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It was a quiet day in the apartment.
Well, as quiet as things could get when one of the residents had a mouth that didn’t come with an off switch and the other had knives for hands and zero patience.
Logan stood at the coffee table, claws out, carefully scraping what looked like dried interdimensional ooze off the blade of his middle claw. He was hunched slightly forward, back muscles tense from the morning’s fight, grey sweatpants clinging to his legs, just enough loose fabric to betray the shape of his—well, his ass.
And Wade noticed.
Oh boy, did Wade notice.
From the couch, he stared. Wide-eyed. A little breathless. Half in love and half in awe.
“It’s like two glorious mountains wrapped in cotton-poly,” he muttered to no one but himself. “I should not—I cannot—but also I must.”
Wade Wilson was a man of impulse. And danger. And very bad ideas that felt right at the time.
So, of course, he stood. He crept up behind Logan, slowly, reverently, like an overly excited raccoon about to commit a crime.
And then—hand raised high, a perfect arc of enthusiasm and idiocy—he slapped Logan’s ass.
Hard.
The sound was biblical.
Time froze.
Somewhere, in another timeline, a cosmic being paused mid-conquest and whispered, “What the hell was that?”
Logan’s claws retracted out of surprise. He didn’t move at first. Didn’t flinch. Just straightened, slowly. Like a bomb preparing to go off.
“Wade.”
Just his name. No growl, no yelling. But the tone carried a promise. A very sharp, very bloody promise.
Wade was already backing up, hands raised like a man who knew the death he’d just earned.
“It was right there!” he said quickly. “You can’t bend over in sweatpants like that and not expect consequences. That’s entrapment. That’s—”
Logan turned.
Three adamantium claws extended from both hands with a metallic shnnkt.
“No need to get stabby,” Wade said. “Let’s talk it out. I can write you a formal apology. Maybe a poem. Roses are red, your butt is divine—”
Logan lunged.
The claws punched straight through Wade’s abdomen, in one side and out the other. There was a wet squelch, a sharp gasp, and then Wade was dangling from Logan’s claws like a very talkative meat ornament.
He looked down at the damage. “Oof. Right through the love handles. I was saving those.”
Logan yanked his claws free. Wade hit the carpet with a soft thud and a splatter of blood.
“I regret nothing,” he wheezed from the floor. “That ass was a public service. The world deserves to know—”
“Shut up,” Logan muttered, already dragging him toward the bathroom by the collar of his shirt.
Wade was mostly healed by the time Logan dropped him in the bathtub. There were still holes in his shirt and an uncomfortable gurgling in his stomach, but the important bits had started to regrow. Mostly.
Logan turned on the cold water.
“Cold?! Really? After all we’ve been through?” Wade complained, flailing dramatically under the spray. “I just gave you the highest compliment a man can give—open palm, full contact, and you repay me with hypothermia?!”
“You’re lucky I didn’t take your head off,” Logan said, tossing him a bloodied towel. “What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking,” Wade said, sitting up and wringing water out of his mask, “that I live with a fellow Canadian sex god and it was only a matter of time before temptation claimed me. Also, have you felt how tight those sweats are?”
Logan stared at him like a man trying to decide if he could legally dismember his boyfriend in a court of law.
Wade grinned.
Logan left the bathroom without a word.
By the time evening rolled around, Wade was dry, mostly patched up, and back in his usual spot—splayed across the couch like a corpse with good cable. Logan had settled next to him, remote in hand, watching an old Western with intense focus.
Wade had his head in Logan’s lap. Occasionally, Logan's fingers scratched at his scalp—absently, but not without care.
“So,” Wade said. “On a scale of one to ‘I’m going to kill you in your sleep,’ how mad are you?”
“Don’t push it.”
“That’s a ‘four,’” Wade said cheerfully. “We’re making progress.”
He looked up at Logan, eyes shining with mischief and something softer underneath.
“You know, I think we should invest in ass armor.”
Logan didn’t look away from the screen. “What?”
“For your protection. Against me. Because you know it’s going to happen again. You could walk by me in chainmail and I’d still find a way. That ass is a threat to national security.”
Logan exhaled through his nose, which Wade had learned was his version of a laugh he didn’t want to admit to.
“You slap me again,” Logan said calmly, “and I’ll take your arms off.”
“Ooh. Kinky.”
“Wade.”
“Just sayin’. Some people are into that.”
Logan finally glanced down, meeting his eyes. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Wade beamed. “Awwww. You like like me.”
“Shut up.”