstretched hand, his crooked fingers and curled, yellow nails wriggling in Wade’s direction. “His soul is mine now,” he hissed, the syllables landing like needles in Wolverine’s eardrums, “time to die.”
Next to Wolverine, Deadpool gasped and moaned. His body stiffened and shook like he was being shocked through with electricity, and he rolled up unnaturally on the balls of his feet, as though he was being pulled upwards by an invisible string. The white eyes of the mask were wide, somehow vacant, as Deadpool’s head tipped back toward the sky. When he screamed, Logan’s heart constricted in ricocheting agony.
The last time Logan heard Wade scream like that, matter and antimatter were coursing through their joined bodies, incinerating them from the inside out as they barreled toward oblivion together. He had never wanted to hear that sound again.
Wolverine’s vision was enveloped in a red haze as his claws sprung from his shaking, clenched fists. He had no plan of attack, no idea if the supernatural creature could be defeated with adamantium and raging brutality. All he knew was that he wasn’t going to lose Wade today – and if that was in the cards, he’d follow him down just as he had in that subway station nearly a year earlier.
The Wolverine roared as he sprinted toward Krampus, leaping through the air with arms and claws outstretched like a rabid, wild thing diving in for the kill. His claws connected solidly, spearing through Krampus’ sneering face with a sickening crunch, and then Wolverine knew no more.
When finally came to, he opened his eyes to a group of hovering townspeople, each of their faces creased in universal concern and worry. Logan felt like he had run over by a tank – something he, thankfully or no, knew from direct experience. A few of the townspeople fell to their knees to help him as he struggled to sit up, groaning as dizziness briefly overwhelmed him.
“Thank you, sir. You saved us,” the man crouched at his elbow said. “You saved our kids.” When the crowd murmured in agreement, Logan had to look away, thinking of another time, and another universe.
“What happened?” Logan asked, needing to redirect their gratitude as he tried to get his bearings.
“The man in the red suit,” said an elderly woman standing near his feet, “he appeared out of nowhere. They fought for only a few minutes and the demon disappeared.”
The world tilted as Logan swung his head around, “Where, where is he – the man in red?”
A few of the bystanders pointed tentatively toward the street, where a smaller crowd stood in a halo around Deadpool, his body crumpled in an unmoving heap.
“I’m sorry about your friend,” the woman offered somberly.
No. Wade couldn’t be – he couldn’t.
Logan forced himself up on his hands and knees, staggered up to his feet and over to Wade’s body. The fairy lights strung between the streetlamps flickered on; he had been unconscious long enough that darkness had begun to fall.
As soon as he was within arms’ reach of Wade, the crowd parted, and Logan collapsed back to his knees. With effort, he pulled Wade’s cold body into his lap, cradling him in his arms.
Logan sincerely doubted that Weapon X, much less any bootlegged offshoots, ever considered the metaphysical when it came to the regenerative factor. Preemptive grief dammed up his throat as he choked Wade’s name.
Since Logan came to this universe, he had considered many scenarios in his darker moments: how he should have kept walking after Wade sprung up from that bench and called Logan!; disappearing in the night, as Wade and Al lay passed out on the sofa, escaping to live a life of deserved isolation in some distant wilderness; accepting the invitation to join this universe’s X-Men, and testing the limits of his seeming-immortality while Wade pursued the life he deserved to have, without the 200-year-old alcoholic with a short fuse and blood on his hands.
He never once considered existing in this universe without Wade Wilson, even when he thought Wade would be better off without him.
An old, familiar sorrow began to swallow up the unfurled seeds of hope and happiness that had been growing under Wade’s careful cultivation. Logan set a heavy hand in the center of Wade’s chest, the top buckles of his suit sharp against his palm.
Beneath Logan’s fingers, Wade’s muscles twitched.
“Holy,” Wade coughed, gasping as his lungs reinflated, “Fucking. Shit.” For a moment, Logan could only blink in disbelief, then, in a rush, he pulled Wade’s mask up and over his mouth and nose so he could more easily gulp in the air.
