Chapter Text
Logan had never been a fan of mornings.
For most of his life, mornings had been nothing but a reminder of the shit he had been through through. In his darker days, when he was buried under the weight of endless wars and a haze of alcohol, mornings were just another punch to the gut. The light of dawn creeping through the blinds felt like a slap in the face, a reminder that he was still here—still alive—when every bone in his body ached to rest. He'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the sting of a hangover mixed with the sting of memories he'd rather forget. The sunlight was an intruder, forcing him to face another day with the same blood on his hands and the same nightmares lurking in the corners of his mind.
Back then, mornings meant restlessness, the kind that no amount of booze could ever numb. He'd toss and turn in a bed that was too big and too empty, the sheets tangled around him like restraints. Sleep never came easy, and when it did, it was always fitful, full of memories that weren't really memories—more like scars that bled through into his dreams. He'd wake up drenched in sweat, the taste of whiskey still on his tongue, his knuckles raw from punching walls in his sleep. Mornings were the worst part of his day, because it meant starting over. Again. And again. And again.
Even now, Logan still doesn't like mornings all that much, though he's learned to bear them when he has to work. The habit of waking up early has been drilled into him from years of soldiering and survival, and when there's a job to do, he does it. No complaints. But these days, he doesn't despise mornings for the same reasons he used to. Now, it's different. Now, it's because waking up means leaving the warm cocoon of his bed—a bed that, for the first time in his life, doesn't feel empty.
He likes it when the bed is warm and Wade doesn't have to work, when he stays tucked up under Logan's arm, snoring softly with his face pressed against Logan's side. Wade has this way of making the bed feel full, not just physically, but in a way that Logan had forgotten was possible. The guy sleeps like he lives—recklessly, with limbs flung everywhere, his body sprawling across the mattress like he owns every inch of it. Sometimes Wade starfishes across the left side of the bed, the side nearest to the window, and Logan lets him, even though he knows he's going to have to pry Wade off later when the sunlight starts creeping in and Wade whines about the brightness.
Even Mary Puppins, their gross, scrappy little dog with her habit of licking between Logan's toes and her breath that smells like something that crawled out of a sewer, doesn't bother him as much in those early morning hours. The dog wasn't supposed to be in the bed—Wade promised—but there she is, curled up at their feet like she's always belonged there. And somehow, even that doesn't irritate him as much as it should. Not when Wade's snoring in his ear and his arm is draped over Logan's chest, holding him down like a paperweight. Logan has to admit, he's gotten used to the company. He even likes it, despite himself.
But the one thing Logan hates more than mornings is being woken up by anything other than the slow crawl of consciousness. And Wade? Wade never wakes up slow. He's all in, like he is with everything else. So when Logan feels a sudden pressure on his chest, he doesn't need to open his eyes to know who—or what—is responsible.
"Rise and shine, Grumpy Pants!" Wade's voice is too loud, too cheerful, and Logan knows he's grinning that big, stupid grin of his. The one that usually gets him what he wants, even when Logan swears he won't give in this time.
Logan lets out a long, irritated groan, not ready to give up the warmth of the bed just yet. He fumbles for a pillow and drags it over his face, blocking out Wade and the morning in one go. "What time is it?"
Wade doesn't answer right away, and Logan can practically hear the wheels turning in his head, coming up with some smartass remark. "Does it matter?"
"Yeah, if you want your facial features to stay where they need to be, it fucking matters." Logan's voice was muffled by the pillow, but the threat was crystal clear.
Wade tuts, poking Logan's chest. "Now, Honey Badger, is that any way to talk to your fiancé?"
Logan resists the urge to snarl. Just barely. The mornings when Wade isn't working should be sacred, a time for Logan to enjoy the rare calm that comes with having Wade's warm body pressed against his side. But no, Wade always has to be doing something, even at this ungodly hour. It's like the guy doesn't know how to be still. Undiagnosed ADHD, his ass. Logan will diagnose him right here, right now. He has it.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ, can't this wait?"
Wade leans closer, pressing his lips to Logan's ear, his breath warm and irritatingly cheerful. "Sorry, Baby Girl, but we've got too much to do. Wedding planning waits for no man."
Logan's eyes snap open. Wedding planning. Fuck. He had almost forgotten about the date he had half-heartedly thrown out, thinking it would buy him some time. But now here they were, and Wade wasn't going to let him off the hook. Not today.
Wade had been waiting to dive into wedding planning since the day Logan proposed, but between the move, Wade's sporadic jobs, and Logan's increase in bodyguard gigs with Craig (which only made Wade hate Craig more), they had been pushing back the wedding plans for months. But now, with everything finally settling down...
"Wade," he grumbles, "it's too early for this shit."
