It ends like this.
I'll figure it out, always do. See you, bub.
But then Wade says, “Logan!"
And then he says, "I think you’d really like Blind Al. You two could bond over your heightened senses and foul language. Plus, I think she’s looking for someone to help build some furniture, and written instructions confuse me. Just, you know, if you’re looking for something to do.”
Wade means, Why does this have to be an ending? Come with me. Come home with me.
Logan hears his name, and the rest doesn’t really matter. He turns around.
* * * * *
It starts over like this.
Logan goes from being alone and drunk almost twenty-four seven to being very much not alone and wishing he was drunk twenty-four seven. It’s loud, and messy, and overwhelming, and reminds Logan a little bit of being young. He watches Wade and Al go back and forth, affectionately insulting, and it twists something in his stomach, pokes and prods at old wounds that are constantly scabbed over, fresh blood never far behind. It makes him miss his friends, his family, until he can’t think of anything else. Logan tells Wade so three nights in, finally unable to ignore the guilt that’s been building, threatening to crash over him like water out of a broken dam.
“They should be here,” he says into the dark, “they were the ones who deserved normal lives. Not me. It isn’t fair.” Wade is quiet for an uncharacteristically long beat. Logan almost believes he’s actually asleep, until--
“Hold on. Did you just imply that any of this,” he sees the outline of Wade’s hands gesturing around the room, “is normal? Because that’s a little concerning to me. I’d hate to see how you were living before all this.”
“Forget it.”
“No, wait.” Wade sits up. “I’m sorry.”
Another beat of silence. Logan stares at the ceiling from where he’s currently sprawled on the couch, wishing for a drink, for the feeling of bone and cement against his knuckles. He glances down at Wade for a second, and then closes his eyes. His mind is so loud, too fucking loud.
“Talk.”
“What?”
“Just—” Logan exhales, hard. “It’s too quiet. Can’t sleep.”
“Oh, are you like a white noise machine kinda guy?” Wade yawns. “I don’t have one of those. What’s your poison, rainfall? Waves crashing on a beach? Crickets and . . . other kinds of bugs that make soothing noises?”
Even if he wanted to answer, Logan doesn’t think he could get a word in.
“Ooh! Construction. Jackhammers. No. Gunfire?”
“Are you just listing things that make noise?”
“Huh. I guess I am,” Wade says thoughtfully. He leans back against the edge of the couch, tilting his head enough to look at Logan upside down. Three people living in a one bedroom apartment-- the current situation was Logan on the pullout, Wade on the floor with a messy pile of blankets and a scratchy decorative pillow. Al hadn’t really given them a choice about the bedroom, but neither of them were confident in winning that argument. “Hey, from this angle it almost looks like you’re smiling!”
Logan reaches over to flick Wade in the forehead. “Stop being weird.”
“You’re the one being weird. It’s always, ‘shut the fuck up, Wade,’ and now you’re asking me to talk at one in the morning? That’s pretty fucking weird.”
“I do not sound like that.”
“You’re right, I should’ve gone up an octave.” Wade sits normally again, this time turning so that he’s facing the pullout. He takes a deep breath. “But I am sorry, really. About your friends.”
Logan doesn’t look back at him.
“You’re right, it’s not fair. They all deserved long, real lives, but . . . you were also a part of that team, right? You don’t think you deserve a life of your own?”
“It’s different.”
“It’s not,” Wade says softly. “And you know if they were here, they would tell you the same thing. You got this second chance, man, and there’s no point in spending it hating yourself, regretting things you can’t change. They would want you to live, to do something.”
The phrase echoes in his head, a steadying blanket over the whispers. He focuses on it, tries to will it into something real. Do something. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling, clenches his hands at his sides into steadying fists, slows his breathing. It’s not silent, not still, the way it had been in the Void, but it’s enough. He’d been expecting a distraction, because it’s fucking Wade Wilson, but somehow instead it’s the reassurance he secretly, desperately, wanted to hear. Guilt is a fucking powerful thing. Logan can’t remember what it feels like to live without it.
