#oversnez

[littlekatleaf]

Roll here in my ashes anyway

Needed a little soft, holiday story for the Junkerboys. It's almost Christmas, I must be feeling melancholy.

I wouldn’t know where to start Sweet music playing in the dark Be still, my foolish heart Don’t ruin this on me. ~ Hozier, Almost Sweet Music

Junkrat leans closer to the paper, rubs his eyes, but the tiny print refuses to come into focus. Damn chicken-scratch writing, hand can never keep up with his thoughts. Roadie’s voice echoes in his memory, “Gonna need glasses before you’re thirty if you keep squinting like that.” Bloke’s got a point, as always. He sighs and sits back, giving in to his aching body. When he looks up reason everything’s gone vague and blurry is abruptly clear - light’s changed. Fat clouds’d been lining the horizon now blanket the sky, winter sun too anemic to dent them. 

He glances back down at the launcher, still in pieces, screws and metal bits scattered over the workbench. Not as far as he’d like to be - Chrissie’s coming on soon. Gotta have Roadie’s prezzie ready. It’s close, but detonation speed needs tweaking - don’t want anyone else losing a limb. He scribbles down a last thought then rolls it all up, plans and gun together, and shoves them in the very back of his desk, behind old comics and skin mags, shit Roadie’d not be caught dead reading. He straightens, stretches, spine pops. Stomach rumbling too. How long’s he been at this anyway? Hungry enough likely missed lunch. Maybe dinner too?

As he crosses the threshold between work room and shared living space, he notices a tray on the coffee table. Coffee gone stone cold, same with the eggs and toast. He sticks a forkful in his mouth anyway. Can’t let it go to waste. Breakfast food. Apparently worked all night. Explains a good portion of the headache throbbing in his skull, the leaden ache of his joints getting in on the complaints. Less so the congestion and vague sense he’s gonna need to sneeze. Rubs his nose. Ignores it.

“Oi, Roadie,” he calls. No answer. He frowns. Hog hadn’t mentioned anything, had he? Wouldn’t go on a mission without him. Wouldn’t go hang with Hana or Lúcio, sick as he’s been. Might’ve been trying to downplay it, pass it off as a lingering cold, but Rat noticed. Felt the fever heat at night, heard the crackle in his lungs when he coughed, the edge of a wheeze in his deeper breaths. Bloke’d been sick for a while and didn’t seem to be improving.

Lack of caffeine’s making his thoughts feel slow, his head full of sludge. Must be why he can’t seem to figure where Roadhog might have gone. He’s still trying to puzzle it when there’s a mechanical click and the door whirs and slides open, revealing Roadie, looking somewhat abashed, with Mercy right behind in Avenging Angel mode. Sheila might be a good couple meters shorter than the Hog, and several stone lighter, but way she looks right now, Rat reckons she can take both of them, not even break a sweat, and is more than ready to do so.

“As Mr. Rutledge seems to be incapable of following the simplest of instructions, I appeal to your better judgment, Jamison.” Her tone is clipped, precise. She steers Roadie into the room with a firm hand on his shoulder.

Rat steps back, out of her way, and grins. “Breaking out the surname and suggesting I have anything approximating good judgment? What the bloody hell’d he do?”

“I explicitly told him to return to his quarters to rest. Under no circumstances was he to exert himself in any way until he completes his treatment. Not even ten minutes later, where do I find him?”

Junkrat shrugs. “Not here.” 

“Indeed not. He was outdoors. Working in the garden. With neither jacket nor hat.”

Junkrat shakes his head at Roadhog, struggling not to laugh. Least it’s someone else getting the dressing down for a change. “How very dare you.”

“Just taking care of a couple of things,” Hog protests. “Not a big deal.”

“This is not a joke.” Mercy directs a glare at Junkrat before turning back to Roadhog. She sighs, deeply. “I am not coddling you or some such foolishness,” she says. “I’m trying to save you from yourself. While the infection is relatively mild at the moment, if you don’t take care it will worsen. I would not have you risk the lung function you still have, Mako.”

