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qodlysinz · 21 days ago

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Behind That Mask

—The Day of the Jackal—

Pairing: Alexander ��Jackal” Duggan x Reader

Summary: The Jackal can’t do much without the help of his trusty hacker—who incidentally flirts with him any chance she got. Jackal is displeased.

Tags: second person pov, female pronouns used, depictions of blood, mentions of guns and violence, fighting, swearing, light angst (like very light, blink and you’d miss it), heavy flirting, reader is a hacker and former MI6 agent, italics is dialogue through the comms, reader’s nationality isn’t mentioned so imagine whatever you want

A/N: The Jackal has like no fanfics and this idea came to me in a dream while I was watching the show. It’s very Penelope Garcia and the BAU but a bit more toned down because not everyone is like Miss PG 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ this idea was gonna be an oc initially but I decided the feed the people instead of let it collect dust in my archives like my ocs usually do

You click your pen meticulously as you examine the schematics of the building Jackal was currently in. You toggled one of the buttons, triggering the body heat sensor. A soft chuckle emitted from you as you saw Jackal’s figure carefully stalking through the building.

“People on your six,” you told him, setting the pen aside, “there’s a closet to your left, go in there till they pass.”

“Too many?” He guessed, his voice coming through the comms. You nodded, though he couldn’t see it, “bingo. About five people. Looks like three of them are carrying guns, and you don’t want to get into a gunfight.”

Jackal’s figure slipped into the closet, his breathing heavy as he waited for your command.

“So.” You started, resting your face in your hands as you stared blissfully at the screen. You heard Jackal sigh. “What do you wanna talk about?”

Jackal was quiet for a moment, but you saw his hand come to rub his temples through the screen. You rolled your eyes. “I have a job to do. No time for your incessant need to try and woo me.” He remarked.

“It’s not incessant,” you argued, “it’s called testing how well you handle distractions, J.” You tapped the side of your head with your finger, brows raised suggestively.

“Obviously I handle them well, otherwise I’d drop you.” He muttered under his breath. “Is it clear?”

You waited for a moment, humming, “not yet, they’re chatting, hold on for a bit.” You replied affirmatively. “Are you saying I’m too good to kill? Wow, what a compliment from your stoic self.”

“Didn’t say kill.” Jackal refuted. You nodded, letting out a soft laugh. Your eyes followed the men as they began to walk off. “You’re good to go.”

Jackal crept out of the closet and walked on through the building. “Where’s the target?” He asked.

You searched through the building, humming a quiet tune as you did so, “floor above you, room in the far-right corner.” You nodded.

You weren’t exactly sure what brought you to this. Helping the famed Jackal get his hits through. You hadn’t even seen his face—at least not without the ridiculous disguises. Not even in the three years you’ve been accomplices. He didn’t trust you yet, but that wasn’t much of a problem to you. If you were in his shoes, you wouldn’t even trust your own family.

Jackal always carried a phone with him; not one he needed to dispose of regularly like he used to. You had been kind enough to rig the phone he had to not be able to be used to track him or the people he was calling. Meaning, whenever you got a call from your lovely, emotionally constipated hitman, it wouldn’t even trace to you. Truly amazing handiwork, if you said so yourself.

A loud gunshot was heard through the comms. “Target down.” He spoke gruffly. His tone was always a bit more choked whenever he dropped a target, but he wasn’t the type to get all mushy and come to you of all people about it.

“Quick exit down the fire escape. Pull the fire alarm as you go, the craze will let you get away without any attention drawn.” You said, shifting to your next computer screen as you heard a ping. “The money is being wired to your account as we speak, Mary Poppins.”

Jackal grumbled at that, the fire alarm blaring as you heard the echo of his steps. “I’ll get back to you when I’m in the clear.” He stated. “Remember our protocol.”