"Too early?" Wade scoffs, flipping open the binder in his hands, revealing an explosion of magazine clippings, sloppy notes, and general disarray. He waves it under Logan's nose, and the smell of cheap glue and Wade's obnoxiously spicy cologne fills his nostrils.
Logan squinted at the mess of papers and photos crammed into the binder. "Fuck is that?"
Wade's grin widened, almost wickedly. "Every girl dreams about their wedding day."
Logan's eyes narrow as he sits up slightly, Wade still perched on his chest. "Not a girl. You got a dick. It's poking me right now."
Wade doesn't miss a beat, smacking Logan in the face with the binder. "Concentrate! We only have 212 days until the big day, and we've got a lot of ground to cover!"
Logan blinks, dazed from the unexpected binder assault. "212 days? Fuck off, I'm going back to sleep." He turns over, trying to shake Wade off like a bad habit.
Wade, undeterred, brought the binder down on Logan's head again, harder this time.
Logan growled, snatching the binder from Wade's hands and hurling it across the room with a strength that should've ripped the damn thing in half. It hit the wall with a satisfying thud, papers fluttering to the floor in a heap of chaos. "There. Binder's outta the picture. G'night."
With that, Logan turned over and closed his eyes, ignoring Wade's dramatic gasp. But Wade, being Wade, wasn't going to give up so easily. He sprawled out beside Logan, draping an arm across his shoulders and leaning in close enough that Logan could feel his breath on his ear.
"Logan," Wade whispered, his voice annoyingly sing-song. "Logan. Lo-gaaaan."
Logan grunted, pretending to be asleep.
"Come on, my little honey badger. You promised we'd plan this wedding. We have 212 days. That's practically tomorrow in wedding time!" Wade's tone was insistent, and he started poking Logan's side repeatedly.
Logan opened one eye, a look of pure murder in his gaze. "Keep pokin' me, and you're gonna lose that finger."
Wade pouted, his lower lip jutting out in a mock sad expression. "You really know how to kill a man's dreams, you know that?"
"Good." Logan's voice was a low, growling rumble. "Now let me sleep."
Wade shifted his body, pressing closer until he was practically laying on top of Logan. "Nope! No sleep for you! We've got dresses to pick out, venues to book, cakes to taste—"
"Dresses?" Logan barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "Ya lost your damn mind."
Wade grinned wickedly, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I might just make you wear one, ya know. I think you'd look pretty sexy in a gown."
Logan groaned again, louder this time, and buried his face in the pillow. "If I say yes to whatever you want, will you let me sleep?"
Wade considered this for a moment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Hmm, tempting, but no. We've got too much to do and not enough time to do it. I need you awake and alert, Canadian Bacon. We're planning the most epic wedding of the century!"
Logan growled, grabbing Wade by the waist and flipping him over. He pressed Wade's back into the memory foam mattress that Wade begged Logan to buy after he laid on one in the Bed, Bath and Beyond that was down the street. Wade grinned, running his hands up Logan's hairy arms and squeezing his biceps.
Logan looks over to the alarm clock, and nearly winces at the blinking 4 AM staring back at him.
"You can fuck right off," Logan snarls.
"You said we could start today. You never said what time."
"Don't be a smart ass."
"'Don't be a dumbass, Wade.' 'Don't be a smartass, Wade.' Which is it? Because I feel like I'm running in circles like a dog chasing its tail."
"Eight."
"Thank you. I thought I ate, too."
"O'clock you fucking idiot. Wake me up at eight and we can plan to your heart's fucking desires."
"You're so mean, Honey Badger. Where is the love? Where is the love?"
"I'll let you do that thing you like if you leave me the fuck alone."
Wade's mouth snaps shut, and he narrows his eyes. "You hate that thing I like to do."
"Well, it involves your tongue in my asshole where I shit out of so yeah I'm not real peachy keen," Logan growled.
Wade clicked his tongue, and said, "Fine. Done."
He pushed up against Logan's hand, making to leave when Logan pressed him back down. Logan furrowed his eyebrows together.
"Where ya goin?"
"Um I'm leaving you alone? Tongue in ass? Rimjob heaven?" Wade drawled, looking at Logan like Logan has just said the Earth was flat.
Logan’s nose twitched, his expression softening, even if just a fraction into a look of emotional constipation. “I meant... whatever. You don’t have to leave the bed.”
Wade paused, his eyebrows lifting in surprise. Logan was rarely this candid about what he wanted, especially in the vulnerability of dawn, when the world outside their bedroom was still quiet, and the rest of the day hadn’t yet started to bear down on them.
“Awww, Sugarbutt. You want me to stay?” Wade asked, a slow grin spreading across his face. He leaned back again, his weight shifting, but he didn’t fully dislodge himself from under Logan’s body. “With the binder? Without? Should I go make breakfast? I’m not sure I’m following, Old Man.”
