Old habits are hard to break.
The existence of a multiverse was, to put it lightly, a revelation to Logan, something he doesn't want to think about more than he needs to.
And although things are better now—here, in another universe, who-knows-how-far away from the waking nightmare his universe became many years ago—more often than not, even now, he chose the familiarity of bars over the comfort of his new found… family, dare he call them.
Tonight, his bar of choice is an inconspicuous, run down place hidden away in a dark alleyway. Inside, the air is stiff, almost suffocating, and the smell of alcohol lingers.
Floorboards creak with each movement of the three, maybe four people gathered around the pool table. The clicks and clacks of cues hitting balls interrupt the somber rhythm of the old jukebox cramped between a defunct slot machine and piles of boxes.
The only light source are a couple of light bulbs lazily hung from the ceiling, flickering every few minutes or so.
It is the perfect place to drown in your own sorrows.
At the very end of the bar, where the dim lights do not fully reach, a finger taps the old woodwork of the counter top.
"Again." His voice is low and raspy.
A bartender approaches, each step working the wood under his feet, and the bottom of a bottle hits the counter with a quiet thump.
Logan doesn't so much acknowledge the man as he does the bottle in front of him—the tailored fabric of his suit feels out of place, and the acrid smell of cheap aftershave clouds him—in favor of keeping his head low, eyes rather fixed on his own hands. An empty glass stands between them, the ice long melted.
"I think you've had enough."
A weak smile tugs at his lips, one that does not reach his eyes. "Trust me, bub, I can handle it." His tone does not awake confidence even within himself.
Silence falls as he feels the man scanning him carefully. Then, the sound of a glass hitting another rings out. And then, liquid pouring. Another thump.
"Last one."
Logan glances at the man's retreating back, and he decides not to argue. He has been to enough bars to know better. He must look pitiful, sitting alone in a dark corner in the middle of the night, downing one drink after another—or perhaps no one here cares at all. Either suits Logan just fine; Compared to what he was used to, indifference is a kindness.
He is thankful for the second chance at life, but he still feels like he is not meant to have it. The Wolverine was a hero, and he is no more than a shadow—yet his sacrifice was denied, and he was given a purpose instead.
Wade gave him a purpose.
A purpose, and a new life full of friends and family and strangers who look at him like any other human being.
And he keeps walking away.
He tries to be more than what everyone grew to expect of him, he tries to repent for the sins that haunt him—but in the end, he falls back into old habits, and he walks away.
His relationship with the alive-and-well X-Men of this universe is… rough, to say the least. The X-Men lost their Logan, and Logan lost his X-Men. Both sides have been scarred by their losses, and neither is willing to accept what everyone is afraid to call it: a replacement.
When the X-Men look at Logan, they see a ghost, a stranger wearing the face of their late friend.
When Logan looks at the X-Men, he is pulled back into his nightmares.
The Wolverine, the X-Man, the lone wolf, the traitor.
A mansion with silent hallways, walls painted in mutant blood.
The sickening scent of fear and death lingering in the air.
Faces of fading hope, calling out to a savior who ignored their pleas for help.
Guilt. Anger. Fear.
And yet, despite the tension that hangs between them, they try to make the best of it— Well, one of them is adamant to.
The Professor—much the same old Chuck he knew—offered him a place among the X-Men, at the mansion, only hours after a reluctant introduction on Logan's part. When Logan declined, there were dinners and meetups, and shortly after that, the X-Men started to invite him to join their missions—unofficially, they always pointed out, like it relieved any of the pressure. That, too, Logan declined over and over, until one day, today, he didn't.
What's the harm, he thought. He and Wade prevented the destruction of an entire universe with, as Wade likes to put it, 'the power of homosexuality and Madonna', whatever the hell that means. If Charles wants him to tag along so badly, here he is. How hard could it possibly be?
Of course, things escalated, and the Wolverine— Logan started acting on his own. Someone got hurt. He and Scott—also very much the same—got into a fight. Scott blamed him for everything. Logan questioned his authority, poked at his ego, provoked him.
And Scott, the oh so level-headed, rational, overgrown boy scout, snapped.
"If you can't work with the team, you might as well go back to your own universe. We won't bother you there."
The words were meant to hurt, and Logan had no sly remark to offer. Instead he turned on his heel and walked away, walked until he could no longer hear their calls.
Now he is here, indulging in old habits, sipping at his last drink like a dying man, dreading his tomorrow.
His familiar banter with Scott, painful as it was, reminded him that he hasn't changed one bit. He is still and is always destined to be theworst Wolverine. The Wolverine who ran from his past and endured the present, the Wolverine who was meant to spend his future waiting for an unkind death.
