Summary:With a target on her back, Betty seeks sanctuary. Log Info:Storyteller: {$storyteller} |
Related LogsTheme Song{$themesong} |
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"That's because I don't have a face that looks like a pepperoni pizza with syphilis."
"Wrong."
"Face it, Wade, it's horrendous."
"We all know this."
"I mean, maybe before you had a skin condition that rhymes with 'oh god, is that thing alive?', you might've been able to have more followers on your Instagram, but let's face it, people aren't gonna follow a page titled '@DeadpoolMoneyShots'."
Wade Wilson gasps dramatically and leans back away from the bartender, Weasel. "That's not the name of my Instagram account!"
"Sorry," says Weasel. "I forgot. The 'esses' are dollar signs."
Betty Brant slips into the bar for yet another night. She didn't expect to ever come back to this place, but expectations were far and few for the wayward reporter as of late. Coming in and out of the rain, she reaches up and pulls down the hood of her jacket, giving her messy golden-bronze locks some space.
Brunching them, brushing them out of her face, she strides toward the bar and offers its tender, Weasel, a smile. "Whiskey sour. Please." A pause, "And blowjobs. I heard you do those here."
"For that," Wade tells Weasel, "I demand you give me a-" Why isn't Weasel paying attention to him? His words cut off almost immediately before Betty orders a blowjob, at which point he turns to stare at the woman. Her voice was familiar enough.
"Wait, you two know each other?" Weasel asks, before sighing. "Please tell me he didn't introduce you do that."
"No, she's never given me a blowjob, Pencil Dick," Wade tells the bartender. "You're the only one that gives me such sweetness. Make it two blowjobs, and another Dickel, straight."
"Fine," says Weasel, and gets to work.
"What are you doing here?" Wade asks of Betty, quietly.
Betty Brant slips up and onto a seat, offering a soft 'thank you' toward Weasel. Swallowing, she brushes at her hair once more. She was a different woman now, less chipper and bright, more humbled and solemn. Her expression is tired, there are bags under her eyes and hints of swell from no doubt tears.
"Looking for advice." She explains to Wade just as softly. "I have an idea already, but…if you had to hide out, where would you go?"
The look of her brings pause to the ugly, talkative mercenary. He and Betty have history now, the kind you don't talk about, at least not in the open.
"Kahlua, Baileys and whipped cream." Weasel slides the shots over, along with their other drinks. "Two blowjobs. On the house, because I feel bad about riffing on Wade's Instagram."
"Thanks, Weasel," Wade tells the man. "I take it back. Your dick is definitely the girth of a sharpie. Maybe even one of those jumbo ones."
Weasel casually flips Wade the bird as he walks away.
"I'd hide out here." Wade turns back to Betty, and there is empathy on his face. "Then again, I have family here. And generally speaking, the place is off limits. Gangs, the mob, they all respect it. Kind of like being on base during a game of playground tag."
Betty Brant reaches out and takes up the sweet shot. Knocking it back and allowing it to roll across her tongue, she swallows and makes sure to clean away any sugary residue. Washing it out with the first sip of whiskey, she shudders and nods. "Sounds fair. I mean, it's good to have a place to go, right?"
Tapping her chipped-paint fingers, she takes another drink and clears her throat. "Did, um, something happen when you were doing that favor for me? Mom, um…died. Something happened to her machines that night. She didn't make it." A pause, "And, now I have to go into hiding. Not because of them. They're gone, just something else. Not asking for help with that, just where a good place to hide might be if you're going low for a spell."
Wade knocks back his shot as well, and sighs with content. "I'll always be a sucker for whipped cream," he observes.
Drink in hand, he turns to face Betty squarely, lips frowning, eyes a bit brighter than one might expect. "Everything went to plan. I mean, there's no foolproof way to make sure it's not them fucking with you, but… the message we sent was pretty clear. Don't think they'd want to risk what it might look like if I amped it up a notch." He narrows his eyes a bit, considering. Notably, he hasn't given her an answer as to where might be a good place to hide out.
