He’s thirty-two, give or take some months in hellish spiral limbo, when he visits Berlin for the first time.
And it’s cold.
Objectively, it isn’t actually that cold. Right on 0 degrees (zero degrees, the temperature of nothing far more intimidating in Celsius than Fahrenheit), it’s chilly but not unbearably so, like every other early spring day in Berlin. But he’s been spoiled by mild weather all his life. Europe, too far-flung a destination for him to ever possibly imagine for the first thirty years of his life, just happens to be cooler than he was prepared for. The brisk wind flushes his cheeks, and he draws his obnoxiously blue scarf tighter about his neck and shoulders.
“You’re in Germany, not Antarctica, dude,” snickers Newt, walking a bit too close and knocking elbows with the other man.
Travis huffs. The minutest puff of breath condenses on the air. “Shut up. I’m sensitive to the cold-- I’ve still got thin blood from California.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. Just ‘cause you’re not used to it doesn’t make your blood any thinner than it should be.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Regretfully, Mr. Touchdown,” Hermann interjects, with a sniff, “despite your insistence, Newton is absolutely correct. Unless you’ve a previous condition, your climate should not have had any effect, whatsoever, upon the state of your blood, at least not in th--”
“Okay, okay, fine.” Travis waves a hand, defeated by the combined wisdom of a couple handfuls of doctorates. “But it’s still too damn cold.”
A slow, careful grin tugs at the corners of Newt’s mouth. “C’mon, Trav. We’ve dealt with worse weather back in-- well, you know. Right?”
There’s a pause. The light tapping of Hermann’s cane upon the pavement gradually slows, and the three of them quietly glance around. Independently, they’ve all stopped walking.
Before. Back there.
Hermann’s gaze on Newt is something less than that of warning: lacking its usual sharpness, but still chiding in its own way. Newt catches the look, and presses his lips together tightly, staring at the floor to avoid it. Travis’ fingers twist the trailing threads at the end of his kaiju-blue scarf as he pretends not to notice the exchange. The silence is heavy; between the three of them, they carry a secret that weighs upon their backs, burdens heavy like bodies, like starvation; like tortures and old blood and the rubble of buildings; like the distant, ominous growling deep in the throats of monsters from the past.
“Yeah.” They snap back to Berlin so suddenly that Newt actually whirls back to face Travis, Hermann instinctively grabbing the man by the arm to steady him. “But it doesn’t mean I’ve gotta like it.”
“Well. Hermann’ll let you borrow his jacket. Have you seen that thing? It’s--”
“I beg your pardon--”
The usual rhythm of conversation-- bickering, rather-- resumes, and the pace of their walk picks up once more.
Berlin is lovely this time of year, the three of them have agreed.
The needle pierces neatly through the skin. Travis doesn’t shudder this time-- he knows better than to move while getting stitched up-- but he grimaces and grips the arm of the chair he’s been bleeding all over for the last ten minutes.
“Shit, that hurts,” he hisses through his teeth.
Wade looks up only briefly, an eyebrow raised, before returning to his work. The wound is on his side, and it’s deep enough, but not jagged-- Travis’ persistent luck’s made it so clean a blind man could fix it up on instinct. It won’t take too much time to sew back together. “Didn’t know you’d be so delicate, Trav,” he teases lightly. “This your first time? I’m honored.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Travis rolls his eyes and winces again as Wade continues sewing the wound shut. “Can you blame me? S’not like I’ve never gotten hurt before, but back home, getting cut up didn’t last like this.”
“So you’re saying I should find somebody to cast a Curaga on you.”
“Ye--” he catches himself, shooting a disapproving glance down at Wade, “--no. We had a healing item.”
“What, like a potion or something? I thought you said you were a non-traditional JRPG, or--”
“Let me finish! It was pizza.”
Wade nearly drops the needle. “...Pizza?”
“Pizza.”
A beat.
“...You know, if you wanted pizza that bad, you coulda just asked.” Wade smirks. “We are in New York. It’s the best place to get it, and I know some places you’d really dig.”
“I’m seri-- ghh-- serious!”
Travis doesn’t see it coming: with a firm hand, Wade pushes him back into his chair, a stern expression on his face. “Stop trying to get up. You wanna waste all the effort I just put into those stitches just now? You’re lucky you didn’t break anything tonight, you know. What the hell were you thinking, charging at the targets like that? If your stance was any more open you coulda hung a neon sign around your neck! Are you really gonna go around with a death wish so soon after that mandatory vacation we just got out of?”
“I know, all right?” Travis’ eyes are hard, mouth set into a deep frown. “I’m trying. It’s not like--”
“Back home,” Wade finishes. “I know.”
Travis fumes, mutely, but it only takes the last few stitches and Wade tying up the string for whatever righteous anger that he’s got to fizzle to nothing. Or maybe it’s a little bit of residual petulance. He’s quieter these days; more calm. He hasn’t quite got the right to be angry at many things anymore, even if his old winning streak’s only persisted in keeping him from dying.
After all, Wade’s right. It’s different now. Here, he bleeds.
“Done.” With an air of finality, Wade covers the stitched-up gash with a pad of gauze. “Feel weird anywhere?”
Travis shakes his head. “No. It’s fine. And… uh.” He fidgets. “Sorry I fucked up.”
“Don’t apologize. You did your best, and we still got paid. Besides, you still killed the asshole who tried to gut you anyways. D’you see the way his arm flung off? Hit that bald dude right in the face! Freakin’ classic!”
“Heh, I know, right?”
“And you’re going to get better at this soon. I can tell.”
“...Really?” Travis blinks in surprise, ducking his head a little.
“Yeah. Definitely. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’m eating your share of the pizza.”
“Ha, ha-- h-hey, ow--”
“Trav, the stitches!”
