The Newest Hot Fanfic (Poolverine)

Chapter 7: ''Feelings? In My Mercenary Life? It's More Likely Than You Think''

A FEW DAYS AFTER that weird "close-quarters combat" moment (emphasis on the close), Logan and I are back at it, trudging through the belly of yet another evil lair. This time, it's one of those underground facilities with sterile white walls and flickering fluorescent lights—the kind that scream "I'm hiding something sketchy!" from a mile away. The mission is simple: break in, grab some highly classified doohickey, and blow stuff up. Easy peasy.

Except... there's this thing still nagging at me. That stupid, lingering weirdness from when Logan and I got all up in each other's personal space. So naturally, my brain's brilliant solution is to fire off an even more obnoxious barrage of jokes and awkward one-liners to cover up the fact that my stomach does a weird little flip-flop every time I catch him glancing my way.

We move through the dimly lit corridors, my boots squeaking slightly on the too-clean floors, a stark contrast to Logan's silent, predator-like steps. I look over at him, and of course, he's all business. Eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, probably already planning on how he'll stab the next poor goon who gets in our way.

I can't help myself. "You know, Logan," I start, my voice loud and echoing slightly, "this whole 'silent killer' routine? It's like you're auditioning for a horror movie. You've got the brooding thing down pat. Maybe we'll call it Wolverine: Claws Out—coming soon to a theater near you. I'm thinking box office smash, minimum!"

Logan, unsurprisingly, ignores me. Not even a grunt this time. But it's fine. Totally fine. I've got enough jokes to keep myself entertained. "Okay, okay, maybe you're more of the gritty indie type. The Grumpy Mutant. Plot twist: He's emotionally constipated."

He shoots me a look that could melt adamantium, and I shut up—for like, two seconds. Then it just spills out again. "You're welcome. I'll take 10% of the gross."

We round a corner, and just ahead, we hear the distinct shuffle of footsteps—guards. This is the part where things usually get messy. Logan's claws slide out with that iconic metallic snikt, and there's a flash of steel in his eyes. He's ready for blood. Meanwhile, I'm itching to cause a little chaos of my own.

The guards appear, their armor clanking like second-rate stormtroopers. There's a beat of silence before all hell breaks loose. Logan lunges forward with feral speed, slashing through the first guy with the grace of a lion tearing through a gazelle. I follow his lead, but in my usual fashion—flashy, loud, and probably a little too showy for my own good.

"Knock, knock!" I yell as I swing my katanas, slashing through two more guards with a fluid spin. "Who's there? A guy who's really bad at following orders!"

One of the guards tries to get a shot off, but Logan's already there, claws sinking into his chest with a satisfying thunk. Blood splatters the walls, and I'm right behind him, slashing down another poor sucker who thought he could sneak up on me.

"You know," I pant between swings, "I've always thought... if we teamed up in the Fast and Furious franchise? We'd be the perfect addition to the family. I'd be the wisecracking comic relief, and you'd be—oh, wait. You already are Vin Diesel's angrier cousin. Family!"

Logan growls, probably more at the guards than at my terrible commentary, but I know I'm getting to him. He's starting to tense up, which means I'm winning this little game of "make Logan regret teaming up with me."

The guards keep coming, though. For every one we take down, another steps out of the shadows, their tasers crackling, their guns blazing. I dodge a shot that nearly grazes my face and laugh, the adrenaline coursing through me like it always does in these moments. "Ooh, close one! Careful, I'm the money-maker here."

In the midst of the carnage, Logan and I find ourselves back-to-back, surrounded by guards closing in from all sides. And it's here—pressed up against him again, with our bodies too close for comfort—that my brain decides to throw a wrench into my usual flow. I feel the warmth of his presence, the solidness of his frame against mine. I can hear the steady rhythm of his breathing as we fight, and for a split second, my heart stutters.

I can't let this be a thing, right? I mean, sure, we've had our awkward moments, but this is just... tactical proximity. Totally normal. It's not because I'm noticing the way his muscles flex with each swing of his claws, or the way his grunts of exertion are suddenly a lot more noticeable. Nope. Nothing to see here, folks.

"Okay, Wade," I mutter to myself as I decapitate a guard with one clean slice. "Focus. This is not the time for... whatever this is."

Logan slashes another guard down, and the tension between us builds again, the air thick with unspoken something. It's suffocating. I need to break it—fast.

"So, uh, Logan," I blurt out, dodging another punch. "Do you ever get tired of being so... serious all the time? I mean, how do you even manage? Meditation? Puppy videos? Please tell me it's puppy videos."

He growls, low and dangerous, his claws dripping with blood. "Shut up, Wade."

Oh, right. That one never gets old. But seriously, this whole flustered thing? It's not me. I'm Deadpool, damn it. I don't get rattled. So why the hell does being near Logan feel like someone's cranked up the thermostat?

Another guard charges at us, and this time Logan grabs him by the throat, slamming him into the wall with a force that rattles the concrete. The guard doesn't even have time to scream before Logan's claws tear through his chest, leaving a splatter of blood on the white wall like some modern art masterpiece. He turns to me, and for a split second, our eyes meet again.

And I feel it—the heat, the unspoken tension that makes my heart race. Damn it, why does he have to look at me like that? Like I'm something to be figured out, something more than just a walking punchline.

I shake it off—literally, shaking my head like a cartoon character trying to clear a thought bubble. "Hey, if I didn't know better," I joke, "I'd say you enjoy my company."

Logan just grunts, wiping his claws on the sleeve of his jacket. The room falls silent, the last of the guards lying in bloody heaps around us. Mission accomplished. Kind of.

But I can't help the awkwardness bubbling inside me. I can feel it, pressing in at the edges, making my jokes a little too forced, my quips a little too loud. I'm compensating, and it's painfully obvious. To me, at least.

As we catch our breath, Logan turns to me, his expression unreadable. "You done?"

I shrug, forcing a grin. "Oh, I've never been done, Logan. You know that."

But deep down, as we prepare to move deeper into the facility, I know I'm lying. Because something about this—about him—is throwing me off my game. And I have no idea how to handle it.