Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The punch cracked against the man’s jaw with a dry snap, followed by a strangled groan. The metal chair wobbled, but the ropes kept him firmly in place.
Deadpool, red-and-black suit and all, leaned in.

“Trust me,” he said, voice dripping fake sympathy, “I’ve got better ways to make you talk—and they all involve penetration through holes you don’t have. Yet.”

Logan stood off to the side, arms crossed, unimpressed.

“Could you just do the damn job?” he growled, not bothering to look away from the prisoner.

“Sorry, furry,” Deadpool shot back. “ADHD won’t let me stick to just one thing.”

Logan arched an eyebrow at him. “Good to know. Means I can bash your skull and slit your throat at the same time.”

Wade pressed a hand to his chest, theatrically wounded. “Right in the kokoro, Logan. If only that were a caress—but coming from you, I can already feel those shiny claws going through me, and not in the fun place.”

The man in the chair seized his chance and spat straight onto the mask—blood and saliva. Wade blinked and wiped it off with his sleeve.

“Do you know how hard this is to clean?” he asked with faux calm, leaning closer.

“I’m not telling you anything!” the prisoner barked, straining against the ropes.

Wade sighed like a bored dentist. “On a scale of one to ten, how attached are you to your dick?” His hand slid to the thigh sheath and pulled a gleaming dagger.

Right then, his phone went off—that children’s song, loud and maddening.
Logan closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. “Tell me that isn’t your ringtone.”

“What? It’s catchy. Also doubles as psychological torture.” Wade stepped a few paces away, still twirling the dagger. “Talk to me, Weasel. I’m a little busy inventing new human orifices.”

“I almost don’t want to know,” came his friend’s voice. “Guy at the bar asking for you and Logan. Says he’s got a job.”

“A job job?” Wade echoed. “Please tell me it involves Logan naked.”

“Not today. Don’t know what he wants. He’s the mysterious type—barely shows his face. You know the kind. Doesn’t explain much.”

“The kind that pays well,” Wade said, overly pleased. “Love those. They always turn out to be psychopaths, and nothing gets me hotter than a proper Antisocial Personality Disorder.”

“You coming or what?”

“On my way!” Wade flipped the dagger, caught it by the hilt. “Soon as I leave our guest skewered like a half-done kebab.”

The man in the chair gulped audibly, legs trembling. Definitely not his day.

Weasel’s bar looked the same as always: dim lights, rock sputtering from ancient speakers like it was losing a fight with time. The clientele completed the picture—faces that said look at me more than two seconds and die.

Wade shoved the door open, arms up like he expected applause.
“Honeeeey, we’re hoooome!” he sang, shouldering past a couple patrons with the kind of fearlessness normal people misplace right before they die.

Logan followed at an unhurried pace, hands in his pockets, scowl set.
“You sure we want in on this?” he asked as he reached the bar beside Wade. “Catching small-time thugs for beer money isn’t that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Wade stared at him through the mask. “Furry, I ran out of clean underwear yesterday. I’m wearing Al’s panties. Want to see them?”

Behind the counter, Weasel looked up and jerked his chin for them to come closer.
“Not the panties—but you’ll want to see this guy,” he said under his breath. “Briefcase. I’d bet my neck it’s stuffed with very illegal cash.”

Deadpool rubbed his hands. “I can already smell the engine on my next Lambo.”

“Since when do you want a Lamborghini?” Logan asked, one eyebrow climbing.

“Since a certain hustle-bro influencer said only losers don’t have one.”

Weasel pointed with his eyes toward the back table. “Hat brim hiding his eyes. Briefcase on the table.”

They both turned—Logan with discretion; Wade with maximum theater.

“Come on, Wolvie. Cash stacks don’t sniff themselves,” Wade said, striding between tables and ducking a flying glass on pure reflex.

The back table was placed just right: far from the bar for privacy, perfect line of sight to the door. The man waiting wore a spotless gray suit that didn’t belong in this dump. Wide-brim hat shadowed his eyes, masking his expression. One hand rested on the briefcase like he was guarding it; the other held a glass of amber he barely seemed to notice.

When the mutants drew close, he lifted his gaze and measured them in silence.
“Deadpool and Wolverine, I presume,” he said.

Wade dropped into the chair opposite without asking, elbows on the table, fingers steepled like a bargain-bin kingpin.
“Depends,” he said, tilting his head. “Are you here to hire us, kill us, or propose a threesome? I can answer all three quick: yes, you can’t, and tell me when and where.”

Logan dragged over a spare chair and sat beside him without ceremony.

The stranger’s shadowed stare moved between them, lingering on Logan.
“You’re Wolverine? I thought you wore yellow.”

“That suit stayed in another life,” Logan said flatly.

“Thank God,” Wade added, turning back to the man. “Yellow made him look like a traffic sign. He’s way sexier in jeans and lumberjack.”

The man didn’t smile. “I have a job for you. Well paid, but with very specific conditions.”

Wade leaned toward the briefcase like it was a magnet.
“We love specific conditions. Is it the kind where we don’t ask questions and don’t tell anyone what we’re about to do? Because if so—sorry.” He thumbed at Logan. “This guy’s a question-asker, and I’m a say-yes-to-everything kind of guy.”

Unmoved, the man said, “I want you to find someone—and bring her to me alive.”

“Well…” Wade mimed crossing out an item on a list. “That cuts the fun options by, like, seventy percent, but fine. Who is she? Celebrity? Bitter ex? Failed Tinder date?”

“A woman,” the man said, ignoring the barrage. “Thirty, brunette, lives in this city. She’s… dangerous. She has power. So: no questions.”

Logan narrowed his eyes around that word. “Dangerous how?”

“Doesn’t matter. All you need to know is it’s worth paying well so she doesn’t have time to become a problem.”

Wade angled his head toward Logan. “What did Mr. Mysterious just say about not asking questions?”

Logan’s mouth thinned to a line. He looked at his partner like he wanted to kill him.
“Shut up,” he snapped, turning back to the stranger. “We’re mercenaries, not idiots. Who is she and why is she so dangerous?”

The man laced his fingers and set both elbows on the table.
“Not information you need to do your job.”

Logan held his gaze—the kind that bored holes until people blinked.
Wade broke the tension by leaning back. “Translation: information that would make us say no.”

The man neither confirmed nor denied it. He simply turned the briefcase toward them.
“Half now; the other half on delivery. It’s generous.”

Wade whistled, trying to peek through the crack.
“I feel a spiritual connection to that briefcase. Think it just winked at me.”

Logan exhaled, arms folding, head shaking a fraction—as if fighting the urge to accept.
“How much are we talking?”

A faint smile ghosted under the hat’s shadow.
“Enough that you won’t bother with small jobs for a long time.”

“Sounds like a lot,” Wade clicked his tongue.

A twist of the wrist and the case opened a couple centimeters—neat stacks of fresh bills.

“That’s just the half. The rest when the woman is in my hands.”

Logan, without moving a muscle, did the math only a man used to dirty payments could do.
“Half a million. Give or take.”

“Half a million?” Wade blurted. “Logan, that’s my Lambo, a VIP pass to Disneyland, and my Comic-Con ticket! I need a photo with Hugh Jackman. You know he really reminds me of you?”

Logan didn’t take his eyes off the money, but his frown made it clear he hated where this was going.
“We won’t accept without more information.”

The man shut the case with a firm click, as if ending the discussion.
“You have enough information,” he said calmly. “The rest is irrelevant to what I’m paying you for.”

Wade raised a finger. “Ooooh, no, no, no. That’s exactly what a villain says right before we end up on a suicide mission.”

Ignored, the man set his hand on the briefcase again.
“Accept, or I walk and find others.”

“Cheeeeeeez!” Deadpool yelped as the man started to rise. “Ignore my nosy friend. For that kind of cash I’ll dance reggaetón in a thong. We accept.”

Logan rolled his eyes, resigned. With Wade in the mix, slithering out wasn’t easy.

Since stumbling back from that chaotic hop between realities with Deadpool, his life had shrunk to something as banal and sad as survival.
They shared a shoebox apartment with Blind Al—so small that a hard sneeze shook the opposite wall. They’d taken jobs that barely deserved the name: chasing deadbeats, escorting shady packages, and one especially nasty gig that ended with Wade dancing “Bye, Bye, Bye” for six hours to soften a guy up. None of it paid well. None of it gave them breathing room.

But that briefcase…

That briefcase could mean not fighting over rent for a long while. It could mean sleeping without the constant question of what disaster tomorrow would bring. And while everything in him screamed Don’t do it, the number screamed back—loud.

Finally, despite the faint shake of his head, Logan set his palm on the table with a decisive thud.
“We accept.”

“That’s my furry!” Wade slapped his shoulder blade; it barely budged him. He fixed the stranger with the blank white gaze of the mask.
“Where do we find the girl, boss?”

A small nod, like the man had known they’d say yes. He drew a plain envelope from his coat and slid it across.
“Her name is Riley Turner. Works at a downtown game store—Pixel Planet. Closes at nine.”

Wade clicked his tongue at Logan. “Video games and loneliness. Like the good old days.”

Logan ignored him, eyes back on the man in the hat.
“Anything else we should know?” he asked, voice low.

“Don’t underestimate her. She looks harmless. She isn’t.”

Wade smiled under the mask. “Harmless but scrappy. Now we’re talking.”

The man opened the case, calmly stacked bills onto the table, then produced a black cloth sack and swept half the money into it with clinical precision, like every note had an exact place. He cinched the bag and slid it to Wade.
“Half now. The rest when you deliver her. Three days, maximum.”

Wade grabbed it with both hands, petting the fabric like a puppy.
“Mmm… baby, we’re spooning tonight,” he whispered, kissing the sack.

Logan rose slowly, giving the man one last look.
“If you’re playing us—”

“I’m hiring you,” the man cut in, unsettlingly calm. “The difference is, if you fail, I may find a way to kill you—or, if that proves impossible, to cause you a great deal of pain.”

Wade slung the bag over his shoulder, suddenly all bounce.
“Come on, furry, don’t make that face. We just have to grab a loner gamer girl and deliver her to Inspector Gadget. What could possibly go wrong?”

Logan didn’t answer. He stood and headed out with his mercenary partner.

A few streets away, Riley Turner was pulling down Pixel Planet’s shutter—unaware that, in less than twenty-four hours, two very dangerous men would be standing in her way.

Chapter Text

Mid-morning sun washed over the main street.
Through Pixel Planet’s front window, Riley Turner stood behind the counter, bent over a stack of video game cases, sorting them almost on autopilot.

From the car across the street, Logan watched in silence.
“Alright,” he muttered. “You go in and talk to her—keep her distracted. I’ll check the cameras and see if I can shut them off.”

Wade turned his head and thumbed at his own chest. “You want me to walk in wearing this clown-red suit and expect her not to smell anything fishy?”

“I don’t know why the hell you put it on in daylight. Actually, I don’t know why you ever put it on. You could wear street clothes like a normal person—though sadly you’d still draw attention.”

“If you get to rock the self-destructive heartbreaker tough-guy outfit, I get to rock spandex.” To underline the point, he arched his hips and tilted just enough in his seat to lift his butt and show how tight the suit was. “See? Perfectly sculpted.”

Logan exhaled, patience frayed. “Whatever. Stay here. I’ll go take a look.”

The bell over the door chimed when the mutant pushed it open.
Behind the counter, Riley Turner looked up—early thirties, slim build with straight shoulders, dark brown hair falling in soft waves to her collarbone, sharp brown eyes tracking the newcomer. Dark jeans; a black T-shirt with the store’s pixelated logo.

Logan walked up with an easy pace, hands in his jacket pockets.
“Hi. I’m looking for a game,” he said, letting his low voice drag over the words like it wasn’t a big deal. “Baldur’s Gate.”

While he spoke, his eyes didn’t keep still: quick glance to one corner of the ceiling, then the opposite one, quietly counting cameras. One above the entrance, another over the central aisle, a third aimed at the register. All active, each with a red light blinking.

Looked like there was no way to take them out without her—or any customer—notice.

“Baldur’s Gate?” she repeated, stepping out from behind the counter without taking her eyes off him, disbelief so obvious even Logan couldn’t ignore it. “Now? Dude, that game’s been huge for over a year. Where’ve you been? Hiding in a bunker?”

Logan shrugged, feigning disinterest while his gaze kept mapping the ceiling and corners.
“Something like that. Guess I’m late to the party, but people say it’s good.”

“It’s more than good,” she corrected, walking toward an aisle stacked with cases for every platform. “PC? PS5? Xbox?” she asked, sweeping the shelves with a practiced eye.

Logan frowned for a heartbeat, like she’d just switched languages.
“Uh… yeah,” he answered at random, flicking a hand. “The… well. Whatever’s the most… recent.”

As he spoke, his eyes drifted back to the cameras, measuring distances, angles, possible blind spots. There weren’t any.

“And if it has…” he paused, fishing for something convincing, “…good graphics, even better.”

Riley shot him a suspicious look, and Logan read the growing distrust of someone who knew she was being played. He needed a coherent line—fast.

“It’s just that—” He leaned in a little, dropping his voice like he was sharing a secret. “I don’t have much time to play. Work, you know.”

He straightened again, deflecting toward a random shelf and pointing at a flashy cover.
“That one looks good too. Maybe I’ll take both. Make up for it.”

As he said it, his gaze slid back to the cameras yet again, like he was assessing his last-ditch cover.

Riley followed his finger to the cover he’d picked. She grabbed it and, without taking her eyes off him now, held it up as her distrust grew by the second.

When Logan read the title and saw the art, he realized he was stepping in it in the worst possible way.
“Imagine Being a Cook? For the original Nintendo DS?”

She let a few seconds of silence pass, maybe waiting for him to answer.
Logan pressed his lips together, aware that anything he said could bury him deeper.
“Yeah… well…” he muttered, trying to keep a straight face. “I like cooking… virtually. Less chance of burning the kitchen down.”

She slid the case back onto the Used Games shelf and looked him over, arms crossing.
“Look… I’m not exactly the poster girl for gender roles, but you look like the kind of guy who lives off takeout because you can’t even fry an egg. And I don’t buy that you came for Baldur’s Gate—recent, brutal graphics and gameplay—and at the same time you want Imagine Being a Cook on the obsolete DS, which bores five-year-olds.”

Logan held her gaze, unmoved by the assessment that had just exposed him.
“You’re right,” he admitted with a slight shrug. “I didn’t come for that game.”

He stepped in half a pace, voice dropping.
“I was just… looking. You know, browsing.”

In truth, while he talked he finished checking the cameras and ruled out any way to tamper with them without raising suspicion. No way. He’d need another plan.

Wade was sprawled in the passenger seat, boots on the dash, mask tugged up to his chin so he could eat the fluorescent gummies he’d found in the glove compartment. Through Pixel Planet’s window he watched Logan and the clerk talking—he couldn’t hear a word, but one look at his buddy’s grimace said things weren’t going well.

“Okay, folks,” he said suddenly, turning his head as if looking straight at the readers, “this is where you ask: ‘Why the hell doesn’t Deadpool just go in and do his thing?’ Easy. Because that guy—” He pointed a gloved finger at Logan. “—thought he could pass for normal. And believe me, the day Logan blends in, I’m going vegetarian.”