It stings, but he grins anyway. “Oh, fuck off, you’re the one who made me laugh!”
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
berlin - haven (good end)
And it’s cold.
Objectively, it isn’t actually that cold. Right on 0 degrees (zero degrees, the temperature of nothing far more intimidating in Celsius than Fahrenheit), it’s chilly but not unbearably so, like every other early spring day in Berlin. But he’s been spoiled by mild weather all his life. Europe, too far-flung a destination for him to ever possibly imagine for the first thirty years of his life, just happens to be cooler than he was prepared for. The brisk wind flushes his cheeks, and he draws his obnoxiously blue scarf tighter about his neck and shoulders.
“You’re in Germany, not Antarctica, dude,” snickers Newt, walking a bit too close and knocking elbows with the other man.
Travis huffs. The minutest puff of breath condenses on the air. “Shut up. I’m sensitive to the cold-- I’ve still got thin blood from California.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. Just ‘cause you’re not used to it doesn’t make your blood any thinner than it should be.”
“It’s the truth!”
“Regretfully, Mr. Touchdown,” Hermann interjects, with a sniff, “despite your insistence, Newton is absolutely correct. Unless you’ve a previous condition, your climate should not have had any effect, whatsoever, upon the state of your blood, at least not in th--”
“Okay, okay, fine.” Travis waves a hand, defeated by the combined wisdom of a couple handfuls of doctorates. “But it’s still too damn cold.”
A slow, careful grin tugs at the corners of Newt’s mouth. “C’mon, Trav. We’ve dealt with worse weather back in-- well, you know. Right?”
There’s a pause. The light tapping of Hermann’s cane upon the pavement gradually slows, and the three of them quietly glance around. Independently, they’ve all stopped walking.
Before. Back there.
Hermann’s gaze on Newt is something less than that of warning: lacking its usual sharpness, but still chiding in its own way. Newt catches the look, and presses his lips together tightly, staring at the floor to avoid it. Travis’ fingers twist the trailing threads at the end of his kaiju-blue scarf as he pretends not to notice the exchange. The silence is heavy; between the three of them, they carry a secret that weighs upon their backs, burdens heavy like bodies, like starvation; like tortures and old blood and the rubble of buildings; like the distant, ominous growling deep in the throats of monsters from the past.
“Yeah.” They snap back to Berlin so suddenly that Newt actually whirls back to face Travis, Hermann instinctively grabbing the man by the arm to steady him. “But it doesn’t mean I’ve gotta like it.”
“Well. Hermann’ll let you borrow his jacket. Have you seen that thing? It’s--”
“I beg your pardon--”
The usual rhythm of conversation-- bickering, rather-- resumes, and the pace of their walk picks up once more.
Berlin is lovely this time of year, the three of them have agreed.
manhattan - haven (good end)
“Shit, that hurts,” he hisses through his teeth.
Wade looks up only briefly, an eyebrow raised, before returning to his work. The wound is on his side, and it’s deep enough, but not jagged-- Travis’ persistent luck’s made it so clean a blind man could fix it up on instinct. It won’t take too much time to sew back together. “Didn’t know you’d be so delicate, Trav,” he teases lightly. “This your first time? I’m honored.”
“Oh, fuck off.” Travis rolls his eyes and winces again as Wade continues sewing the wound shut. “Can you blame me? S’not like I’ve never gotten hurt before, but back home, getting cut up didn’t last like this.”
“So you’re saying I should find somebody to cast a Curaga on you.”
“Ye--” he catches himself, shooting a disapproving glance down at Wade, “--no. We had a healing item.”
“What, like a potion or something? I thought you said you were a non-traditional JRPG, or--”
“Let me finish! It was pizza.”
Wade nearly drops the needle. “...Pizza?”
“Pizza.”
A beat.
“...You know, if you wanted pizza that bad, you coulda just asked.” Wade smirks. “We are in New York. It’s the best place to get it, and I know some places you’d really dig.”
“I’m seri-- ghh-- serious!”
Travis doesn’t see it coming: with a firm hand, Wade pushes him back into his chair, a stern expression on his face. “Stop trying to get up. You wanna waste all the effort I just put into those stitches just now? You’re lucky you didn’t break anything tonight, you know. What the hell were you thinking, charging at the targets like that? If your stance was any more open you coulda hung a neon sign around your neck! Are you really gonna go around with a death wish so soon after that mandatory vacation we just got out of?”
“I know, all right?” Travis’ eyes are hard, mouth set into a deep frown. “I’m trying. It’s not like--”
“Back home,” Wade finishes. “I know.”
Travis fumes, mutely, but it only takes the last few stitches and Wade tying up the string for whatever righteous anger that he’s got to fizzle to nothing. Or maybe it’s a little bit of residual petulance. He’s quieter these days; more calm. He hasn’t quite got the right to be angry at many things anymore, even if his old winning streak’s only persisted in keeping him from dying.
After all, Wade’s right. It’s different now. Here, he bleeds.
“Done.” With an air of finality, Wade covers the stitched-up gash with a pad of gauze. “Feel weird anywhere?”
Travis shakes his head. “No. It’s fine. And… uh.” He fidgets. “Sorry I fucked up.”
“Don’t apologize. You did your best, and we still got paid. Besides, you still killed the asshole who tried to gut you anyways. D’you see the way his arm flung off? Hit that bald dude right in the face! Freakin’ classic!”
“Heh, I know, right?”
“And you’re going to get better at this soon. I can tell.”
“...Really?” Travis blinks in surprise, ducking his head a little.
“Yeah. Definitely. ‘Cause if you don’t, I’m eating your share of the pizza.”
“Ha, ha-- h-hey, ow--”
“Trav, the stitches!”
It stings, but he grins anyway. “Oh, fuck off, you’re the one who made me laugh!”