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“We’re a pair of fuck-ups, aren’t we?” Wade asked him, tucked into a booth at the bar.
Real, actual alcohol in his hand– and, let’s face it, it was Logan’s second one, it hadn’t been kept idly in the glass all night– Logan was having a pretty mediocre night. Most days, he sat around doing nothing but sitting on Wade’s stuffy old couch, watching Golden Girls.
(It reminded him of Jean– she’d liked the show. Scott couldn’t stand it, but it was a staple of their “prof’s common” which was really just a sitting room with a TV hooked up to a playstation. He wondered what happened to the DVD boxset once there was no one left to watch it.)
“Speak for yourself,” Logan bit back. He was a little raw and the alcohol didn’t help. Even if it worked on his body like water through a sifter. Insobriety was hard, not just because he couldn’t get sober but because he couldn’t stay drunk. His body never needed it, he could go to an AA meeting, but at the end of the day the only reason he drank was because he told himself he wanted to.
“Well, I’m serious, look at us,” Wade gestured over the table to Logan's drink and his own… everything.
Logan just squared his jaw. Alcoholics anonymous wouldn’t help. Maybe anger management would.
“I mean, c’mon, this can’t be how you expected to spend your night. Or your life. Wolvie, drunk in a bar–”
“Fuck you.” He said instinctually. Then he paused when Wade didn’t look deterred. “Why the fuck do you suddenly care?”
“I’m just–”
“We saved the fucking world, cocksucker.” Logan set his beer down on the table. “That’s as good as we’re gonna get. I don’t need you echoing the same things I hear when I close my eyes.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, you have a problem with–”
“You’re trying to get me mad.” Logan realised. “You’re trying to piss me off.”
“Why would I do that?” Wade asked. He needed a better poker face. Or maybe something about the look on his face was making Wade’s own open.
It hit him like a ton of bricks. Abruptly, but not without any warning. It made sense. He just hadn’t thought about it, why would he? If there was one thing Logan was able to do, though, it was recover quickly, always ready to snap back.
“You’re disgusting, you know that?” He said.
“I’ve been told, yeah.” Wade threw up his arms in defence, “But would anyone blame me? I mean, really? You’re The Wolverine.”
“That doesn’t help your case.” Logan said. “You’re trying to… what? Hate fuck in the bathroom stall?”
Wade shrugged. “We’ve tried it in a car, we’ve tried it on that horrible couch. It really is bad, isn’t it?”
“The worst.”
“Well, there. I’m thinking I should make up a bingo card, fun places Wolverine and Deadpool have fucked. We’d do numbers on Tumblr. It’s a cesspool, but they’d dig us, that’s for sure.”
“It is not a thing.”
“Oh, I hate to break it to you, but Wolverpool is absolutely happening.”
“Not– that.” Logan shook his head. “Fuck, yes, that. I mean us. It’s not a thing.”
“We just… have moments that would be better than porn, you mean?” Wade said. “Yeah, sure. It’s not a thing.”
Logan blinked. “Do you think about this often?”
“Again, who would blame me?” Wade– who couldn’t sit still for more than a minute, had brought a hand down to start toying with the cardboard coaster on the table, tearing it apart at the edge with his nail.
That was the thing. With Wade, it wasn’t quite like it had been with anyone else.
Sex with others was good, and sex with Wade was about the same as everything else he’d had, but it was the rest of it that made the defining difference. Wade was just as impossible as Logan was, his pain tolerance was insanely high and he liked a bit of fun. Of course he did.
There were some vague rules to what they did. Drawing blood was fine, bruises didn’t last anyway and cuts and scrapes were gone instants later. The only real hard no’s were breaking bones and severing limbs. It wasn’t pleasant and it took a bit longer to heal, especially for Wade. Logan had the advantage when it came to most things.
And even then, Wade had once cracked two of his own ribs ribs, playing dirty while trying to put his knees somewhere. The man was a fucking acrobat and he had to be talked out of many fucked up ideas. Headstand– giving head while keeping a handstand, was one of those things.
They both liked sex. Normal sex, with normal people. Venessa and Wade had been an on-and-off thing for a couple of weeks, up until they’d both realised that they’d put too much stake in it all for far too long. People changed, and Wade, most of all, changed.