He dropped his boots, staring into the store.
“Look at him. Definitely pretending he knows video games—and it’s not going well. Tip: never let a guy with more eyebrow than hair take point on a dumb plan.”

He shoveled a handful of gummies, chewed in a near-rhythm, then glanced back at the “audience,” suddenly feeling judged.
“What? Do I really have to go save the mutt’s ass? Admit it—this is entertaining. Don’t tell me you’re not having fun…”

The thirty-something tapped the tip of her boot nervously against the vinyl floor.
“Alright, tell me what you want,” she gave in, knowing this stranger wasn’t here to browse. “There’s barely any cash in the register. You planning to steal something? Because I should warn you—I can fight.”

“I didn’t come to rob you. I just wanted to look around… and ask you a couple of questions.”
He flicked a glance toward the door, calculating how fast he’d have to move to bail if someone else walked in, then swept the cameras again, confirming there was no way to take them out without drawing too much attention.
“I won’t take long,” he added, keeping his tone neutral, as if testing the waters.

She watched him, arms crossed, senses on alert.
“Start talking. The sooner you’re done, the sooner you leave, and the sooner I can get back to stocking the store.”

“Riley Turner, right?” he asked, like he was only confirming a minor detail.

While he spoke, he took a slow step to the side, pretending to study a nearby shelf, actually adjusting his angle to see if any camera left a dead zone. For the umpteenth time, he confirmed there wasn’t.

“Do you usually work here alone?” he added, keeping it casual—though every word weighed her reaction.

Hearing her name sent a cold sweat down Riley’s spine.
“What the hell do you want, and how do you know who I am?” she snapped, brow furrowing as she raised her fists into a defensive stance. “Heads-up: there are cameras rolling, and if you touch a hair on me you’ll be explaining yourself for a long time. And if you’re here because of my ex—”

Logan lifted his hands in a slow, nonthreatening gesture.
“Relax. A friend told me this place had good stock and mentioned you. That’s all,” he improvised, voice low and even. “And no, I don’t know your ex.”

He turned as if he’d already lost interest and walked for the door without another word. The bell rang as he left, and Riley sank onto the stool behind the counter with a long sigh.
“I’m too old for this crap.”

Meanwhile, Logan slid into the car and slammed the door. Wade looked over from the passenger seat.
“Well?” he asked around a mouthful of gummies.

Logan started the engine, eyes straight ahead.
“No way to kill the cameras without my face ending up on every single frame. We’ll need another shot. Maybe when she closes at nine.”

The rest of the day at Pixel Planet passed without incident. Riley focused on shelving new arrivals, helping customers drift in and out, and answering the odd phone call.

When her boss showed up, she mentioned the weird guy from that morning in passing.
“Huge dude, grumpy lumberjack vibes, asking about me like he knew me. I don’t know… gave me a bad feeling,” she said as she scanned barcodes at the register.
“Think it’s your ex again? Want me to call the police?” he asked, frowning.
“No need,” she waved it off. “Probably some nerd fishing for conversation. Or maybe he wanted to rob me but I freaked him out. I’m scary when I’m mad.”

Evening thinned the crowd. At nine on the dot, Riley pulled down the metal shutter and set the lock. She tightened her jacket and headed for the alley she always cut through to save time on the way home.

The narrow lane was barely lit by a couple of flickering streetlamps.
As she turned a corner, two backlit silhouettes blocked her path.

“Good evening, Miss Turner,” said one of them, wearing a suit and a mask. “Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord Jesus Christ?”

She didn’t recognize the masked man, but even with the streetlamp shadowing them from behind, she recognized the one at his side.
“YOU!” she snapped, gripping the cross-body bag. “What is it now—Imagine You’re a Bottom-Shelf Mugger? Must be the latest release, and I bet it’s got better graphics than Baldur’s Gate.”

Wade barked a laugh under the mask.
“I like her. She’s got bite,” he said, elbowing Logan. “See? I already like her. Do we really have to do this?”

“Do what?!” she asked, going paler by the second.

“Wade, you took the job,” he threw back. “Now you deal with it and we finish this.”

The woman edged back half a meter, darting quick glances over her shoulder.
“I’ve watched enough true crime to know this is where you rape me and kill me. Could you at least do it in the opposite order? Not that I’m thrilled about either, but trust me—I’d rather not be alive for your sick fantasies.”

Wade stared for a few seconds.
“Okay… that’s dark even for me,” he admitted, looking at Logan. “And my messed-up meter’s set pretty high.”

Wolverine stepped forward, voice low and direct.
“We’re not here for that. We need you to come with us.”

“Yeah, sure, and I need a vacation in Hawaii,” she shot back, refusing to be cowed. “Know what those two things have in common? Neither is happening tonight.”

Wade stepped forward, hands up in apparent calm.
“Look, we can do this two ways: the fun way, where I talk a lot and you get tired of me and walk to the car on your own… or the less fun way, where Wolverine grabs you and stuffs you into a car before you finish screaming.”

The woman looked over at Logan.
“You’re the famous Wolverine? I thought you were dead. Damn, I didn’t recognize you.”

“Well, he’s more like the decaf version,” Wade answered. “You seen Logan? The one where Hugh Jackman cries, sacrifices himself heroically, and we all snot up like babies? Yeah, this isn’t that guy. This is the Wolverine left at the bottom of the drawer—the one who stopped being cool and kept the grumpy alcoholic part.”

He leaned toward her as if sharing a secret.
“Think of it this way: if Hugh Jackman is the latest iPhone, this one’s a Nokia brick—indestructible, sure, but only good for drunk-dialing your ex.”

Logan rolled his eyes.
“When you’re done with the crap, Wade, we’ll continue the mission.”

“Mission? What mission?” she asked.

“One that’ll make us rich!” the antihero chirped. “All you have to do is put one foot in front of the other, then the other one, and keep doing that until you’re walking toward our car so we can take you somewhere very cool.”

“LIKE HELL!” she snapped, almost stepping on his last word.

Before the two men could react, Riley pivoted on her heels and sprinted down the alley.

“That’s it, you’re doing great!” Deadpool cheered, first to bolt after her. “Only our car’s the other way!”

Logan let out a guttural growl and shot after them.
“Wade, shut the hell up and cut her off!”

“I’m trying, I’m trying!” he yelled back, dodging a dumpster. “But this girl runs like the tax office is chasing her!”

Riley zigzagged through the alley, clearing a puddle and shoving a box into their path to slow them down. Logan saw her dart right into a darker stretch and pushed harder.

The rumble of a distant engine trembled in the air—a reminder that if they didn’t catch her fast, things could get complicated if she reached a more public area.

She kept running full tilt, but barely took two strides before her foot slipped.
A metallic crack exploded beneath her and, in an instant, she vanished from sight—swallowed by the darkness of a half-open manhole whose cover gave way under her weight.

Logan and Wade stopped dead.
“Did she just… fall down there?” Deadpool asked, peering into the hole.

Logan clenched his jaw, a bad feeling knotting in his gut.
And then, from below, a scream rose up.

Chapter Text

A strangled groan rose from the darkness.
“Shit…” Riley’s voice came up thick with pain. “Pretty sure I screwed up my ankle.”

Wade looked at Logan through the mask.
The older man grunted and knelt by the edge, trying to see past the black.
“Can you move?” he asked, that low voice making it impossible to tell if he was worried or pissed.

They both pulled out their phones, switched on the flashlights, and aimed the beams down: Riley sat on the damp floor, one leg stretched out, face twisted with pain as she clutched her ankle.

“Great,” Logan muttered. “Now we have to go down.”

“We have to?” Wade tilted his head. “I can stay up here and cheer while you play knight in shining armor.”

Logan shot him a death glare.
“Down.”

“Oof!” Wade fanned himself. “Yes, daddy. Since you asked so nicely…”

He edged to the rim with exaggerated caution.
“Well, well…” he murmured, spotting the narrow metal ladder dropping into the dark. “Not the most hygienic thing I’ve done, but definitely top five.” He set a boot on the first rung and glanced back at Logan. “If I’m not back in five, call the Ninja Turtles.”

“If you don’t climb down, I’ll call street cleaners to scrape up what’s left of you.”

“Perfect. I’ll finally meet someone with a dirtier job than mine.”

He started down, rung by rung, the rusted metal groaning with every move. The echo of his boots mixed with distant dripping and the rising reek of damp.

At the bottom, his beam pinned Riley.
“Evening, Cinderella,” he said, pointing at her ankle. “Looks like your glass slipper didn’t make it.”

She stared at the floor for a few seconds, breathing in and out like she needed to steady herself, then looked up at the masked man again.
“Wow. I thought the sarcastic voice in my head sounded different.”

Wade crouched beside her, a frown creasing the mask.
“Let’s say I’m a very gay, slightly deranged version of your own Jiminy Cricket.”

He reached to brush her cheek; she jerked her head away.
“Don’t touch me,” she warned. “And don’t switch Disney movies on me. If we went with Cinderella, it’s Cinderella to the bitter end.”

“Great, because the prince outfit fits me like a glove. Except…” He grabbed the back of his mask and pulled it off, revealing his face. “…mine comes with dried-plum chic and zero chance of a happy ending.”

She recoiled, dragging herself back.
“Holy shit!”

Wade arched a brow, wounded.
“Hey, that hurts. And not just my feelings. Okay—yes, my feelings.”

A smile tugged at her mouth—the first since they’d met.
“Relax, you’re not that ugly. Though I think you make the Grinch look handsome.”

“Excuse me?” Wade’s eyes went wide, as if she’d just committed blasphemy. “The Grinch is a freaking green lint pillow.” He puffed his chest and flexed an arm under the flashlight. “Me, on the other hand—I’m good and I look good. Go on, squeeze the bicep. It doesn’t bite. Unless you want me to.”

“WADE, WILL YOU GET HER UP ALREADY?!” Logan’s weary voice boomed through the wet tunnel.

Against all odds, Riley set a hand on his arm and gave a testing squeeze.
“Damn. You are solid.”

Wade waggled his brows, pleased with himself.
“See? Told you. The Grinch is a fluff sack; I’m premium steak.” He made an exaggerated gesture at his own arm. “Touch it again, but with respect—this bicep has saved more lives than Bruce Willis.”

Logan’s growl shredded the moment.
“I swear, Wilson, if I have to come down there, you’re not climbing back up.”

Wade let out a dramatic sigh and raised his hands.
“Fine, fine, angry dad—we’ll get the princess up.” He turned to Riley with a half-smile. “And by princess I mean you, obviously. Though he’s got his charm with that beard.”

He moved behind her, checking how to lift.
“Hold tight, Cinderella. Don’t worry—your prince knows how to handle busted ankles.”

“Point one,” she said as he scooped her up, “I’m no damn princess. Point two: it’s not broken. Just twisted. Point three: I CAN WALK, ASSHOLE!”

Her hand shot to the antihero’s crotch and squeezed until he yelped, dropping her.

She pushed herself up, testing the foot. It hurt like hell, but as predicted, not broken. She put weight on it anyway and, with the other leg, snapped a clean, heavy kick at Deadpool’s head while he was still clutching himself.

It landed square. He flew backward onto the wet floor with a dull thud.
“Bitch!” he groaned, grabbing the impact point. “That’s superhero abuse, just so you know!”

Riley didn’t give him time to recover. She shoved him hard, pinning him to the slick ground until he lay flat on his back, dazed and cursing.

Above, Logan gave a growl of pure exasperation and disappeared from the rim. The ladder clanged under his weight, every strike bringing him closer.

When his boots hit the floor, his flashlight carved Riley from the dark—face taut, fists up, ready to stand her ground.
“Alright, Turner. You played with the clown. Now you play with me.”

Logan advanced slowly, reading her every move. No claws, no mutated skin, no unnatural strength.

Riley moved first—pivoted on the good leg and threw a straight punch at his jaw. Logan blocked it with an open hand and closed gently around her fist. He felt the force: not superhuman, but she knew how to throw.

“Not bad…” he said, releasing her and slipping past a low kick that almost clipped him, “but I was told you were a lot more dangerous.”

“As you can see, I’m a regular woman—and I’m still holding my own.”

She pressed the attack—knee strike, another punch that grazed his cheek. Logan answered with a shoulder check that sent her back a few steps. He clocked the slight limp: the ankle was still nagging her.

She used the wall for momentum, snapped a front kick—he caught it in the air, yanked her off balance, spun her, and pinned both arms behind her like improvised cuffs.

“Enough,” he said, voice low and firm. “I’m not going to hurt you—unless you leave me no choice.”

She struggled, twisting to break free, but brute strength won out. Within seconds her breath turned ragged; she had to accept the obvious—he overpowered her.

“At least…” she gasped, lungs burning, “…tell me… who wants me…” She shut her eyes, dragged in a big breath. “If it’s my psycho ex… I’ll kill him myself when I see him.”

Wade was already upright again, rubbing his head like the whole thing had been a minor trip.
“Well, well, well…” he sing-songed, coming up behind them and tugging his mask back on. “What do we have here? A free Fifty Shades demo where the lead sweats whiskey. Interesting…”

Logan turned his head just enough to throw a look that could freeze hell.
“Wilson. Don’t start.”

“What? I’ve been quiet for literally thirty seconds. That’s an Olympic record for me.” He leaned toward Riley. “Didn’t I tell you to hold on to me, Cinderella? Looks like you got plan B: grumpy prince.”

Logan huffed and, without letting go, steered her toward the ladder.
“Up.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Wade cut in, stepping in front of them. “If we haul her up this mad, the second she hits dry ground she’s gonna bite our asses.”

“Shut up and climb first. That way she can’t bolt. I’ll take the rear,” Logan ordered.

“Yes, daddy.” He looked at the woman. “Congrats, you get a front-row view of my butt on the way up.”

Riley twisted her mouth, resigned.
“Mind if I bite it to vent my rage? I’m into gore sex.”

Wade snorted.
“Thought you’d save that for upstairs, but I see you can’t wait. I like you, sweetheart. You’ve got spark. Careful, Logan—she keeps talking like that and I’m asking her to dinner.”

Logan growled, said nothing, and after Wade he pushed Riley to the wall ladder. She set her foot on the first rung, testing it carefully through the ache, while the mutant stayed just behind, watching every move.

Wade popped out first, stretching like he’d finished a marathon, then bent to help Riley, not letting go once he closed his fingers around her arm.

“So, are you ever going to tell me who sent you—and why me? I think you’ve got the wrong Riley. Riley’s a common name, you know?”

Logan climbed out behind her.
“We’ll tell you what you need to know when we’re somewhere safe,” he growled, keeping his voice low.

Wade cocked his head, considering her like an unconventional artwork.
“Or, if you want, I can make up a tragic backstory about you being Magneto’s illegitimate daughter with a Vegas showgirl.”

“Wilson…” Logan warned, grabbing Riley’s arm and steering her toward the car.

“Fine, fine. No spoilers.”

Logan popped the trunk with his free hand and pulled out a roll of duct tape.
“Help me restrain her.”

He gave Riley’s arm a sharp tug, forcing her to turn her back.
“Hold still,” he growled, the rough rip of tape loud in the night’s sudden quiet.

Wade stepped aside, watching.
“You know this is technically kidnapping, right, Logan?”

