He trails after, mindful of the tail and taking note of the sign. Touching his fingertips to the wall until the swaying sensation of the bridge dissipates. He doesn't talk—doesn't see much need for it, and he wasn't lying about his tongue all but shriveling up.
Double Trouble steps into the kind of saloon where the arrival of a
stranger would probably cause all conversation to dry up and the pianist to
stop dead mid-chord, if only there was a piano in here.
There isn't. But there's water, and they very kindly pour two large mugs.
His first swallow's deep—his eyes close, briefly, and he wipes his mouth with the back of one hand. “Thank you.” Wade finds a wall to lean against, the rock cool at his back. Runs a hand through his hair, rendering it neither more nor less presentable, just messy in several new directions.
“I don't know if you're looking for the unabridged version, here, but the short of it is—I betrayed the trust of somebody dear to me,” he says, slow and measured. His eyes are on Double Trouble—fixed there. “I sold her out. Right after that I came here.”
He looks suddenly tired, as though the intervening time—days and nights on the barge, the long walk to his car after watching Angela gulp down the pills, the moments of unearned relief—has just crashed over him.
He keeps on thinking of Angela, Angela who'd been so much closer to Crawford—in and out of his house, cozy evenings with the family. And then him. He doesn't have to imagine the feeling, is the hell of it. He's lived with it most of his life.
“Well,” he says. His voice is rough, feels rough in his throat too. “That's me. You're up.”
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Double Trouble steps into the kind of saloon where the arrival of a stranger would probably cause all conversation to dry up and the pianist to stop dead mid-chord, if only there was a piano in here.
There isn't. But there's water, and they very kindly pour two large mugs.
"Here, darling."
Mammals. So inefficient.
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“I don't know if you're looking for the unabridged version, here, but the short of it is—I betrayed the trust of somebody dear to me,” he says, slow and measured. His eyes are on Double Trouble—fixed there. “I sold her out. Right after that I came here.”
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"Oh."
Trouble blinks slowly, otherwise unmoving. And unmoved.
"Is that all?"
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“Nobody ever did that to you?”
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They take a long slow sip from their water.
"Of course not, darling."
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He can guess.
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"I choose reliable friends," they tell him, crisply. "That's why."
Hahaha. Friends.
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“Well,” he says. His voice is rough, feels rough in his throat too. “That's me. You're up.”
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"If you must. I killed someone."
The shrug is verbal rather than physical.
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This shrug is physical, shoulders lifted, palms up.
"I don't know. I needed to get out of an enemy base, and they happened to be in my way."
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“What made it the worst?”
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"Because I haven't drowned any orphans lately? Murder is a contender for 'worst' in most people's experience, darling."
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He's much slower in working his way around to asking: “Would you do it again?”
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Trouble just grins at the first question, because Wade has no idea how right he is.
"...I might. If the need arose."
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“You wanna walk me through it?” An offer as much as it is a prod.