Despite his near-immortality, Logan has become intimately familiar with death. Over his 200+ years of life, he has watched people of all races, religions, colors, creeds, and orientations shudder and crumble under their last breath. He’s been the cause, both on purpose and by accident, and he’s spent literal lifetimes trying to forget it.
Logan knows better than anyone that people don’t live forever.
He knows they don’t. They can’t.
That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
It happens on a sunny November day, a gentle breeze carding through the green ash trees. The city is more awake than Logan is at six in the morning, but over the past year of living with Wade, he’s gotten used to being the grouchiest one in the room. He and his heightened senses don’t mind the horrid concoction of pollution, distant chatter, fluttering pigeons, and bright lights as much as they did before—too domesticated by the breakfast sandwiches Wade buys at the asscrack of dawn every morning to get the day started.
In fact, when they got their new apartment, Wade specifically chose the one closer to that bodega on the corner with the perfectly toasted bagels and thick bacon strips, the one he claims to have been born in. Logan didn’t put up much of a fight over it. Sure, the other apartment option had in-unit laundry, but it was farther from the dog park and Logan didn’t want to walk three miles just so Mary Puppins could play on the damn slide.
As for the apartment itself, well… It’s alright. They upgraded from the one bed, one bath to a three bed, two bath, and after mopping the floor and getting some new paint on the walls, the place became home. Wade and Logan still share a room, hidden under the excuse of Laura when she comes home from the X-Mansion for the weekend. Even if she doesn’t use it consistently, the third bedroom is hers.
The place is far from luxury, but it’s home. Wade’s cutesy stickers are stuck on every door frame, and somehow one of Logan’s socks ends up hidden under something in every room. Even Mary Puppins has made her mark, carving out her own corner of the living room for a Hello Kitty dog bed and a pile of suspiciously shaped chew toys. Polaroids and fairy lights are strung up in random places (Wade claims there’s a method to the madness, but Logan knows better), and the set-up is… nice. Warm, in a strange way Logan hasn’t deciphered quite yet.
Things are going well, he decides. He and Wade work as “freelance anti-heroes,” taking the cleaner jobs from Sister Margaret’s and the dirtier missions from the X-Men to get the bills paid. The money’s good, but the routine is better. Breakfast, tend to the dog, go out and save someone’s day, then come home and attempt a recipe off Wade’s phone to feed the family. They always have take-out on standby, but every now and then, they manage to make something edible.
Logan feels like a person again, and he likes it. He likes it here.
It’s a nice life.
Until it isn’t.
November 7th. The sun begins to rise, just barely peeking out over the treetops, still hidden behind the taller buildings in the distance. They’re far from the heart of the city but still surrounded by busyness. Logan wakes up to an empty bed—expected. Wade leaves to get sandwiches in the morning. This is normal.
He still feels a little sick when the sheets beside him are cold under his fingertips.
Wade is usually cold, his mind argues. Cancer and stuff.
Not like this. Something is wrong.
He rolls over and puts his feet on the ground. It’s been a while since he’s woken up with a migraine. He stands slowly and works his way to the bathroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with heavy palms. There’s a bad scent in the air but he chooses not to investigate until after he’s finished pissing and then scowling at himself in the mirror. The lines around his eyes, the perpetual scowl—habits, unbreakable ones.
The bad smell gets worse in the hallway. He walks past Laura’s empty room, down toward the kitchen, and he almost vomits.
The smell of death is nothing new. Death is nothing new.
But there’s familiarity in the air with this one. Something floral, something brittle. It's the kind of scent that clings to the back of the throat and lingers long after it’s gone, a potent cocktail of rot and fading sweetness. Roses decomposing. His stomach turns, but he swallows down the bile and steps forward, one foot in front of the other.
The kitchen comes into view, bathed in the muted gray light of early morning. Wade is there, crumpled on the tiled floor, his back pressed against the cabinet under the sink. He’s alive but trembling, picking at his nails, breaking his fingers and ripping at his cuticles while the bones snap back into place.
No, today the smell of death isn’t coming from the mouthy mercenary.
Althea sits at the kitchen table, slumped over the walnut surface. She’s not eating a breakfast sandwich. There’s not even any cocaine near her, she’s just…
Logan holds his breath, quickly averting his eyes. Wade snaps his ring and pinky finger like twigs, tears pooling in his eyes. He’s staring at the floor. Crack. Logan can’t find his voice to tell him to stop, not when he spots Mary Puppins curled up at Al’s feet, half covering the fluffy Barney-themed slippers.
“I can—” Wade’s voice is wrecked, wet around silent cries. “I can fix it, I can, it’s, I just need, fuck, whatshername—” He breaks off into a sob, broken hands curling around his neck, crossing over his chest, melting into his collarbones and shoulders. Logan watches as Wade hugs himself on the kitchen floor, crying and shaking so hard he’s hyperventilating.
Mary Puppins whines from under the table, and that kicks Logan into motion, crouching down in front of Wade and pulling him close. Wade wails against his shoulder, trying to squeeze out words past the tightness in his throat, and all Logan can do is hold him. Feel the coolness of the linoleum tiles beneath them and the strain in his knees. The weight of Wade’s arms slung around the back of his neck, the wetness of his tears soaking into the zip-up hoodie Logan threw on before bed, a pathetic attempt at combating the cold here up north. Logan tries to make sense of Wade, but the sound of him falling apart is killing him. He holds the back of Wade’s head and lowers himself fully onto the ground.
They hold each other for a while. The smell of death gets worse, and Wade cries harder.
Logan wishes he could cry, but his book of tragedies has already wrung him dry. It hurts, it does, but he can’t express himself that way anymore. The tears won’t come.
Instead, he digs his nails into Wade’s back, melts into his neck, tries to hide from the smell. Wade usually smells like death—cancer and blood and guns and fresh hell—but it’s not anything like this. Wade can heal, and Wade kills bad people, and when Wade smells like death, Logan knows it’s been a productive day and they’ll reward themselves with an episode of Hoarders or Supernatural, depending on who wins the coin toss.
This… This is…
“I can fix it,” Wade chokes out, prying himself away from Logan. There’s a steady thrum of energy in his eyes, one Logan recognizes from the bar where Wade first picked him up. And from the Void when he promised the TVA could fix Logan’s timeline, and again from the Honda Odyssey when sparks flew with the blood and bullets. “I can fix it,” Wade says, and he means it.
Logan knows death. He’s never seen a human come back from the dead. This is not something either of them can fix.
But Wade seems so sure, and Logan really can’t handle seeing him cry any longer. So he nods. He helps Wade to his feet, scoops up Mary Puppins, kisses her patchy head, and holds her gently as they stumble past the corpse and down the hallway. The smell follows and Logan wants to rip his skin off.
He holds Wade’s hand instead, stops him from breaking his fingers.
