Work Text:
It’s an objectively good thing that Logan is finally on working terms with this universe’s X-Men. Honestly, it is. It’s Christmas, and Logan’s bank account is significantly fuller after a two week mission to Poland. He did something good. He also spent time around people, like a real boy. For about ten minutes one evening, he even forgot he wasn’t really friends with Colossus— that each of them was just a ghost to the other, a dirty mimicry of someone dead and buried (or unburied— Logan tries not to think too much about Wade’s veiled references to the weight of his individual bones, or his questions about the “intricate ligament system” strapping his claws to his forearms like gauntlets).
So it’s a good thing. It really is.
That said, Logan’s exhausted— cold all over, metal bones radiating the winter chill right back at him as he tugs his coat a little tighter and turns onto his block. It’s Christmas Eve, not that he gives a fuck, and nearly sunrise. He wants Mexican food, and he misses the dog. He misses his pull out couch. He misses Wade’s incessant rattling, the clunk of Althea’s cane— the sounds most familiar to him.
(He won’t say the sounds of home.)
The extent to which he misses Wade’s chatter is embarrassing. The X-Men were practically silent by comparison, and it should have been nice. It wasn’t. Silence leads to thinking, and thinking leads to sadness and pain.
And missing Wade.
God. So much.
The apartment building smells like sour milk, but it’s warm— a little humid, but inviting as he trudges up the stairs. He relishes the familiar sound of buzzing fluorescents, the scuff of berber carpet beneath his feet. The building is asleep, quiet; a rarity.
Wade opens the door before Logan can even get his key in the lock. He’s in pajamas: Captain America baseball tee over Kuromi shorts. He’s also, bizarrely, in a Spider-Man ski mask. Logan is immediately annoyed as hell (so business as usual). “I must have the wrong house,” he grouses.
Wade rips off the mask off and rolls his eyes. “It’s fucking cold in here.” It isn’t. If anything, it’s a little too warm after walking six blocks through the snow. But Wade’s scars have never let him regulate temperature properly, and Logan’s own sense of comfort is off and he knows it.
Wade reaches out to take Logan’s rucksack. Logan feels like a dick about it, but he hands it over. Wade’s eyes meet his, bright, but tired. “I missed you, Peanut.” He hikes the bag up higher on his shoulder. “Waited up all night for you.” Something in Logan’s chest shudders.
“I was only gone two weeks,” Logan grunts. “Why’d you wait up?”
Wade shrugs. He turns to walk in the direction of the kitchen. He waves his hand toward the coffee table, where his laptop is open to a flight tracker. Leave it to Storm to file an actual flight plan for a stealth jet. “I stayed up to track what part of the ocean your plane crashed in so I could find your sunken ass if I had to.”
Logan frowns. “Thanks, I think?” He squats to pet the dog, and she eagerly rubs her concerningly damp face against his palm. “It’s a long way from Poland, bub. Did you sleep at all?” He doesn’t care. He doesn’t. But Wade’s barely slept in the six months he’s known him, and he hates the thought of costing him more. He also hates the thought of the tantrum an overly tired Wade will almost certainly throw in an hour or so.
Logan trails him to the kitchen. Their ten dollar coffee pot is gurgling happily. Logan practically moans at the sight. “Fuck,” he sighs. “Real coffee.” He has lived off the instant shit for weeks, mixed in lukewarm tap water. He can practically smell the caffeine. He can definitely smell that Wade made it exactly the way he likes it, with a mix of two different brands and at least one scoop too many.
Wade drops the rucksack against the refrigerator with an exaggerated thump. He yawns —clearly for effect— and stretches his arms out overhead. Logan watches the movement, and if pressed, would admit he likes it. The man squeaks like a terrorized mouse as he stretches his limbs farther, one toward the ceiling and one toward the stove. He relaxes with a sudden huff of breath and opens the cupboard for mugs.
Logan can’t tear his eyes away.
“Oh good,” Althea grunts behind him. She shoves past his shoulder and clunks to the table. “Freeloader’s back.”
“I was working,” Logan says, and he isn’t sure why he cares. “And I brought you both back a present.”
Wade perks up. He sets a mug of coffee down next to Logan. “Ha,” he snorts. “Really?”
Logan slaps his phone onto the table by the mug, screen open to a shot of his bank account and a sizable deposit. Wade whistles. Al clears her throat. Logan coughs. “Sorry,” he says. “Four months of rent.”
“Merry fucking Christmas,” Al states, like it’s an announcement, like she approves. “I’m going back to bed.” She pushes up from the table and makes good on her threat, ambling toward her bedroom and humming under her breath. Mary scampers after her, ready for morning snuggles.
“I’m your present this year,” Wade jokes. “Merry Christmas, Daddy. Ready to unwrap your gift?” He trails his fingers across his torso, twisting a bit as he does so as if that makes him hotter. He snickers quietly and heads back into the living room. Logan follows.
