ultraviolence

Logan’s nights were never kind to him. Sleep, for him, was a battlefield—a relentless onslaught of memories he couldn’t silence, horrors he couldn’t change. His nightmares clung to him like the aftermath of a brawl, vicious and unrelenting. They almost always started the same: The same faces. Familiar, radiant, full of life—his team, his family—the X-Men. They laughed, smiled, fought alongside him. But the visions always soured.

The laughter twisted into screams, raw and guttural. He saw Jean crumpling to the ground, Scott reaching out in vain. Ororo’s luminous eyes dulled, her power extinguished. One by one, they fell—too fast for him to reach, too late for him to save them. The stench of blood and ash filled the air as his claws slid out, ripping through phantom enemies who were already gone, his rage impotent. Their faces stayed with him, seared into his mind, pleading for the help he could never give.

When Logan opened his eyes, it wasn’t from a nightmare. His claws were safely tucked away under his skin, and there was no surge of guilt or panic in his chest. The sun filtered through the window, warming his body in scattered patches.

At first, he didn’t realize how well he’d actually slept, even though he’d spent most of the night hunched over in a damn uncomfortable position—sitting up, the empty beer bottle still in his hand.

Then, he felt a weight on his side. Frowning, Logan turned his head.

Seriously?

Wade was sprawled out next to him, snoring like a chainsaw, oblivious to the silence Logan had woken to. No shredded furniture, no racing pulse, no ghosts dragging him back into the worst night of his life. Wade’s head was resting on Logan’s hip, probably having toppled from his shoulder at some point. Logan groaned, letting the bottle fall from his hand. He tried shaking Wade off of him, but nothing. Not even a twitch.

Logan froze, his sharp senses utterly betraying him. Wade’s body radiated a warmth—an intrusive, persistent kind of heat that clung to Logan’s side and refused to be ignored. There was no tension in Wade’s frame, no sign of discomfort or malice—just easy, unthinking closeness.

And somehow, Logan didn’t hate it.

He wanted to—it would’ve made things simpler. That gnawing ache in his chest, the one he’d long grown accustomed to, could’ve spiked as it always did, reminding him why attachments were a luxury he couldn’t afford. His claws didn’t itch under his skin, his breathing stayed steady, and for once, Logan felt… calm.

Comforted, even.

The realization struck him harder than any nightmare he ever had. Wade’s weight wasn’t a burden—it was grounding. Familiar. Human. And yet, it scared him. Not in the way blood-soaked memories did, but in the vulnerability that comfort brought. What did it mean, that he could feel peace in someone else's presence? In Wade’s of all people?

His heart beat started accelerating as those thoughts invaded him so suddenly, his mind no more a space of calmness but rather of indecifrabile chaos.

Logan exhaled, a long, shaky breath that Wade somehow missed, still snoring away with all the grace of an overheating lawnmower. Maybe he’d make himself shrug it off later in the morning, make some sarcastic jab and pretend it didn’t matter.

But right now, Logan wasn’t ready to move Wade, to leave the warmth behind.

‘No, no, no.’

‘That’s not right.’

‘I hate this.’

Logan’s thoughts growled at him like a feral animal. ‘This is wrong, uncomfortable, and I hate it.’ He told himself.

With a guttural grunt, he shoved Wade off him like he was swatting a fly, grumbling under his breath, “Get off me, damn it.”

Yawning like the world owed him more sleep, Logan staggered into the kitchen. He muttered a string of unintelligible curses while he opened the fridge. His gut craved something strong enough to drown out whatever comfort he felt by waking up next to Wade.

Just as his hand wrapped around a bottle, the fridge door slammed shut in his face.

“How about a real breakfast, Peanut?”

“Jesus Christ!” Logan snapped, clenching his fists like he was ready to slide his claws out. “You ever think about not creeping around like a damn lunatic?”

“Not once, Grumpyclaws,” Wade shot back with a smirk that could peel paint. “But seriously, no scratching, okay? I can’t afford another Hello Kitty PJ. It’s official merchandise, shit costs money.”