“Wade.”
“Shit, did I say something wrong? I’m usually not the guy people go to for this stuff, but I really do think-- ”
“Are you comfortable?”
“In this conversation? No. Can you tell?”
“On the floor.”
“Oh. Then also no. I’ve slept on actual rocks softer than this.”
Logan sighs and moves over, leaving one side of the pullout pointedly empty. Wade practically rolls into it, dragging the blankets up along with him.
“Ohhh my god,” he stage whispers once he’s done tossing and turning. “I’m in bed with the fucking Wolverine.”
“Touch me and my claws go through your goddamn skull.”
“If you’re trying to seduce me, holy fuck is it working.”
When Wade finally stops talking and squirming and his breathing evens out, one of his legs ends up crossed on top of Logan’s. Logan keeps his claws tucked away and pretends to be asleep.
* * * * *
“Aaaaaand— go!”
“This is stupid.”
“I’m literally giving you permission to maim me. Look me in the eyes and say you’re not into that.”
“Permission takes the fun out of it.”
“Please don't stab me, Mr. Wolverine! I wanna be in the seq— Jesus! Fuck!” Wade yelps. He fumbles around in his lap for Al's kitchen timer as Logan sinks claws into his thigh, right above the kneecap. He twists hard, once, pulling another strangled noise and a rush of blood from Wade. Wade’s wearing regular old shorts instead of the suit, because seeing blood is kind of the point right now, and they both stare as the shredded curves of muscle and skin fuse back together.
“Time! Holy shit, that was fast.” Wade turns the timer towards Logan, sitting in the chair next to him. “3.1 seconds. Eat shit, old man.” He tosses the timer. Logan just grunts in response and sticks his own leg out, where Wade hovers gleefully with a knife in each hand.
“This might sting.”
"No shit."
He does his best to make the wound a replica of the curled claw marks Logan had made. As far as scientific experiments go, Wade thinks it’s pretty fucking accurate. All they’re missing is a clipboard.
“Well?”
“I told you this was stupid.”
“No one likes a sore loser, peanut. What’s the damage, ten seconds? Fifteen?”
“You were sitting right here, are you that bad at counting?” Logan sits back in his flimsy lawn chair and throws the timer back over. Wade is extremely proud of himself for the effortless, one handed catch he makes.
“Four seconds?” Wade frowns. “Hm. I was hoping for a wider sweep. But then again, these were like teeny tiny little paper cuts. Next time, I say we go bigger. Really carve me up, make it challenging.”
Logan’s eyes are closed, head tilted back.
“Hey.”
“'M sleeping.”
“No, you’re not.” Wade kicks at the metal legs of the chair. They’re sitting on the roof of Wade’s— their —building, matching white metal and plastic lawn chairs spotted with rust. An assortment of small knives are scattered around Wade’s crocs, some of them wet and shiny. One of them is actually just a handle; the blade is somewhere on the street four stories down (a recent fight where Logan had managed to trip Wade like a fucking cartoon character and he’d gone down blade first. Not his finest moment). The rooftop isn’t anything nice, or easily accessible. It’s a lot of old pipes and vent hoods and dirt and trash and dark, dried up spots of blood.
One man’s trash is another man’s roof chair, Wade thinks as he picks at one of the plastic strips of the seat under his leg, now sticky with semi-dried blood. The sky around them is orange and pink, the last of the day slowly bleeding out. Wade never came up before, on his own, but Al had finally banned indoor roughhousing after a particularly nasty argument that ended with Wade missing an entire leg and most of their plates shattered, so. Roof. Plus, there was something about the open sky that seemed to calm Logan down, that got rid of the stiffness he held in his shoulders when they walked through the city. Speaking of—
“Logan.” Wade kicks out at the chair, harder. He’s secretly hoping to buckle one of the legs, wistfully sighing at the image of a 200 year old Logan Howlett losing his dignity to a crumpled lawn chair. A guy candream.
“I thought we were having quiet time.”