Logan knows how this goes— knows how it has gone every time Wade’s pretended to flirt with him. Logan always rolls his eyes, and he always tells Wade to fuck off. Wade always laughs, and about half the time, Logan puts a claw through him. It might be the exhaustion, and it might be the missing, and it might be that he’s going senile at 205…
…But he doesn’t want it to go that way this time.
For a moment, Logan questions every decision he’s ever made. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he sighs, face twisting in disbelief, brain whirling with the idea that he’s at least a little bit in love with this man. Definitely more than a little bit. Edging on a lotta bit. The phrasing sucks, but yeah, honestly, he does wanna unwrap him— strip the baseball tee from his skin like wrapping paper, claw the little cartoon frogs like ribbons on the box. “Fuck it,” he snaps. “Sure.”
Wade falters. “You— sure?”
“Yeah.” Logan takes a scalding sip of his coffee. “Why the hell not?”
Wade blinks.
Logan sighs as he sets his coffee down on the table by the laptop. He moves into Wade’s space and takes his face in his hands. Wade’s eyes widen as Logan closes the distance and kisses him, softer than he really means to, so seriously he’s left neither one of them room to play it off as a joke.
Logan doesn’t care about Christmas. Wade, however, clearly does. There’s a slightly squashed tree in the corner of the living room, lights set to blink obnoxiously. They twinkle in his brown eyes as Logan pulls back, searching for some kind of permission to proceed.
Wade swallows. “Peanut?” he whispers.
Yeah, that’ll do.
Logan wraps his arms around the slightly smaller man and pulls him close. He kisses him again, slow and steady. “I missed you, Wade. Job wasn’t the same without you there.”
“Missed you back,” Wade murmurs. “Wait— we’ve never done a mission together. How could you possibly know it wasn’t—“
Logan growls low in his throat. “I don’t fuckin’ know, I just wanted you there. You gonna take the compliment or not?”
“Yeah,” Wade rushes out. He slips his fingers into Logan’s hair and flicks his eyes between his. “Yeah, I’ll take it. Fuck.”
Logan lets his forehead drop to Wade’s. “I like you. That ok?”
“That’s fine,” Wade agrees. “Very in character.” He tightens his arms around Logan’s neck. Logan kisses his cheek and traces his fingers against the worn cotton of his t-shirt. He starts to pull back, but Wade tightens his hold and makes a tiny, unhappy sound.
“What?” Logan asks against his ear.
“I must’ve fallen asleep waiting for you,” says Wade. “You’re going to lean away and you won’t be you, and you’ll say something weird, and there will be a pig in the corner and a man with a balloon in the other, and I’d like to pretend for just another minute, Peanut. Please.”
Logan’s heart stutters again. He shifts his hips against Wade’s, letting the hardness in his jeans brush his boxers. Wade gasps. “That feel real enough to you?”
Wade lets him pull away and stares at him like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. Logan grips the bottom of his baseball shirt and flicks his eyes up, asking for permission. Wade kisses him again, a little filthy, tongue flicking against Logan’s like he needs to taste him to be sure he’s real. Logan peels the shirt from Wade, hands quick to move to Wade’s skin as the younger man curls in to cover it.
Logan kisses him again— he can’t get enough of the taste of Wade’s mouth, and the hint of coffee on top of it. This may be a mistake. Wade’s lips are soft, and the sounds he’s making pierce through Logan like arrows. The more his tongue slips inside, the more his palms brush warm scars, the more he wants it all. At this rate, he won’t stop— he’ll simply spend the rest of his very, very long life with his hands on Wade’s skin, fingertips dipping below the waistband of his boxers.
“Off,” Wade grunts, slapping his hands against Logan’s coat. Logan steps back, already craving the heat of Wade’s skin, and pushes the coat onto the floor. He hurriedly unbuttons his flannel as Wade shoves the coffee table out of the way, coffee mugs sloshing dangerously beside the laptop. Wade throws the cushions to the floor with abandon and practically yanks the pull out from the base of the couch. He unfolds it as Logan steps out of his jeans and boxers. Logan’s shirt is the last to go and Wade stares, rapt. “Merry fucking Christmas,” Wade whistles, and Logan lets him have it.
Logan doesn’t have a lot of experience with first times that are meant to be followed by second times, and he has even less experience at doing things right when he’s with someone else. Despite that, he knows that gathering Wade into his arms and shoving him onto the comforter isn’t the best way to do this.
It doesn’t stop him, though.
It also doesn’t stop Wade from dragging Logan down with him and clinging to him like a limpet, lips touching every inch of hot skin he can. A huffed breath escapes Logan as his palms hit the mattress. He lowers himself down, careful not to drop his four hundred pounds directly onto Wade as he kisses him again, hot and filthy. He draws a hand across Wade’s torso until he can tug the stupid frog boxers down and wrap his long fingers around Wade’s scarred cock. He nearly purrs as Wade gasps into his mouth. He slides his tongue in farther, taking advantage of Wade’s distraction.
