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His senses slowly start to come back to him as he claws his way back to consciousness.
The first thing that hits him is the smell. Blood, gunpowder… dog? Something akin to overripe fruit, cocoa butter, mothballs, the faint stench of city streets.
Then the panic hits him like a punch to the gut. Not his own, but someone else’s. It’s hanging in the air so thick he can almost taste it.
He takes another deep breath and tries to open his eyes to get his bearings.
Where the fuck is he?
It smells like strangers but also… not? And his scent is here too, deep in the pillow his head is lying on and intertwined almost inseparably with someone else’s.
As soon as his eyes open he closes them again, the bright light causing an instant sharp, shooting pain to ricochet through his skull like a bullet.
“Peanut! You’re alive! I mean, I know you were alive, but you’re awake!“
He winces at the volume of the voice - deep and comforting to him despite not being able to place it - and it immediately lowers, though the words keep coming. “Are you okay? How’re you feeling? Do you want something to drink? Here, lemme help you sit up.”
There are hands on him, rough in texture but soft in their touch, helping him to get himself upright on the bed - no, sofa bed? Was that the arm of a couch?
He cautiously attempts to open his eyes again, dreading the pain, but this time when he looks there’s no bright light, in fact there’s almost no light at all. The owner of those hands must’ve turned it off.
“Thanks,” he mumbles out, his voice rough even to his own ears.
“Here, drink this.”
A chipped mug in the shape of a unicorn head is shoved into his hand. The blue liquid contained within sloshes around and the purple bendy straw nearly topples out under its own weight. He eyes it suspiciously and hears the huff from somewhere near his shoulder.
“It’s just Gatorade, princess. Did you want the green straw instead? It’s still in the sink, but I can wash it-”
“Don’t trust him,” another voice to his left tells him. It’s female and older sounding. He freezes, unsure of what to do. He wants to turn towards it but the queasy feeling in his stomach is screaming at him not to move yet.
“He doesn’t wash shit, he’ll just run water through it.”
“That is washing! It’s not like I used it for soup or something. How would you know, anyway? Can you hear soap now, DEI Daredevil?”
“I can taste the kool aid stuck to the inside, dumbass. And yeah, the bottle of dish soap does make a sound when you open it, which you’d know if you’d ever opened the goddamn thing, useless motherfucker.”
Logan is confused by the exchange, to say the least.
They sound angry but… not? And extremely familiar. He knows them both, that much he’s certain of. If he could just get his mind to catch up…
He tries to speak again but coughs and the straw is practically forced into his mouth before he can make a move to do it himself.
“Drink honeybadger, you’ll feel better.”
He pushes the hand away but drinks and, annoyingly, does instantly feel a little better. His head is still throbbing but at least he doesn’t feel like he’s been chewing on glass anymore.
“I’m fine,” he lies, eyes still squinting and unfocused.
“He’s been pacing a goddamn hole in the floor for the last three hours while you’ve been passed out. Let him get it out of his system before I shove my cane up his ass,” the woman says while patting his arm.
“Jokes on you, I’m into that.”
“Not the way I’m going to do it.”
“I heal,” he says lamely, interrupting what he’s sure was gearing up to be a conversation he doesn’t want to be a part of. He feels like they should already know that, but just in case they don’t.
“Uh yeah, I know,” the man says, turning his attention back to Logan. “But you were taking your sweet ass time about it after getting shot with that weird alien gun that knocked you out cold so pardon me if I was a teensy bit worried about my stupidass partner who stepped in front of a bullet that was meant for me even though WE BOTH HEAL, and then proceeded to go unresponsive for several hours for no good goddamn reason,” he scolds.
Partner? As in…
“There was a reason,” his mouth shoots off before his brain has time to catch up. What the fuck? He didn’t remember any of that happening - little flashes maybe, a tall, purple guy with some weird looking gun, the glint of a blade, the splash of blood - but he knows that if he did that, he’d’ve done it for a reason.
“Oh really? And what would that be?”
Logan shrugs, giving the only answer he’s got.
“Better me than you.”
The man groans and flops down into what Logan assumes is the chair across from him, the wind leaving his sails.
He doesn’t see though because he’s closed his eyes again - when did that happen?
“Fuck you. How am I supposed to be angry at you when you say shit like that?” he says it like it’s not a rhetorical question, so Logan answers simply.
“You’re not?”
The woman on his left makes a gagging sound.
“It’d be less disgusting listening to the two of you fuck nasty in the middle of the apartment, for fuck’s sake.”
“You’d love that, you perv. Really get your old lady juices flowing.”
“The day hearing you get off does anything for me is the day you drive me over the border and put me down.”
“Gladly.”
Logan nearly chokes on his Gatorade and immediately the hands are back, sitting him up straighter and taking the cup away.
“Wade, baby, leave the poor man alone, he just woke up.”
Wade . The name sounds right to Logan’s ears. Like a name he’s heard a lot, that he’s said a lot. His mouth makes the shape of it silently as if by muscle memory alone as she continues to speak.
“Logan, honey, I’m glad you’re okay. You had us worried there for a minute. Cut him some slack, he means well. And if you do stab him, do it on the tile this time,” she adds, reaching out with one hand to find Logan’s forehead then placing a kiss atop it.
This time?
She stands up, using Logan’s shoulder to facilitate it.
“I’m going out. You boys, clean up after yourselves. I swear to god if I come in contact with any bodily fluids when I get home tomorrow-”
“That was one time, you demented elephant!” Wade shrieks, and Logan really does not want to know if he’s being serious or not.
“One time too many you disgusting, freeloading piece of shit.”
“Have fun getting your dried up roast beef tenderized.”
“Have fun beating yourself off while crying alone in the shower.”
“I will, thanks. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
It’s not what Logan would call a normal conversation by any means, but the two seem almost cheerful as the woman gathers her bag and leaves.
