Chapter Text
The Wolverine finds himself in no shortage of unfortunate and bad circumstances. Being a X-Man and living for over 200 years, it comes with the territory.
For Logan Howlett, however, it’s entirely different. Without his yellow and blue, without his alias, without his team, Logan Howlett is just a man. A self-destructive, depressed, suicidal asshole of a man. There's no heroism or romanization in his struggles, just the pathetic sadness, grief, and longing he found himself feeling every hour of every day since he lost his family. There’s no righteous resolution or purpose for his emotions. It’s just constant and unrelenting emptiness.
Whenever the memories of that night come back to haunt him, replaying in his mind and the rest of his physical senses, he turns to the bottle. He knows it’s not going to help. It never does. With his healing factor, he has to drink jugs of something 50% or more to feel hungover the next morning. Even then, it’s not enough; it never is.
When he doesn’t have (enough) access, he turns inward. His claws, the things that have caused so much hurt and bloodshed to those around him, now turned back on the monster. He's been stabbed and cut up in worse ways before, but it's different if you’re doing it to yourself. Hurts more because you expect it. The pain lingers because you want it to.
Sometimes he laughs to himself, knowing that no matter how much he slices, his skin will grow back as if it never happened. After all of the pain and trauma he's caused others, he was stupid to think he’d be able to carve scars into his skin. Stupid to think there could be proof that he was punishing himself everyday. That those innocent he slaughtered could look down upon him and see he hasn't forgotten them, and never will, for however many agonizing centuries he has left. The universe isn't that kind to him.
Even so, there being no evidence of him ever taking his blades to himself offered both a blessing and a curse. Sometimes Logan wishes people knew how deeply he was hurting. Other times he's grateful he doesn’t have to hide himself to keep from explaining.
In short, Logan hates feeling.
Or, in more honest terms, he hates the consequences that come with feeling.
He can’t stand the strong need to make himself hurt after thinking about all the ways in which he failed his X-Men. The disappointment he’d find in Charles' eyes if he could see him now. All the years he's taken them for granted. What he could’ve done differently in the end. How if he had just manned up and stayed the night, maybe…
So, that's how he finds himself over the bathroom sink, a singular claw popped, about to tear into his arm so he feels anything besides this overwhelming sadness.
That is, until Wade Doesnt-Fucking-Knock Wilson catches him red-handed.
They’ve been staring at each other for the past couple minutes, Wade's hand on the doorknob and Logan's claw steady over the inside of his arm. They’re both wide eyed, frozen in place, and unsure of each others next move. Logan's been spending the time thinking about all of his decisions today that led up to his moment. He seriously considers if Wade is fast enough to stop him from stabbing through his artery, granting him a few hours of blissful death.
He knows he’d only wake up with disappointment, then overwhelming guilt. He couldn’t stand to meet Wade’s pitiful eyes after that. He's already seen him in a way a handful of people–never by choice–have found him. He doesn’t want to fuck up whatever rapport he's already built with his only friend anymore than this moment already has.
God, Logan hates not hearing the sound of Wade’s voice right now. Usually when he's with the other man, his constant rambling occupies enough space in Logan's mind for no self-destructive thoughts to form. It’s uncanny how quiet he's being, the only indication of him being alive the slow and low breathing of a person who just woke up. Logan is distantly aware that it's the middle of the night, and he might've woken Wade up. Another thing to feel guilt over.
Wade is the first to break the silence. He starts, hesitantly,
“..Peanut.”
At that, Logan snaps back to reality. In one second, he breathes sharply in his nose, pulls the claw back into his arm, and drops the other to his side. Wade jumps at the snikt! noise it makes going back in. That reaction only works to deepen his guilt, but the adrenaline pumping through him stops it from showing on his face. He must look like a deer in headlights.
Wade, in all his kindness, tries again.
“Logan..”
He reaches out towards Logan, stops a second later, then puts his hand down. He breaks their prolonged eye contact by closing his eyes and taking a deep breath in. Steadying himself.
He opens them again before speaking.
“...We don’t have to talk about this right now. I mean, you wouldn't anyways, obviously,” He scowls at himself, “but I’m here if you want to. Or don’t want to. Or want something to distract yourself. Or–” He shakes his head and quickly waves his hand
“...T-The point is, I’m here for anything you need, Peanut. I’m here for you.”
Logan’s eyes get wider, unmoving from the man infront of him.
Deadpool and Wolverine fought each other, then fought their way out of The Void with their fair share of wounds. Wade hadn’t stopped to check on Logan, knowing he’ll grow back just fine, and it was likewise for Logan. So it's understandable for Logan to rightfully find himself uncomfortable in these unchartered waters. He never expected Wade to find him like this in the first place, but least of all did he expect him to be treated with such gentleness. He would've expected him to default into one of his innuendos or jokes, trying to make light of the situation and dismiss...whatever-the-fucks happening right now with humor. He’s never heard Wade be so careful with him before. That makes a small, distant part of himself warm, but the fear ringing in his ears pushes it out of reach.
