busemox | (no subject)

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[In a moment of drunken clarity, Travis considers that maybe, just maybe, giving his home address to another hitman--one who could probably kill him without a second thought if he ever needed to--is probably a really, really terrible idea. Now this guy knows where he lives. If any bad blood ever ran between them? Deadpool could even shoot him out while he was on a can. He'd be a sitting duck.

...Which is the perfect opportunity for him to take another shot! (And spill a third of it down his front. Whoops.)

It isn't as if Travis DOESN'T drink often, either: he just never gets the chance to have decent vodka (that he's promptly ruined by mixing with terrible diet drink mix) with a decent content. He's too used to awful weak beer to have ever built up some kind of... socially acceptable tolerance for actual alcohol.

He might also be giddy that he actually has someone to invite over to watch him make a fool of himself while so deep into his cups. Maybe. Either way, he's pretty proud of himself right now. Travis stares, expectantly, at the front door.

He's going to be the best host ever.]

(after this thread!)

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[Oh god is it confession time already? Wade can't even keep up with Travis right now-- it seems as though he's cycling through all the stages of inebriation in the span of a minute or so. It's kinda making him dizzy.

He's silent for a while, digesting this new information, and even though Travis has clumsily changed the subject he feels he has to say something.]

Sorry, dude. About your girlfriend, I mean. If it makes you feel any better, my love life hasn't been a basket of rainbow kisses, either.

Why? You're not her.

And-- why the hell do people feel like they need to say sorry? Everyone's always giving me this apology bullshit, it's not like it's going to do anything.

[He doesn't want to be this upset still, after all these years.

But here he is.]

And it doesn't make me feel better, because then that just means it was bullshit for you too.

[Watch it, Travis. He's not really liking your tone there.]

Well, whaddya want me to say? I didn't think you'd be getting to this part of the night so early. I know where you're coming from and it sucks and I'm trying to commiserate with you. Or something. You wanna just accept that and try being less of an ass?

[A scoff.] Think I liked you better when you were in giggly stripper mode.

Edited 2013-02-05 00:49 (UTC)

No, because I am an ass. Get used to it.

[He falls back onto his chair again with a huff.]

I wasn't giggling, either.

[The negative effects are starting to set in. His head's pounding; Travis massages his forehead gingerly.]

...fucked up. Told you.

Oh, so we're at this stage again? Careful, dude. I get motion sickness.

Stop it with the self-pity bullshit, okay? It doesn't look good on you. You're not an ass. If you were, you would've just traipsed right on past my body back at that hotel without a second thought. But you stayed. Remember? I have to admit I was a little shocked, because up until then I kinda still thought you had too much of bloated ego to even do something like that.

But I saw that look on your face when you were watching me knit myself back together. If you really were that much of an ass, you wouldn't have stuck around. You wouldn't have cared.

So suck it up and quit dumping this all on yourself, okay? That's what a coward does.

[Not really the most motivational speech he could've performed, but he's not really into ass-patting. If Travis wants to mope around and be a whiny little pussy on his own time, that's his prerogative. But Wade doesn't have to be an audience for it.]

Edited 2013-02-05 01:32 (UTC)

[That stops him short. His mind frantically searches for some proper way to respond--but all there is is more blank anger and emotion he can't figure out how to articulate right, not when he's sober and especially not when he's drunk.

So he lashes back at Wade. Again.]

I'm not a goddamn coward! [he needs to pick whether he wants to sit or stand; he rises suddenly, the quick motion making him dizzy] Stop talking about me like you know what kind of person I--

[Travis freezes.

And promptly makes a mad dash for the bathroom.]

[Wade remains where he's standing, watching Travis take off at a dead run to the bathroom with a look of panic in his eyes. A few minutes later, the very loud sound of someone being violently sick pierces the silence. Wade rolls his eyes, wondering if he should stay here or check on Travis to make sure he's okay.

And then, out of some weird feeling of obligation he can't even understand, Wade finds himself moving in the direction where Travis had gone.]

...Fuck.

[Travis hadn't even offered him a drink the entire time he'd been here. Some host.]

[Well, that was absolutely fucking abysmal.

Thankfully, he seems to be done puking up his insides. Travis has never been one to get sick for very long. Then again, it's also been quite a while since he's drank this much. He can't even remember why anymore, but... it feels like someone's screaming inside his head and the noise is echoing inside his skull and God he just wants to curl up on the bathroom floor and not have to exist right now.