Logan’s scowl deepened. “Weren’t you just passed out on the couch?”

“You mean after you violently discarded me like the half-eaten crust of a subpar pizza? Yeah, I was. Thanks for asking. Anyway, eggs or waffles?”

“Neither. Now move.”

Wade moved, but flouncing to the stove, whistling some obnoxious tune from a commercial Logan swore had been banished to the grave of the '90s. Logan sighed as he scrubbed the back of his neck. The kitchen had become a symphony of bad decisions: Wade’s tuneless whistle, clattering pans, and Logan's rising annoyance.

Dropping into a chair, Logan grabbed a pancake Wade had unceremoniously tossed at him. He didn’t love it, but it wasn’t beer (Unfortunately for him). Begrudgingly, he took a bite, grunting his approval as Wade merrily made more noise cleaning last night’s disaster in the sink, which consisted in a good ninety percent of the plates they had in their house. What Wade lacked in culinary focus, he somehow made up for with irritating productivity.

“So, the Avengers were in your un—“ 

”So…” Logan said, interrupting Wade almost immediately.

“That collar you were talking about yesterday? What’d you do with it after you unlocked it?”

The sponge in Wade’s hand froze mid-scrub. The tune he’d been mangling abruptly cut off, leaving the room in an unsettling silence.

“…I threw it away,” he muttered.

Logan’s brow furrowed. Something in Wade’s tone was wrong—it wasn’t his usual circus of nonsense. It was too even, too quiet. For a second, Logan just stared, the weight of unspoken tension settling over him like a heavy coat.

“Why are you asking?”

“Curiosity.” Logan said, chewing like the words tasted wrong. He shrugged, trying to make the moment pass.

Wade didn’t take the bait. He plopped down across from Logan, inhaling food like he had a bottomless pit for a stomach. “Where the hell’s Al? She hungover again? I bet she is.” He chuckled.

Logan didn’t answer, his gaze drifting to the window. Last night had been quiet. Too quiet. For once, no nightmares. No shredded memories clawing at him. Just Wade’s idiotic rambling, pulling him out of his own head.

Stop, just stop thinking about it.

His thoughts circled back to Wade’s words of last night, those stupid, reckless words. How the hell did he not see it sooner? Wade was the guy who’d dive headfirst into a wood chipper for someone who didn’t even deserve it. Someone like Logan. He’d risk it all without thinking twice—and Logan was just now realizing how much that meant.

How much Wade was willing to give, even when life had handed him more than Logan could ever dream of.

Wade had everything Logan lacked for a long time: a found family, friends, people who actually cared about him. And yet, Wade was so damn ready to throw it all away—to snuff it out without a second thought so... he could live? No, stop thinking about this.

It made Logan’s blood boil. How could someone be so eager to discard the things Logan had been robbed of, the things he’d clawed and bled for, only to lose?

Then, it hit him like a freight train—sharp and unforgiving. God, I’m a fucking idiot.

‘You know what? You're a fucking joke. No wonder the Avengers didn't take you. Or the X-Men, and they'll take fucking anyone.’

Logan grimaced as he replayed his own voice in his head.

‘I mean, you are a ridiculous, immature, half-wit moron. I have never met a sadder, more attention-starved, jabbering little prick in my entire life, and that says a lot 'cause I've been alive for more than two hundred fucking years.’

He glanced at Wade, who was still stuffing his face, looking smug as ever. Not a care in the world, just waiting to unleash some random thought on Logan. The bastard looked... content. Like he’d just solved the world’s problems with a fucking pancake.

‘And I'll tell ya, that bald chick was right about one thing: you will never save the world! You couldn't even save a relationship with a goddamn stripper! And motherfucker…’

‘I wish I could say you'd die alone…’

‘But it's one of God's best jokes…’

‘That you can't die…’

‘Except that's on all of us!’

Logan suddenly slammed his glass of orange juice onto the table with enough force to make Wade flinch. The sound cut through the room like a whip crack, harsh and jarring. Wade's fork paused halfway to his mouth, his eyes widening in exaggerated mock concern.

