I Was Snowed In With My Sworn Enemy and We Had to Share the Only Bed

The heavy wooden door protested with a groan of splitting timber as Logan shoved it inward, stumbling over the threshold before his body gave out completely. He hit the dusty floorboards with a dead, final weight that sent a shudder through the small cabin. For a moment, he didn't move, a heap of flannel and denim half-sprawled in the snow blowing in through the open doorway.

"Well, that's a dramatic entrance," Wade muttered, his own body screaming as he limped after him. "Ten out of ten for commitment, zero for sticking the landing. C'mon, Wolvie, the floor is lava. And also probably covered in mouse droppings and sadness."

Wade grabbed Logan under the arms, hissing as the movement pulled at the raw, phantom-hot patterns of scar tissue across his own back and chest. The agony was a familiar fire, a constant reminder of the facility they’d just barely escaped. Logan was impossibly heavy, a dead weight of muscle and metal. Grunting with the effort, Wade dragged him, inch by painful inch, across the floor. Logan’s boots scraped grooves into the thick layer of dust.

"Just a little further," Wade grunted, his voice tight. "To the V.I.P. section. Right by the… oh, look, a pile of rocks where a fire is supposed to be. Five-star accommodations, Logan. You really know how to pick 'em."

He finally got Logan settled on the stone hearth, his head lolling to the side. Logan’s breathing was a shallow, wet sound, and even in the dim light filtering through the grimy window, Wade could see the sheen of feverish sweat on his pale skin. The adamantium was burning him up from the inside out again, his healing factor struggling to keep up. Wade knew the signs.

He pushed the door shut, the latch catching with a weak click that did little to muffle the howl of the wind. The cold was immediate, seeping through the cracks in the log walls. Wade’s eyes scanned their new sanctuary, and his forced humor faltered. The place was a wreck. A rickety table and two chairs stood in the center of the single room. Against the far wall, a small, sad-looking bed frame held a thin, stained mattress. Water dripped from a dark patch on the ceiling, landing with a quiet plink in a puddle near the foot of the bed.

Wade ran a hand over his masked face, the rough fabric scratching against his scarred skin. He checked the cupboards above a small, dry sink. Nothing. A half-empty tin of coffee and a few hardened lumps of sugar. That was it.

"Okay," he said, his voice quiet now, speaking more to himself than to the unconscious man by the hearth. "Minimal food. Leaky roof. One bed." He looked from Logan's shivering form to the solitary mattress and back again. "This is going to be a long night."

First things first. Fire. Wade found a stack of dry, split logs next to the hearth, a small mercy. He crumpled up some brittle pages from a forgotten almanac he found on the mantelpiece, arranging them carefully with twigs and kindling. His own pain was a low, constant hum, but the focused task pushed it to the background. He struck a match from a damp box he’d had in his pocket, coaxing the tiny flame to life. It caught, a fragile orange glow that slowly, greedily consumed the paper and licked at the wood. Soon, a steady fire was crackling, pushing back the oppressive chill and casting dancing shadows across Logan's still form.

"See? Who needs a Boy Scout badge when you've got raw, unadulterated talent?" Wade announced to the room, rubbing his hands together in the growing warmth. He turned his attention back to Logan. "Alright, Grumpy Bear, let's see the damage. Don't worry, my bedside manner is legendary. And my rates are very reasonable."

He knelt beside Logan, his monologue a nervous patter to fill the silence. He carefully unbuttoned Logan's flannel shirt, his fingers brushing against skin that was radiating a terrifying heat. The shirt was stiff with dried blood around a trio of puckered bullet holes high on his chest. They were sluggishly weeping fluid, the edges inflamed instead of knitting together. His healing factor was failing, bogged down by the poison in his veins.

