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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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[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.]

[Travis pulls his arm back when Wade does, and sits there for an awkward moment, thinking of what to do, or what to say. He never has these sort of poignant, emotional moments-- which means he also has no idea what to do after they've ended.]

Well...

[His head's still throbbing, and... he feels like, if he asks Wade to leave, he'll just sink back into hangovery misery for the next 24 hours. Travis' eyes drift to his bookshelf.]

I've got pretty good taste in movies. [He grins.] Also, a damn good game collection. A lot of older stuff too. [Travis adds, teasingly:] I'm pretty sure even a geezer like you could appreciate that.

[It's amazing how easily they can switch from an emotional moment like that right back to witty banter. It seems like Travis is just full of surprises-- the more Wade talks to him, the more similar they both seem. He's... not really sure how to feel about that, to be honest.

He gently cuffs him on the shoulder.]

Oh, so I'm a geezer now? You ass. Pretty ballsy for a guy with a splitting headache right now-- and by the way why aren't you drinking more of that stuff. What the hell did I buy it for if you're not gonna drink it, ya dork?

[His voice is affectionate.]

But a movie sounds awesome. I'll let you pick which one to watch-- I trust your judgement. For some weird reason.

[A snicker.]

Maybe we can get a few games in if you're feeling a little better later, huh?

Edited 2013-02-12 05:37 (UTC)

[Travis chuckles.] Just 'cause my eyeballs are trying to explode doesn't mean I can't be the same old asshole.

[All banter aside, though, Wade is right: he's gotta keep drinking. Travis pauses to take another lovely electrolyte-filled sip before looking over at Wade once more. All previous thoughts have been momentarily chased out of his head by a rapid-fire value judgment of what kind of movie Wade would be into, and what kind of movie he feels like watching. (This is a delicate operation. Hangover movies are of the most vital importance.)

...Well, except for one final taunt.]

I'm gonna wreck your ass at Mario Kart, dude.

[And with that, everything's completely fine again. It's as if the previous night-- the argument, the drunken confession, the morning-after bonding-- has been completely swept under the rug for now. And frankly, Wade wouldn't have it any other way.

He knows that they're nowhere near finished with this conversation-- it's entirely too serious, too deep to be merely forgotten about. But for now, this momentary reprieve is very much a welcome one. A wide, disbelieving grin crosses his face as he gives Travis a mockingly skeptical look.]

Seriously, dude? Seriously? You're gonna sit there with your hair all messed up and no pants on and try to start some shit? Y'know what? Forget the movie for now. Fire up the Kart. Class is in session, son. I've been playing games since before you were even a twinkle in your creator's eye. I really hope you've got extra padding on the seat of those underpants of yours, 'cause you're about to get spanked.

[Travis hurries over to the TV to fuss a few wires, then hands Wade a controller and flops back onto the couch. (Wade is second player, of course. Host always gets first. Always.) Being at ease with somebody like this again is so unusual for him that it's nearly foreign, but it hasn't stopped being really, really satisfying yet.

He might actually get to enjoy someone else's company. And he welcomes it.]

Oh, it is on, motherfucker.

[Still won't stop him from shoving Wade off Rainbow Bridge, though.]

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