Ignored, Logan caught Riley’s wrists and pressed them together behind her back. The tape circled them in tight, firm loops—secure without cutting off blood flow.

“Ankles,” he ordered.

“With pleasure,” Wade said, crouching. He wrapped her legs with a few quick turns, making sure she couldn’t run even if she tried.

“Ow! Watch the twist, idiot!” she snapped when pain flared.

“You’re awfully delicate for someone so mouthy,” the man in red shot back, standing and theatrically dusting off his hands. “Tied up and ready for express shipping.”

Logan took her arm again and guided her to the car. He opened the rear door and pushed her down firmly but not harshly onto the seat.
“Wilson. Back.”

“Yes, daddy,” Wade obeyed, sliding in beside their captive. “Seat belt, sweetheart. Oh, wait…” He noticed the bonds; she shot him a look that said I’m tied up, genius. “You know what? Don’t bother. I’ll buckle you in.”

The engine roared when Logan turned the key, its vibration rolling down the street like the fading echo of Riley’s hopes that she might walk away from this mess.

“You know,” Logan said as he drove, catching her reflection in the rearview, “for someone supposedly dangerous and powerful, catching you was a little too easy.”

“Powerful?” she repeated, startled. “Okay, now I’m sure you’ve got the wrong person.” She struggled against the tape on reflex, knowing it wouldn’t give. “I’m completely normal. No mutations, no superpowers, not some heiress to a weapons empire who turns into the people’s hero in an iron suit.”

Wade eyed her boldly from behind the mask.
“Uh-huh. And I’m Hello Kitty’s godfather. Go on—I love the ‘I’m not who you’re looking for’ speech right before your dark side pops out and rips our heads off.”

Logan didn’t take his eyes off the road, but his frown deepened.
“If you’re so normal, why would someone pay good money for us to deliver you?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Riley shot back, glaring at him and then at Wade. “I don’t know who the hell hired you, but they’ve definitely got the wrong person.”

“Oh, no, no, no…” Deadpool wagged a gloved finger like he was about to preach. “Pretty sure Mr. Mystery said something like: ‘Worth paying so she doesn’t have time to become a problem.’” He clicked his tongue and pointed at her. “Meaning right now you’re as harmless as a sleeping kitten. But according to him, eventually you’re clawing couches and chewing ankles.”

She gave him a look that promised violence.
“Trust me, that’ll be the first thing I do once I get out. You’d better be far away when it happens.”

Logan lifted an eyebrow in the mirror.
“Harmless, Wade? She looks less like a kitten and more like one of those snarling mutts that bark at everything.”

“Yeah—like you,” Wade said, then backpedaled at the growl. “Kidding! More like a poodle: lots of bark, nothing happens.”

Logan let out a short nasal laugh, eyes on the road.
“We’ll see if nothing happens with her.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel—a silent warning against any funny ideas.

Meanwhile, Wade settled back in the seat.
“If Mr. Mystery’s right, sooner or later you’re going from poodle to rottweiler. And I’m very curious to see the evolution.”

He tapped her shoulder with a finger, clearly to needle her.

Logan growled again.
“Start telling the truth, Turner. If what he said is real, I’d rather know now.”

She exhaled, head dipping with a faint look of defeat.
“Alright, boys,” she sighed. “You’re right. I’m no saint.”

“Ha!” Wade pointed at her like he’d won a prize. “Knew it. You’ve got that look—like you’ve done shady things.”

“Maybe…” she began. “Maybe I do have something to confess.”

A heavy silence filled the car, broken only by the engine’s rumble. City lights flashed past the windows, painting Riley’s face in fleeting bands that seemed to reveal and conceal the truth in equal measure.

A patter—timid at first, then steady and hard—announced the storm breaking over the city. Rain hammered the car and streets, relentless, like the tears of someone who finally gives in to the truth and opens themselves up.

Logan’s hands tightened on the wheel. Wade tilted his head, expectant.
Something told them her confession would be worth a fortune.

Chapter Text

The car kept weaving through the neighborhood, where both pedestrians and traffic were thinning out.
Inside, silence hung heavy, filled only with the anticipation of both mutants who wanted—finally—to know what this woman had done to be worth such a payday.

“Alright…” she began. “Truth is, I never thought I’d end up confessing this, but… I…”

“Don’t tell me!” Deadpool cut her off, bouncing on the seat and clapping excitedly. “You killed the spoiled little princess daughter of the mysterious guy! No, wait! You killed his wife and kid! No, that’s been done to death… You’re his daughter and you betrayed him!”

“Enough, Wade,” Logan growled, turning his head just enough to glare daggers at him. “Shut up and let her talk.”

“Thank you, Logan,” she said, dragging the words out, almost as if it pained her to say them. “The truth is… about a month ago, I got into the Deep Web…”

She couldn’t see Wade’s face, but his shock was obvious even behind the mask.

“…I contacted a guy and…”

Deadpool clapped again, ecstatic.
“Come on, come on! You’re killing me here—I’m getting hard!”

“…and I paid him to threaten my ex-boyfriend and tell him to leave me alone.”

Logan frowned, incredulous.
“That’s it?”

Wade put both hands on his head like he’d just watched his favorite superhero die.
“That’s it? No murders, no torture? You mean to tell me all that sewer chasing, low blows, and Netflix-level drama was because you hired some loser to scare your ex? Tell me—was he one of those guys who dresses like a dime-store detective with a trench coat and a suspiciously expensive briefcase?”

She let out a dry laugh.
“My ex? No way. He’s just a jealous, controlling loser who snorts enough coke to sink a ship whenever he goes out.”

Logan let out a short snort, as if the story seemed even more absurd now.
“Great,” he muttered, eyes back on the road. “So the only dangerous thing about you is your taste in men.”

“Careful, Wolverine,” Wade chimed in. “A girl with an ex résumé like that always comes with surprises. Today it’s a cokehead ex, tomorrow… boom! A fling with Doctor Doom. Hey! That rhymed! And also… Boom! Reference to another Eider fanfic!”

“I don’t know who this guy that hired you is,” Riley said. “Maybe someone from my ex’s circle, or someone he hired to get back at me. What I don’t get is why he says I have power. That’s what throws me. Does he mean power like… mutant power, or power like influence? Because I have neither.”

“No idea, sweetheart,” Wade replied, “but whoever it is, they’re willing to drop half a million dollars on you. Alive.”

Riley jolted in her seat.
“HALF A MILLION?!” she shouted, her face going pale. “What am I, CLEOPATRA?!” She inhaled sharply, filling her lungs, and blew it all out in one go, still in shock. “Okay, then it’s definitely not my cokehead ex. That guy doesn’t have two pennies to rub together.”

Logan smirked faintly, still looking ahead.
“Well, at least that rules out one suspect.”

Wade, however, leaned in to study her face closely.
“Or it rules him out… or it means you’ve got another secret admirer with a fatter wallet than sense.”

“Or maybe someone’s playing you,” she shot back. “Nobody in their right mind would pay half a million dollars for a video game store clerk.”

“I’d think the same,” the mercenary admitted, leaning back like he shared her skepticism. “Hell, I’d laugh right along with you. Buuuut—” He raised a finger. “We already got half up front. And believe me, Logan and I saw the rest with our very own pretty little eyes. This is no joke. It’s a mountain of cash just waiting for us to deliver you with a bow on top.”

Riley fell silent, staring at the streetlights flashing past the rain-speckled glass.

The car rolled into one of New York’s outer districts, veering off into a warehouse zone that looked almost abandoned.
Most of the warehouses were shuttered, but not like they were after-hours. The rusty metal doors and rain-stained bricks screamed of years without work.

Everything suggested they were nearly there, and Riley’s chances of escaping were growing slimmer by the second.

“Listen, guys,” she said, trying to appeal to reason. “It’s obvious I’m not a mutant, I don’t have power, and I’m definitely not worth that kind of money. How about this—we split the advance three ways, go to Ibiza for a while, sun, beach, cocktails—I’ll be your best friend forever.”

Wade burst out laughing so hard it rattled around the car like they were inside a tin can.
“Yeah, sure! Because nothing screams trustworthy like the promise of a girl we just duct-taped!”

Logan didn’t bother looking at her. He kept his eyes on the road, steering calmly as the wipers kept their steady rhythm.
“That’s not how this works, Turner.”

“Of course it is,” she pushed. “Same thing, but with sunshine, beaches, and without that nutjob who hired you to kidnap me.”

Wade stroked his chin, pretending to mull it over.
“The Ibiza part’s tempting, I’ll admit. But, unfortunately, there’s a small problem: I want the other half of the money too. I think we’ve earned it after all this hard work.”

“What you deserve is a stick up your ass,” she snarled, struggling against the duct tape again.

Deadpool looked at her.
“Wow, and here I thought we were getting along. And without dinner or flowers? No thanks. I don’t do first-date sex.”

Logan grunted, weary.
“Stop provoking her, Wade.”

“Provoking her?” Wade leaned back. “I’m just keeping the mood light. You know how awkward long rides get with no music, no conversation… and now, threats of sodomy.”

Riley rolled her eyes, but beneath it all she could feel the tension mounting as the car wound deeper into the labyrinth of damp, deserted warehouses.

The tires squealed softly as Logan braked, cutting the engine. Rain hammered the roof and windows, running in rivulets down the glass.
Logan opened his door, flinching slightly at the cold rain hitting his face.
“This is it.” He circled the car and yanked open Riley’s door. “Out.”

She tried to sit up, but with her ankles tied and her sprain throbbing, she barely managed to move.

“Oh, come on, let me,” Wade said.
He hopped out the other side, walked around, and reached in, undoing her seat belt. With an exaggerated flourish, he scooped her into his arms.
“Don’t get excited, sweetheart, it’s not your wedding night.”

The cold air and rain wrapped around them the second he stepped away from the car. Riley’s clothes soaked in seconds as Wade carried her toward the warehouse entrance, Logan slamming the car door shut before following behind.

The warehouse’s metal door screeched open as they approached, as if they were expected.
Inside, the ceiling lights flickered, the old wiring fighting to stay alive.
Wade walked in first, Riley still in his arms, Logan bringing up the rear.

At the far end, by a table cluttered with blueprints and strange devices, a man waited. His long dark coat and shadowed hat brim obscured most of his face. Around him, four goons stood in formation, hands hovering near concealed weapons, making it clear they weren’t just for show.

“Hello again,” the man said, voice low. “Deadpool, Wolverine… and Miss Turner.”

Logan fixed his gaze on him, ignoring the water dripping from his jacket.
“Let’s cut to the chase. You give us the rest of the money, we give you the girl, and we’re gone.”

The man let a faint smile slip, eyes never leaving them.
“Ah… but we’re not done yet.” He placed both hands on the table. “First, I think it’s time I told you why Miss Turner interests me so much.”

Wade set her down, Riley groaning quietly at her ankle.
“Finally, the mystery reveal!” Wade threw his arms wide. “You’ve been killing me, Inspector Gadget. Spill it.”

The man straightened, the flickering light briefly illuminating scarred features and calculating eyes.
“My name is Rob Calder,” he said with an almost insulting calm. “And I am the founder and director of Infinity Exchange.”

He circled the table slowly, savoring each word.
“I trade in whatever you can imagine: technology, weapons, information… even people. Nothing is beyond my reach, because I don’t limit myself to this world. I travel between realities.” He gestured toward a metallic device with a glowing core. “And I take what I need from each.”

Logan frowned but didn’t interrupt.

“The problem is, in some of those realities, there’s a Riley Turner,” Calder went on, eyes sliding to her. “And sooner or later, you always end up getting in my way. I’ve tried neutralizing you in different ways, but no matter what, some version of you always shows up to ruin everything.”

His gaze hardened.
“So I decided to stop waiting for it to happen here. I’ll neutralize this version of you before you awaken. Quick. Painless. Final.”

Calder’s words hit Logan like ice water, colder even than the rain soaking his clothes. He’d assumed all along she was guilty of something. Now the pieces looked very different.

“So…” he said, his voice low and heavy, eyes locked on Calder. “…she hasn’t done anything wrong. Except protect reality.”

Calder smiled faintly, amused by the simplicity.
“That’s debatable,” he replied. “A hawk hunting a rabbit isn’t evil, Logan. It’s nature. But to the rabbit, the hawk is terror itself. Riley Turner may look innocent to you, but to me, she’s my greatest threat. She’s that hawk. And I intend to keep her from flying.”

“Wasn’t she supposed to be a poodle?” Deadpool piped in, but silence swallowed his joke. “…Okay, shutting up.”

Logan’s shoulders tensed beneath his wet jacket, eyes never leaving Calder.
“And to stop her… you’ll kill her?” he asked, his tone low but laced with menace.

“Not necessarily. Nothing personal. I’ve taken measures before—many times. There are hundreds of Turners in other realities. And when they awaken, they become unpredictable. That’s why I take them off the board the moment I find them. Some don’t survive. This one is one of the last with potential to cause problems. I’ve tried other methods. Survival rates… not optimal.”

“She was easy enough to catch,” Deadpool said, hands on his hips. “Why bother paying so much for others to do it?”

Logan’s jaw tightened, his body coiled to spring.

Calder let out a short, humorless laugh.
“That money means nothing to me,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “It’s faster to hire the best hunters in each universe than to chase her myself or rely on synthetics. While they handle the dirty work, I focus on what matters.”

He leaned forward, eyes locking on Wade.
“And believe me, Deadpool—you two are among the most efficient I’ve ever hired.”

Wade gave a dramatic bow, arm sweeping out like he was on stage.
“Oh, thank you, Your Excellency of Evil,” he said in a syrupy, mocking tone. “Always an honor when a shady villain in a trench coat acknowledges my brilliance.”

Straightening, he tilted his head toward Riley.
“But here’s the thing, boss: I don’t like villains. And, hate to say it, but in this fanfic, the limping brunette doesn’t look like the bad guy.”

“Finally you get it, asshole!” Riley snapped.

“That’s because you don’t know the whole story.” Calder’s focus shifted to Logan. “And you? Will you let appearances fool you, or do you want to hear why Turner’s better off out of play?”

Logan stepped closer, making two of Calder’s goons move to block him, ready to defend their boss.
“I’ve heard enough to know you’re a son of a bitch. Let her go if you don’t want trouble.”

“And where would you take her?” the villain asked, almost curious. His gaze darkened as it swept over the three of them. “You see… Riley Turner isn’t the only one I’ve been watching. The other Wolverines and Deadpools across realities haven’t interfered with my plans, so I’ve had no need to… reach out to them. Which is why I chose to hire you in this reality.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “But, just in case you ever thought of switching sides, I made sure you’d have nothing left to protect outside this warehouse.”

Wade froze, Calder’s words seeping through the mask and sinking in. His whole body went rigid.
“Oh, no…” he murmured. “…Al. And Mary Poppins.”

Chapter Text

“What did you do to my best friend and my dog, you son-of-a-villain?!” Deadpool shouted as the reality hit him.

Calder smiled.
“Let’s say… they’re no longer in a position to worry about you.”

That was all it took for Logan to snarl and lunge forward, shoving one henchman aside with brutal force.
The reaction was instant: four men closed in on the trio, drawing knives and guns.