“Roger.” You cut contact and stared at the picture. It was a composite drawing of the Jackal, or, at least what they thought he looked like. It could not have been more far off, and it made you chuckle. You pressed a button, clicking your keys as you sent it to his phone with an amused (and sarcastic) ‘wow I finally saw your face!!’

There had been numerous Jackal facial compositions over the years, and somehow they were all utterly terrible and looked nothing like Jackal, even if you hadn’t seen his true face, you knew he looked nothing like that. It was laughable, really.

Though, each time they popped up, you worked your magic and had them destroyed or lost to the web as a meme some Redditor (aka you on an alternative account) came up with for a random thing made with AI. No one took AI seriously. You didn’t want to risk him getting caught. Even if the sketches were shit.

The first time you ever got involved with Jackal was when he had apparently heard of your ‘impressive work’, as he’d say in that smooth voice of his. You were just some nobody working at a tech company, and you were only twenty-nine at the time in a small apartment in New York. The fact Jackal had gone international just to meet you was a bit flattering, but he was very intimidating and sort of reminded you of Batman if he was skinny and lean. Maybe more like Robin, actually. He was wearing a baseball cap, sunglasses, and a surgical mask to hide his face, which had felt like overkill to you, if you were being honest. It was summer, for christ’s sake.

Nonetheless, Jackal was… somewhat kind. He wouldn’t threaten you. He did at some point, and you had burst into tears—he gave up and hasn’t done it since. You’d think you’d be used to that type of shit in New York.

Since then, you and Jackal have been long distance friends… kind of? You lived in Paris now, since it’d be easier for Jackal to get to you without flying a whole ten hours (which was freakishly far, you wondered where he was in his downtime). Leaving New York was for your own benefit too, of course. You had no family there, and your friends were under the impression you got an amazing job opportunity. Unbeknownst to them, that job opportunity was helping an underground sniping legend. Who you happened to have fallen for a few months into said job. His accent is really what did it, honestly.

After a few more weeks from the last job, Jackal had another one, and you were his confidant yet again. Probably your favorite part of it all, if you were honest. Getting to playfully flirt with him was the highlight of your day, even if it ticked him off a little bit.

This job was in Paris, so, to your delight, Jackal would be on site near you to prepare. You had insisted he stay with you, but, of course, he was as untrusting as a cat and outright refused.

And yet, in the late night, he used the very same overkill disguise when you two first met, and showed to your doorstep.

“Jack, what a surprise.” You said with a snort, opening your door wider for him to enter.

“Police were outside the hotels and Airbnb’s nearby.” He replied gruffly. You chuckled, “they’re on high alert because you’ve been taking more hits lately.” You shrug. “Don’t you think it’s annoying that they couldn’t give less of a fuck if it was a random person than if it was a big name? It’s so pathetic.” You mutter, mostly to yourself as you head towards your kitchen. “Oh, no. A corrupt fascist got popped in the head.” You added sarcastically.

“PR.” Was all he said, dropping his bag on your table, hesitantly removing his cap, a subtle glance at you, skeptic. You cracked a glimpse in his direction. “Oh, you’re a redhead. No wonder you’re so freckly!” You laughed.

Jackal scoffed. “I’m not a redhead.” He denied. You rolled your eyes in amusement, “so you’re just an average white man?” You joked.

“What’re the schematics for the opera house?” He changed the subject and tussled his hair, likely having been in his cap for a while. You got the memo—you were playful but not an idiot, you knew when he wanted to talk business—and nodded and went to your computer setup, muttering to yourself as you pulled it up on your screen. “So, this opera singer really pissed your guy off, huh?” You asked Jackal, going to the main auditorium part of the building.

“I don’t really care.” Jackal leaned over the desk, his hand resting in the back of your chair. As you went through the schematics, he perked up, “hey.”

“Hey~!” You grinned cheekily. He shot you a look of impatience. “No, hey, as in look.” He pointed at the screen. “Will you indulge me just this once?” You asked quietly, but followed Jackal’s finger to the top of the auditorium where a large ring that was mostly inhabited by the richest of the rich was set. But just above that, was the perfect vantage point for Jackal to take the shot.

