Work Text:
Wade Wilson wakes up slowly. Dreamily. All he knows is warmth, softness. Comfort. There's a pleasant weight on his chest. Someone's using him as a combination pillow/teddy bear. Someone warm and solid and breathing softly against Wade's neck.
Logan, Wade's brain helpfully supplies. You and Logan totally boned down sloppy style last night, remember?
Thanks, inner monologue, Wade mentally replies, what would I do without you?
The clock says it's almost six AM. The sun will be rising soon. He's got a few more hours to enjoy this.
Wade hadn't expected Wolve-fucking-rine to be a cuddler, but goddamn, he's clingier than a barnacle. Cuter, too. Clingier than a koala? That makes more sense and is more thematically appropriate, seeing as Hugh Jackman is Australian, and--
Logan mumbles something in his sleep and nuzzles his ample scruff against the tender skin of Wade's throat. Affection blooms in Wade's chest, threatening to overwhelm him. He carefully strokes his fingers through Logan's stupid cowlicks, slowly so as not to wake him.
And wake the usually hypervigilant Wolverine it doesn't. Logan is comfortable enough, feels safe enough, that even his brain on sleeping autopilot doesn't rouse.
That's... interesting, he thinks, have we been together long? Why does he trust me so much?
Wade's mind clicks and whirrs.
How did he get here?
Logan and I banged like a Galaga cabinet. Yeah, yeah. But before that. How did I get here? What did yesterday look like?
He finds he can't remember in perfect detail. It's as if the day before barely exists; a half-forgotten dream, vague and blurry and just out of reach no matter how much you struggle to grasp it.
Can't remember exactly how I got here. Comfy. Warm. Sexy mutant using me as a body pillow. My pain isn't even that bad.
Oh, fuck. Am I--
"You good?" Logan's sleep-roughened voice rumbles.
"Oh shit, Pookie, did I wake you up?"
"Your heart pounding did. You okay?"
"Fine as cat fur, sugar tits."
"Mmh," Logan hums doubtfully and noses Wade's jaw. "Nothing's wrong. Go back to sleep."
"Mmkay."
A long moment passes.
"Now your breathing's up too, bub. What's got your panties in a bunch?"
"You of all people should know I'm not wearing any panties." Wade jolts his hips a little to emphasize. "Not after you tore them off last night. Me-yow!"
"I didn't tear 'em. They're on the floor. Now are you gonna tell me what's bugging you or am I gonna have to beat it out of you?"
It's an empty threat. Last time they had a little sparring match indoors, Logan swore it was the last time. Too much blood and viscera to clean up. Easier to hose down the porch out back than get all the furniture cleaned and mop the floors.
Details of his life come back to him as they're relevant. Interesting.
"Alright, in the interest of our safety deposit, I guess I'll tell you what's got me a little freaked out."
"We are not getting our safety deposit back, bub."
"Right. So you know how we're both fictional characters from a comic book and film franchise?"
"Ah," Logan says. "This again."
"It gets worse! I'm pretty sure that we're in--do you know what a fanfiction is?"
"Like in the 60's? Writing about Kirk and Spock fuckin' each other's brains out? People still do that?"
"Oh boy, do they ever! And--"
"So you're worried that we're not real," Logan interrupts him, lifting his head to meet Wade's eyes in the half-light. "And that stressed you out so bad your heart started its own thrash band, huh?"
The look of tender concern on Logan's face is enough to make Wade want to puke. Or cry. Or kiss him. Maybe all three. Probably not simultaneously. "I mean, not quite?" he babbles. "Of course we're fictional characters, I mean, have you seen yourself? Nobody has abs like that."
"Obviously." Logan somehow resists rolling his eyes. Wade can sense that the effort is Herculean. "So if that's situation normal, what's the problem?"
"The problem is--if I'm right--" Wade swallows, dry, painful. "I mean. Are we even real? Like by our usual standards. Are we canon? And if not--what does that mean? Does any of this matter? Do I--"
There's a gross shhhk noise as Logan pops the claws of one hand, interrupting Wade's babbling. He rests gleaming adamantium against the ravaged skin of Wade's chest. Doesn't say anything.
"You could just tell me to shut up," Wade says after a moment. "It's not like I would, but you could tell me."
"I'm trying to make a point, you delusional little fuck." Ever so slightly, he tilts his wrist. The claws dig into Wade's chest, just a little. Not enough to break the skin enough to bleed. Paper cuts, if anything.
"If you wanna gut me like a fish, we should go outside first, these are Egyptian cotton."
"Does this feel real?"
"What?"
"Focus. What's it feel like?"
Oh. Okay. "Your claws. The metal feels--warm. Cause it's kept in your body."
"And?"
"They feel heavy. They bite a little."
Logan sheathes the claws again, with another gross sound. Instead, he flattens his hand against Wade's sternum. God, his hand is fucking big. "Now?"
"Warm. Weirdly soft. Your healing factor fucks your calluses right off, which is hilarious, because mine--well. Look at me."
Logan huffs, slowly running his hand up and down Wade's chest. "I like lookin' at you, bub."
"So what's this whole thing about? You gonna try to convince me we're real with this grounding sensory stuff? Maybe I oughta buy some slime off one of those shops on TikTok. Or we could make slime together. What do you th--"
"Nah. I'm not trying to convince you we're real. It wouldn't work, anyway."
"Wait, what?"
"You're a delusional little fuck, remember? I know better by now than to try and fight that."
"Oh. Okay. So what's the angle here? Just wanted to feel up my rack?"
Logan pinches one of his nipples hard and Wade shrieks. "My angle is: who gives a fuck?"
"Huh? Faced with a question of existential magnitude, your answer is 'who gives a fuck'?"
"Yeah. I'll say it again." Logan shrugs. "Who. Gives. A fuck." His hand settles low on Wade's stomach, his thumb rubbing small circles there. "You can feel things. You can think. You're real enough to wake my ass up at five in the morning with the dumbest fuckin' crisis I ever heard of."
"I have those regularly, to be fair."
Logan ignores him. "You're real enough to remember what we got up to last night, and," his hand dips lower, low enough to tease, "maybe go for another round?"
"You horny bastard! Here I am having an existential nightmare and all you want to do is fuck? Not that I'm complaining."
"God forbid I try to get something out of this," he huffs. "My point is, if you feel good, does it matter whether you're fuckin' real or not?"
"How about you shake hands with Wade Junior and we'll circle back around to the existential shit?"
"I thought I was the horny bastard."
"Changed my mind."
Fuck, Logan's right, though. The hand stroking his dick is also very convincing. Why the fuck should it matter whether he's in a comic book or on the silver screen or fervently published in some online spank bank somewhere? "It's not like we'd be any less fictional if we were in a movie," Wade says on a breathy moan, "we'd just have a considerably higher budget."
"Mm." Logan's hands are all over him. Logan's rumbly, purring voice in his ear. "I don't need a budget, bub."
He feels so... safe. Warm. Loved.
He feels happy. And no matter what is responsible for that feeling, for the circumstances that led him here, he's allowed to enjoy it.
With new determination--and existentialism fading into a much nicer emotion, horniness--he tilts his head to give Logan a kiss before he saying lowly into the heated space between their lips:
"Give me the lowest-budget handjob you can muster, big boy."
Logan grumbles something about a million-dollar lay instead, rolls Wade onto his stomach, and proceeds to take his sweet time undoing him, giving him the kind of orgasm that makes your whole body shake for ages afterward.
The kind that Bob Iger only wishes he could give his wife.