busemox | dig your hole, dig it fast

[ This is a pretty stand-up town, unfortunately - except for all the werewolves and murder - and there aren't many places that wouldn't see through Lydia's fake. This happens to be one of them, and it's disgusting. But she's not here to be a princess tonight, not here for girly drinks that taste like fruit juice instead of liquor. She's staring down her second glass of cheap whiskey and trying to forget a couple of things. ]

[ Like how Jackson looked when he died for real and for good, and, worse, that one time he tried whiskey after she dared him to and choked for five full minutes, then gasped and whined about how much it burned. She'd called him a pussy. Now he's dead and buried in a pit in the woods with a wolfsbane bullet in his heart. ]

[ She doesn't even know she's crying. ]

[Travis shifts in his chair to order something else--maybe he'll be daring and get something that bites, even--when a passing glance lands Lydia straight into his peripheral vision. An eyebrow shoots straight up his face.

Is...is she even old enough to be in this bar?]

Hey, what're you doing here? [At this point, he's only got a view of the back of her head and a glimpse of her cheek: not nearly enough of a view for him to spot the running mascara yet.] Pretty sure you're not even--

[And then he sees, and the accusing tone evaporates entirely.]

--twenty-one. [His last word breaks off pathetically. Shit. He doesn't even know how to comfort people properly.]

[ She glares at him instinctively, because that's what she does to people who get into her business, and realizes halfway through a truly deadly stare that her cheeks are wet. Her face goes white and she looks away again, down at her drink, like it's the most fascinating thing in the world. ]

Are you a cop?

[He scoffs, looking away.]

I'd turn myself in for pirating shit off the internet first. I was a teenager once, if you can believe it.

[A beat. Travis drains his cup and motions to the bartender.]

Gimme one of whatever she has.

[ She barks out a laugh that's verging on the hysterical. ]

Not a cop, just a loser looking to score? Or do you actually think I want your sympathy?

Seriously?

[He casts her a suspicious sideways glance at that laugh (and oh hey, that is his drink, thanks barkeep.)]

All that I'm looking for is to get drunk for no good reason. I don't know what you're trying to do.

[ She surreptitiously wipes her face until she's safe enough to look at him, at least in this dim light, and beats his glance in suspicion. Nothing about him screams trustworthy to her. Not that anything about anybody does, lately. ]

I don't know why you're trying to talk to me. If you're not a cop and you don't want something, why -

[ She frowns fiercely into her glass and wipes under her eyes again, not because she's crying but because her face feels puffy and she hates it. Why is he here? ]

[He decides to be nice, today, and pretends not to notice her wiping her eyes.]

Easy.

I'm drunk. When I'm drunk, I talk too much. [Travis shrugs and takes a sip of his drink: geez, he really is not used to hard stuff anymore. No idea how teenagers like this stuff.]

It passes time all right, I guess, but it's more because drinking alone actually really fucking sucks, y'know?

You don't wordvomit all the time? I'm shocked.

[ Her glibly sweet tone dies away quick, though. Yeah, drinking alone sucks. The last time she drank alone was after Jackson broke up with her, before . . . well, before the kanima and Peter and everything. She didn't drink often then, but when she did it was like this, quick and hard and some weird mix of anger and despair that she wasn't sure she could put into words, so she didn't. She's pretty sure this is going to become a regular thing, now. ]

Yeah. [ She downs the rest of her drink - and there was a lot left, so her throat burns - and pushes it forward at the bartender, who's wise enough not to even ask. ]

[Join the party. Travis, on the other hand, does this far, far too often. As much trouble as it's landed him into in the past (ask the bodies in the graveyard; ask the slowly rotting, abandoned video store left without an owner; ask the con artist spending the last of his cash on whatever the hell she wants to) it's easier.

Remembering things sucks.

So he's going to bug her first.]

What happened? [Another gulp of booze.] If it makes you feel any better, I'm practically a stranger, and I'm probably not going to remember it tomorrow, anyway.