“God, don’t use the ‘q’ word around me. It’s like nails on a chalkboard.” Wade shivers hard for emphasis. And kicks the chair again. This time, Logan cracks open one eye to look at him.
“Have I told you yet today how insufferable you are?”
Wade grins, settling nicely into his place under Logan’s skin, and pulls his heel back for a third time. Unfortunately, Logan is faster, and Wade barely has time to register the blurred movement and snapping of metal before his ass hits the ground.
“Argh! You dick!” He holds up his right forearm, the broken spike of chair leg sticking clean through. “Did you do that on purpose, or were you also going for a light, yet persistent, attention-seeking tap?”
Logan’s eyes are already closed again, but the smallest shadow of a smile is still visible in the fading light. Wade yanks his arm off of the chair, shoves it to the side and settles back on the ground. It’s getting darker out but still warm, and he finds it a little easier to keep quiet while making plans to throw Logan’s chair off the roof.
* * * * *
“Listen, listen!”
Logan instinctively recoils as Wade thrusts Mary Puppins into his ear. “Jesus, what?”
“I swear she’s purring. How fucking cute is that?”
“Pretty sure that’s a death rattle.”
“Don’t be fucking rude.” Wade pulls the tiny dog back into his chest, covering both of her ears with one hand. “The scary man is just being mean, don’t listen to him.”
Logan doesn’t really care enough to explain that dogs definitely don’t purr. Although, if one did, it would be this one. He glances at Mary Puppins again. She stares back at him with wide eyes, tongue perpetually wagging to one side, the tuft of fur between her ears bouncing as she wiggles her tail. It does kind of sound like she’s purring, if he concentrates. He can’t let Wade know that.
“Stop letting her lick your mouth.”
“What are you, the police? Fuck off, thank you.”
* * * * *
The spring turns into a burning, crawling summer that inches into June, and then July. By the first day of August, Logan starts to wonder when Wade plans on kicking him out. He studies the way he talks, the way he paces the apartment, the way he moves around Logan like he’s been a fixture there forever. He listens, even when Wade thinks he’s tuned him out, to try and search for any clues as to when he’s officially overstayed his welcome. Either Logan is worse at picking up social cues than he thought, or Wade doesn’t really seem to want him gone. Logan feels like he’s stuck in some kind of domestic limbo; like once he settles in, once he stops looking over his shoulder, it’ll all be ripped out from under him. The thought of leaving now pains him more than he wants to admit.
“Party next week,” Wade flings the front door open one day, dropping plastic grocery bags on the table. A damp cloud of heat follows him from the hallway. “You, me, Al, the gang.”
“The gang?” Logan gives him a cursory glance up from the paper he’s reading.
“Yeah, yeah, everybody! I figured it’s been awhile, you know, since we all just hung out,” Wade calls from the kitchen. Glass clinks together in the fridge as he shuffles everything around. “You’ll be here, right? Laura specifically said she’s only coming if you’re here, and I never know when that kid is joking.”
Logan nods, then clears his throat when he remembers Wade isn’t looking. “Yeah, I guess.”
Wade does look then, popping his head over the fridge door with his eyes narrowed. “You sound weird. Spit it out, buddy. Got something more important than your best friends? I didn’t even tell you what day it was.”
“No, it’s . . .” Logan starts, and then stops, because he doesn’t actually know what to say. Don’t try to be smart. Just say it. “You didn’t plan on me being here for any of this. I don’t want to get in the way of anything.”
“Friday night, by the way. At six— which really means eight, or so I was told. Again, Laura. We gotta get her into a poker tournament or somethin'."
“Did you hear me?”
Wade goes back to putting away groceries. “Yeah. But it was kind of a dumbass thing to say, so I was gonna pretend I didn’t.”
“I’m being serious, Wade.”
“You don’t think I am?” Wade balls up the plastic bags and shoves them underneath the sink with the rest of the plastic bags they don’t reuse. “Trust me, if you being here was an issue I would’ve kicked your ass to the curb by now.” It’s so juvenile, the way that Wade says things to get a reaction- even more so that Logan knows he wants a reaction and gives him one anyway. Now, Wade is standing six feet away, arms crossed, slight grin as he leans against the wall. God forbid he just flat out says that he wants Logan to stay. Where would be the fun in that? Logan forgets about the day-old paper in front of him.
