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[It's never anything drastically important, or anything terribly "serious", as much as he'd hate to use a loaded term like that. They're friends in the same business, is all, and they've at least got an understanding there. If he gets bored, he rings Wade, and they go out and do... something. Anything. Killing time between jobs (that they've made very sure to not have intersect again, thanks very much) and blowing off steam together quickly becomes their routine as the time goes and goes.

Not that it bothers Travis. Doing nothing with somebody (and occasionally doing, heh, something), he's always thought, is the true test of getting along on the long term, and he likes Wade. He's a good guy, and he hasn't gotten to really waste time with somebody on a regular basis since Bishop. It's comfortable, and not an arrangement he's looking to budge on anytime soon.

Because Wade's a damn good friend, all things considered. ...Emphasis on "friend".

And to further emphasize that "friend" part, they've taken to proving they can wingman for each other and for the love of god it's gonna work this time.

Travis sighs, dials the familiar number, and waits for the ringing to stop.]

Hey, we still goin' anywhere tonight?

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[It is by some merciful, miracle chance that the bartender sets down his drink just then. Wade picks up the glass, raises it above his head in a toast (either to Travis's imminent conquest or his own stupidity, he isn't sure which) and downs the drink in one gulp. He winces as the whiskey burns his throat, and his eyes water at the strength of it. Suddenly the sound of chatter in the bar is way too loud, the amount of people too overpowering. Wade finds himself becoming increasingly claustrophobic, suddenly filled with a rapidly-growing urge to just take out a gun and mow everyone down.

Clearly, it's time for him to leave now.

He tosses a 20-dollar bill on the bar, getting up and maneuvering his way through the crowd. He doubts if Travis has even looked his way as he passes. The air outside is crisp and cool, perfect for soothing his hot face. His eyes are still burning-- a lingering side effect from that last drink, he supposes-- and there's a tightness in his chest that he can't quite get rid of. Ending the night with William Faulkner might not have been the best idea, in hindsight.

He leans against the wall of the bar with a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment. There will be time to hail a taxi later. Right now he just wants to cool down a little and not think for a while.]

Hey, Wade, why're you leaving so soon? [He starts to move, stretching a hand out, as if to grab him by the arm--] Wa-- [but Wade's already dropped his keys and slipped away to the opposite end of the bar. It doesn't seem like he heard Travis either. Well, of course he didn't, Travis thinks to himself; he's supposed to be setting him up, not sticking around for moral support or anything dumb like that. His voice trails off as he stares after Wade, hand falling limply back to the bar.]

[Rosalyn's eyes follow Wade as he leaves. She smiles pleasantly, leaning her cheek into her hand.] You're lucky, you know. He's a good friend.

Huh? [Travis straightens up and turns-- a little too quickly-- back to her.] Yeah. Wade's great.

Must be. [Delicately, she sips her drink.] Any friend who'd pull the whole wingman routine-- like, actually do it-- is a keeper.

[Travis starts to agree, then stops short:] Hang on a sec, you--

[Rosalyn's laugh is warm.] C'mon. Do I look like I was born yesterday to you, Travis? I've done it for girlfriends before. It's a tough job. Don't worry, though. I still definitely like you.

[The smile on his face is more than a little bit sheepish. Well, damn.

[The conversation goes so smoothly and naturally he's worried that she's putting him on. It inevitably returns to bikes, shifts to work (he "freelances", what he freelances for, she never asks), returns finally to the task of the night. Which is going to go well, obviously. Rosalyn is pretty, and fun to talk to, and into him, and

and Wade

and Wade's sitting alone over there

and Travis keeps stealing glances over at the man nursing his drink by himself, which is dumb. Wade'll be fine. She's probably not going to come home with him anyway. And when she throws her drink in his face, he'll go back to Wade, and it'll be over and done with until the next time. And in whatever idiot way his brain has been making sense of things lately, the idea that he's going to fail is somehow something he feels more comfortable with. His focus on Rosalyn falters. He's not looking at her.

Suddenly, a voice breaks him from his thoughts--] Hey, are you listening?

Edited (I AM REARRANGING THESE I'M SORRY FOR YOUR INBOX IN THE MORNING) 2013-09-27 08:57 (UTC)

Huh? [This is the third time tonight that he hasn't been fully paying attention to a girl who actually wants to fuck him. It's almost funny enough for him to laugh at.] Yeah, of course I am. I'm ready whenever you are. [He's not. Across the bar, Wade's fingers wrap around the glass. Wade's arm holds it aloft in a toast-- he's heard we're leaving-- and Wade's lips touch the rim as he swallows the drink down. (does he knock the glass with his teeth? he's almost, almost paying enough attention to know but he can't tell for sure, so far away.) Wade makes a face at the alcohol creeping down his throat (god his nose wrinkled that's fucking cute), and then he

simply leaves.