As his breathing steadied, Wade reached up and gripped one of the wings of the Wolverine mask, jostling it gently as his mouth twisted in concern at Logan’s countenance. “You good, peanut?”
In answer, Logan surged forward and kissed him, a frenzied press of his lips to Wade’s, the reinforced point of his mask pressing unforgivingly into the swell of Wade’s cheek, pulling away only when Wade began to gasp into his mouth.
Logan had never considered himself a man of words anyway.
When Wade panted, “We’re alright, Logan, we’re alright,” Logan nodded. Wade still had not let go of the swooping black wing of his cowl.
“How did you do it?” Logan croaked.
“Huh?”
Wade probably needed to get his bearings just as Logan had, the supernatural magic that Krampus used causing some lingering aftereffects. “The folks over there said you fought him and scared him off after I blacked out.”
Wade’s mouth tilted in confusion. “Wasn’t me. Last thing I remember doing my best All I Want For Christmas whistle note while you Five Nights At Freddy-ed the anti-Claus.”
“But. They said, the man in the red suit.”
Unease crept up Logan’s spine when Wade repeated, “It wasn’t me, peanut.”
As they stared at one another, a strange kind of realization began to unfold in Logan’s mind. Slowly, slowly, he looked up wordlessly toward the sky.
In his arms, Wade scoffed, “What are you looking at– no. Nuh-uh.” Logan swung his head back down to him in alarm. “No fucking way. Logan. C’mon –”
In the distance, the distinct sound of sleigh bells echoed across the town square, originating from no clear direction or source.
Wade’s mouth gaped in disbelief, and he heaved himself up in Logan’s tight hold, using his cowl as a handle. “I swear to fucking Feige, we’re never getting takeout again.”
5) The Gift
The tarnished bell of the hardware shop door chimed cheerfully behind him as Logan stomped the snow off of his work boots. It had been a long, cold day at the construction site, with the whole crew being pushed to finish the job before the influx of holiday travel. All he wanted to do was get back to the apartment and start dinner, knowing that Althea had already gotten a head-start on celebrating the holidays with family out of state, and that Wade had recon job that meant he wouldn’t be home until well past midnight.
Before he could eat and collapse onto the sofa, though, Logan needed to stop into the neighborhood hardware store for new work gloves.
Truth be told, he loved this particular store, with its musty atmosphere and hardwood rafters, its little antique door bell and frosted windows painted with holiday flair. It felt like stepping back into time, back when there was still some mystery to life – before he was the veteran of multiple wars, before he was The Wolverine, the weapon coveted by the powerful and feared by the corrupt and innocent alike.
Logan inhaled deeply as he made his way over to the aisle displaying a small selection of work gear, indulging in the heady scent of wood, dust, leather, the hint of cigarette smoke and… something else. Something… familiar, but misplaced. Curiosity peaked, he abandoned the gloves and followed his nose toward the scent. It got stronger as he made his way toward the back of the store, more distinctive, until he rounded the endcap of an aisle and froze in his tracks.
There was Wade, wearing a long, oversized hoodie over his Deadpool suit sans mask, chatting casually with Fred, the grizzled old store owner, at the service counter.
“Ah, Logan, excellent timing, young man!” Fred flashed a nicotine-stained smile at him and waved him over happily. Wade, on the other hand, jumped about a foot off of the ground, his shocked expression morphing from guilt to disappointment to irritation in rapid succession. “Hold on, Mr. Wilson, I’ll go and get a box for you.” Fred patted the hand Wade had clenched on the counter before shuffling through the door marked Staff Only.
“What the fuck are you doing here? Why aren’t you home?” hissed Wade, arms crossed and mouth pursed in a petulant pout.
“Hello to you, too, asshole. I just clocked out and needed some new work gloves.” Logan reached out and lifted the hem of Wade’s hoodie, gesturing at his suit as Wade batted his hands away. “What the fuck are you doing here? Why aren’t you working?”
“Finished early. You need to leave now.”
“The fuck I do –”
“Here you are, Mr. Wilson!” Fred called from the doorway.
The two men snapped to attention like shadows of the soldiers they each used to be. Fred glanced between the two of them in amusement before handing over a small black rectangular box to Wade. “If you have any issues with them, you go ahead and bring them back and we’ll try again.”