The rest of the day is… difficult. According to Wade, he’d been shot with some supercharged alien bullet that caused a severe concussion. Beast - a name he remembered! - had examined him and was apparently sure that Logan would be right as rain in a few days.
Wade doesn’t mention amnesia and neither does Logan.
He’s sure it’ll pass soon. No need to cause more worry.
Besides, he’s always been good at puzzles, he can piece things together until the memories come back on their own.
What he’s got so far:
1. He lives with a man named Wade and an old lady named Blind Al and the ugliest dog he’s ever seen in his life inexplicably named Mary.
2. He’s still an X-Man, or at least working with the X-Men, but he doesn’t live there anymore. Maybe he moved out of the mansion to live with Wade? He can’t imagine why they’d choose this shithole instead of there, but maybe Blind Al had something to do with it? She wasn’t frail by any means, but living alone in the city, blind and elderly, can’t be easy, and in his experience the older people get the more stubborn they become. She probably refused to leave and Wade stayed to take care of her. And Logan had moved in at some point when they became serious.
Because that’s the third thing he’s figured out. Wade is his boyfriend - or partner, as he’d put it earlier. (Boyfriend did sound a bit immature for men their ages).
He suspected it from the start - with the way he was fretting and all the pet names - but the sleeping arrangements cement it in his mind.
Explains why their scents are so intertwined everywhere. Even Wade’s clothes smell like Logan wears them just as much as he does.
Of all the situations Logan’s woken up without a memory in, this one is by far the most pleasant, if not a little strange.
He’s not sad about it.
“You’re sure you’re okay? You don’t want, I don’t know, an ice pack or something for your head?” Wade asks for the umpteenth time, placing a new glass of water on the end table and handing Logan yet another pillow he’s pulled from god knows where.
“I’m fine. Would you just get in the fuckin’ bed already?”
“I’m going to cherish the memory of the sound of your voice saying those words to me for the rest of my life,” he says with a theatrical sigh, finally sitting down on the mattress. He tosses his ridiculous bunny slippers over his shoulder to land god knows where behind them.
“You can’t leave those there. What if Blind Al trips over them?” Logan admonishes, already moving to get out of bed and pick them up himself.
Wade’s head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing and head tilting.
“Are you…feeling okay?”
Logan shrugs, feigning nonchalance and hoping he hasn’t been found out, even if he’s not sure why he cares so much to keep it a secret.
“Yeah, I told you, m’fine. Why?”
“Just double checking,” Wade says, giving him yet another once-over before finally settling into the mattress.
“You double checked about ten checks ago,” Logan teases, endeared by the fretting. He flashes Wade a charming smile, crawling back under the covers and landing a little closer towards the middle than he’d been at the start. Wade’s eyes quickly take in the change and a look passes over his face too fast for Logan to read.
“We should get some rest. It’s been a long day, yeah? I’m beat,” he says and promptly turns over, back to Logan, tugging their shared blanket up over his shoulders.
Logan frowns, a little taken aback by the clear dismissal.
He doesn’t know if Wade is keeping him at arms length because he’s injured or for some other reason, and it needles at him. Were they fighting before he got shot? Did he do something wrong? Or have they just reached that point in the relationship where the routine kicks in and they don’t snuggle or kiss goodnight anymore? Or is it so new they haven’t established a routine yet?
He doesn’t think it’s that one. It doesn’t feel new. He feels like he’s been loving Wade for a long time. Like his heart and body remember, even if his brain doesn’t.
He decides to leave it for now. It’s probably something stupid and he’s making a bigger deal than he should. He’s sure once his brain finishes healing itself everything will make sense, so he turns the lamp off and settles in to sleep, reaching across the invisible canyon between them to brush his fingers across Wade’s shoulder and whisper, “good night bub.” His olive branch is rewarded with a sleepysoft “night Lo,” and the briefest touch of scarred fingertips against the back of his hand.
The headache persists into the next day and so, unfortunately, does the amnesia. But it’s not as unsettling as he thinks it should be. He’s safe here. He doesn’t know how he knows that, but he does. His instincts are usually right about this sort of thing and they’re not going crazy despite the fact that he couldn’t tell you his address or phone number to save his life.
And he’s in love.
It’s almost as unfamiliar a feeling as being safe, but he remembers how it feels in his body - even if the last time he experienced it was a long time ago - and he recognizes it in the way his heart flutters in his chest at the sound of Wade’s laugh, the way his breath catches when their skin touches, the way his stomach knots under the other man’s attention.
He doesn’t know what to do with the feeling, whether he’s allowed to act on it - especially after the weirdness last night - so he doesn’t do anything at first, choosing instead to wait and observe and match Wade’s energy.
Which, he’s realizing, may be impossible.
He’s all over the place - a ball of unfocused energy bouncing from surface to surface, room to room. Logan’s not sure he’d be able to keep up even if his memory was fully intact.
Wade’s excited voice carries from the kitchen, but Logan doesn’t think he’s actually expecting any answers to his barrage of questions. He seems to like talking to fill the silence, which works in Logan’s favor since he doesn’t know what to say.
He should probably say something.
His head still hurts, but he thinks it’s getting better. He’s starting to get flashes - little scenes that come back with the prompt of some familiar smell or phrase. Wade cooking breakfast because he’ll burn the house down if you ask him to make something in the oven but he could put a world class chef to shame with his omelettes; Wade falling asleep on the couch with Mary in his arms, both snoring loud enough to wake the neighbors; Wade doodling crayon drawings of mission plans and presenting them to a captive audience of Logan, Mary, and a girl whose face is familiar but whose name he can’t recall.
He’ll probably be back to normal in a few days at this rate. There’s no need to worry him about nothing.
Especially because he’s been anxiously watching Logan like a hawk.
The next three days are the best and worst of his life.