Travis' stomach feels like it's tumbled out of his body. Rosalyn's noticed. She's gotten up already and is now staring at him with an eyebrow raised and a mouth turned down. Rosalyn says something about getting up, mentions directions, and he nods, lamely, only half-there, mechanically leaving the barstool and getting back on his feet. Her hand moves to take his arm.

Travis takes a step back and it's like he's looking right through her. It takes all he's got to bury the urge to just sprint out the door and after Wade, right then and there.

She's puzzled, even a little bit hurt; no fucking shit Sherlock, you were supposed to screw her and now you won't even touch her. He hastily grabs Wade's keys and stuffs them in his pocket, where they briefly jingle against one another.] Sorry.

[His tone's low, reserved. He looks so damn pathetic that Rosalyn can't slap him across the face like she wants to.] Are you okay? [He mildly responds with an 'I'm fine', and she continues--] Are we going or not? Because if you aren't doing this, that's fine. But you really need to tell me and stop spacing out like this.

[Finally, he shifts his full attention back to her. He absolutely cannot believe anything that is coming out of his mouth right now.] ...No. It's not you, you're awesome, I swear. I just... can't right now.

[Still not comfortable with this non-resulution, Rosalyn glances from Travis' face to what his eyes are directed at. What the hell has this guy changing his mind so suddenly? He isn't even looking at anything, either, just $20 and the empty glass on the b-- Oh. Oh. The gears click neatly into place.]

Huh. [She takes a quick look over her shoulder-- at the vacant doorway-- and sighs wearily.] Okay. I understand. [Although she's disappointed, there's still a mark of that earlier warmth left.] Listen, Travis, I'm going to do you a favor. I'm going home-- and I'm not going to give you my number. Okay? Think about what that is supposed to mean for you.

[He nods.]

Good boy. [He barely moves when Rosalyn kisses him on the cheek.] It was nice to meet you, Travis. I had fun. [She smiles for him one last time and disappears in the crowd.]

[It's already gotten cold by the time that he finds his way outside. Travis pulls his jacket tighter around his body and stuffs his hands in his pockets, bracing himself for the quick drop in temperature. It only takes a second for him to spot Wade, who has miraculously not left yet. (On second thought, how was he planning to get home? They'd only taken one bike. The thought of Wade alone in a cab tugs at him. A pang of guilt runs right through his chest.)]

Wade.

[He looks only a little embarrassed.]

I fucked up.

[And really, here's Wade at his most pathetic-- standing outside a bar in the cold and staring at nothing like some kind of lovelorn sap in a Shakespeare play. It's almost embarrassing how disgustingly pitiful he is, so much so that it's almost comical.

He's screwed everything up, he knows that much now. Travis will end up going home with this woman tonight. The next time they speak, he'll talk about possibly doing this again-- or worse, ask him for advice on calling Rosalyn again. She and Travis'll eventually want to spend more and more time together, and--

Wade closes his eyes tightly to stop that train of thought; to keep from following that sequence of events to its inevitable conclusion. It doesn't make any sense. They're just friends, after all... right? Friends with benefits; no commitments. Why, then, is he acting like a stereotypical jilted girlfriend in a romantic comedy?

God, he's an idiot. Why the hell did he think this was a good idea?

He's just about to hail a taxi and take a long, lonely ride home back to his apartment when a sudden familiar voice stops him; makes his heart turn a sick little somersault in his chest. Travis is standing next to him, looking sheepish, and it's then that his words register in Wade's mind.]

Whoa, what? Whaddya mean you fucked up? She was all over you, man! [His annoyance shows in his voice, and he somehow musters the energy to shoot him a sardonic smile.] What, did you start talking about your doll collection too soon or something?

[Humor as a deflection. He's played this song and dance so long that it's practically become second nature.]

They're figures.

[Travis chuckles shamefully.] But I dunno, man. You know how it is with chicks-- you don't ever really know what ends up rubbing them the wrong way.

[Is it his imagination that Wade looks a little disappointed? It's gotta be. Apart from having to go home alone bit, this is what friends do for each other. There's nothing between them that'd commit them to each other.

