Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kitchen. Beer. Stillness.

There’s a hum in the fridge that sounds like the buzz of flies circling meat, and he can’t tell if that’s new or if it’s always been like that and he’s just too sober to notice. One of Wade’s expired abominations probably cracked open in there.

Logan sits at the chipped table, the light above flickering like it’s trying to die but hasn’t been granted the mercy. He gets it.

Beer bottle, lukewarm.

Condesationless. Half-empty or half-full, whatever . He’s holding it like a lifeline.

And his phone is sitting there, screen on, judging him.

He's been staring at the text box for… long enough for the beer to get even warmer and for the ghosts to start whispering. The name “ Laura ” glows back at him. Just that. No emojis. No photo. Just her name. Clean. Distant. Like a file on a desk someone was too afraid to open.

“ Hey .”

That’s what it says.

Just that. One word.

He deletes the period.

“ Hey ”

According to Wade, apparently , punctuation  means you’re about to die of old age, acoording to Wade, who texts like a 2nd grader on meth. Logan once got a message that just said “ COWARD ” in all caps followed by six pineapples and a dancer. To this day he doesn’t know if it was a threat or a lunch order.

But this? This message? This is worse.

“ Hey ”

It’s weak. Empty.

It’s a balloon with no helium. A whisper in a warzone.

And what if she replies with, “ What do you want? ”

Because she probably would. And she should. She’s not his. Not really. Not fully. Just a copy of someone he never got to raise. A reminder. A glitch in the universe’s cruel sense of humour. He wants something— anything —but what the fuck does he think he deserves ?

He deletes it.

Types:

“Hey, wanna talk?”

Frowns. No. That sounds like he’s about to stage an intervention. Or like he’s dying. Again .

Deletes it.

Types:

“You okay?”

Nope. That’s what your dad says when he’s about to tell you your dog’s dead.

Deletes it. Again.

Phone clatters on the counter as he tosses it down like it bit him. He rubs his face, slow and rough, like he could scrub the indecision out of his skin. There’s old blood under one nail. He doesn’t rememver whose. Could be his. Doesn’t matter.

The pain’s quieter now. Not gone. It never goes. Just hums in the background like a war drum on mute. His healing factor keeps the worst of it away, but some things it can’t touch. Some pain is bone-deep, old, like black mold in the cracks of a foundation.

He remembers Stryker .

The drills.

The roar of gunfire that never stopped ringing.

The way he stopped using names for people and started using numbers.

The way he stopped saying “ I ” and started saying “ yes, sir .”

The taste of dirt on his mouth when he bit down to keep from screaming.

The smell of burned hair. Always burned hair.

He swigs the beer.

And now… this.

A kitchen. A dog. A house with blinds that never quite close all the way. A man who wears a mask to bed and sometimes sings show tunes in the shower loud enough to wake the neighbours three blocks over.

Domesticity .

Fucking terrifying.

He doesn’t deserve any of this. This weird, loud, broken paradise. It’s too quiet at night, which is funny considering it’s built on anarchy. Blind Al’s snoring is seismic. Mary Puppins howls in her sleep. Wade sometimes mutters “ tortilla ” in a tone that’s either sexy or threatening.

And yet…

It’s almost nice .

And that makes it worse.

He never got to be soft. Not once. Not ever. He was made to break things. To be broken. He’s a weapon, shaped over centuries, forged in war and left in the dirt. He’s not built for Sunday mornings or goddamn TV dinners . He’s built to bleed. That’s what he does . That’s all he does.

Still… here he is.

The beer’s empty. He sets it down gently, like it might shatter even though it’s glass and he’s got metal bones. He contemplates getting something stronger, but Wade “ hid ” the whiskey again, and Logan doesn’t have the energy to rip apart the wall panel in the bathroom again. Not tonight.

And then he hears it.

Thump. Thump. Thumpthumpthump.

Footsteps. But not normal ones. These have a rhythm. A bounce. A too-much-energy-Wade-is-high-on-endorphins bounce.

Logan doesn’t turn around yet. He hears the huffing breath, the faint slap of paws, painting. Mary Puppins is running in manic little circles around something. Or someone .

Then Wade appears.

And Logan wishes he hadn’t looked.

Because what the fuck is he wearing.

Chapter Text

Neon green tights. Tight like compression bandages, only worse. At least two sizes too small, clinging to every goddamn ridge and dip of Wade’s mutated legs like they’d been painted on by a blind pervert. Paired with a screaming-hot-pink crop top that read “ MILF ” in glittering letters, and accerosized with red sweatbands that made him look like a failed Kool-Aid mascot.

Mary Puppins, their wiry, hyperactive mutt, bounded in wide, joyous circles around him, barking like this was the best morning of her entire existence.

Logan blinked. Slowly .

Like maybe if he kept his eyelids closed long enough, the image would be gone when he opened them.

It wasn’t.

Wade was jogging in place. In the kitchen. Bright spandex squeaking with every bounce.

“What the fuck is this,” Logan muttered. Not even a question, just a statement.