The best because he hardly has to move a muscle the entire time. Every time he has a need, Wade is there meeting it. His stomach growls and a minute later there’s a sandwich or some leftover pizza sitting on a plate in front of him. He finishes a beer and another cold one is being slipped into his hand. His head starts to hurt and the lights are suddenly low and the volume on the TV is turned down and there are fingers in his hair massaging his temples and making him melt into the couch cushions.
He’s never felt this taken care of in his life.
Except - and here’s the reason it’s also the worst three days of his life - he doesn’t know if that’s actually true. He honestly cannot remember if this is just how Wade is . Does he lovingly dote on Logan all the time? Does Logan let him? He can’t imagine himself letting it happen when he’s not just recently concussed. It makes him feel… itchy. Restless. Like he’s using Wade when he really doesn’t need all this attention.
But it’s also just… really nice. Like a warm blanket straight out of the dryer. Yeah, a blanket is gonna keep you warm regardless but it’s better if it’s already warm. Unnecessary and indulgent, but really fucking nice.
And it’s not like he’s asking for it. Wades just there, doing it without hesitation or annoyance.
He hopes beyond hope that he’s returning a favor. That Logan takes care of him too. That they’re the type of couple that doesn’t keep score, where they’re each at their happiest when the other is happy.
He’s never had that, but Wade deserves it. He doesn’t know much but he knows that. Deep in his bones he knows he doesn’t want to screw this up.
Day four he wakes up from a strange dream involving a hundred different versions of Wade - Deadpool, he remembers now - all dead, by his own blood soaked hands, and a large steel door he can’t break down. He doesn’t know what was on the other side, but he knows he needed to get to it. The harder he tries to remember the dream the more it fades into the ether, but there’s still a lingering sense of unease in his bones. He takes a deep breath, the scent of home helping to settle his wracked nerves.
He reaches over to ground himself further with touch, but Wade’s side of the bed is empty and cold.
He listens for signs of life in the apartment and it’s not long before he hears Wade’s voice whisper-shouting to Mary not to eat something off the kitchen floor.
He doesn’t bother getting dressed or putting the bed up, wandering into the kitchen and making a beeline for Wade as if drawn by some magnetic force. He’s standing over the sink - a good thing because he drops his cup of coffee as soon as Logan’s arms wrap around his chest. Logan grumbles sleepily against his neck and pulls him back against his body, out of the way of the splashing liquid.
“Uh, morning sunshine. You good?” Wade asks, wiping his coffee soaked hands on the front of his shirt.
“Mmnm. Bad dream,” he mumbles, lips brushing across the uneven skin.
Wade’s body eases somewhat in his hold, though Logan can still feel the tension in his muscles, ready to spring away on a dime. His hand comes up to cover Logan’s.
“It’s unfair your brain isn’t even giving you a break after the concussion. You’d think it’d at least take the weekend off to recoup.” Logan shrugs, breathing in deep lungfuls of their scent.
“S’okay. I’m used to it.”
“Wish you didn’t have to be.”
He presses his mouth against a jagged scar in the shape of a crescent on Wade’s shoulder blade where the collar of his cut-up tee shirt hangs low and revealing, and immediately feels the man tense.
“You mad at me or somethin’?” He asks before he can stop himself. It’s been days of the same thing every time he tries to show any kind of affection and he can’t help feeling like he’s the one in the wrong here, but can’t fuckin’ remember why. Whatever it is, he’ll apologize, he’ll do whatever it takes to make it better. He just wants the weirdness to go away.
Wade swallows audibly.
“‘Course not, why do you ask?”
“You act skittish every time I get near you.”
“No I don’t.”
Logan tugs on his arm until he turns around, then leans forward as if to kiss him. He tries not to take it personally when Wade physically recoils from him, but it feels pretty fuckin’ personal.
He sees the moment Wade realizes what he’s done, that he’s just proven Logan’s point.
“ Fuck,” he mutters, running a hand down his face. “Okay, fine. You’re right. Look, I’m the reason you’re recovering from a traumatic brain injury-”
“Wasn’t your fault,” Logan corrects, cupping his cheek with one large palm, trying to get him to make eye contact instead of looking everywhere but Logan.
“It happened because of me, and Dr. Fuzzball said you should take it easy until you’re back to normal.”
“That means I can’t kiss my partner?”
The question must catch him off guard because his eyes finally stop darting around the kitchen and focus laser-sharp on Logan.
He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, reply dying on his tongue.
“You’re not-” he cuts himself off, wetting his lips before starting again. Logan’s eyes helplessly follow the motion. “Yes.”
He looks guilty and Logan takes a shot in the dark, thumb tracing a soothing path back and forth across his cheek bone.
“You know I don’t blame you, right? It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, it was your fucking fault for stepping in front of a goddamn bullet for me.” He hits Logan on the chest with both palms but there’s no real force behind it. Nothing like the damage he could do if he wanted.
Logan gets a flash of Wade plunging a knife into his shoulder, of legs wrapped around his head, of a sword to his throat and blood dripping into his mouth.
He blinks it away, trying to stay on track despite the arousal the memory stirs up.
“And I’d do it again. If it did that much damage to an adamantium skull I don’t wanna think about what it coulda done to you.”
Wade rolls his eyes, but Logan catches the hint of a smile on his lips when he turns his head away.
There’s something else that he’s not saying, Logan can sense it.
“Tell me what’s really going on.”
Wade bites his lip and hesitates a second before he asks, “what’s my last name?”
Logan’s heart drops to his stomach.
Fuck.
“What?” He asks, trying to stall as if by some miracle it will come to him in the next thirty seconds.
“You heard me. What’s my last name?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Wade crosses his arms, putting a small but distinct barrier between them.
“You don’t remember, do you?”
“Wade.”
“That's what I thought.”
Logan looks away, sheepish at being caught out.
“What gave it away?”