Wade tucked the box into the pocket of his hoodie and, smiling politely, said in a rush, “Thanks, Fred. Tell your wife I hope she feels better soon,” before dodging Logan’s outstretched arm and hustling toward the exit.
Logan was hot on his heels, throwing a quick, “See you later, Fred,” over his shoulder as he caught Wade by the hood just as he crossed the threshold, the bell jangling discordantly as they stumbled onto the sidewalk together.
“I will stab you right here if you don’t let me go!” Wade swung his arms ineffectually at Logan, tangled up in his own sweatshirt.
“And I’ll stab you right back, dumbass.” Logan reeled him by the hood’s drawstrings, then gripped his shoulders tightly to hold him still. “You wanna calm the fuck down and tell me what’s going on.”
Wade’s shoulders slumped as he seemed to genuinely consider Logan’s offer. Then he spat, “Nope,” and slipped on a patch of ice as he tried to dart away again.
When Logan hauled him back up to his feet, the mysterious black box tumbled out of his pocket. As it impacted the ground, the top popped off, spilling the contents on the pavement. Logan stooped down to scoop everything up, Wade whispering a soft but ardent goddammit as he straightened up with hand outstretched.
Five gleaming new keys of varying sizes and shapes, freshly cut by Fred himself.
Logan turned the keys over between his fingers as he tried to make sense of their significance. Slowly, Wade folded his hand over his, and Logan let him sweep the keys out of his palm.
“Welp, that’s one of your Christmas presents fucked up, peanut. You gotta at least pretend to be surprised for Mary’s sake.”
“Huh?”
Wade shook his head and looked away from Logan in what seemed like embarrassment. One by one, he held up each key, naming them as he placed them back in Logan’s hand: apartment, apartment building door, mailbox, car, my weapons safe. “Yours,” he finished, eyes dark and guarded.
Logan glanced down at his hand before fixing his gaze back on Wade’s in confusion. “I have keys.”
“Yeah, you use mine. Or Al’s. Or the spare set. Like I said, these are yours.” Wade sighed in exasperation. “You know what, never mind. It was a stupid idea –”
Logan felt his heart clench as full understanding finally dawned on him, and he snapped his fingers closed over the keys, their jagged edges biting sharply into his palm. “Not stupid,” he murmured roughly, “not stupid at all.” He leaned in and kissed Wade hard, too hard, feeling his lip split open against his teeth when Wade gasped in surprise, tasting blood, and not caring one bit.
The implication of the gift, the implicit confirmation of yes, you belong here, with me, with us, this is your home – it was beyond touching. It soothed a painful, open wound within Logan that he had long since buried.
“Okay, yeah, maybe not so stupid,” Wade breathed, slightly dazed as Logan pulled away. Logan felt the tug of his scruff against Wade’s scars when Wade rubbed his thumb against the grain of his beard, and turned his face to press one last kiss to his palm. Wade beamed at him. “Home?”
“No,” Logan replied gruffly as he shook his head. “I’m taking you to dinner.”
“Wining and dining me, holy shit.” Wade tipped his head up toward the sky and shouted up at the clouds, “take some notes, Père Noël, bet you can’t top that!”
+1) The Party
“Another glass of sparkling cider, Mr. Wolf?”
The apartment was bustling, the buzz of conversation and laughter lilting over the low hum of holiday music and commentary from the New Year’s Eve announcers on the television. The tables were full of homemade appetizers and takeout containers, and all of Wade’s friends and family were there, wearing Wade’s required attire of sequined party hats and glittery Happy New Year glasses. You shall not pass lest ye are adorned! Wade had demanded, and he had meant it. Logan knew he’d be finding sparkly sand in unwelcome crevices until the summer solstice, at a minimum.
A loud peal of laughter across the room caught his attention. Vanessa and Wade were bunched together on the sofa, huddled around an old photo album, laughing and grinning as they pointed at the pages spread open in front of them. Logan couldn’t help the way his lips tipped in a small smile at the easy happiness on Wade’s face, even as he felt his stomach twist uncomfortably.
