hadriel_logs | I'm drunk and you're probably on pills [Closed]

Entry tags:

gren,
wade wilson

I'm drunk and you're probably on pills [Closed]

Who: Wade Wilson (

ishotyouuu ) & Gren (

murderpotato )

What: A monster and a mercenary drown their sorrows at a bar...

Where: Delight's Bar

When: The night of 1/25

Warnings: Rampant alcohol abuse, foul language, possible violence

Delight's bar is quiet and sparse tonight. A good thing, too, because it means that one poor bastard isn't distracted from his quest to forget that the past few days have ever happened.

Wade downs his drink in one swallow, wincing as it goes burning down his throat-- he's long since stopped caring what he pours down his gullet, and in any case nothing short of arsenic will give him more than just the slightest buzz anymore-- and slams the shot glass down onto the bar with a sharp, decisive sound. A row of similar upturned shot glasses line the length of the bar, and Wade takes a moment to gaze at the procession with a soft and cynical chuckle. If Sans were here, he'd probably have something to say about that. Tell him to stop in that weak and and barely assertive way he has. Maybe tell him that maybe he should quit while he's ahead.

But Sans isn't here. Once again, the amount of friends Wade has in this godforsaken place has dwindled considerably. Sans punched his ticket, leaving behind two small and very traumatized kids for Wade to take care of in his wake. Lazy bastard picked a hell of a time to gather up some gumption, to hear those two kids tell it. So really, what's the point in even playing at sobriety anymore? The way Wade sees it, he deserves a break. Is entitled to one, in fact.

Almost mechanically, Wade reaches towards the number of bottles he's taken from behind the bar, causing a cacophony of sound as he clumsily drags them closer. He grabs a tumbler that looks relatively clean and proceeds to fill the entire thing with equal parts scotch and vodka. He has no doubt the mixture will taste abysmal, but he's kind of going for function over form here. As long as it'll get him into a thick haze in record time, he doesn't really care about the taste.

It's not like anyone's about to come in here and stop him from destroying his liver, anyway.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

It's been a rough few days for a lot of people, Gren included. Hell, a rough few weeks, really. Wade lost his heteroskeletal life partner to a pissy doppelganger, Gren lost his totally platonic roommate to the whims of a deus ex machina. And then he got beaten up by the aforementioned bony doppelganger, so shit really has not been coming up Gren lately.

He wants a drink. He wants a lot of drinks, enough to soundly pickle himself, and then he wants to go home and crash on his couch until the hangover wakes him up again. Rinse and repeat.

So the last thing he wants to see when he walks into Delight's bar is, a.) Wade fucking Wilson and b.) Wade fucking Wilson with three-quarters of the bar sitting in front of him, because he's apparently decided that he's going to try to drink the whole thing. Well, Gren's having exactly zero of that shit right now, and as he walks past Wade towards his usual stool at the end of the bar, he snatches one of the bottles of whiskey.

Because fuck you, Wade, that's why. You have enough.

Rude, Gren. There's a magical word called "please" that can get you near on anything you want. Not that he thinks Gren even knows what that word even means. Wade shifts from where he's sitting at the bar and fixes the intruder with a baleful glare, but his admonishment of Gren's blatant lack of decorum doesn't go any farther than that. He is, truth be told, currently lacking in fucks to give, and besides there are precious commodities at stake here. It wouldn't do to get into yet another scrap and potentially damage the stores of alcohol here.

"Lots of people've regretted separatin' a man from his liquid courage." Spoken in his best Clint Eastwood growl, but there's no real danger behind it. Wade's too tired and out of it to really start anything right now. He merely downs his glass, wiping his mouth with a gusty sigh before upturning the bottles for another gargleblaster cocktail.

Gren finds a glass from somewhere behind the bar while Wade does his bullshit at him. He doesn't give a flying fuck at the moon whether or not this red condom-wearing asshole doesn't like him grabbing his booze from him, he does whatever the fuck he wants. And, besides, he's got plenty of alcohol all to himself, he can mix up his death cocktail just fine without the bottle that Gren took.