Wade peeled the fabric away, his movements slow and precise, a stark contrast to his usual chaotic energy. He found a bucket near the door and filled it with snow, setting it by the fire to melt. While he waited, he examined Logan's other injuries—a deep gash on his forearm, bruises darkening his ribs. He worked in silence now, the jokes dying on his lips. He tore a strip from the bottom of his own tactical shirt to use as a cloth, dipping it into the now-tepid water.

"Gonna sting a bit, bub," Wade said softly, mimicking Logan's own gruff term of endearment. He pressed the wet cloth to the first bullet wound, expecting a growl, a flinch, a hand to lash out and grab his wrist.

Nothing.

Logan didn't even stir. His eyes remained closed, his face slack. A violent shiver wracked his entire body, his teeth chattering with a sound that seemed too fragile for the man making it. Wade pressed a hand to Logan's forehead; the heat was staggering, a dry, burning furnace. His breathing was shallow, a faint puff of air ghosting past his lips. The sheer vulnerability of him was a punch to Wade's gut. This wasn't the Wolverine, the unkillable animal. This was just Logan, broken and burning up on a dusty cabin floor. The blizzard howled outside, a lonely, desolate sound, and for the first time, Wade felt the crushing weight of the silence inside.

The silence was a physical thing, thick and heavy in the small space. Wade finished cleaning the wounds as best he could, his hands steady despite the tremor running through his own body. The phantom fire under his scars was a familiar agony, but seeing Logan so completely incapacitated was a fresh kind of hell. With a grunt, Wade hooked his arms back under Logan's, preparing to move him again.

"Alright, Princess, time for your beauty sleep," he muttered, the words feeling hollow even to his own ears. He heaved, muscles screaming in protest as he lifted Logan's torso. The man was a solid block of misery and metal. Wade half-dragged, half-carried him the few feet to the dilapidated bed, the frame groaning ominously as he lowered Logan onto the thin, dusty mattress. Logan’s body sank into it, inert and unresponsive. Wade pulled a threadbare wool blanket over him, tucking it around his shoulders with an uncharacteristic gentleness.

He stood there for a long moment, watching the uneven rise and fall of Logan’s chest in the flickering firelight. The single bed seemed to mock him, a stark symbol of their isolation. He wasn't getting in there. Not with Logan. Not like this.

He retreated to the lumpy armchair by the hearth, sinking into its musty embrace. He propped his feet on the stone, leaning his head back against the worn fabric. The warmth from the fire felt good on his aching limbs, but it couldn't touch the cold dread coiling in his stomach. He closed his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. The quiet of the cabin was too loud, amplifying the storm outside and the one inside his head.

The smell of burning pine was slowly being overpowered by a phantom scent of antiseptic and sterilized metal. Wade’s skin prickled, the scarred tissue across his back and chest tightening as if anticipating a fresh cut. He could almost hear the low hum of the lab equipment, feel the cold restraint against his wrists. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, digging his fingers into the armrests. It wasn't real. It was just the cabin. Just the snow.

A low groan from the bed ripped him from the memory. He snapped his eyes open, his body tense. Logan was moving, his head tossing from side to side on the flat pillow. His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, his legs kicking fitfully beneath the thin blanket.

"No… Jean…" The name was a broken whisper, a raw, painful sound that cut through the noise of the wind.

Wade watched, frozen. Logan thrashed again, a more violent movement this time that nearly sent him tumbling off the narrow bed. Wade was on his feet without a conscious thought, crossing the room in two strides. He placed a hand on Logan’s shoulder, a heavy, grounding pressure. Logan’s skin was still radiating an intense heat, and his muscles were bunched tight with tension.

"Easy, bub," Wade said, his voice low. "You're just dreaming."

Logan didn't quiet, but he stilled slightly under the weight of Wade’s hand. He let out a long, shuddering breath, his body still rigid with some unseen fight. Wade didn't remove his hand. He just stood there, a sentinel in the dark, caught between the ghosts of his own past and the fevered nightmares of the man in the bed. The small cabin felt suffocating, trapping their twin agonies together in the swirling snow and encroaching darkness.