“Logan?”
Dopinder stood there, still waiting, a bottle of sparkling cider tipped toward Logan’s dwindling champagne flute in expectation. His eyebrows were wrinkled in concern, mouth quirked in a worried frown.
“Are you okay, Logan?”
Logan cleared his throat and threw him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Yeah, Dopinder. It’s… the noise. I’m still not quite used to so many – well. So much.”
Dopinder’s face bloomed with understanding as he filled Logan’s glass. “Oh, that’s not strange at all. It’s a lot for me sometimes and I knew what I was getting into when I met Mr. Pool!”
Nodding, Logan tipped his glass. “Yeah. Thanks, Dopinder.”
Dopinder smiled at him, then turned toward the din and made his way into the party, leaving Logan leaning against the kitchen counter. On the sofa, Vanessa was choking with laughter as she pushed the album toward Yukio. Wade’s gaze was fixed fondly on Vanessa as he threw an arm around her and hugged her close.
Logan knocked back his glass of cider in one gulp.
Vanessa was newly engaged, had practically bounced into the apartment when she arrived early for the party, eager to show them the ring she had been given on Christmas Eve. Holy shit, Thanos would be so wet right now, Wade had said, like he hadn’t seen it via text five minutes after she told her now-fiancé yes.
It was the melancholy in Wade’s eyes as he held her hand up to the light, a there-and-gone flash of emotion that Logan would’ve missed had he not been admiring Wade’s stupid little smile, that had left Logan feeling slightly off-kilter ever since.
It wasn’t that he thought Wade was interested in rekindling anything with his old flame. And for Vanessa’s part, Logan knew she loved her fiancé, and she had become a quick friend to Logan ever since he entered Wade’s orbit. Wade and Vanessa were the best of friends, something that Logan quickly came to understand was a fundamental truth of this universe, no matter what else was or would be. And he and Wade… well. He and Wade had something good going on, whatever it was. At least, Logan thought so. Not that the long-term thing ever quite worked out for him. Not that he owned Wade, because fuck knew he wasn’t insane or a complete asshole, and if Wade ever wanted to move on…
The point was, it wasn’t the closeness that was currently setting Logan’s teeth on edge. It was, well, everything. Wade’s tight-knit group, their history, their shared universe, in every meaning of the word. The second Wade introduced him at that first dinner – This is Logan, he lives here now – they all accepted him with open arms, without question. Logan was one of Wade’s, which meant Logan was one of theirs.
And yet, Logan still found himself perched on the periphery, watching, wondering, waiting. The perpetual outsider, despite their unquestioning kindness and care, like it had been baked into his DNA with his mutation, or pumped into him alongside the molten adamantium.
Would they still want him if they knew what he did, the rabid animal that hibernated within him? Would he, one day, bring that same hell to them?
Wade threw his head back, howling with laughter, as he squeezed Vanessa’s shoulder.
Wouldn’t Wade be better off if Logan was just… gone? He had a whole life, people that loved him, and… possibilities of more, of things and futures Logan might not be able to give. Might not be enough. Might never quite fit.
Logan swallowed hard, his chest tight.
“Fuck it.”
He abandoned his glass on the counter and set to rummaging around in the cabinet over the fridge. “Bingo,” he muttered as his fingers found his prize: one of Al’s emergency bottles of Jack Daniels. He’d owe her. Again.
Tucking the bottle in the crook of his arm, the noise of the party didn’t stop or stutter as he slunk off to the bedroom undetected, quietly closing the door behind him. Logan sat at the edge of the far-side of the bed in the darkness, bottle dangling between his fingers as he stared out into the city night. Watching. Remembering.
Logan didn’t know how much time had passed, how long he sat there, until he suddenly became aware of cheering outside of the bedroom door and the sudden, staccato booms of fireworks and gunshots from the neighborhood streets below. He turned toward the alarm clock on the nightstand. The red numbers blinked back at him in mocking celebration: 12:00 A.M.
He heard Wade’s hesitant footsteps outside of the door before it opened.