"Looks like I ain't fuckin' one of them, don't it," he says, cracking open the bottle and dumping a generous portion into his glass. He'd put some ice in there if he gave a fuck about his liquor being cold, but he's more in it to kill his liver as fast as possible today.

Gren would start shit if shit wanted to get started, but he'd rather have the chance to drink himself into a stupor in peace, thanks. A guy ought to be able to walk into a bar, drink an entire bottle (or two, or three...) without getting harassed for it, and then pass out and probably live to do it all again the next day. Or, considering that they're in the stupid murdercave with its stupid murdergods, even if he did manage to kill himself from alcohol poisoning, he'd just be brought back anyway. So, no matter what he does, he'll live to pickle himself another day.

And he's getting started on that by knocking back the first glass and pouring himself a second.

Is this guy just in a perpetual state of dick-measuring here? Because it seems to Wade like there's a time and a place for alpha male posturing, and it most certainly ain't here. Not with him-- he's way too focused on getting well and thoroughly plastered to engage in any pissing contests and he's pretty sure Delight has carte blanche to kick them both out if they get too rowdy.

Which Wade's pretty certain is an inevitability, if Gren keeps tossing shots down his gullet the way he is. (Wade never denied being a hypocrite.)

Still, there's no sense in wasting precious energy in raising a stink about it. Wade rolls one shoulder in a shrug-- more to bring across the point that he doesn't give a shit what Gren does than it is to answer his (rhetorical) question, but it works just as well either way.

"Listen. 'Sbeen a rough week and I'm just tryin' to get a decent buzz goin' here. Not really lookin' to get into any more clusterfucks tonight." Wade leans back slightly as he says this, in order to showcase the butt of his guns from behind the bar. They're holstered for now, but the meaning should be clear: Don't mistake my apathy for cowardice.

Wade apparently doesn't give a single solitary fuck about Gren's generally combative personality, giving him only a shoulder shrug and a flash of his weapons instead of any real fuel for his pissiness. Gren gets the message-- blah blah I'll shoot you motherfucker-- but he gives about as few fucks about that as Wade does. He's been shot before, it's mostly just annoying and he heals up in a day. Guns lose their threat when you've got the collective staying power of uncountable annoying high school English lessons to keep you going.

"Yeah, fuckin' whatever," he says, tossing back shot number two and lining up number three. He could leave it at that-- it's not like he really doubts that this guy's had a rough time. Everybody's had a rough time for the past week, there were fucking doppelgangers running around trying to kill people and shit. It was pretty fucked up, he knows, he was there.

But he's got a couple of shots in him and a third going down the hatch, so fuck it. Why leave something alone when you can be an asshole about it?

"What, you run outta lightsabers to jerk off at me or somethin'?"

Fucking rude, Gren. Wade gives the man his best Clint Eastwood scowl, momentarily weighing whether the instant gratification of driving his fist into this asshole's teeth would be worth the expenditure of energy he doesn't exactly have. The way he settles back onto the bar stool and pours himself another mixed drink should tell Gren that he's gonna have to try a lot harder to ruffle this rooster's feathers.

"Not like I designed 'em to be that way, y'know. Whoever was in charge of makin' 'em must've had one hell of a sense of humor."

It's only when he knocks his current drink back that he begins to feel it. About time, too-- he was just starting to lament the lack of a proper buzz. It was a bitch, having such a high tolerance. Usually it took him about three bathroom breaks before he was able to feel the slightest bit tipsy. But here it was, finally-- that cloud gradually stealing over his mind that was familiar and all too welcome. Wade feels himself relax; feels his posture grow less stiff and rigid, and a soft sigh should tell Gren that the mercenary's starting to feel pretty good right now. Less shitty, at the very least. Clearly he needs more drinks before he can aspire to feeling more than that.

"Wasn't like I started it, y'know? You shoulda known better than to walk right into the line of fire."

Gren hasn't had nearly enough liquor at this point to give himself a buzz, but he's trying to make some good headway on that problem. Shot number four gets poured into his glass-- he really could just cut out the middleman and drink from the bottle, but Holly had trained that out of him a long time ago-- and barely has time to settle before he knocks it on back to join the rest of them. Maybe on another day he'd take it a little slower in the killing his liver department, nurse one of his drinks for a little while, but Wade tends to set his back teeth on edge pretty quick. He needs to dull things fast.

