Archive of Our Own ^beta

The opening credits of Scream flickered across Logan's old television. It wasn’t a flat screen, but one of those old boxy televisions that weighed about a thousand pounds and had actual buttons. It was a never ending source of entertainment for Wade to tease Logan about. 

Wade grinned to himself as he snuggled back more into the old sofa. October meant horror movies. It was non-negotiable. He explained this to Logan three times on the drive over, complete with hand gestures and a dramatic reading of the "October Rules" that he may or may not have invented on the spot.

Logan had smiled and said, “Uh-huh, sure.” But he'd also let Wade pick the movie without argument, which was basically a declaration of love in Logan-speak, as Wade had been finding out little by little. 

While waiting for Logan, Wade looked around the space he was in. The living room was exactly what Wade had come to adore over these past few weeks. Warm in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the man who lived here. 

Wooden panels lined the walls, dark and worn smooth by decades of existence. The bookshelves were crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers, their spines cracked and faded, mixed in with little trinkets that each probably had a story Wade was dying to hear. A carved wooden bear. A compass that looked like it had seen actual use. Dog tags hanging from a nail, catching the lamplight.

And the pictures. Wade loved the pictures.

Faded photographs in simple frames showed a younger Logan—still with that serious brow, still built like a brick shithouse, but with fewer lines around his eyes and less grey hair, which Wade thought was a crime against nature as Logan’s grey hair was hot.

There were Army photos mostly. Logan standing with his team, arms crossed, that same scowl he had sometimes firmly in place even back then. Wade had spent an entire evening last week pointing at each person and demanding their stories, and Logan had actually told him, voice going soft in that way it did when he remembered people who weren't around anymore.

Wade had kissed him after Logan’s voice got a little watery and wobbly. Slow and sweet, tasting the whiskey on Logan's tongue and feeling the way the older man's breath hitched like he still wasn't quite used to being wanted so much, that somebody could care for him. Wade had held him all night afterwards. 

They were still figuring this out, the two of them. Still learning each other's rhythms and quirks and the weird little ways they fit together despite the sixteen-year age gap and the fact that they were both disasters in their own special ways.

The almost-breakup last week had been rough.

Wade still felt a twist in his gut thinking about it. The way he'd convinced himself that Logan didn't actually like him, that this was just some casual thing, that the lack of physical affection meant disinterest. He'd worked himself into a full panic spiral, the kind where his brain helpfully supplied every possible worst-case scenario in vivid detail.

After the fair, they'd talked. Like, actually talked, with words and feelings and all that vulnerable bullshit that made Wade want to crawl out of his skin even as he forced himself to stay present. Logan had looked at him with those gorgeous hazel eyes, steady and serious and said, "I'm not good at this. But I'm trying. For you."

And he had been. Logan was trying so damn hard, and it made Wade's heart do stupid acrobatics in his chest.

Wade was pulled from his musings when Logan emerged from the kitchen carrying a big ceramic bowl full of popcorn, and Wade's breath caught as he was reminded that Logan was wearing the charcoal-grey turtleneck Wade had given him three days ago. The fabric hugged his broad shoulders and thick arms, the collar sitting high on his throat in a way that shouldn't be as attractive as it was. The color brought out the silver in his hair and made him look sophisticated.

Wade was wearing his own, a creamier colour, soft as hell and slightly oversized in that deliberately cozy way. They matched. They were matching, like some disgustingly cute couple out of a catalogue, and Wade was absolutely living for it.

"You gonna stare at me all night, or are we watching this movie?" Logan's voice rumbled with amusement as he set the popcorn on the coffee table and lowered himself onto the couch with a slight grunt. Wade kept his old man jokes to himself, for which he was proud of. 

"Can't help it," Wade said, gazing at Logan adoringly. "You look good."

"Yeah, well." Logan reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch, a thick fleece in a dark green, probably older than Wade, and shook it out over both of them. "Comfortable. That's all."

But the tips of his ears were pink, and Wade grinned because it meant was blushing and that was the cutest goddamn thing in the world.

"Sure, old man. Whatever you say."

"Punk," Logan said, his voice carrying no heat, just full of affection. Logan's arm came around Wade's shoulders, pulling him in closer, and Wade went willingly, fitting himself into the space between arm and torso like he was made for it. The sweater was warm against his cheek, holding Logan's body heat, and Wade breathed in the scent of him. Old Spice, coffee, and something like fresh air. If Wade could bottle him up, he would. 

They settled down and Wade pressed play again. On the screen, Drew Barrymore was making popcorn, completely unaware of the nightmare about to unfold. Wade had seen this movie approximately two hundred times, able to recite it almost word for word. But that wasn't what Wade was excited about. It was the ritual of it, the October vibes. Being curled up under a blanket with Logan, watching a slasher flick like this was a normal thing they did, like a regular couple. Like Wade got to keep this.

His hand found Logan's arm almost unconsciously, fingers tracing idle patterns over the soft fabric. The material had a subtle texture that made Wade want to keep touching it, warm and substantial under his palm. He smoothed his hand down from shoulder to elbow and back up again, feeling the solid muscle underneath, so defined and mouthwatering that Wade had to concentrate on not chomping.

"Is there a reason as to why you're petting me," Logan observed, voice dry but amused as he looked down at Wade.