It was one thing to have sex, and it was another to push it a little bit. To let all of that pent up energy and curiosity push the book until you didn’t know which way was up and whose blood was yours. With them, it didn’t matter. Nothing lasted, anyway. No hurt or injury was gonna be a sticking point.
So, when Logan downed his pint, grabbed Wade by the collar of his shirt and dragged him into the men’s room, it didn’t really surprise either of them.
The bartender gave Logan a funny look on his way out, with an enthusiastic looking Wade trailing behind him. There was blood on their shirts–from the top of Wade’s head making unfortunate, but planned, contact with the high part of Logan’s nose.
“You should see the other guy,” Wade said to the bartender. A shit eating grin split across his face. He really was insufferable. Logan was prone to suffering, it seemed. He’d gotten used to pain and he’d gotten used to Wade. But he was happy. Happy in a way he hadn’t been in a long time.
**
There’s no transitional period from frenemies to friends to fuck buddies, because of course there isn’t. They’re too busy for that. Too old for it, anyway.
Or, at least Logan is. But there’s something almost reassuring about the way Wade settles into his life– or, more like he settles into Wade’s. And Blind Al’s, who’s alright with Logan hunkering down on her couch, without any idea of when he’s going to leave.
Wade, unlike any other friend, is in the same goddamn boat. They’re immortals, for better or for worse.
“If you’re looking to bore me into jacking myself off, you’re on the right track.” Wade told him, arms crossed over his bare chest, looking a little put out.
“You’re fucking impatient.” Logan said, low and quiet. It was just about midnight and Blind Al had decided to stay with her nephew for a couple weeks. It was their fault, Logan knew. But she had no space in the already tiny apartment now that the three of them were there, plus Dogpool, who took up more room than a creature that small had any right to.
“And you are fucking too patiently. It’s wearing me down. I’m like one of those round pieces of seaglass. We’re never doing this again. At the rate you’re going we’ll still be doing this for another ten, maybe twenty years.” Wade rambled.
Logan had his knee resting against Wade’s crotch. He shifted his weight, pressing against it with 200 pounds of muscle on his side. Wade gasped.
“Seems like talking to you gets you more in the mood.” Wade says. “I’m taking that as an invitation, you know?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“And risk letting you lose this hard-on for my wonderful anecdotes? Unlikely.”
“You’re distracting,” Logan said. He raised a hand, pressing his fist against Wade’s chest to keep him against the bed– the bed that Al and Wade shared. But she wasn’t in town, it was free-game, according to Wade.
“You’re gonna stab me? Make me into a human kebab? Right now?”
“No.” Logan just kept his fist trained there. “But your dick is more into this than the talking.”
“Fuck you,” Wade said, smiling wide. “God, what I wouldn’t give to be known this well by every lover. Stab me with your mutant metal claws! It turns me on! Only you, Logan.”
Logan grunted, he ground against Wade’s dick with the rise of his kneecap.
“You know,” Wade said, “I don’t think it’s quite as much fun with anyone else.”
“You’re the only person I sleep with that I can stab.” Logan said, “You’re the only person I sleep with that I want to stab.”
“Metaphor for penetration,” Wade sing-songed.
“There’s no metaphor.”
“Everything’s a metaphor.”
“Not–” Logan made a noise at the back of his throat. “No metaphor here.”
“Well it’s all metaphor right now, since there’s no penetration going on and we’re moving slower than snails.”
Logan tensed his fist, letting the very tips of his claws extend, pressing into Wade’s skin.
“Not what I meant!” Wade said, “But I’m not unhappy with the direction it’s going.”
At that, he let them extend further, resting about half an inch inside of Wade’s chest, not quite meeting bone.
“Not the heart.” Wade gasped.
“That
will ruin the mood.”
Logan lifted his hand and Wade’s skin closed an instant later, healed and looking as normal as it can ever look.
With very little hesitation he did it again, this time higher, out of reach of any organs but right under Wade’s collar bone. He swore as it happened and moved against Logan.
Wade took Logan’s free hand in his, pushing the palm of it against his dick. “You know how to fuck.” He said, bringing himself to finish. Not a moment later, when his blood was still drying against his skin, he flipped Logan onto his back, muttering something along the lines of I’m not gonna take so damn long to get you off.
**
“You should–” Logan started, catching Wade’s fist against his forearm with a crack.
“Fuck. Fuck!” Wade said, “You broke my hand!”
“You broke your hand on my arm.”