Then, he feels Wade take one of his balled up fists. The one that held the blade ready to cur. He slots a thumb in between his knuckles, where the wound of his claw popping out is still a little red, and softly rubs at the area. It’s a feather-light touch that makes Logans eyes water.
He can’t let Wade see him cry–fuck he doesnt want to humiliate himself anymore tonight–but hes being so kind and gentle, something Logan hasn’t experienced in the past decade, and he can’t decide if he wants him to keep going or if he needs Wade away from him now—
It’s too much, goddamnit. Logan pulls his arm back much harder than he means to, more like snatches it, and watches Wade’s wide eyes focus back on his face. Logan tries to whisper a sorry, but it only comes out as a quiet ‘ss.’
He doesn’t want to stand here anymore.
Wade’s standing in the way of his only exit. Though he's not making any move to box him in, it does nothing to soothe the feral part of him that gets defensive when backed into a corner.
The bright bathroom light, the blinding white tile, how exposed he is right now.
The sour, dull smell of sadness, guilt, and empathy rolling off Wade’s skin.
Wade's skin—sweaty, still sweet from his coconut and vanilla body wash, his sensitive skin lotion softening the edges, all layered with the black aftertaste of rot. It should disturb Logan, but it belongs to the man who pulled him out of literal Hell. So its only natural hes come to not mind it. Nothing more to it. At all.
His breath quickens at the overwhelming nature of this situation. The hyperventilating only makes the smells stronger.
Without meaning to, he roughly pushes past Wade and goes to lie down. In truth, he wants to be anywhere but here right now, but he knows Wade would just track him down and drag him back. ‘Pick your battles,’ he thinks.
He flops onto their shared pullout facing away from the bathroom, and pulls the blankets overtop of his face and ears. He knows it won’t stop him from hearing everything Wade does, or from feeling his eyes burning into the back of his head, but he physically can't bear to be in this moment anymore. A few seconds later, he hears Wade enter the bathroom and close the door.
Only then does Logan let his tears fall.
FuckfuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK! FUCK! He jams his eyes shut.
Fucking pathethic. He thinks to himself, How old are you? Hiding under the covers?
He readjusts so he's not curling on himself anymore and instead is laying on his side like a normal adult. He still holds the blanket up high over his shoulders, keeping his back towards the bathroom.
He wraps his arms around himself.
Jesus, get a grip Logan.
It’s around 10 minutes later when Logan hears the bathroom door open again.
He automatically tenses but makes no move to turn around, hoping Wade assumes he's already asleep; or lets him believe Logan has him fooled.
After a minute of feeling Wades presence standing at the opposite side of the pullout, there's a cautious dip in the mattress. The size of the bed means they have to sleep close, but Wade is mindful enough to leave a little space in between themselves as he settles in.
He feels the other man still soon after. As his breathing evens out, Logan relaxes a little. Not too much though, the sharp pang of guilt making itself known front and center in his chest.
It’s only been a week since Wade called after Logan and offered him a place to sleep, and Logan’s already ruined the only friendship he has in this world.
His pillow is damp when he quietly sobs himself to sleep.
* * *
The next morning, Logan’s the first to get out of bed. He pointedly ignores how he woke up to his back pressed against Wade’s, with one of the other man's ankles hooked around his own, and instead opts to brew a fresh pot.
He leans back against the counter and watches Wade sleep.
Wade wakes up next. He yawns and stretches in bed, hands searching Logan's side of the mattress. When finding nothing, he peeks his head over to the kitchen. Logan hurriedly looking away when he meets the man's eyes.
Out of the corner of his vision, he watches Wade put on his bright pink pony slippers and walk over to him. Thankfully, the coffee finishes, and he gets to turn away from the approaching man to pour a couple cups.
Wade quietly clears his throat, “..How’re you doing?”
Logan doesn’t answer.
After a few seconds he finishes pouring, and holds two steamy cups by the handles. For a second, he’s just standing staring at Wade, awkwardly holding the coffee. His eyes shoot downward, then dart across the floor, nervous.
Finally, he sets one cup on the counter and slowly slides it across to where the other man is standing.
Wade gets the memo. Logan can smell his sadness, so strong he crinkles his nose a little.
When he looks up, he watches him push it down with an inhale. His shoulders subconsciously relax at that.
Knowing Wade wants to help but trying his best not to overwhelm Logan with questions, it makes his throat seize. When was the last time someone offered him so much compassion?
Without thinking, Wade takes a sip of his coffee.
He sputters and coughs, exclaiming “Eugh! How in the hell do you drink this shit straight? Jesus, Peanut…”
He continues mumbling, opening the fridge to pull out his wildly unhealthy and sugar ridden creamer. Logan wonders if he did that on purpose.
He falls easily into a ramble about the best and worst creamers, with Logan only responding with a couple grunts and “hmms.” He doesn’t trust his voice to be steady if he opens his mouth.
Althea wakes up last, emerging from the one bedroom with Mary Puppins in tow.
They say nothing else about that night for the next couple days.