The Team X base was quiet at this hour. Most of the others were in their rooms, catching a few hours of sleep or mindlessly passing the time between missions. But in the small, dimly lit room shared by the brothers, there was movement.
Logan lay on his cot, one arm draped over his face, pretending to sleep but listening. He had gotten used to the sounds Victor made—shifting, stretching, pacing like a caged beast. It was part of his nightly ritual. And it was always the same.
The bed frame creaked as Victor pushed himself off it, landing soundlessly on all fours, muscles rippling beneath his skin as he stretched. First the shoulders, then the spine, rolling each vertebra like a lazy jungle cat waking from a nap.
Logan cracked an eye open just enough to watch.
Victor prowled across the small space, bare feet silent against the concrete floor, knuckles barely brushing the ground. He moved differently like this—smoother, more natural, as if this was the way he was supposed to walk, and standing upright was just something he did for show.
"You ever just—walk like a normal goddamn person?" Logan grumbled, not bothering to move from his cot.
Victor grinned, flashing sharp teeth in the dim light. "I am walkin’ normal, Jimmy."
Logan groaned, throwing his arm over his face again. "Yeah? You gonna start drinkin’ from a bowl next?"
Victor didn’t answer. He just kept pacing, slow and deliberate, circling the room like he was stalking some unseen prey. His blue eyes flicked toward Logan, watching, waiting. Then, without warning, he leapt onto Logan’s bed in one smooth motion, landing on all fours right beside him.
Logan’s claws slid out instinctively. "Get the hell offa me, Vic!"
Victor, unbothered, merely smirked and flopped down on top of Logan like some oversized jungle cat, pressing his weight against him. Logan grunted as Victor’s elbow jabbed into his ribs.
"Jesus Christ, you’re worse than a damn dog—get off!"
"Dogs ain’t this big," Victor murmured, completely at ease. "You’re warm, Jimmy."
Logan growled low in his throat, "I will gut you where you lay."
Victor, ever the bastard, just rumbled an amused purr deep in his chest and sprawled further, making himself comfortable. Logan could feel the vibration against his ribs, the low, rolling sound vibrating up from Victor’s chest like a lion lounging after a hunt.
"You fuckin' purring?" Logan asked, appalled.
His brother just smirked against Logan’s shoulder, the deep rumble continuing.
Victor always moved differently when they were alone. He didn’t have to perform in front of the team. Didn’t have to act like a proper soldier for Stryker. In their room, when it was just him and Logan, he let go of that last, thin veneer of civility.
He had seen it before, the way Victor relaxed into his instincts when no one else was around. He wouldn’t even notice when he dropped to all fours, prowling the small space like a lion pacing its enclosure. It was as if standing up straight was something he only did for the sake of others, and the second he was alone, he went back to what was natural.
Sometimes, Victor would curl up in weird places—corners, on top of the table, once even on a stack of crates like some oversized housecat claiming the highest perch.
Logan never commented on it. What was the point? Victor was Victor.
But it was damn annoying.
Like when Victor sprawled across Logan’s cot, unbothered, taking up way more space than his oversized ass had any right to.
Logan shoved at him, trying to roll him off.
Victor flopped like a sack of bricks, letting out an exaggerated, rumbling sigh.
Logan finally kicked him, sending him tumbling off the bed with a grunt.
Victor lay there for a second, sprawled on the floor, then rolled onto his side, blinking up at Logan with lazy eyes.
"Y’know, Jimmy, you really gotta work on your hospitality."
"Hospitality my ass," Logan muttered, sitting up and rubbing his face. "I hate you."
Victor chuckled, prowling lazily to the other side of the room. He stretched again, pushing his claws into the floor with a satisfied groan before finally dropping onto his own bed again—on his stomach, limbs sprawled out, tailbone lifting slightly before settling.
Logan closed his eyes again, hoping for some peace.
"Y’ever think about it, Jimmy?"
Logan cracked one eye open. "Think about what?"
Logan scoffed. "I walk just fine on two feet, thanks."
Victor hummed, noncommittal. "M’just sayin’. Might be faster."
Logan rolled his eyes. "The hell would I look like, runnin’ around on all fours like a goddamn dog?"