My boyfriend died yesterday.

[ It's something that she normally wouldn't say. She's drunk, and even as she's saying it she knows she shouldn't. Part of why she came here was to get away from the sympathetic looks and the if-there's-anything-I-can-dos, so why would she tell this guy? But it falls out of her mouth and she can't take it back. ]

[ She takes another drink. ]

...Shit.

Sorry.

[He briefly considers saying "if it makes you feel any better, my girlfriend is dead too", but he's not quite drunk enough to get that tactless. He spins around on the bar stool to face her a little better.]

Tell me about him? [Not her feelings, not how it happened. Him. Keep the focus on the positive, or whatever you were supposed to do--not like he knew how to be properly sympathetic in the first place if he'd asked her to vent it all out at him.]

[ She laughs a little, and this time it's a real laugh. ]

He was an asshole.

[ She tilts the tumbler in her hand, takes another long drink before she speak again. Her lips tingle, and she purses them absently. ]

I mean - he still is. Wherever he is now he's still an asshole, and a mess. But he was getting better.

I guess that's over now, though.

That's how guys are, I guess. You think I'm an ass now, heh, if you knew me when I was 18. I don't know how my girl put up with me. [Because I wasn't enough to protect her; I wasn't enough to make her better; it was never enough and she was still broken until the very end.]

[Travis laughs bitterly.]

It almost seems like-- like a waste, doesn't it? With people. You find someone who doesn't mind the fact that you're alive, and... [He makes a vague waving motion with his hand.]

[ The glass clicks on the bar as she looks up at him, trying to gauge whether or not he's being sarcastic. All she sees is honesty, though, which is almost worse. She can deal with sarcasm, she can deal with cruelty, but having somebody voice her thoughts makes her feel weirdly vulnerable. ]

You rely on them and then they're gone. Every time.

Who needs people. Letting you down, or you let them down, and it's this cycle of-- I don't even know. Point is.

[He drains his glass and leans forward onto the bar, resting his elbows on it. The drunker he gets, the more earnest--and the less ashamed of himself he is for it.]

It's easier. Alone, I mean. [He rests a cheek in the palm of his hand.] And the last chick I slept with stole my bike, so that shit is not on.

[ A ghost of a smile. ] Yeah. [ And then it's gone. ]

I shouldn't have liked him anyway. I should have known better.

[ Her parents taught her to be a smart girl. She should have seen the seeds of anger and desperation in Jackson - she should have seen the cruelty - but she didn't. And it was easier to blame herself now for letting herself feel anything than think any more about how much she loved him and how much that hurt. ]

But you didn't.

[And neither did he: not when she, erratic, wiped the blood from her hands and smiled at him; not when she lied to him again and he bought it for the first second fifth tenth time.]

Even when you get burned I don't think anybody really learns. Funny thing about people and love.

No, nobody learns.

[ Which just makes her think of Peter, and how, for a very short time, he made her feel like Jackson used to - swept off her feet, living a little bit dangerously. And then he turned out to be a real live monster. ]

[ She's about to sink all the way into sullen memories when something occurs to her, rising up through the fog of alcohol. ]

. . . You never said it'll get better. That the pain will fade.

[ Because that's what Allison had said to her - through tears, which was nice, but she was still standing next to the guy who loved her and, despite what she claimed, had never hurt her anything like the way Jackson had hurt Lydia, and more importantly was still alive. Allison had said I'm here for you, it'll be okay, and Lydia had wanted to punch her in the face for lying again. ]

[ Travis isn't lying to her. ]

'Cause it doesn't.

[He'd know, wouldn't he?. He's still drinking it off, after all, years and years later. That hot summer's day, years off now, still stings in his memory, sore like an old wound. He still sees glimpses of the broken, mangled bodies. And he's tried to forget, time and time again, but no matter how much he drinks, it never goes away.]

You just... learn to deal with it. Or you don't. [Travis stares into the bottom of his cup, and chuckles again, running a hand through his hair.]