Wade yanked out his katanas and charged the first man in reach, taking a bullet without blinking before driving his blade into the man’s side.
Logan, meanwhile, used the confusion to reach Riley.

With a quick motion, he drove one claw into the duct tape binding her wrists. The edge sliced the restraint… and her skin, leaving a thin, bleeding scratch.
“Damn, you could be more careful!” she snapped, rubbing her wrist.
“Be grateful I didn’t cut your hand off,” he growled, crouching to free her feet—this time without nicking her—and pushing her aside to block another attacker.

Riley wasted no time. She grabbed a metal bar off the floor. She had no powers, no superhuman strength—but she had survival instinct and self-defense training.
She swung hard into an enemy’s knee as he tried to corner Logan, dropping him with a scream.

Meanwhile, Wade was batting bullets aside with his blades and humming something unintelligible as he carved a path through. Logan dropped another with a sharp headbutt while, across the chaos, Calder backed toward his portal device as if none of it concerned him.

Seconds later the warehouse went still. All four henchmen lay on the floor, dead, their weapons scattered among dark puddles.

Riley panted, the metal bar still clenched tight. She watched Logan retract his claws while Wade, with theatrical flair, wiped his katanas on his forearm.

That’s when she saw it.

At the far end, Calder was working a side panel on the pistol-shaped device with the glowing core.
A deep hum filled the room, and an arc of light blossomed in the air, stretching into an oval portal.

“Hey!” Riley shouted, dropping the bar and sprinting for him, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in her ankle.

But just a few steps away, Calder stepped through without even looking back. The luminous rim snapped shut with a dry crack, leaving nothing but the echo of his escape.

She stood there shaking, breath ragged, eyes locked on the empty space where he’d been seconds before.
“Son of a bitch…” she whispered, rage boiling in her throat.

There was no time to mourn.

“Logan, we have to get home!” Wade blurted, panicked.

The mutant caught the weight in his voice instantly. No questions needed. The cold light in his eyes said he understood.
“Shit…” he growled, blasting through the warehouse door.

Riley, adrenaline still spiking, limped after them despite the worsening pain. She wasn’t staying behind. Rain hit them full-on as soon as they crossed the threshold.

Logan glanced back, saw her falling behind, and hissed in frustration.
“Come here.”
Without waiting for approval, he scooped her up, settling her against his chest.

“Hey! I can walk!” she protested—more anger than conviction.
“We don’t have time to test that,” he said, lengthening his stride as the rain soaked them to the bone.

They reached the car in seconds. Logan yanked open the back door.
“You drive,” he told Wade, easing Riley in before climbing in after her—no time to take the front.

Wade floored it like his life depended on it, tires screaming on wet asphalt.

Huddled in the back seat, Riley stayed silent. She didn’t need to ask. Wade’s tone and Logan’s expression made it clear something terrible was happening—something about a woman and a dog.

When they turned onto their street, chaos stopped them cold.

A police cordon blocked the way—cruisers, two fire trucks, and a cluster of gawkers under umbrellas.
Orange glare lit the gray sky. Flames roared out the windows of Wade and Logan’s apartment, as if feeding on the storm itself. The rain wasn’t enough to choke the blaze; inside burned with an intensity that screamed accelerant. Fire chewed walls and blew out windows, climbing toward the upper floors as firefighters battled to contain it.

“AAAAAAL! DOOOOGPOOOOOL!” Wade skidded to a crooked stop, threw his door open, and plunged into the crowd, shoving people aside.

Logan followed, drenched, heart hammering his ribs.
An officer thrust an arm out to block them. “Back! The building isn’t safe.”

“Oh yeah?” Wade snapped, knocking the hand away. “It’s not safe for my best friend and my dog in there either!”

Riley limped up, hair plastered to her face, and saw panic carved into both men.
The roar of the fire braided with the storm’s fury; sirens wailed without pause. Even from meters away, the heat was suffocating—a furnace blast against rain-cold skin.

Ignoring orders and shouts, Wade and Logan exploited a lapse to duck under the tape, slipping through like determined shadows. Steam and hot smoke slammed into their faces, burning their throats with every breath.

A soot-blackened firefighter burst out the door and tried to stop them.
“Hey! You can’t go in! Collapse risk! The roof could give!”

Wade dodged him. “Then it better hold, because I’m in a hurry!”

Logan shouldered the half-open door and plunged into the lobby, lights flickering, smoke thickening. The stench of gasoline was unmistakable.

Far inside, the blaze roared down the hallways, devouring everything. Wade pushed harder, ignoring the searing heat soaking through his suit and heating the rain in the fabric.
“AL! MARY PUPPINS!” he bellowed.

The air grew thicker, harsher with every gulp. Smoke scorched his lungs and brought tears beneath the mask.
“Shit…” he rasped, hands to his face.

He ripped the mask off, dragging in air that wasn’t much better. A brutal cough doubled him over before he jammed the mask into his back pocket.
“Now I sound like a two-pack-a-day smoker,” he gritted between coughs.

Jaw tight, Logan took the stairs two at a time, kicking aside falling plaster and wood from above. Each breath came with a strangled growl and a cough, but he didn’t slow.

They climbed, shoulders hunched, eyes narrowed against the smoke coiling around them like a serpent.

Inside the apartment, the heat was unbearable—like someone had opened the door of a giant oven. Flames ate walls, furniture, memories, painting everything in a cruel orange. Black smoke clawed at their lungs.

Wade staggered forward, forearm over his mouth. Logan followed, teeth clenched against the lash of heat on his skin.

“There’s nothing we can do, Wade!” Logan barked, booting a flaming beam aside. “We have to go—now!”

“No…” Wade coughed, voice shredded, eyes burning. “Not without them.”

Despite the pain, the charring air, the skin prickling with first burns, he pushed into the living room—
—and his eyes locked on a scene that shattered him: on the blackened floor, Dogpool’s tiny suit lay motionless, surrounded by a mound of gray ash that left no doubt what it had once been.

Wade dropped to his knees with a raw, animal sound. He tore off his gloves and touched the ash with trembling fingers, as if he could coax her back. Tears cut tracks through soot and sweat on his cheeks.

“No… no, no, no…” he sobbed, curling over what remained of his partner. “Don’t do this to me, little one… don’t leave me…”

The heat was so savage his tears barely escaped before evaporating into the smoke.

Then he saw it—two meters away, Al’s body lay on the floor, partly burned. Wade crawled to her, ignoring the pain that stabbed with every movement. He leaned in, searched for a pulse at her neck—
—and found a tearing void where a heartbeat should be.

“No… I’m not losing you too…” he whispered, voice shaking. “I’m not giving up, Al.”

He lifted her carefully, as if she could break further. He’d barely taken a step when a thunderous crack ripped through the building.

The ceiling groaned like a bone snapping. Walls began to give.

Logan spun toward him, raw alarm on his face.
“Wade—GO!”

There was no time.

With a deafening roar, the entire building collapsed on top of them, swallowing the fire, the smoke… and the three still inside.

Chapter Text

Riley stood behind the police tape, soaked through, fists clenched, heart pounding. Rain ran down her face, mixing with the cold sweat brought on by watching Logan and Wade vanish into the flames.
The roar of the fire became deafening, going toe-to-toe with the rain. Firefighters barked orders; hoses spat high-pressure streams that evaporated on contact with the blistering heat. Then a dull, deep crack split the air.

The building shuddered.

Riley took a step back, breath quickening. The brick façade began to give; windows burst into a thousand shards; a tongue of fire shot toward the sky, lighting the rainy night.
“No, no, no, no…” she murmured, a hand flying to her mouth.

A heartbeat later, the crash was total: the upper floors folded in on themselves and, in seconds, the whole structure gave way, sinking into a dense cloud of smoke and dust.
Riley screamed without realizing, her knees buckling, and so did the crowd—who, despite standing at a safe distance, turned and ran as the smoke billowed outward.

But Riley didn’t move. Her eyes hunted for anything—any sign those two idiots had made it out.
Nothing. No sound, no silhouette. Only ruins and smoke.

She didn’t quite know how she got to the car. Her hands moved on autopilot, slipping into the driver’s seat—Wade had left the door open and the keys in the ignition.
She drove through nearly empty streets. Everything felt unreal.

She kept telling herself she shouldn’t feel anything. That they were selfish mercenaries who’d kidnapped her for money. That if they were dead, they’d asked for it.
But no matter how she clung to that thought, a pinprick of sadness gnawed at her.

She parked in front of her building. Went up, fell onto the bed fully clothed, and before she knew it, she was asleep.

Morning light found her mind still foggy.
She turned on the TV while making coffee—there it was: footage of the fire and the collapse, anchors repeating the details as if repetition could make tragedy digestible.
“…the structure collapsed in under twenty minutes, and everything points to arson. The building was evacuated before the collapse, but authorities believe someone may still have been inside…”

Riley looked away, as if that could ease the pressure in her chest.
She grabbed the car keys—still in her possession—but before heading to work she decided to drive to the scene.

When she arrived, ground zero was buzzing. Excavators, firefighters, and rescue teams were clearing the charred debris. Police tape marked the perimeter; a couple of officers kept watch.
Near one fence, beside a wheelbarrow and a pile of tarp-covered tools, she spotted an orange reflective jacket—probably left by a worker on break.

She looked around. No one seemed to notice her.
She slipped the jacket on, buttoning it to the neck. A bit big, but at a glance she’d pass.

Head down, she ducked under the tape and blended in. She approached the blackened ruins, weaving past concrete blocks and twisted beams. She didn’t know what she expected to find—but she needed to see for herself.
Among the rubble she made out a crushed child’s shoe, a broken mug with a beach scene almost scrubbed away, and what was left of a wall clock—face split, hands frozen at an hour that no longer mattered.

Then a flash of red among the grays and blacks caught her eye.
She went to it and, moving debris aside, uncovered a small piece of fabric, edges blackened but still recognizable: a tiny red-and-black uniform just like Deadpool’s.

Only this one was for a dog.

The lump in her throat swelled.
She crouched and reached for the little scorched outfit—
—when something cold and firm shot out of the rubble.

A hand.

It clamped around her wrist, locking her in place.
“AAAH!”

The debris shifted a few centimeters; a chunk of beam slid aside, revealing a soot-smeared face, skin unbroken but blackened and roughened by smoke.
Torn red-and-black suit. Eyes opening slowly, finding her.

“…Turner…” The voice came out ragged, like he’d been swallowing dust for hours. “Damn… I always wanted to do this scene.”

“Wade!” she cried, unable to believe her eyes. “How the hell… are you alive?”

He coughed a dry cough that puffed dust in front of his face.
“I’m amazing, obviously,” he said, sitting up with effort that felt more theatrical than necessary. “Also because my skin regenerates faster than a streamer’s ego, but we can workshop that line later.” He brushed a chunk of rubble off his shoulder, glanced around, and arched a brow. “So… help me find the furry? Haven’t seen him since… well. Since a freaking building fell on us.”

Two workers ran over, skidding to a stop when they saw Wade standing.
“But… how…?” one stammered, eyes wide.

“Mutant, lads,” Wade grinned sideways. “The cool kind—the self-healing one. Not the mushroom-back kind or the ‘my pee turns into pineapple juice’ kind.”

They exchanged a look; one nodded, understanding.
“You—you were one of the guys who rushed in last night with another man.”

“Correct, and now I need those construction-site biceps to help me find said other man. Strong, grumpy, social charm of a meat grinder—but he’s mine and I love him that way.”

As if luck had ears, a deep creak rumbled nearby. A concrete block slid; under a cloud of dust, a figure started to rise.
Logan slowly emerged from the ruins, clothes in tatters and torso completely bare. His pants, ripped in places, were still intact—but there was no sign of his jacket or shirt.

Every muscle and fiber of his chest and abs gleamed with sweat and soot. Smoke curled around him as if it, too, wanted to admire him.
“Ahhhhh, Daddy!” Deadpool rushed over and dropped to his knees, giving him a deep, heartfelt bow, full samurai style. “Blessed be thine abs, for they shall inherit the kingdom of heaven.”

Logan scrubbed at his arms, trying to clear as much dust as possible.
“Cut the crap,” he barked, brow knotted. “You know who won’t be inheriting your damn kingdom? The blind one.”

“WHAT?!” Wade sprang up. “You mean… SHE’S ALIVE?!”

Logan kept brushing himself off, hands sliding over his chest and down across his abs, clearing soot from the grooves.
“No, idiot—she’s dead. And there’s a sign in heaven with her picture that says she’s barred. She’s probably dancing with Satan right now.”

The two workers traded uneasy looks, unsure whether to intervene or pretend they weren’t hearing this in the middle of a disaster zone.
Wade, however, wasn’t letting the hit to his heart slide.

“Hey, don’t joke about that,” he scolded, pointing a soot-blackened finger. “That woman baked me cookies. COOKIES, LOGAN! Do you know what it means to a man when someone bakes him cookies?”

Logan snorted, yanking a splinter the size of a finger out of his right arm.
“Yeah. It means you were a guinea pig for experimental recipes laced with drugs.”

“Oh sure—the mutant with a healing factor clowning the other mutant with a healing factor. So original.”

His energy seemed to drain all at once, maybe because the full weight of the situation finally hit him.
Knowing exactly what he needed, Riley crouched, gently picked up the little dog suit, and brought it to Wade.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, genuine sorrow in her voice. “And I’m sorry about your friend, too.”

Tears filled the mercenary’s eyes as he cradled the tiny outfit.
“You know… I made this with my own hands…” he whimpered.

“Nicepool made it,” Logan corrected, strolling over shirtless.

“Did I lie?” Wade looked up at him, eyes glassy. “It was made by a Deadpool—even if he’s an idiot who looks suspiciously like Justin Baldoni. That’s what counts.”

He sniffed, the first hints of congestion creeping in.
“I need… I need something of Al’s,” he said, scanning the site and then starting to pace. “Something to honor her memory. Something to hug during my sleepless nights. Something like… her panties.”

“Wade…” Logan shut his eyes a moment and exhaled through his nose, reining himself in. “I’m not digging through this wreck looking for an old woman’s underwear so you can—so you can do things with them at night.”

“Hey!” Wade struck an offended pose. “It’s not about that. It’s about… emotional connection. And, maybe, a little self-soothing.”

“Uh… guys…” Riley cut in—because yeah, she’d heard enough. “Hate to interrupt your totally normal and not-at-all traumatizing convo, but if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late for work.”

Logan turned to her, frowning.
“Work? After all this? Isn’t your ankle shot?”

“Yes, work,” Riley said, thumbing toward the street. “Some of us don’t make a living kidnapping people on contract, you know? And the ankle’s better—just a twinge today.”

Wade tilted his head, following where she pointed… and then he saw it.
“Hey!” He raised a hand like he’d just found buried treasure. “That’s our car. Ours, Logan! The one we parked before playing firefighter.”

Logan narrowed his eyes, slow stare drifting to Riley.
“You took it?”

“I… borrowed it,” she clarified, hands up. “What? I needed to get home after thinking you’d died! Would you rather I’d left it here, badly parked, all lonely and sad? Someone would have stolen it.”

“Which is basically what you did,” Logan shot back, already walking for the vehicle. “Come on. We’ll drop you at work and take it.”

