Who: Wade Wilson wade & Finn _fn_2187_ What: Random Encounter in a Bar When: Thursday, April 14, late night Where: Dive Bar Rating: Mature Audiences Only Warnings: Deadpool. Wade. Seriously. Wade is his own warning. Crude language, commentary, concepts, and complimentary bitterness on the house. Finn also has some PTSD going on. They're both unwell. Status: Complete Upon Posting/Partner Threads
~*~
Talking was easy for Wade Wilson. It was the shutting up part which was hard---that would be why he normally didn't bother trying it. It would also be why he was talking to himself at the bar while serving himself shots of whiskey from the bottle the bartender had abandoned in front of him in a desperate attempt to get away. Wade didn't take the guy bailing on him personally. He was aware it was a personal thing -since hello, he wasn't stupid- yet he really didn't care since who the fuck was that guy anyway?
"Gee, so sorry I'm not your cup of tea, Random-Ass-Bartender. Here. I'll pour this myself. I don't mind if I do have another. Or a few more than another. What? You think I've had enough? Well, tough titty, you left me alone with this beautiful bottle and who else was supposed to entertain it in your absence? Clearly one does not simply abandon good whiskey."
Wade threw back another shot. He'd lost count of how many he'd had though he was sure the number was still in the single digits. Once he'd hit doubles? Wade knew from experience he'd start to lose feeling in his face starting with his lips and moving to his tongue. The best way to keep a track on his sobriety level was to try to pronounce words with more than five syllables which he didn't use in regular, everyday speech. That would have been why he was doing mouth exercises while staring at himself in the mirror behind the bar and announcing clearly:
"Colonoscopy! Fuck. Still sober," looking to the side at the person who'd happened to wander into his sphere of influence, Wade eyed the man before stating, "I need to keep drinking until I'm so fucked up I can't pronounce my own name. Hello, I'm Wade Winston Wilson and I'm pouring whiskey tonight if you want to stick around for the show?"
~*~
Finn blinked. He hadn’t expected interaction when he’d sidled up to the bar to order a drink. He’d had a helluva day and really preferred to be left alone. He’d woken up to find his Storm Trooper armor - complete with bloodied helmet - sitting in his closet. After the initial jump scare, he’d spent the rest of the day trying to figure out what to do with it. He couldn’t get himself to wash the blood off of the helmet, and so he’d shut it up in the closet and turned to what he’d planned to do that day: searching for jobs, submitting resumes, and following up on submitted resumes. Eventually that got so stressful the former Navy SEAL opted to hit a random bar, just to lose himself in a bottle for a while.
“Uh, okay.” he said, and glanced for the bartender who seemed to be purposely staying away. “Finn.” He sat down and decided he’d wait. It wasn’t worth wading through the crowd. He looked back over at the man with the whiskey. Recognizing the label, he tilted his chin up at it. “That’s some good stuff you got there.”
~*~
"It could have been prison piss. I wouldn't have cared as long as it got me drunk. The guy was trying to bribe me into being quiet. That doesn't work with me."
Wade leaned over the bar to grab up another shot glass. He topped it off with whiskey as he slid it over to Finn. There were few things Wade took seriously in life. Drinking was on his list of Serious Business Shit. A good drink didn't have to be good for him to appreciate it. The stuff only had to be effective. That was all that mattered when it came to liquor: did it do the job? He was happy enough if it did. There were happy moments in Wade's life where he thought he could handle things without booze or bullshit, but mostly? He liked booze and bullshit.
Gesturing to the stool beside him, Wade said, "Have a sitdown. You look like you could use it and these guys are less likely to throw me out if I look like I'm talking to someone else instead of just myself. I, personally, think I'm my best company, but other people are sensitive about those types of things. Insanity is really a matter of perspective. What're you drinking to forget, Finn?"
~*~
Finn was instantly regretting coming here but it was too late to turn back now. He would run into the one guy in this joint who was crazy and wouldn’t shut up. Still, Finn wasn’t the sort to just be rude and brush a person off. He moved over to the stool next to Wade and gratefully accepted the shot and downed it.