I mean, fuck! I didn't, now look at me. [Ha. His voice falters.] Fucking look at me. [Sigh.] You can't do worse than me, here.

Edited 2012-12-25 02:40 (UTC)

[ She should feel worse from hearing that. She should feel hopeless and angry and desperate - but she doesn't. Because he's just confirming what she already knew in her heart, but what everyone else was trying to deny: that the image of Jackson dying in her arms would never fade, and neither would the feel of the handful of dirt falling from her hand onto his bloody body. She'd never get the smell of wolfsbane out of her nose, and she'd never forget what he tasted like. ]

[ And that's okay, because the alternative is forgetting him. ]

[ Her eyes are dry now, and she's watching Travis with the barest hint of curiosity. She finishes her glass and pushes it forward again. ]

What do you do? Besides . . . [ She waves her hand at . . . everything. ]

[Travis Touchdown is many things... but he is not a guy who can hold his alcohol well. He's already at the embarrassing word vomit stage by now, and there's no turning back.]

I have no idea. [He slumps over onto the bar--arms crossed, head half-buried in them, leaning like a bored kid sulking over a desk.] Guess you just figure out the best way to bear it, at some point, if you can't figure out how to get past it entirely.

M'not the one you should be asking about this, though. [He gives another hollow laugh.] My girlfriend was kind of an asshole too, and if I'm not over her yet, I don't think I'm ever gonna be.

[He pauses.]

But she was different.

[ The bartender fills her glass, same again. She's pulled herself together enough by now that she can smile graciously, even a little flirtatiously, at him before she turns back to Travis. He looks more childish now, less adult, less sure of things (even if they are desperate things), and she's not sure if that's better or worse than before. ]

[ She sips at her drink now, not slamming it back, and grips the edge of the bar, feeling a little dizzy. ]

Of course she was different, that's - isn't that what we're talking about? I loved - love him. I love Jackson Whittemore. I'll always love Jackson Whittemore. He was different, too. Bastard. I love him.

[ This time her drink is longer, sloppier, and she has to wipe her mouth. ]

Quid pro quo. Your turn.

[It's worse than before, or he'll think so, anyway, when he's sober--but now, he's too deep into his cups to analyze this situation in any really concrete way.]

Heh, that's love for you. It's the same for me.

[Travis sits up again and shoots Lydia a tentative glance. It's been a long time since he's talked about her so directly. The wound, figurative and literal, feels raw again. He absently rubs his chest, above his heart, where a scar lies, and continues.]

Her name was Jeane. She died three years ago, but I lost her a long, long time before that.

And I still love her, I think. No--no, I'm positive I still do.

[ Lost her - well, Lydia lost Jackson a while ago, too. Back when he'd first started spinning out of control into anger and violence and jealousy, back when he'd first started hurting her instead of making her laugh. She'd always loved him, but she'd loved him painlessly once. ]

[ She meets his glance and looks away quickly, biting her lip. ]

So, what was she like? I already told you . . .

...Up and down. [A faint smile crosses his face; he's remembering.] It was rough when she was down--she'd cry, and get so mad it'd actually scare the shit out of me--but when she was happy?

She was a genius. Smart and funny and beautiful. The whole package.

[His expression fades.]

Didn't last, of course. But while it lasted, it was perfect.

[ She wants to say something or do something to make him feel better, but she can't think of a single thing that will help. Nothing helps when you're remembering this, she thinks, and her fingers go white around her drink. ]

Did she ever hurt you?

[Hurt him? That's hardly a question. He answers, almost matter-of-factly:]

She killed my parents.

She took everything I ever-- [Fuck. He rubs his forehead and sighs; he's never been good at being open like this, even when drunk. He feels so bare, so split-open and exposed.]

Fuck. Sorry, this isn't about me, this is you.