Victor grinned, fangs flashing in the dim light. "Like someone who ain’t fightin’ what he is."
Logan stared at him for a moment before scoffing, rolling onto his side. "You need to shut up and go the hell to sleep."
Victor let out another low, lazy purr before finally closing his eyes.
Logan listened to the sound for a moment—low, deep, rhythmic. Annoyingly comfortable.
He muttered a curse under his breath.
The morning was too damn early.
Logan had barely gotten any sleep, and it was all thanks to Victor, who had spent half the night prowling around like some oversized housecat before finally flopping onto his cot and purring himself to sleep like a damn contented lion.
Logan had tried ignoring it. He really had.
And now, in the pale morning light filtering through the cheap blinds of their barracks, Logan sat on the edge of his cot, rubbing the exhaustion out of his face while Victor—of course—slept like the dead. Sprawled out on his stomach, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, the other tucked beneath his chin. His legs were bent slightly at the knees, feet twitching every now and then like a dog dreaming of chasing something. His breath came slow and steady, his short dark hair slightly curling at the ends, a faint rumbly sound still vibrating in his chest.
The asshole had no shame.
And that was exactly when the door slammed open.
"GOOD MORNING, PRINCESSES!"
Logan jerked his head up.
There he stood, grinning ear to ear, hands on his hips, already bouncing with some unholy amount of morning energy that no human—or mutant—should have at this hour.
Logan groaned. "Wilson, get the hell outta here."
But Wade wasn’t listening. Oh, no.
Wade had already spotted Victor.
And his brain was currently breaking.
The mercenary froze in the doorway, blinking rapidly like his eyes were failing to process what he was seeing. Then—slowly, carefully—he reached up, grabbed the doorframe, and leaned in, squinting.
Victor, still fast asleep, remained oblivious.
And that’s when Wade lost his goddamn mind.
Logan’s stomach dropped. Victor’s ears twitched. Wade screamed.
"LOOK AT THIS BIG, FLUFFY BASTARD!"
Logan barely had time to react before Wade bolted across the room. Like a missile. Straight for Victor.
"WHO’S A LITTLE KITTY CAT? YOU ARE! YES, YOU ARE!"
Victor’s eyes shot open—just in time for Wade to land on him. Logan winced.
The explosion that followed was instantaneous.
A guttural, earth-shattering snarl erupted from Victor’s throat, so deep it practically rattled the walls. Wade, entirely unfazed, had already latched onto him, ruffling Victor’s hair and shaking him like a dog with a chew toy.
Victor roared, claws extending, eyes glowing, pure murderous intent radiating off of him.
But Wade wasn’t done. Not even close.
"OH MY GOD, I KNEW IT! I KNEW YOU WERE JUST A BIG OL’ PUDDY TAT!"
Victor tried to fling him off—tried—but Wade was clinging like a limpet, legs wrapped around his waist, arms locked around his shoulders.
"ADMIT IT, VICKY! YOU’RE A LITTLE KITTY CAT!"
Victor snarled, rolling onto his side, trying to crush Wade beneath him, but Wade just screeched with laughter, entirely unbothered.
"LOGAN, LOOK! HE’S A SNUGGLY BABY! I BET HE MAKES BISCUITS IN HIS SLEEP!"
Logan was watching all of this unfold with a deep, growing sense of amusement.
Like, "I’m-about-to-rip-your-spinal-cord-out-through-your-nostrils" pissed.
But Wade? Wade was having the time of his life.
Victor finally, finally managed to throw Wade off, flinging him halfway across the room, sending him crashing into Logan’s cot with enough force to knock it sideways.
For a second, everything was still.
Then Wade sat up. Grinning.
Victor loomed over him, shoulders rising and falling with each furious breath, claws out, looking every bit the apex predator he was.
Wade, still grinning like an idiot, meowed at him.
Logan slapped a hand over his face.
The door slammed behind them, Wade’s laughter echoing down the hallway as Victor’s snarls followed close behind.
Logan, left in the wreckage of their destroyed room, exhaled heavily.
Then he muttered, "I need a drink."
And that was how Wade Wilson almost died at 6 AM on a Tuesday.