“Just... lay back down, will ya?” Logan grumbled, his voice low but not without affection.
Wade didn’t need to be told twice, pushing Logan back onto his side and scooting in closer so that he was nestled against it. Logan’s arm instinctively curled around him, pulling him close. Wade’s head rested on Logan’s shoulder, and he let out a contented sigh, his body relaxing into the familiar shape of Logan’s warmth.
*
Wade had been waiting to plan a wedding his entire life. Well, okay, maybe not his entire life, but definitely this entire year.
Alright, alright, maybe not even the whole year, but definitely this year. Yeah, that was it. This whole damn year had been building up to this moment. Wade Wilson, the world’s worst housewife and somehow still the better half of this relationship, was finally about to host the biggest event of his existence. Move over, Oscars! Step aside, royal weddings! Wade was coming through with the mother of all celebrations.
It was going to be big.
It was going to be lavish.
It was—
*
“Don’t make it a big deal," Logan grumbled, accepting the coffee mug and rubbing between his eyes.
"What? A big deal? Me?" Wade splayed his hands on his chest, mouth dropping open in mock-offendedness.
Logan gave him a knowing look, taking another sip.
*
Ha. Big deal? This was going to be the biggest fucking deal the world had ever seen. If there was one thing Wade Wilson knew how to do, it was turn everything up to eleven and then snap the fucking knob off just to make sure nobody could turn it down.
Wade loved to host. Granted, his idea of hosting typically involved offering up their shoebox of an apartment (now their nice little house, thank you very much), for some pizza-fueled, tequila-drenched bullshit where the “good china” was the high-quality plastic stuff he nicked from the neighbor’s barbecue last summer. He was sure they were still looking for it. And Wade? Wade was a fucking genius, holding onto the good shit like it was the last condom in the apocalypse. But this was going to be different. This was his wedding. Well, their wedding, but who’s counting?
This was the fucking wedding of the century. The wedding to end all weddings. This was going to make those celebrity affairs look like cheap drive-thru chapel hookups in Vegas. He could already see it now: the glitz, the glam, the extravagance of it all. And, of course, the pool floaties shaped like giant tacos. Wade loved tacos. This was non-negotiable. This was the day that would go down in history as the day Wade Wilson made an entire island question the validity of their wedding permits.
Because guess what, bitches? Wade finally had money.
Okay, so technically, it wasn’t his money—it was all Logan’s money, but the same difference. And not just any money, but fuck you money. The kind of money where he could hire a personal chef to make him peanut butter and jelly sandwiches whenever he damn well pleased. The kind of money that meant never having to re-wear socks. The kind of money where Logan could scowl at him, but Wade could just flash a wad of hundreds and shut him up real quick. Because let’s face it, Logan had his price, and it was usually around a six-pack and not having to deal with Wade’s bullshit for five minutes.
No more scraping together pocket change and old lady bus fare to buy a dollar-store Twinkie to impress Logan. No more settling for “good enough.” He wasn’t some broke mercenary anymore. No, no, no. The Merc with a Mouth was now the Merc with a Wallet (Merc with his Fiance's Wallet to be exact), and that wallet was stuffed tighter than his suit after an all-you-can-eat chimichanga night.
Ever since Wade was a little girl—boy, whatever, it’s 2024, who the fuck cares? Fuck it, in some multiverse, it probably happened. Anyway, back on track—he always dreamed of having cash to burn.
Oh, and a Razor scooter. God, how he wanted one of those when he was a kid. The neighbor’s son next door had one, and he would ride that thing up and down the street like he owned the damn world. Wade remembered watching from his crappy apartment window, his little heart full of envy and his mind full of plans. He even saved up his allowance once—$3.50—to buy one, but his mom had laughed and used the money for beer. So, naturally, Wade stole the scooter instead. It was a beautiful, shining piece of freedom, and he rode it like it was a Ferrari, right up until he ate shit on a pothole and broke his front tooth. But it was worth it. Every damn second.
That scooter was fucking awesome.
Where was he again? Oh right, the wedding.
Wade had been practicing this wedding thing for years, mentally at least, if not in reality. Which was basically the same thing.
See, Wade had plans. Big, grand, absurdly over-the-top plans. Plans that would make even the Kardashians roll their eyes and mutter, “Tone it down, Wilson.” He’d spent the better part of the last few weeks with his nose buried in bridal magazines, tearing out pages of anything that caught his eye. Lace, frills, diamonds, unicorns—okay, maybe not unicorns, but you get the idea. And not just for the dress. Oh no. Wade wasn’t some basic bitch. He had a vision, one that included helicopters, doves, probably a few jet skis, and most definitely a surprise performance by Beyoncé. Or Cher. Whichever diva wasn’t busy at the time.