When they get to the room, Logan sits on the bed with the dog in his arms and Wade scrambles to find what Logan assumes is the rigged TemPad they were given for emergencies only. Logan doesn’t understand much about the TVA even after all the bullshit they went through, but he has enough of an understanding to guess Wade’s plan: make it B-15’s problem and have her fix it.
“Okay,” Wade sniffs, dragging the hem of his cutesy graphic t-shirt across his splotchy face. His usual wisecracks falter, leaving only the raw edge of his voice. “Okay, I got it. C’mon, big boy, we’re going on a field trip.”
Logan doesn't answer right away. He moves to crouch by the bed, brushing a hand over Mary’s soft, floppy ears. She whines softly, trying to nuzzle closer, her rat-like tail thumping against the mattress. “Shh,” Logan murmurs, his voice a rough whisper. He kisses her head one last time, lingering like it might be the last bit of peace he’ll get. “Be good, you fucking snotball.”
Mary whimpers as he stands, her dark eyes following his every move. Logan swallows hard, snatching up Wade’s bag of weapons without a word. It’s small but useful when Wade doesn’t feel like suiting up; inside is a spare mask and a shitload of guns and ammo, plus a few backup blades. He shoulders it as they step into the middle of the room. A beat later, an orange doorway of pulsing light ripples open before them.
Wade forces a grin, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He steps through first, Logan close behind, and the portal spits them into B-15’s stark, orderly office.
Before B-15 even finishes sighing at their sudden appearance, Wade has his gun drawn, the barrel pressed snugly against her forehead. His hands are steady, but his breathing is not.
“Hey, darling,” he says, voice mockingly cheerful. “Don’t mind me, just cashing in a favor. Letting me keep Wolvie was lovely, but I think all my good behavior deserves an extra treat. Plus, it’s an emergency, and you don’t have a choice. Hence the gun.”
“Wade,” Logan growls, his voice a low, gravelly warning. His fists clench at his sides, claws aching to spring free as tension ripples through his shoulders.
Wade, for the first time since they met, ignores him.
“The gun is unnecessary,” B-15 says calmly, meeting Wade’s eyes without flinching. “You know I’m willing to help you, Mr. Wilson. You wouldn’t have come here otherwise.”
For a moment, Wade looks like he might break. His grip on the gun tightens, his lips quivering as he fights the tears welling in his eyes. But then, with a sharp inhale, he lowers the weapon. The safety clicks on as he tucks it into the pocket of his absurdly fuzzy Hello Kitty pants.
“What do you need?” B-15 asks, her voice softer now, laced with understanding. Her gaze flickers briefly to Logan, then back to Wade as if she already knows the answer.
Wade swallows hard. “Time travel,” he blurts, his voice cracking. “Just… a couple years back ‘s fine.”
B-15’s expression hardens slightly. “What for?”
Logan steps in, his voice steady but low. “Our roommate, Althea. Something happened, and—”
“She’s dead,” Wade cuts him off, his words tumbling out like shattered glass, cutting up his mouth on the way out. “And she can’t be, so we’re going to fix it.” The air around them thickens as Wade draws the gun again, his movements shaky and uncoordinated, the worst Logan has ever seen from the obnoxiously skilled mercenary.
B-15 raises her hands slowly, her expression a careful balance of caution and sympathy. “Alright,” she says gently. “I understand. Can you tell me her cause of death?”
Both men are silent. Logan hadn’t looked, too busy trying to keep Wade afloat, and Wade was in no condition to provide that sort of information even if he had stopped to check.
“If it was a homicide,” B-15 continues, her tone more clinical now, “we might be able to intervene. Emphasis on might. Otherwise—”
“No.” Wade’s voice rises, somehow adding a layer of silence to the room. “No otherwise. We’re fixing this. Period.”
B-15 shakes her head, her voice firm but not unkind. “If her death was natural, changing it won’t stop it from happening again. I can’t authorize a mission like that. Althea is an old woman, after all, and no amount of—”
“Then we do it again,” Wade snarls, shoving the gun forward until it’s pressed firmly against her temple. His eyes are wild, and Logan can’t decide if he should step in or not. He doesn’t want to, can’t explain why, and he rationalizes it through the fact that he didn’t hear Wade take the gun off safety. “We’ll do it as many fucking times as we need to. She’s not dying. I’m not letting that happen.”
“We didn’t check the cause,” Logan admits, prying his gaze from the weapon and onto B-15. “But you’ve got to help us. You know we’ve kept our noses clean.”
B-15 stays deathly still, her expression unreadable as the barrel of Wade’s gun twists the skin on the side of her head. “I hear you, Logan. I do. But there are rules, and this is… delicate. For the life of a single person—”
Wade scoffs. “Oh, so you do marital expectations?”
She ignores him. “—The TVA typically wouldn’t intervene. I respect you two more than you can imagine, but I can’t let you play God.”
Wade’s face twists, a bitter laugh escaping him. “Bitch, I’m Marvel Jesus. God is my sugar daddy. If I want to play, you better dress my Barbies right, or I’ll send a flood with no Noah.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. “I’ll check the files, consult with my advisors. But sometimes you just have to let yourself mourn.”
The gun clicks. Safety off.
“Wade,” Logan snaps. “Put it down.”
Wade turns, his eyes locking onto Logan’s with a desperate intensity, but his arm stays put, pointing the gun at B-15. The mask of humor and chaos Wade wears so well is gone, leaving behind raw, unfiltered anguish. “I can’t,” he whispers. “I can’t, Logan.”
The Wolverine is stuck, arms frozen at his sides. He swallows around the lump in his throat and tries to think. He doesn’t know how to do this—the comfort and caring shit. He curses himself for not coming up with something to say in the past half hour since he found Wade on the kitchen floor. He could offer another hug, but there’s a third party in the room, and that might make things awkward. Fuck, Wade is so unserious that Logan has no idea where his real boundaries are. Does he even like physical comfort? Or does Logan actually have to learn how to communicate like a normal person? He’s still trying to figure out why the fuck he cares so much in the first place!
At least one of those questions is answered when Wade tucks the gun away, shuffles over, and rests his forehead on Logan’s collarbone. Logan holds him, one hand resting on the back of his neck. This he knows how to do.
“It’s not fair,” Wade chokes out. “It’s not fucking fair.”
Logan’s jaw tightens as he looks over Wade’s shoulder, meeting B-15’s gaze. She looks like she’s weighing her options, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“If the Avengers get to bring their people back, so do I,” Wade says. “So we’re gonna bend all these stupid time cops over our knees BD-Yes-M style and spank their best work out of them. And if their best is anything less than exactly what I want, I’m canceling them for being homophobic and racist. Not only am I the Messiah of Marvel, but I am also an implied member of the neurodivergent community and canonically pan. I will have all these motherfuckers locked in the cellar with Kanye, Lana, and Greg Heffley faster than you can say maggot with an F.”