You hummed, “nice eye.” You praised, looking at him with a grin. “Sure you can take it?”

He huffed at that. “‘Course I can.” He retorted, “show me what it looks like on the inside.”

“So full of demands.” You tut, shaking your head, “one day, you know, I will worm my way into your circle.”

He chuckled dryly, “somehow, I highly doubt that.”

“Why’s that?” You rose a brow, spinning your chair to face him fully. He set his hand on the arm of your chair, looking closely at you. “Because I know you were an MI6 agent.”

You blinked, staring at him. “I wiped that from every document you could get your hands on…?”

“You’re not the only one good with computers.”

You scoffed as you shook your head. “You’re such a dick, you know that?” You zoomed into the building, a glower in the direction of Jackal.

“You should consider yourself lucky enough to even know me as you do.” Jackal stated and spun your chair back to face the screen, wordlessly telling you to get back to work. “Oh, believe me, I do. And you should consider yourself lucky to even have me on your side. You’ve never even been in the vicinity of another agent. And you’ve got me to thank.”

He paused for a moment before sighing. “Thank you.” He spoke with an oddity, one you didn’t really pick up on until you spoke.

“You’re welcome.” The smile you fostered dropped, stopping in your tracks as it hit you. He noticed and looked at you, his brows furrowed. A solemn look made its way onto your face as you turned to meet his gaze. “Why can’t I ever tell when you’re being sincere, Jackal?”

“Because I don’t want you to know.” He replied stiffly. You opened your mouth to speak, rubbing your nape as you turned back over to continue your work. “I won’t turn on you, you know. I’m better than that. You don’t need a stupid mask to shield yourself from me.”

“Anyone who knows me is in deliberate danger. Your… assets… are special. You getting hurt would be a waste. And we both know I don’t trust you.”

“But I trust you. I don’t know why, exactly, but I do.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why? Because you think you can dictate what I can and can’t feel? I don’t know your name, where you live, why you do what you do… but I trust you, because if you wanted to kill me, you would have done so already.” You didn’t turn to talk to him, you just did what you needed to.

Jackal let out a breath, one of disbelief, “like I said, killing you would be a waste. Your assets are useful.”

You clenched your hand around your mouth, jaw clenched. The same song and dance that happened annually at this point, but this time you didn’t reply. You breathed out through your nose. Screw it, this moron needed a reality check, you didn’t care if it rarely ever got through to him. You hoped it would eventually. “Existing is going to get pretty fucking tiring if you pretend to be different people every second of every day. You may be a damn good sniper, but even you have limits, Jackal. Don’t test them, don’t be an ass, and, for fuck’s sake, stop being an idiot!”

He blinked, staring at you. He hesitated, he looked like he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what to say. The words died on his tongue, all he did was just stare and give a slow nod. “Fine.” He muttered. “I’ll let my guard down… slightly.”

“Good.” You huffed.

“Good.” He agreed.

#the day of the jackal #jackal x reader #jackal #eddie redmayne #eddie redmayne jackal #eddie redmayne the day of the jackal #alexander duggan #alexander duggan x reader #x reader #this is silly #people need to write about bae more #idk if hes in character #I can never tell that mf is so fake #let’s pretend this is in character please #one shot?#maybe sequel?#I would love if people would request him I love him so much #eddie redmayne x reader

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twilightkitkat · 3 months ago

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Thinking about how Logan is more open about his emotions than Wade despite what people perceive, and how Wade slowly learns to open up and confront his own emotions because of Logan.

Prompted by this amazing thread. Shoutout to @ramblingautisticman and @desperatelyneedcoffee for inspiring me to write this.

---

Most people expect Logan to be the more closed-off one. To hide his emotions behind a mask and keep them to himself.

But that's Wade's role.