“Okay—what the fuck was that?” Wade's tone shot up to an almost comical pitch, exaggerated eyebrows arching—or at least the muscles of them. ~Okay, they already know I don’t have eyebrows.

Logan pinched the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a growl rumbling in his throat. He was already regretting not downing his breakfast in solitude, if that was even an option.

“What? Did you think it was whiskey and now you’re having an existential crisis because it’s not? I mean, it doesn’t look like whiskey—” Wade narrowed his eyes, smirking with a kind of childish glee only he could pull off.

“Shut up, Wade,” Logan grumbled, his voice low and guttural. He opened his mouth to speak again but felt the words catch. His throat tightened, weighed down by something he didn’t want to name. This is stupid. He couldn’t say it— he couldn’t say sorry. Couldn’t admit that what he’d thrown at Wade back in that stupid Honda Odyssey wasn’t about Wade at all.

It was about him.

Wade tilted his head, eyebrows wiggling (or at least the remnants of them). ~Will you STOP it with that?!

He watched Logan like he was inspecting some rare museum artifact on loan. But Logan said nothing. His apology—the one Wade deserved—was buried under two centuries of stubbornness and pride.

Instead, all Logan could manage was another grunt, deep and unmistakable. And that, right there, was all he was willing to offer.

We don’t talk about it.

“Y’know what? I’m gonna go wake up Al,” Wade announced, pushing his chair back with a dramatic scrape, clearly enjoying the sound of his own voice. “She can’t miss our special breakfast. Wouldn’t be the same without it.”

He barely took a step when that god-awful bark cut through the room like nails on a chalkboard. Mary Puppins, tongue hanging out as always, was parked in front of Wade and Althea’s room, barking her lungs out like someone had stolen her favorite chew toy.

Wade froze mid-stride, turning to Logan with an exaggerated grimace. Logan met his gaze, his usual scowl as unreadable as stone. They exchanged a look—before Logan shrugged in a way that suggested he didn’t have a clue.

Then, she barked again.

Then again, and again.

Louder and louder.

Without another word, they moved together, slow and deliberate, toward the bedroom. The air was heavy, each step laced with cautious tension.

“Smellin’ anyone who shouldn’t be here?” Wade whispered, his voice unusually restrained as his hand snaked out to grab a katana from the cluttered kitchen counter. He twirled it once before gripping it tightly, as though the act might ward off whatever was ahead.

Logan sniffed the air, his brows knitting into a deep scowl. His movements were calculated and almost predatory. “No…” he muttered, but then his expression twisted. He sniffed again, slower this time, and his features hardened. “Wait…”

The closer they got to the bedroom, the more Logan’s senses sharpened—and the more his unease grew. There it was. A scent he knew too well. A scent that made his stomach churn.

Foul. Decayed. The stench clawed at his nerves like an old, unwelcome memory.

Mary Puppins didn’t stop barking, her high-pitched yelps drilling into Logan’s skull. And then it hit him like a punch to the gut.

Death.

“Oh shit…” Wade whispered, walking in the bedroom, his voice barely audible and breaking as he let the katana slip from his fingers. It landed on the floor with a muffled clang, forgotten. Wade stepped forward hesitantly, his movements unnervingly graceful, as though he didn’t want to face what he knew was coming.

Inside the room, Althea lay motionless on the bed. At first glance, she looked peaceful—just sleeping. But Wade’s gut twisted the second he saw her. He knew better. He always knew better.

She was dead.

Fuck.

Logan lingered in the doorway with widened eyes, arms crossed, his face dark and unreadable.

The silence weighed down the room like a suffocating fog until Wade broke it, shattering the quiet into a thousand jagged pieces.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Wade erupted, tears already streaming from his eyes, fists pounding against his thighs as he let out a string of curses. “What the actual fuck?! Is this some cosmic joke?!” His hands flew to his head, smacking it repeatedly as he muttered to himself, “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” before abruptly shifting his gaze upward.