Well, dull things faster than he is right now, anyway, because mentioning that can that he took to the head is getting his hackles up already. Like it's his fault that he happened to be walking outside of the shop that Wade was fucking up, minding his own goddamn business.

"Who the fuck pitches fuckin' cans around?" he says back. "You shouldn't'a been fuckin' throwin' that shit to start with."

Gren might get it into his head to start throwing some shit at Wade if he keeps this up. Like glasses, at the very least, or fucking tables. Don't tempt him, asshole, he's got anger issues and superhuman strength and a complete lack of fucks to give, he'll toss any number of pieces of furniture at you.

Guy's got quite the unlimited supply of F-bombs, it looks like. Wade responds to the casually hostile tone with another one of his patented one-shoulder shrugs, foregoing the glasses entirely in favor of chugging directly from the bottle. No point in being a gentleman about it-- desperate times call for desperate measures, after all.

Seems to be a long time before he finally puts the bottle down with a gusty sigh, and there's considerably less liquid inside when he's finished.

"Seemed like a good idea at the time," he says at last. "I mean, you can only choke down canned food for so long before the sight of aluminum sends you into a Lewis Black worthy rage-fest. Must've been like... whaddya call it-- a trigger or something. You'd get it if you were from where I was from."

That statement awakens memories he'd rather not be experiencing right now, and Wade temporarily falls silent, clutching the bottle as if it were a life preserver. It's hard to tell with the mask on, but if Gren is at all perceptive, he might guess from the tightening of Wade's heavily scarred lips that he's flashing back to something not altogether pleasant.

He doesn't necessarily disagree with Wade's position on the subject of canned food-- he'd been pissed as fuck about cans then, too, he just didn't go throwing them off into the ether. Canned food sucks and the murdercave has a desperate need for a wider variety of groceries, and Gren himself would kill any number of monsters and/or people to get some of it. Hell, he would drag somebody's corpse up to any of the gods' altars for a single goddamn productive beehive in this shithole.

Gren's not deep enough in his cups by this point to miss the way Wade's mouth goes tight under that mask or how he holds that bottle a little too tight. There's definitely something more to this little aluminum can story than what he's letting on; something terrible, maybe, that this guy has to live with. Something that leaves the kind of scars that don't show up on your skin.

He approaches this topic with all the grace and delicacy that he does everything-- that is to say, absolutely fucking none.

"Yeah, cry me a fuckin' river about it."

He might be able to muster up a little more sympathy for this asshole if Wade hadn't, y'know, beaned him in the head with a can and then tried to bisect him with a very phallic pair of lightsabers. Kind of sours your opinion of a guy when he tries to stab you. And, while Wade's having his little blue screen of death over there, Gren's going to take another bottle from his booze collection over there. Because fuck you, that's why.

Wade's too busy doing his best impression of a shell-shocked war veteran to notice Gren sizing him up, albeit briefly. Honestly, that comparison is pretty apt for the situation at hand. Even now, he doesn't really know how to feel, torn between relief that it was finally over and a strange longing to once again return. Because as deplorable as conditions had been in the town with the ironic name of Haven, it also held the dubious honor of being more like home than any place Wade had ever hung his hat.

Tanagura hadn't been all that much better. True, there was more food and less torture and all the decadence a deprived horndog could ask for, but it wasn't the sudden lack of sex that keeps Wade awake at night. Well, not only the sudden lack of sex, anyway. There had been someone, back there. Several someones, actually-- in both places. And the thought of not seeing them again, any of them, is a bitter and sadly familiar pill to swallow.

Cry me a fuckin' river about it.

The coarse, uncaring remark suddenly snaps Wade out of his memories, and for a second he merely stares at the man across from him, his expression as devoid of emotion as someone who'd just been shaken out of a deep sleep. He knows he should do something in response to Gren's callousness-- deck him, maybe. Throw himself across the table and beat that punk-ass face in with a bottle. Either that or just ignore him, let the comment roll off his back like water off a duck and not let it get in the way of his quest to get as inebriated as possible.