Logan snorts, pulling Wade a little closer. If B-15 notices, she makes the smart decision not to say a word.
After a moment, though, she sighs. “I can’t promise anything,” she tells them, “but I’ll look into it. Sit tight.”
She steps out of the room, leaving Wade and Logan alone. For a long moment, nobody speaks. Logan just holds Wade, his hand moving in slow, soothing circles against his back. He doesn’t have the words to fix this, not yet. He doesn’t even know if there are words that can fix this. But he can do this much. If this is what Wade needs, Logan can do it.
Eventually, Wade pulls back slightly, sniffling and swiping at his eyes with the hem of his shirt. “Sorry,” he mutters, his voice hoarse. “For, y’know… pulling a gun on the head time cop and, uh, having a meltdown, I guess. We’re not in the clear yet, but I thought I’d get the apology out of the way while I can still babble and yap like the unusually articulate and vulgar toddler I am. Like Stewie but hypersexual and much less smart.”
Logan huffs a soft, dry laugh. “Don’t fuckin’ apologize to me,” he says, the faintest hint of affection coloring his gruff tone. “I don’t know what to do with apologies. Let’s just fix this and get home. I don’t wanna miss the game tonight. Oilers are playing.”
Wade lets out a watery chuckle, his lips twitching into a weak smile. “Of course, gramps. We’ll be home before you know it. Tell you what? I’ll buy you a whole liquor store as compensation.”
Logan rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“Yeah,” Wade hums, bumping his shoulder with Logan’s. “But you’re still here.”
Logan doesn’t respond immediately. He… Well… “Yeah. I am.”
Before either of them can say anything else, B-15 returns, a file in her hand and a somber expression on her face. “We need to talk,” she says, her tone serious. “About Althea and what’s possible.”
Wade straightens up, his usual manic energy returning in a flash. “Right,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “Let’s fix this. I have enough mommy issues already.”
Logan watches him, his heart heavy but his resolve steady. Whatever comes next, he’s not letting Wade go through it alone.
So one thing leads to another, and now Logan has a headache.
He wants to blame it on Wade, but the bastard has been unnaturally quiet since they left the TVA headquarters. And by "left," he means Wade flipped out again, swapped the rigged TemPad with B-15’s all-access one (sometime after Logan shuffled away to find alcohol, but before he could finish the bottle of Jack he found under some random employee’s desk), then whisked them away to some shithole in New Jersey.
Part of him wishes Wade would talk. At least then he’d have something to focus on besides the pit in his stomach and the ache behind his eyes.
But no. Wade stays silent, fidgeting with the stolen TemPad and chewing the inside of his cheek like a nervous middle schooler before a piano recital. His knee bounces, and the two of them are close enough on the city bench for it to piss Logan off.
“So what’s the plan?” Logan blurts, turning to face Wade. He’s got the Deadpool mask on now, so trying to read his facial expressions is a waste of time. He’ll just have to trust that Wade will be honest.
Logan isn’t as worried about that as he probably should be, considering Wade’s history of lying and other forms of fuckery. For some god-awful reason, trusting Wade comes as easy as breathing.
Wade sighs, stuffing the TemPad into his pajama pants pocket. He reaches over Logan’s lap to grab the weapons bag and takes out a pistol to fidget with instead. “The plan is we find Blind Al before the TVA finds us,” Wade explains. “Then we go home and watch shitty reality TV to fry our brains and forget this ever happened.”
“Okay… So, where is she?”
“That’s a good question! Let me just check my blind old lady tracker and I’ll get back to you.”
Logan doesn’t hold back when he punches Wade’s shoulder. “Stop bein’ a dick, Red, we don’t have the time.”
“Okay, okay, whatever,” Wade sighed, slamming the magazine harder than necessary. “Let’s use some detective skills, yeah? We’re in New Jersey where everything’s legal, and yes that was a Hamilton reference. We don’t know what year it is, but considering th—”
Logan stops him, digging his nails into the meat of Wade’s arm and slamming his back against the brick wall behind them. “What the fuck did you just say?!”
“Well if you put on your listening ears like I so humbly implied—”
“You don’t know what year it is?!” Logan growled. “What the fuck, Wade?!”
“Calm your hairy tits, old man,” Wade scoffed. “I haven’t seen Loki since it first came out in 2021. How was I supposed to remember how to use the dang tampon or whatever the frick it’s called?”
“You stupid son of a—”
“That’s not the point!” Wade chirps. “The point is, we’re in New Jersey, and we can figure out what year it is easy-peasy lemon-squeezy. Look! That’s the fourth Ford Cortina I’ve seen drive by, so chances are it’s, like, the mid-'70s. Yippee! Elton John! Jimmy Carter! Easy access to heroin!”
The horrified look on Logan’s face simply cannot be understated. “Are you fucking kidding me?!”
“Chillax!” Wade cackles. “I still have the tampon. I can get us home lickety-split. We just need to find and kidnap Blind Al. Shouldn’t be too hard, right?” He grins and ruffles Logan’s hair, quickly retracting his hand before Logan can nip him with his little steak knives. “Now, help me do some math, peanut. If Althea Winifred Sanderson, not a Hocus Pocus reference unfortunately, was born in 1943—ignore the comics, they’re lying to you—and we’re in ‘75, then how old would our darling senior citizen be?”
Logan snarls, but he has enough self-control to keep the claws in. Wade’s hands are shaking in his lap, clicking and unclicking the safety on that goddamn handgun, and as annoying as the sound is, it reminds Logan what they’re doing here. They need to find Al before Wade actually loses his shit.
So Logan takes a deep breath, centers himself the way Ororo used to have him do when his senses were all over the place, and does some mental math. “If it’s actually ‘75,” he grumbles, “then she’s 32.”
Wade groans. “Oh, fucking great. I hope that old hag was lying about her escapades with Iggy Pop. We really don’t have time for dogs and Valium.”
Logan ignores whatever batshit crazy events that comment is referencing and shifts the focus back to the task at hand. “Do you have any idea where she’d be? An address or something?”
“Honestly? Our best bet is CBGB in Manhattan. Sure you heard of it, considering you were born in the asscrack of humanity’s dawning and experienced every other shitshow the US had to offer.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Logan grunts. He heaves Wade with him when he stands up and weighs his options: either hitchhiking, stealing a car, or taking a bus. “We better hope to fuck it’s not after ‘75,” he mutters, “‘cause I distinctly remember gettin’ fucked up in a music club in NYC when I got back from ‘nam. Last thing I want to deal with is a younger version of me.”
“I knew you had a sleazy party boy phase!” Wade cheers, skipping toward the street. He flags down a random guy strolling by with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his flared jeans. “Hey, hey, hold on!” Wade laughs. “Can you tell me what year it is? Is Carter president? Has Taxi Driver come out yet? Oh, or Freaky Friday? Shit, I feel like Marty McFly. No, wait, there’s still another 10-ish years until that makes sense. What about Cable? When did his first comic come out?”