Wade had every little detail planned out in his head, from the grand entrance—possibly involving a parachute, still working out the logistics—to the cake, which would be an edible sculpture of Logan's dick. Because who wouldn’t want to slice into that? And the guest list? Oh, Wade was going to make damn sure that anyone who was anyone was there.
Except maybe the X-Men. Those fuckers might still be mad about, you know, the incident. Which incident? Take your pick. Wade had a whole fucking portfolio of incidents including the one where Logan lost his shit which led to an unfortunate amount of bloodshed. But who’s keeping track? Certainly not Wade, because if there’s one thing Deadpool does best, it’s totally ignoring his violent tendencies and instead focusing on the softer side of things. Like wedding planning.
The more Wade thought about it, the more it dawned on him just how fucking surreal it was.
Him, Wade Wilson, Deadpool, Merc with a Mouth (and a cute ass) getting married. Legitimately married. Not just fake-wedding-to-a-mannequin married. A real, honest-to-god, put-a-ring-on-it wedding. And who better to tie the knot with than the surliest, hairiest, most badass man this side of Canada?
He could already see it now: an ocean view, waves crashing dramatically against the rocks, a choir of mutant doves soaring through the sky with banners that read, “Wade and Logan: A Love Story.” And an all-you-can-eat taco bar. With those fancy little umbrellas in the drinks. You know, the ones that scream, “We’ve got class but also like to get shit-faced on a Wednesday.”
Wade wasn’t about to let Logan’s money go to waste. No, he had plans. Plans that would make Martha Stewart look like a total amateur. (Seriously, what does that chick even know about weddings? Does she think those little finger sandwiches and crochet doilies are going to impress anyone? Bitch, please.) Wade was about to set the bar so high that no one would ever be able to touch it again.
He imagined Logan standing there, all gruff and reluctant in a tux that Wade had specifically picked out because it hugged his ass just right. There’d be explosions, there’d be fireworks, and there’d be Wolverine begrudgingly realizing that maybe, just maybe, Wade’s batshit ideas weren’t half bad. It was going to be a spectacle, a show, a declaration of their love that the world could never ignore, even if it wanted to.
He was talking fireworks, confetti cannons, a chocolate fountain that poured out tequila—though Logan would definitely bitch about that one. “Wade, you can’t drink chocolate tequila, it’s disgusting,” Logan would say in that gruff, sexy way that made Wade’s pants feel two sizes too small. “Logan, baby, sweetheart, sugar tits,” Wade would respond, “you can do anything if you try hard and believe in yourself. Now, put on this Speedo and let’s have a beach wedding with synchronized swimmers.”
But first, he had to get Logan on board.
And that was proving to be a challenge. Because Logan, for all his growly grumpiness, was the practical one. The grounded one. The one who kept Wade from spending all their money on a helicopter ride just to deliver the rings via skydiving raccoon. (Which, by the way, would be fucking awesome. PETA might have a problem, but Wade had ways of dealing with that. Mainly just ignoring them.)
And yeah, okay, maybe Logan didn’t give a shit about all the frills and thrills. Maybe he just wanted to say the vows, exchange the rings, and get back to the important part—fucking like rabbits in some five-star hotel suite. But Wade? Wade wanted the whole shebang. He wanted Logan to see just how much this meant to him. That even though Wade was a lot—a lot—he was also all in. No half measures, no hesitation. Just 100% Wade Wilson, chaos and all, loving Logan Howlett like it was his last day on earth.
That’s what Logan didn’t get about Wade. He wasn’t just about the insanity for insanity’s sake (okay, maybe a little). He was about the experience. Life was too short not to live it balls to the wall, literally and metaphorically. They’d been through hell and back, but now? Now it was time to live. To be wild and reckless and… well, rich.
So, yeah, Wade was excited. He was pumped. He was ready to throw the wedding to end all weddings. He had his binder, his plastic cutlery, and a heart full of love (and possibly cholesterol, but that was neither here nor there). He was going to make this day special, even if it killed him. Again. And again. And again. Because that’s what love was, right? Dying for someone over and over and over again.
Well, maybe not dying. More like… living. Yeah, living. Living the hell out of life with the one person who made every morning worth waking up for, even if he did smell like a wet dog half the time. Because if there’s one thing Wade Wilson knew better than anyone else, it was that life could be short. Brutal. Unforgiving. And in a world where tomorrow wasn’t guaranteed, where happy endings were a fucking myth, where death was around every corner with its bony-ass fingers and shitty attitude, Wade wanted to make damn sure that when Logan looked back on his life, he’d see this moment. This insane, ridiculous, over-the-top wedding. Their wedding. And he’d know, deep down, that Wade fucking Wilson loved him.
Watch out, world. Deadpool was getting married, and nobody was leaving until they were drunk, happy, and covered in glitter.