He does neither of those things. What he actually does surprises him.

"Heh. Hahahaha. Ahahahahahahaha!"

The laughter bursts out as if it had been building up inside him for quite a while, powerful and uncontrollable. He relinquishes his hold on the bottles at the bar, curling in on himself and shaking with the most violent paroxysm of laughter he's had in years. He laughs in the same way he's long since longed to make others laugh, and if the sounds coming from him sound more shaky and unhinged than like anything resembling genuine humor, it's because they most likely are.

Because it is kinda funny, in a dark and twisted way. Aside from Newt and Hermann, nobody here really gives two solid shits about his problems, do they? Amazing how after all the years he'd kept things bottled up inside, a few sympathetic individuals were enough to make him forget that on a grand scale, people just didn't care about a crazy guy like him. Fucking hilarious, really.

Finally, with a soft sigh, his shoulders stop shaking, and Wade straightens from where he'd nearly fallen off his stool, shoving his mask higher up on his face to wipe his eyes free of tears he tells himself are just from his laughing fit.

"Hahaha holy shit. That was a good one. Point taken, my man. Don't want you to start playin' the smallest violin in the world to accompany my angstfest. Heh. Startin' to feel more like home."

Join the club, jolly man in a red suit-- on the whole, nobody gives a fuck about you or your problems. Gren learned that a long time ago, so he doesn't expect anyone to give a single solitary fuck about him, either. Not anyone but Holly, anyway, she cared for reasons that he still hasn't quite figured out yet, and he cares back. But people like that are rare, few and far between, so life's easier if you just don't expect them to show up at all. They missed the party invitation, zero RSVPs from people who give a fuck.

He expects to get decked for his shitty mouth, which would be pretty much situation normal for Gren; he doesn't expect the sudden paroxysm of laughter, the way the other man doubles over from it like he's made the world's best joke. (One might argue that Gren's life is, in fact, one big joke, and that would perhaps not be entirely wrong. But Gren himself rarely jokes.)

Gren watches warily until the laughter dies, half expecting this guy to snap and throw a punch or something. Something that would make sense, anyway, even if it's a fucked-up sense.

His lips twist at the mention of playing a violin; not a whole lot of one-handed violins out there, asshole.

"Couldn't play you much of a fuckin' tune," he says. "But I'll tell you to quit your bitchin' any time of the day. Free of charge, too, I'm just that fuckin' generous."

It comes right from the bottom of his gross monster heart.

Edited (typo) 2017-02-12 05:37 (UTC)

Oh, Gren. Didn't you know? Even a one-armed guy has the innate power to play the smallest violin. As long as sarcasm exists in the world, anyone with a lack of sympathy for another's plight has the power to make their opinions known. Wade looks skeptically in the other man's direction, a playfully coy look in his eyes now. The drink must be hitting him quicker than he thought, or he's warming to the not-unfriendly tone in Gren's voice.

"Holy shit, izzat a smile I see tryin' to make its way across your face, dude? Didn't think you had it in ya, honestly-- figured you were the type of guy to worry it might split your head in half. But hey-- dude's got a sense of humor, imagine that! Think this might call for a toast."

The sarcasm lacks its usual bite this time-- Wade seems genuinely tickled that he managed to get something resembling a grin out of the grouchy little greaser. He pours another drink out of the remaining bottles around him, raising his glass with a sardonic, cynical smile as if hanging a lampshade on the fact that these two have absolutely fuck-all to celebrate.

"Here's t' the little things, I guess."

"You that fuckin' drunk already?"

There's no smile on his face, Wade, there's nothing close to a smile. But even if he was just a little amused by this asshole's bullshit, it's not like this would be the first time that he's gone from hitting somebody to hitting on them. Practically his speed-dating technique-- start a fight, then see if the guy wants to fuck you, and either way it goes, you win. Keeps things simple. Streamlined or some shit.

Gren pours himself more whiskey while Wade gets... whatever the fuck mess he's drinking, he doesn't know, there's a whole lot of bottles in front of that asshole. The mood seems to have taken a down-shift from 'I might fuck you up' to 'I can't be assed to fuck you up', which is fine, honestly. Gren's done with fights for a little while, at least until the burn on his side from Sans' blaster bullshit heals over.