“If you’re dead, it’s not stealing!”

Wade tugged the tatters of his suit into place and trailed after them.
“And on the way to Turner’s job, we’re buying me fresh underwear and, ideally, some grandma panties in Al’s honor.”

Riley took the passenger seat. Logan sat to her left, meticulously scanning the interior like he expected she’d broken or misconfigured something.
“Everything’s exactly how you left it, Mr. Maniac,” she said, buckling up. “By the way, planning to go shirtless all day?”

“Fine by me!” Wade chirped from the back, giving a thumbs-up. “Watching sunlight glisten on that firm, smooth skin is the closest thing to catharsis via LSD overdose, with a sprinkle of MDMA and sugar.”

Logan rolled his eyes and turned the key.
“Shut up before I drop you on the highway.”

“And miss out on you, sexy papa?” Wade leaned forward, hand on the driver’s seatback. “Never.”

Riley smiled as she clipped her phone into the suction-cup mount on the windshield. She opened the navigator and set her job as the destination.
“There,” she told Logan. “Ten minutes if traffic isn’t bad.” She glanced between them. “So… are you two…?” She touched her index fingers together.

“NO!”
“I WISH!”

“No offense,” Riley said to Logan, hands raised, “but the way he looks at you, anyone would think there’s something there.”

“This ‘he’ can hear you,” Wade said, pointing at himself. “And yes, I can confirm there’s something: an overwhelming urge to lick his abs.”

“Jesus…” Logan growled, squeezing the wheel.

“What? It’s not sexual,” Wade said, faux-innocent. “Okay, it’s entirely sexual.”

Riley huffed a disbelieving laugh and leaned back, shaking her head.
“You two are so weird.”

“And yet you like us, right?” Wade winked from the back seat.
“You more than him,” she said, jerking her chin at the driver.

“My furry’s like that, sweetheart: big, imposing, exactly the personality you’d expect—resting bastard face, bad mood, gym-bro body, and a constant, suspicious habit of loudly asserting his totally real heterosexuality.”

“Keep that up…” Logan muttered, eyes on the road, “and I’ll penetrate you with something—but it’ll be my claws in your brain.” He shifted in his seat, jaw tight. “And just so we’re clear,” he added with a quick look at Riley, “I don’t have to pretend anything.”

She rolled her eyes but kept quiet.

The city kept spinning like nothing had happened.
Morning traffic lurched; lights changed with indifference; people hustled past with coffees in hand—oblivious to the fact that, for Logan and Wade, everything had gone to hell a few hours earlier.

Wade sighed.

Sidewalks brimmed with people walking fast, jaywalking; the steady drone of engines and horns formed the routine soundtrack of the day.
Wade sighed.

A couple argued in a crosswalk; a delivery driver wrestled a box out of his van. Life went on.
Wade sighed again, louder.

Logan cut him a look in the rearview.
“What the hell is your problem? You’re getting on my nerves with the sighing.”

That’s when he saw Wade’s eyes brimming with tears.
“Man, I… I’m still… still wrapping my head around Al and Mary Puppins being gone.”

Logan kept his gaze on the road for a beat longer, swallowing the automatic response.
“I know…” he said at last, voice low and rough, his features gradually softening. “It’s going to be hard, Wade. Really hard. I know what it is to lose everyone you love.”

He tightened his grip on the wheel, as if that could contain what he felt too, and let the engine and city noise fill the silence settling over the car.

“Well…” Wade sniffed, forcing a shaky smile. “At least I’ve got you, furry. And the girl.” He looked at Riley. “Unless you’d rather cut ties. I wouldn’t hold it against you. I’d cut your legs off if you abandoned us at our worst moment, but aside from that, we’re good.”

She laughed under her breath, turning to look at the tattered antihero in the back seat.
“Relax, babe. This mess has glued us together. I feel partly responsible for what happened. If that guy wasn’t after me…”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Logan cut in, voice dry as asphalt. “That bastard would’ve killed Al and the dog anyway—even if we’d wrapped you up and delivered you with a bow.”

“But if my other selves had stayed out of his schemes…”

“Then you’d be a piece of shit,” Logan interrupted again, not looking at her. “The kind who watches evil happen right in front of them and doesn’t lift a damn finger. And I don’t run with that kind of person.”

Riley frowned.
“Hey, man, you okay?”

“Oh, don’t worry!” Wade leaned in between the seats, looking at her. “That’s his usual tone—and actually, that was a compliment.”

Logan growled, took one hand off the wheel, palmed Wade’s face, and shoved him back into his seat hard enough to bounce.
“One of these days they’ll sew your mouth shut, and it’ll be the happiest day of my life.”

“Eh, that movie didn’t test well.”

The GPS’s female voice chimed in to announce they’d reached the destination. Logan pulled up at the curb outside the shop, shutter down, waiting for opening time.
“Out,” he barked, not looking.

“Jesus.” She unclipped her phone and pocketed it. “You’re a ray of sunshine.”

“What I am is a guy who needs to figure out what the hell he’s doing with his life once I drop you off. In case you missed it, we’re out a family, a home, and…” He stopped dead, eyes going wide as something clicked. He snapped toward his partner. “WADE! WAS THE MONEY AT HOME?!”

“Yessss,” Wade said, dragging the word out guiltily. “It was at home.”

Logan’s face tightened instantly, his hands balling into fists.
“You’re telling me all that damned money turned to ashes?!”

His voice rose into a contained snarl, neck muscles standing out.
“No, no, no—relax, furry,” Wade said, hands up. “Kidding, okay? I just wanted to see that vein pop on your forehead.”

“Wade…” Logan warned, tone dangerous.

“Relax. The bag’s in the trunk. Lucky for your blood pressure and my pretty face, I forgot to haul it upstairs.” He gave Riley a rueful look. “It’s like this all day. Living with Logan is like walking a minefield.”

She sighed and checked the time.
“Nice chat, but I have to open.” She unbuckled and looked between them. “I get that with that kind of money, starting over won’t be hard.”

Logan held her gaze for a second, then faced forward.
“Money doesn’t fix everything, Turner. And that guy’s coming back for you. You know that, right?”

“FOR FUCK’S SAKE, DON’T SAY THAT!”

“I’m telling you the truth.” He met her eyes. “I don’t sugarcoat reality so people sleep better. Rob Calder is very interested in wiping you off the map. He got away today, but believe me: he’ll be back. And he won’t come alone.”

Cold sweat beaded on her brow.
“So what am I supposed to do?”

“For now—don’t go back to your place,” he said. “I wouldn’t even go to work. They know a lot about you. Don’t make it easy.”

She took a few seconds to absorb her new reality, chest rising and falling too fast.
“I don’t know what to do. I’ve got no family, and I’ve only been in New York three months. Where the hell do I hide?”

“Come with us,” Wade offered from the back, leaning forward to rest a hand on her shoulder. “At least until we figure this out.”

“But… my job?”

Wade threw his hands up, offended by the very notion.
“Sweetheart, we’ve got cash! You can afford not to work for a good while. Your foot’s messed up—take sick leave. Use the time to heal properly and prep for the worst.”

“Comforting.” She clicked her seat belt back in—her way of saying she’d go along. “And first stop?”

“A clothing store,” the antihero said. “We need to cover Mr. Macho before those sexy little nipples turn into icicles.”

Logan hit the gas and the engine growled. The city kept spinning outside—but for the three of them, the clock was already ticking down to the next time Calder found them.

Chapter Text

Riley, still processing everything Logan had told her about Calder, called her boss from the car. With a serious voice and a hint of exhaustion, she explained she’d had an accident and been put on medical leave.
She avoided giving too many details but made it clear she wouldn’t be able to work for a while. Her boss, surprised but compliant, accepted without many questions—probably because he didn’t want the headache of an employee half-injured and knee-deep in personal problems.

After hanging up, she settled into the car seat, ready to tag along with her ex-kidnappers to a clothing store.
After all, the fire hadn’t only taken Al and Dogpool; it had swallowed everything they owned.

The contrast hit the second they stepped into the store. Wade walked in wearing a shredded suit, Riley limping slightly, and Logan… Logan was Logan: bare torso, cut muscles, and a face like thunder.
A pair of women browsing near the entrance froze in place. One elbowed the other, who failed miserably at pretending she wasn’t eyeing Logan from shoulders to belt. The other let out a strangled, “Wow.”

Wade, of course, didn’t miss his cue.
“Yes, ladies, it’s all natural,” he said, pointing at Logan’s torso. “No steroids, no filters. Pure protein and testosterone.”

Logan shot him a death glare, which didn’t stop the two women from staring until they vanished into the aisles.

After a while of searching and tossing rejects, Logan stepped out of the fitting room with four T-shirts, a hoodie, a couple pairs of jeans, boots, socks, underwear, and a simple jacket—enough to keep a wash-and-wear cycle going.
Wade, on the other hand, went through the racks like he was outfitting an army: nerd tees, hoodies, multiple pants, socks for a year, ridiculous briefs, three unicorn pajamas…

On one of his cheerful trips toward the fitting room, Logan intercepted him, fisting the collar of one of the garish shirts Wade had bought and already pulled on over the red suit.
“That’s enough,” he said through clenched teeth. “We need to find a rental and figure out what the hell we’re doing. Stop buying crap.”

Loaded with bags—most of them Wade’s—they ducked into a café to search the internet.
Logan looked for practical and cheap. Riley filtered by neighborhood and price, organizing links and flagging scams. Wade pitched impossible penthouses with jacuzzis and a pole-dance bar.
After an hour of sifting past suspiciously cheap listings and absurdly expensive ones—two coffees each later—they had three viable options and one viewing available that same day in Chelsea.

The landlord met them at the building door: a short man with a thin mustache and glasses who didn’t seem keen on questions.
They climbed a narrow stairwell to the second floor, where he opened a recently renovated loft.

White walls, pale wood floors, a large living room with an open kitchen. Three bedrooms: one with a double bed, nightstand, and a big wardrobe; two smaller ones, each with a single bed, desk, and a simple wardrobe. The bathroom was spotless, with a wide shower and fresh towels.
The landlord asked for one month’s deposit and the current month upfront. Wade, without blinking, pulled a wad of cash from the pocket of his just-bought pants and slapped it into the man’s hand.

Five minutes later, they had keys and a signed lease. The landlord left with the same indifference he’d arrived with, leaving them alone in their new hideout.
“Welcome to our humble Xavier Mansion,” Wade declared, striding across the living room with his bags. “I call the big bed!”

Hearing that, Riley dashed for the master and stopped in the doorway, blocking him.
“No,” she said flatly. “The double bed is mine.”

“EXCUSE ME?” He let the bags thump to the floor. “I called it first!”
“I deserve it more.”

The mercenary turned to his friend, who was thoroughly inspecting the place in case there was some hidden flaw to complain about.
“Lo-gaaaan, she’s stealing my rooooom!” he whined like a tantrum-prone child.
“Tough,” Logan said, making sure the sliding windows worked perfectly.

Wade pouted and looked back at the woman still blocking his way.
“Do you have any idea how many adventures, laughs, and pantsless Netflix nights we’ll miss if you banish me to a single?” he warned, theatrically pointing at one of the smaller rooms.
“Oh! So you want to sleep with me…” she said, half-smiling and folding her arms. “You should’ve led with that.”
“Hey, hey, don’t lump me in with the Tinder creeps,” he protested, hands up. “I’m a gentleman. With a tendency to snore, talk in my sleep, and get up at 3 a.m. for cereal after, uh, self-care with amateur lesbian granny porn.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “If we slept together, you’d end up stealing the blankets. I can’t be held responsible for the consequences.”

She gave him a small shove.
“I’m taking this room,” she concluded. “I paid for it, after all.”

Wade stared like she’d just committed blasphemy across the multiverse.
“Excuse me, Miss Capitalism, I paid for this room,” he said, tapping the pocket where the wad no longer was. “Cash. Freshly minted and still warm.”

Logan, still pacing the living room like a housing inspector, spoke without looking.
“With the advance we got for capturing her.”

Wade blinked, mouth opening and shutting.
“So that means…” he muttered.

Riley held his gaze, clearly savoring the moment.
“Fine. Welcome to your presidential suite,” the antihero surrendered with a dramatic sigh, retreating and dragging his bags to a small room. “There’s no winning this one.”

He dumped his bags on the bed of one of the single rooms with a resigned huff, while Logan carried his into his room and started folding clothes into the wardrobe.
They finished divvying up their things among closets and drawers.

Logan shut his with a solid thud and leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, as Wade stepped out of the next room.
Riley, seated on the couch scrolling social, stood when she saw they were done.

“Okay. With your permission, I’ll take the car and swing by my place. I’ve got plenty of food in the fridge and freezer to bring, and I want to pick up clothes, toiletries, and tools we’ll need here.”

Still arms crossed, Logan turned his eyes on her.
“You’re not going alone.” He didn’t say it like a suggestion—more like the negotiation was over before it began.

Wade, now in the open kitchen, opened an empty cabinet and nodded.
“Yeah, better not. I love a good stroll, but with Calder loose, any corner could come with a surprise prize.”

Logan nodded and stepped out of the doorway to grab the car keys.
“Five minutes and we’re out,” he announced, in that dry tone that brooked no argument.

Riley’s apartment was in an old brick building, façade worn by time. The entryway stairs were narrow, paint peeling on the walls, air tinged with damp.
Inside, it wasn’t big: a living room with open kitchen, a bathroom, and a single bedroom. The kitchen had the basics: a white fridge with magnets holding notes like recipes and reminders, a few instant photos, a yellowed microwave, and a light-wood counter with utensils hanging on the wall.
The living room had a scuffed three-seat gray couch with a couple blankets folded over the back, a low table with ring marks, and a TV on a book-crammed stand. Framed photos on the shelf: moments with friends, a trip or two, ticket stubs…

The bedroom was better kept—a double bed under an ash-gray duvet and an old wardrobe with boxes stacked on top.
All in all: small, modest, but full of personality—the home of someone who’d made the most of limited means.

Wade picked up a framed photo from the shelf: Riley, younger, with another girl, both grinning and flashing peace signs, a green housing complex behind them.
“Who’s this?”

Riley, being helped by Logan to bag kitchenware, stood and looked at the photo Wade held out.
“Oh. My best friend, Sindy,” she said. “We grew up together in Seattle. We were like sisters.”

Wade studied the picture.
“She looks like the kind of friend you’d help bury a body for,” he said, tapping the glass lightly. “Still in your life, or one of those ‘we should totally hang soon’ relationships that live in WhatsApp purgatory?”

“More the second,” she said, smiling at her friend’s happy face. “We live forty-five hours apart by car. It’s not like she can pop over for a coffee.”

She went back to the kitchen, where Logan slid the last pan into a bag.
“You’re from Seattle, then,” he said without much enthusiasm, as if fishing for small talk to break the silence.

“Yup,” Riley said, stepping out again, gently taking the frame from Wade and dropping it in a tote on the counter for personal items. “Lived with my family in West Seattle—you know, the coastal side.”

Wade stared into the middle distance, brow creasing.
“Wait… West Seattle,” he said, lower. “Wasn’t that the area a tsunami trashed a few years back?”

Logan looked up from the bags.
“It was there?”