But by some miracle—was it divine intervention? He doubts it, God has abandoned him long ago, if there even is such a thing—Wade found him at his lowest and he saw in him what not even Logan himself thought was ever real. That has to mean something.
No matter how often his lips find the glass of whisky, the burn of the alcohol does nothing to drown out the sting of Scott's words. They echo in his head, force images buried deep inside it out into the open. He sinks deeper in on himself to hide the shudders itching at his spine.
Maybe Scott is right, for once. Maybe Wade should have abandoned him, back at the bar, in the void, anywhere.
He deserves better anyway.
Like his self-loathing manifested it, the shabby wooden door swings open and brings with it a cold breeze that immediately dissipates in the small room. And then, a familiar voice calls his name.
For what is probably the first time tonight, Logan raises his head, and his tired eyes meet the ones of the man who practically beams at him, the nightlife of the city illuminating his figure like his presence alone brings light to everything around him—Logan scoffs at his own ridiculous thought.
Without being prompted, Wade strides over to where he sits hunched over a half-empty glass and takes the seat right next to him, arms resting at the edge of the countertop. A hint of victory sits somewhere in his smile.
"Didn't expect you to find me," Logan greets him, less than enthusiastically. He chose this bar specifically to avoid any kind of rescue attempt. Unfortunately, Wade is nothing if not determined.
He grins at him like he just said something funny. "Our apartment is less depressing than this dump—no offense," he winks at the staff, who pay him no mind. "Of course I'd find you in a place like this." His elbow nudges Logan's playfully, and Logan can't help but flash a smile. He knows him too well—it's kind of annoying.
But as quick as the smile appeared it fades, and he sinks together further, his arm shifting to hide his face and scratch at the back of his head absentmindedly the moment he feels Wade's eyes dig into him.
The bar stool scrapes against the floor as Wade drags it closer, loud enough for everyone in the bar to hear. Logan grits his teeth at the sound.
Wade somehow knows, and hushes a "sorry" as he leans forward, angling his head in a way that allows him to look up at the man. Logan locks eyes with him, partly against his will.
"You okay, peanut?" His voice has that soft, almost concerned tone Logan both adores and hates, depending on the day. Today it leans more towards the latter. "You didn't come home tonight… I lowkey thought the Chateau Virgin losers kidnapped you or something."
"M'fine." He doesn't know why he bothers to lie. Just going off of Wade's expression, the man clearly knows more than he lets on. His brows—-or lack thereof—raise, confirming his suspicion. "You talk to Scott?"
"Mmmyeah," Wade hums apologetically. "Major teacher's pet by the way, I bet he's fun at parties."
Logan can't keep himself from snorting. "He's the worst."
"God, he sure had a lot to say about you. I think you're getting a D on that assignment, and I don't mean the fun kind." He grins up at him, pleased at the muffled laugh he is rewarded with.
Logan's posture visibly relaxes, and Wade shifts to meet him at eye level as soon as he has the chance to.
For a moment, the only sounds are the quiet hum of the jukebox and the distant mutters of the few other patrons. Wade is the first to break the silence, as is so often the case.
"Don't let that guy get to you." He places a soothing hand over the other's.
Logan shakes his head lightly, and Wade watches his eyes wander off to the bottle of Whisky left just out of reach. "Nah. It's on me."
A thumb caresses the back of his hand. "Wanna talk about it?"
His reply gets stuck in his throat and he swallows it back down together with the images that shoot through his head like bullets. Instead, he shakes his head again like it might just silence the voices still lingering inside it. "Nope."
Wade nods firmly, his lips pursed. "I figured as much."
Another beat of silence hits, only occasionally interrupted by Wade's fingers tapping the wood of the counter top to the music, and Logan wonders when he will start to try and drag him out of this place.
The taps come to an abrupt stop when the quiet tune of the jukebox fades and transitions into a new, slower and more gentle song, the kind that romantics swoon over.
Wade's taste in music is about as flexible as his morals, so it comes to no surprise when he starts quietly humming to it—or perhaps he just can't bear the silence that hangs between them. That is probably it.
Logan turns his head just enough to get an idea of what he is thinking—and he realises his mistake when his curiosity is met with a smirk. Wade is up to something.
"Do you wanna dance?"
There it is.
The question doesn't catch Logan off guard as much as it should. Still, he stares at him with his usual stoic expression, inviting the other to explain himself. But Wade, in turn, only flutters his eyelashes at him theatrically—a comical attempt at seduction, something Logan unfortunately finds somewhat endearing.