[ Her eyes widen. No, she hadn't been expecting that. She'd thought - bad girl, bad breakup, a lot of pain. Not murder. ]

[ It only takes a second for her to cover it up, though. It's easier to deal with his than hers. Hesitantly, she sort of nudges his knee with her knee, lightly enough that it could look like an accident if he wants to play it that way. ]

Hey. I asked.

[There's a hell of a lot of skeletons in his closet, Lydia--which is why he doesn't like sharing much these days.]

And I told, right?

[He doesn't notice her expression, but when she nudges him, he glances over, the ghost of a grin sneaking upon his face for just a moment.]

From there it gets really cheesy and melodramatic. It sounds like fucking Greek tragedy.

[ She laughs, bitterly. Kind of like she's trying to choke back a sob. ]

You told. We both told. Tragedies on the table. So what now? It's not going to get any better.

[ It's. Kind of nice to have someone who gets it, though. ]

Did you go to her funeral?

Yeah. [Like ripping off the bandage.] 'S out there, though, which is more than nothing, I guess.

[But he's not quite ready to break the whole "I kill people for money" news to Lydia yet.]

I was there for her when she died. [I was the one who finally let her die.] But she didn't have one. You can probably guess that she was kind of...

...well, things were messy, I guess is what I'm trying to say. Literally and figuratively.

Yeah.

Just - [ She's drunk enough to ask, she can't keep it from tumbling out, god, she doesn't want to think about it anymore, but - ] He didn't - have a traditional burial. I - there's not going to be a funeral. Not really.

[ She thinks of him in the grave with the wolfsbane and wants to curl in on herself, leans over the bar so her hair falls in her face. Her chest hurts all over again. ]

Edited 2013-01-09 19:41 (UTC)

[He doesn't know what he's doing. He doesn't know how to comfort people, he doesn't know how to make things better; he has a million snappy one-liners for every occasion, everything but the hollowness of mourning.

His hand is so tentative on her shoulder. He's not even sure he's got the right to do this. It was a split-second decision and his arm half moved on its own and God he still has no idea what he's doing.

Like he'll watch her dissolve like this without doing anything, though. And his words are all gone.]

[ The second he touches her shoulder she dissolves. Just. Turns to liquid on the inside, holds onto the edge of the bar with white knuckles, digs the nails of her other hand into his knee on impulse. She has to hold on to something. He just happens to be there. ]

[ She's crying again, but silently, because she doesn't want anyone to hear her cry. Even now, with her hair in her face, she can mostly hide it. Travis will be able to feel her shaking, though. She hates that. But it doesn't matter, right? Because he doesn't know her. It's okay. She'll never see him again. ]

[ She doesn't have to worry about people seeing her weak because she's all alone here. Just because he understands doesn't mean he's going to worry about her when he wakes up tomorrow. ]

[He scoots closer; the nails digging into his knee doesn't bother him because it's the kind of thing he'd expect. It's the kind of thing Jeane did, when she was in too low a state to do anything other than cling to him until she could pull herself out of the episode.

Travis grips her shoulder and squeezes it reassuringly. It's strange to him. He's never the one to do this sort of thing. He's always the one who's a mess. And more importantly, since when does he care?

She doesn't deserve this, though. She's too young to put up with this-- the kind of pain that leaves scars. Tonight, she's just a poor kid in a bar with too heavy a weight on her heart, and this is all he can give.]

You're gonna get through it.

[Somehow.]

[ She laughs bitterly and wonders where her drink went. Did she finish it? Is it on the bar in front of her? Did the bartender take it away? Maybe Travis drank it. She doesn't know. She wants about twelve more. ]

[ Turning her head, she wipes her eyes fiercely and frowns at him. ]

Why are you doing this? What are you getting out of it?

[ Retreating back to defensiveness and suspicion, because that's what's kept her safe before, or at least close enough to safe that she's survived. ]

[He honestly doesn't know. Travis pauses and shrugs a shoulder.]

Hell if I know. [He shrugs a single shoulder. The bartender's polishing a glass on the other side of the bar. He'd taken their drinks--or whatever was left of them--and cleaned them up. Or so he assumes, anyway.]

