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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 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.

I meant for the time being, not the whole night.

[Travis rubs at his forehead. He's not opposed: just mildly embarrassed that 1) he needs a babysitter, and 2) the only thing that'll make him try to chase him away is some kind of half-baked excuse for politeness. And the offer feels... too generous, especially for someone he can't say he knows. The only person who'd ever stuck around like this was, well, Bishop--and he's honestly puzzled as to why anyone who wasn't Bishop, loyal to the end, would do the same.]

I just-- [His conscience? Him, weighing on anyone's conscience? It was always the other way around: his slights against others quietly picking at him.] You really don't-- you don't need to. I'm not gonna do anything else.

Got better places to be than my fuckin' couch.

[But it's not a strict 'no'.]

[Wade shrugs.]

Maybe I just really like the decor of this place. Maybe I need a welcome change from cushy beds and woven carpeting. Who knows, really? But hey-- I'm not gonna force you put me up for a night. You don't want me here, I'm gone. No hard feelings. Just say the word.

[Oh fuck he's turning it around on him. That's not fair, why does he have to make his own decisions.]

I never said I didn't want you to stay.

[...Jesus, that sounded gay.]

[Wade's face breaks into a triumphant, teasing grin.]

Then I'll stay. There, see? Was that so hard?

[He reaches over and gives Travis's shoulder a few pats.]

So. How 'bout pointing me to those blankets? The sooner I get myself set up in your [A snicker.] very accommodating living room, the sooner we can both get some sleep.

[Uh. Yes. Yes, it was. Travis mumbles something vague, but compliant, still looking a bit skeptical about this whole thing as Wade pats him on the shoulder.]

...Closet.

[Travis hands Wade one of the two pillows off his bed, then inclines his head toward the closet on the opposite side of the room. There's a couple basic throw blankets in there ~~one may or may not have a really cute duck mascot pattern on them~~. They're not particularly heavy duty or anything, but thankfully, Santa Destroy's coldest cold tends to be pretty mild, anyway.]

[Fortunately, Wade really doesn't have a preference when it comes to sleeping conditions. As long as he's at least moderately comfortable, he's fine with pretty much anything. He grabs two of the blankets (one of them definitely being the aforementioned duckie blanket because it's cute why would you even have this Travis you are adorable) and without further ado makes his way over to the couch in the living room.

He sets the first blanket down on the couch itself (though he likes Travis, there's no telling what unspeakable acts have been done on this piece of furniture), arranging the pillows and setting the second blanket haphazardly over the first. There. One makeshift bed ready for use.

He has to admit that he's feeling a little tired now that all the excitement has died down. Wade does his best to suppress a yawn as he returns to the bedroom to check up on Travis one last time.]

[Fuck, this has been a weird night. As soon as Wade leaves he slumps right back onto the bed, pulling the blanket half-heartedly onto himself. He's too exhausted to care anymore: he can't seem to reach it or work with his fine motor skills, so it doesn't matter. He shuts his eyes again with a sigh.

He's not quite asleep yet. He's worn out enough that just lying back again already sends him drifting, but still he inhabits that middle space between consciousness and the lack of it. Wade's reentrance stirs him out of it--but only for a moment. He's already having trouble holding his eyes open.

Travis makes a small noise of acknowledgement--whether it's a "sorry" or a "thank you" or a simple "good night" is lost even on him. He barely knew what to say to Wade when he was awake. Travis gives him one last glance--and finally, his eyelids, heavy, shut. His breathing gradually slows.

Finally, he's calm: all fervor, all pain, all anger and frustration gone. He's just a very tired man, sprawled on the bed and breathing steadily.]

[It must be a general rule that anyone, even pathetic intoxicated saps, must look endearing when their sleeping. Travis is no exception-- it's fascinating how different he looks when he's not... well, conscious. Wade stands there in the doorway for a moment or two, watching as Travis's chest rises and falls slowly, before impulse drives him forward to tug the blanket around him. Another strange impulse causes him to lightly ruffle the sleeping man's hair-- did he lean into Wade's touch a little or was that merely his imagination?-- before leaving Travis to his dreams.]

I do not wanna be you in the morning, dude.