"The only fuckin' little things I got are in this glass," he says, then knocks it back. If the 'little things' in life are what matters most, than all Gren's got right now that matters is how quick he can get shitfaced on cheap whiskey every night. So yeah, sure. Here's to the little things, like a losing battle against alcoholism.

"Little piece of advice for free, bro-- if you gotta ask that question, the answer's always 'no'. ...Heh. Hey, that rhymed."

Whether Gren smiled or it was just a trick of the light, it's pretty much inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. The grand scheme of things, of course, being the act of finding flimsier and flimsier excuses to drink more. Not that he really needs to, in this case. That's the one good thing about Sans biting the dust-- he's not around to judge the frequency at which Wade pickles himself.

The thought of the skeleton with the ketchup stains and the easy smile causes the mood to turn again, as it often does when you're saturating your cells with alcohol. Wade takes another, smaller gulp of his drink, staring into the dregs as if trying to find something of an answer in there.

"...You heard about Sans, right?"

He's not sure why he's asking. Gren and Sans never really seemed on the best of terms.

There's no judgement coming from Gren's side on the subject of drinking-- he's filling his glass up again pretty much the moment after he drains it. Wade's in good company as far as the alcoholism goes, and thankfully for the both of them, Gren's not quite enough of a hypocrite to start calling somebody else out on what he's doing too. Assholes in glass houses or something like that.

The mood goes south again with the next drink. Wade's a fucking maudlin sort of drunk, Gren's coming to realize-- gets all sad looking or whatever about his dead skeleton friend. He'd probably be more sympathetic if he didn't hate Sans' nonexistent guts and also go toe-to-toe with his doppelganger for a while.

"...Yeah, I gathered a fuckin' thing or two," he says. If this is going to get all... touchy-feely about Sans getting 86'd, though, he's going to need even more whiskey than he's already got. Maybe Wade'll be maudlin enough that he won't notice if Gren takes another bottle from his stack, it's not like he doesn't have enough of them lined up.

You've got more than enough bottles there, you asshole-- no need to keep taking from Wade's stash. Wade, for his part, lacks the energy to even make a token effort to voice his disapproval, allowing Gren to take yet another bottle with only a minor shifting where he's sitting. Wade's moods had always been somewhat mercurial-- even before the brain damage brought on by his healing factor-- and there rarely was any sort of middle ground between his highs and lows. And alcohol, after all, is a natural depressant, even to people like him who are resistant to its effects.

"Had to find out from some kids he was taking care of," Wade continues, as if Gren had expressed any kind of sympathy instead of a noncommittal comment. "Some kids. Ended up havin' to patch 'em up 'cause their doubles fucked 'em up or some shit. The fuck kinda world is this where kids get caught in the crossfire like that? What kinda gods would let this kinda thing happen?"

Wade refills his glass, takes another gulp; lets out a long, slow breath. "Now I'm out here gettin' soused like an asshole 'cause I can't fuckin' handle that my buddy just got iced." He pinches the bridge of his nose with a groan.

"Don't think Hermann an' Newt know about it yet either. I'm gonna have to tell 'em. Fuck."

Gren's in the middle of pouring himself more whiskey-- not really a shot, it's too big for that, maybe more like a double or a triple-- when Wade starts talking about some kids that the skeleton man's been looking after. Ones that got hurt with all this bullshit going around, too, and Gren vaguely remembers seeing some kids posting shit on the network before, even if he never paid much attention to them. Not too many kids get pulled into this murdercave.

What kind of world is this where kids get caught in the crossfire?

The real one comes to Gren's mind first, because he knows that firsthand; when a monster rages through a Scandinavian mead hall, children aren't granted immunity to its teeth. Gods might note the fall of a sparrow, or so some old book said, but they don't make an effort to catch them.

He knocks back the liquid in his glass.

"So if Sans is dead and you're here gettin' shitfaced, who's lookin' after those kids?"

