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So.
After Wade very kindly explained the living situation between himself and Blind Al, Logan decided two things. First off, he would be sleeping on the couch. Secondly, he needed a job.
For a huge, jacked man such as himself, who had appeared in the world with no qualifications, no work history, and no customer service skills, it meant that his options were limited. Severely limited. And while Wade was kind enough to offer him a job at his used car dealership (once he had spoken to Peter and the boss, of course), Logan declined.
So, square one. The obvious options in New York included construction, customer service, and crime. First one needed qualifications, the second required customer service skills, and the third… well.
So he was stuck in a bodega. Specifically, night work back-of-house bodega work. The owner seemed to think that Logan could just about manage it and not shred his oldest son, Pietro, who ran the cash register and front-of-house. Logan was outside at about 2 o'clock in the morning when he encountered the first of many.
Cigarette in hand, leaning against the questionably clean patch of brick wall in the alley behind the bodega, Logan watched as Daredevil did a sick flip off a building, missed the next fire escape, and landed in the nice, pillowy dumpster beside him. There was even a comedic ‘splat’ which came with the soft landing. Logan didn’t move, finishing his cigarette and admiring the much dirtier wall in front of him before he heard Daredevil make a noise somewhere between a pained moan and an agonised groan. That was when he threw the cigarette butt onto the floor, stamped on it, and went over to the dumpster.
Yep. There sure was a probably concussed but definitely out-cold superhero in there.
Logan stepped back, mourned the loss of his fifteen minute break, and hauled Daredevil’s heavy body out of the dumpster and into the back room-come-kitchen of the bodega. He left a small trail of slime as Logan dragged him across the floor.
The oldest son, Pietro, came in to look at them. “Oh man, again?”
“What? Again?” Logan squinted at him. “What do you mean ‘again’?”
“Superheros, man.” Pietro shook his head. “They’re always passing out around here. I swear they see a bodega and they’re like moths.”
Logan decided to keep the small detail about him also being a superhero on the down-low. “So what do you want me to do with him? Leave him outside?”
“Which one is it?”
Logan squinted down at Daredevil. Who else wore a red suit? Spider man, Ant-Man, Iron Man, Scarlet Witch, Deadpool, The Flash… probably some others, too. Flash was a comic book hero, though, or was the last time Logan cared to check. He didn’t want to say for sure in case something had changed between his old world and the current one.
“Daredevil, most likely.”
Pietro snorted. “Daredevil’s gotta stop going head first into our trash or he’s going to be ‘Dumpster Diver’ from now on.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “So you want him outside or inside?”
Pietro shook his head and tucked his hands into his pockets. “Just keep him away from the fresh produce; people notice the smell.”
“Alright.”
Pietro went back out the front to scroll on his phone and Logan was left unpacking boxes and preparing vegetables for the next day’s morning rush. He was just getting ready to boil eggs when there’s a small scuffling noise from beside the bottled soda. Logan spared Daredevil a glance.
In the fluorescent lighting of the bodega’s kitchen, Daredevil looked ridiculous. Not only did he have a variety of stains on his suit, with Logan’s nose telling him only a few of them were from blood, but he also had zero intimidation factor when he was groggy, like a cat waking up slowly from an unsatisfying nap. He smelled faintly of cologne, but not enough for it to be his own. More like he had rubbed himself on someone else before leaving for the night. Daredevil seemed like the kind of guy who would steal all the covers and act innocent about it, like a different vigilante Logan knew.
There seemed to be a moment where Daredevil took in everything about his situation all at once, all of his senses coming online like a PC booting up. He looked like shit, but alert and afraid, obvious from the way he went from smelling of very little (emotionally speaking) to a warm-sour tang.
Now, Logan wasn’t the chatty sort. He was more the kind of guy to sit in silence for long hours and drink the days away, but with a job to keep and two roommates to support, as well as a dog which totally wasn’t his, he needed to be sober. And being sober meant that long, sullen silences were no longer his forte. A long silence, he could do. He could also do a sullen silence. Both at the same time? Off the cards.
He was lucky that Daredevil broke the silence before Logan could do something shameful like offer him a sliced tomato.