"I'm appreciating the craftsmanship," Wade corrected, fingers lingering on the curve of Logan's bicep. Even relaxed, even just sitting here watching a movie, Logan was built like he could bench-press a car. "This is quality knitwear. I'm a connoisseur."

"Uh-huh," Logan replied, sounding unconvinced. 

"A scholar of textiles?" Wade tried. Logan laughed. 

"You're full of shit."

Wade laughed and did it again, letting his palm glide over Logan's forearm, tracing the line of tendon and muscle through the soft material. It was hypnotic, almost meditative. The warmth of it, the gentle give of the fabric, the way Logan just let him do it without pulling away or making some gruff comment about personal space.

Wade was still amazed. A few weeks ago, Logan had been a werewolf at a Halloween party and Wade had been drunk and thinking he was punching above the belt. Now they were here, matching sweaters and movie nights and casual touches that meant everything.

"You didn't have to actually wear it, you know. You could've just said thanks and shoved it in a drawer," Wade commented. Logan’s eyebrows knitted together, his face turning confused. 

"Is that what you thought I'd do?" he asked. Logan's thumb pressed a little harder into Wade's knee, not in a painful way, more grounding.

Wade shrugged, his eyes now focused on the path his hand was tracing, definitely not to avoid whatever emotion was on Logan’s face. "Didn't know. We're still... figuring stuff out."

On screen, Drew Barrymore had answered the phone already, the conversation started friendly, till it sent a chill down her spine. Wade always got a chill down his spine when he first started watching this when he was younger. 

Logan's chest rose and fell beneath his cheek in a steady rhythm. "I liked it," he said quietly. "When you gave it to me. Thought... I don't know. Thought it was nice. That you were thinking about me."

Wade's hand stilled on Logan's arm. His throat felt tight. "Yeah?" he asked quietly, risking a look at Logan's face, which had gone warm and soft, before looking back at the sleeve. 

"Yeah,” Logan answered gently. 

"I think about you a lot," Wade admitted, voice smaller than usual. "Like, an embarrassing amount. My brain's basically just a loop of 'Logan this' and 'Logan that' and 'remember that thing Logan said three days ago.'"

Logan huffed out a laugh, his free hand reaching out to stroke Wade’s knuckles. "Good. 'Cause you're in my head too. All the damn time."

Wade tilted his head up to look at Logan, and the expression on his face made his heart clench. Open like a book. The way Logan looked like he was trying to show what he felt instead of just saying it.

"You're doing good," Wade blurted out. "At the trying thing, meeting me halfway. Just so you know." He didn’t know why he said it. He wanted Logan to know.

Logan hummed and seemed pleased. "Good to know."

They fell into comfortable silence, Wade's hand moving in long, soothing strokes up and down Logan's arm. Wade pressed his face back against Logan's chest, his hand resuming its gentle exploration. The fabric was so soft— worn-in feeling despite being new. He traced the ribbed texture of the collar where it curved around Logan's throat, then down over his shoulder again.

The movie played on, Drew Barrymore running outside for help, but Wade was only half-watching. He was too focused on this, on the weight of Logan's arm around him, on the soft material under his palm, on the casual domesticity of it all.

"You know what's funny?" Wade asked after a moment.

"What's that?"

"Last week I was convinced you were gonna break up with me. That you didn't really want this." His fingers traced a random pattern on Logan's bicep. "And now we're here in matching sweaters watching horror movies and I'm basically molesting your arm."

"You're not—" Logan paused. "Okay, you kind of are."

Wade froze, his heart racing in his ears. "Sorry, I can stop—" moving to pull his arm away.

"Didn't say I minded." Logan's hand moved to pull him even closer. "And I wasn't gonna break up with you."

Wade relaxed back into Logan’s hold. "Good." He resumed the stroking. "Can't help it. It's soft. You're soft."

"I'm not soft."

"You're soft for me." Wade walked his fingers up Logan's arm like a tiny person climbing a mountain. "Admit it. You're a big softie."

"I could still kick your ass,” Logan said, pretending to be tough, but Wade could hear the playfulness in his voice. 

"Yeah, but you won't. 'Cause you like me." Wade's fingers reached Logan's shoulder and he patted it triumphantly. "You like me so much you're wearing a turtleneck I picked out. That's basically a marriage proposal in your language."

Logan snorted. "You're ridiculous."

"You're wearing a matching sweater with your boyfriend. We're both ridiculous."

The word hung in the air for a second and Wade tensed slightly, wondering if he'd pushed too far. They hadn't really defined things yet. Hadn't put labels on it.

But Logan just squeezed his hip and said, "Guess so."

Wade's heart did that stupid fluttery thing again. He pressed a kiss to Logan's chest, right over his heart, and felt the steady thump-thump through the soft fabric. They settled back into the movie, Wade's cheek pressed against Logan's chest, his hand still resting on Logan's arm. Wade found himself holding on. Not petting anymore, not exploring. Just touching. Feeling connected.

On screen, Ghostface chased Drew Barrymore through her house. The music swelled, violins shrieking. Wade had seen this scene a hundred times, knew exactly when she'd trip, when the killer would catch her. But it was okay, as they had all evening. 

Wade brushed his thumb along Logan’s arm one more time. "Love this sweater," Wade murmured.

Logan's arm tightened around him slightly. "Me too."

And Wade knew he wasn't just talking about the fabric.