Hit Me, I Dare You {Wes}

[WESTON BRODERICK]

Nodding his thanks, Wes took the water without comment. He unscrewed the cap and, offering nothing more than a raised brow as she spat out more disjointed blood and mucus, took a large swig. He wasn’t going to clean her up again; that wasn’t his job, though he did still feel slightly bad about the whole thing even if she claimed she’d needed a good hit. Too, he couldn’t deny that it had felt wonderful to punch something living. Destroy something beautiful or whatever the hell the quote was, even if he didn’t see Tramp as such.

At her question, he merely shrugged. Of course he knew it was odd—it was fucking annoying, and that was still an understatement—to not know where Angel was, even if it wasn’t spending time with her at that exact moment. Sure, they did things on their own every so often. He had his music and she had her bugs and her wanderings and although he really would have spent every waking moment with her if she’d let him, he understood the concept of space. What he didn’t get, however, was secrets. Not only were they bothersome, but cruel. Angel Dihanie and Weston Broderick did not keep secrets from one another. It simply was unheard of. They didn’t talk about things sometimes (or, more accurately, Wes didn’t, as he tended not to talk much at all) but they didn’t purposely keep things from one another, either. It was always just like everything else; no one needed to know what happened every second of another person’s day, not matter how close they were.

But still, Wes would have liked to know where she’d went. Something, even if it was bad. And he knew it most certainly was (at least by his standards) because she’d breathed nothing of it.

“Yeah, sure,” he shrugged, dark-circled eyes glancing down at the ground before he took another sip from the bottle. As an afterthought, however, he looked up at her, brown eyes serious although not pleading. “You don’t have to take care of anything, though. I mean, I can handle it…” There was a weight to his words and a small flash of something in his eyes as he spoke, and his voice held a protective tone despite its low volume. Of course he could. And he would. Wes may not have been the strongest or most menacing male in their class, but rest assured that if anything were to happen to Angel, he would go nothing less than apeshit on whoever happened to so much as think about causing her harm.

He watched her for a moment, glancing down at the drink before shrugging, a defeated sort of sigh mixing with a little smile at her joke. “I guess so…trade?” he offered her the water bottle in exchange for her screwdriver. Knocking back a small swig, Wes’s brow furrowed considerably as he didn’t bother to hide a grimace at the taste of the thing. “That’s fucking disgusting.” Shaking his head slightly, he held the glass back to her. Still, he couldn’t deny it helped, if only slightly. “Thanks.”

Shrugging, Wes waited until he was sure she’d finished before offering a response. His brows raised slightly at the threat (empty, no doubt, as she had to know he’d never dream of talking to her cousin), though he acknowledged it no further. “Donno,” he responded honestly, “I should’ve figured someone’d be here, though. I mean…” he shrugged again, feeling the point was more than made.

[RIPLEY "TRAMP" GWYNN]

“It doesn’t matter if you can handle it or not. The point is that you aren’t Angel’s only friend anymore. She’s like my sister. If someone’s fucking with her, or doing something—I want a piece of it.” She frowned, staring straight ahead over the bar while she sipped the screwdriver. Tramp turned her attention back to Wes, raising a brow, “You barely drink. You’re not gonna—“ She watched as he took the screwdriver, and laughed openly at his expression before passing him the water back without taking a drink. She took the screwdriver back, and sipped it again. “Orange juice and vodka. If you want something softer, you can try a rum and coke. You can’t really taste the rum.” She rested her glass down on the bar, and leaned on it for a moment, trying to ignore the heaviness that was itching between her shoulders.

“Do you plan on hanging around, getting back in the ring, or do you feel like getting drunk off your ass till we can’t see straight? Because I am definitely going for that last one.” Though she shouldn’t with the way her nose was, but she needed it. After getting clocked by her best friend and discovering something had been happening to Angel; Tramp decided that she really did need to get drunk. She leaned forward, ordering two shots and a rum and coke. “But really, if you plan on getting wasted, you need to suck up the taste because there’s no way you’re going to get nearly drunk enough if you just sip on mixed drinks like a girl.”

When she shots were slammed down in front of her, Tramp knocked her head back, swallowing down one followed by the other. Done. “Two more.” She called for, swallowing down the taste of the shots. She looked at Wes for a moment, then offered one of her classic, close-lipped smiles. “Well, are you in or is this going to be a party of one?” She asked, picking up the shot glass again when it was set down again in front of her. Tramp was going to be so far gone, and chances are she would be puking her way home. But she was going to get her wish. She wasn’t going to be able to see straight.

[/blockquote]

[WESTON BRODERICK]

She had a point. A begrudging, semi-bothersome point, but one nonetheless. He frowned slightly, nodding without addressing the point aloud. Maybe she’d get a piece. Maybe she wouldn’t. It wasn’t like he was going to wait around to dish out judgment, once he found out where it was needed. Ordinarily, Wes wasn’t rash. Normally, he stepped back from fights. He watched, annoyed at both parties involved for being too idiotic to see reason for even a fraction of a second. With Angel, however, it was different.

With Angel, it was always different.

Wes glared as he handed the glass back to her, although the vehemence was mixed with yet another scrunching of his face as he felt the alcohol burn in his nostrils. How had it even gotten up there? He shook his head. “Nah, it’s alright…” Another gulp of water, and the taste still wasn’t gone. She was disgusting. Wes honestly didn’t understand how anyone could possibly become an alcoholic. Sure, being drunk was all well and good, but getting there? Torture. There was just no point, when you could get stoned and all you had to deal with was hunger and coughing.

In all honesty, he would have been fine with just hanging around, stone sober. Or, he liked to pretend he would have. The truth of the matter was simple; he’d much rather just forget the whole thing happened. Forget he’d punched Tramp, forget he’d come here at all, forget he’d been worried about Angel. He couldn’t do that high. Drunk, on the other hand…the possibilities were endless.

Wes’s lips were pressed in a thin line as he nodded. “Fine. Drunk it is.”

He glared as she lectured, grabbing the mixed drink and taking a swig. It was true—the rum, although still there, was a slight addition to coke. He watched her pound down her shots, brow raising in some expression between impressed and moderately concerned. Another drink from his own glass and there were two more shots in front of them. He paused. Eyes flickering between the two glasses and Tramp’s face as she picked up one of them, he frowned. For a moment, it turned to a scowl. Then he sighed, dark eyes rolling as he put the rum and coke back on the counter, reaching instead for the second shot. “Oh, what the hell…” shooting her a glare that said very plainly just how dead she’d be if he regretted this later, Wes tipped the glass back and downed the contents. His eyes squeezed shut. His face scrunched. He swallowed two, three, four times and his throat still burned. Again, there was that horrible feeling in his nose, shooting straight up to his head.

“Fuck, Tramp—” he shook his head and opened his eyes. Looking at her, he put the little glass back on the counter, a small smile crossing his face as he nodded. “Two more?”