[The couch is much too small for him to stretch out fully. He compromises by bending his knees a little, though he's sure that his back is definitely going to be feeling this when he wakes up the next morning. He's just sinking his head on the pillow and closing his eyes when an inquisitive mrr? briefly distracts him. The cat. He'd forgotten about her in all the commotion. She stares up at him curiously for a few seconds-- he can almost see the thought process going through her brain as to why this stranger would still be here-- before she bunches up her haunches and leaps onto his blanket-covered chest.

She's by no means a large cat, and yet the sudden weight of her surprises him somewhat. For her part, she seems to be unaware of the strangeness of her actions, kneading the blanket a few times before settling down. Wade lets out a chuckle at that-- softly, so as not to jostle her too much.]

Guess you're gonna sleep with me tonight, huh?

[She responds with the uninterested look that all cats are masters of before closing her eyes. Despite himself Wade finds his hand reaching up to stroke her soft fur, and is rewarded by the sound of her purring a few minutes later.

Huh. Didn't take long for you to warm up to me, did it, he thinks, but he's entirely too tired to attach any sort of deeper meaning to it. Besides, she's warm and her purring is actually having a soporific effect on him. Wade rests his head on the pillows, closes his eyes and is asleep within seconds, his hand still resting lightly on the little cat's body.]

Edited 2013-02-10 06:10 (UTC)

[At around ten the next morning, some old car noisily sputters its way past on the street below; Travis wakes with a start, no longer able to ignore the sun streaming in through his window. The inside of his mouth feels dry. He's got an awful, throbbing headache. (Shit, he feels horrible, why can't he just sleep for another week or three.) It's like he hasn't slept through the night at all.

Speaking of. What the hell happened last night? His memories are hazy; he doesn't remember much from after he broke out the drink mix, and he sent text mess--]

Oh fuck.

[He remembers Wade. Not what they'd done, or what he'd said, but he remembers Wade.]

Oh, fuck.

[Travis throws the blanket off (he usually kicks it off with how much he moves in his sleep; strange, that it stayed on him the whole night) and gets to his feet, nearly falling off the bed in the process. He's a fucking terrible drunk. He's got no idea what happened-- did he pick a fight with him? Did he-- Jesus fuck, he gets mouthy when he's drunk, what had he even told him--

Very tentatively, he moves toward the living room. He can't decide whether it'd be better or worse if Wade were there waiting for him.]

[Wade had actually returned to Travis's room only a few minutes ago. He'd woken up relatively early-- in part because Travis's couch proved to be a touch too small for his tall frame-- and had gone out on the town in search of a decent convenience store. Despite the fact that he'd gotten used to going around in his suit every day, he was actually surprised that nobody seemed to even notice, barring one snot nosed pimply teenager who seemed to think he was "some sorta gimp luchador" (obviously the kid had never seen an actual luchador in his life-- or a gimp suit, for that matter).

He'd felt kinda bad about leaving Travis in the lurch like that, but he was pretty sure he could make it back before the poor guy had a chance to wake up. Which is why he's currently sitting on the couch with a bag of his purchases dangling from one hand, grinning expectantly at Travis as he sees him stumble out of the bedroom.]

Well, g'morning there, Sunshine. Don't you look like something the cat threw up. No offense.

[This last part is said to the little cat, who merely gives him another unimpressed look before resuming her tongue bath. Wade turns his attention back to Travis, his eyes at once amused and sympathetic.]

How're you feelin'? Bad hangover, huh?

[Hold up: he needs to take stock of this. Wade--Deadpool--is in his home, holding a bag of... whatever the hell he's got there, chilling on his couch, and fraternizing with his cat. And Travis, for his part, is hungover, sporting some particularly severe bedhead, and standing before aforementioned killer-for-hire in just a t-shirt and his underwear.

Travis' shoulders slump in defeat. This day has only just begun and he's already finished with it.]

M... morning. [He shoots Jeane an imploring glance. (As if the cat could ever help him sort this out.)] Did you-- [He gestures at Wade and begins to try to communicate something with his hands: he really doesn't know where on earth it's going and lets his arms drop back to his sides again.]

How long have you been here?

[Wade chuckles and shakes his head.]

Man, you really were out of it, weren't you. Ended up spending the night here. Oh and by the way, that couch might work fine for your petite little frame, but I had a serious time squeezin' myself in that thing. Think I bent my spine the wrong way.

[He digs into the bag, taking out a bottle of red liquid and holding it out to Travis.]

Here. Got somethin' for you at the store. It's a sports drink-- you're gonna wanna get as much of that in you as you can if you wanna get rid of that headache.