“To the curb, huh?”
“Out on the street like that.” Wade snaps his fingers, takes a step forward.
“I think I’d like to see you fucking try.”
“I think I’d also like to see me fucking try.” He says it completely straight faced, but his eyes are bright; lit up with anticipation, excitement. Logan isn’t even sure who lunges first.
* * * * *
“Seltzer water and lemon,” Wade pants an hour later, lying next to Logan on the floor of the living room. “Works for super suits. Probably works for rugs.”
“Do you have either one of those?”
Wade doesn’t miss a beat. “You know, you just reminded me that we’re out of a few things. You mind running to the store? Also, I might as well tell you now that your roof chair is gone. And by ‘gone’, I mean smashed to pieces on the sidewalk.”
Logan just laughs, an amused huff of air towards the ceiling. “Still mad about that, huh?”
“I know how to hold a grudge, bitch. Consider this your warning.”
* * * * *
After they broke up, Wade didn’t think it would ever get easier seeing Vanessa. Her dark eyes, her laugh, her smile. God, that smile; like you were the only person she had ever seen, ever loved. Wade’s goal in life for nearly three years had been bringing out that smile, and he’d been surprisingly successful— right up until the end.
Sometimes people break up. Sometimes there’s nothing you can do about it. Sometimes you can do something about it, but it’s too little too late. What do they call that?Right person, wrong time? The thought that Wade could’ve ever been the wrong person for Vanessa sends a sick feeling through him, like acid in the back of his throat. Part of him (the incredibly selfish, entitled, asshole part of him) wants her to dump the crunchy hiker boyfriend and come back to him, to their tiny ass apartment, to sitting on the sofa picking out baby names.
The other part of him knows that too much has happened to ever truly go back. After everything, she was the one who deserved to be happy and safe. Fuck, above all else, Wade wants her to be safe; they both know that isn’t with him.
He ends up being wrong. About seeing her, that is. Something shifts after his run-in with the TVA, and seeing Vanessa does get easier, with time. Wade would even go so far as to say they’re friends again. His more recent problem, however; Logan asks about her once in a while, always with a weird grumble and not-quite-eye contact. He chalked it up to Logan trying to be friendly, and at first, back when Vanessa was still a maybe, should I?, he didn’t mind. Now that he’s walked away for good it just feels like someone picking at an old scab, poking at a bruise, trying to make him bleed.
“Why are you so invested in this? She’s with someone else.” Wade kicks off his boots one night, annoyed and not really bothering to hide it. Logan stares at him from the table, frozen over a bowl of cereal.
“Just a question. You don’t have to answer.” He grumbles towards the table. Wade almost feels bad at the way his neck turns red. Almost, because he's still incredibly annoyed and tired and needs to get this elephant out of the room.
“But why are you asking?” Wade pulls out the chair across and throws his weight onto it harder than necessary. Something cracks, a sharp echo in the small room, but the chair stays upright. Logan glances up once, and then takes another bite of cereal. Wade doesn’t ask why he’s awake and eating Frosted Flakes at midnight, even though it would normally be the first thing out of his mouth. There was probably a good jab in there, too, if he wasn’t so distracted with the Vanessa thing. And the Logan thing. And not the cereal Logan thing, the 'I, Wade Wilson, have a crush on my emotionally stunted roommate Logan, who also happens to be the fucking Wolverine' thing. He peels red and black gloves off and starts emptying his suit of weapons, tossing everything loudly onto the table between them.
“Someone is trying to sleep here, jackass!” Al’s voice comes clear through the thin wall.
“Yeah Logan, be respectful,” Wade glares, voice raised just loud enough to carry. “And stop putting empty milk jugs back in the fridge!”
“That’s you.”
“Hmm, doesn’t sound like me.”