Roadie ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, looking for all the world like a child being chastised. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.

“Take all of the antibiotics. Use the inhaler.” She shoves them into his hand and pivots to leave. “And don’t call me ma’am,” she adds, over her shoulder. “Doctor, if you must.” The door whirs open and closed behind her.

Junkrat blows out a breath. “Ain’t like no doctor I ever met.” Not like he’s met many; ‘doctors’ in Junkertown more like glorified butchers, but still.  He raises a brow at Roadhog. “Sheila’s got a point. You look like shit. The fuck you doing out there? Gonna snow any minute and I can feel the fever radiating off you from here.”

“Don’t start with me, Rat,” Roadhog grumbles. “I’m fine. Just need to put the last of the garden to bed before the weather shifts. Been meaning to take care of it for days. Thought I’d be better by now.” He tosses the bottle of meds toward the coffee table and misses. It hits the floor with a rattle. 

Junkrat moves to pick it up but is stopped by Roadhog’s glare. He holds up his hands in mock surrender and backs off. Knows better than to push straight on when he’s like this. Situation needs a little more… subtlety.

Roadhog leans down to retrieve the bottle, and immediately lapses into a fit of jagged coughing.  It drags on, impressively long until finally dwindling away, stealing most of his voice with it. “Fucking hell,” he rasps, breathless. Least it’s enough that he takes a hit from the inhaler without Rat needing to say anything. Probably better he doesn’t. Bloke’s emanating as much pissed off energy as fever.

Instead Junkrat drops a bag of Lúcio’s medicinal tea into a Pachimari shaped mug and fills it at the instant hot tap. He adds a dollop of honey, enough to soothe Roadie’s throat, but woefully small to Rat’s own eyes. Somehow Hoggie lacks a reasonable appreciation for the sweeter things in life. The rising steam smells of cinnamon and clove, comforting as Lù himself. 

Roadhog’s retreated to the couch, resignation clear in the set of his shoulders. He’s taken off his boots. “Ta,” he says, voice glass on gravel, when Rat holds out the peace offering. Makes Rat’s own throat ache to hear. “Doc’s right. I was acting like a bloody idiot. Garden’s gonna be what it is. Not the end of the world.”

“Already been through that once.” Junkrat floats the admittedly sad attempt at a joke. Testing. Predictably no response. Junkrat frowns, then nods. “Ain’t a lotta people smarter than the doc.”

“Just wish I’d gotten the roses wrapped.” Aims the words into his mug and Rat barely catches them. Roadie picks up a novel and disappears behind it. Over his shoulder the trees bend and creak in the wind. A few leaves that had been clinging to the branches tug free and scatter. Above it all the clouds hang, milk white and heavy with snow.

A shiver wants to creep down Junkrat’s spine but he manages to suppress it. Hoggie’s roses ain’t just any flower. Ain’t replaceable. Little bit of home, here in this place that isn’t theirs. Nothing for it; Rat knows what he has to do.

The wind cuts straight through his jacket before the door even slides closed behind him. He grits his teeth against the chattering, squares his shoulders and heads into the garden. Watched Roadie enough times, shouldn’t have a problem. Starts with the roses. Makes sure they’re trimmed and wrapped proper. Gonna keep the roses safe. The memories safe. He’s sniffling before he gets the first one finished, nose threatening to run. Guess he knows what Jack Frost nipping at your nose feels like. Least raking warms him enough that he opens the jacket even as the first flakes of snow drift down. 

By the time he’s done, everything set and settled down to the last twig, the world’s gone dim and silent with snowfall. It’s a lonely peaceful feel, the gathering dark, the swirling flakes, the way the air is sharp but the world is blurred. He sniffs, sleeves his nose, but makes no move to go inside. 