Wade’s rant turned theatrical as his eyes locked onto some invisible presence, onto some…

Wait…

“Oh, I see how it is! You’re up there, sipping celestial margaritas, laughing your writer ass off, huh? Playing puppet master with my life like it’s your favorite soap opera!” Wade’s voice climbed higher, his words spilling out faster than Logan could process.

Logan didn’t move. His brows furrowed, he had no idea of what Wade was babbling about. He only knew he was about to vomit if the situation wouldn’t calm down. Even if he didn’t show it as dramatically, his body ached at the sight.

His patience thinning as Wade’s tirade spiraled. The sight of the mercenary whacking himself on the head was almost enough to make Logan step in—and he did.

Wade’s eyes darted around wildly, his head swiveling like a wind-up toy gone haywire.

And then, without warning, his gaze locked onto... you.

Yeah, you. Don’t act surprised.

“Oh, don’t play innocent with me, you—you… You!” Wade shouted, thrusting a finger in the air as if he could jab you right through the screen. “Sitting there all smug, munching on your snacks, enjoying my misery like it’s some kind of twisted Netflix binge. You think this is funny?!” His arms flailed dramatically, but his voice cracked—betraying another tear that slipped down his cheek. “I bet you’re loving this, aren’t you? Watching me spiral like a discount soap opera villain. Well, newsflash, buddy—I see you!”

“Wade,” Logan growled, his tone low and steady as he stepped forward.

~He must have thought I was crazy. Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time he thought that.

He grabbed Wade’s arm with a firm grip, trying to reel him back from his frenzy.

Wade jerked away, his movements frantic and disjointed. “What’s the big idea, huh? You think this is funny? You think I’m gonna share a bed with him? Is that your endgame?! This is why your fanfictioner ass is doing this to me?!”

Logan didn't respond immediately. He just locked Wade in a firm grip, yanking him back before he could spiral any further.

“Enough,” Logan barked, his voice a sharp slap of authority. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, you idiot.”

Wade opened his mouth to argue, to shout, but no words came. His movements slowed. He stopped fighting Logan’s grip.

And just like that, Wade fell silent, even if it didn’t last long. His body trembled in Logan’s grip, and then, like a dam bursting, the sobs came. Ugly, raw, and unfiltered. His knees buckled, and Logan instinctively tightened his hold, keeping the mercenary from collapsing entirely.

“Why—why does this keep happening?” Wade choked out between gasps, his voice cracking in a way that made Logan’s stomach twist. “I mean, seriously, what did I do? Was I a puppy kicker in a past life? Did I steal candy from orphans? Is this karma?!” His words tumbled out in a frantic, tear-soaked mess, each one hitting Logan like a punch to the gut.

Logan stood there, frozen, his arms awkwardly wrapped around Wade. Comforting people wasn’t exactly his strong suit. Hell, it wasn’t even in his skill set. He clawed his way out of more near-death experiences than he could count—but this? This was uncharted territory.

“Wade…” Logan started, his voice low and gravelly, but the words caught in his throat. What the hell was he supposed to say? That it’d be okay? That it wasn’t Wade’s fault? That life was just a cruel, unrelenting bastard sometimes? None of it felt right. ~Sure, life.

Wade’s sobs came harder now, shaking his whole frame, as Logan kept his grip firm. He didn’t loosen it even when Wade squirmed—it was as though neither of them really wanted him to let go. Logan stared into the room, his teeth gritted so tightly it felt like his jaw might snap. His eyes flicked to Althea’s motionless form, and he couldn’t suppress the wave of nausea that threatened to overtake him.

Blind Al had been a stubborn old bat, sure, but she was sharp—a firecracker of wit that kept Wade grounded in her own weird way. Logan hadn’t known her well, but he had known enough in the first weeks he had spent living with them. She’d been Wade’s anchor, the one person who could cut through his chaos and somehow pull him back to sanity. Seeing her like that—it twisted something deep in Logan’s chest, a mix of guilt, grief, and fury he didn’t know what to do with.

