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dig your hole, dig it fast | travis+lydia
[Travis doesn't know why he still comes here. The drinks all suck; the ambiance (if you could call it that) is null; everyone else here is crouched over their drinks as miserably as he is, sulking over his own half-empty beer.
Maybe he just feels sorry for himself. And, well, a shitty night calls for a shitty bar and even shittier beer.]
Jesus fucking Christ.
[Screw it. He drains the rest of the glass and sets it back onto the table with a thunk. Maybe if he has some more it'll start tasting good, or something.]
Maybe he just feels sorry for himself. And, well, a shitty night calls for a shitty bar and even shittier beer.]
Jesus fucking Christ.
[Screw it. He drains the rest of the glass and sets it back onto the table with a thunk. Maybe if he has some more it'll start tasting good, or something.]
"WAS" IS THE KEYWORD
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.
wow weeps
[ 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.
weeps with
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.
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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?
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[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.
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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. ]
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
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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.]
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[ 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. ]
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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.
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[ 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.
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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.]
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[ 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.
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[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.
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[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.]
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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.
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Why are you thanking me?
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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.]
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Well, thanks for thanking me.
Sorry I got your shoulder wet.
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Sorry you ended up listening to some ranting drunk guy. Fun night, huh.
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