“Drinking a bottle of Jack alone in the dark. Does not bode well for the new year, honey badger.”
Logan held up the bottle at his side. “Didn’t open it.”
Wade padded softly toward him. “Smart. You don’t really want to start off a year owing Blind Al. She keeps a tally,” he finished, shuddering as he rounded the end of the bed and into Logan’s periphery. Wade plucked the bottle from his hand and set it on the floor before sitting down next to him.
Logan could feel his body heat through their clothes where their arms and legs were pressed together, but kept his gaze fixed forward.
“Soooooo… what’cha thinking ‘bout?”
Logan chanced a glance at Wade, a quick slide of his eyes before he looked back out at the window.
“Go back out there and have some fun, will ya? I’m fine.”
Wade hummed skeptically, reached out and stroked a hand from the top of Logan’s head and down the length of this spine. Despite himself, Logan couldn’t suppress the shiver his touch drew from him.
“No can do, peanut. You’re fucking up my plans.”
Logan wasn’t sure what crossed his face at that, but it must have reflected the involuntary pang in his guts, because Wade pinched at his arm and quickly followed up with, “Not like that, you adorable yet painfully oblivious fuckhead. Marvel H. Christ, my name in vain, we’re going to need to work on your should auld acquaintance be forgot game.”
“Wade -”
The next words were lost as Wade leaned in and fitted his mouth to Logan’s, practiced and easy. Logan sighed into him as Wade slipped his tongue between his teeth to tangle gently with his own, and he twined his arms around Logan’s broad shoulders to pull himself closer, practically shimmying himself onto Logan’s lap. Logan felt his hands drift to Wade’s hips of their volition, his thumbs pressing into the jut of his pelvis where it peeked above his jeans. When they pulled apart, Wade nuzzled at his cheek, massaged his fingers through his thick hair. “That’s better. Just how I wanted to start the year. Full of good luck and Wolverine spit.”
Snorting a tired, humorless laugh, Logan circled an arm around Wade’s waist to steady him. “Good luck, huh?” The column of his throat worked as he swallowed roughly. “This looks like good luck to you, hmm?”
Wade knocked his forehead against Logan’s. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m sitting in a bed and an apartment I share with the fucking wet dream of the Fox-cum-Disney Marvel Cinematic Universe, a superhero that saved my fucking world and for some reason decided to hitch his trailer to the Wade Wilson Crazy Train Express and hasn’t – completely – gone off the rails.” Logan heard Wade’s breath catch before he continued. “A grumpy little angst-filled mustelid that walks my dog after I have a bad night and goes on jobs with me even though he works overtime at his cute little construction gig the day before and makes me pancakes the way I like them even though the smell makes him sick. A stupid asshole that doesn’t seem to mind fucking the living embodiment of a melted, discontinued Bath and Body Works three-wick candle, in the dark and the light.”
“You know that I can see in the dar–”
Wade pressed a finger to his lips.
“A fucked-up guy that matches my fucked-up-ness, that was just floating out there in the multiverse, that I somehow found against each and all of Phil Collins’ odds.” Slowly, Wade dragged his finger across the plush swell of Logan’s mouth, his eyes tracking its path down. “A good man that I’m head over fucking heels for. Yeah. It feels like pretty good fucking luck from where I’m sitting.” He wiggled a bit in Logan’s lap. “Literally.”
Logan was grateful for the darkness as he felt warmth flush his cheeks. He sniffed wetly as he cleared the swell of sentiment that suddenly crowded his throat. “Well, when you put it that way…”
Wade laughed softly as he tugged Logan impossibly closer.
“Happy New Year, Loge.”
Brushing the back of his hand against Wade’s cheek, feeling the textured roughness pull against the hair there, he studied Wade’s smiling face, thought about where he was a year ago, and how much everything had changed since this loudmouth dressed in red and black spandex dragged him out of despair and into this wonderful life.
“Happy New Year, Wade,” he whispered, and when Wade leaned into him again, pressed that smile against his open mouth, Logan felt something like peace.
Logan had seen a lot of new years come and go.
As he pulled Wade flush against him, he couldn’t wait to see what this one would bring.