Logan is honest about his emotions—when he's angry, he'll growl and thrash and let people know. When he's happy, he'll bark out a laugh and grin and let his eyes wrinkle at the edges. When he's sad, he'll cry and scream and drown himself in alcohol.

He may not be phased by smaller things, but he's honest about his feelings. (Something Wade could never do.)

Wade, on the other hand, isn't. He exaggerates trivial feelings, obvious situational ones—he'll cower in fear at a "scary enemy or pretend to be pissed over a minor inconvenience. He makes his outward, shallow emotions so loud that it turns everyone's attention away from what he's feeling inside.

(Because if people know how he feels inside, they'll see him and hate him. It's easier to be hated when you can chalk it up to "understandable" reasons, to being annoying or loud or inappropriate. It isn't easy when they hate you. When they look at you, bare and vulnerable and open, and hate who you are at your core.)

Wade has spent his entire life hiding his emotions. Even from himself.

He shoves them so deep down that they become a slightly bitter taste in the back of his throat until it all becomes too much and he violently throws them up.

Wade is like a glass bottle: he can steadily hold all his emotions inside, pretending to be OK, until the glass shatters and explodes and the shards dig everywhere and he's left to pick up the pieces.

But Logan isn't like that. He lets himself feel. He lets others see how he feels.

Even from the first moment they met, he let Wade know how he felt. How he fucked everything up. How he wasn't the hero he was looking for. How he was battling with so much grief and rage that he'd reached a point of complete apathy.

(It made Wade envious. To be able to just say it and move on.)

Logan was the first person Wade met to be so blatantly honest. To wear his emotions on his sleeve and act on them and still be strong and keep fighting.

(...Could he still be considered strong, if he did the same?)

When Wade was vulnerable, it felt like he was choking—the words tumbling out without his permission and leaving a mess behind. Even with the people he loved, he couldn't ever bring himself to fully trust them even if he knew he should. Even if he wanted to. (Even if he tried to.)

(He still remembers sitting across the kitchen table from Vanessa. She held his hand tightly, as if she was afraid he would slip away. Was slipping away. She was urging him to let her in. To tell her why he hadn't been himself. To open up so they could share the burden.

But he just... couldn't. How do you tell someone who loves you, who you turned back time to save that nothing was helping? That no matter how hard he tried to focus on Vanessa and just live a "normal" life that it all felt wrong? That he felt an itch under his skin to do more more more and nothing was "more" enough.

That he felt like he was just wearing his skin. Like it wasn't his, not since Francis twisted him into a monster he didn't want to become. That he still remembered her look of surprise and the reluctant way she cradled his face when she first saw it.

It wasn't her fault. He knew that. It was an adjustment.

...But why didn't anyone understand? The gnawing loneliness, the self-hatred, the feeling of everything being nothing and too much all at once.

He hated himself.)

But Logan let his emotions course through his veins like second nature. Wade watched as emotions twisted across his face like it was a form of art.

And, for the first time, he felt comfortable opening up. He let the words spill from his mouth, except instead of feeling the trail of acid burning through his throat it felt like relief. He finally met someone who understood him, who had gone through the same suffering. He saw his loneliness reflected in Logan's eyes and finally, finally, felt he could reach out without dragging someone down. (They were both already at rock bottom, anyway. The only place to go from here was up.)

And so he told Logan about Vanessa. About the family he wanted to save. About how, yes, he vaguely cared about the world, but none of this was to save the world. (It was for just nine people.)

And Logan... didn't judge him. He saw understanding—a tired, but real kind—reflected in his eyes. He didn't make fun of him for his selfish motivations. Didn't snarl in disgust that he could never be a hero because of them. (He saw him and didn't recoil.)

And there, sitting across the table from each other in that shitty building they'd escaped to, Wade finally felt seen. Understood. (Ironic, isn't it? To have to go to the void to open up about the void inside of himself. Wade would write a poem about it if he knew how to.)

