Chapter Text
Surprise surprise, Wade’s having trouble sleeping.
He tosses and turns as rain patters against the windows. The sound usually lulls him to sleep, but tonight it doesn’t do anything.
He sits up with a grumble. Maybe a late night smoke or doing something productive will reset his brain. Maybe a smoke, then a good zone-out while he does dishes. Hit ‘em with the old one-two punch and get two birds stoned at once.
Wolvie’s out on the couch as usual, but he sleeps like a fucking log. Plus, he was at least half a bottle of whiskey in when Wade left him for bed a couple hours ago, so the dishes clattering shouldn’t be an issue. Al also somehow sleeps like the dead. Why does everyone in this fucking household get a good night’s rest but him? What cosmic entity’s balls does he have to fondle to join them? Cause he’ll do it.
Wade slips his feet into his fuzzy unicorn slippers, pulls on an equally fuzzy red and black bathrobe, (custom made thank you very much) and shuffles out of his room.
In the darkness, he can just make out Logan’s form; passed out on his back, one arm dangling off the couch.
Wade very quietly collects the necessary equipment for rolling a joint from the coffee table. He notices, unsurprisingly, that Logan made it to the bottom of his now discarded whiskey bottle. Good for him . Eye roll emoji.
A soft murmur startles the merc. He drops his lighter and it clatters to the floor. For a moment, he thinks he’s in for a stern and shitfaced talking to, but Logan doesn’t stir from the couch.
The drunk old coot mutters something else indiscernible in his sleep. Wade hovers silently, just watching and listening for a moment. Another sound, almost like a whimper, intrigues Wade.
Wolverines don’t whimper. But then again… this Wolverine is special. Limited edition, one of a kind. Sure he's been played with a little roughly, but Wade's always loved beat up toys.
The older man’s eyebrows are furrowed, as they often are. He looks concerned or pained. He’s drenched in sweat, too; while the glisten on his collarbones and furry forearms is appealing, it’s more concerning than sexy in this circumstance.
Wade contemplates waking him, but Logan would most likely not be receptive to talking about it… he hasn’t been very easy to pry into as a person. Getting him to talk about anything is a struggle, let alone opening with ‘hey buddy, why are you whimpering in your sleep?’
He should just mind his own business and go about it like he didn’t notice. That’s what he’s resigned himself to doing when another soft, sad noise grabs his attention.
Funnily, it sounded almost like–
“Wade…” Logan repeats.
The sound wounds him, wrenches his guts like no adamantium claws ever could. It makes him feel protective, confused, but most of all guilty. What could dream-Wade be doing for him to make such a terrible sound?
Wade’s brow ridges furrow and he sucks his teeth with his tongue.
Fuck standing by. He’s never been the type.
He settles on his knees next to the couch. Logan’s heavy, boozy breath makes his nose wrinkle, but it’s a smell he’s getting used to, for better or worse.
“I’m here,” He says, taking Logan’s limp hand in his.
Snikt !
Logan’s claws shoot out, piercing Wade’s hand and he bites back a startled yelp, biting into his tongue so hard it’s lucky it’s still attached to choke back the sound.
Wolverine mumbles something that sounds an awful lot like ‘open the fucking door.’
Oh. Wade’s guilt doubles, but it’s accompanied by a sick little pang of pride. Logan’s having a nightmare about the time ripper…but more importantly, about him . About losing him.
“Shhh, hey, hey... Logan.” Wade soothes, flexing his fingers to test their operability– looks like all his tendons and ligaments are intact. He threads his fingers through Logan’s to the best of his ability from the angle he’s been skewered at.
“Wade.” Logan says softly again, but much less pained.
“I’m here, Peanut. Don’t you worry.” The merc assures. He runs the fingers of his free hand through Logan’s hair gently, playing with his ‘ears’ while he’s got the chance.
The older man’s expression softens.
Wade’s heart flutters and he feels the familiar sting of tears and a lump in his throat. He sits down a bit awkwardly and rests his head against the couch, stroking Logan’s bloody knuckles softly. He’d rather acknowledge the warm wetness of his own blood than the tears that follow the ripples of his scarred cheeks.
“I’m here.” Wade sniffles quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
After a moment, the claws slowly retract with a little stutter.
“That’s it. There’s a good kitty.” Wade sighs.
He wipes his face with the sleeve of his robe. Good thing it’s red, or it’d be ruined. Logan was so damn desperate to hold his hand, he had to do it in the most violent way possible. Typical male behavior.
The merc doesn’t remember falling asleep. He does remember Logan’s inebriated snores turning into a lawnmower-like assault on his ears, and the slow, irritating itch of blood drying between their entwined fingers.