In spite of how awful he feels right now, he's managed to flush the newly evacuated contents of his guts and make his way over to the sink. He hones in on the sound of the running water, focusing on that rather than his turning stomach and... whatever the hell he'd been trying to tell Wade five minutes ago.

...He's not sure if he's currently trying to wash his face or drown himself out of shame.

By the time that Wade walks in, Travis is looking very decidedly disheveled. His face is pale; his hair's gotten wet and refuses to stay up straight, flopping in a defeated sort of way over his forehead whenever he doesn't have a hand on it.]

[Wade reaches the bathroom just as Travis lifts his head from the sink, and the sight of him in the mirror stops Wade in his tracks. It's not just the fact that his hair's down again, which makes him look decidedly more vulnerable and much less douchey than he did before, but the fact that he looks utterly miserable right now.

His face is white as a sheet and pinched, as if he's struggling with a headache or a stomachache-- or both. The sight of him throws whatever anger and irritation Wade might've still had for him completely out the window. He was going to rag on him a little more as a sort of revenge for being so bitchy, but the way the guy looks now-- there'd be no sport in it.

There is a cup resting on the sink beside him, and without a moment's hesitation Wade takes it and fills it up with water from the tap, handing it wordlessly to Travis.]

Here. Wash your mouth out and drink the rest. Gotta rehydrate you or else you're gonna wish you were dead in the morning.

[Too late. He already does kind of wish he was dead, if it means he doesn't have to feel like both his mind and body are rebelling against him. But Travis accepts the cup of water without a word.

It feels almost like a truce, he thinks, rinsing out his mouth and spitting into the sink. He'll take it. He's already half forgotten why he'd been so offended in the first place. As he sips at the cup of water (slowly; he really doesn't want to throw up a second time if he can help it), he casts Wade an apologetic glance.

He must look like such a child. He definitely feels like it.]

[Wade leans casually against the sink, waiting for Travis to finish. He's already forgotten to be angry over whatever it was they were fighting about-- was it even a fight to begin with? It hardly seems to matter anymore, and it looks as though Travis has come to the same conclusion. He seems a lot meeker now, though that may be just because his head's probably pounding like a jackhammer had babies in there.

He catches Travis's glance purely by accident, and a smile softens his eyes before he's aware of it. He knows that look. He's not exactly familiar with it-- it's very rare that people would give him such a look, but he's seen enough movies to know what that downcast gaze means. Travis is sorry. Wade answers as if Travis had vocalized his apology.]

It's okay, Trav. We all get stupid sometimes. At least it didn't degenerate into good old fisticuffs or anything, right? Wouldn't wanna knock over your precious figurine collection.

[There's no venom in that last statement-- it's merely a lighthearted jab at Travis's expense. Just Wade's way of saying hey, we're cool. He hopes Travis is sober enough to pick up on that.]

Heh.

[Oh, humor. He's just remembered how that works again. Travis smiles sheepishly, polishing off the water and wiping his mouth dry with the back of his hand.]

Those shelves are cat proof. [His mouth still feels a bit dry and his voice a bit hoarse.] Which makes 'em nearly indestructible.

[It's been ages since anyone's cared to stick around him when he's an awful drunken mess like this. The realization simultaneously touches him and wounds him even more. He can't possibly be this detached.

His slight grin fades.] I'm... gonna lie down.

[He slowly begins the lengthy trek from the bathroom to his bed.]

Oh. Uh, sure.

[That was an abrupt end to the conversation, though he supposes there's not much more Travis can offer when he's feeling so terrible. After a moment's indecision, he pokes his head out of the bathroom, watching as Travis painstakingly makes his way to what is presumably his bedroom.]

Hey, uh... you gonna be okay?

Edited 2013-02-05 08:51 (UTC)

[Travis responds with all the eloquence and depth of feeling he can muster:]

Mnngh.

[Which is none at all. He gets close, really, but stops short halfway through, leaning on his chair for support. His living room should probably not be spinning like this.

Please help.]

[Okay, this is just pathetic. Dude's got no pants on, he's staggering around, and right now he looks like he's about to pass out right there on the floor. Wade would laugh if he didn't feel so sorry for the guy.

A few strides later and he's caught up to Travis, looping an arm around his waist and slouching down a little so that he can grip Wade's shoulder if he needs to.]

Okay, come on. We're gonna do this together. Point me in the right direction, dude. I've gotcha.

[Travis' weight immediately shifts onto Wade once he can feel someone else supporting him; he exhales slowly, relieved (and still trying to calm himself). At Wade's words, though, he laughs hollowly.]

Not like you're gonna get lost.