He felt that same kinship as they continued their journey. Even through the insults, the exasperation, the annoyance, Wade could tell none of it was serious. Because Logan never really told him to fuck off. To stop.

If Logan didn't like him being touchy, he'd shove him off. (He didn't.) If Logan didn't like him asking questions and rambling about himself, he'd actually try to get him to shut up instead of just grumbling. (He didn't.) If Logan really didn't want to be here, he'd leave. (He didn't.)

Logan's visceral type of emotional honesty allowed Wade to let himself be vulnerable. Because if Logan hated him, he wouldn't be here. If Logan didn't want to hear it, he wouldn't tilt his head and listen and ask questions.

(It made Wade feel safe to express himself for the first time since he'd been strapped to that shitty operation table and torn apart until all that remained was a body not quite his own.)

Things were going good.

They were.

(Wade desperately hoped they'd stay that way.)

But then Logan pulled over the car, real and raw fury in his eyes. He yelled at Wade, his voice trembling with the intensity of it.

He picked apart everything Wade had told him. Threw it back in his face.

And oh. Oh.

Logan was honest. He was true to himself and his emotions.

And so, Wade thought quietly as the tired continued, he really meant it. It felt worse than when Logan had stabbed him.

(It felt like he was back on that operating table, small and weak and pathetic but still trying to keep smiling. To keep cracking jokes and being annoyed. Because, if he didn't, he'd break. If he didn't keep the shards of his personality clutched so tightly to his chest that they dug into his hands, nothing would be left of him.)

Logan dissected him. Using everything Wade told him. (Using the ammunition he'd provided.)

(Was Logan really looking at him with understanding, back then? Or was it disgust? The images blurred together in Wade's mind, distorting his memory.)

Told him how he was worthless. That the Avengers and X-men were right to reject him. (Ouch.) That it was his fault he couldn't salvage his relationship with Vanessa. (He'd tried. He'd tried so hard.)

That Logan saw him for what he was: a pathetic, attention-seeking parasite who clung to others instead of facing his own problems.

It really was God's greatest joke that he couldn't die.

Wade spiraled.

(Was he wrong this whole time? Did Logan really, truly hate him? He had to, if he's looking at Wade like that.)

If even Logan (the only person who could begin to understand his suffering) couldn't accept him, who could?

He felt like the ground was crumbling underneath him and he was falling and floating at the same time. He felt like he was an observer, looking in on the outside, even as his emotions crashed over him like a tsunami.

But he couldn't let himself break down. Wouldn't let himself be vulnerable. Not here. Not now.

So, he slid the mask back on and responded in the only way he knew how to.

"I'm going to fight you now."

(Even when they'd collapsed, bloody and weak and exhausted, the words kept ringing in his head. They'd let out their physical frustrations, maybe, but the words still clung to him like a blanket. There was still a sinking feeling in his gut. Dread twisting his stomach at the thought of being open.)

(The feeling never really went away.)

---

They started living together, in the aftermath.

Wade had called after Logan as he was about to leave and awkwardly asked him if he'd like to come home with him. Just long enough to find a place to stay, or even just for dinner.

(Logan couldn't refuse. Not with the sense of wrongness filling him as the distance between him and Wade grew with each step. When he heard Wade's voice, it felt like hope. It felt like coming home.)

One night turned into two, turned into a week, turned into a month until Logan had his own side of the dresser and nobody bothered to ask if he was leaving. (Thinking of leaving made Logan vaguely nauseous, now. It felt like ripping away the foundation of the home he'd painstakingly started to build here.)

Logan still had baggage. Still had days where all he wanted to do was grab a beer and stare blankly at the wall, thinking of all he'd done and all he'd lost.

But it was easier. Wade would walk into the living room, plop down next to him, and begin talking his ear off about whatever happened that day. He'd sling an arm around his shoulder, flip on the TV, and keep talking.

(Logan would lean against him, slightly. Would focus on Wade until his warmth and touch and voice drowned out his thoughts.)

