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Logan notices the sticky notes a week after moving in.
He’s about to ask Althea where the hell Wade has gone so early in the morning, but as soon as the fridge clicks closed and he has his orange juice, he squints at the two bright yellow squares that hang below a picture of Dopinder beaming at the camera.
Braving the grocery store at 9 in the morning for you. Don’t miss me too much. -W
The other note, which—isn’t a fucking note at all, he realizes, is just a stick figure drawing of the two of them holding hands. It stares him right in the face.
And, well, he stares right back. Puts both hands on his hips and narrows his eyes at it, like that’ll do anything to calm the weird fucking feeling in his gut.
“Huh,” he grunts out. He leans back and peers into the living room as if Althea could even catch him staring a little too long, and when he doesn’t hear Wade trudging down the hallway, takes the notes from the door of the refrigerator and shoves them into his pocket.
It keeps happening.
Day after day, bleeding into weeks.
Sometimes it’s a be back later sweetums or a wear That flannel to dinner, you know the one, hot stuff or a terrible drawing of both of them suited up with hearts rising off of them like steam. Wade’s idea of jokes. It gets a laugh out of Logan while he gently peels them off and keeps them.
Other times, though, they’re deceptively sincere. They start off with an infuriating Hey, Wolvie and devolve into did you know you smile at my jokes now? And has anyone ever told you that you have the greatest one?
Those. Those feel heavy in his pocket. And when he adds them to the growing collection of neon squares that are hidden beneath one of his shirts, the feeling in his gut grows into something bigger. Rises, until it makes his chest feel light and heavy at the same time.
It makes him feel a little crazy, the image of Wade hunched over the kitchen table, scrawling out notes for him before he goes off and does whatever the hell he does. It makes him feel crazier when he realizes he starts to stand at the window, scanning the streets below their building for that damn red suit—that he’s waiting up for him like some housewife, Mary Puppins in his arms.
Wheel of Fortune is playing on the TV, he can hear the audience cheering and an I’d like to buy a vowel from some poor bastard contestant, and it’s then, that Althea speaks from right beside him.
“You gonna tell him anytime soon?”
“Jesus,” he jumps, and the movement makes Mary Puppins whine and pat at his chest, wanting down. He lets her go, and her nails skitter across the wooden floor. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m blind, Logan,” she says, tapping her glasses. “Not deaf. You’ve been pacing for twenty minutes in your loud ass boots, waiting up for him. Don’t tell me the Wolverine is too chicken shit to make a move.”
“Make a—there isn’t a move to make, lady—”
“Oh, don’t fuck with me. The sooner you get it together the better. I don’t wanna hear Wade whining about it anymore, either. Shit.”
There’s a groan as she plops back down on the couch a few moments later, and a quiet motherfucker as Mary Puppins licks at her face. Logan’s back to staring out the goddamn window like an idiot, except now he’s worked up and fidgety and needs a smoke.
Althea’s flipping through the channels now, and Logan—well, he can’t let it go.
He turns around, crosses his arms, and moves into the open space of the living room. “What has he been—”
The door opens, and Logan’s greeted with Wade in his suit, holding two greasy unlabeled brown paper bags. “Honeys, I’m home,” he sings out, pushing the bags into Logan’s arms, still fucking crossed, and he curses and untangles himself before they fall to the ground. “Set up the table for us, will you gorgeous?”
Wade’s already off to change, and Logan’s left talking to himself when he grunts out, “Yeah, okay, bub.”
He grabs three plates from the cabinet and sets the table, takes the burgers and fries from the bag and divides them up evenly, and by the time he’s pushing Althea’s chair in after her, Wade’s strolling in with his stupid sleep gear on, a shirt that says I ❤️ Cowboys and pajama pants a size too small with cats all over them.
“Jesus,” he says, “Never seen you wear those before.”
Wade smiles at him, sickeningly sweet, and turns to the side, smacking his own ass. “I know. I know, I know. Feel free to ogle. Or touch, if you’re feeling nasty.”
Althea turns in Logan’s general direction and sighs.
They eat, talk about their day, toss scraps to Mary Puppins. It’s nice.
About a month ago, Logan was getting shitfaced at a bar no one wanted him to be at. He could feel judgmental eyes on his back, staring daggers through him like he was the worst piece of shit on Earth. He felt fucking awful.