The weight of Althea’s presence—or absence—pressed heavily on him now, her sharp tongue echoing in the silence like a ghost. He hated this. Hated seeing death up close like this again. Hated the mess of emotions it stirred up in him. Hated that he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Wade clawed at Logan’s arms as if he needed him to physically hold him together. “I wasn’t—fuck!—I wasn’t there, Logan! I was out here with you, on the fucking couch—and I fell asleep!” His words came faster, more frantic, tumbling over each other in a desperate attempt to drown out the silence. “I should’ve been with her. What if she needed me? What if she was calling for me, and I wasn’t there?!”

“Wade, listen—” Logan started, but Wade cut him off, his voice raw and desperate.

“She deserved better,” Wade whispered, his sobs slowing to gasping hiccups. “She deserved to have someone there. Someone who—who—” His words faltered, his hands balling into fists. “She put up with me. All the shit, all the noise, all the me… And I couldn’t even be there for her when it fucking mattered.”

Logan clenched his jaw, his gaze flicking to the bedroom where Blind Al lay. His gut churned at the sight, but not because of guilt. Not because of blame. Al had lived her life on her own terms, and she’d gone out the same way—stubborn, unyielding, and without complaint. She hadn’t needed anyone to coddle her, not even Wade.

“She was old, Wade,” Logan said, his voice low and rough. “It was her time.”

Wade’s head snapped up, his tear-soaked face twisting in a mix of anger and heartbreak. “Don’t you—don’t you dare give me that ‘circle of life’ shit, Logan!” he spat, his words dripping with venom. “I don’t care if it was her time. I care that I wasn’t there. I should’ve been there.”

Logan’s chest tightened. He didn’t know what to say—how to make Wade see that this wasn’t his fault. That nothing he could’ve done would’ve changed anything. Althea had lived her life as she wanted, and she’d probably gone out the way she would’ve wanted, too.

But Logan knew better than to say that. Wade wasn’t ready to hear it.

“You think she didn’t know you cared?” Logan finally said, his voice quieter but no less firm. God, why was he talking like that? Why was he talking like it hasn’t been a second since it happened?

“You think she didn’t know you’d have been there if you could? Hell, Wade, she probably chose to go when you weren’t there. That’s the kind of stubborn old bat she was.”

Wade blinked, his expression crumbling as Logan’s words sank in. He let out a hollow laugh, more of a sob than anything else, shaking his head.

“She probably went out just so she wouldn’t have to listen to me snore...Or—or… babble about stupid things.” About you. He wanted to say.

“Exactly,” Logan said, his lips twitching into the faintest semblance of a smirk. “She went out her way. And it had nothing to do with you.”

For a moment, Wade just stood there, tears streaming silently down his face as he stared at Logan. The weight of his grief was still there, heavy and suffocating, but Logan’s words had chipped away at it, just enough to let in a sliver of light for a second.

*

Grief wasn’t loud. It didn’t come crashing through walls or screaming into the void. It was quieter than that. A slow, creeping thing that settled behind his ribs and made everything feel… empty. Not sad. Not angry. Just hollow.

He thought about Althea.

God, she used to roast the hell out of him. No one threw shade like a blind woman who’d seen more of his bullshit than anyone with perfect 20/20. She called him a walking tumor in a suit made of bad decisions. Once threw a shoe at his head because he used her Braille Playboy as a coaster—And Wade still has to figure out how the hell she centered his head perfectly—He called her bat-Daredevil and threatened to adopt a seeing-eye ferret just to piss her off.

But she listened.

Out of everyone—Vanessa, Logan, Dopinder, the dozen or so therapists he ghosted—Althea listened. No pity, no bullshit. Just sat there on that beat-up couch and let him talk. About the nightmares. About the static in his head. About Logan.

Especially about Logan.

She was the only one who ever really knew. Even when Wade tried to mask it behind dick jokes and deflection, she saw it. The way he said Logan’s name. The way he shut down when the guy left. She never said it outright, just made some snide comment like, “Tell your grumpy boyfriend to stop leaving blood on my carpets,” or

“Next time you stare at his ass, try to be a little less obvious.”

“How the hell did you see that?” He would ask.

“I didn’t.”

Wade laughed. Pretended he didn’t care.

But she knew.