“Where am I?”
“47th Street, near 10th Avenue. You hit your head on the way down.”
Daredevil was silent for a moment. “Am I at Carmen’s?” he asked.
“Good guess. Surprised you got that from the back room.” So he was psychic or something. Great. “Now sit still until you know if you’re going to vomit or not. Try and get it in the trash can.”
“I’m fine.”
Daredevil went to get up, but his grip on the trashcan slipped, and he went back onto the floor in an ungraceful slump. Logan snorted. So much for the grace and impressive ability he’d seen Daredevil use in the few videos on the news. The man must have been a trained ballet dancer to pull off some of the moves he did, but at that moment, Logan would have been more delicate.
“Sure. The offer to sit there and recover still applies.”
Daredevil, despite being still and staying where he was, was the opposite of relaxed. His head seemed to move in the same way that owls did, like he was trying to get a lay of the land before he made his move, and Logan kept slicing tomatoes. Between the bottled drinks and the fridge, Daredevil was like a raw-red slug, slumped against the wall. Logan wondered if Daredevil had a concussion. That sort of thing affected other people's vision, didn't it?
Whatever. Not his problem. He pulled down a flatbread and slit it open, putting some of the diced tomatoes inside along with ham, cheddar and lettuce, before holding it out to Daredevil. Daredevil didn't move.
"Take the sandwich," Logan said, resisting the urge to insult him, too.
Daredevil reached out slowly, then took the sandwich. He didn't begin eating immediately but squinted at him, like he had somehow slipped poison inside the sandwich despite being watched. Logan went back to slicing tomatoes.
"What's your name?" Daredevil asked.
"Logan."
The Devil nodded. "Logan. You've got a very steady hand."
Logan grunted. "Comes with experience."
"And you smell like blood."
A lesser man would have hesitated. Logan just shrugged. "So do you." Logan looked over his shoulder at him. "It's a common smell."
Daredevil paused his chewing with only a little bit left in his hand. He seemed to be examining Logan, trying to figure him out, but Logan was difficult at the best of times and a stone wall of emotion at the worst, and Daredevil had got him on a bad day. He finished chopping tomatoes, cleared the chopping board and knife, and began to slice a cucumber instead. Daredevil shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth, chewed it quickly, and then stood up.
"Get a cold compress when you get home, bub."
Daredevil froze on his way out the door. "What for?"
"For the concussion I know you damn well have. We need less suicidal morons on the street, not more of them."
Baring his teeth a little, Daredevil muttered, "I'll bear that in mind."
*
When he got back to the apartment, Wade was awake with Mary Puppins, watching someone demonstrate an egg slicer on TV. It was still dark outside, despite it being July, and Logan took off the hoodie he had been wearing as soon as the door closed behind him. Wade made a low whistle, low enough to not wake up Al.
"How's the sandwich making, pudding pop?"
"Fine. How was your...?"
"Murdering rampage to the sound of 'Staying Alive' by the Bee Gees? Fine and dandy. Deadpool, ten. Those dead guys? Zero. I actually nabbed the job after another spandex-super realised I was close. My reputation precedes me."
Logan snorted. “Right. Reputation, and not you talking to yourself, your dog, any inanimate object or person who will listen. And ,” he said with emphasis, cutting Wade off, “anyone who won’t listen, either.”
“Offensive. Mary Puppins is the communal dog. She’s one third yours and one third mine.”
“Who was the super?”
“Never seen them before. You’d think it would be a less popular hobby since the X-men get blown up every week. People should know better, excluding me, of course.”
“Of course.” Logan rolled his shoulders. "You done watching TV? Or can I take your bed?"
"If you take the couch, I'm here. If you take my bed, I'll join you. What'll it be?"
Logan went into Wade's room and locked the door.
Despite Wade's threats, Al's insistence that their apartment stay in one piece won out, and Logan was able to sleep until seven in the morning when Al started up the Vitamix.
