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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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[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.

When I know which way's up, maybe.

[It's been several months since Bishop's been gone, but it hurts as much as ever, like an exposed nerve. Going after the people who killed him didn't make it feel better. He already knows that retreating, trying so hard to forget that you do forget, lock up the memory and throw away the key, does nothing. Jeane's betrayal all those years ago still feels as much like an aching wound as it ever did, even now that he knows she's at peace and that they've broken even. Telling someone else like this is all he's got.]

Yeah. He was.

[And it was never completely his fault. But after the fact, now that his rage has ebbed away, he's realizing how he's still responsible more and more every day.

Travis Touchdown. Taking responsibility. What a concept.]

When-- when my folks died, I didn't have anybody. Too old to go into the system, too young to know what the hell to do with myself yet. Like I could, so fucking shell-shocked. Then this dude at the video store tries to talk to me, 'cause I've just rented Ichi the Killer, and... [He lets his sentence trail off.]

I don't know.

He was just there.

[This is almost too much for Wade. He'd never dreamed that Travis could be hurting this much; that there could be so much hardship and suffering in a person's life. He's beginning to understand why Travis puts up such an aggressive front all the time. Hell, didn't he do it too, with his joking quips and ingratiating attitude? Wasn't that all just to hide the pain?]

Sometimes just having someone there is all you really need. I'm sorry you lost him. You must've really cared about him to still be hurting over his death.

[And there's that 'sorry' again. He doesn't harp on it this time: if it were him, he doubts he would have been able to say anything at all. He barely knows what to say now, having shared... well, having shared far too much. He's sobering up a little, and his (comparatively) good judgment is returning in full force.

Travis squeezes his eyes tightly shut. He's been too talkative, and it's making his head hurt all over again, now that he's beginning to run out of steam. So he just agrees, very simply.]

Yeah. Yeah, I did.

[He was all he really had, for a long time.]

[It's clear that Travis feels like he's already said too much. Wade doesn't mind. It's kind of refreshing. It isn't often that he stays quiet and just listens, and he knows that Travis wouldn't have normally have opened up otherwise. Still, it feels like there's something he should be saying, so after a few seconds of awkward silence, he clears his throat.]

Thanks. For... telling me all of that. Letting me in.

[Is this what you say at these types of things? He doesn't know. He's never gotten close enough to someone for them to start revealing their life story. He hopes he's not coming off as an idiot or a creep.]

I kinda feel like I know you a lot more now. It's... nice, actually. [A sudden grin.] You're not nearly as stupid as you look.

Don't mention it.

[It sounds like a dismissive sort of 'you're welcome', but he actually means don't mention it literally. He's certain that his memory of this is going to be hazy come morning, and his considerably more private, un-drunk self isn't likely to be as generous with sharing his personal life as he's being now.

Travis cranes his neck to stare down at Wade, looking... a little flustered.]

The point was showing off just how stupid I am.

[He lets his head fall back onto the pillow again.]

Heh. I think I screwed it up.

Screwed it up in a good way, you mean. Much better than bein' an ass like you were five minutes ago. I don't mind drunken introspection. It's preferable to impotent yelling. Maybe not nearly as funny, but it's nice for a change of pace.

[He rises from his sitting position.]

Feeling better now? You don't need me to help you to the bathroom again or anything, do ya?

[Travis shakes his head.]

No. I'm done.

[It feels like a weight's been lifted off his chest. He sighs, relieved, and closes his eyes.]

Fuck I'm gonna feel this in the morning.

[Wade lets out a hearty, good-natured laugh at that.]

I wouldn't doubt it. Thank god we're both self-employed, huh? Can you imagine what it'd be like to be hungover and have to go to a 9-5 job? I'd wanna kill myself.

Hey, you got any spare blankets or pillows in here, by chance? Might wanna start settin' up while I'm still moderately awake.

Self-employed, what a way to--

[Wait. Wait. Travis fights down the pain in his head to prop himself up on his elbows, because... this deserves an explanation.]

You're staying. [It's a flat, disbelieving statement.] I-- what? [He does have blankets, and a sizable couch to crash on, to be sure, but...]

Why?

[He's too confused to be articulate.]

[Wade shakes his head, his voice incredulous. C'mon dude, we talked about this.]

Because you asked me to stay...? Man, you must be drunk if you don't remember two minutes ago. I distinctly recall you answering a firm "no" when I asked if you wanted me to leave.

Besides, I told you. Better for my conscience if I stay, anyway. This way I'm close by in case you decide to do something stupid. Like drink more, or something. I gotta admit, babysitting wasn't my first choice for tonight, but hey-- you gotta do what you gotta do.

So, uh... mind if I crash on your couch? Unless you changed your mind about wanting me to leave, of course.