Wade snorts and it turns into a full on laughing fit that has him clutching his stomach and Logan concerned he might strain something.
“Wow. What a question,” he says to the ceiling, wiping away a tear from the corner of his eye. “So many things, you have no idea. Not the least of which is that you called Blind Al “Blind Al.””
“Isn’t that her name?” Logan’s confused. Wade’s been calling her that this whole time.
“Yeah, but you don’t call her that, you call her Althea or ma’am, like the little Boy Scout you are.” Logan shrugs. On the list of things he could get wrong, that one was pretty mild.
“Okay, so my memory’s a little fucked right now. What’s that got to do with us?”
“What’s that- Lo, it’s got everything to do with us. You’re not in your right mind. For all you know you could hate my guts.”
Now it’s Logan’s turn to laugh. If he knows nothing else, he knows, with every fiber of his being, that he doesn’t hate Wade.
“We share a bed,” he reasons.
Wade shrugs, still trapped between Logan and the sink.
“New York’s expensive. There’s a housing crisis.”
“You think bullet induced amnesia could make me go from hating your guts to wanting to fuck you?”
“You wanna fuck me?” He asks, all eager and surprised, like it’s a revelation, like he doesn’t know Logan’s been itching to get his hands on him since he woke up. A pretty little amazed smile graces his lips and as fast as it appears, it’s gone again. “No, bad Wolvie, stop derailing me.”
“Prefer to be railing you instead.”
Wade’s eyes widen comically, then he’s looking toward the ceiling with an exaggerated groan.
“Dear Jesus, why do you test your faithful disciple so? What evil hath I wrought to be tested so? - don’t answer that.” Wade says, cutting his eyes over to look directly at the refrigerator when he delivers that last line.
“Look, babydoll, I am trying very, very hard to be a good person right now when we all know I’m morally gray at best. Help me out here. Please?”
It’s Logan’s turn to roll his eyes at his dramatics.
“Here, let me put it into perspective. If you picked someone up at a bar and got them so drunk they didn’t remember your name, would you keep going? - please say no or I’m going to have to reevaluate so many of my opinions and assumptions about you, and probably kick you out.”
Logan huffed.
“No. But this isn’t the same-“
“It’s exactly the same! It’s like you don’t even know me right now!”
“I know enough.”
“You really fucking don’t,” Wade snaps. It’s harsher than he’s been and Logan really wishes he knew if it was called for or not. Either way it works.
And makes him feel like shit.
Logan takes a step back, running a hand through his hair. The jolt of pain that dances across his skull when his thumb brushes his temple acting as a stark reminder that he is in fact still healing.
He feels sick again but this time it has nothing to do with his headache.
Wade sighs heavily.
“Come here,” he doesn’t give Logan a chance to comply, just wraps a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in. Logan is helpless to resist, like fighting the pull of gravity.
Wade’s fingers gently massage his throbbing forehead while he asks quietly, “how bad is it?”
“I can handle it.”
“Not what I asked, peanut.”
He debates not saying anything; he doesn’t need pity and he’s not in the mood to be coddled, but Wade’s hands and tone are soothing and he’s not tryna do anything that’ll make that change.
“The pain comes and goes. Memory loss is the worst part. It’s comin’ back, I swear, but not in any order. Like, I remembered the way to the dog park yesterday and the names of Mary’s friends, but I don’t remember moving in here or our first kiss.”
Wade’s heartbeat does something weird when he says that and he feels a new wave of guilt crash over him.
This is why he didn’t say anything. It’s not like he forgot because he doesn’t care, but he knows it’s still gotta sting anyway and he hates that he’s hurting his partner and there’s nothing he can do about it.
“‘M sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for.”
“I’ll back off. I didn’t mean t’make you uncomfortable. Just want you; miss you.”
Wade makes a choked, sad noise that makes the animal in Logan want to tuck its tail and whine.
“Hank said we just have to wait it out. It’ll get better with time.”
“Don’t wanna wait,” Logan grumbles, scraping his days old scruff back and forth against Wade’s shoulder. “You could just tell me.”
“Can’t. He said you have to get them back organically or something - not gonna lie I stopped listening after about fifteen minutes when he said it wasn’t permanent. The man knows how to do exposition, lemme tell you.”
Logan chuckled. Yeah, that sounded like Hank.
“How ‘bout this: you can kiss me,” Logan perked up at that, but was immediately let down again by the corollary. “When you can tell me my full name without looking it up. Deal?”
“I’ve kissed a lotta people whose middle names I didn’t know,” he argues, but he takes a step back all the same, giving Wade his space.
“Yeah, well, some of us aren’t sluts.”
“Are those people in the room right now or you just speaking hypothetically?” He teases, going over to the coffeemaker to pour Wade another cup, since he was the reason his previous one was spilled.
“Shut up, I could be a prude for all you know. Could be waiting for my wedding night.”
The idea makes Logan laugh.
“Might not know much, but I know that ain’t true.”
Logan is in hell.
Actual hell.
That bullet had killed him and now he’s being condemned to spend the rest of eternity existing in a constant state of temptation and denial.
With Wade starring as his own personal devil.
He swears the man is doing it on purpose, but every time Logan points it out to him he acts surprised at the notion.
It makes him wonder about what they were like a week ago. Logan’s not the most verbose person, he knows that, okay? He usually keeps his thoughts to himself unless the situation calls for it. But when he’s with someone…he knows himself. He likes to flirt, likes to see pale skin turn pink at a soft word or a dirty whisper. He likes to watch his partners squirm under his attention - words and actions. He knows he falls hard and fast and he can be too intense for some - most - people, so he doesn’t understand how Wade could be so surprised by the attention. He should be used to it.
It would be one thing if he didn’t like it. Logan could understand that. Maybe they’d talked about it - fought about it? - maybe he’d promised to reel it in and now that he couldn’t remember he was laying it on twice as thick and it annoyed Wade. He was… a lot, sometimes. Wade wouldn’t’ve been the first to tell him, or the first it bothered.