The random guy grimaces, shrugging Wade’s hand off his shoulder. “It’s 1975, you fucking lunatic,” he scoffs. “Maybe lay off the PCP and you’ll live to see ‘76.”
“Oh my god!” Wade cries with joy, twisting back around to face Logan. “We’ve got to try PCP before we leave!”
Logan curses under his breath and drags Wade toward the nearest bus station.
The bus smells like sweat, gasoline, and something faintly metallic, as if the whole vehicle’s been dipped in rust. The air conditioning is nonexistent, leaving the muggy New Jersey summer air trapped inside like a vengeful spirit. Logan presses his temple against the grimy window, the glass cool but sticky with fingerprints that don’t belong to him. But it’s colder than anything else, so he bears with it. His head is still pounding, and the rhythmic squeak of the bus’s shocks over potholes doesn’t help.
Beside him, Wade is an irritating bundle of energy barely contained by his seat. His legs are spread wide, one foot tapping against the floor as if trying to escape the confines of his body. The mask stays on, but Logan can see Wade’s hands fidgeting again, back to twisting the TemPad between his fingers since the guns had to be put away when they bought the bus tickets.
“Would you sit still for one goddamn second?” Logan growls, the gruffness of his voice louder than intended. He’s been trying his best to be patient with Wade given the circumstances, but they’ve been on this bus for about an hour and the headache has only worsened. Any longer and Logan will reach the point of justifying pinning Wade’s arms down with his claws. Insensitive and barbaric? Sure. But Logan’s been a lot crueler in even shittier situations so whatever.
“Can’t,” Wade replies, not looking up. “Too much on my mind. You wouldn’t get it ‘cause without Hugh, you’re just a money-making himbo here as nostalgia bait for nerdy millennials and their neurodivergent kids. Fuck, sorry, that was mean. It’s really hard not to take my repressed feelings out on you when I can’t see your face, peanut.”
Logan frowns. “These goddamn seats are basically conjoined twins, idiot. I can’t move my face out of your sight without tearin’ it off and throwin’ out the emergency exit.”
“It was a prose joke, Logan,” Wade mutters, gesturing vaguely to the air. The usual quips of unasked-for explanation don’t follow, and it leaves a bad taste in Logan’s mouth. Wade just flips the TemPad in his palm and sets it in his lap, his fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. The faint tremor in his hands doesn’t go unnoticed, the one that only shows up when Wade is wound tighter than a watch spring.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Logan asks. He thinks he’s getting better at finding the right words. Or at least he hopes he is.
Wade doesn’t answer immediately. His head tilts slightly, the gesture giving the illusion of thoughtfulness, but Logan can feel the tension radiating off him. Finally, Wade says, “Do you mean the second half of this bus ride or the rumored re-casting? I know I praised the Cavilrine in the movie, but I’ve got pretty bad separation anxiety and I don’t think I can handle seeing someone else try to rock your mutton chops. Especially not a DC traitor. Don’t get me wrong, I think the BatFam is adorable, but something about that kiss curl and artificially chiseled jaw really rubs me the wrong way, and it’s reallyyy hard to rub me the wrong wa—”
“I mean kidnapping Al,” Logan cuts in. “I’m tryna be serious here, Wade. This is serious.”
“It’s the 70s, sweetie. The less we think, the better this’ll go.”
Logan exhales through his nose, a sound of defeat, and turns his gaze back to the streaked window. The city’s skyline is beginning to loom on the horizon, a jagged silhouette against the smog-heavy sky. They’re close, but not close enough to shake the feeling that this whole thing could go sideways in about three seconds.
Wade breaks the silence again, his voice softer now. “You ever think about time travel? Like, the rules? Do we even know if saving her is gonna stick?”
Logan turns his head, his eyes narrowing. “You askin’ me about rules? The guy who snatched a fuckin’ time portal controller from under the TVA’s noses without even checkin’ the damn settings?”
“Okay, wow, rude,” Wade snaps back, but it’s automatic, almost robotic. “You said you wanted seriousness, well, I’m being serious. Emotional vulnerability, Logan. You should try it sometime.”
Logan ignores the jab. He’s pretty sure his recent attempts at meaningful sentiment, even before Althea’s (temporary!) death, haven’t gone unnoticed. “Just shut up and talk.”
“Will do, just as soon as you give me back my title as God’s Perfect Idiot. ‘Shut up and talk’? Do you even hear yourself, peanut?”
Logan just growls, hoping it’s enough to communicate his irritability.
“Fine,” Wade huffs, reading between the lines. “Seriousness. Uh, well, what if we get her, and she just… blips out of existence because the universe decides we screwed it up? Or insert other devastating consequence for breaking the rules? I mean, guys like us usually end up triggering the consequences of our actions all by ourselves, but who’s to say this one won’t blow up in our faces externally?”
Logan sighs, leaning back into the sticky vinyl seat. “We don’t know. We can’t know. But we’re already in this, so either stop second-guessin’ or tell me now if you’re gonna bail.”
Wade finally looks at him then, the mask concealing everything but the glint in his eyes. “Bail?” he echoes, his tone sharp and incredulous. “That’s not an option, pumpkin. I was voicing my serious thoughts instead of my funny ones because you so calmly and kindly asked me to, but I’m not giving up. We do this or we find another way.”
“There is no other way,” Logan says, “so sit still and stop pissin’ me off or I’ll find Althea myself and leave you stranded in Iggy Pop’s bathtub.”
Wade doesn’t reply, but his mask twists in what Logan assumes is a shit-eating grin.
The bus jostles again as it hits a pothole, sending Wade’s knee into Logan’s. They stay touching for the rest of the ride.
The stench of stale beer and acid hits Logan’s heightened senses like a punch to the face the moment they step inside CBGB. The club is dimly lit, the kind of darkness that feels sticky, clinging to the skin and clothes. The stage at the far end of the room is a ramshackle platform that looks like it’s been cobbled together from spare wood, but the three-piece band thrashing on it doesn’t seem to care. Their sound is raw and guttural—a messy fusion of noise and attitude that somehow works.
The walls are plastered with faded flyers, band names scrawled in a chaotic collision of fonts and colors: The Dead Boys, Television, Ramones. Tables are crammed together in uneven clusters, covered in beer rings, cigarette butts, and a few lines of what Logan assumes is coke. The crowd is a mismatched tapestry of leather, safety pins, torn fishnets, and dyed hair, and Logan secretly feels just a tiny bit at peace with it.