For a few seconds, they’re in a bit of a standoff— Wade won’t repeat his question and Logan doesn’t offer an answer. However, Wade is impatient and curious and can't stand long, drawn out silences so he breaks first.
“I appreciate you checking in, man, I do. But I can't . . . I won't put her through that again. I’m trying to let her go, to just let her be safe and live her life,” he takes a shaky breath, “and I’m ok that it isn’t with me. More than okay, actually." God, why couldn't Logan have a cool, plot convenient power like mind reading?
Logan tilts his head. “Isn’t this the girl you saved the world for?”
“She wanted me to believe in something bigger than myself. To do something good with this,” Wade sighs, gesturing to the mess in front of him. “So I did, but because I realized she was right. Not because I expected anything from her. I love Vanessa, but she’s happy, and I’m not getting in the way of that. People say love is letting go, right?” Wade tries to smile, because he really is totally fine, but there’s something about the way Logan is staring at him— he feels oddly exposed, like he’s being studied or dissected. Like Logan’s seeing him for the first time. Wade feels the urge to hide, to push his gaze away before he sees something that scares him off.
“Anyway,” Wade says loudly, leaning his chest over the table, “could I get some of that? I haven't eat in like," a squint at the clock on the microwave, "eight ho-- eight hours? Damn. Time really flies, don't it?"
Logan snorts and Wade kind of deflates a little and that's it, they're back to normal.
"Explains your pissy attitude." Logan says. Well, back to normal for them. Wade rolls his eyes and waves his hand and tries to stomp down the warm, crush-y feelings in his chest.
"Don't jump up to make me anything after my long, hard day at work, honey. I can pour my own cereal."
“Out of milk.”
“My life is just one cruel joke after another.”
“You probably deserve it.” Logan pushes the half finished bowl across the table. "But I'll run to the store in the morning."
* * * * *
“You thought we were gonna do what?”
“Have we really never talked about this before?” Wade leans close, too close, against Logan’s shoulder. “C’mon, tell me that wasn’t the best foreplay of your goddamn life.”
“You’re fucking strange, you know that?”
“I could give you a recap, if you don’t remember. You know, because of the dementia. Old joke.” Wade winks. Logan couldn’t forget it if he tried.
“I’m good, thanks.”
“Afraid you’ll lose this time?” Wade somehow gets closer, into the crook of his neck, “or afraid you’ll like it?”
His hand lands on the outside of Logan’s thigh, too high, not high enough. Logan stopped paying attention to the movie at the first breath against his ear and now he wonders if Wade was even watching it to begin with. Wade walks his fingers up, up, up— and to the side, tracing light steps along Logan’s hip, torso, arm, until his hand comes to rest against Logan’s on the arm of the couch. Specifically, he brings his fingertips to the divets of skin between Logan’s knuckles. One finger taps in a steady, slow rhythm as Wade uses his other hand to reach up behind Logan’s neck, tugging against the strands of short hair. Logan swallows hard (probably audibly, fuck) without really meaning to. Wade tilts his head, tugs again with faux innocent curiosity.
“Sounds like a ‘yes’ to me, folks.”
Jesus Christ. The man is insane. The man is also, unfortunately, onto something. Logan turns his head so they’re facing each other, not even an inch away. They hold eye contact until Wade flicks his gaze down, up, down, and Logan deflects because to do anything else--to do what he wants to do-- would be something he doesn't deserve.
“If you’re lookin’ for a fight, merc, all you gotta do is swing.” His voice is a growl in Wade’s ear that he hopes is steady. Something happens to Wade's expression, a microscopic flash of something that looks an awful lot like resignation, before he pulls his hands away and grins and maybe Logan imagined it.
“Now we're talkin'. Should we put on some Olivia Newton-John, or is that a bit too obvious?” he replies, right hook halfway through the air.