“Thanks.” He looked over at Wade before answering the man’s question. Exactly how much should he say? He’d sound insane talking about being some sort of space soldier in some far flung galaxy. Then again, hadn’t this Wade guy just said he was crazy too? “Well, this morning I woke up to find armor and a weapon in my closet that came from dreams I’ve been having. Dreams of a sorta, alternate life, where I’m a soldier from some futuristic army, in a different galaxy. Wasn’t exactly happy about it.” He waited to see Wade’s reaction.
~*~
"That's cool. I dream about dying or being unable to die mostly. Depends on the night. Every now and again? I dream about my stripper girlfriend sucking my dick."
Wade tossed back another shot before pouring rounds for them both again. He paused while putting the bottle back on the bar, turned to look at Finn and leaned forward as if he were admitting a great secret.
"Okay, so that last one? That might not be a dream. That happens sometimes. She's great. Her name's Baby. She's a murderer in her dreams."
Dreams in Orange County were never only dreams. They were given all kinds of proof of the reality of their Dreams. It was all about capitalization for importance. Wade knew as much as anyone else, but he took in everything he saw in a way most did not. There was a desire to find certainty or rationality in life where Wade Wilson was concerned. He was completely comfortable being considered crazy. Insanity was a nice fashion accessory for him in a way.
It set him apart like a trendsetter.
"Why don't you like being in the space army? What's so bad about it?"
~*~
Holy crap. What had Finn done agreeing to drink with this guy? “You know,” and he cut himself off to drink the shot poured for him. “That’s a helluva lot of TMI.” Like he needed to know about a stranger’s sex life. Or the fact his girlfriend was a murderer. Actually, that was just straight up disturbing.
“I don’t like it because we’re the bad guys. They’re trying to take over the galaxy but there’s a Resistance movement, and we’re constantly fighting them. Plus, the armor? On the helmet it has the bloody handprint of one my soldiers that was under my command. He was shot down right in front of me. Doesn’t mesh well with the real life memories of Iraq.” The death of his friend in this world had been far more brutal, and the loss had affected him deeply. As it turned out, Finn’s dream self seemed equally as moved by the loss of his squad member.
He tapped the shot glass against the counter, asking for another.
~*~
Iraq was its own world of shit. Wade had never been the kind to talk about his stint with the Green Berets. They were an excuse to kill for him, not some great way for him to show his support for his country. In his dreams, America wasn't even his country. He was Canadian of all things. Pretty funny, eh?
Wade thought most things were funny. He laughed at nothing at all sometimes. He laughed at the idea this guy thought it was bad to be a bad guy while he poured him another shot. The idea of 'good' guys and 'bad' guys had always amused Wade. He liked being a 'bad' guy. It made him happy. Sticking it to The Man or something for trying to kill him off all the time. Wade wasn't really too prepared to deal with what was going on in Orange County, but he wasn't prepared to wake up and keep breathing most mornings. He did good to stay sane enough to make it through the day.
"Bad guys, huh? I like being a bad guy. I'm more of an antihero myself. Never tried to take over anything. I just---happen to be for sale. Not like my girl. She's for sale in a whole other way if you get my drift. If you don't? I might have to treat you to a round at her boss's place The Need/Want because Finn? You need to want to know what I mean. Anyway. People die every day. Not your fault. If he hadn't died in that battle? He'd have just died somewhere else. At least you mourn him or some Hallmark bullshit. That's something to drink to, cheers."
~*~
Finn stared at Wade, blinking in disbelief. The guy was right. Slip would have died elsewhere at some point. He’d always fallen behind in all their simulations, so it was really only a matter of time. And somewhere deep inside Finn had kind of always known that.
He raised the shot glass. To Slip. He downed the shot. The burn of the alcohol felt good.
“So you’re a mercenary?” Finn said, disregarding the invitation for the Need/Want. He wasn’t that kind of a guy. But clearly Wade was. So far Finn was getting the vibe Wade was former military. People who served always recognized one another, no matter what. “Let me guess - Special Forces?” If it wasn’t private security for contractors working with the military in theaters abroad, the darker side of the coin was mercenary. Specialized skill sets that would go to waste in most civilian jobs were of extreme value in such lines of work.