"I'm thankful." She murmurs at length. "That it's over. I think I'm just getting use to the whole…no one thing. You do something for so long, it suddenly not being a priority is difficult." Chuckling, she drinks more from her glass and turns to face Wade in turn. "I agree, about the whipped cream, I mean." Horrible levity, but it was an attempt.
"I'm sad sacking this, so I'm sorry about that. I guess finding a 'safe' space would be worth it, just have to figure out where that is. As for you and the woman who helped you, I wanted to make sure you didn't want to be paid. I made an agreement, after all."
Wade seems to understand. If anything, it's written on his face. "Nah, I get it. You get so used to something, even if it's fucked. Then it's gone, and you don't know what to do with yourself." He shrugs. "I fill it with all sorts of bad habits. Then again, I could bang an entire eight ball of cocaine, and even if it did make my heart explode, it would just grow back." He grins. "So… probably don't try that one. Not the best idea. Even though the bags under your eyes are either from a serious bender, or you aren't sleeping."
As for his payment, he lifts his drink and grins. "You think all we did was ice a few of them? No. I ripped them off, too. Plus, a few of their guys had contracts out on them. Trust me, we made off handsomely."
"Was never much of a coke girl." She assures him, even trying to joke along with him. Another sip, she sets her glass down and sighs out evenly. Shifting in her seat, she crosses her legs and rests her fingers around her upper most knee. "I'm glad you got paid then. I didn't want to come off as a welcher, especially to you guys here." A glance around, she turns and digs into her purse. A few bills out, she offers them over toward Weasel. "Will this cover a round for everyone here?"
"Sure," says Weasel, not even bothering to count. There's a level of trust he and Deadpool have, and it doesn't show itself often. This is a sublime example of that trust. "Just don't make a habit of it. Place goes nuts when someone offers a round." He then turns to the rough crowd and announces, "Round on the house, courtesy of the house. Bottom shelf only!"
A roar goes up amongst the gathered neerdowells.
Wade watches all of this with a smirk. "For the record, I wasn't worried about you paying. You've paid a bunch of asshats for years, what's some for someone doing you a favor?" Now that the bar is sufficiently distracted with choosing their drinks, he leans over a bit so that he can speak under the din of free-booze-fueled excitement. "There are rooms upstairs. Best place to lay low, if you ask me."
Betty Brant scoffs a bit. "Damn, didn't even tell them who it's really from." Rolling her eyes, she keeps that heavy smirk on her lips, pressing a dimple into her cheek. With the noise rolling up, she leans in to meet Wade halfway. Facing away, offering him her ear, she nods and looks his way once he's done. Voice low, she replies. "How much? I mean, how do I get a room here? I have an idea, if it falls through…this will be all I have. I can't go anywhere else and stay inside the city."
"Yeah," Wade observes with a grin. "He's got his reasons." As for how much, he shrugs. "Depends on who you are, what you need, how hot you are." He leans back a little, realizing how that might be taken. "Not like that!" he defends. "I meant hot, like, how much heat is on you. Pay by the day, advance payments get a 10% bump. Upside is, the only rule is, don't burn the place down."
"Well, if I can make a payment, I'd like to. Get it started up, y'know." She explains, taking another breath and moving back just enough to give herself some air. "What, um…what all do you need to know about the reasoning?"
"Talk to him," Wade says, nodding his head toward Weasel. "Once he's done filling all these drinks." When he catches Weasel's attention, he nods his head toward his drink, indicating another of the same, before knocking the rest of it back with a quick motion. "He's gonna need to know the reason. I don't." He shrugs. "I mean, unless you wanna tell me. Can't guarantee I won't go on another killing spree." Saying that, his eyes twinkle with a certain mirth that suggests he might be kidding. Might be. I mean, it always depends on just WHAT she tells him, if she tells him anything at all.