He remembers how in love with the scene Victor had been when the two of them stumbled off the plane from Vietnam, searching for some high-energy fun after fighting so savagely for so long. And while Victor had never been into the “freedom of the people” ideology, Logan had been swayed rather strongly by the anti-establishment, anti-institutional, anarchist agenda. He’s a wild animal at heart, after all. It’s not in his DNA to live and serve a zoo like the US military.
“This,” Wade announces, throwing his arms wide, “is the pinnacle of human achievement. Thank fuck for this healing factor ‘cause I can taste the syphilis in the air.” His voice and the laugh that comes after carry through the noise just enough to bring Logan’s mind back into the present, catering to Wade when he grabs Logan’s arm and tugs him deeper into the throng.
Logan growls when a guy in a studded leather jacket bumps into him too roughly, but he catches sight of Logan’s claws sliding out an inch and backs off without a word. “Remind me how we know Althea is here?” Logan mutters to Wade.
“Because Blind Al is a cokehead, young padawan, and cokeheads are made, not born. Now, stop looking like you want to murder everyone and start acting like a cool dude who does heroin.”
They sidle up to the bar, where a lanky bartender with greasy blond hair is busy slapping down drinks and swearing at the regulars. Wade leans over the counter, his red mask making him look like a deranged mascot in the sea of black and denim. “Excuse me, my good man!” he yells.
The bartender doesn’t even glance at him. Logan has a feeling Wade’s theatrics aren’t the most bizarre thing this guy’s seen. So Logan grabs a barstool and spins it around, planting it firmly next to Wade. “We’re lookin’ for someone,” he growls, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Name’s Althea. You seen her?”
The bartender’s gaze flicks between them, lingering on Wade’s mask and the tips of Logan’s claws, peaking out just enough to glint under the weak light. “Althea who?” he asks, wiping his hands on a rag that’s probably dirtier than the bar itself.
“Winifred Sanderson,” Wade chirps. He taps the counter nervously. “Loves disco dust. Feisty, loud, probably blind if I’ve got the chain of events laid out correctly. Ring any bells?”
The bartender narrows his eyes, but before he can answer, a girl at the other end of the bar pipes up. “Al? You mean the broad who broke a pool cue over Joey Ramone’s head last week?” She’s got smudged eyeliner and hair that’s equal parts teased and tangled, holding a cigarette in one hand and a beer in the other.
Wade perks up, practically vibrating with excitement. “Yes! That sounds exactly like her. Where is she?”
The girl smirks, tilting her head toward the back of the club. “She’s been hanging out with the Dead Boys. Last I saw, they were upstairs in the green room.”
“Upstairs? Oh, goody!” Wade chirps. “Come on, Logan. Let’s go interrupt a punk rock orgy!”
Logan doesn’t even bother to argue, pushing past the crowd as Wade trails behind, narrating their journey like he’s hosting a damn travel show.
When they reach the stairs, a bouncer steps in their path, arms crossed over a chest that looks like it’s made of concrete. “No one’s allowed up there,” he says, his voice as rough as the music still blaring below.
Wade pats Logan’s arm. “Unless bloodshed is on the table, you gotta handle this, papa bear. Conjure up some of those people skills you’ve been working so hard on.”
Logan sighs, steps forward, and lets his claws spring out. The bouncer’s expression falters for a fraction of a second before he steps aside, muttering something about not being paid enough for this.
The green room upstairs is a gritty slice of chaos, its dim lighting doing no favors to the beer cans scattered across the floor, cigarette butts piled in overfilled ashtrays, and a suspiciously sticky patch on the carpet no one dares question. Amidst it all, perched on a sunken couch like a queen holding court, sits Althea. She wears a loose, slightly torn white shirt tucked into high-waisted black pants, the thin leather belt cinched like an afterthought. A tattered blazer hangs off her shoulders, and her scuffed boots rest on the edge of a sticky coffee table. Her cigarette hangs languidly from her lips, its ember casting fleeting shadows over her high cheekbones and the glossy black shades obscuring her eyes. Her smile, sharp and effortless, slices through the haze as she laughs loudly at a joke one of the band members cracks.
“Althea,” Wade breathes, his voice soft with relief.
The woman turns her head toward Wade’s voice, her laughter cutting off mid-note. Her lips curl into a grimace, the expression sharpening her already striking features. “Who the hell are you?” Her voice is raspy, likely from years of shouting over amps and sucking on unfiltered cigarettes, but it carries an unmistakable authority.
Logan shifts aside to let Wade take the lead, watching as Wade’s usual bravado creeps back into his steps. “It’s me,” Wade says, tugging off his mask. “It’s Wade.”
Al’s eyebrows lift above the rims of her shades for the briefest moment before she leans back, her expression guarded. Her lips press into a thin line. “Am I supposed to recognize you?”
Wade laughs, a nervous, shaky sound. “Fucking great,” he spits, dripping with sarcasm. “Okay. Logan! Claws out, baby, we’re doin’ this the old-fashioned way.”
After an obnoxious amount of threats and bickering, Logan and Wade manage to drag Blind Al out of the music club and down the block to a cheap motel. Logan assures the woman they’re not going to hurt her, but every response he gets is either, “I’d like to see you try, bitch!” or “I don’t give a fuck, I’m still gonna torch your ass!”
Wade does that movie cliche thing where he says something only a friend of Althea’s would know, (Logan didn’t hear it, wasn’t paying attention) and thankfully it’s enough to placate her for the time being.
Inside, Logan realizes the motel room is just as grimy as the green room at CBGB, but because it’s quiet, he doesn’t mind. Althea sits on the edge of the bed, her elbows on her knees, cigarette smoke curling upward in lazy tendrils. Even blind, she stares at Wade with the kind of intensity that makes Logan feel like he’s intruding, despite the fact that this is his mission too.
Wade is pacing. Not his usual hyperactive strut, but something more erratic, like a pinball bouncing between invisible walls. His mask is shoved into his pocket, and his hands twitch at his sides as he tries to find the right words. Logan leans against the wall near the door, arms crossed, keeping his distance but ready to intervene if Al decides to follow through on one of her many threats.
“You’re telling me,” Al says, dragging out the words as though testing their weight, “that you’re from the future, you’ve got some TBA—”
“TVA, V for Vagina. Or Valium, since it seems like you’re into that at this stage of your life.”
“Whatever! You got some bullshit going on, and you’re here to drag my sorry ass out of my life to… what? Save the world?”
“Not the world,” Wade says, his voice quieter than usual. “Just me.”
That gets Al’s attention. She flicks ash from her cigarette onto the threadbare carpet and leans back. “What do you mean, ‘just you’?”
Wade stops pacing, standing frozen in the middle of the room. Logan has seen Wade broken before, trying to figure himself out in the void, in the Honda Odyssey, in front of Cassandra Nova and Vanessa, but this… This feels different.
“I’m not okay, Al,” Wade says finally, his voice breaking just a little. “I’m not okay without you. And I thought… I don’t know, I thought if I found you here, like this, I could…” He waves a hand in the air, as if trying to grab the right words from the ether. “Fix it. Fix me.”