*
Nights at the deli were easy, as in he could do the job no problem, get cash in hand at the end of every week, and had enough not only for rent but also for a bottle of scotch and the laundromat. It was difficult, punishing work because he had a Nokia flip-phone with sudoku and snake, but no other functions aside from a calculator, sending and receiving texts, and the ability to send Wade straight to voicemail.
This is relevant because sometimes working in the deli meant covering for Pietro when he slumped off, and that meant sitting at the cash register.
Logan was about 100 pages through one of the few books Wade owned, The Devil Wears Prada, when the man himself came crashing through the front door of the deli. Logan had just enough time to begin cursing Wade out when Wade dragged someone, also dressed in red, in behind him.
“Logan, Logan!” He squealed, “He’s been hit!”
He had just enough time to sigh, “what?” before the other person in red twisted and smashed a fist into Wade’s jaw, sending them both careening to the floor. Blood leaked out of Wade’s mask from where his jawbone stuck through the flesh.
Alright, so an enhanced red guy.
“Alright, cool it, bub,” Logan growled, hopping over the counter.
He grabbed the guy’s shoulders. He was light, light enough for Wade to twist him onto his stomach without issue, but he was freakishly strong. Logan’s arms bulged with the effort to keep him in place, ignoring the pathetic, kitten-like gnashing noises coming from the guy. Logan tried to take in the situation, tried to figure out if he had gone feral or something, when he saw the needle sticking out of the guy’s thigh. He couldn’t reach for it — not without letting him go, at least — but Wade was up.
“Grpahphruut!” he yelled, jaw still broken.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Logan yelled.
The guy below him lurched, sending them both three feet across the floor, and into the puddle of Wade’s blood. Wade squeaked and jumped over the counter, helping himself to the prep station. He pulled the metal lids off all the sandwich ingredients until he reached the small dessert section and tugged off the lids for the pineapple, cherries, peaches, and the grapefruit.
“No!” Logan yelled, his voice being drowned out by the guy beneath him as he smashed his head into the tiles, breaking one. “That’s not going to help!”
“It’s like charcoal.” Wade skidded to a stop beside them and pulled the guy’s mask off. He shoved the grapefruit into his mouth, ignoring the rabid look in his eyes and the way he got a chunk of Wade’s finger.
“No—” Another broken tile. “ — It’s the opposite of charcoal, you moron.”
The guy, who Logan could now see was a kid, roared and tried to get out of Logan’s grip. He wiggled like a fish on a line and slipped a hand free, grabbing Wade’s leg hard enough for Logan to hear the bone break, but Logan used the opportunity to grab the needle and yank it out. The barbed end (and who the hell made needles with a barbed end?) ripped free from the skin, a line of blood dripping out of it, but the kid went deathly still and then collapsed.
“Oh my fucking god, he’s dead.”
“He’s not dead. Get your finger out of his mouth.”
They sat on the floor for a minute or so, and Logan went and turned the sign on the door around to ‘closed’, pulling the latch just to make sure no one saw two guys on the floor with a bleeding kid in a costume. The kid took deep, gasping breaths, but he wasn’t unconscious. Logan could see the way he kept his eyes closed, listening to them as Wade groaned and moaned his way through regrowing a finger.
“Where’d you find him?” Logan asked.
“I was killing people and I think he thought I needed help. Little does he know that Mr.Pool is the ultimate fighting machine, second to you, Peanut.”
“Don’t call me that. Kid, are you going to tell us you’re awake or are you going to keep pretending?”
There was a small shift in the kid’s body before he said, “I hate grapefruit.”
“It’s a necessary evil when you go around getting jabbed with mysterious substances, Red Riding Hood. Maybe next time you should leave the big bad wolves alone.”
“It’s Spiderman,” the kid said, leaning up on his elbows. “And how was I supposed to know you had it handled? You got shot!”
“And thanks to my epic healing factor, I’m good as new. Can’t say the same for you, though.”
“It’ll be gone tomorrow.” Spiderman sat against the wall and looked between them, then at the broken tiles on the floor and the small bloodstains on himself, Logan, and Deadpool. He winced. “Sorry about this, sir. I didn’t want to break your store, but—”
“Not my store, and not my problem.” Logan stood up and went behind the counter. “Don’t call me ‘sir’.”