But it clearly didn’t. At least not in the normal way.
It makes him sad.
It takes Logan a minute to clock it - the souring of his scent, the way he draws in on himself, either shuts down or goes over the top in the other direction - but he eventually realizes that all of his attempts at flirting are processed in the same way: first with shock, then embarrassment, followed by bashful denial, then finally acceptance and awe.
And then the sadness sets in.
Logan doesn’t know where it’s coming from or why it’s happening but there’s a feeling of dread, heavy like a stone, sinking to the pit of his stomach and it’s only getting worse.
He’s afraid there’s something crucial he’s missing here. Something resembling a breakup, some kind of schism.
He’s afraid that when his memories come back, he’s going to wish they were gone again and that he could go back to the way things are now, even if Wade is being a little weird.
He wants to make the most of it before he remembers something he’d rather forget, and it’s driving him crazy.
Logan’s finally gotten over the image of Wade he’d woken up to: flat on his back, threadbare tee shirt ridden up past his ribs, pink cartoon boxer shorts slipped low on his hips and bunched around his muscular thighs. It makes his mouth water just thinking about it, makes his fangs itch. But he’s managed to move on with his day.
He makes it an entire hour without thinking about pinning Wade to any and every available surface and kissing him to within an inch of his life before the fucker has to go and spill his drink all over himself.
In and of itself, not a sexy action, but what happens after feels like a poorly written porno made specifically to torment him.
Wade yelps and cusses, tugging his soaking shirt off to mop up his mess, red liquid dripping down his torso, pooling in the dips and curves of his muscles, wetting the waistband of his acid washed jeans.
Logan has never been so parched.
He’s halfway across the room before he realizes he’s moved. Wade looks up at him and he freezes, turning toward the bookshelf and busying himself with the titles as if that was his intention the whole time.
He can see Wade turning as red as the kool aid he’s spilled out the corner of his eye, a sweet, shy smile crossing his face.
Wade disappears into the bathroom to clean himself up and Logan can finally breathe again.
He groans, tugging at his hair, the sting grounding enough to tamp his arousal down.
Right up until the point where Wade comes back out of the bathroom, pink skin flushed and damp and on display. Like a goddamn feast.
Logan wants to fuckin’ devour him.
“Are you fuckin’ serious right now?” He can’t help the frustrated noise that leaves his lungs.
Wade looks around, pretending to be clueless.
“What?”
“Don’t play dumb, Red. S’not fair tellin’ me I can’t touch and then prancin’ around here in those tiny fuckin’ shorts and my hoodie like you don’t know it turns me on. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing t’me, y’fucking tease.”
The shorts are exceptionally tiny - shorter than if he’d just worn a fuckin’ pair of boxers, goddamnit. And the jacket… Logan had just worn it this morning for a jog, it’s probably still damp from his sweat.
Fuck, Logan can smell it, their scents mixing into a mouthwatering fragrance he could get high off of.
And he’s only bothered to zip it up halfway, his naked chest right. Fuckin’. There.
“First of all, I don’t prance, I flounce,” Wade says, waving his hand around. “And I wear this all the time. And second of all, this is still technically my hoodie. Just because you steal it everyday doesn’t make it yours.”
The urge to pull Wade onto his lap as he tries to walk past is too great an urge to resist.
He is only a man.
He yelps but otherwise offers no struggle against Logan’s strong arms manhandling him into place, one hand wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling him to Logan’s face as he inhales deeply and his other hand sneaks across Wade’s bare thigh, fingers brushing just under the hemline.
“Smells like mine,” he growls, low and deep then scrapes his teeth against the shell of Wade’s ear. He shivers in Logan’s lap.
“Concussion!”
He says it like a safe word.
“C’mon, baby. My head’s fine,” Logan tries to reason.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Wolvie, I’m sure it’s phenomenal,” Wade retorts, breathy and high as his chest rises and falls rapidly.
“You wanna find out?” The hand on his thigh creeps a little higher, while Logan uses the other to tilt his head just so, giving him room to press his lips to the hollow of Wade’s throat.
“Fuck yes,” he moans, head thrown back, legs spreading further apart. He is a vision and Logan honest to god yearns to lay him down and make him scream. As soon as he moves to do so though, Wade stops him, hand flying down to grab his wrist in a bruising grip, stopping his exploration of Wade’s inseam. “No. Shit. Stop, stop. I’ll go change.”
Logan knows the sound he makes is whiny and petulant but come on!
He lets go reluctantly as Wade scrambles off his lap and goes to grab some different clothes.
“This is torture!” He yells after him, pressing the heel of his palm between his legs to alleviate a little bit of the pressure. It’s nowhere near enough, but it’ll have to do.
Wade rolls his eyes, but Logan catches the hint of a self-satisfied smile crossing his face before he turns away commenting, “patience really isn’t one of your virtues is it?” and shutting the bedroom door behind him.
He comes back out a few minutes later in baggy sweatpants and a tee shirt that’s clearly seen better days, as if that helps. It doesn’t matter; Logan wants him like this too. It’s a little easier to keep his cool without all that skin showing but just barely.
Wade keeps watching him, catching him every time he tries to sneak a glance, as if he’s trying to puzzle something out.
He takes a nap eventually - not much else t’do when reading and TV still make his head hurt after a while - and wakes up with a little bit more of himself back.
They’re not particularly good memories, but they are his, so he wasn’t really expecting them to be.
He knows how he and Wade met now. Remembers what came before but still not much of what came after. He knows what was behind that door now, and why he desperately needed to break it down. He knows the girl’s name - Laura - and he knows neither of them are from here, but they belong here now.
He belongs here.
With Wade.
Speaking of…
“How long’s it been? Since we came back from the void?”