Wade grinned like a man who had never known shame. “Good morning, Peanut~! I’m juicing up the ol’ cardio. Gotta stay limber! Flexiable. You know, in case someone finally accepts my offer to do yoga in bed. Downward Dog has so many untapped possibilities—”

“You goin’ out like that?” Logan asked.

He should say something. Something cutting. Something to take the edge off how uncomfortable it made him feel—not Wade’s outfit, but the thought that Wade would actually go ou t like this. He wouldn’t right? The guy joked, but Logan knew. He knew . Wade had body shit. Under the chatter, under the bravado, under all that latex and sarcasm. The scars. The way he flinched a little when someone looked too long.

And if someone laughed at him out there… if someone said something cruel, pointed, cutting…

Logan’s gut twisted.

Wade gasped dramatically. “Logan. Please. This ensemble is strictly for the elite art of televisual aerobicism. I wouldn’t dare inflict this on the general public. They’re not ready.”

He did a spin. A full twirl. The tights twisted, clung, and revealed far, far too much of Wade’s ass—one cheek nearly swallowed whole by the hungry seam. Logan saw his hip bones, a silver of lower abs, and Christ, even a suggestion of dick outline. It’s too early for this shit.

“Yer tights are eatin’ you alive.”

“They’re motivational ! If I can survive the threat of spontaneous testicle combustion, I can survive thirty minutes of bouncing with Sharon and the Smile Squad.”

Logan’s brow ticked.

“TV workout,” he said, voice flat. “Right. Forgot you like sufferin’.”

Wade gave a double-thumbs up. “Pain is weakness leaving the body, Wolvie!”

Mary barked.

“See? even Mary’s ready. she’s been carb-loading all morning on table leg.”

The dog wagged like her spine was rubber, then launched into another lap around Wade’s bouncing legs, occasionally hopping up to nip at his wristbands.

Wade bounce-skipped toward the living room. “C’mon, old man! Get your claws off your beer and onto some dumbbells. We could be hot together! Well— hotter . You know what I mean.”

“No,” Logan said without hesitation.

“You sure? Your core could use some love. I’ve seen dryer toast.”

Logan didn’t even look at him. Just reached for his beet again, the label half-peeled from him, fidgeting with it earlier.

He heard the living room TV chirp to life with overenthusiastic music. Wade’s voice drifted back with a breathless. “Fuck, yeah, Sharon, tell me again how I deserve this burn—” followed bu the rhythmic slap of feet and dumbbells and the occasional squeak of over-txed spandex.

Logan stared at the beer like it might give him answers.

It didn’t.

He took a swig.

Goddamn it.

He could still see Wade in his mind. That godawful outfit. The way his waist tapered. The soft bit  of belly that hadn’t been there two years ago. The kind of weight you only gained when you weren’t constantly running for your life.

Domestic weight.

Good weight.

His throat tightened.

Two fucking years.

Logan rubbed his hand over his face. He could still smell Wade’s sweat lingering in the air—metallic, sweet, a little sour with that ever-present scent of something sick that still clung to him no matter how healthy he tried to pretend he was. Cancer had a scent. But Wade’s was stronger. Like iron and caramel and denial.

And Logan loved it.

Loved it enough it made his palms itch and his jaw tighten.

He tilted the bottle to his lips again. It was empty.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

Mary barked again. A squeaky toy screaming in agony. Wade laughed in the other room, a big, wheezy, open sound.

And for a second, Logan thought about getting up. Joining them. Even if it was just to grunt through a set of sit-ups and pretend he wasn’t thinking about how good Wade’s ass looked when he sqautted.

But instead, he sat.

Still.

Watching the empty beer bottle catch the morning light like it might catch fire.

Because he didn’t know how to reach out. Not to Wade. Not to Laura. Not to anyone.

Because everything he touched went to hell eventually.

And some things

And some things… some things, he wasn’t sure he could survive burning again.

Chapter Text

Logan leaned against the doorway.

 The wood groaned under his weight, the only complaining in the quiet kitchen now that the workout music had bled into the background—a mix of synth-pop and overly cheery encouregements from the TV instructions, their voices bright and hollow. Plastic smiles carved into real faces, bouncing and stretching.

He scowled. Wondered how much they were getting paid to embarrass themselves like that. Probably a lot. Enough to fake those smiles without snapping in half. Fake .

But Wade—

Wade was the only damn thing in the room that wasn’t fake.

And that was the worst part.

He moved like he’d been electricuted and never quite recovered. Jerky. Too energetic. But the rhythm was there. The bounce. The conviction. Arms swinging with too much gusto, breath panting out through parted lips as he followed the video with an enthusiasm that should’ve been illegak. His cheeks flushed from the ‘effort’ , pink spreading over his scars in uneven patches, and the gleam of sweat on his neck made Logan’s throat go tight.

Christ .

Logan tilted his empty beer bottle again.

Nothing but a warm drop sliding over his tongue. Flat and useless.

Don’y matter. He wasn’t thirsty for that kind of drink anymore.

He let his eyes drift again, like they wanted to punish him. Tempt him.

Wade was still squatting. Still fucking bouncing . Each motion exaggerated like he was doing it on purpose. Maybe he was. Maybe Wade knew. Jbew that every drop of sweat rolling down his chest felt like it was leaving a mark on Logan’s brain. Knew that each vend of those too-tight tights stretched the fabric past its moral capacity—thread clinging to muscle and curve and ass like it was scared to let go.

