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Life as a government weapon moved slowly in the 90s.
Logan certainly didn't miss the constant misery of war but it had become routine, almost a comfort, and now he felt... tamed. Domesticated. He spent his days off (already a novel concept) sitting on the couch with his feet up watching football next to his boyfriend.
Logan glanced over at Wade--field stripping a pistol with a stopwatch held between his teeth--and snorted, taking another swig of beer from the icy bottle in his hand. Maybe not that domesticated.
"W's so f'nny?" Wade asked without taking his eyes off his gun. When he notched the slide into place and hit the safety he bit down on the stopwatch, ending the timer, and threw his hands in the air.
"Time?" Logan asked against the rim of the bottle.
Wade pulled the stopwatch out of his mouth and peered at it. "Thirty five and change."
"Up two seconds from August."
"Aww, you remembered," Wade sing-songed, but his honest blush offset his ironic teasing. "Bradley said there's a prize in it for me if I can get to thirty seconds by the end of the year. With the gun, not with my dick--you know I'm already sub-thirty there."
The Cowboys lost to the Lions in the fourth quarter and Logan grunted, setting his bottle down on the coffee table. "Wanna get your time up?" he asked.
Grinning now, Logan barely opened his arms before Wade hopped into his lap, pistol forgotten.