nasturtiums
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There—a gunshot—he thrust upwards with the most force he could muster and the glass shattered. There was another gunshot and then a conspicuous silence.
“Peanut?” someone called. “Logan?”
Logan’s throat was so dry. He coughed, cleared his throat. No one else called him peanut. “Wade?”
“Logan,” Wade said. Logan blinked, and suddenly he was there standing over him, in his full suit. He blinked again. He was so close to getting himself out. He hadn’t thought—
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Wade keeps coming to get him when he's in trouble. Logan doesn't know what to do with that. -
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“So.” Logan clears his throat. “Collars don’t work on you?”
“Nope,” Wade says, popping the p. “Except in bed.”
Logan takes a deep breath. “And that’s because…?”
“Like I said, snookums, some people are born great, and other people have greatness thrust upon them. I was born great, but then God said, shit! Here’s more greatness with a steel chair! And metaphorically hit me upside my head with it.”
Logan still has a headache from the collar. The dried blood on his face pulls at his skin when he makes a face, which he does now. “Short version?”
“I’m weird. I’m a weirdo mutant.”
“Okay,” Logan says, slowly. “So how did—”
“I think sharing time is over for the day, don’t you?” And then Wade contorts himself to put his muddy, bloody boots up on the dashboard, which starts an argument that conveniently lasts the entire drive.
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Wade only tells Logan what he absolutely has to about his past and his body. Logan tries his best to listen.