Today, he’s—happy. He’s not riddled with guilt and dread and whiskey. He’s laughing at truly fucked up jokes and petting a weird little dog who wants the rest of his burger so bad she’s shaking and making eyes at a guy he beat the shit out of and wrapped up in a seatbelt.
What a fucking couple of weeks. What a fucking life.
Althea retires off to bed and Wade follows Logan into the kitchen. He stands at the sink, cleaning off the first plate, and smiles to himself when Wade holds his hands out, ready to help. They’ve fallen into that—Logan cleaning, Wade drying.
“Soooo,” Wade sings out. Logan’s learned to brace himself when he hears that tone. He raises his eyebrow where he’s scrubbing down the next plate. When he looks over, Wade is avoiding eye contact, focused solely on the dish in his hand. “I noticed you received my love letters.”
It’s a damn miracle that Logan doesn’t shatter the plate in his hands. It creaks, though, under his grip, and he has to breathe in for a few seconds until it goes lax.
“I—the notes? On the fridge?” He asks. Like he couldn’t recite the damn things from memory. It’s not his fault; he hasn’t been interested in anyone in a long, long time. He doesn’t know how to be fucking normal about it.
”My love letters, yeah,” Wade confirms. Logan’s been cleaning this plate for too long but he can’t seem to move out of autopilot. “Crude drawings of us kissing, my deepest, queerest thoughts.”
Logan—doesn’t know how to do this. He grunts, like he’s being a good conversation partner. Laura would kick his ass if she saw him right now.
“Okay,” Wade says after a good twenty seconds of silence. Logan startles a little. “Which question do you want to answer? The one about why you’re cleaning that plate like it shit in your Lucky Charms or the one where you tell me if you want me to cool it with the flirting?”
Logan sets the plate down in the sink and turns the water off. His hands are soapy, and he focuses on flicking them dry until he can figure out something to say.
He turns to face Wade, sighing at the fucking look on his face, all crushed and a little pouty like maybe he’s afraid Logan is uncomfortable about it. Like he’s about to get claws in his sides.
“I can stop, if—”
Logan turns and starts walking to where all sixteen of them are hidden, under his favorite flannel in the drawer he took over. He grabs all of them, and when he gets back into the kitchen, tosses them at Wade’s face. They nail him with a soft smack, and plop to the ground.
Wade scrambles to pick all of them up, thumbing through them with a face laced with both confusion and relief. “You didn’t throw them away?”
“Nah. Kept ‘em,” Logan says. After a beat, he adds, “Because I liked ‘em.”
“Liked them,” Wade repeats. He’s doing the thing where he’s rocking on his heels, like he’d be bouncing off the walls if he wasn’t reeling his energy in. Logan likes him so damn much. The smile is audible in his voice when he whispers, “You liked them.”
“Like you, it turns out,” Logan tells him. Wade laughs breathlessly and Christ, did Logan really have to do this when he’s wearing this fucking outfit?
Wade puts both hands on his chest, over his dumb I ❤️ Cowboys shirt, and looks up at the ceiling. “Oh, the TVA has a copy of you saying that. I need it in my possession. Fuck, and I know B-15 would give me a tape of when your suit ripped off like I suddenly acquired telekinetic powers—”
“Wade,” Logan cuts in. He raises an eyebrow at how quickly it gets him to shut up. He files it away for later. He’s smiling when he says, “God, I hate to say all this while you’re wearing cat pajamas—”
“You love to say it while I’m wearing cat pajamas.”
Logan rolls his eyes and steps closer. He can hear Wade inhale. “Do you ever shut up?”
“I’m pretty sure you know the answer to that, peanut—”
Logan kisses him. He digs his fingers into Wade’s hips and swallows the sounds he’s making, kisses him like he fucking means it and pushes him into the counter, holds him still.
It feels good, kissing Wade. Wade feels good, where he’s touching on his chest, kissing him back as good as he’s getting it. It excites him as much as that fight in the goddamn car.
He pulls away, just a little, just to breathe, for a second, and pants into the small space between them.
Wade arches his back and points his attention back to the ceiling. “Give me this tape, too, but make sure you get what happens next!”
Logan rolls his eyes and pulls him back in.