Riley nodded, sighing.
“Yeah. The neighborhood we lived in got hit hard. My whole family died—except me. Thankfully, Sindy’s family was traveling, so they lost their home, not their lives.”

“Damn…” Wade murmured. “I guess that explains why you’re not scared to get mixed up in our messes.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. It was a mask-smile, a shield over a scarring memory.
“The surge hit while we were sleeping—no, it wasn’t pretty.” She kept packing, keeping her hands busy while the story moved through her. “I nearly drowned three times, got cut up… but I survived. And when I saw I’d lost everything except my savings, I had to leave. Sindy wanted me to stay, but I couldn’t. Staying in Seattle hurt too much.”

She noticed both men had paused to listen. She cleared her throat, looked down, and kept packing.
“Sorry. That sounded like a therapy dump.”

Wade shook his head gently.
“Hey, relax. If I ever start unloading my stuff, you’ll need inpatient care.”

Logan just kept packing.
“Also,” Wade added, trying to lighten the mood, “when your symptoms get worse, I’ll play therapist too. If cash is tight, you can pay me in meat.”

She laughed and tossed him a Pikachu plush she’d pulled from a drawer.
“You’re a freaking clown.”

Over the next week, life in the Chelsea apartment found a strange equilibrium.
Riley stayed on leave for her ankle—almost pain-free now—so she spent most days playing PlayStation with Wade, trading laughs, dumb trash talk, and heated debates over whether cheating in co-op was morally acceptable.
Logan spent much of the day holed up in his room. He read the books Riley had brought from her old place, emerged to eat or grunt a dry comment, then disappeared again without small talk.

Despite the almost domestic vibe, nobody dropped their guard: curtains closed at dusk, only necessary outings, and the constant sense that Calder was out there, waiting to strike again.

On the last night of the first week, while Riley and Wade were mid-match and Logan was leafing through a book on the armchair—leveling up, ever so slightly, in Socializing—Wade’s phone rang.
A familiar name lit the screen: Weasel.

He paused the game and arched a brow.
“Well, look who finally calls,” he murmured, swiping and putting it on speaker. “Weasel, buddy, tell me you’ve decided to visit our newlywed love nest.”

The first thing he heard wasn’t his friend’s usual swagger, but ragged breathing.
“Wade…” Weasel’s voice was wrecked, taut. “Listen, not a good time for jokes…”

A hard thud cut him off, and a pained groan bled through.
“Listen up, motor-mouth,” an unfamiliar voice said, taking the phone. “We want Wolverine and you to bring Turner to your buddy’s back room. You’ve got ten minutes before I start pulling his nails.”

Wade went completely still, eyes fixed on the floor, as Logan snapped his book shut and watched him.
Riley snatched the phone and spoke into it, voice brash and fearless.
“Listen, asshole. If you touch so much as a cuticle on the scrawny one, you’ll regret being born.”

“Scrawny what?!” yelped the victimized voice.
A brief silence, broken by a kidnapper’s stifled laugh.
“Okay, kitty. I like you—but not enough to let your pal keep all his fingers.” A knife clicked open right by the mic. “Ten minutes. If you’re late, we start with the right hand.”

The call cut.

Still staring at the floor, Wade slid the phone into his pocket, slow.
“Well… That was, without a doubt, the worst bar invite I’ve had in my life.”

Logan was already on his feet, dumping the book and heading for his room.
“Riley, move,” he ordered. “We’re going, but we’re not handing you over. I’ll give you some weapons.”

Wade lifted a hand, as if calling for time.
“Wait. It’s past time I patched up my Deadpool suit.”

Logan came out with a handgun, a pair of daggers, and a belt to sheathe all three—pausing to laser Wade with a look.
“No. We go as we are.” His voice was dry, sharp, commanding. “Not the freaking moment to start sewing costumes.”

He handed the belt to Riley and added, without softening:
“And stop screwing around, Wade. We have ten minutes.”

Ten minutes to get there.
And maybe a lifetime to get out.

Chapter Text

Weasel was tied to an old chair with a rough rope biting into his wrists.
The yellowish light of a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered above his head, swaying just enough to throw moving shadows and make the place look even creepier than it already was.
He was surrounded by four hooded guys. One of them—very tall with huge hands—was inspecting a switchblade, tilting it under the light to make sure it was sharp.

“You know,” Weasel said to them, “this is the closest I’ve ever been to an escape room.”
The knife guy glanced up for a second, humorless.
“Don’t get cute.”
“Okay, don’t hit me! I’m just terrified and needed to vent. My friend Wade does this kind of thing.”

Another man stepped in front of him.
“You know what will be funny? When you try to masturbate without fingers. Because no girl’s ever gonna touch you.”
Weasel arched a brow and let out a dry little laugh.
“I’m offended. I can have sex whenever I want. Except at the end of the month, when I’m broke.”

One of the hooded men snorted, and the knife guy checked the wall clock, its tick-tock looping and filling the silences.
“You’ve got one minute before you start out with nine fingers.”

The warehouse’s back door suddenly flew open with a kick, slamming the wall so hard every hooded head snapped in unison.
In the doorway, Wade appeared first, katanas in hand, silhouette cut out by the dim streetlight—though the bare face and a pink T-shirt with a glittery-maned pony did sabotage the gravitas.

“Hiiiiii!” he chirped, twirling the katanas by their hilts. “Is this the Anonymous No-Fingers meeting, or did I hit the wrong venue?”
It was obvious the words “Deadpool” and “serious” don’t coexist in the same sentence.

Behind him, Logan came in slowly, like a predator sizing up prey, claws already out and eyes locked on the knife man.
Riley shut the door behind them and drew the gun. She stared the kidnappers down.
“You have exactly three seconds to let him go,” she warned, voice steady and firm.

The knife man gave a crooked smile, raking Riley up and down without shame.
“So you’re the famous Riley Turner. First time I’ve seen one in person. No wonder the boss is hunting you across the multiverse. With that bitch face I feel like filling it with—”

Wade let out a long, descending whistle.
“Bro… if I were you, I wouldn’t go after this chick. One kick and she can kill three incels, and she’s packing heat.”

Logan didn’t even blink, but the murder-spark in his eyes said plenty.
“We’re all here. You letting him go, or do we have to kill you all?”

The knife man kept his gaze on Riley for a beat. Then he clicked his tongue and moved behind Weasel, slicing the rope cleanly.
Weasel stood shakily, rubbing his hands, shooting a quick look at Wade.
“Run,” Wade told him, unusually serious. “I’ll close up the bar.”

Weasel didn’t hesitate: he bolted for the door, tripped once, recovered, and vanished into the street.

The knife man slowly spun the blade between his fingers.
“Good deed done. Now for what we came for.”
One hooded thug stepped forward.
“The boss wants the girl—and you two while we’re at it,” he rumbled. “He’s not thrilled you slipped away.”

Logan stepped up, his claws catching the bulb’s light.
“Then he can come get us himself.”
“He’s a little busy,” another replied. “You know… other Rileys. Said he’s got one and he’s handling her in another universe.”

Deadpool clicked his tongue.
“You villains and your compulsive over-sharing. Then you complain when the good guys win.”

Words ended there. Logan charged first, straight at the knife man; claws hit metal in a shower of sparks—no give, because that blade was adamantium, too.
Wade lunged at another hood, firing point-blank, but the bullet barely staggered him before a punch launched Wade onto a table, splintering wood.
Riley clenched her teeth and moved fast, dodging the first takedown swing. She fired twice, but the chest shots landed like she’d fired at a wall. He grabbed her arm with inhuman strength and hurled her into a shelving unit, which collapsed in a rain of bottles, glass, and liters of sticky liquid flooding the floor.

The biggest thug slammed Logan against the wall, pinning his throat with a forearm while eating punch after punch to the ribs.
Wade tried to carve some space with his katana, but another hood dropped him with a kick to the gut.

Riley’s body went taut. Air burned in her lungs from the impact; the room spun. One thought flooded everything as she pushed up:
Get out.
Run.
Don’t die.

Her hand shot up on instinct—and something inside her ignited, like it had always been there, waiting.
A bluish flash opened in the air, an oval crackling like flame.
An interdimensional portal.

“This way!” she shouted without thinking.

Logan and Wade didn’t hesitate. Explanations could wait. They shook off their enemies and dove through the portal with her.
The big thug stretched out an arm to snatch Riley just as she crossed last—and the rim snapped shut, severing the limb at the shoulder.
His scream was left behind, along with the limp arm that thudded onto the floor of the other reality where the three of them sprawled in a heap.

Wade pressed his forehead to the ground, squashed under Logan and Riley, and groaned theatrically.
“Okay… if this was a surprise orgy, I’d like a refund.”

Riley pushed off Logan first, standing and looking around.
The portal was gone; the only proof it had existed was that severed arm on the barren ground, now drenched in a pool of blood.

“I… I did that,” she said quietly, almost to herself.
She looked at her palms, inspecting every inch of skin, searching for any trace of whatever magic had just flung them across realities.

Logan—off of Wade now, to the latter’s mixed sorrow and relief—stepped up to her.
“Is that my superpower?” she asked, hands still up. “Opening portals?”
“Could be…” He scratched his neck, thinking. “How’d you do it?”
“Honestly? I don’t know. I just needed to. Like if I asked you how you manage to talk. You just… do.”

Wade got to his feet with a grunt, dusting off the pony shirt and eyeing their surroundings warily.
“Not the superpower I’d expect from a mutant, but… you saved our asses. Which officially makes you my new favorite heroine. Also means we’ve got a serious problem, because I have no idea where the hell we are.”

Logan turned in a slow circle, taking in the arid landscape.
“Not your universe, Wade, that’s for sure.”
The antihero also turned and pointed at the severed arm lying where the portal had been seconds before.
“Well… at least we got a souvenir.”

Riley scanned the distance. Not far off, ruined buildings rose—the remains of a city that had collapsed long ago. Some were split in half; others leaned like they might fall any second. Among the wreckage sat rusted cars, piled up, flipped, or half-buried in dust. The sky, a dirty gray, made everything look even more desolate.
“Great. We’re in Fallout,” Riley said drily.
“Not for long,” Logan replied, looking at her. “Open another portal—take us home.”

She nodded, closing her eyes to focus.
She still didn’t understand how she’d done it before. But if it was as natural as breathing, she just had to… do it.
She opened her eyes, shifted her fingers toward a vague point in front of her.

Nothing. No sparks, no threads of magic pouring from her fingertips, not even a hint of the supernatural.
Wade tilted his head, watching like a judge at a bad magic show.
“Mmm… what if you try again but think happy thoughts? You know—chimichanga dinner, the furry in a thong…”

“Don’t point that finger at me, Wade,” the furry in question threatened.
“Why? Is pointing bad now?”
“It’s not just rude,” Logan growled. “It’s worse when you’re pointing at someone with a severed arm from one of Calder’s goons.”

Deadpool looked at the big thug’s arm he was holding—the limp index finger aimed right at Logan.
“Technically, it’s not his anymore. So now it’s our arm.”
Logan glared.
“Drop it.”
“And pass up the chance to spank myself with it?” He showed his palm. “Look at that mitt! No riding crop compares.”

Another look from Logan and Wade finally gave in, letting it thump into the dust and kick up a little cloud.
“Okay…” Riley sighed. “I think my magic only works when I’m in danger.”
Logan nodded slightly, as if confirming the theory.
“Then we assume getting home won’t be easy.”

Wade joined them.
“If Turner needs a good scare to go full lady Doctor Strange, I can think of a few pranks worthy of TikTok.”

With little else to do, they started toward what was left of the city. Gravel, grit, and unidentifiable scraps crunched underfoot while the wind dragged dust and trash along.
As they reached the first shattered streets, posters appeared on crumbling walls and bent lampposts. Old and tattered, but clear enough to recognize the face on them:
Riley, expression grim, under a big red “WANTED.”

Wade stopped at one, leaning in to get a better look.
“Well, well…” He peeled it off the lamppost, which had been barely holding it by a gummy corner, the paper fluttering in the wind. “And this photo, Turner? You’re the only person I know who looks good in their ID.”

“That’s not me,” she said. “Must be the Riley those guys mentioned—the one Calder captured.”
A distant metallic hum began to bleed through the gusts.
Logan sharpened his hearing.
“We’re not alone.”

Far away, a red light flared between the ruins and started moving toward them.
The trio tensed. Logan unsheathed his claws, slicing the air with a metallic hiss. Wade drew his katanas, muttering something like, “Let’s see if Riley gets scared and zaps us home,” and Riley pulled the daggers sheathed on the weapons belt Logan had given her in the apartment.

The red light strengthened, strobing as the metallic noise grew.
Out of the ruins and dust stomped a combat drone: a bipedal robot as tall as Logan and Wade, metal casing scored with scratches. Every step echoed like a hollow hammer blow, mechanisms squealing with each movement.
It stopped a few meters away. Its “face,” a circular plate of sensors, tipped toward them. A blue beam shone from its center, projecting a hologram into the air: Riley’s face—the same one from the posters—floating above the ground. Then the head turned to the flesh-and-blood Riley, as if cross-checking ID.
“Target acquired,” it announced in a flat metallic voice.

Logan stepped forward, but a deep hum cut the air before he could move further.
From the side, a burst of energy slammed into the robot, making its lights flicker.
A second, stronger blast sent it reeling. Through the smoke, a armored figure descended from a shattered building, boot thrusters flaring.
A red-and-gold suit.

“Old-school it is,” said an unmistakable voice inside the helmet, slightly distorted, as the right gauntlet glowed with energy pooling in the palm.
The next beam slipped between the drone’s shoulder and arm plates; it crackled and collapsed in a heap.

Behind him, a man slid down a rope from the rooftop—holding a shield that had seen better days: scratched, dented, caked in dust. Still, he held it firm.
The man in the armor turned to him.
“Cap, we found her.”

Chapter Text

The drone’s smoke was still fading when Wade froze, staring at the newcomer with the shield.
“Oh… my… god,” he whispered, bringing both hands to his bare face. “It’s Cap! Captain freaking America!”
He took a couple of nervous steps toward him, excited like a fan at a concert.
“Ohhh Cap, my Dora the Explorer panties are soaking right now!”
“Your what?!” Logan blurted, looking disgusted.
But Wade ignored him, entirely focused on the man in blue.

“Wait… are you the real Cap, or one of those weird versions? Because I don’t want to screw up like in the movie, you know…” He gestured with his hand. “All like, ‘Hey, Captain,’ and turns out it’s Johnny Storm.”
“I’m me,” Captain America answered calmly. “The real one. Well—one of many universes, but yeah.”
Wade looked him up and down, just to make sure.
“Holy mother of—!”
“Language,” Steve snapped instinctively, frowning.
Wade spun toward Logan and Riley, throwing both thumbs up.
“YES! It’s our Cap! Captain Virgin America!”
The metallic voice of the armor behind them echoed.
“Virgin? Please. He’s as much a virgin as I am humble.”