And now she was gone.

No more snarky comments. No more sarcastic wisdom. No more late nights sitting in silence while the world felt too loud. No more Althea.

Wade wasn’t sure if the pain he felt was grief or guilt or just that hollow ache that showed up when you realized no one else in the world really knew you—not like she did.

Now there was just static.

And the punchline? It died with her.

After a few hours, the apartment was too quiet. No snarky commentary echoing from the kitchen, no weird smells coming from the microwave, no offbeat karaoke at 9 in the morning.

Just the faint static glow of the TV, where some cooking show played to an audience of one. Wade sat hunched on the couch, hoodie up, mask off, eyes dull. He wasn’t watching—just existing in front of it.

Logan stood by the kitchen counter, Wade’s phone in hand, staring at it longer than he should’ve. He hated this part. Calls. Words. Emotions. All the crap he spent decades pretending didn’t exist. But Wade wasn’t moving. Wasn’t talking. Wasn’t cracking jokes, and that scared him more than he’d admit.

He made the calls.

First, Logan called the funeral home.

And when they came, it was worse than he thought it’d be. Two quiet strangers in pressed uniforms, moving with the kind of practiced care that made everything feel colder. They stepped in with a stretcher, respectful, subdued.

Wade stood by the wall, unmoving.

No jokes.

No snark.

Not even a flinch when they passed by him with her body.

He just watched.

Watched her go, wrapped in a sheet that he thought didn’t deserve her.

Watched the last thread of warmth leave the apartment without saying a single word.

He then forced himself back on the couch, staring soullessly at the TV.

Then, Logan called Wade’s friends.

Wade’s family.

To Weasel, who answered immediately even if him and Wade haven’t seen each other in more than a month. To Domino, who didn’t say anything for a long time and then whispered something about lighting a candle. To all of them. No matter how little Logan knew them.

Then came the call to Vanessa. That one felt like someone pressed a hot poker into his side. She was Wade’s ex—yeah. But she was also… maybe not just that. Maybe something else now. Or maybe not. Logan didn’t get it, didn’t need to.

He just told her the truth. About Althea. About the funeral. About Wade.

“He’s not really… functioning right now,” Logan said, glancing back at him on the couch, wondering if he could even hear what he was saying.

She didn’t cry. Didn’t fall apart. She just went quiet like she already knew. Maybe not the details, but something. The way people feel something break across miles.

And then, instead of the flood of emotion he was half-bracing for, she said they should make the funeral decent. That they could put their money together, give Althea something that meant something. She said Wade shouldn’t have to carry it alone—not this. Not now.

He told her he’d figure it out, and when the call ended, he just stood there for a long while, phone still in hand.

He didn’t tell Wade about the funeral. Not right away. He just watched the man sit there, hood pulled low, body folded in on itself like the weight of grief was too much to hold upright.

Logan had seen death.

Too much of it. Too often.

He’d watched comrades bleed out in trenches, held dying friends in his arms, put down people he’d once called family. He knew what it looked like when the light left someone’s eyes. He knew the smell, the weight, the fucking silence it left behind.

But this—this was different.

It wasn’t about the body. It wasn’t about Al being gone. It was about what it did to Wade.

And that—that scared the hell out of him.

Wade wasn’t supposed to be quiet. He was supposed to be annoying. Loud. Obnoxious. A walking migraine in a red costume. But now? He just sat there. Hood up. TV on. Mouth shut. And Logan could barely stand to look at him like that.

He kept thinking about how still he was when they came to take Althea’s body. Just stood there, arms hanging limp, watching them wheel her out like she was nothing more than furniture being moved. No screaming. No jokes. No tears.

Just… nothing.

Logan clenched his jaw so hard he thought he’d break a tooth. He hated this. Hated feeling helpless. Hated seeing someone—that someone—shrink down into nothing. And the worst part? He didn’t know how to fix it.

And yeah, maybe it wasn’t just about Wade. Maybe seeing him like this stirred up something ugly in Logan too—some kind of old scar he didn’t want to admit still hurt. Because Wade… Wade had this way of sneaking past defenses. Of being a pain in the ass until you didn’t notice he’d gotten under your skin.

