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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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[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?

[Travis doesn't move.]

Gone.

[He's always been so very suggestible. All the shit he keeps locked away bubbles up to the surface so easily, if mediated by drink and someone actually looking for it. And Wade's asking. So he's telling.]

They killed my friend to get to me. Everybody else up and left. [Shinobu's probably back in Asia, now that he's shoved her firmly away. Henry's the only family he's got left, and God knows where that guy's gone off to.

He's not even sure if he should be looking for Sylvia at all.]

Didn't really know any of them, anyway.

[And honestly, Wade's surprised by it-- at the frankness of it. Travis's willingness to simply reveal private aspects of his life like that. He could chalk it up to the alcohol-- in vino veritas and all that-- but a part of his mind suspects that Travis wants to talk about it. Had wanted to talk about it for a long time, maybe.

It feels weird, knowing that Wade's the person he's chosen as an audience for his life story. He's not entirely sure how to take it-- what it all means. He awkwardly rests a hand on Travis's leg, the only part of his body he can reach from his position.]

I'm sorry. That's something we've... well. I get it, y'know?

[As open with his words as Travis is being right now, Wade's not so sure he can reciprocate. There's too much he's got locked inside him-- he's actually afraid of what might happen if he lets even a little piece of himself slip through.

But he understands, in any case. He hopes Travis will be able to see that much.]

[And God, does he ever want to talk--to spill everything until there's nothing left to tell. It's been too long since anybody's listened. But he's too aware of himself now to let it all go. Too aware of Wade.]

Damn, we have shitty jobs.

[He breathes a weak laugh. It's not funny anymore, but fuck, he's trying. He doesn't know how else he's supposed to show Wade that his presence actually is helping.]

Shoulda just started a rock band.

[Wade laughs along with him-- not because he finds it funny but because it's kind of expected of him.]

Pretty sure their lives aren't any less fucked up than ours, man. Though if you're askin' if I'd be the Keith Richards to your Mick Jagger, I'd definitely have to take you up on that. There's kind of a resemblance between me 'n Keith already. The way he looks nowadays, anyway.

[Because that's always been Deadpool's way of breaking through awkward moments, hasn't it? Self-deprecation and inappropriate humor. Turning the tragedy into comedy. That's always been his style. He isn't sure if he's even capable of holding a serious conversation for very long. He hopes that Travis at least understands that he's not trying to make light of the situation. That it's not because he doesn't care.

...Because he does care, doesn't he? That's the real reason why he's sticking around. Not for blackmail fodder, not to laugh at Travis's drunken misfortune, but because there's a certain... je ne sais quoi about the little dork. The realization is strange and more than a little disconcerting. He makes a mental note to file it away for future analysis.]

Yeah, but at least I would've gotten famous at the same time.

[...Is he seriously being compared to Jagger. (Analogized, but whatever, still counts.) Travis snorts, amused. Now it actually is funny.]

Oh, man. I don't want 7 kids. That's not worth it. [He raises his arm to rest on his forehead rather than his face. He's not always great at picking up on others' intentions, but... he can tell, that Wade's trying his best. It's nice. Maybe if he keeps talking, too, they'll both diffuse this situation somehow.] I can't play guitar, though, so you'd have had to be Keith, anyways.

...I almost did, though. Me and Bishop, we got this-- this stupid idea, that if we figured out how to play, we could pick up girls with it. Chicks love that stuff, right? But it turns out that neither of us were patient enough to actually work out how to do it once we bought the damn things. So we just wound up looking at online guides, until we got sick of that and just kind of fucked around with 'em and made a lot of noise. Like, the only thing he ever knew how to do was "Smoke on the Water", and even then it was just those first handful of notes. It got annoying real quick, and I kept telling him I'd suplex him into the dirt if he didn't stop it.

Fuck, he was a dumbass. [In spite of his words, there's more than a little nostalgia clinging to his words. It's been a long time since he's told that story.]

Edited 2013-02-07 00:33 (UTC)

It's actually not that hard. Learning to play guitar, I mean. I pretty much taught myself in a couple of months. Probably not on the level as, say... Santana, but I like to think I'm still pretty good. I'm not much of a teacher, but if you want, I could teach you the basics.

[Wade recognizes that tenderly disparaging note in Travis's voice-- it's pretty much the same tone he would've used when talking about Weasel. It's quite obvious that he and this Bishop dude were close. Wade can't even fathom what it would be like in his position. Sure, Weasel is a pain in the ass at times and plays the damsel in distress role way too well for his own good, but that doesn't mean Wade wouldn't miss him if he were gone.

And if someone had taken it upon themselves to kill him... well. The less Wade thinks about that prospect, the better. His voice is cautious.]

...He sounds like he was a great guy.