Wade sounds all broken up about it, that and having to be the bearer of bad news to Sweater Grandpa and his nerd boyfriend, but that doesn't change the fact that his ass is in that bar stool instead of next to the kids he's upset about. But, hey, Gren doesn't have anyone to look after anymore, not since Rhys left, so maybe what the fuck room does he have to talk?

It isn't as though this sort of thing hasn't happened before. Back where he'd been before, in Haven, he'd been alarmed at the amount of children arriving in the desolate city they'd called home; had been even more disturbed at the idea that they were also destined to be lab rats for the Yao Corporation's cruel experiments. Even Killebrew hadn't been so cruel-- though Wade was sure it was more to avoid the authorities who would undoubtedly be looking for missing children than it was any sort of strict moral code.

The fact that these gods have pulled kids from their homes and subjected them to all manner of horrors doesn't exactly give Wade a positive impression of them. Wade huffs out another cynical chuckle at Gren's question.

"Like I said, I'm an asshole. They're sleeping now, at least. I hope they are, anyway-- they had a really rough day. Who hasn't these days, y'know? I just need a little pick-me-up, that's all. Why not? S'not like Sans is here to judge me for it, right? Don't I deserve a little break once in a while?"

Gren shrugs his one available shoulder half-heartedly. Why's Wade asking him this sort of shit? He doesn't know, he's just an angry monster man trying to figure his way through this shitty murdercave like everyone else. He doesn't have any answers for anybody.

"Beats the fuck outta me."

Probably neither of them deserve much of anything, much less a break. Nobody really deserves anything, anyway, because the universe is a random, senseless place and there's no reason to any of it, blah blah blah. Life is meaningless and death is inevitable, nothing we ever do will ever matter, what-the-fuck-ever, pour yourself another drink and get the fuck over it.

"Ask that fucker once Hope brings his ass back. It ain't like he's gonna stay dead for long."

"I guess." Gren's less than sympathetic response gets his dander up, and he fixes the other man with a glare for a few seconds. Then his gaze softens into something a little more bitterly cynical. What's the point in starting shit? It's not going to change anything; not going to hide the fact that no one gives a shit about his problems here.

He didn't know what he was expecting by unloading his problems on Gren. Actually, that's a lie-- he knew precisely what he'd been expecting. To be treated with unconditional sympathy; to be comforted as if he were an old friend rather than just some rando from fucking nowhere. For things to be like Haven, where he'd had the time to form a circle of friends who would actually care about his emotional state. Amazing how pretentious you could get after three years worth of character development, expecting handouts from mere acquaintances who had no reason to give you the time of day. Who the fuck did Wade think he was, anyway?

Idiot. Stupid.

Wade downs the last of his whiskey, wincing as the alcohol goes burning down his throat, and slips unsteadily off the stool. An unfamiliar choking feeling rises in his chest and throat-- the result of the drink, no doubt-- and he coughs out a short laugh to dislodge it.

"Heh. Never mind, I'm just pissin' in the wind here. See ya around or whatever."

He doesn't bother to wait for Gren's reply, if there even is one-- merely exits the bar without another word. Outside, Wade leans against the outer wall of the bar, taking deep breaths through his mouth to ease the constriction in his throat. He digs into one of his pockets for the pack of cigarettes he's swiped from the old convenience store and pulls out his lighter along with it, which finally ignites after a few increasingly frustrated flicks of the wheel.

Wade remains there, shoulders pressed against the hard concrete, waiting for the nicotine to work its magic. Or whatever Pavlovian response is in play here, considering drugs are pretty much useless against his healing factor.

At this point, he'll take what he can get.

There's a second where Gren thinks that he's gotten Wade's blood up, kind of like what happened in the shop that one time when they were both inexplicably pissed off about cans. It dies too quick, though; collapses into something sour and he doesn't have any fight in him. Gren didn't come to the bar for a fight-- not tonight, anyway-- but he'd rather have a punch-up than listen to this asshole keep moaning about his dead friends and kids or whatever.

And then Wade just up and leaves, takes off with some bullshit dismissive comment and mopes his ass right out of the bar. Kind of pisses Gren off a little, his whole self-pitying bullshit. Who does he think he is, walking around like his problems are so fucking important that people who barely know what the fuck he's talking about should start playing therapist for him? He's not this asshole's baggage receptacle.