(It worked better than alcohol ever had.)

Logan tried to let Wade know that he cared about him. That he appreciated it. Appreciated him.

(That Wade's presence was what made everything worth it. Made him finally feel like he was able to tread water without drowning.)

He'd cook Wade meals. (And pay attention to what he liked and disliked, making sure to cook things he knew Wade would comfortably eat.) He'd lean into his touch. Listen when he talked. Answer any questions he asked.

And so, when Logan came out from the shower one night and saw Wade curled up on the couch, staring blankly at the black screen of the TV, he approached him.

Wade had a vacant, empty look in his eyes. The kind that Logan recognized, but hadn't seen on him before.

It made him worried. He'd never seen Wade like this. (It was unsettling. To see Wade, who was so vibrant and expressive, look so bleak.)

"Is something bothering you, bub?" he asked, settling down next to Wade on the couch.

Wade finally seemed to register his presence, eyes flicking over to where he sat.

"Oh, peanut! I was wondering when you'd get out of the shower. Was it nice and steamy? I'd love to join you next time," Wade wriggled his eyebrows (or what was left of them) suggestively.

It was like a switch had flipped. Wade went from blank, like a doll with its strings cut, to animated and excited in a second. His eyes were sparkling again and he grinned at Logan like nothing was wrong.

(It was... uncomfortable. Did Wade not trust him? Was Wade hiding something from him?)

Logan wanted to question him, but Wade kept chattering and he could never really get a word in edgewise. (A part of him wondered if it was intentional.)

Maybe he was seeing things. Maybe Wade was just having a bad day. Logan tried to rationalize it, even as a pit formed in his stomach. A feeling of deep wrongness.

Except it kept happening.

Wade would get that same, desolate look in his eyes (always when he was alone, away from everyone) and Logan would walk in on him. Logan would try to see if something was wrong, but Wade would interject before he could.

(Logan knew his expression was concerned. Knew Wade could tell he was worried, that he cared about him. So why didn't Wade let him in?)

(Wade always listened, patiently, when Logan talked about his problems. It was one of the few times he'd go quiet, only occasionally asking questions and making extra commentary. He'd look at him with a grim understanding. Not pity, not sympathy, but empathy. Free of judgment. It was the first time Logan felt like his emotions were actually being received by someone, cradled and held and protected so that they didn't burn him out.)

Until, finally, one day, Logan snapped.

"What the fuck is up with you?" he snarled, and that didn't come out the way he intended but he was so frustrated by Wade refusing to just let him in.

"What do you mean, Wolvie? I'm—"

"Shut up. You're not fine. I've been alive for two hundred fucking years, I know by now when someone's lying, Wade," Logan interrupted before he could continue his usual antics.

"Look, I'm just having a bad day, alright? You know how it is. I'll be up and running after I take a nap, don't worry about little old me!" Wade's voice took on a faux-cheerful tone.

"This isn't just a bad day, bub. It's been happening a lot. You get this look in your eye, like you're not really there, and just stare at the wall." Logan stared at Wade with concern evident on his face. "It's worrying."

Wade snorts. "You don't have to worry about me of all people."

Logan furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean? 'You of all people?' Of course, I'd be worried about you, dumbass. I care about you and if you're hurting, I want to know why."

And Logan was so painfully honest. It was so clear in his eyes, in his expression, in his body language that he cared about Wade. Deeply.

It made Wade snap.

"Just shut up! Stop fucking talking. I don't want to hear it." Wade wished he had hair right now so he could fucking tear it out. He'd take any kind of physical pain just to distract himself from Logan, worried and open and trying to pry him open.

"Wade, what are you—you know you can tell him about anything, right?" Logan tried to regulate his breathing, to keep his tone calm. To not show the panic he was feeling. (It was obvious anyway.)

"What, so you can throw that back at me, too?"

