busemox | (no subject)

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.

[He was here all night. Oh God. He was here all night. Travis is absolutely mortified.]

You should've just gone home. [Why the hell did this guy even bother to stay? What did it matter? Even he doesn't want to be around himself when he's drunk (which might explain his "drink until you can't remember" strategy). He can't even look at Wade directly; every time he tries to look at him his eyes just drift right back to the bottle of sports drink he'd taken without a second thought.

Is he really feeling this awkward over a person paying him a kindness? What's that even supposed to say about him?]

I would've been fine. [He twists the cap off, seal breaking with a crack, and takes a swing.] it's not like I've never b-- wait. Petite? What the fuck?

[Now he feels obligated to AND offended by Wade. Nice!]

I told you last night-- I didn't want that weighin' on my conscience. Better I lose a good night's sleep making sure you didn't do anything stupid than to lie awake worrying whether you were gonna do something stupid.

Maybe you would've; maybe you wouldn't have. But at least it's a load off my mind.

[A grin.]

And that whole "petite" thing was a joke, dude. You really gotta work on that sense of humor of yours.

[His anger fades quickly. He can't find it in him to be too upset. Knowing he actually gives that much of a shit is actually really touching. Which is completely stupid. Wade probably doesn't actually care directly: just conscience, after all, not centered on him specifically, just some vague responsibility for making sure a drunk guy you sorta knew didn't drink his own liver out of commission.

But why did he stick around for the hangover, then? He didn't need to. Nobody's ever died from a hangover.

Now he's faced with the possibility that Wade really, actually, legitimately cares about him and it's making him weirdly sentimental and he doesn't know whether to welcome the feeling or not. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. Finally he looks Wade in the eye.]

...Thanks.

[Wade offers him a fleeting smile. It's a lot warmer than the one he'd displayed previously, when Travis first entered the room.]

Drink up.

[He leans back on the couch with a sigh.]

Don't mention it, by the way. I've had my fair share of rough nights-- I know how it feels. In any case, you were fine. Got a little bitchy at the tail end of the night, but that was pretty much it.

[It looks like he's about to say more, but he's suddenly interrupted by a loud growl from his stomach. He lays a hand on it to still it.]

Oof. I just remembered that I'm starving. Haven't eaten breakfast yet-- that probably wasn't a good idea.

[He begins to rifle through the bag again, taking out two square styrofoam containers.]

Good thing I decided to stop on the way to get something to eat. Picked you up a little something too. I wasn't too sure if you'd be able to get any food down, but in my experience eggs and hash browns work really well for a hangover, so I figured I'd give it a shot.

Think you'll be able to eat it now or should I just put it in the fridge for ya?

Edited 2013-02-10 09:47 (UTC)

[Travis takes a couple more sips of his drink and simply listens to what Wade has to say. He's trying to pick up hints of what he could've possibly brought up: like nearly every other time he's gotten that wasted, his recollection's extremely shaky at best, so second-hand knowledge is where he'll be needing to go to.

When Wade stops, he opens his mouth to ask... Until he's interrupted by food.

Christ. Even breakfast. He finds himself laughing; pain in his head aside, this is quite possibly the best hangover he's ever had. Travis sits on the couch beside Wade and takes one of the containers, shaking his head.]

Okay. What are you trying to sell me.

[He can barely believe this guy's for real.]

[Wade blinks. Okay, so Travis doesn't believe him. He supposes he can't really blame him-- after all, the chances of someone being this accommodating after a night of embarrassing drunken debauchery is probably on par with winning the lottery twice in a row. Still, Wade finds his voice getting defensive. He's really not after anything, after all. For once.]

I'm not trying to sell you anything! I was just in the restaurant ordering some breakfast to go and thought you might be feeling well enough to have some, maybe. It'd be kinda douchey of me to show up with just a meal for myself, wouldn't it?

I told you-- I've had bad hangovers before. I just figured... y'know, since you let me stay here and all, I'd pay you back a little bit. That's all.

[He stops; glances down at his own container. He's surprised to find that he's actually embarrassed.]

Well... okay. There is one other thing. I... kinda feel like I owe you an apology.

[Travis is already poking at his own food. (He'd be a LOT more enthusiastic about breakfast, but there's a bit of lingering nausea and he'd rather not puke them right back up.) He glances at Wade out of the corner of his eye and laughs again, the sound far lighter and more at ease than he's been all night and all morning.]

That was a joke, too. [He idly stabs at an egg--the yolk spills over his hash browns, soaking into the potatoes.] Hungover to shit and already working on my sense of humor; I am fuckin' amazing.

Don't know what you'd need to say sorry for, but shoot. [He's the one who really owes Wade at this point.]

[He grins sheepishly. He's not really sure why he feels so relieved that Travis was merely trying to make a joke. Maybe it's because the prospect of trying to convince him that he's doing this with no strings attached is a little embarrassing. He still hasn't gotten the hang of this whole altruism thing, he has to admit.]

That's okay-- it was probably my bad too. My humor detection's kinda off-kilter in the morning. It's good practice, at least?

[Wade takes a moment to open up the box. He stabs a forkful of the potatoes and pops it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. When he speaks again, his voice is hesitant.]

...I was wrong about you, Trav. That's what I wanted to apologize for. This whole time... I dunno, it was weird. I guess I still thought you were just some cocky punk with something to prove. That all those hints that there was actually more to you than that were just... weird flukes or something.
Heh. I dunno. Maybe I've just gotten overly cynical in my old age.