The armor opened with a mechanical hiss, and out stepped Tony Stark, flawless as ever in a dark tailored suit.
He landed gracefully, adjusted his jacket, and eyed the trio.
“Tony… Stark…” Riley stammered, half in awe. She’d suspected it, seeing the armor—but still hadn’t believed it until now. “Holy shit. Okay, now my panties are wet.”
The billionaire gave them a quick once-over, pausing briefly on Wade.
“Well, well. Little Pony,” he said, pointing at the pink shirt. “Didn’t know you’d traded leather for kindergarten cotton, Deadpool. Bold choice.”
“It’s retro, Stark. Not everyone can strut around in a tin can.”
“Anyway…” Logan cut in, frowning. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Saving your asses, that’s what,” Tony replied, pulling a heart-shaped lollipop from his pocket. He unwrapped it with deliberate calm and popped it into his mouth.

Steve slung his shield across his back and stepped closer to Riley, studying her face for a second before speaking.
“You’re from another universe, aren’t you? You’re not our Riley.”
She swallowed and nodded slightly.
“Yeah. I opened a portal for the first time… ended up here by accident.”
Tony, still sucking on the lollipop, stepped beside Steve.
“That explains why Calder’s drones almost turned you into a photo shoot. Around here, if you breathe without his permission, you’re a target. And if you look like Riley, you’re basically doomed.”
Steve nodded.
“All drones here answer to Calder. Doesn’t matter if they’re recon, combat, or glorified scrap collectors—they all bear his mark. Since you’re in the system, it’s just a matter of time before he sends more after you.”
Wade raised his hand.
“Translation: time to haul ass.”
“Follow us,” Steve ordered. “We’ve got a bunker outside drone range. You’ll be safer there.”

Without wasting time, the group left the city outskirts. The ground turned cracked and dry beneath their boots, wind kicking up small spirals of dust. In the distance, jagged rock formations rose against the dim horizon.
As they walked, Steve spoke again.
“About twenty-four hours ago, our Riley went out for supplies. We told her it was dangerous, that Calder’s drones never rest…” He frowned. “She didn’t listen.”
Tony, now back in his armor and walking behind them, added:
“Our Riley’s stubborn as hell. Waited till we looked away, then bolted. Didn’t want us risking our necks for her.”
Wade glanced at his Riley and smirked.
“Well… your twin’s got some serious balls.”
Tony continued,
“When she didn’t come back—and we couldn’t reach her—we figured Calder’s guys grabbed her. So we went looking. That’s when we ran into you.”
“Well, bad news,” Logan said gruffly. “They’ve already got her.”
“Yeah,” Wade nodded. “His goons bragged about it. Classic villain move—monologue first, die later.”

Steve and Tony exchanged a quick, grim look.
“Then we don’t have time,” Steve said firmly, quickening his pace. “We get this Riley safe, then we go after ours.”
“But—!” Riley protested. “I want to help!”
“Trust me,” Tony said through the armor’s speakers, “you wouldn’t last a minute out there. Stay in the bunker with the others.”

As they neared the rocks, Tony continued:
“Calder’s trying to extract her power. If he succeeds, we’re screwed. He’ll be able to move troops between worlds—undetected, unrestricted.”
“But he told us he wanted to kill her,” Logan snapped.
“That’s what happens when he experiments on them,” Steve said quietly. “Most don’t survive. His real goal is capture and extraction. And since Rileys keep fighting back, killing two birds with one stone suits him fine.”
“Exactly,” Tony added. “So let’s find your twin before Calder plugs her into something.”

Steve pointed toward a large rock formation ahead.
“There. That’s our entrance.” He looked at Riley. “Let’s move.”
The group approached a narrow crevice that concealed a hidden metal panel camouflaged with sand and stone.
“Neat. A secret door in Mordor,” Wade muttered. “Hope there’s a minibar inside.”
“We have booze,” Tony replied. “But the brandy’s mine, Little Pony.”
Steve removed a few stones, keyed a code into the panel, and the ground opened with a metallic hiss, revealing stairs descending into darkness.
“Inside. Quickly.”

The door shut behind them with a clang, and dim lights flickered on along a narrow metal corridor that led into a wider chamber—part command center, part living room. Old but comfy sofas, a cluttered table, walls of screens, and doors to private quarters. Warm, soft lighting made the place feel oddly homey.
“Uh…” Riley muttered. “Are we sure this isn’t Fallout?”
Tony stepped out of the armor. “Sorry to disappoint, no radroaches.”

Two men emerged from one of the side rooms. The first tall, wearing dark glasses; the second bulkier, bearded, arms crossed.
“Guys, meet Matt Murdock,” Steve said, gesturing, “and Frank Castle.”
Wade nearly tripped over himself.
“Holy crap, Eider’s going full fanservice! What’s next, Hugh Jackman in a thong? Sign me up!”
Frank sighed, relief flickering across his face.
“Damn, Riley, you scared the hell out of us.”
Matt tilted his head slightly, attentive.
“She’s not our Riley,” he said calmly. “Her breathing, her steps… even her posture’s different.”
Frank frowned. “Looks the same to me.”
“We’re from another universe,” Logan explained curtly. “Yours is in Calder’s hands.”
Matt nodded, already thinking ahead. “Then we move fast.”

Tony dropped the dead lollipop stick into a glass full of others, plugged a small drive into a sleek machine, and his fingers began flying over the keyboard. Green light flickered over his eyes as data streamed across the screens.
“Filtering drone activity… 24-hour window…” he murmured.
A 3D map appeared—grey ruins dotted with blue patrol lights.
“These green lines are the zones Cap and I cleared. Red zones: untouched.”
He zoomed in on a dense cluster of wrecked buildings.
“If I were Calder, I’d hide there. Weak satellite coverage, heavy interference, pain-in-the-ass access.”
“If she’s alive,” Steve said, leaning over, “she’s there. If not…”
Tony turned to face him. “Then we search till we know.”
He straightened, commanding. “Matt, Frank—ready in two. Tony, suit up.”
“Roger that,” Tony said, the armor sealing around him piece by piece.

Matt vanished and returned in the Daredevil suit; Frank armed himself with military precision.
“I’m going,” Logan said.
“Me too,” Wade added.
“And me!” Riley joined in.
“No way,” Logan growled. “Your face is plastered all over the city.”
She scowled, but he didn’t let her argue.
“And you,” he told Wade, “stay here. Watch her.”
“What, you don’t trust me to be subtle in this shirt?” Wade pointed proudly at the pink pony.
Logan ignored him.

Steve stayed at the console.
“I’ll monitor you from here. Check in at the perimeter.”
“Copy that, sweetheart,” Tony replied.

As the team disappeared down the corridor, Wade and Riley blinked in unison.
“DID HE JUST CALL YOU SWEETHEART?!” they both shouted.
Steve turned in his chair, smiling faintly. “Of course. We’re together.”
Wade clutched his head, jumping in place.
“OH MY GOD, I KNEW IT! STONY IS CANON IN THIS UNIVERSE! THANK YOU, EIDER!”
He looked up, shouting at the ceiling like it was God. “FINALLY, NO MORE STARKER FANFICS!”
Riley and Steve just stared, confused.
“And tell me, blondie…” Wade leaned closer. “…who’s the top? Because Stark’s got that pillow-biter face—”
Steve flushed red. “I’m not answering that.”
Riley smacked Wade’s arm. “Don’t be rude!”

Then, turning serious, she asked Steve,
“Tony said something about Calder using our powers to travel freely between worlds. What did he mean?”
“You don’t know?” Steve asked.
“Considering I found out about my powers an hour ago, no.”
Steve leaned forward.
“Yours is organic. You were born with it. No device, no external source, no trace. You open a portal, it’s stable, instant, and invisible. Calder’s gun leaves an energy trail we can track; yours doesn’t. Once your portals close, they’re gone—as if they never existed.”
He straightened, tone firm.
“You could open them anywhere—even in zones his tech can’t reach. And if you train, you’ll control destinations precisely. That’s why he wants you. With your power, Calder could move unseen across the multiverse.”
Wade snapped his fingers.
“So that’s why he’s hunting Rileys and not Doctor Stranges.”

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “You’ve both been through enough. Get some rest. Rooms are down the hall.”
“Important question, Cap,” Wade said. “Where’s the minibar?”
Steve sighed. “Kitchen’s stocked. Water, soda, coffee.”
“Booze?”
“Cabinet above the sink. Brandy’s Tony’s.”
“Copy that. Brandy sacred. Everything else, fair game.” He turned to Riley, grinning.
“You heard him, babe—private party in our room!”
She chuckled. “You’re a disaster.”
“A sexy, adorable disaster,” he corrected, pointing at his shirt. “Come on before Cap tucks us in with warm milk.”

They followed the hallway, lights flickering on above them. At the end, Wade peeked into a small room.
“Voilà! Two decent beds, ugly table, grandma lamp… perfect for a booze fest.”
Riley dropped her backpack on one bed, testing the mattress.
“At least it’s not straw.”
“Mmm… straw…” Wade closed his eyes. “Been so long since I had a—”
“How long?”
“A day.”

He darted off, returning minutes later loaded with half-empty bottles, two mismatched glasses, and an open bag of chips.
“Ta-daa! Time to lose control like teenagers!”
He poured generous drinks.
“Don’t worry, I didn’t touch the brandy. Little Pony’s honor.”
He handed her a glass.
“To Rileys who open portals—and to Stony canon.”
Riley laughed, clinking glasses.
“Cheers, Wade.”

They drank. Wade grimaced.
“Ugh… tastes like cheap whiskey. Fits the decor though.”
He grabbed chips, chewing loudly.
“If this place were a bar, you’d order ‘the usual’ and they’d serve you mystery brown liquid.”
Riley laughed softly. “Don’t get too comfy. In life’s basement, there’s always another floor below.”
“Creepy metaphor,” he said, raising a brow. “Either emo poetry or Silent Hill—can’t decide which is scarier.”
She rolled her eyes and stole a chip.
“You’re talking to a millennial with trauma, dead relatives, and a front-row seat to late-stage capitalism. Don’t expect Mr. Wonderful quotes.”
“Touché,” Wade said, swirling his drink. “At least you’re honest. Most people just cover the crap in glitter and call it motivation.”
He stared at the whiskey for a beat, voice softening. “That’s why I like being around you. No pretending.”

Riley smiled gently.
“You act like you wear a mask, but it’s not your Deadpool one—it’s humor.”
He laughed hoarsely. “Admirable? Nah. People already see me as a monster. Why fake being normal?”
He rubbed his neck. “Vanessa left me, and since then… no one can look at me for more than five seconds. They either flinch or pity me. So yeah—jokes are easier than showing this face.”
She met his eyes. “You’re wrong. You hide behind jokes, but that doesn’t make you less. You’ve got mashed-potato-horse-vomit face, sure—but you’re still amazing.”
He burst out laughing. “Top three insults ever. Congrats.”

Then the laughter faded. His eyes lingered on hers.
“And yet… you’re one of the few who says that without it hurting. You don’t look away.”
His voice dropped. “Since Vanessa, no one’s looked at me the way she did—until now.”
He forced a grin. “All I want is someone who’ll stay. With the jokes, with the scars… just stay.”
“That someone’s definitely not Logan,” she teased.

He went quiet. Riley hesitated, then reached up and cupped his cheek. Her hand was soft, steady. No flinch, no hesitation.
“Wade,” she whispered, “you’re an incredible person. And anyone who can’t see that can go to hell.”
He blinked, stunned by the touch, and didn’t pull away.
“Damn…” he murmured, a real smile breaking through. “You’re gonna make me cry—and ugly crying’s not my best look.”
He leaned slightly closer. “You know how rare it is for someone to touch me like this? Like I’m not disgusting?”
He let out a shaky laugh. “You were right. Humor’s my mask. And you just tore it off.”

Riley leaned in slowly. The air thickened. Their breath mingled.
Her lips brushed his—light, tentative, asking.
He froze for half a second, then tilted his head just enough to answer. The kiss deepened, tender and slow, full of everything Wade never said out loud.

Chapter Text

The kiss turned real—soft, careful, tinged with the uncertainty of someone who hadn’t let themselves be truly touched in a long time.
When he pulled back just a breath, Wade managed a shaky half-smile.
“If this is a dream, not even the furball with a hangover gets to wake me up.”

He kept his forehead resting against Riley’s, breathing deep, fingers finding the edge of the blanket like he needed something to hold on to while he decided whether to jump or not.
“Just let yourself feel it,” she whispered, eyes closed and smiling for real, her hand sliding to the back of his neck. She held him there lightly as her lips returned to his.

A short breath—almost a stifled moan—escaped him when he felt her hand at his nape. The doubt vanished: this time he kissed her with intent, eyes shut, giving himself to the heat of the moment. His mouth moved on hers with a mix of pent-up hunger and gentleness, like he was afraid to push too far and yet couldn’t help needing more.
His free hand lifted, tracing her jawline before cupping her cheek, tenderness at odds with the mercenary image he wore everywhere else.

He broke away only long enough to breathe, a rough laugh slipping out.
“Goddamn… You’re way better than cheap whiskey.”

His mouth found hers again, more sure now—like permission had been granted. He leaned into her, closing the distance, letting himself slide to the very edge of the inevitable. His hands drifted from her cheek to her waist, squeezing softly as if testing the ground. With a slow, steady motion, he rolled Riley onto her back, guiding her until she lay against the mattress.

He propped some of his weight on his arms so he wouldn’t crush her and looked down with that crooked smile that always hovered between cocky and vulnerable.
“Knew we’d end up here,” he teased in a whisper, his breath brushing her lips. “Didn’t know it’d feel this fucking perfect.”

Then he kissed her hard—hunger unleashed—like the need he’d been holding back for days had finally broken its dam. His lips were greedy, but his body stayed tuned to hers, answering every tiny shift, every shared breath.

“Cut the sap,” she joked, mostly to bleed the tension, not because his words bothered her.

She grabbed the hem of Wade’s pony tee and peeled it up over his head, slow, then tossed it to the floor.
The lamplight exposed his torso, scars mapping every contour like a chaotic atlas.

“’Bout time somebody appreciated my sexy fried-chicken skin,” he cracked, though his eyes never left hers, searching for a flinch that never came.

His fingers settled at her hip, thumb grazing the fabric of her shirt. He dipped again, kissing her harder, then trailed down to her jaw, lower to her neck, like he wanted to memorize every inch.

The contrast pulled a soft, involuntary sound from Riley, a little moan that vibrated against his mouth when he found her skin again. Wade smiled at the sound, breathing warm air over her before continuing downward, savoring every reaction he pulled from her.

“You’re taking your sweet time getting this shirt off me, asshole…” Riley teased between breaths.

“Oh, sorry, was that an order or a battle cry?” he murmured, stealing a quick kiss before he shifted up to grab her shirt.

He lifted it in no hurry, letting his knuckles drag over her skin on purpose, and when it joined his on the floor he braced one hand beside her ribs and traced her waist with the other.
“Much better,” he whispered, hovering his mouth over hers without quite kissing, making her wait a few beats.

Riley had on a plain, worn, gray sports bra—casual and not remotely “porn set” chic—and she regretted it a second after noticing.
“Sorry I didn’t wear my sexy lace set,” she joked. “Honestly I’m better off naked.”

Wade glanced down at the bra, then back up, one eyebrow cocked.
“Trust me, babe,” he breathed at her ear, “after this long the only thing hotter than seeing you in that… is seeing you in nothing.”