“I’ve gotta get myself some metal bones.” Wade shook his hand out. It made another cracking sound as it reset itself. They didn’t spar with gear, why would they? The only equipment required was a weapon, which Wade had on hand more often than not. “You’ve got extra bones too, asshole. Block with a softer part of your body next time.”
“My entire body–”
“Your whole skeleton is coated in ada-fucking-mantium by insane and evil doctors, I know.” Wade flexed his hand, bounced his feet on the foam mats. They’d started this practice in Wade’s apartment, which had had disastrous consequences for a few pieces of furniture and a potted plant. “I’m gonna punch you in the chest in five… four… three…”
He did it then, hitting Logan square in the peck. No cracks this time, just a groan of discontent.
“Why is all of you so fucking chiselled? Leave some muscle mass for the rest of us, will you?”
“There were twenty scrawny bastards in Basic who fought better than you.” Logan said.
“Which war was that?” Wade asked. “The War of the Roses?”
“Someone read a history book.”
“Sorry, was that not the right kind of on-brand witty? Let me try again, which war was that? The war of 1812? Did you set fire to the white house?”
“I meant the Second World War, but sure. Whatever works.” Logan said. Wade gave him a knowing look, then dropped it quickly. He bounced once on his toes like a boxer and then shifted his waist, hitting Logan unexpectedly in the side.
“Second World War? WWII?” Wade said. Out loud it was something like double-you-double-you-eye-eye. He’d do anything for the joke, though. Even sound like an idiot. “I forgot you were a proper war hero. The rest of us don’t get so much glory now.”
“It wasn’t a very glorious time.”
“You sure?” Wade asked, “Because I bet your company was a real Band of Brothers. Did you serve in The Pacific? Did you follow The Thin Red Line– I don’t actually remember what that means.”
“What?” Logan squinted, drawing his arms into his sides, ready for Wade to strike with another random move.
“Nothing, don’t worry about it.” Wade waved him off. “I really liked Shaving Ryan’s Privates, though. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t–”
Logan took the moment to kick Wade’s legs out from beneath him, making him land square on his ass.
“Fuck,” Wade said, not for the first time that night. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”
“I have my moments.” Logan reached a hand out, pulling Wade up.
**
“I think we need a lair. More lairs in general,” Wade said. “Marvel skimps out on them, DC gives everyone a lair. And here I am, sharing an apartment with a wild animal, my dog, and an old blind woman.”
With a shrug, brushing off the wild animal part entirely, Logan just said “We had a lair.”
“Fuck you, Mr. I-Was-In-The-X-Men. Everyone knows you had a lair. A base, more like. In the basement of a mansion. And your fucking X-Men jet.”
Logan hummed. Laura was staying with the current X-Men, which, as far as he could tell, was not quite the same as what he was used to. When he asked, Wade refused to explain, but he had said very fucked up timeline– not your fault, though, don’t worry.
They got calls sometimes from the reliable School For Gifted Youngsters, but usually it was Colossus or Yukio checking in. Logan got along with them here, but Negasonic was his favourite. There was some kind of unspoken anger between them, they went out for beers every few weeks.
“What about something else?” Logan asked. Another thing– he’d received fan mail. Going from his timeline– unwanted, ashamed, and for good reason, the respect of people in Wade’s world was surprising. He was still getting used to it.
“I won’t settle for anything less than a kickass bunker,” Wade told him. He was never serious, it seemed. But he probably meant it this time. He was funny that way.
“If you can find it, I’ll foot the bill.” There was some money bouncing around in his– well, other Logan’s, Wade’s Logan’s– name. He’d been assured that it was his now. That Logan was dead. And he didn’t have much in life, but Charles Xavier, at one point, had. He’d loved Logan until his dying day in both their worlds, it seemed.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Wade said. “The whole world’s our oyster when I don’t have to pay for it.”
“At least you’re not killing for money anymore.” Logan said. At least I’m not fighting for it either.
Wade laughed, he was only quiet when he ate. He took a bite, then broke every rule of dignity, and with his mouth full of Thai food said:
“You know, sometimes I have this night terror about these huge fucking katanas that come out of my forearms– That’s probably a story for another day.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He smiled, “I’ll be talking your ear off till the fucking sun explodes, bub. One story – a Fucking doozy too– can wait. Not getting rid of me anytime soon.”