Wade looks up from the game he’d been playing on his Switch ever since Logan started dozing off.
“You remember?”
Logan wishes he could say yes; he knows that what he’s got isn’t enough. But it’s more than he had yesterday.
“Not everything, not yet, but I think I’ve got most of it up to that. The big stuff anyway.”
There are still gaps - like why he was dragged to the void in the first place - but that probably means it’s something pretty fucking terrible and he doesn’t have the energy or motivation to go digging just yet.
“Little over six months now.”
He nods, absorbs that for a second. Six months. Half a year. It’s such a short amount of time in the grand scheme of things. A drop in the ocean to him, really, but there’s something significant missing inside him in the absence of those six months.
“Have I apologized yet?” He asks, breaking the heavy silence. Knowing himself, probably not. He has a short temper and even shorter filter when it’s set off. The nasty mix of pride and shame that usually sat heavy in his gut prevented him from forming the words when he needed to, but he could do it now - today, before all of his neurons got back to firing down those self-destructive paths they usually take.
“Pourquoi?”
“What I said t’you - about you. In the van.”
The gaming console slips from Wade’s hands and he fumbles to catch it before it hits the floor, nearly falling out of the chair himself.
“Oh. Uh, no, not in so many words, but you don’t ha-”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupts. It feels like a thing he needs to say whether he’s made it up to Wade in the past six months or not.
“You weren’t wrong,” he says quietly, picking at a thread on the throw pillow in his lap.
“Yeah I was. I wanted to hurt you, and myself. Mostly myself. An’ I deserved it, but you didn’t. You were just tryna save your family. I’d’ve done the same thing; whatever it took.”
Silence hangs between them again for a moment while Wade takes this in.
He doesn’t offer platitudes, sitting with Logan’s words, digesting them before nodding, accepting them.
“Thank you.”
“So… still harboring the urge to jump my cancerous bones now that you remember I kidnapped you?” Wade jokes a little while later when they’re in the kitchen getting utensils for the takeout they'd ordered for dinner. He asks like he thinks he already knows that answer.
He’s wrong.
Logan closes the fridge, two beers in his hand and turns on Wade, talking low so that Althea doesn’t hear him in the other room.
“You mean do I still wanna take you to bed and worship your body until the only thing you know is my name on your tongue now that I remember you’re the one that saved me from not only my universe, but from myself? Yeah, I do.”
Wade’s reaction is a feast for the senses: the air filling deliciously with the scent of his arousal, pupils dilating, mouth hanging open slightly as he tries to catch his breath. It’s triggering Logan’s prey drive and it’s taking everything in him not to pounce.
“What's my last name?” He manages to get out.
Logan closes his eyes, defeated. He’s wracked his new memories for any mention of it, but there was nothing specific. He thinks it starts with a W, but he’s coming up blank still otherwise.
He hands Wade one of the beers, exchanging it for a plate, and makes his way back into the living room to mope on the couch some more.
The dejected, desperate puppy look must do something for Wade because he takes pity on Logan after dinner, sitting close enough to touch on the couch and not flinching away when Logan pushes his luck and drapes an arm around his shoulder. The position evolves into something familiar and comfortable while they watch a few episodes of crap TV with Althea before bed, Wade’s body leaning into his touch like he’s starved for it.
Logan doesn’t register a single word on the screen, too busy cataloging the moment - Wade’s cold hands drawing warmth from his torso, slipping between his jacket (yes, he’d put the hoodie back on after Wade had taken it off, shut up) and his shirt; the weight of his head on Logan’s shoulder; the way he can feel Wade’s laugh reverberate in his own chest; the way their scents have become one, bleeding into one another in a way that’s stronger like this that he could ever get from a shared piece of clothing.
He’s feeling emboldened by the time bedtime rolls around, and a little dumb off the high of getting what he wants, so he pushes his luck again, sliding in right next to Wade despite the solid foot (at least) of space at his back. He reaches out, tentative at first, then with purpose when he’s not reprimanded, wrapping an arm around his middle and tugging so that there’s not an inch of space between their spooning bodies. Wade makes a startled sort of laugh, breathy and sweet - the kind of sound Logan could get addicted to - and lets himself be manhandled into a comfortable position for them both. With a contented sigh he melts into Logan’s embrace, even going so far as to link their fingers together.
“If you wake up hating my guts please try to remember that I am only human and I tried. God help me, I tried.” His voice aims for light and joking, but there’s something serious underneath that gives Logan pause.
There’s that feeling again, the dread that what he’s missing is vital, something that will critically change the dynamic here. That they’re actually broken up, or something worse, and Wade’s just not telling him.
He doesn’t care. Once he gets his memories back, whatever it is, if it can be fixed, he’ll fix it.
He wraps his arms tighter around Wade, fighting the persistent lull of sleep for as long as he can so the moment doesn’t have to end.
He doesn’t want this to end.
Awareness slams into Logan like a freight train, all of his most recent memories rushing back with nauseating clarity as he comes back to consciousness.
He lets go of Wade.
Wade - who he’d cornered in the kitchen and tried to kiss, against his will; whose thighs he’d run his hands up while offering - begging - to get him off, against his will; whose body he had just been holding like he had any right to, against his will.
Wade had told him to stop - kept telling him to stop - but he’d kept pushing.
God he was a dick.
He’d never had a snowball's chance in hell to begin with - not for anything beyond a hatefuck or an adrenaline-fueled roll in the hay - and now he’s sure he’s got even less than that. Not after the way he’s acted.
Fuck his life.
He scrambles to put some distance between them without waking the other man up, but fails spectacularly. What else is new?
“Welcome back, peanut.” Wade’s voice is monotone, like he’s intentionally keeping any inflection out of it so Logan can’t tell how angry he is.
Fuck.
He’s ruined everything.
