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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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[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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