...why is he skipping out on Rosalyn, then? This is what he'd wanted all along, right? And he's cut it all off because he doesn't want Wade to feel bad? That doesn't make an ounce of sense, even for him. Wade'll be fine if you'd left with her, he repeats to himself, and you sure as hell would've been too.

It crashes down on him so staggeringly that he feels like he'll fall to his knees right there.

No, he wouldn't have been fine.]

Wade. [fuck, he loves the way that his name sounds, he wants to say it over and over again.] We should probably get back soon, yeah? It's getting cold out here.

Oh. Uh... okay.

[Relief. Relief so potent that he actually feels the tension completely leave his body-- tension he didn't realize had built up inside him. Guilt follows quickly after-- what kind of person is he to actually feel good about his friend's failure? It's not fair to Travis.]

You sure we should leave? I mean, the night's still young and everything-- you might get a second chance if we stay.

[The words come out automatically, without thought. Wade's merely being polite-- the thought of going through the same rigamarole is excruciating, and that concept brings about such a wave of self-loathing that he can actually taste it in the back of his throat. Selfish. Greedy. Asshole.]

[A second chance? Hell no, Travis almost exclaims; having said 'no' to her was a relief for him, too, and he can't handle a second go. Does that make everything Wade did useless? Does it make this whole night useless? He feels like he's wasted his time, and Wade's time, and hates that he'd gone along with it. Because of course it'd turn to this in the end. Of course.

Travis doesn't have any answers. He doesn't have a name for whatever this has become-- because they have really, really, really fucked up the friends-with-benefits thing-- and he's not entirely sure he wants it all to... go somewhere, or whatever you would say about it. He doesn't plan ahead nearly enough to know any of those things, and in this moment, he doesn't care in the slightest.

All Travis wants right now is Wade.

One hand curls around Wade's forearm, and the other slides to the back of his neck, palm brushing the skin of Wade's cheek as it goes. Raising himself up on the balls of his feet (four inches shouldn't be this much trouble) and gently tipping Wade's head downward, Travis kisses him on the lips: slowly, tenderly, like it's been years since the last time and he's savoring it. Wade still tastes like whiskey. Travis can't find it in him to care.

Fuck.

He's got it bad for this guy, doesn't he.]

Edited 2013-09-29 12:28 (UTC)

[Travis breaks the kiss after a time, but doesn't release his hold on Wade's arm. He's probably wrinkling it. Well, fuck the wrinkles. Fuck 'em. Fuck you, too, Wade Wilson. Fuck you and your shirts, and your neck, and the small of your back, and the space between your collarbones; fuck you and your eyes and your hands and your lips and your smile.

He licks the taste of Wade, and the taste of alcohol, from his lips. He doesn't say a word. He shakes his head, feeling rather petulant.

Hell no.]

But--

[He can feel the protest still on his lips before it's pinned there, trapped between his mouth and Travis's. It changes into a helpless sound halfway through, a sound of surprise and maybe a little bit of disbelief. Travis's lips are soft, so soft he can hardly stand it, and he feels the world tilt; feels it slide back into place a little. Wade holds Travis's face in his hands-- it could be said that he clutches, so lost in the warmth and sweetness of the other man's kiss. It feels like he's drowning, his heart and his lungs and his entire body filling with a sensation that he doesn't want to be rid of. When Travis parts from him, it's too soon. The universe could've undergone heat death and it still would've been too soon. His words are a sigh.]

Um. Wow. Ahahaha. Wow.

[That's really all he has the capacity to say right now. Please hold while the synapses you are trying to reach are located.]

[Oh, God. He broke Wade.]

So, uh.

[Wade looks so absolutely dumbfounded-- in a good way-- that Travis can't help the stupid sly grin that sneaks its way onto his face. ~~Keep being cute, man. Keep being cute.~~ Besides, he's pretty proud that he was the one to accomplish it in the first place.]

Hope that cleared things up. [Right. The sleeve. Travis releases his hold on Wade's arm, leaving, as predicted, some nasty wrinkles on an otherwise very nice shirt. Whatever: it's gonna end up in a pile on the ground no matter what.] But seriously. Let's get the hell out of here. This place is cramping my style.

[And the only reason why this seems like normal Travis behavior is because Wade can't hear the way his heart's threatening to completely burst out of his ribcage.]

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1/idk help (this time in the right place)

2/3 oh my god this turned out massive im' so sorry

3/3 so ends the text wall

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