Logan had tried to ignore it. To shut it down just for a second. But the truth was, seeing Wade broken like that? It messed with him.

He remembered what Althea said once—back when he thought she didn’t notice anything.

“You’re gonna break that idiot’s heart if you’re not careful.”

He didn’t answer her back then. Didn’t think she was serious.

Now?

Now he wasn’t sure who was more broken.

But he’d be damned if he let Wade stay in that pit alone.

Not this time.

*

Wade remembered the weird warmth of falling asleep next to Logan, who had grabbed his arm and pulled him down next to him. Wade hadn’t made a single joke about him being a cuddler.

He totally would’ve. Like, five times. Minimum. Missed opportunity, really.

That silence? That’s what made Logan’s skin itch. He walked over, stood awkwardly for a moment, then sat on the edge of the coffee table facing Wade.

“You should eat somethin’,” he muttered.

Wade didn’t even blink.

“She wouldn’t want you like this,” Logan tried again. His voice was low, gravel-thick. “She’d wanna hear one of your dumbass jokes. Or see you in that ugly unicorn apron makin’ pancakes at midnight.”

Nothing.

“You gotta let it out, Wade. Or it’s gonna eat you from the inside.”

Wade finally blinked, slow, like it took effort. His voice, when it came, was hoarse. Barely there.

“I feel… nothing. Like the punchline’s gone and all that’s left is the setup.”

He paused. Logan didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t even have the energy to be annoying. Do you know how messed up that is?”

~This is usually where I make a dick joke. But… I got nothin’. Nada. Zip. Zilch. God, I hate this.

Logan wanted to say something else. Something that’d help. But the only thing he managed was reaching out and gripping Wade’s shoulder—firm, grounding.

They sat like that for a while. Just breathing. Just being.

Then, something in Logan snapped.

He couldn’t bear it.

“Goddamn it, Wade!” he barked, standing up so fast the table creaked beneath him. “You’re just gonna sit there and rot? That it? After everything?”

Wade didn’t flinch. That somehow made it worse.

Logan stormed into the kitchen, yanked open the freezer, and grabbed the first burrito he could find. Slammed it into the microwave like it had personally offended him. His hands were shaking, and he clenched them into fists, jaw tight enough to crack his molars.

He didn’t know why it hit so hard. Maybe it was because Wade never shut up, because he always had some dumb comment, some bad pun, something to make the world feel less like a nightmare.

Now he just sat there.

Like a ghost.

When the microwave beeped, Logan yanked the steaming burrito out and stalked back into the living room. He tossed it—hard—onto Wade’s lap.

“Do something,” he growled. “Eat. Scream. Break something. Just—don’t sit there and waste away.”

Wade didn’t say a word. But his eyes shifted—slow, tired—to Logan. He looked at him like he was trying to remember who he was. Then, like it cost him something, Wade picked up the burrito.

“…Later,” he muttered.

That one word, barely audible, felt like a slap.

Logan clenched his fists again. “Bullshit.”

Wade peeled the wrapper with fingers that moved too slowly. Took a small bite. Chewed like cardboard. Eyes never left the TV. It might as well have been static.

Logan let out a breath through his nose, like a growl held back, and dropped onto the couch next to him. The energy in the room was thick and heavy, like grief had seeped into the walls.

He sat there for a minute, watching the same screen Wade was. Absorbing the absence.

Then he lost patience.

“Gimme that,” he grunted, snatching the remote from Wade’s limp grip and flipping through channels. “You used to make fun of this crap.”

He stopped on Gossip Girl.

Wade blinked, once. No smirk. No snide comment. Not even a twitch of recognition.

Logan stared at the screen for a moment, jaw ticking.

“…Fine.”

He stood, stomped over to the door, and whistled for Puppins. The dog padded in from the hallway, ears low like she could feel the sorrow in the air.

“Let’s go,” Logan said, looking at Wade. No reaction.

“You’re comin’ with.”