~*~
"Mercenary? That's a fun word. In another life, sure, I'm a mercenary. Here? I'm officially a PI. A private dick for sale to the highest bidder and you better bid high because my private dick? Is a rockstar."
Special Forces was something they made out a lot different in the movies. No one wanted to talk about the kinds of guys who really got put into Special Forces. Those guys were the ones who didn't mind if they weren't given medals of honor or remembered when they were gone. The guys who'd served with Wade? They'd been the guys who had known it was pretty likely they'd get put on a list filled with names of other guys like them who'd all been declared 'Missing in Action' since MIA was a lot better than saying 'Killed in Action While Trying to Assassinate the President of Pakistan.'
Wade slid the bottle to Finn as he rolled his shot glass between his hands, "I was a Green Beret. Once upon a time. I've been a lot of things. I fit a certain psychological profile says Captain Obvious."
~*~
Finn had to laugh. Or well, chuckle, really. Wade had a humorous way with words, and combined with how fast he talked it almost sounded like he was doing a twisted form of standup comedy. It might be fun drinking with this guy after all, even if he was crazy.
He nodded as Wade explained his previous line of work. Special Forces was no joke, and the pressure alone in training was so intense it was beyond description, never mind actually being out in the field. Guys wiped out of training left and right; big guys, who played star positions in football and other sports, who wanted to join up the moment they were born onto this earth, guys who were built for this, who aced the ASVAB as if they’d written it themselves. But Finn? He wasn’t like those other guys - except for maybe the ASVAB part - he was just a kid from the wrong side of the tracks in L.A. struggling against the current of gang bangers and systematic poverty. He’d made it through bootcamp and Navy SEAL training out of sheer will, determined to be the best, to serve his country, and to better himself in the process. And that had all been fine until that one dusty, hot day in Iraq where everything went sideways so fast that even in memory some things he can’t keep straight.
“Navy SEAL.” he said, tipping his glass at Wade before refilling it. He took a moment to stare at the lighting of the bar as it refracted through the glass and liquid, trying to keep the memories at bay. “Hooyah.” He said almost miserably, and downed the shot.
~*~
Liquor helped to a certain extent. It dulled his senses for a little while until he started to---feel them growing back. That was a new thing. Lately he couldn't do anything at all to make himself feel. Who knew a guy could miss pain?
Wade figured it was something to do with the absurdity of being or some such philosophical bullshit. He'd always thought it'd been propaganda put out by people in the psychiatric field. They had to drum up business for themselves somehow, didn't they? Hitler had managed to do more violence on his own -one man taking up the mantle of responsibility to lead an entire country behind him- than any battalion of any branch of Special Forces. It wasn't a matter of numbers so much as dedication to the cause.
Taking the bottle back, Wade grinned, "I think what you mean is Oorah, but I'll forgive you since neither one of us happen to be jarheads. For now? I can still say pulchritudinous. This means I've not drank enough so you either have to decide to stay with me while I get too drunk to pronounce five syllable words or find another place to sit because the more I drink? The more interesting I get and I am not the kind of interesting you want on your bad side."
~*~
Finn chuckled. Not a lot of people knew the Navy actually had an emphatic saying, but instead of correcting Wade he left it at that. Hooah for the Army, Oorah for the Marines. Somehow the Navy got Hooyah which didn’t sound as sexy as the others and really just was terrible, and was probably why nobody but sailors knew it.
“I think I’ll stay. I’ll help you come up with some of those words.” He waited till Wade had filled his glass before refilling his own. “Invigilator. Yeah no, I’m gonna need more alcohol.” And he downed the shot.
~*~
"That's the spirit! Prognosticator! See? We got this."
Drinking was always more fun when it wasn't done alone. Or almost always. Wade couldn't remember which he preferred though he supposed that was half the fun. Everything was different for those who were different. Insanity made for a man to become his own best friend half the time.
"To five syllable words and military salutes."
Wade poured them both another round and decided to keep on drinking everything away.