“I’m so sorry, Wade, I didn’t - I wouldn’t -”
“Yeah, no. Trust me, I know you wouldn’t. Would never. Not in a million years. Kept trying to tell you you’d regret it, but you wouldn’t listen.” He sits up, still facing away from Logan, and starts grabbing things from the pile of not-dirty-enough-to-wash-yet clothes on the floor.
“I’m sor-”
“It’s cool man, no harm no foul. What's a little spooning between friends? No bodily fluids were exchanged; everyone can still wear white for the wedding. We’re good. Let’s never talk about this again, ‘kay? Great.” He’s talking while he walks, hastily pulling on a pair of jeans and shoving unsocked feet into his boots.
“Wade,” Logan starts. He doesn’t know what to say to make this better, doesn’t think there is anything he can say.
“I need some air. Preferably the kind filled with a powdery substance - cocaine, gunpowder, anthrax, I’m not picky. Don’t wait up.”
“Just wait a goddamn second, wouldja?” He needs to get his bearings and set this right.
“No, Logan. Look, the last six days have fucking sucked for me, okay? I know you weren’t doing it on purpose and I don’t blame you, but I just - I can’t be around you right now.”
The slam of a door has never sounded so symbolic.
And final.
Well, that was fucking that, then.
He’s just spent six days forcing himself on his best friend and sabotaging the best thing that has happened to him in a really, really long time.
Honestly, pretty on par for him. He’s surprised it lasted this long.
He should just go.
He’s driven Wade from his own fucking home because he’s so uncomfortable with Logan’s behavior. He should be the one leaving.
He could crash at the mansion for a few days, until he’s figured out a more permanent solution.
His skin feels too tight. He wants to claw it off, and with it pull out every single piece of himself that makes him do this, makes him destroy everything he touches.
Changing universes didn’t change him. How could he have ever thought Wade would want that? Even without all of his memories, he was still him.
A drunk. A fuck up. A monster. The worst Wolverine. The man who’d never met a thing so good that he couldn’t ruin it if he stuck around long enough.
And now he’s ruined this too.
“Well that sounded dramatic.”
His head snaps up at the sound of Althea’s exasperated voice.
“You gonna go after him or are you gonna sit on your ass all day moping? I’ve got lunch plans he’s gonna interrupt if you don’t get your shit together.”
“He doesn’t want to be around me right now,” Logan explains, starting to fix the couch just to have something to do with his restless energy. “Don’t blame him,” he adds, mostly to himself. He also doesn’t want to be around himself right now, but he doesn’t get a choice.
Althea lets out the most put upon sigh he’s ever heard and he’s positive she’s rolling her eyes at him behind the dark sunglasses.
“Here I was thinking you were the smart one of the two of ya. Must be Mary’s turn with the brain cell the three of you share.” He winces when she smacks him on the arm, harder than her frame would suggest it’s capable of. “He’s upset because it wasn’t real, dipshit.”
“It was,” he argues, earning himself another slap.
“Not to him. He thinks you thought he was someone else and now you’ve got your memories back you remember all the reasons you actually hate him.”
That… sounds like Wade’s particular brand of insecurity, actually. Still, Logan’s not convinced.
“How do you know?”
“Because he hasn’t stopped pissing and moaning to me about it all week. He convinced himself that you’d get your memories back and want to kill him for playing along with your delusions - even though that’s what his doctor friend said to do - and you’d be so disgusted you’d never talk to him again. So now he’s gonna sulk and go all quiet ‘n self-destructive and you’d better fucking fix it or I’ll go find that gun that started this whole mess and shot you with it myself. Do I make myself clear?”
He doesn’t doubt she’d do it. As much as she and Wade give each other shit, they clearly mean the world to each other. They would just never say it to the other’s face.
Logan nods, then corrects himself.
“Yes ma’am.”
“Now go on,” she says, shoving him none too gently in the general direction of the door. “Go find him before he starts picking fights and Weasel kicks him out of his stupid bar again.”
Sister Margaret’s is unnaturally busy for ten in the morning, but Logan supposes her clientele don’t exactly keep normal hours. And it’s not like he’s never had whiskey for breakfast before. Who is he to judge?
Wade’s easy to find, he just follows the shouts and the sound of breaking glass.
There’s blood dripping down his face, but he’s laughing, spitting red-tinged saliva into his attacker’s face, which only spurs him on. There’s a crunching sound as the back of his head connects with the nose of the guy restraining him, then he’s laughing again, throwing goading insults at whoever he sees who looks like they might want a piece.
He doesn’t need Logan’s help. He could have every single one of these assholes on the floor in the span of a breath if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to. That’s the problem.
Logan catches the next punch thrown, just barely refraining from crushing the fragile bones in his grip.
“Walk away,” he says, evenly. He’s not looking to make a scene, he just wants to talk to Wade and these people are getting in the way of him doing that.
“Who the hell do you-”
The man rears back, ready to take a swing at him, then thinks better of it.
Logan can see the exact moment it registers who he is, and then the man and his friends are falling over themselves to get the hell out of there. The one holding Wade’s arms behind his back lets go so abruptly that Wade nearly falls, but Logan is there in an instant with an arm around his waist, keeping him from hitting the ground.
He’s rewarded for his efforts with a hard shove and grumbled “get offa me.”
He makes sure Wade’s stable before stepping back, hands in the air in a placating gesture.
“Can we talk?” he says. It’s phrased like a question, but it’s not one. They’re going to talk.
“Do I have a choice?” Wade asks, sharp as ever even as he’s downing abandoned drink after abandoned drink within his reach like they’re water.
“No.”
He takes one last shot and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before gesturing to the back door.
“Then lead the way.”
“Talk,” Wade orders as soon as the heavy metal door closes behind them.
“Here?” Logan looks around the alley, overflowing trash cans line one wall and there’s questionable stains on every visible surface.
At least it’s empty.
