Deadpool kicked the door in, bags hanging from his out flung arms, and called, “Lucy, I’m home!”
Logan popped his head out from the kitchen, glaring. “Shut up, he’s finally asleep.” He crept over to Deadpool and took the bags. He rifled through them. “Where are the diapers?”
“The ones for the kiddo,” Logan said.
Deadpool thought about this a moment. Oh, yeah, those diapers. “Well, it’s not like I was the one who thought up this crack story of us raising a baby together. I mean, really, it should, like, have two heads or something and eat raw bear.”
Logan snorted. It was one of those snorts that clearly meant, “Wade’s off the wall… as usual.” Logan tended to snort a lot around Deadpool, even when they were having sex. But those snorts meant something a lot more explicit. Not just R-rated. X-rated. Triple X-rated. Oh, yeah, Deadpool had skills.
Deadpool snatched away the bags to unpack them. “So how’s baby doing?”
“Drool, snot, thrown up milk, what else?” Logan reached up to put the Raisin Bran away. Deadpool couldn’t remember why he bought it. He didn’t eat the stuff, and Logan sure as hell didn’t either.
“Aww, aren’t they just charmers at this age?” Deadpool grabbed the cereal from Logan’s hand and put it in its place on the top shelf. Logan snorted again, this time meaning “Stop fucking doing that, or it’s the couch for you forever.” But Deadpool knew that with the right word and right incentive, possibly involving a banana, a case of beer, and some barbed wire, Logan would let him back in. Worked every time, the horn-dog. Mmm, he could for a corn-dog right now. Maybe a brat.
After the groceries were safely tucked away, and Logan dealt with what turned out to be a false alarm with the X-Men, he and Deadpool tried desperately to calm a screaming baby.
“Give him to me,” Logan said.
“No.” Deadpool twirled away. “You’ve had him most of the day.” Deadpool bounced the baby on his shoulder. “You know, we need to start calling him something other than baby. It’s been, what, six months now, and he still doesn’t have a name?”
“You’ve shot down all my ideas,” Logan growled, and it was a growl; Deadpool couldn’t call it anything else.
“Yes, but you wanted to call him Ray, and I hate Toad. What about Ryan? Or even Hugh. Anything but Ray.”
Another one of Logan’s “Fucking crazy ass motherfucker” snorts. “Look, whatever, let’s just give him a damn name. John, Jack, whatever.”
“Tom, Dick, or Harry?”
“Just pick something.”
The baby was still screaming, so Deadpool and Logan had to shout at one another to be heard. Deadpool thought a moment before shouting back, “Jimmy, then.”
Deadpool rubbed the baby’s back, whose cries were dying down. “It’s the perfect name. Doesn’t every man want his baby to be named after him?”
Logan smirked then. “So how about Wade Jr.?” he said.
They glared at each other as the baby began to gurgle and hiccup, Deadpool still rubbing his back.
“It’s time for Jimmy’s nap,” he said.
Logan shrugged and walked away. “Don’t forget that Wade Jr. likes that one shit song about a mockingbird best.”
The next day they signed the birth certificate and papers that Xavier had procured for them. At six months and 9 days old, Jimmy/Wade Wilson Jr. was a legal US citizen.