* * * * *
By the time Thanksgiving rolls around, Logan’s accepted he isn’t going anywhere. It’s not like there’s anywhere else he’d want to go— his own timeline sure isn’t mourning his disappearance. Things are the same, for the most part. Sometimes he learns something historic that he remembers slightly differently, sometimes he hears a song that he knows with slightly different lyrics. He doesn’t go looking for anything related to the very heroic and very dead Logan from this timeline. He sees the kid, Laura, often; that was strange at first. He could tell from the way she looked at him those first few weeks that she wasn’t really seeing him, or maybe it was that she was just trying too hard not to see the other Logan. Either way, he didn’t push the issue. He can’t imagine what it must be like, to see and interact with a loved one who doesn’t have a clue who you are. Laura lets a few things slip, and sometimes she’ll glance at him during a conversation like she’s expecting a comment or expression, and for some reason he always feels guilty when her face drops. Slowly, though, they’re making something that’s their own. A fresh start for both of them. He rebuilds his life in Wade’s shitty, tiny apartment, he makes friends with his friends and gets reacquainted with the city. Even a few months later it’s overwhelming, and he’s too sober, and most days he’s still full of anger that he has no clue what to do with-- but it’s more than he was doing back home and the TVA never comes kicking their door in, so he settles. Maybe it’s more accurate to say he settles with Wade Wilson.
Somehow over the last few months he’s made himself a part of Wade’s routine, a part of his life. And it’s not like he planned anything. Logan had been prepared to walk away, prepared to leave yet another person behind. Attachments were tricky. It would be easier, so much easier, if he’d been able to keep walking; but stupid fucking Wade Wilson had called his name, and he just couldn’t make himself go another step.
Now, almost seven months later, Logan has the infamous Oh moment. The realization that he’s in too deep. The two of them fit together like it’s nothing, like Logan isn’t in the wrong timeline at all, like he was always supposed to end up here. Logan feels it in the way they instigate and bitch and fight over the dumbest shit, just because they can, just because something always pulls them back together. Whatever he gives, Wade takes it with a taunt and smile and throws it back twice as hard. It’s hard to admit the relief it’s given him, to finally have an outlet, a way to process his anger and his energy. Wade has his own set of issues, sure— but he keeps swinging, keeps reassuring, keeps Logan at his side, and that counts for something. Wade talks about Vanessa and the way he wants her safe and protected and not with him and maybe he’s been trying to say something between all their lines of violence and domesticity. Logan has a pattern of falling hard and completely, and this time was no different; maybe if it was he’d be willing to risk more, but the thought of ruining this fucking bizarre— friendship? Partnership? It’s hard to settle on a word when he thinks about the two of them. In the end Logan decides it doesn’t matter. He’ll take this, whatever it is, for however long and in whatever way he can have it.
* * * * *
“Happy New Year, peanut!” Wade slings an arm around Logan's neck, face absolutely beaming in the dark amid the dollar store confetti cannons and sparklers. His cheeks are flushed, courtesy of the shots Ellie and Yukio have been steadily supplying to try and give him any kind of buzz. The apartment is packed with the usual crowd, oddly reminiscent of his birthday; yeah-- right before Wade single handedly saved the universe from Para-dick and his Old Yeller machine. That sounds right. Wade tipsily prays to whatever god willing to listen that this party passes uneventfully. He’s not really in a world-saving state of mind.
“Happy New Year,” Logan responds dryly. “What’re you hanging around here for?” There’s a half empty glass in his hand, although of what Wade isn’t sure.
Squinting a little, he tries to compare their levels of sobriety; neither one of them can be well and truly wasted, sure, but somehow he’s still losing. Wade shrugs and turns his head too fast, the string lights on the walls blurring, illuminating Logan in such a soft way his heart skips around in his chest. He feels stupidly confident, and blames the placebo effect of the alcohol he’s been downing all night. Yukio catches his glance around the dim living room and gives him a thumbs up and a smile that he catches between flashing lights. She nudges Ellie, knocking back a shot of her own, who actually also smiles at him. And then flips him off. Ah, to be young and still susceptible to the effects of booze. Thank you, very helpful, he mouths at them before they disappear hand in hand.