“He likes to be called Peanut.”
“Wade,” Logan warned. Wade snapped his mouth closed.
Spiderman slipped his mask back on. “Uhm. Thanks. Sorry.”
“I can’t believe they let nine year olds fight crime now.”
“Hey, I’m sixteen!”
“Kid,” Logan said, commanding the room with a single word. “Go.”
“Okay. Thanks, mister. Bye!”
And like that, Spiderman left.
“Sixteen! When I was his age I had white powder in my right hand and my penis in my left.”
Logan shrugged, going to turn the sign back to ‘open’ and picking up the mop in the corner. “It’s not that weird. Kids at the mansion usually got sent to us when they turned ten or eleven, or later if that’s when their powers emerged.”
Wade shook his head. “Crazy. Who was that guy, anyway? Who the hell goes by ‘Spiderman’ by choice?”
Logan rolled his eyes. “He does, Deadpool . Now go. I don’t want you getting me fired.”
Wade blew Logan a kiss. “See you later,” he said, wiggling his fingers to say goodbye.
Logan kept his arms crossed until Wade had left and then sighed.
Superheroes. He never should have left the bar.
*
That wasn’t exactly true. The statement from the previous section.
See? Logan could do the talking-to-himself thing, too.
Leaving the bar meant he was no longer haunted by the idea of failing everyone, since he had helped out a lot of people, too. And he now had two roommates and an ugly dog to look after.
That wasn’t true, either. Al could look after herself.
Logan was at the cash register, again, but this time he wasn’t alone. A lone man dressed in black was sitting at one of the metal and plastic tables eating a sandwich, his back to the wall and his eyes darting between the door behind Logan and the glass door to the bodega. His grey pitbull was whining outside, looking through the door at Logan as he played his eighteenth round of sudoku on his phone.
It was quiet. Then Wade showed up.
“Hello, peanut! Wonderful night for a stroll.”
The man in black straightened up, his hand going for his waist, and Logan stood up. “Wade,” Logan said, “I told you not to come here.”
“Uh-huh, and I told you to stop being so handsome, but sometimes we just can't help ourselves.”
The man’s pitbull whined again.
“Aww, schmuckums!” Wade wiggled his fingers at the pitbull. “I’d release you if tall, dark, and scary wasn't going to put a bullet in me for trying.”
The man in black raised an eyebrow and looked between Wade and Logan, but for what it was worth, he didn’t seem anything other than curious. So long as the pistol he was definitely carrying stayed in his coat, Logan didn’t care.
“Wade,” Logan warned again.
“Ugh, fine. I’ll go. I just wanted to let you know that Al and I went to the dry cleaners and—” he slapped his own ass. “ — our suits no longer smell like Buffalo Bill’s house in a July heatwave. You’re welcome .”
Wade leaned forwards a little over the counter, emphasising it further when he repeated. “ You’re welcome —”
“Thanks.” Logan said. “Now go.”
“Byeeeeeee. I love you too, peanut.”
And Wade went. He gave the smiling pitbull a scratch as he went back into the night.
The man in black raised an eyebrow.
“Is he the only cape that’s unwelcome?” the guy asked.
Logan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ever since he saw that ‘Vision’ guy on the news, he knew that people were going to start calling enhanced people, those with the X gene, and people with no powers apart from the second amendment on their side as ‘capes’. It was insulting, honestly. Capes were so impractical, and Storm used to get hers trapped in doors all the time.
“Just the loud ones,” Logan replied. “So long as there’s no trouble, I don’t care.”
The guy nodded, finished up his sandwich, and went to dump the paper wrapper in the wastebin beside the counter. He said, “Good to know,” and went to get his dog.
*
“With our worlds combined,” Wade called when Logan entered the apartment early in the morning, “I declare this a Marvel fantastic fiction!”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Logan reached down to scratch Mary behind the ears, and tried to make himself look annoyed when Mary got in the way of him untying his shoes. “Where’s Al?”
“I’m here,” she said, hobbling into the room. “Damned maniac woke me up.”