“You’re the one who couldn’t wait. Came allllllll the way down here and interrupted my fun, so spit it out.”
Logan opens his mouth to start but Wade cuts him off right as the words start to flow.
“I’m s-”
“If you start that sentence with an apology I will gut you.” His fingers skim the top of his belt underneath his shirt where Logan knows there’s a blade hiding. He always has at least one, even when he’s rushing out the door like he did this morning.
Logan huffs and runs his fingers through his hair, thinks absently that maybe he shoulda looked in a mirror before he left.
“Will you just let me say what I need t’say?”
“I don’t need to hear it, peanut,” Wade says dismissively, back to avoiding eye contact or even looking at Logan head on at all. “I know you didn’t mean any of it, and now your memory’s returned so has your guilt complex, but I promise you there’s nothing to apologize for. I say shit I don’t mean all the time, hardly ever get shot for it.”
“I did mean it.”
That gets his attention.
“Come again? I’m having a Hawkeye moment, think I need to get my hearing aids checked. The fuck did you just say?”
Logan looks him in the eye and repeats himself, slow and deliberate.
“I meant it.”
Wade narrows his eyes.
“Which parts?” he asks cautiously.
“All of it.”
Wade shakes his head, disbelieving, and crosses his arms over his chest.
“No you didn’t.”
“I did. I do .”
Logan watches his expression soften, walls lowering then going immediately back up.
“Where did we get Mary?”
Logan would be discouraged by how hard Wade is trying to prove him a liar if he didn’t know the man so well. For all of his talk and projected cockiness, he has abysmal self-esteem. A fact Logan hadn’t been particularly sensitive to at first, but has been trying to negate the last few months.
(Usually by telling him to shut the fuck up every time he makes a self-deprecating comment, so yeah, maybe not the best method, but it’s kinda been working and he never claimed to be a therapist).
So he answers the question.
“You stole her from a dumbfuck version of you with long hair and a stupid face.”
Wade holds up a finger to correct him.
“Close. She chose her papa for herself; you and I both know this, don’t try to gaslight the audience. I was obviously the stronger, better choice, see exhibit Dead AF.”
“You used him as a meat-shield.”
“And if it had been the other way around I’d still be here right now. Not my fault he chose form over function. Aaaaaanyway, moving on. What did I get kicked out of the mansion for two weeks ago?”
“You called Scott a piss-ant with a god complex and started a fight so that you could storm out with me in tow cuz Kitty walked in and it was the first time I’d seen those eyes since I watched the life go out of ‘em and I wasn’t handlin’ it well.” That was an understatement. He’d been on the verge of a panic attack. He’d gotten too comfortable too fast, thinking he was ready to face them. He’d been so, so wrong.
“You caused a scene to take the attention offa me and give me the excuse to get the fuck outta there without sayin’ goodbye.”
Wade looks down, scuffing the toe of one shoe against the cracked asphalt.
“Didn’t think you’d figured that out.”
There are a couple ways he could reply to that, each of them a little more terrifying than the last. He’s not used to being so open about what he’s feeling, but he knows that if he’s ever gonna do it, it needs to be now.
“I did. I notice all the little things you do to make my life easier, just too caught up in my own shit to say thank you. But I should, because I appreciate it.”
Wade shrugs.
“You do the same.”
Be plain or he’ll find an excuse not to believe it.
“Yeah, I do. Because I love you.”
Wade’s head snaps up, attention fully back on him now. He takes a deep breath, gearing up to say something - probably argue - but Logan doesn’t give him the chance.
“Logan-”
“No more quizzes. My memories are back. No missing pieces.”
He takes a step forward and Wade takes a step back, bumping into the brick wall behind him.
There’s a smudge of blood across his upper lip and Logan runs his thumb over it to clean him up before leaning in. Wade’s eyes widen in shock, but he makes no move to stop him.
“Wade,” he says, kissing the man on his cheekbone just below his right eye. “Winston.” He mirrors the act on the other side, cradling Wade’s trembling chin in his palm. “Wilson,” he finishes, taking a leap, giving in to the urge he’s been resisting for days - for months, if he’s being honest - and pressing his lips to Wade’s.
The kiss is chaste and all too brief, but perfect. It feels somehow both brand new and like coming home.
“I told you, amnesia didn’t make me want you. Just made me forget why I was afraid to say it. If this isn’t what you want, we can do what you said and pretend none of this ever happened. It’s up to you. What do you want, Wade?”
The half a second it takes for Wade’s breath to travel from his lungs and turn into words is the longest half second of his life.
“You. I want you.”
The relief is palpable. He knows he’s smiling like an idiot, but he can’t make his face do anything else, even when it’s interfering with the kiss Wade is trying to give him.
It’s okay though, because Wade’s smiling too.
“Come home,” he says, lacing his fingers with Wade’s as he tugs him towards the end of the alley.
“I dunno, peanut. We’re kind of establishing a tradition here. First meeting at a bar, first kiss at a bar…”
“This alley’s disgusting.” Logan looks around them pointedly. The entire ground is just one giant puddle of god knows what and the general stench can be described as nauseating at best.
Wade shrugs.
“It’s definitely cleaner than the bathroom.”
Logan shakes his head, pulling Wade to him as he starts walking backwards.
“C’mon. Wanna take my time with you. Can’t do that here,” he bargains.
That does the trick.
Wade grins and lets himself be led until they’re free of the alley. Back on the sidewalk, he wraps his arms around Logan’s neck and reminds him, “you did make some pretty big promises while your brain was scrambled.”
Logan doesn’t need reminding. He has plans.
He kisses Wade again - because he can just do that now - with a little more intention behind it, one hand coming up to cup Wade’s jaw while the other pulls him in, keeps him flush against Logan’s body.
He breathes the words into Wade’s mouth, lips brushing against his as he speaks as if parting even an inch is too much. (It is).
“Promises I intend to keep.”