Gren pours himself another bracing drink and downs it, then follows Wade outside.

The guy's leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette like he's straight out of some knockoff Bogart film or some shit. Got that whole broad shoulders and narrow waist thing going on, a sharp and muscled profile that isn't out of place in an alleyway. He walks past Wade and swipes the lit cigarette right out of his mouth, popping it between his lips to take a real big fuck-you drag on it. They're a better brand than Bigby's shitty Huff'n Puffs, at least, though that's a pretty damn low bar to pass.

"This is some maudlin fuckin' bullshit right here," he says, breathing out smoke from his stolen cigarette. "The fuck do you think you are, Marlon Brando? Get the fuck over yourself."

In any other circumstance, Gren's assessment of Wade would have been absolutely correct. Ever since he was an angry little kid, seething with the unfairness of life in general, he'd always responded by lashing out at imagined and actual slights alike, reacting with violence at anything and anyone he thought had wronged him.

It had always felt satisfying, at the time, but after a while that satisfaction turned sour. It was only during his time in Haven that he was given the opportunity to understand how unhealthy and ultimately futile it all was. It didn't mean that the coping mechanisms magically went away, of course, but it did mean that Wade was beginning to implement the previously unheard of ability to think before he acted. Amazing how a few unofficially adopted kids and a rather large circle of friends could change your whole outlook.

Shame that it couldn't last.

Wade's poised to take another drag when he feels the cigarette suddenly and rudely torn from his mouth. He opens his eyes in surprise, mouth still tingling slightly from the feeling of the cigarette still between his lips, and watches as the same swarthy asshole from the bar takes a long drag on his stolen cigarette, defiantly looking Wade in the face as if daring him to do something about it.

Fuck this. Fuck being diplomatic to people who don't even give a shit about him. Fuck caring.

Wade doesn't dignify Gren's acidic retort with a response. Without a moment's hesitation he lashes out, driving forward with a straight left to crash into the side of Gren's smug douchebag face.

To be honest, Gren really didn't think things through past 'take that asshole's cigarette and smoke it in front of him'. Mostly, he was just trying to piss the guy off, give him something to be fucking maudlin about. He's right in the middle of another long, fuck-you drag when Wade's fist shoots out and decks him right in the jaw. The lit smoke goes flying out of his hand and lands somewhere in the alleyway, and he stumbles back a pace. Wade's strong, stronger than what he usually gets from humans, and fuck if that doesn't get Gren's motor revving in all sorts of ways.

He runs his tongue over his lip; it stings and tastes like blood and the acrid tang of cigarettes, probably split it on one of his own teeth. That's fine; he likes the taste of it. It'd be better if it wasn't his own, but that's just the old monster instincts talking. That old, vicious nature of his that makes him want to get his teeth into somebody's jugular. You can take a monster out of the wilderness, dress him up like a man and make him talk like a man, but you can't really quite smother all the wild out of him.

"Okay," he says, because this is a hell of a lot better than listening to Wade bitch and moan. He'll take split lips and blood over that any day of the week.

Gren lunges forward, aiming his fist for the solar plexus rather than the face because of Wade's height advantage. It's hard to deck a guy in the nose when his nose is six inches above your head, no matter how much Gren likes them big.

This asshole doesn't even have the decency to recoil from Wade the way he should; has the audacity to smile after being decked in the face. Is he a masochist, or was this just what he wanted all along? To needle Wade; to get under his skin for some stupid bullshit pissing contest Wade didn't know he was a part of? Maybe he just enjoyed kicking mercenaries when they were down.

The fucking nerve.

A fresh flush of anger surges through Wade's bloodstream at the sight of this fucking dude with his fucking smile and his fucking ugly soul-patch, and he barely has enough time to arch his hips backward away from Gren's retaliation, catching his fist deftly in both hands.

"Motherfucker--" Wade's voice is a low, guttural growl as he uses the momentum to tug sharply at Gren's arm, hoping to yank the aggressive douchenozzle off balance. If it works, then Wade's just going to introduce Gren's solar plexus to the sharp, bony part of his knee.

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