“What am I hanging around the apartment for? I do pay to live here, you know.” He thinks Al hears him because she scoffs on the other side of the room. It gets the smallest, surprised chuckle out of Logan. They're standing too close, like they do all the time, and Logan is giving him a cautiously fond look, like he does all the time, and Wade pushes forward before he loses his nerve. “But also— it’s midnight.”
“Not for two more minutes.”
“Whatever, that's close enough."
Logan has time to say, “Close enough for-- ” before Wade grabs him by the collar with his free hand and kisses him.
Whiskey. Logan’s drinking some kind of warm, smoky whiskey that Wade would never appreciate outside of the aftertaste he’s getting from Logan’s tongue. For the most goddamn thrilling second Logan actually kisses him back, and then—
“What're you doing?”
“Duh. I’m celebrating the New Year. Haven’t you ever seen a rom com?” Wade leans in again, lightheaded, stealing kisses between words, “I notice you haven’t hurt me yet.”
“Yet,” Logan says, but now his free hand is brushing against his waist, fingers hesitantly curling, and the fact that Wade absolutely could be seconds away from three blades piercing his lung only pushes him further (not that he’s thought about that, like, at all, ever). As soon as he has an angle, he tugs at Logan’s bottom lip with his teeth and a conveniently timed cheer from everyone else as it actually does hit midnight covers the groan that comes from the back of his throat. He feels Logan’s breath hitch, feels a hand come up to his chest— and then he almost loses his balance as he gets pushed backwards. Disappointment flashes hot and sharp until Logan knocks back the rest of his drink in one go (hot, oh my god?) and grabs Wade’s wrist hard. There’s a thrilling little crunch that he’s ninety-nine percent certain comes from his own skeleton. When Logan speaks, his voice is barely audible above the noise in the room.
“Outside.”
“Aggressive. I like it.” Wade tries to act like his stomach didn't just drop to the ground. “You in a fightin’ mood, Wolvie?”
“Something like that.”
“Maybe it’s the Christmas tree we never took down, but I’m feeling generous. You can win this time. Come out on top, if you catch my drift,” Wade rambles, practically being dragged out of the room. He snags a lonely looking shot from the table as they pass. Logan glances back at him and god, he catches the last part of a smile before he’s scowling again, pretending to be annoyed, and Wade could just skipthrough the fuckin’ door right now with how in-love he feels.
“If you don’t stop talking I’m gonna rip your vocal chords out through your fuckin’ nose.”
“Promise?”
They miss the rest of the party. Wade isn’t too broken up about it.
* * * * *
“You’re evicting us?” Wade cries. “What the fuck, Al?”
“I could barely stand the fighting, there is no way in hell I’m gonna listen to anything else. Not to mention the fact that you’ve trashed damn near every inch of this place,” Al says with her arms crossed. She stares straight ahead between the two seated on the couch. “That’s right–- don’t think I don’t know everything in here is either bloodstained, bullet-holed, or held together with duct tape. I need you motherfuckers out.”
“Now, hang on, don’t go act like this was the fucking Ritz before I got here,” Wade starts, and then turns to hiss at Logan, “How the fuck can she tell?”
Logan makes a strangling motion at him with one hand, jaw clenched, veins popping.
“You can stay until the end of the month. Fair?”
Wade is turning the idea over in his head when Logan speaks up. “Can we leave the dog with you?”
“Fuck no,” comes from Wade and Al simultaneously. Wade scoops up said dog from the floor and strokes her wrinkly skin.
“You, me, Mary Puppins,” he looks at Logan and shrugs, “might be fun.”
“Fun? You are a fucking terrible roommate. If you keep leaving piles of clothes on the floor I’ll—”
“Put your claws through my head? Shatter my ribcage and use my bones like a toothpick?" Wade rolls his eyes. "Come on, if you're gonna threaten me this often you need to start getting more creative than that."
Logan laughs, a nasty half growl low in his throat. “Oh, I can show you creative, you little prick.”
Neither of them notice Althea shuffling away, shaking her head and mumbling under her breath. “They deserve each other, that’s for damn sure.”
The end of the month can’t come soon enough.