Work Text:
Tick…
Water floods his nostrils.
Tick…
Metal digs into his wrists. Hands in his hair hold him down.
Tick—
Wade bolts upright, chest heaving and hands scrambling. Shaking fingers find the hilt of a knife—he slips off the edge of the bed, legs caught in the tangle of blankets and drives the blade into his thigh. He doesn’t register the pain, eyes darting to the darkened corners of his bedroom and missing the confused grunt from the bed above him.
“Wade?” Logan’s voice is rough. Reality and nightmare are still smeared together, brain sluggishly trying to piece together who he is.
He pushes himself up, backing into the wall next to the bed and yanking the knife from his thigh, blood pumping lazily onto the floor until the wound seals. Wade stares at the skin, chest stuttering and eyes wide. He runs the pad of his thumb across the blade, watching blood bead and skin knit. He thinks about wet asphalt against his knees, blood pooling in his mouth, trying to breathe —
“What are you…” Logan peers over the bed, “Wade? Stop that,” his feet hit the floor and he’s kneeling next to him, hands hovering above his own. It startles him out of his stupor, eyes darting to Logan’s, wild and haunted.
Tick…
Wade snaps his head to the other side of the room, fingers clenched tight around the handle of the knife. Logan furrows his brow, darting over to where he was looking, then turning back to him, worry etched onto his face.
“Let’s get you cleaned up, bub,” Logan’s fingers are smoothing over his shoulder before he’s suddenly driving the knife between his ribs, knocking him onto his back and straddling his thighs. The man grunts, irritation crossing his face before grabbing Wade by the wrist, yanking the knife out and throwing it across the room. “Stop that!”
Tick…
“Fuck! Stop!” Wade yells, body twisting to the dark corner near the bedroom door. Logan sits up, taking stock of the trembling frame on top of him, the paranoia evident on his face as he looks everywhere but Logan.
“Wade,” he tries, bringing a hand up to his face and turning him to meet his eyes. The fog in his head clears gradually, eyes focusing on the familiar figure underneath him, covered in their blood. His breath catches and he smooths his fingers over the darkest blotch on Logan’s ribs, smearing red where the cut used to lie.
Tick…
There it is again.
Wade shakes his head, eyes scrunching closed and pressing his palms into the sockets, mumbling, shut the fuck up, under his breath. Logan pries his hands away gently, forcing him to look at him.
“It’s only me in here, Wade,” he says softly, thumbs digging into the meat of his palms. Something twists in his gut, nausea bubbling in his throat because he knows. Wade knows that, but still, he’s here—sitting on the bedroom floor not knowing if any of it was real.
Tick…
“Please tell me you can fucking hear that,” Wade mumbles, chin dropping to his chest. The line of his shoulders twitch and Logan glances around the room, waiting. They sit in silence for a couple minutes, Wade twisting a thread in the sheets around his finger. Logan grabs his hand, smoothing over scars while he pulls him to his chest, wide palms sliding to the small of his back. Wade hugs him back, staring blankly at the drywall trying to ignore the sounds plaguing his mind.
“Let’s go watch that fuckin’ cartoon,” Logan grunts into his neck, fingers leaving trails of heat across his skin. Wade huffs out a wet chuckle, squeezing the man tighter to ignore the tears threatening to slip. He traces the letters of his name out on the fabric of Logan’s shirt, wet eyesight smearing flakes of wallpaper together in his vision.
W…
“I’m fucking crazy,” Wade says, voice wet and defeated. Logan hums at this, smoothing his palms in circles across his back.
A…
“You’re not crazy.”
D…
Silence fills the room until the air conditioner kicks on, plastic frame sputtering before settling into something monotone. Background. White noise.
E…
Wade doesn’t know how long they sit there, waiting. Waiting for the next tick of a broken clock or hand of a watch. Slide of a gun’s safety. Strike of a match. All he can hear is the soft straining of the air conditioner and the deep breathing of the man against his chest. He fights to stay awake, flinching when he slumps and adrenaline running hot in bursts until he finally succumbs to the crash.
He wakes up hours later, soft light filling the corners of their bedroom, air conditioner humming and quiet.