Maybe I'm being selfish. Kind of a "giving you what I never got" deal.

Edited 2013-01-21 06:01 (UTC)

[ There's a brief moment of blank confusion - is he being honest? Outright saying he's being selfish? But nothing he's said has sounded like a lie before. He's not suave, he's not cool, he's not charming - he's grating and annoying, but he's trying to comfort her. He's not trying to get her to do anything, or get anything out of her. ]

[ In some ways honesty is more suspicious than ulterior motives. Experience makes her wary. But she also feels bad, honestly and deeply, about the fact that he never had anyone, not even a stranger, to sit next to in a bar and flush his sorrows away with. ]

[ She forces herself to relax slightly, not let her guard down but at least stop looking at him like he's about to steal her purse, and shrugs, too, clearing her throat. ]

I can think of more selfish things.

[Oh. Shit. His hand's still there. Travis awkwardly pulls away, his hand shifting to rub the muscles at the back of his neck.]

Me too. [He chuckles dryly.] Does that mean I get a pass this time?

[It's been a long, long time since he's been this open with somebody else. Maybe it's because she's a stranger, but when Bishop was alive, he never truly told him everything that weighed on him, like lead weights in the bottom of his ribcage.

Travis casts her what might just be the ghost of an uncertain, but genuine smile.]

This time.

[ Her voice is dry, in part because her throat is dry, in that gross, post-crying sticky kind of way, and in part because she was drinking, and in part because - not because he touched her, but because he was such an ass and had tried anyway. That was why her throat hurt. ]

[ She catches his eye and ducks her head a little, instinctively. ]

You're practically a good Samaritan.

Heh.

[Travis chuckles. Him, a good Samaritan. Of all the things. It's hard to believe it, but God, it sure sounds nice.]

Yeah, all right, I'll take it. That's my good deed for the next year or something, then, I guess--m'free to be an ass for the next three hundred and sixty four days.

If that's what you want.

[She looks at him unreadably for a second, then instinctively, drunkenly, unhappily leans over and hugs him tightly.]

You can go for longer now, [she whispers hoarsely, because she's not doing this for herself, she's doing it for him. She doesn't need it. Not at all.]

[His first reaction is to freeze. He may be a sentimental man, but life, his own rotten nature, some bad turn of fate, whatever you'd choose to call it-- it shoved people in the opposite direction. This contact... it's something he very rarely gets. He doesn't quite know what to do.

But slowly, he moves his arms to wrap around Lydia and hug her back. Not because he needs it; or because hugging a strange girl, pouring his heart out to her, has made him feel the most okay he's felt in months.

She needs it, really.]

Thank you.

[She laughs, and it's not a cute happy popular Lydia laugh, it's choked with tears, although she is pulling herself together against his shoulder. She takes a second, deliberately slowing her breathing, and pulls away, feeling his discomfort.]

Why are you thanking me?

[Uh.

He hadn't really thought of a coherent reason to be thanking her: it's more that he feels like it's something he needed to say. Being asked for it just forces him to stumble for a meaning and oh no he has no idea what to say.]

I-- uh, I don't know. I didn't know what else to say.

[He chuckles awkwardly, to fill the space of the silence.]

[She quirks her eyebrows at him, a little pityingly. He's such a mess. But she's a mess, too. It's no big deal, at least not for tonight.]

Well, thanks for thanking me.

Sorry I got your shoulder wet.

Eh. [He manages a little smile.] It's water. It'll dry.

Sorry you ended up listening to some ranting drunk guy. Fun night, huh.

It was - [She hesitates, then nods.] Better than it could've been.

dig your hole, dig it fast | travis+lydia

and then i actually tagged

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i had to reupload this icon for this now i'm sad

AHHHHHHHHHHH HE'S SO HAPPY.......

"WAS" IS THE KEYWORD

wow weeps

weeps with

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