~~~
When he wakes up, he’s on the floor with a kink in his back the size of Texas. Yee-fucking-haw. There’s a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. That’s weird, he definitely didn’t grab those. He sort of just fell asleep slumped against the couch.
“Morning, sleeping beauty.” Al says smugly from the couch. Mary is sleeping peacefully in her lap. Funny how the dog seems to like her more than anyone else. Maybe it’s just their little old lady energy fusing together.
“And a lovely go fuck yourself to you too.” Wade mumbles.
“Don’t be sleepin’ on the floor anymore, sugar. Makes you real bitchy. ”
“Meh-meh-mee-mee-blah-blah-blah.” Wade mocks. It takes him a few seconds to fully wake up, but in no time he’s ready to get up and kick the day in the balls. “Where’s LoLo Siwa?”
“Your boyfriend’s making breakfast, like a gentleman.” Althea replies.
“ I make breakfast. ” Wade interjects. He pretends Al’s choice of words doesn’t make his heart pit-a-pat like a lovesick fool.
The older woman shakes her head and points…vaguely in his direction. “There is a limit to how much lava I am willing to shit in a single day, Wade Wilson, and your abuse of hot sauce exceeds that limit.”
“Hmph.” Wade disagrees whole heartedly. Without hot sauce, sometimes he can barely taste anything. Thank you, El Cancer.
The kitchen smells like ham. He can hear it sizzling away, and his stomach rumbles loudly.
He scrambles to get up– Okay, so maybe his back isn’t ready to kick any balls. Damn, that smarts. He does manage to get to his feet, then stretch for a full minute before he shuffles toward the kitchen. On his way out, he notices that most of the blood has been cleaned from the floor except for the area he’d been covering.
Logan’s cooking away. There are eggs and waffles already prepared, and Logan’s frying up bacon– the good shit. Canadian, of course.
It’s nice to see grumpy cat doing normal things; the older man’s had a pretty even split of easy days, and days where all he’s capable of is drinking himself back to sleep. Honestly, it’s been a roller coaster for a couple of weeks. It’s a process, and Wade’s not one to judge how long it takes him to adjust…if he adjusts at all.
Domesticity is a very nice color on the old man. Wade is going to poke the badger, though.
“Who are you, why have you broken into my kitchen, and where did you put my timeline hopping hemorrhoid?”
“If anyone’s a hemorrhoid, it’s you, bub.” Logan scoffs, not even turning to face him.
Wade mosies into the kitchen and steals a waffle.
“Put it back.” Logan warns.
Logan is still busy and facing the other way, so now the fuck did he even know? “Jesus, did you smell me pick it up or something? Come on, I’m starving.” The merc whines.
“It’ll be ready in a minute. They say patience is a virtue.” Logan’s tone is light, almost cheery. It’s a pleasant change from his typically stormy demeanor.
Wade groans excessively loud and shuffles over to the sink to wash the crusted blood off his hand.
Logan’s movements still like a dog who’s heard a rabbit in the woods the second the water hits Wade’s skin, like the scent has been reactivated or something. He can tell Logan’s turned to face him. A long silence hangs in the air and Wade continues to pantomime washing his hands long after he’s rinsed the soap away.
“Why were you on the floor this mornin’?” Is the loaded question Logan eventually hits him with.
It’s Wade’s turn to face away from the other man. He draws out drying his hands, wringing the worn dish towel repeatedly between his fingers.
“I had a bad dream.” He lies. But the best lies are based on a grain of truth. “When I was a kid, I’d sleep next to my mom’s bed because dad didn’t like me getting into bed with them when I had nightmares. Said it would make me a pansy.”
He hangs the towel up and checks the reflection of the toaster to see if Logan’s still looking at him. He is.
Wade turns to face him with a smile. “If the dumb fucker could see me now.” He does a little twirl and a curtsey with his bathrobe.
Logan only seems half satisfied with his answer. He stares at Wade with that look like he’s trying to take Wade apart and inspect the pieces…then he snorts out a laugh and turns to finish preparing breakfast.
Call him NeoPool, because bullet successfully dodged .
Breakfast is perfect. The only argument is over how much chili flake and hot sauce is necessary for scrambled eggs, though the tension in the air when Logan admits to accidentally drinking the last of Althea's orange juice is palpable. They eat, they talk, and it’s incredibly, blessedly boring.
At one point, Logan’s bare foot grazes Wade’s slipper and their knees touch. Wade turns to look at Logan with a whole slab of bacon hanging out of his mouth. He nudges the older man’s knee gently, tilting his head.
Logan nudges back, shoots him a flirtatious look, then goes back to his eggs like nothing happened.
Wade’s guts churn. Butterflies are an understatement. Logan makes him feel more like he’s swallowed a whole goddamn lepidopterarium.