What? What was Wade—

"So you can tell me I'm a fucking joke? That every superhero team was right to turn me down? That I couldn't even manage to keep a relationship with a stripper?"

Oh. Oh fuck. That was—

"That I should just fucking kill myself, but of course, it's God's best joke that I can't die, so now my pathetic existence is on you?"

He couldn't possibly think Logan meant that, right? Couldn't have been thinking about that this whole time—

"I don't want to burden your royal highness with my stupid problems," Wade practically snarled, "so stay the fuck out of it."

He slammed the door and left.

And Logan was left alone.

Logan wanted to run after him, to grab him and tell him that he didn't mean it. He was pissed off and spewing whatever came to his mind in the moment to hurt Wade. (And he'd achieved that goal, hadn't he?) He felt betrayed and responded in the only way he knew—by lashing out. (But that wasn't an excuse, not really. Not to take everything Wade had trusted him with and twist it. To betray his trust in such a personal, visceral way.)

(Logan knew that Wade meant well. That he was just scrambling to save his world and thought of the only solution that would get Logan to help. That when he made an "educated wish" he'd still try to see it out, had still asked the TVA after everything. But he was so fucking angry and so fucking tired and just wanted any excuse to lay down and die.)

Did Logan really have the right to, though?

Wade had listened to him. Helped him. Even after what Logan had said and done, he'd still cared. (And wasn't that a sobering thought. That this whole time, Wade thought that was Logan's opinion of him. That he still cared about Logan despite having his voice ringing in his ears, tormenting him.)

(It made Logan angry to think that Wade was used to it. To setting aside how people treated him and not expecting anything in return for his kindness. To loving and giving without receiving. It made him want to murder the people who set the bar so low. It made him want to rip out his own tongue.)

(It made him realize, yet again, that Wade was a better man than he'd ever be.)

...And Logan had fucked up. Immensely.

Had given Wade hope that he could finally open up to someone who came from a similar background and understood his suffering. All to tear it away in one glorious, horrible, mistake.

Logan had no right to fix things. To ask for forgiveness. (From Wade. From anyone.)

But what was the alternative? Letting Wade think he hated him? Leaving?

Logan would rather die than go back to living completely isolated from the world. He couldn't go back to waking up every day and drowning his sorrows with alcohol. Letting memories flash behind his eyes as he replayed everything he fucked up and obsessed over what he could've done differently.

(Because, without Wade, he would still be there. At rock bottom. Without a place to belong or any reason to get up in the morning. A samurai without a master. A drifter without purpose. A stray without a home.)

The thought of leaving behind the only thing he cared about anymore made him panic. He felt nauseous, like he wanted to throw up yesterday's dinner and his own heart alongside it.

He knew it was selfish and pathetic, but he couldn't let go. Couldn't handle losing the only thing that made living worth it, after everything.

(Of course, when he finally found someone who was like him, who felt the same loneliness, who couldn't die, he had to go and fuck up. What is Logan good for if not ruining anything good in his life?)

Logan knew he was selfish. And pathetic. And stupid.

(He felt his mouth move around the words. Spit venom at Wade, who was completely, utterly silent. He heard them, vaguely, but they didn't register. He was running on pure rage and adrenaline.)

(Why did he take until now to notice?)

He knew that.

But he didn't think it was this bad. That he'd end up ruining the only good thing to come out of his miserable existence.

He thought, at least, that even if he'd fucked up everything else, he could be good with Wade. Could be good for Wade. It was the one thing he prided himself on.

And now look at him.

Instead of Wade, it's Logan who was God's best joke.

Fuck, he wanted a beer.

#deadclaws #deadpool 3 #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool movie #poolverine #kitkat #logan howlett #wade wilson #wade x logan #wade/logan #poolverine angst #LMAOOOO I HOPE YALL ENJOY #MAYBE ILL BE NICE AND MAKE A SEQUEL WHERE THEY TALK IT OUT #RIP POOLVERINE 2024 YOU WILL BE MISSED

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