“I’m being immodest. No fantastic fiction would be complete without Johnny Storm or with ‘Attempt at Humor’ slapped on it. American spelling, of course.”
“How was work?” Al asked.
Logan handed her a breakfast sandwich, complete with bacon, sausage, scrambled egg, hot sauce and cheese. “Fine.”
“Uh, hello? I’m trying to establish something here,” Wade said and put his hands on his hips. He accepted the sandwich Logan handed him, though. “That guy at the bodega. With the pitbull.”
“What about him?”
“He is none other than 1974’s very own Punisher! That’s what’s about him.”
“He wasn’t that old.” Logan remembered his own immortality. “He didn’t look that old.”
“No, he wasn’t. He is, however, famous.”
Logan raised an eyebrow and waited for Wade to finish his (frankly, huge) bite of the breakfast sandwich. Wade took a minute to chew and then continued.
“In his universe, he’s famous.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And he’s in ours, now.”
“And it wasn’t just a guy with a dog eating a three-AM sandwich?”
“No! Who does that?”
Daredevil, obviously.
“Anyway,” Wade waved his free hand. “Spiderman? Daredevil? You’ve watched the news, right? There was a whole show on about Tony Stark, and not in the ‘isn’t he a great character?’ way! He was treated like a real person!”
“Who’s Tony Stark?”
“Genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Iron-Man!” Wade waved his hands around more vigorously this time. “And there was an interview with the Hulk! Well, not the Hulk, but Bruce Banner, and with Pepper Potts-Stark. Come on . Give me some indication you know what I’m talking about.”
“Nope.”
Wade bounced on his heels. “I need to ask Colossus about this.” He forced the half-eaten sandwich into Logan’s hands and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Immediately. Bye-bye!”
And Wade was gone.
“Good riddance,” Al said and turned on Golden Girls. “Narrate this for me, wolf-man.”
*
Things came to a head pretty soon after that.
You know the drill by now: the hum of the drinks fridge, the dark night outside, the hard plastic seat out the front, the vegetables prepped and ready in the deli-counter. Logan sat, motionless, reading a dime novel which cost far more than a dime which had seen more fingerprints than a crime scene in a handrail emporium.
A blonde dude fell off the roof and hit the concrete pavement on his side. A different person, a teenage girl, landed on her feet beside him, launched a folly of arrows to the left, swore loudly, and tried to drag the blonde dude off the pavement. Car wheels squealed, headlights shone through the bodega’s window, and Logan stepped outside.
There was a man with a gun, and a scared teenager, and Logan didn’t think before slicing the gun in half. The sweet, sweet smell of fear and blood ripped through the air as Logan stepped forward, blocking the teenager with his own body as nine bullets came from the car. The weapon was something automatic, with the speed it was firing, and Logan threw the first man to one side as an arrow streaked over his shoulder and hit the man with the gun. The woman who was driving gasped as Logan ripped the door off, but made no sound as he pushed his claws through her, and she slumped over.
“Mnnhghrnpph,” said the blonde dude.
“Woah,” the teenager said. “Are you okay?”
Logan rolled his shoulders and looked down at the bullet wounds on his chest, and winced as the dead lead pushed itself out of his body and clinked against the pavement. The teenager watched with an expression of awe and horror.
“Who the fuck brings a bow to a gunfight?” Logan asked.
She blinked. “Someone intending to shoot,” she said. “I shot that guy for you.”
Logan shrugged. “Good job. Is your man alive?”
“Mnrnhghhrupph,” said the blonde guy.
“He’s been tranquilised.”
“Weird method for people with guns.”
She winced. “ Accidently tranquilised. The word on the street is that this place is alright for… us.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “‘Us’? He asked.
“Capes. Superheroes. Vigilantes.”
Logan stepped inside, pulled off his vest, and went into the back room. He left the teenager to drag the blonde guy inside. He tossed the bloodied vest into the trash, washed his bloody hands, and then put on a different vest. It paid to keep backups when he had literal knives strapped to his fingers.
“I’m going to call the police now. Do you need to call someone to pick you both up, or—?”
“‘M up,” Blonde guy said. “Don’t call Nat.”