Al doesn’t say anything at first, just sits there smoking, her face unreadable. Then she stands, crossing the room in a few measured steps until she’s standing right in front of Wade. It takes a moment for her hands to find him, but eventually, Al holds each side of his mangled face and presses their foreheads together. She doesn’t even flinch.
“Listen to me, boy,” she says, her voice firm but not unkind. “I don’t know who the hell you are, and I definitely don’t know who I’m supposed to be to you. I hope to God I’m not your momma ‘cause I’d be the worst one in the world. But I must be somebody important, yeah? Important enough for you to come all this way.”
“Yeah,” Wade sniffles. “I guess ‘mom and son’ is the closest title to whatever the fuck we’ve got goin’ on. You took me in when I had nobody else, when I thought I was the scum of the fucking earth.”
“I’m happy I could be something good for you,” Al says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been something good to someone before.” She sighs, steadying herself. “Now tell me, what happened to me that made you drag your sorry ass across time and space?”
Wade chokes back a sob, fingers curling on the tattered sweater draped loosely over the woman’s shoulders. “You died,” he says. “You died and left me alone, Al, you left and I don’t know what to do—”
“Oh, honey, no,” Al murmurs. “Dying ain’t the same as leaving. With banged-up skin like this, you’ve got to know a thing or two about that.” She laughs, and Wade does, too, though his is wet with tears. “And as far as I can tell, you’re not alone. Who’s the man with the husky voice that’s been following you around like a lost puppy? Does he know me, too?”
Wade nods, grinning. “He’s a stray you let me keep. We saved the world together.”
“Then you’re not alone, are you?” Al smiles. “Wade, you’ve got to know can’t fix death. You can’t use magic to run from things that scare you.”
“But—”
“No.” She cuts him off, her tone sharper now. “You don’t get to mess with time just because you’re hurting. That’s not how this works. How long have you been stayin’ with future me? How come I haven’t smacked some sense into you?”
“You tried,” Wade teases. “I’ve got a crazy healing factor.” Still, his shoulders slump, and Logan sees the fight drain out of him as soon as the quip leaves his mouth. He wants to step in, say something to take the edge off, but the words stick in his throat. So he just watches, fists clenched at his sides, and hopes this version of Althea knows what she’s doing.
Al steps back and shakes her head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Look, kid. I don’t know what’s waiting for you in your future, but I do know this: grief doesn’t go away. You can’t outrun it, and you sure as hell can’t fix it by cutting corners and kidnapping women. You are not alone, whether you like it or not, and unless you want your grief to drive you crazy, you gotta learn how to use your resources. Find that shoulder to cry on.” She smiles, then her face contorts, and she smacks Wade over the back of his bald head. “And for the love of god, stop threatening to kill people!”
Wade laughs, and Al pulls him into a hug, rubbing comforting circles on his back with the palm of her hand. Logan stays back, feeling his chest tighten as he rolls Al’s words around in his mind. They hit him harder than he expects, like she’s not just talking to Wade but to him too. He watches as Wade cries, holding onto this younger version of Althea, and he feels something shift inside himself. It’s not just pity or sympathy—it’s something deeper, something terrifying in its intensity. Logan realizes he really wants Wade to be happy, and the feeling definitely exceeds what’s normal for two guys in a heterosexual friendship.
Goddamn it.
Logan fell in love with Wade Wilson. Fucking great.
How the fuck did he let that happen?!
The realization knocks the wind out of him, but he does his best not to show it. Wade doesn’t notice, too lost in his own turmoil, but Logan feels it like a sucker punch. It’s not the kind of love he expected—raw, messy, and painful—but it’s there, undeniable and unrelenting.
“Thanks,” Wade mumbles, shoving his hands into his pockets. “For the pep talk or whatever. I was considering knocking you out and taking you with us anyway but I guess we’ll have to leave The Box in the comics. Curse you and your good will, you blind skank.”
Al smirks, stubbing out her cigarette on the bedside table. “Don’t mention it, psycho. Now get the hell out of my motel room. Since you decided to take me from my party, I’ll be bringing the party over here.”
Logan steps forward, clapping a hand on Wade’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says gruffly.
Wade looks up at him, his eyes red but dry, and nods. They head for the door, leaving Althea behind.
As they step into the night, Logan glances at Wade, who’s uncharacteristically quiet. “You gonna be okay?” he asks.
Wade shrugs. “Wanna do some PCP?”
“Fuck no.”
“Awww, come on!” Wade cries. “I have your stupid hockey game set to tape so you’ll be able to watch it in all its Canadian glory whenever you want. Let me have some fun, gramps!”
Logan groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fucking fine. But as soon as you’re done, we’re getting the fuck out of here.”
To absolutely no one’s surprise, the TVA tracks down Wade and Logan before they manage to make it back home. The phencyclidine they’d gotten into during their last pit stop hits harder than expected, leaving both of them stumbling, slurring messes by the time B-15 appears to drag their sorry asses through a portal.
The upside is that the drug-induced haze spares them from B-15’s inevitable lecture—it’s hard to feel chastised when the walls are breathing. The downside is that the high wears off just in time for them to regain their senses as they’re unceremoniously dumped back into their apartment.
Logan groans, bracing himself against the nearest wall as the world stops spinning. His heightened senses kick in like a punch to the face, and the familiar scent of home floods his system. First, the overwhelming stench of dog shit. Somewhere in the living room, their mutt had clearly decided to protest their absence in the most disgusting way possible. Second, something vaguely fruit-like rotting in the fridge, its sickly-sweet smell mixing unpleasantly with the rest.
And then there’s the vanilla candle burning softly in his and Wade’s room, left unattended all day.
What Logan doesn’t smell, though, is decomposition.
The realization makes his stomach churn. He follows Wade to the kitchen, his steps heavy and deliberate, while Wade moves ahead, uncharacteristically quiet. There’s no dead woman slumped over their kitchen table. No lingering scent of decaying roses. Nothing to suggest the horror they’d left behind.
The only trace of what happened is a note, stuck to the fridge with one of Wade’s stupid novelty magnets.
Logan reaches for it, his movements slow, cautious, while Wade leans on the counter, staring blankly at the space where a body had once been.
The note reads:
To Logan and Wade,
I’m sorry about what happened to Althea. After you stole my TemPad, I decided to come here and assess the situation. By the time you return, I will have already scolded you for it, so there’s no need to drag that situation any further.
As for Althea, her body should be at the morgue on 32nd Street. If you need additional funds to cover the funeral costs, just say the word.
- B-15
Logan stares at the note, his grip tightening just enough to crinkle the paper. He rereads the words, his mind latching onto them like claws sinking into flesh.
