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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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[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.

[It doesn't affect him all that much-- the fact that their stories are identical. While he feels bad that Travis had had to endure practically the same hardship that he had, it doesn't have any significant impact.

So when his chest aches and there's an uncomfortable burning in his eyes, it's not a result of that slight, barely-perceptible tremble in Travis's voice-- a sure sign that the wounds are still as fresh and painful as the day they were inflicted-- but rather due to the fact that the people at the restaurant must've spiced the hash browns a bit too much.

All the same, when Wade feels Travis's arm snake around his back, he leans into the embrace in relief; in welcome. As if of its own accord his own arm reaches up awkwardly to wrap itself around Travis and hold him close. He has a second to marvel at the absurdity of it-- he's currently in a cheap motel, dressed to the nines in his customary garb, hugging on a dude in his underwear.

And he doesn't give a fuck.

There's nothing he can think of to say, as they sit there together in silence on the couch. Maybe there's really nothing to say. There's only one thing that comes to mind at the moment:]

...It's not fair.

[And he's speaking as much for Travis's predicament as his own.]

Edited 2013-02-11 08:13 (UTC)

Neither of us would be here right now if it was.

[Of course, he means no offense. If his life had taken a slightly different path, he would never be in Santa Destroy. He would've gotten out a long time ago; moved to LA, maybe met someone nice, left his old life behind, had he never opened the door for Jeane, had that fateful summer's night never happened. And he doesn't pretend to know Wade, but he's willing to bet things would be different for him too--his old girl still alive, maybe, his body never marred like it is now. Maybe Wade wouldn't have picked to be spending the morning with some pantsless, hungover idiot, either.

But they hadn't had that freedom to choose, had they? That was just the way life was. So here they are: a couple of assassins, drawn together by random chance and brought closer by their own respective tragedies--also brought on by the cruelty of random chance.

Travis suddenly minds it all a whole lot less. He doesn't move. He hopes this hug lasts.]

Our luck, huh.

[Though Travis may not know it, Wade's of the same mind. Maybe if fate were kinder he wouldn't have become an assassin, wouldn't have gotten cancer; wouldn't have had his mind and body violated by the Weapon X program. Maybe he would have had a better relationship with his father. Settled down. Invited his parents to see the grandchildren. His mother would still be alive, telling stories to the love of his life about things were when Wade was young.

Deadpool would never have been born.

But he knows enough to know that that would make for a boring story, and the concept of an idyllic life-- married with kids and a dog and white picket fences-- is so foreign to him as to be completely unnatural. He supposes the Powers That Be just didn't have his happiness in mind when they made him.

And yet. And yet.

Travis's arm is comforting around him; his body warm and reassuring. Wade's hand begins to move up and down Travis's back in slow, gentle caresses. He suddenly realizes that this is quite possibly the most relaxed he's been in a long time-- maybe even the most content, all things considered. His voice is hesitant and shy.]

Maybe... maybe it's not so bad after all.

Heh. No way. It's still a pretty shitty situation, if I'm gonna be honest.

[He doesn't sound bitter at all; his tone's actually fairly light.]

I think we've just learned how to deal. Or we are learning. [He shrugs the shoulder of his free arm.] Don't ask me.

[And though he wouldn't wish the kind of bullshit he's had to go through on anyone, he can't say it doesn't feel good to know that someone does legitimately understand. If their lives are going to continue to, well, suck, they may as well watch each other's backs at the same time.]

Mm. You might have a point there, yeah.

[If Wade's reticence is alarming, he certainly doesn't see it that way. If anything, Travis can consider it a compliment. There are only two times-- short of the brutal-- in which Wade ever shuts up. The first occurrence is when he's sleeping, and even then it's not a complete guarantee. The second-- rare in and of itself-- is when he's totally and completely at ease.

His arm's getting stiff. Reluctantly he relinquishes his hold on Travis, stretching where he sits.]

So... what now?

[He means, of course, their current situation. Not what will happen to their lives in the future-- that's not something even Wade can properly predict. And as stupid and clingy as it sounds, he doesn't really feel like going home just yet. Well-- Travis does still have that hangover, after all. Wade would be a douche to leave him now.]