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The smell of burnt microwave popcorn wafted through the cramped, dingy apartment, mingling with the scent of stale beer and something suspiciously akin to wet dog. Wade slouched on the battered couch that looked like it had survived both the Great Depression and a couple of World Wars, and wondered, not for the first time, how he’d ended up in this living situation.
His hand lazily scratched at the partly bald head of Mary Puppins, the mangy mutt he’d totally not stolen from his much nicer, albeit slightly less attractive and significantly less alive, multiverse twin, Nicepool. It was a good thing the dog was already kind of messed up; otherwise Wade might've felt guilty. That's a lie. Wade had liberated the mutt from the clutches of boredom and mediocrity. Public service, really. Mary Puppins seemed content enough gnawing on a sock that reeked suspiciously like Logan’s, and who was Wade to judge?
Logan was hunched over by the window, the scowl on his face so intense it looked like he was contemplating the meaning of life or at least how to end it quickly. The rain beat against the glass in a relentless, miserable rhythm, much like the thoughts currently running through Wade’s brain.
Logan's perpetual frown of his was his default expression, like someone who’d just been informed that their favorite show had been canceled, but was too proud to admit they even watched it in the first place. Wade had seen Logan gut a hundred of him with those claws of his, but he was pretty sure the guy took more pleasure out of scowling than killing multiple alternate universe versions of Wade, which says a lot. Wade mused that they had that in common—both had killer instincts and a penchant for brooding, though Logan would rather hack off his own arm than admit he had feelings.
Wade wasn’t one for introspection, it was boring and usually led to uncomfortable realizations, like how his feelings for Logan were getting all mixed up in his head, turning from the usual “I’d bump that” into something more... complicated. But Wade had always been good at burying shit like that beneath layers of sarcasm, inappropriate jokes, and a splash of cancer. So, why stop now?
“You know,” Wade began, voice lilting with a mixture of curiosity and mischief, “I’ve been thinking. I know, dangerous territory. But what if, just hypothetically, we—”
“Shut up, Wade.” Logan’s voice was a low, gravelly growl that promised violence, like a bear with anger management issues. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today.”
Wade grinned beneath his mask, which stretched the scarred skin underneath in a way that Logan always thought looked painful. “When are you ever in the mood, pumpkin? I swear, you’re like a walking, breathing case of blue balls. All tension, no release.”
Logan didn’t bother to dignify that with a response. Instead, he glared out the window at the rain-slicked streets below, where a couple of crackheads were debating the value of a shopping cart full of trash. It was the kind of neighborhood where the police only showed up to collect bodies, and even then, they sent rookies who hadn’t yet learned the fine art of apathy.
“You ever wonder if Al’s gonna finally succeed in blowing herself to kingdom come with that microwave? ‘Cause I’m betting on it happening before the year’s out. We should start a pool—maybe get Dogpool in on the action. Hell, she's named for it.”
Logan didn’t turn around, his scowl deepening as he continued to stare out the window like it had personally offended him. “Why are you talking to me?” His voice was gravelly, like he’d been gargling broken glass, and Wade couldn’t help but find it oddly attractive. Not that he’d ever admit it.
“Look, I know you’re not big on talking,” Wade continued, ignoring the warning signs that would’ve sent a saner man running for the hills. Wade leaned back into the couch, folding his hands behind his head like he owned the place. Which, to be fair, he did. Sort of. “But sometimes, a little chit-chat can do wonders for the soul. Or whatever black hole you have in place of one.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I mean, we’ve been living together for what, a month now? And we haven’t even had a proper bonding session since the time we were almost obliterated into atoms while holding hands and listening to Madonna. You know, like friends do. Or more than friends. Or murder buddies, like Bonnie and Clyde. Take your pick, peanut.”
Logan’s knuckles whitened on the windowsill, his fingers itching to pop those claws and slice Wade into bite-sized pieces. He could feel the familiar surge of rage bubbling up, the kind that always threatened to spill over whenever Wade opened his mouth. And yet, as much as he wanted to rip Wade’s head off, something held him back. Maybe it was the knowledge that Wade would just keep talking even after decapitation, or maybe it was the fact that he was starting to tolerate the merc's constant yammering.
“What the fuck are you getting at, Wade?” Logan finally grunted, his tone somewhere between exasperation and homicidal intent.
“Oh, nothing,” Wade said airily, waving a hand. “Just that I’ve been noticing a certain—tension between us. And not the fun, ‘let’s kill bad guys and make witty banter’ kind of tension. I’m talking about the ‘why do I keep dreaming about stabbing you and then feeling bad about it’ kind of tension. Which, by the way, is totally normal in a platonic, heterosexual roommate situation.”