“Hey,” Wade says, his voice softer than Logan expects. He’s still by the counter, his mask off, face unguarded in a way that makes Logan feel like he’s intruding. “She’s… she’s not here.”
Logan nods, his throat tight. “Yeah.”
Wade gestures toward the note, his movements jerky and unfocused. “Who’s that from? Secret admirer?” The joke falls flat.
Logan looks at the note again, his jaw tightening. “B-15. Says Al’s in the morgue on 32nd.”
Wade doesn’t respond, his gaze drifting somewhere past Logan, his expression unreadable. Logan doesn’t push. He thinks about hugging Wade again, but three times in one day seems like a lot for a guy who’s supposed to be an emotionally unavailable weapon. So instead, he folds the note and shoves it into his pocket, sighing to himself.
“Come on,” Logan says finally, his voice low but steady. “We’ll figure it out tomorrow. You need sleep.”
Wade nods absently, still staring into the middle distance. Logan turns toward the living room, his eyes narrowing at the mess waiting for him there. He forces himself to focus on the mundane—cleaning up after the dog, tossing whatever’s rotting in the fridge, blowing out the candle.
Because right now, it’s easier than thinking about everything else.
A week later, the sun is unforgiving, pouring through the cracks in the blinds and slicing across the room in sharp, golden beams. Logan’s already been up for an hour, his body accustomed to rising early no matter how little sleep he gets. He’s in the kitchen nursing a cup of lazy Irish coffee, no cream, when he realizes Wade still hasn’t emerged from their room.
It isn’t unusual for Wade to sleep in after a particularly chaotic day—Logan has lost count of how many mornings Wade has spent tangled in blankets, snoring like a chainsaw. He knows not to expect breakfast sandwiches when Wade feels like shit. But this silence feels different. There’s no loud music blaring from the speakers, no half-muttered commentary on his dreams, and no obnoxious demands for homemade smoothies.
Something twists in Logan’s gut. He sets his mug down and pads toward the bedroom, the floor creaking softly beneath his weight. He knows it’s impossible, but he’s terrified of finding Wade dead just like they’d found Althea. The door is slightly ajar, and Logan nudges it open.
Wade’s still in bed, curled up on his side, half-hidden under the covers. His mask is off, dressed only in his long-sleeved silky pajamas, and his face is turned away. But Logan can still see the rigid line of his shoulders and the tension in his hands, which clutch the sheets like a lifeline.
“Wade,” Logan says, his voice low but firm. “You up?”
A muffled grunt answers him, barely audible.
Logan steps closer, his brow furrowing. “Come on, get up. It’s past noon. Can’t spend the whole day in bed.”
“Watch me,” Wade mumbles, his voice hoarse and thick with something Logan doesn’t want to name.
Logan exhales sharply, scratching the back of his neck. Wade seemed fine the first two days, but it was obvious pretending was taking a toll on him. So Wade’s been spending more and more time in bed, and Logan has been trying and failing to take care of him. Logan’s been getting better at communicating—because Wade doesn’t always want a hug, even though Logan’s best tactic for solving any problem has always been with his body—so it hasn’t been too difficult.
Now that they’ve reached the point of Wade not leaving the bed at all, though… Logan doesn’t know what to do.
“You eat anything?” he asks, trying a different angle.
Wade doesn’t respond, just pulls the blanket tighter around himself.
Logan sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Look,” he starts, his tone softer now, “you don’t have to say anything. But you gotta eat. And maybe shower. How ‘bout I make you a smoothie? I think we’ve got enough strawberries.”
Wade snorts, the sound brittle and devoid of humor. “I appreciate the housewifing attempts, peanut, but Al’s still dead. We still fucked everything up. Pumping myself full of good sugars isn’t gonna fix that.”
Logan grits his teeth, his fingers curling into fists against his thighs. “I know that, jackass. But it won’t make you feel worse. Rotting in your bed will make you feel worse. Trust me, there’s no one in the fucking multiverse who knows more about rotting in grief and self-loathing more than I do. When I tell you staying stationary makes it worse, I mean it. You need to get up and do something. Even if it’s just moving to rot on the couch instead. Just…” He frowns at Wade and hopes his first round of words is enough.
For a moment, Wade doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he shifts, turning his head just enough to look at Logan. His eyes are bloodshot, his face drawn and hollow in a way that Logan hasn’t seen before.
“You sound like a stupid self-help book,” Wade mutters, but there’s no real bite to it.
Logan shrugs but his breath hitches in his throat. Does wanting to kiss the watery look off Wade’s face make him crazy?
Wade stares at him for a long moment, then sighs, the sound heavy and tired. “Fine. One smoothie. But only because you’re pretty and I’d feel bad if all your hard work went to waste. That was a pretty good speech, by the way.”
Logan stands, relief washing over him in a wave. “Thanks, shithead. Strawberry banana good?”
Wade pulls the blanket over his head, his voice muffled but clear enough. “Surprise me.”
Logan heads to the kitchen, his steps lighter than they were earlier. It’s not much, but it’s a start. And for now, that’s enough.
The funeral is held in the back of a modest community center, the kind of place with scuffed floors and folding chairs that creak if you so much as breathe wrong. The air smells faintly of coffee and cheap carpet cleaner, and the only decorations are a handful of wilting flowers on a table near Althea's closed casket. It's nothing fancy, but it feels right—simple, practical, no-nonsense. Just like Al would have wanted.
There aren’t many people here—Althea didn’t live a life that welcomed crowds. A few scattered acquaintances, some faces Logan doesn’t recognize, and a handful of others who look like they’re here more out of obligation than grief.
B-15 is a familiar one, sitting beside Peter at one of the tables, her expression impassive but her posture rigid. Logan caught her eye when they arrived, and she gave him the barest of nods, a silent acknowledgment of the mess that had brought them all here.
The priest speaks, his voice a steady, practiced cadence that barely fills the room. Words about life and legacy and peace in the afterlife drift into the air, weightless and untouchable. Logan tunes out most of it. He’s never been religious, and he knows damn well Althea wasn’t, either. Instead, Logan focuses on Wade—another unbreakable habit of his.
Wade hasn’t moved since they arrived. His back is stiff, his head bowed just enough to shield his face from the others. Logan knows that posture, knows the way Wade bottles things up until they explode in the most inappropriate, chaotic ways. He sits between Dopinder and Colossus, probably faking exhaustion to avoid talking about his feelings.
When the priest invites anyone to speak, the silence stretches long and uncomfortable. Logan isn’t surprised when no one stands—he can’t speak for everyone, but he knows very few people in this room have positive opinions on priests.
But then a familiar woman near Wade shifts, slowly rising to her feet. Logan watches as she makes her way to the podium, clutching a small piece of paper she pulled from her pocket. She’s wearing all black, her hair pinned up in a loose bun, but her voice is steady and strong as she begins to speak.
