Chapter Text
EXPOSITING TIME, NARRATIONLAND
Living with Wade is great, it really is, but Logan has a knee-bouncing, hair-pulling itch deep down in his bones that he can’t figure out how to scratch. Things are fine when they’re Deadpool and Wolverine. Actually, things are great when they’re Deadpool and Wolverine. It’s Wade and Logan that pose the problem.
Deadpool and Wolverine are a team. They’re fluid, moving as a unit. Deadpool and Wolverine don’t have to talk to get things done, so Logan doesn’t have to trip over his words and explain himself fifty different fucking times to assure someone that, no, he’s not pissed off, he just can’t fucking talk right and this is his resting face. Deadpool and Wolverine can get into a fistfight in the parking lot to figure out where they want to go for dinner, and Logan can go to bed that night tired out in a good way and knowing Wade will still put two people’s worth of coffee in the machine when he wakes up the next morning.
Wade and Logan are more complicated.
Wade and Logan have to figure out how to both be in the kitchen at the same time in the mornings when it was clearly made for Flat fucking Stanley and not two real life men with, as Wade would so delicately put, ‘fat fucking asses’. Wade and Logan have to go grocery shopping together, because Wade eats like a fucking college student with listeria and Logan has no idea how to meal plan portions for the two of them (plus Blind Al). Wade and Logan have to figure out how to avoid the topic of how they met, and why they moved in together so quickly. That was how they got into this situation, he supposed. That, and Wade running his fucking mouth, like he always did.
WAY TOO LATE, SOME FUCKING BAR
Logan can feel his skin on his bones. Wade had dragged him along to some dive bar with a ridiculously long name, saying it was “Time you meet the gang” and “Stop being such a Negative Nancy, Wolvie.” Turns out “the gang” was a bartender named after a rodent, but whatever, it doesn’t matter. Introductions were made, questions were asked, and now they were too deep to backpedal.
“Wait, tell me one more time? That doesn’t make any fucking sense.”
Wade groans, leaning back so dramatically he would’ve fallen off the chair if Logan hadn’t grabbed him by the small of his back (This was a near-daily occurrence, Logan was always ready). “You know what? You caught me. Here’s the real tale. I met Peanut here on Grindr, we fuck nasty on the reg, I finally bit the bullet and asked him to move in with me and Blind Al so she could bless our union. Happy?”
Logan sighs deeply, rubbing his temples in a preemptive attempt to soothe the headache he knew was coming eventually. Weasel stops moving momentarily, squinting across the bar at them, before shrugging and picking the glass he’d discarded up to continue cleaning it out, his voice incredulous. “Mazel. How long have you guys been together, then?”
“Certainly feels like fuckin' forever,” Logan snarks into his bottle, rolling his eyes. “One blissful year,” Wade interrupts without missing a beat, half leaning and half slumping over onto Logan’s shoulder, batting his eyelids.
The warm, consistent pressure of Wade’s arm against Logan’s is enough to send a zap of electricity down his spine, sending the hairs across the back of his neck standing on end and his knuckles clenching automatically around the bottle of whatever was cheap he’s been drinking.
“Christ, you’re warm,” Logan presses a hand to Wade’s forehead without thinking, his eyebrows crinkling together with concern. “Either you’ve had way too much to drink or you’re coming down with something.”
Logan swallows back a weird, fluttery feeling in his stomach as Wade blinks up at him, still lounging across his shoulder. Maybe they’ve both had too much to drink, because Logan doesn’t know if he’s ever noticed how many shades of brown are actually in Wade’s eyes.
“Jesus, maybe you guys really are together,” the bartender mumbles to deaf ears, blinking owlishly as Logan continues fussing over Wade. “He has been pounding back shots of glorified Red 40 all evening. Maybe you should take him home,” Weasel continues, now addressing Logan, and that’s all it takes for Logan to drain the rest of his bottle and start tugging Wade towards the door.
Wade whines and groans and stamps his feet like a toddler, but Logan manages to wrestle him into the back of a taxi only fifteen minutes and several hundred threats of bodily harm later, and Wade only pouts until he sees a cute dog on the sidewalk, so Logan figures he can’t actually be that upset.
EVEN LATER, SHITHOLE APARTMENT
“My knight in shining armor,” Wade sighs out dramatically, collapsing onto the couch and closing his eyes with his shoes still on, barely even sparing a pet to Mary Puppins as she trots over from her bed. Logan rolls his eyes, sprawling out next to him and tossing his own shoes over his shoulder to land somewhere in the door region.
“Yeah, yeah. Seriously, you’re runnin’ a fever or something. Somebody had to cut you off, and your bartender friend was too busy being lied to. Take your fuckin’ shoes off before you get dirt on the carpet.” By the end of Logan’s sentence, soft, steady snoring had already begun rumbling out from the other end of the sofa, a surefire sign Wade had fallen asleep nearly as soon as his head hit the pillow.
Logan rolls his eyes and pulls Wade’s legs up onto his lap to untie his shoelaces for him, grumbling all the while, and chooses to ignore the warm, static-electric feeling he got from touching Wade once more in favor of throwing a blanket in his loose direction, stumbling off to his own bedroom, and falling asleep in his jeans.