The Newest Hot Fanfic (Poolverine)

Chapter 9: ''Why Am I Quiet Around Wolverine? Am I... Broken? Nah''

THERE'S SOMETHING TRAGICALLY BEAUTIFUL about sitting in your living room, nursing a half-eaten chimichanga while your mind races with thoughts you really don't want to have.

I know, I know. Deep, right? You'd think someone like me—Deadpool, Merc with a Mouth, king of sarcasm and perpetual loudness—wouldn't have a moment's pause in his life. But here I am, staring at my taco-shaped clock (yes, it's a taco clock, don't judge) and trying to figure out why I've been... quiet lately.

Specifically, quiet around one hairy, grumpy, cigar-chomping Canadian who seems to have an on/off switch that controls my voice box.

I mean, it's weird, right? I don't do quiet. Not my thing. I'm the guy that talks through bullets. But every time Logan's gotten all up in my face recently—boom, silence. It's like someone pressed the mute button on Deadpool. I mean, I like being up in people's faces. Usually, that's when I go louder, and the jokes fly faster than bullets in a Michael Bay movie. So, what gives?

I slouch deeper into my couch, the springs squeaking in protest under my weight. "Maybe it's exhaustion," I mutter aloud to myself, taking another bite of my chimichanga. "I mean, this whole 'saving the world' shtick is tiring, even for someone as genetically perfect as me."

But... no. That's not it, is it?

I shove the thought aside, because honestly, self-reflection is for people who don't wear red spandex. Still, the image of Wolverine slamming me into that wall is seared into my brain. The sheer ferocity in his eyes. The claws just inches away from gutting me. And I—I—went quiet.

It wasn't just shock or fear—ha! Like I'd ever be scared of Logan. I've been decapitated and kept talking, so yeah, fear isn't exactly on my résumé. No, it was something else. Something... flustering.

Wait. Hold on. Pause. Let me get this straight. Flustering? Am I blushing? No way. Nope. Nuh-uh. Not possible. Not even remotely. Deadpool doesn't get flustered. I get annoyed, I get cocky, I get giddy, but flustered? Pfft. That's for characters in cheesy rom-coms.

I look down at my chimichanga, as if it might hold the answer. Spoiler alert: it doesn't. But it's comforting nonetheless. The grease seeps through the wrapper, and for a second, I feel a deep connection to this soggy, overstuffed mess of meat and cheese. Like we're both hanging on by a thread, pretending everything is fine when clearly, it's not.

"Maybe it's just exhaustion," I repeat, more forcefully this time. Yeah. That's it. I've been working too hard. Getting shot too often. Talking too much. It's bound to catch up with a guy eventually. Maybe this weird silence thing is just my brain saying, 'Hey Wade, how about a little me-time? How about you shut up for once and let the man with the sideburns take center stage?'

I throw the remains of my chimichanga onto the coffee table, wiping my greasy fingers on my pants. "Right, right," I say to no one. "Totally makes sense. I'm just... tired. Exhausted from being amazing."

But even as I say it, there's this tiny, nagging feeling in the pit of my stomach. Like maybe—just maybe—this has nothing to do with exhaustion. Maybe it's something a little more... complicated.

"Ha! Complicated," I scoff, reaching for the remote. "There's nothing complicated about this, Wade. You're overthinking it."

But that feeling won't go away.

I think back to Logan—how he looked at me when he pinned me against the wall, how his hands were on my chest, and how close we were. There was something... intense about it. Like, for once in my never-ending, quip-filled existence, I had no control over the situation. And that's not something I'm used to. I'm the one who takes control, who runs the show with endless banter and—dare I say it—charm.

But with Logan, in those moments, I was the quiet one.

And it wasn't just a one-time thing, either. This... phenomenon has been happening more and more frequently. The close quarters during missions, the intense eye contact, the feeling of being so... vulnerable. I can't help but wonder if it's something deeper than simple exhaustion. Maybe—maybe—Logan has some sort of weird mutant power I don't know about. Like... I don't know, a silence aura? That sounds dumb, even for me, but hey, stranger things have happened.

I flip through the channels mindlessly, trying to drown out the thoughts in my head with mind-numbing TV. But everything just reminds me of Logan. Some stupid commercial about aftershave? Logan. A show about feral cats? Logan. Even the damn cooking show with all the steak dishes? You guessed it—Logan.

"Damn it!" I groan, tossing the remote across the room, watching it clatter against the wall.

So what if Logan got in my face? So what if I shut up for once? It's not like it matters. We're not... friends. Not in the traditional sense. We're more like... frenemies. But not the cute kind where we bicker playfully and then go get ice cream together afterward. More like the kind where I annoy him to the point of near homicide, and he only refrains from killing me because we're technically on the same team. Sort of.

And yet, every time he gets close, my brain short-circuits. The jokes dry up, the sarcasm fizzles, and I'm left standing there, tongue-tied, like some dumb schoolboy caught staring at the cool kid in class.

"Ugh. Why am I even thinking about this?" I say, half-yelling at my empty apartment. "It's nothing. It's probably just... hormonal. Or I'm hungry. Yeah, that's it."

But as I sit there, the taco clock ticking away on the wall, I know that's not the truth. Because if I'm honest with myself (and I really don't like being honest with myself), this thing—whatever it is—feels way too real to be shrugged off as hunger or exhaustion.

I rub my temples, trying to shake off the thoughts creeping into my mind. "You're Deadpool, damn it. You don't get confused. You don't get flustered. You're not... broken."

Still, the silence in my apartment feels heavy. Like there's something I need to figure out, but I'm too stubborn to admit it.

I stand up, pacing the room like I can outwalk the weird feelings. "Maybe I just need to hit something. Get all this... weirdness out of my system. I'll punch some bad guys tomorrow, and everything will be back to normal."

But deep down, I know that's not true.

As I crawl into bed that night, pulling the covers over my head in an attempt to block out the world, one last thought slips through my defenses.

What if it's not exhaustion? What if it's not Logan's fault?

What if it's... me?