Wade breaks away. “Fuck, you’re gonna choke me with that thing,” Wade whines without heat. “Do it again.” Logan obliges, kissing him hard and following his pulse down his throat with his mouth. He ruts against Wade’s thigh like a teenager, and he doesn’t care. It’s been years since he’s been with someone like this— since he’s held someone in his arms and kissed them like he meant it, since he’s reveled in the warmth of another person’s skin against his instead of drunkenly letting them shove a hand in his pants in a bar bathroom. And it’s Wade, who waited up for him, and who would never believe Logan if he told him just how pretty he looks in the glow of the Christmas tree, blinking and all.
“I wanna fuck you,” Logan breathes into his ear and the sound Wade makes is hungry.
“Ok,” he rushes out. He scrambles out of Logan’s hold and flails for the end table. The drawer squeaks open and he rummages for a small bottle of lubricant.
Logan blinks. “You keep lube in the end table? We keep the remote in the end table, Wade.”
“We keep the remote in the other end table, Peanut. Al knows better than to root around on my side of the couch.”
“For fuck’s sake—“ but Wade is squeezing a cold line of lube down Logan’s cock and Logan is suddenly cold all over again— as desperate for warmth as he was in the biting wind outside. He takes the bottle from Wade and drizzles a generous amount over his fingers.
“I’m not so great at this,” Wade warns him. “But I am a willing and enthusiastic participant.”
“You sure you wanna do this?”
“Did you miss where I said ‘willing and enthusiastic?’ Is your hearing going, grandpa?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Logan growls and he presses a fingertip against Wade’s entrance. Every muscle in Wade’s body goes rigid, and Logan dips to lick a line up the underside of his cock as he circles his hole.
“Oh,” Wade breathes, and his body relaxes, loosening to let Logan slide a single finger inside. Wade’s hands fly to Logan’s hair again, tight and tugging against his cowlicks as Logan closes his lips around the head of Wade’s cock and flits his tongue along the slit. Wade’s knees slide up. “Oh fuck, Logan—“
Logan adds a second finger, obsessed with the welcoming heat of Wade’s body and the taste of his scarred skin, overwhelmingly Wade down here, as intoxicating as cheap whiskey. Wade moans above him, feet sliding along the comforter as his taste becomes a little sharper, a little saltier.
Logan lets him go and leans back. “Turn over,” he orders, voice rough. Wade rushes to comply, and the view is almost too much. Logan’s missed him, every part of him, and having this much more of him is killing him a little— getting him hooked, drawing on his addictive nature like a drug.
He grips Wade’s ass firmly and lines himself up. He moves carefully— cognizant of Wade’s barely hidden discomfort, desperate to make him feel as good as he’s making Logan feel. He slides in slowly, and he wonders if Wade knows just how much he wants him. It’s a need, overwhelming him, more and more clear the more he indulges it.
How has he ever gone without this? How has he lived two centuries without the man beneath him? He fucks him gently, searching for the angle that sends him flying. Wade is comfort. He may have found Logan so he could save his universe, but he saved Logan too, pulling him out of hell and into a life he never even tried to want, so sure he couldn’t have it.
Logan would do it all again, now. He would do anything for this man who can’t just shut the fuck up unless he’s like this, spread out beneath him and moaning his name— this man who missed him back,, despite Logan’s grumbling nature and coldness.
“Oh fuck,” Wade rushes out. He shuts his eyes. “There, Logan, fuck—“ and Logan is a fast learner, holding his posture entirely still as he rocks against the place in Wade that makes him see stars.
Logan pistons in, a steady patter as his balls slap against Wade’s ass and his hands press into Wade’s shoulder blades. He shoves him down, scarred face into the comforter as Logan tucks his tailbone and grinds into Wade’s hole. Wade presses back, desperately reaching, and Logan curls around him, biting kisses along his neck and wrapping his arms around him, fingers splayed over his chest and stomach. “Wade—“
“Logan,” Wade whines back, and Logan wraps a hand around his cock and pumps it to the rhythm of his hips. Wade cries out, going limp in Logan’s arms as he comes hard, dribbling over Logan’s fingers like spilled beer and jerking against the covers. “Fuck,” Wade whimpers. “Holy fuck!”
Logan needs to kiss him and he can’t, so he just pulls him closer, pressing urgent kisses into his neck and digging his fingers into his shoulders as he hurtles toward his own end. He practically roars with his release as Wade raises a hand to cover one of Logan’s.
“Keep it the fuck down!” Althea shouts.
Logan blinks. He freezes.
He’s the Wolverine, but he kind of wants to crawl into a hole. He settles for wiping them clean(ish) with the discarded Kuromi shorts and tugging Wade down under the sheets.
“Merry Christmas, Peanut,” Wade breathes, slapping a hand against Logan’s chest.
Logan presses his lips to Wade’s forehead and lingers too long. Wade’s eyes flutter shut as he sighs. “You too, Wade,” Logan whispers. He settles in with a deep, tired breath. “You too.”