[It is, after all, a very small place. There's really only one way for him to go. Travis shuffles forward.]

[The trek is slow going. He's afraid to move faster than a snail's pace in case Travis grows dizzy from the motion. Not to mention he's so much taller than Travis is that he constantly has to stoop down so as not to knock him off his feet. When they finally make it to the bedroom, there's a definite crick in his back.

As they reach the bed, he releases Travis slowly, allowing him to ease down to a sitting position on his own before straightening and arching his back to get the stiffness out.]

You really gotta eat your Wheaties, man.

[The quip goes right past him. He's too occupied with getting some semblance of equilibrium back. Carefully, he lies down on his side. He's silent for a long time, breathing deeply to regain his composure as best as he can.

Until, finally, he speaks.] ...Sorry.

[His voice is very small; the self-loathing stage of drunkenness is hitting him hard, especially now that everything is starting to settle in as his head clears. Some adult. Can't even make it to his own bed by himself. And he doesn't even completely enjoy being drunk, either: you'd think he'd have learned by now that it's never going to help him or make him feel better, but, of course, he keeps coming back.]

I'm a shitty drunk.

[Wade finishes stretching and sits down at the edge of the bed, being careful not to jostle it too much in case Travis's stomach hasn't fully settled yet. He chuckles good-naturedly.]

Ah, I've seen worse. Least you didn't come after me with a scimitar and try to chop my legs off. That happened once, you know.

I can take a little backtalk, don't worry. Hell, I'm in the business of backtalk. No sense dishin' it out if you can't take it, y'know?

M'not going after any more of your limbs, promise.

[Travis falls silent for a good while. He suddenly speaks up again:]

Why are you still here?

[The tone of his question isn't demanding or harsh--it's still as quiet as before, rather--but it's very clearly not rhetorical. He'd have left himself by now. He legitimately doesn't understand.]

[The question stops him. He hasn't really thought about it until now. Everything had just come naturally to him-- finding where Travis lived, making sure he got fluids in him; helping him to bed. Wade hadn't really had time to think about the deeper meaning behind his actions. Maybe there weren't any. Maybe he's just making Travis uncomfortable by being here. Embarrassed, even. Wade wouldn't have blamed him.

The question he asks in return is also not rhetorical. Nor is it an attempt to challenge Travis. He asks it because he honestly doesn't know.]

Do you want me to leave?

[Travis rolls over onto his back to stare at Wade, and he's surprised at how easily he realizes what his answer's going to be. He drapes a forearm over his face, to cover his eyes.

Really, it's a simple answer for a simple problem: he's so pathetic right now that he'd rather swallow his pride than have to be alone. There's a human being at the foot of his bed who'd actually offer to stay. Easy problem. Easy solution.]

No.

[So that's it, then.]

[An easy enough question with an easy enough answer. And yet Wade doesn't understand the sudden feeling that arises when Travis answers in the negative, a feeling of relief and... something else he can't really define. He nods, though he knows that Travis probably can't see it.]

Then I don't mind staying. Better for both of us if I do, anyway. I'm not about to spend a restless night wondering whether you'd keeled over from alcohol poisoning or whatever.

[Travis laughs hoarsely.]

It'll take a hell of a lot more'n that to kill me.

[It's weird, to have someone actively worrying about him--enough that, again, they'd actually offer to stay. There'd only ever been one person who's done this for him, and he's... well, he still hasn't quite gotten around to replacing that broken windowpane past crudely sealing up the hole. And it soon dawns on him that Wade might actually be the only person alive right now who would have stuck around.

Oh.

He feels his stomach drop for reasons unrelated to how drunk he is.]

Everybody's-- [Travis swallows, his throat raw and parched] --everyone else is pretty much gone.

[Ah. Apparently confession time's still in session. It's awkward, but surprisingly, Wade finds he doesn't really mind. He knows enough to know that someone in their line of work has more than their fair share of demons. And although he'd never think to ask before, he has to admit that he's become a bit curious as to what Travis's story is. He's clearly a lot more intelligent than he lets on-- a lot more sensitive and, well... emotional, really.

There are hidden depths to this guy, something Wade hadn't really picked up on until he'd seen how Travis had reacted to his supposed death during the hotel job. Perhaps this is the best way to coax some more details out of him, though he's not really sure why that's important right now. Why should he really care about what Travis is like when he's not decapitating mooks with that ridiculous weapon of his?

Wade shifts from where he sits, taking care to pose his question as gently and innocuously as possible.]

Gone? What d'you mean by that, Trav?