In any case, I wasn't giving you enough credit. Sorry. That wasn't really a good judgement call. [He grins.] Like I said last night, you're not nearly as stupid and shallow as you come across.

[And there it is. Of all things to hear after a night of what he can only assume was drunken rambling-- an apology? Travis, uncertain, pushes some hash browns around the take-out container with his fork.]

What exactly did I say to you?

[He knows he's changed a lot in the last two, three years; he'll never be as much of a screwed-up idiot as he was at 27 ever again. But all in all, he still feels like a cocky punk with a chip on his shoulder. It doesn't feel like he's done enough, and some days he just feels like a waste of time. He wants, so badly, to have been able to prove himself to Wade like this (though why Wade at all is still beyond him). But he feels a little cheated. He's not grown up enough that he'd suddenly be giving character-defining speeches, rather than the bullshit he's come to expect himself to spit in a fit of drunken self-loathing.

He doesn't feel like he deserves the apology, not knowing what he'd done to get it.]

[Well, this conversation certainly took a turn for the awkward. It's not altogether unexpected-- Wade figures that if it were him in this position he'd want to know what had happened the night before too. He briefly toys with the idea of telling Travis a half-truth-- Travis had told him not to mention what he'd said before, though he was drunk at the time. His voice is cautious.]

You didn't say anything too dicey, don't worry. Just talked about your friend Bishop. His death. A little bit about your parents-- how they died when you were young. You stopped before it got too personal, but... yeah.

[He feels a sense of foreboding even before the words are completely out of his mouth. He's not entire sure just how tight-lipped Travis is about his life, but considering it had taken a hefty bit of vodka to get even that much out of him, it's pretty safe to assume that Travis keeps his private thoughts just as locked up as Wade does.]

...You told me not to mention it, though, and I won't. Not after this, I mean. Not unless you want me to. It's none of my business.

Oh.

[He feels relief wash over him. Travis doesn't sense the sort of pity in Wade's words--just the feeling that he's walking on eggshells in telling this to him. Frankly, he prefers it. He'd rather have someone be a little careful about their words than feel sorry for him.]

...I wasn't that young. I was turning 21 when it happened. They were killed at the same time.

[He sighs and rubs at his temples with his fingertips. He must not have told Wade the whole bloody story, in all its detail; he prefers that, too, keeping the more troubling parts of his life so close to his heart. What he can't place, though, is what all of this has to do with Wade's apology. So his friend's dead because he didn't bother to think that he was putting him in danger; so he was suddenly and violently orphaned. Boo hoo. If anything, it should make Wade like him less: some fuck-up who couldn't even talk about himself unless he was too drunk to care.

Maybe Wade does feel sorry for him. A grain of doubt creeps back in.]

Listen, I don't want pity or anything. [He sounds just a little defensive.] That's why I don't talk about it. I'd just-- rather not deal with that. [Because it makes me actually think about how fucked up I really am.]

[A pause. Then, quietly:] Thanks. I probably won't, but... [He shrugs.] I'm talkative when I'm wasted. Who knows what I'm gonna say next.

[Wade nods silently, taking this all in. He understands to an extent, about not wanting pity. He'd been like that himself, once upon a time.]

It's not pity, Trav. Not really. It's just... I understand where you're coming from, y'know? I know that sounds like... the worst cop-out of all time, but it's the truth.

[He swallows hard; stares at something in the far off corner of Travis's room.]

I lost my girlfriend. Years ago. Fucker tore her up and used her blood to write his name on the wall. Like a taunt, or... or a warning. A warning to me. I was trying to keep her safe, and she died 'cause of me. Y'know what her last words were? "I'll always love you, Wade." Y'know what my last words to her were? Some stupid bullshit about how she couldn't say something like that because it was what people said when they died. I didn't even say it back. She was dying, right there in my arms, and I couldn't say it back.

I can't say it was like what happened with you and Bishop, but I know where you're comin' from, Trav. I know how much it hurts. How much you hate after something like that. How nothing else matters in that moment but making the bastards suffer to their last breath. I... I didn't even go to her funeral. How fucked up is that? She was with me for years, stuck by me through thick and thin, through everything, and I didn't even take the time to say goodbye to her. 'Cause I was busy. I was so focused on getting revenge that I--

[He stops short, aware that he's getting too animated; too angry with himself. For a moment he just sits there, far too embarrassed to look over at Travis. For once, he hadn't meant to make it about him. When he finally speaks again, his voice is more controlled. He sounds almost surprised.]

...I don't know why I'm telling you this. I've never told that story to anyone before.

[And all Travis can do is sit there, stunned to silence. It seems almost too close to be real, and he wonders briefly whether he's making it up--but he can't be making it up. He knows Wade's pain because he's felt it. Because he's still feeling it. Every frustration, every note of sadness and regret, even the stupid near-suicidal revenge mission... it may as well have been him spilling his own story.

They're the same.]

Six men. [His voice shakes a little.] The five who killed him, and the last son of a bitch who set it all up, because he wanted revenge on me first. I killed a hell of a lot of people just to get to those six men. Then... then I realized I hadn't even visited his grave yet.

[Travis hasn't really ever been great at expressing his feelings, or sharing his thoughts with others, in ways that aren't violence or yelling or swallowing down as much poison as he can take and then going even further. There's a limit to how much he shares. This is is him hitting, or getting close to, that limit. He hardly knows what to say, or what he could even say.

But Wade gets it. He doesn't think he even needs to say anything.

He reaches an arm around Wade's back and lets his head rest on the man's shoulder.]

It was just like that.