He nipped playfully at her earlobe, warm breath melting into the sensitive skin of her neck. His hand slid from her waist up, rough fabric under his fingers, then cupped with care.
“And for the record,” he added, mouth barely brushing hers, “I’m the lucky bastard with Riley Turner under me. Lace, cotton, a potato sack—I don’t care.”

She laughed and swatted his ass through his pants, the slap dulled by the fabric she very much wished he wasn’t still wearing.
“Then why are we still dressed at all, pretty boy?”

Wade chuckled at the smack, but his smile wobbled when he heard her words. His gaze dropped to the pants like they’d just tripled in weight. He swallowed, rubbed the back of his neck, and looked aside for a beat.
“Yeah… well…” he tried for breezy, but it came out rough. “Naked-naked is… a different league.” He leaned in, patching over the snag with a quick kiss, but his breathing gave him away. “It’s not the same as joking about my mug and then showing the rest. No Photoshop for scars.”

Riley slid a hand between their bodies, circling his chest with her fingertips.
“This,” she said, giving a firmer press to make it clear she meant him, “I like. Nothing you show me is going to change that. Unless your dick’s spaghetti-thin,” she teased, then winced at her own gamble. “And if it is… hey, with tomato sauce it’s pretty great.”

A rough laugh rumbled out of him, tension easing from his shoulders as he shook his head.
“Spaghetti? Come on, Riley—give me some credit. Think… a well-stuffed cannelloni.”

His hand drifted along her side back to her hip, eyes still shadowed with doubt even behind the joke.
“What I’m saying is… when you see all of me, you see the rest of the crap that came with it,” he murmured. “And that’s what usually wrecks things.” He swallowed and brushed a small kiss at the corner of her mouth. “But if you say it doesn’t matter… maybe I start believing you.”

“Start right now.”

She kissed him, heat folding them together as their tongues met. She wrapped her arms low around his back and tugged, making Wade drop onto her.

The thud knocked half a breath from her, but she recovered fast.
“And… after nearly dying crushed…” she joked, gulping air.

Wade planted his elbows to either side of her, lifting just enough not to flatten her.
“Easy there, Turner.” He grinned between panting breaths. “I’m not adding ‘killing Riley mid-fuck’ to my résumé. Got enough on it already.”

He kissed her again, a make-good, while his hand slid from her hip to her thigh.
Riley smiled and panted at once, already anticipating where those hands were going.
“You wanna take off my bra and be disappointed?” she teased. “I’m not the only one who doesn’t fit the beauty standards.”

Wade arched a brow, laughter rasping against her lips.
“Disappointed?” His hand climbed slowly up her side, stopping under the bra’s band. “Riley, please. The only way you disappoint me right now is if you’ve got another shirt under this.”

He kissed the curve of her jaw, the other hand cradling her face. When he pulled back a breath, that crooked smile carried something earnest.
“And there isn’t a beauty standard in the multiverse I could give less of a shit about.”

She guided his hands to the elastic band, and he let her, swallowing audibly as the fabric gave. He eased it up, inch by inch, until she was free. The bra fell to the floor with the rest, forgotten.

His eyes traced what she’d revealed.
Her breasts were small and firm—modest, real—pale skin smooth, nipples pebbled pink from arousal and the room’s cool air.
She wasn’t a magazine spread, didn’t need to be. She was here, close, beautiful because she wasn’t cut to any fake mold.

“Holy shit…” he breathed before meeting her gaze again. “See? Zero disappointment.”

She lifted a brow like she was weighing whether to buy it, saying nothing.
He tipped his head, reading the flicker of doubt.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he whispered, fingers drifting from her waist to the undercurve of her breast, barely brushing sensitive skin. “If I could be disappointed by this, I’d deserve to get hit by a truck.”

He bent and kissed the hollow of her collarbone, then lower, until his lips touched the edge of soft skin.
Riley shivered, eyes shutting, focusing on the heat of his breath edging toward one of her sweet spots.

He kissed a little lower, mouthing the taut skin at the breast’s border. Her shiver was all the permission he needed. His hand slid from her waist to cup her carefully, molding with the softness of someone who knows this is sacred ground.

Warm mouth and firmer hand—the mix pulled a held-back moan from her. Wade smiled against her, kissing around the nipple before catching it between his lips and sucking slow, peppering gentle nips with lazy strokes of his tongue.

His other hand traveled down her side to grip her thigh like an anchor while that unhurried rhythm drew fresh responses from her.

“F-fuck…” she gasped, clutching the sheets. “I… fuck, my nipples drive me crazy…”

Wade looked up just enough to smirk, lips still on her.
“Adding that to ‘Turner’s guaranteed cheat codes,’” he murmured, letting the hum of his voice buzz her nipple.

He circled it with his tongue, savoring every flutter, then moved to the other, same patient worship: soft kisses, a playful nip, then the firmer pull that arched her off the bed.

The hand on her thigh crept higher, fingers pressing at her waistband, testing without haste if he could go further.

“Do it…” she ordered—or tried to. It came out more plea than command. “If I don’t say no, do whatever you want.”

He paused, lips still ghosting her sensitive skin, like engraving those words in memory. He swallowed, a rough breath fanning her, then lifted his head just enough to meet her eyes.
“Careful what you wish for, Turner…” His voice dropped, darker, carnal, at odds with how tender he was.

His fingers slid under her waistband, brushed the fabric of her panties first, then eased both down. He marked the path with wet kisses from her breast to her belly, slow, deliberate, a promise of what was next.

She helped push pants and underwear off together, baring herself completely. The bundle slid away to join the pile, and Wade stopped his trail just above her pubic bone.

Her sex lay open in the low light: small, rosy inner lips peeking between soft outer ones; clit tucked beneath its hood, just visible enough to betray how it was swelling; a fine trace of hair on her mound, trimmed neat, the rest smooth and sensitive.

The unvarnished detail against the cleanliness of the rest made her feel even more real, more her. Wade let out something almost reverent.
“Holy God…” he whispered, like the sight stole his air.

Her fingers found his bare scalp and pressed lightly, an invitation to get lost.
His hands closed around her thighs, opening them gently. He lowered, kissing the inside of one leg, closer and closer, until his warm breath met the sensitive heat of her.

He paused, like committing her scent and image to memory, then kissed her mound, leaving a wet trail that drifted down to her lips.

His tongue came first in a slow, exploratory lick, tracing from bottom to top, tasting heat and slick that already gave her away. His grip on her thighs tightened, keeping her open for him, while his mouth dropped again, this time with more intent, gently catching one fold and sucking with a low, hungry sound. Her growing, less-contained sounds said yes.

He took his time—long licks, wet kisses—like every reaction was something to be savored.
When his tongue found the hood of her clit, he didn’t rush; he circled it softly, teasing, building the ache before settling there.

“Keep that up…” she gasped, legs trembling, “teasing like you’re about to touch it but playing around… asshole, I’m gonna come the second your tongue hits it.”

He smiled against her, the laugh vibrating through her.
“Then you better brace, Turner…” he murmured, before sealing his mouth over the hidden button.

He sucked firmly while his tongue worked in precise, steady circles—no hurry, no pause. One hand left her thigh to spread her gently, giving himself an even clearer path; the other clamped to her leg like he expected her to fly apart.

And she did. Riley slapped a hand over her mouth to keep the sounds from bleeding through the walls. Her legs quaked as Wade practically killed her with pleasure, eyes rolling back.

Just like she’d warned, it took barely half a minute before her hips lifted off the mattress, driven up by a bright, ripping wave that slammed through her, detonating into a burst she hadn’t felt in too long.

He didn’t pull away—he rode it with her, easing into softer pulls, tasting every spasm, every muffled gasp behind her palm. Only when she sagged a little, breath wild and body trembling, did he finally lift his head.

He looked at her, lips wet, that crooked, proud, wicked smile in place.
“And that, Turner… was just round one.”

Still panting, she removed her hand and traded the moans for breathy little laughs.
“And your ex dumped you, Wade? Biggest mistake of her life, no contest.”

He flopped onto his side next to her, still breathless from the intensity, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Well, you know…” he faked casual, eyes bright anyway. “Takes a special kind of crazy to handle an asshole like me twenty-four seven.” He shrugged, then added with a crooked grin, “But if you ask me? Yeah—grade-A mistake.”

He took her in, lingering on the residual tremor in her legs, voice dropping.
“Anyway… her loss, your orgasm. And trust me, I’ve got more.”

She rolled onto her side to face him, sweat beading her brow from what he’d just wrung out of her.
“You’re right. I want another orgasm—yours.”

No room for a quip: she surged up, decisive, hands going to his waistband. In seconds she was peeling his pants down before he could overthink it.

He opened his mouth for a joke, but her certainty shut him up.
When the pants cleared to reveal underwear beneath, Riley arched a brow and barked a disbelieving laugh.
“So it was true…” She pointed at the ridiculously bright print. “You’re wearing Dora the Explorer panties.”

Wade raised his hands in mock surrender.
“Yep. Panties. Women’s. Comfortable, breathable, and with more style than any boring boxer. Plus—” he glanced down and back up with a smirk— “not everyone can say Dora the Explorer got this close to a real adventure.”

The thin cotton stretched shamelessly, his erection pressing against the cheerful print, Dora’s smile pulled out of shape under the strain. It was as funny as it was explicit, and he owned it like everything else.

“I don’t think Dora’s surviving this,” Riley said, and dragged the fabric down.

The elastic gave slowly between her fingers, and his erection sprang free.

Wade’s cock was thick and generous, skin a shade darker than the rest of him, veins riding the shaft to the base. Long, hard, naturally curving slightly up. The head, swollen and tender, was a deeper pink, shining with pent-up arousal.

The mutation had left its print here too: a faint irregular roughness to the skin, a subtle textured relief. Not grotesque—raw, real, almost feral—as if even this carried the same scarred history as the rest of him.

Against the scars on his abdomen and thighs, it stood out even more—vigorous, alive, powerful amid the marks of battle. Wade swallowed, uncomfortable and proud at once, forcing a crooked smile.
“Told you I wasn’t spaghetti, Turner…” he said, voice low, humor barely masking how exposed he felt.

Seated beside him, she traced his length with her fingertips, lingering over the shape of him.
“I like it.” Her verdict came with a small, pleased smile, eyes flicking up to his before admiring him again. “Tell me how you like your dick sucked.” No filter, just direct. “Your turn to moan.”

“Fuck…” he breathed, swallowing as he took in how sure she was. “No warm-up, huh?”

He propped on his elbows, lifting to watch every second. His mouth curved, eyes gone dark with heat.
“Okay… you want the real version,” he said, drawing a breath like a confession. “It kills me when it starts slow. Kissing, licking from the base—tasting every inch like it’s the best thing on the menu.” He paused, letting it hang. “But what finishes me is when it goes all the way down, into the throat, and doesn’t stop even when I’m groaning like a bastard.”

Riley cut him off by pressing a wet kiss right at the base, where his belly scars began.
Wade arched with a deep grunt, surprised, and before he could crack a line her tongue was sliding the full length of him, bottom to top, slow.

“God… yeah, just like that,” he panted, teeth clenched as he watched her take her time.

She didn’t stop—kiss, lick, savor—like she was staking a claim.
At the head she sealed her lips around him, sucked gently, tasted for a beat, then drifted back down. Wade’s laugh broke into a ragged sound, already undone.
“Fuck, Turner… Your mouth was built for this.”

She took him again, deeper this time. At first halfway, learning the heft, then inch by inch until she felt him press the back of her throat.
Wade lost his grip— a guttural moan tore out of him, hands flying to the sheets, clawing for an anchor.
“Oh, fuck!” he gasped, voice thick with lust. “Take all of it, babe… Don’t stop… Make me yours.”

The tempo picked up—wet, rhythmic. Riley sank until he nearly disappeared in her throat, then drew back slow, tongue stroking him, alternating pulls that dragged more and more desperate sounds from him. He shut his eyes, breath out of control.
“You’re a fucking goddess…” he managed, voice wrecked. “You have no idea how hard it gets me watching you eat my cock like it’s yours.”

His hips started syncing to her, instinct taking over, small pushes toward her mouth, as if he needed more than he was already getting. One hand slid into her hair, twisting into an improvised ponytail, his fist firm. He tugged down gently, guiding her pace, burying himself each time she descended.
“That’s it… good girl…” he rasped, hips rocking. “All the way, fuck—that’s so good…”

Riley didn’t just follow; she dove into it.
Down and up, relentless, loving the heat and the rough texture rubbing her tongue and throat. Between strokes, her hand drifted lower, cupping his balls and rolling them softly, sparking a shudder that shot up his spine.

“Ah, fuck, Turner!” he panted, voice shaking. “You’re gonna blow my fuse… Keep going, don’t stop…”

Her eyes—mischief even with him buried in her mouth—flicked up to catch his. The sight of her, yielding and in control at once, disarmed him completely. His fingers tightened in her hair, setting a sloppy, desperate rhythm.

Wet sounds and the heat of her throat had him on the brink. His breathing fractured, body tensing like he was trying to hold back the inevitable.

He was right there, every nerve aflame as she devoured him, tongue mapping every ridge, fingers working him with sinful precision. He swallowed hard, gasping, and looked down at her, his hand still fisted in her hair.
“Turner… if I can finish in your mouth…” he choked out, voice shaking with urgency, “tell me yes… ah, shit, you can’t talk. Then—tap my thigh twice.”

Without breaking her rhythm, Riley lifted a hand and tapped twice.

“Sure?” he growled, jaw tight. “Two more if it’s a yes.”

She rolled her eyes—not in pleasure but in a silent “God, grant me patience with Wade”—and tapped again, still sealed around him, meeting his gaze with a defiant spark.

That broke him. A rough, deep sound ripped out of him as he tugged her hair a little harder and thrust all the way into her throat.
“Fuck, Riley…!” he roared, body shaking as the orgasm slammed through him.

The first pulse hit hard—hot, thick—spilling straight into her mouth.
His cock throbbed, pumping heavy surges with each clench of his lower belly. The textured skin went taut, and Wade came completely undone.
“Swallow… that’s it, swallow it all…” he muttered between groans, fingers firm in her hair like he needed her to hold him together.

Seconds stretched long; each wave intense enough to send a fresh shiver through him. His breath shattered into ragged gasps, body yielding while Riley kept licking, milking him until there was nothing left but a trembling aftershock.

When the pressure finally eased, Wade fell back onto the mattress, sweat-slick, chest heaving like he’d sprinted a marathon.
“You just… ruined my fucking life, Turner…” he managed, crooked grin caught between giddy laugh and spent collapse.

She crawled up over him on all fours, stopping above his face, mouth closed.
He looked up at her, still panting, half in disbelief at the sight of Riley prowling over him—naked, mischievous smile like she had a plan.
He raised his brows, amused and curious, still catching breath.
“What are you—”

She didn’t answer. She opened her mouth slowly over his face and let the load she’d held spill out—warm and thick across his features, sliding down his cheek, over his nose, to his chin.

He froze a beat, then barked a rough laugh. He licked shamelessly, tasting himself on his lips, and looked up at her with a wicked smile and lit eyes.
“Holy fuck…” he panted, licking again, messy and delighted. “You are the most perfect bastard I’ve ever met.”