Wade shook his head faintly. “I’m not—”

“You are,” Logan snapped, stepping forward. “Get up.”

Wade didn’t move.

So Logan grabbed his arm. Not rough, not gentle. Just firm.

Wade stared at him for a second longer. Then, slowly, he let himself be pulled up. He followed Logan to the door like a shadow that forgot how to be solid.

They went out.

Outside, the sky hung heavy and gray, mirroring the weight in Wade’s chest. He thought it was a fucking joke. Puppins trotted ahead, the leash loose in Wade’s hand.

They walked in silence for a while. Logan kept his hands in his jacket pockets, shoulders tight. Wade just stared straight ahead, hood up, the half-eaten burrito forgotten somewhere back at the apartment.

Logan cast a sidelong glance at Wade, noting the uncharacteristic slump of his shoulders, the absence of his usual chatter.

He kicked at a rock, brows furrowed. He wasn’t good at this. He wasn’t good at… people. Especially not when they broke like this—quiet, shattered, and refusing to bleed.

So, he tried the next best thing.

“You remember the Honda Odyssey?” he muttered, eyes straight ahead.

Wade didn’t answer, but his fingers twitched around the leash.

‘How could I forget? That shit was nearly a month ago.’ He wanted to say.

“Yeah, you remember,” Logan said, smirking faintly. “I pissed you off so bad you went full silent ‘rage mode.’ Thought you were gonna cry.”

Still, Wade said nothing.

Logan pressed on. “Then, you decided to sucker punch me. Right in the nose.”

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Wade’s mouth, so fleeting it was almost missed.

“Yeah,” Logan said, encouraged. “Then I slammed your head into the radio, and that damned song started blaring.”

You’re the one that I want.

Wade’s lips twitched, the memory breaking through the fog of his grief. “You were so pissed,” he murmured.

“Damn right I was,” Logan chuckled. “You stabbed me with your katana, I clawed you, and we wrecked that poor van from the inside out.”

Wade glanced at him, a spark returning to his eyes. “We did a number on ol’ Betsy, didn’t we?”

“You fucked me up, Wade. Properly. And I still haven’t gotten my revenge. I’m just sayin’, maybe when you stop bein’ a depressed little shit, we finish that fight.”

There. There it was—a flicker. The ghost of a smirk tugged at the corner of Wade’s mouth.

Logan grunted. “What? You think I’m bluffin’? You cracked three of my ribs and dented the roof. I still can’t get that damn pop song outta my head.”

Wade’s voice came low, dry. “You clawed my ass through the seat.”

“Damn right I did,” Logan grinned.

That did it. A small, reluctant laugh, barely a breath. But it was there.

That was enough for Logan.

They got back home as the sky started to dim, casting long shadows across the floor when Logan opened the door. Puppins trotted in first, tongue lolling.

Wade stepped in behind him, slower, shoulders still hunched beneath the weight of something he couldn’t name. The walk hadn’t fixed anything. Not really. But the air had been different outside—less stale. Less heavy. And Logan… Logan had tried.

That was more than most ever did.

He didn’t say anything as Wade drifted to the couch, pulling the blanket up without looking. Didn’t even protest when Logan tossed him a bottle of water and dropped the takeout bag on the table. Shawarma, just like their first proper meal together. Wade just nodded. Barely. He would’ve already made a flirty joke by now.

Logan didn’t leave.

He stood there for a minute, rubbing the back of his neck, then finally lowered himself onto the other end of the couch with a grunt. The kind of grunt that said I’m here without the embarrassment of actually saying it.

They didn’t talk.

Didn’t need to.

The TV buzzed in the background, some infomercial about knives or blenders or something else no one gave a damn about. Puppins curled up at Wade’s feet, Logan sat back, arms crossed, eyes on the screen but attention on the man beside him. He didn’t know what tomorrow would look like.

But he’d be here. Grumpy, bitter, unshakable.

But there.

Wade didn’t feel whole. Not even close. But there was a warmth, faint and distant, like a light behind a door he hadn’t opened in years.

Maybe he’d reach for it.

That was what she’d want, wasn’t it?