And God. That ass .

Logan swallowed hard.

He had seen Wade naked, sure. Had him bent him. Gotten his mouth on him more than once. But it’d been weeks since the last time, and memory didn’t compare to the reality of what was bouncing in front of him like the universe was trying to test every ounce of his self-control.

The tights were obscene. Way too small for his own good. Logan could see the shape of everything. His bones cutting up from the waist band, skin between fabric and that stuipd neon-pink crop top exposing the soft indent of his belly button and the taut slope of his lower abs. Just above the seam, the faintest glimpse of Wade’s ribs peeks through when he twisted just right. Defined. Almost delicate if it weren’t for the way his thighs looked like they could crush Logan’s skull without trying.

His eyes dragged upward.

Shouldn’ve.

Because then it was his chest. Glossy with sweat, the crop sticking to him like a second skin. Logan could see the flicker of Wade’s pulse just beneath his collarbone, the rise and fall of breath, the twitch of muscle with every move. His arms swung, dumbbell a ridiculous pastel pink, but Logan couldn’t even laugh. Not when those arms flexed like that . Not when his mind was already in the gutter with him.

Wade’s neck gleamed. And those lips—

Fuck.

Those lips were ridiculous. Plump and cracked, bitten raw at the edges from habit. His jaw was sharp, chin dimpled just enough to make Logan’s hands twitch with the memory of cupping it, tilting it, dragging his tongue across that fucking mouth. Wade’s eyes were bright today—too bright. Blue with a flicker of something radioactive. Gold bleeding in at the corners like an infection, or maybe a warning (or just cancer).

And Logan wanted to touch him.

No, he wanted to devour him.

His pants were tight now.

Uncomfortable. Pressing against him as he shifted his stance, tried to adjust without making it too obvious even though no one was watching. No one but Mary, and she was too bust humping the leg of the pull-out-couch like her life depended on it.

Wade bent again—low this time. Ass in the air. The tights disappeared between his cheeks, fabric swallowed up by the kind of roundness that made Logan’s jaw ache.

It was a crime. An actual goddamn crime.

Wade’s ass was full . Perfect. Carved like some horny god sculpted it by hand while high on Molly. The seam of the thighs fug into the cleft so deep it should’ve been illegal, exposing so much skin.

Now it just made him hungrier.

Wade gave a little hop. A fucking hop and Logan’s knees almost buckled.

The sweat. The shine. The goddamn sound of his breath. Panting. Moaning under his breath with each push and squat like he liked it. Like the burn made him feel good . Like he was imagining something entirely different—maybe Logan was behind him, gripping those hips, driving him into the mat ntil they both forgot their names.

Logan’s hands tightened around the neck of the beer bottle.

He thought about Laura. About how he should be using this time to talk to her. To try again. Be a dad. A real one.

But Wade made everything else vanish.

He was chaos and comfort and home wrapped in glitter and bad jokes. He was every bad decision Logan ever wanted to make, poured into a body that shouldn’t have survived half the shit it did. A walking warning sign wrapped in compression tights and sexual frustration.

The smell hit him again. Sharp. Real. Sweat, salt, something under it like sickness. Not enough deodorant. Not enough time. But still—

Still Wade .

Iron. Caramel. Burnt sugar on top of something sour. It should’ve been wrong. But to Logan, it smelled like fucking heaven. Like him .

He could taste it in memory.

The sweat. The breath. The stretch of skin over bone and scar and strength. Wade moaning into his mouth, biting his shoulder, laughing mid-thrust like he wasn’t breaking apart from the inside out. Wade alive , somehow, when he shouldn't be. Wade loving him in the only way he knew how—loud, messy, and all in.

Logan groaned low in his throat.

His hand was halfway to his belt before he stopped himself. Fingers twitching. Breath shallow.

“Fuck,” he muttered again.

Wade didn’t even notice him standing there. Too caught up in his exercise, panting, sweat pouring down his chest. The pink top clung to him like a lover. The dumbbells thumped softly on the floor as he dropped them mid-stretch, gasping, arching his back, one arm behind his head in some overly suggestive pose.

Logan’s mouth went dry.

He could hear the wet sound of Mary’s sexual adventures in the background. Could hear Wade’s little breathless giggle.

It hit him like a train—how much he wanted this. How much he missed this. Not just the sex. Not just the body.

Wade.

That stupid, broken, beautiful man with too much energy and too many feelings and a heart that shouldn’t still work but did anyway.

And Logan—

Logan was too much of a coward to walk across the room. To say the thing. To admit what was pounding in his chest like a war drum.

So he stood there.

Hard. Sweating. Silent.

Drowning in want.

And in the middle of it all, Wade turned, caught his eye, and smirked .

“You like the view, old man?”

Logan’s voice was a gravel scrape in his throat.

“Shut up.”

Wade licked his dry lips and waggled his eyebrows. “You telling me to shut up? Or You just want me to stop talking so you can focus on what’s really distracting you…?”

And Logan jumped on him.