“The first time I met Al,” Vanessa starts, scanning the small crowd, “was when I showed up at her and Wade’s place like the crazy ex-girlfriend I swore I’d never become.”
A faint ripple of laughter passes through the room. Wade shifts in his chair, his head bowed, but Logan catches the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips.
“In my defense, this was right after I learned my dead fiance was, in fact, not dead but also super traumatized. So no, the conditions weren’t ideal, but I heard Wade was staying with some woman just down the block from my place, and I knew I had to meet her. I didn’t know what to expect, but it definitely wasn’t Althea. She was sitting on her couch, chain-smoking, and listening to a smut audiobook out loud. I stormed up to her, asked her who she was and why she’d been harboring Wade like a criminal, and I remember, she looked me up and down like I was some kid who’d wandered in by mistake and said, ‘This one? Really?’ Right to my face.”
A few more chuckles ripple through the room. Vanessa lets the moment settle before continuing.
“I don’t know why, but I liked her right away. She didn’t pull any punches, didn’t try to pretend to be someone she wasn’t. When Wade and I got serious again, I pulled Al aside one day. Told her that if anything ever happened to me, she needed to promise to look after him. I thought she’d laugh in my face, but instead, she just stared at me for a long time. And then she said, ‘I don’t make promises I don’t keep.’”
Her voice wavers, but she steadies herself with a deep breath. “She kept that promise. Even when Wade made it hard—harder than anyone should have to deal with. She was there for him in ways no one else could be, and I’ll always be grateful for that.”
Vanessa folds the paper in her hands, though it’s clear she didn’t need it. “Al wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t warm or soft or easy to love. But she was fierce, and she was loyal, and she made the world a little less lonely for the people she cared about. I hope she knew how much that meant to us.”
She steps away from the front of the room, her composure faltering slightly as she makes her way back to her seat.
The funeral ends with a quiet invitation for anyone else to speak, but no one does. The crowd filters out slowly, murmuring their condolences and their goodbyes. Logan lingers near the back, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, until Wade finally rises to leave.
As they step out into the sharp chill of the afternoon, Logan walks beside him, quiet and solemn.
When they get home, Logan holds Wade close on the couch—until Mary Puppins pisses on the carpet because of fucking course she does. Attention seeking little cunt.
The apartment is quiet, save for the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of the floorboards as Logan shifts his weight. Wade sits on the couch, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees, his mask discarded and his face raw with emotion. His shoulders shake as sobs wrack his body, muffled by the hands pressed against his face.
Logan stands awkwardly nearby, his arms folded tightly across his chest. It’s been about a month since Al passed, and even though he feels like he’s gotten better at comforting Wade, Logan’s words still get stuck in his throat every now and then, rendering him as useless as a Wolverine without claws. He’s not good at this—hell, he’s barely good at handling his own grief, let alone someone else’s.
But seeing Wade like this, so broken and vulnerable, twists something deep in his gut.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer. His voice comes out gruff, unsure. “Is there… Do you need anything? Want some water?”
Wade doesn’t answer, but his sobs grow quieter, his hands curling into fists against his face. Logan hesitates for a moment before lowering himself onto the couch beside him. He rests a hand on Wade’s shoulder, awkward but firm, and feels the tension thrumming beneath his touch.
“I’m here,” Logan mutters. “Whatever you need, Wade, just say the word.”
For a moment, it seems like Wade doesn’t hear him. Then, slowly, he lowers his hands, his tear-streaked face turning toward Logan. His eyes are bloodshot, his expression a messy tangle of pain and longing.
“You’re fucking crazy, peanut,” Wade laughs, his voice breaking through his sobs. “What the heck are you even doing here? I’m— I’m a total mess right now, I can’t even—”
Logan frowns, his grip on Wade’s shoulder tightening. “Cut that shit out,” he says firmly. “Do you want water or not?”
Wade lets out a shaky laugh, his lips trembling. “You really know how to charm a girl, huh, Wolvie?”
Before Logan can respond, Wade leans in, his gaze locking onto Logan’s. The movement is slow, hesitant, but there’s no mistaking his intention. Logan’s breath catches as Wade’s lips brush against his own—a light, trembling touch.
Logan pulls back, his hand rising instinctively to stop Wade. “Wade—wait.”
Wade freezes, his expression crumpling as rejection settles over him. “I’m sorry,” he stammers, his voice cracking. “I just—I thought—Fuck, that was stupid. Ha! That was really stupid. Forget that ever happened. I’m going to go join Al in Hell now. Bye.”
Logan stops him, gently shoving him back against the couch. “It’s not that,” he says, his voice low and conflicted. “I just… I need to know this isn’t about Al. That it’s not just because you’re hurting and don’t wanna be alone.”
Wade blinks at him, the tears still brimming in his eyes. “You think I’m using you to get over my pseudo-mom’s death? What the hell, Logan?”
Logan doesn’t answer, but his silence speaks volumes. Wade’s jaw tightens, and he sits back, dragging a hand through Logan’s hair, scratching therapeutically at his scalp. Logan hates how much he loves it.
“I’ve been head over heels for you since you leaned into my gun back in that shitty bar in your original universe. Why else would we be sharing a bed every night? I was into you way before we lost Al, you stupid idiot. I just never thought you’d want… this. Me.”
Logan scoffs. “I’m sick of your shitty low self esteem act,” he mutters.
“Not an act, honey badger,” Wade sings. “Honestly, I was planning on leaving for a magical field trip tomorrow to find a way to die. I heard about some sword that can cut through healing factors and… well, y’know.”
Logan pales. “You were planning on killing yourself? What the fuck?!”
Wade grimaces. “Well when you say it like that it sounds bad.”
”Because it is bad! You fuckin’ hypocrite, you’re so torn up over Al leaving and yet you were gonna turn around and do the same thing to me?”
Wade frowns, but the blush creeping up his neck and ears is painfully obvious. “Well if it makes you feel better, I wasn’t gonna leave without getting in that Wolverussy at least once. I’m most interested in the aftercare, though. You give amazing hugs, baby.”
Logan can’t help it—he laughs, heart pounding in his chest. He leans forward, cupping Wade’s face, and presses their lips together.
Wade lets out a muffled gasp, his hands clutching at Logan’s shirt as he kisses him back with a fervor that’s equal parts relief and desire. It’s messy and desperate, but it’s them, it’s real.
When they finally pull apart, their foreheads resting together, Logan lets out a low, breathless chuckle. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”
Wade grins through the tears still clinging to his lashes. “Hopefully not too much pain. I mean, unless you’re into that, but I’m more of an easy glide kind of guy.”
Logan snorts and flicks Wade’s forehead.
“Hey, at least now we don’t gotta worry about keeping the noise down, right? If Ghost Al is listening, it’s her fault. Do you think she gets her vision back in the afterlife? I hope not.”
“Shut the fuck up, bub.”