His facial muscles betray him and he laughs, snorting. "Fuck off," he blurts.
Wade's smile only widens and he jumps out of his chair, one leg still propped up on the metal bar. He holds out his hand, looking at Logan expectantly, and it dawns on Logan that he is actually serious about this.
"Come on, don't be shy," Wade teases, voice dripping honey, "Or do I have to go out there and dance by myself? Because I assure you, that's going to be a whole lot more embarrassing for one of us." His brows wriggle suggestively.
Logan finally manages to close his mouth. He looks back and forth between Wade's hand and the bottle behind the counter. Finally, his glass finds his lips and he chucks what he has been hesitant to finish. It hits the counter with a loud thump. "Alright."
Wade beams, grabbing Logan's hand and pulling him off the chair with a little too much enthusiasm, nearly making him trip over his own feet as he is dragged into the small open space of the pub.
He feels the other patrons' eyes drill into him—he never liked being the center of attention. The… incident he was not able to prevent had only worsened his uneasiness about being in the spotlight. Every person that looked at him created a sense of anxiety. Onlookers, gawkers, waiting for him to make a mistake. That was then, and this, this is different. This is now. But moments like these, they tend to throw him off, throw him back to a time where this fear of strangers was warranted.
"This is ridiculous," he says.
Wade, on the other hand, seems unbothered. Knowing him, he probably even enjoys it. His expression certainly suggests so.
"You never took me to prom. You kind of owe me this, peanut."
And his mood is infectious, Logan had realised that within only days upon meeting the man. For a grump like himself, he certainly isn't bad company.
A smile tugs at Logan's lips, and he allows their hands to intertwine, spare hands finding each other's back. He focuses only on Wade, hazel meeting hazel, the other patrons fading into obscurity more and more as he lets himself be guided into a rhythm. He was never a particularly good dancer—he had better things to do—but now, his body seems to move on its own.
Wade, for once, is quiet, though his smile says more than words ever could. Logan feels his own lips pull up, eyes wrinkling—it is kind of embarrassing, a man his age, giddy because of a simple domestic moment. But Wade likes the way his smile reaches his eyes. Adorable, he calls it—and he instinctively lowers his head.
He observes the way their bodies sway, the gentle beat of the music, the smell of his significant other. For the first time tonight, he feels calm, like everything is going to be alright.
As Logan's body relaxes, he inches closer to the other, resting his head in the crook of his neck. He takes in Wade's scent, focusing only on that. He smells like strawberries and cigarettes.
Wade shifts slightly, his own head finding Logan's shoulder, and his warm breath tickles his ear. "They'd be lucky to have you."
What are meant to be words of comfort, his mind only uses to fuel his own doubts. No, they wouldn't. He should be with them, not here. He chose a bar over them. Again. He walked away. Again.
Before Logan knows it, their movement comes to an abrupt stop and he is pulled in closer, Wade holding him tightly like he sensed the shift in his mood. If he didn't know any better, he would assume Wade is some sort of psychic.
"It's not your fault," he says calmly.
The words pierce right through him. The Professor told him the same thing not too long ago. A lot of people did, and he doesn't understand why.
"Let go of me, Wade," Logan grumbles into his shoulder, but makes no effort to free himself, his now free arm dangling at his side aimlessly.
"It's not your fault," he repeats.
The hand supporting Wade's back clutches at the fabric. But it is. It was then, and it is now. And it will happen again.
"Some of it is," Logan mumbles. You don't understand. None of them do.
"It's not your fault."
And Logan gives in. He wraps his hands around Wade and they stand there, for a while. The sadness and anger boiling inside of him dampens, if only a little. Perhaps he can pretend it isn't. Just for today.
His eyes start to sting, and he swallows the feeling back down, along with the memories. He would rather be caught dead than cry in front of strangers—outside of the comfort of their home—but he does not need to, because for now, he is content.
A new song begins to play, then another. The moment feels like an eternity as Logan allows himself to bask in Wade's comfort. Everything is going to be okay.
A hand trails down Logan's back, past his waistband—He squeezes Wade tightly, leaving him gasping for air. "You're ruining the moment."
"Okay, okay," Wade wheezes, "I yield!"
Logan releases Wade, who catches his breath dramatically, and they both laugh.
With the offending hand still wrapped around Logan's waist, Wade pats his chest. "Alright, big guy. Time to go home." There it is again, that soft voice. He doesn't mind it any longer.
It sounds more like a question, one he answers with a smile.
"Yeah. Let's go home."