“Nat is exactly who we need to call, Clint.”
Blonde guy collapsed again. “Dntclrrl Nat.”
In the distance, a police siren wailed.
“Just put him in the fridge, or the office,” Logan said and rolled his shoulders. “We’re lucky none of those shots hit this place or I’d need to call the boss. You two got names?”
“Hawkeye,” the teenager — Hawkeye — said.
Logan raised an eyebrow as she began to drag the man into the back room. “You or him?”
She shrugged. “Whatever.”
*
An hour later, after most of the police had left the scene and Logan lied through his teeth about Hawkeye and Hawkeye getting away, a redhead appeared in the back room without a sound.
“You have a good poker face,” she said when he didn’t startle.
“I knew a guy who could teleport.” Logan rolled his shoulders. “Get your people and go before the police come back for another statement.”
The redhead raised an eyebrow. “You don’t seem surprised.”
“About?”
“There being superheroes here, or fighting off a gunman.” Logan grunted. The redhead continued, fishing for answers. “Kate said the bullets came out of you.”
“If they didn’t I’d be a dead man.”
“No, they… popped out.”
Logan grunted again.
“Are you enhanced?”
“Lady,” Logan said, turned, and took on a more polite tone of voice. “It’s been a long, stressful shift. Two morons fell off my roof and someone outside was clawed to death by unknown means. Can’t you leave a washed-up, middle-aged man alone?”
The redhead looked him up and down. “I’m Natasha.”
“Logan. Can you go?”
She took a step back and was walking towards Hawkeye and Hawkeye when she said, “I’ll be in touch!”
*
“Have you ever heard of the Avenger’s initiative?” The guy with the eyepatch asked. His nebbish but calm default-white-man assistant stood behind him.
“What do you want on your sandwich?” Logan asked. Damn if he didn’t want a cigar.
“We could use your kind of skill.”
“White bread or wholemeal?”
Eyepatch raised an eyebrow. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“Someone who’s too old for this shit. If you’re not ordering…” Logan turned to the default man. “What do you want on your sandwich?”
“I’ll have a ciabatta with sliced turkey, cranberry, brie and spinach with mayo. Hawkeye’s bodycam footage saw you tank nine bullets from a 9mm SMG and heal within less than a minute, and remain standing, and fighting, the whole time. Thanks.” The man accepted the sandwich. ”The Avengers could use that sort of skill.”
“You’re detailing that fight like I don’t remember it.”
Eyepatch raised an eyebrow. “So you’re not even going to deny it?”
“No. Next!”
Wade slid over the counter, his whole stomach pressed against it and his ass in the air. He was in full uniform. “Hey, peanut. Bet you’d never be so glad to see me.”
“What do you want on your sandwich?” Logan asked. Eyepatch looked closer to swearing by the second as Wade’s full-spandex figure took up the whole ordering space.
“Oh, all the sausage between your white buns. Maybe a little white sauce to finish it all off.”
Logan looked between Wade and the two men in black. “His skills are the same as mine. You want me, you have to take him, too.”
“Ohh, a foursome! It’s been a while since I had one of those.” Wade struck a pose, his whole body on the counter. “Boring man goes first. You look like you’ve got no stamina.”
Eyepatch twisted and walked out in a twirl of black leather, and Logan called, “You haven’t paid yet!”
The default man came back and dumped a $20 bill on the counter. “Thank you for your time, Logan. We’ll be in touch.”
“You can touch me any time you like, you otter you,” Wade called after him as they went back into their boring car. “What did they want from you, anyway? Other than the secret to your amazing chest hair.”
Logan stepped back before Wade could reach for his chest. “Something called the Avengers.”
Wade went still, like a corpse. “What?”
“The Avengers.”
“You?”
“Yeah.”
“And you said yes?”
“No. Why would I say yes?”
Wade stayed very still for a while, long enough for Logan to get worried, before he fell to the floor with a long, pained cry. “Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?”
“You alright?”
Wade shot up and stared at Logan through his mask. “Why’d you say no?”
Logan, after a moment, shrugged. “I’m fine here.”