Logan turned away from the window, fixing Wade with a glare that could strip paint. “You. You’re not normal. And we’re not friends, or whatever the hell you’re implying—”
Wade cut him off with a dramatic ‘tut’. “The point is, cupcake, we’ve got a pretty good thing going here, don’t we? You, me, Al, and the dog I didn’t steal. It’s like one big, fucked-up family. The kind that makes other families look normal by comparison.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re insufferable,” Logan muttered, turning back to the window. But he didn’t move away, didn’t storm out of the room like he usually did when Wade started with his verbal diarrhea. And that, Wade figured, was as close to progress as they were going to get.
“Insufferable, yes,” Wade agreed, shifting on the couch to find a more comfortable position, which was nearly impossible given the springs digging into his ass. “But I’m also charming, devastatingly handsome, albeit in a ‘creature-feature’ kind of way, and incredibly persistent. Just like that rash you can’t quite get rid of, no matter how much cream you slather on.”
Logan’s eyes flicked over to Wade, and for a split second, Wade thought he saw something like amusement in them, though it was probably just a trick of the light. Or maybe Logan was finally losing his mind. God knows Wade had that effect on people. “You’re goddamn delusional if you think we’re ever gonna be anything but two assholes stuck in a shithole apartment with a blind coke addict and a rotting corpse of a dog.”
“Delusional? Me? Never.” Wade’s voice took on a mock-serious tone as he sat up, letting Mary Puppins slide off his lap. “I just think we’ve got something special here, peanut. You know, like Mulder and Scully, or Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham. Lots of tension, occasional violence, and maybe some mutual, slightly homoerotic respect thrown in for good measure.”
Logan didn’t respond, but he didn’t leave, either. He just stood there, staring out the window with that same intense look. And maybe, Wade thought, that was his way of saying he wasn’t completely opposed to the idea. Not that Wade was about to start spouting love sonnets or anything. This was Logan, after all, the man who probably had more blood on his hands than a serial killer with OCD.
“Anyway,” Wade continued, because silence was the enemy and he had to fill it with something. He grins, pulling out one of his katanas and giving it an affectionate twirl. “I was thinking we could go out later, find some assholes who deserve a good beating. You know, as a bonding exercise. Nothing says ‘I care’ like a shared massacre. And also because our rent is due in a week and frankly, I'm getting kinda tired of evading Al's homicial attempts towards me every time I offer to pay my share with a crisp high-five.”
Logan finally turned his head, raising an eyebrow as if he’d just discovered that the world's most annoying problem was standing right in front of him. He let out a sigh that was half exasperation, half reluctant acceptance, his scowl easing up just enough that Wade had to do a double-take. It was like seeing a grizzly bear frown while offering you a cup of tea—confusing but oddly endearing. “You really think whacking scumbags for some cash is gonna solve anything?”
Wade shrugged. “Maybe not, but it sure as hell makes me feel better. Besides, what else are we gonna do? Sit around and watch reruns of Friends? I love Ross as much as the next guy, but sometimes a little ultraviolence is just what the doctor ordered.”
“You're a pain in the ass,” Logan said, which Wade took as a yes. He reached for his worn leather jacket that had definitely seen better days, like the 1970s, his movements slow and deliberate, like a man who was trying to decide whether to go along with the crazy or just punch it right in the face. Wade knew that look. It was the same one Logan got whenever he was trying to resist the urge to claw Wade’s intestines out through his nostrils.
“Yep, and you love it,” Wade shot back, grinning widely. “Deep down, beneath all that gruff exterior and ‘I’ve seen too much shit to care about anything’ attitude, you’ve got a heart of gold, don't you, sweet cheeks? Well, maybe not gold. More like tarnished silver. But hey, it’s still there.”
Logan didn’t respond, unsurprisingly, just grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. But Wade noticed the way his shoulders tensed, the way he hesitated ever so slightly before yanking the door open. Wade couldn’t help the flicker of something warm and unfamiliar that sparked in his chest. Maybe it was pride. Or maybe it was something more dangerous, like affection. Either way, he wasn’t ready to unpack that particular box just yet.
“Where’re you going, my lovely bag of Canadian testosterone?” Wade called after him, sheathing his katana and grabbing his guns. “Wait up! I’m coming with! And by the way, if this turns into a road trip, I get to pick the music. I’m thinking a solid mix of Charli xcx and Metallica. Something for everyone.”
“Shut up, Wade,” Logan growled, but there was something different in his voice. something almost fond. Not that Wade would ever point that out. He valued his head right where it was, thank you very much.
As they stepped out into the cold, rainy night, Wade couldn’t help but smile under his mask. Maybe, just maybe, this whole ‘fucked-up family’ thing wasn’t so bad after all. And maybe—definitely, actually—he wasn’t quite ready to let Logan go. Not when there was so much left to explore, so many more insults to hurl, and so much more ass to kick.
And for a guy like Wade, who’d spent most of his life bouncing between agony and ecstasy with a side of existential dread, something was a hell of a lot better than nothing. Even if that something came with a side of claws and a bad attitude. Because at the end of the day, they were a team. A messed-up, dysfunctional, and entirely dangerous team. And Wade wouldn’t have it any other way.