“There you are. Been wondering where you’d got to,” Roadie says.

Junkrat startles. “Gonna kill Hanzo for givin’ you the ninja lessons.”

This time Roadhog huffs the particular laugh means he’s torn between amusement and not wanting to encourage Rat. 

Junkrat wraps his arms around himself and sleeves his nose. Still itching, but knows if he starts sneezing Roadie’ll make him go inside and he’s not ready yet. Luckily Roadhog’s smart enough to have put on more appropriate winter gear. “See ya ain’t risking Mercy’s wrath.”

Feels Roadie smile behind the mask. “Nah. Once is more than enough.” He pauses and the snow drifts down, dusting their shoulders. “Thank you for this, Jamie.” Roughness of his voice now got nothing to do with being sick. 

Junkrat looks up at him, puzzled. “Well ‘course, mate. Couldn’t exactly let them die, could I?” 

“You could.” Roadhog says, still facing the garden. “Did a good job, Rat.” He puts an arm around Junkrat. 

Rat leans into the warmth, then curls forward with a harsh sneeze, hastily muffled in his scarf. Another follows, and a third. “Shit. Jig’s up.”

This time Roadie actually laughs. “Bless you. Better get back inside before Mercy hears you sneezing.”

Later, even in a pair of Roadie’s pjs and wrapped in several of their blankets, Junkrat still shivers. “F-fuckin’ freezin’. Ain’t never gonna be warm again. Barely more’n a corpse. Heat of life already left my bones…” Plays up the whinge, because he can, and muffles a round of sneezing in the blankets.

Roadhog reaches over, palms his forehead, but gently. “Definitely has not. And don’t be disgusting.” He tosses a box of tissues at Junkrat who can’t free his hands quick enough to catch it. It bounces off his chest.

“This the way you show your appreciation? Some caretaker you are.” Tugs free a handful just in time to catch another, in triplicate. “Fucking hell.”

“Nah. This is the way I show my appreciation.” Hog shifts so Rat can lean against him and begins to knead the tension from his shoulders. Rat sighs as the aching fades, the shivering stills. Feels himself begin to thaw, to drift. As he slides into sleep, he catches the scent of roses, the heat of the sun warming him through. Not the wan halfhearted thing here, but the encompassing burn of Australian summer. Maybe someday they’d go home. Least they had a piece, even if it slept in the winter dark.

[littlekatleaf]

Fic Master List

Figured I'd collect it all in one place - and this way it's clear which stories go together and which stand alone.

Overwatch - while this is all technically OW fanfic, I've created most of the backstory. You don't need to have played the game at all to understand the stories.

A Soul That's Born in Cold and Rain-'verse (in chronological-ish order)

Fairy bread - Very first RoadRat fic I ever wrote. In which Roadhog is sick and Junkrat manages to take care of him.

The fire don't know - in which Junkrat gets sick and struggles with whether he can trust Roadie in this new vulnerability. part 1, part 2, part 3

Once warmed my hands over a burning Maserati - in which everything feels wrong after a plan gone bad, and Junkrat wants to do the right thing for a change. part 1, part 2, part 3

The shape that I'm in now - in which Junkrat doubts and Roadhog helps him feel better.

I fretted fire - in which it's bushfire weather and Junkrat keeps watch.

Ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves - in which the roles are reversed. Roadie finds himself in trouble and Junkrat has to bail him out.

Be as you've always been - in which Junkrat acts first, thinks later, and has some regrets, and Roadhog is haunted.

O Tidings of Comfort and Joy - a little, fluffy, melancholy Christmas fic.

Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain - in which Junkrat and Roadhog join Lúcio, Hana and other members of Overwatch on a holiday trip, and it brings their relationship to a crisis point. part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10

My heart as spent as ashes - in which Junkrat and Roadhog have to face their past, to see what they can make of the future. part 1

It's All Fun and Games-'verse (these are pretty much purely fetishfic. Not much plot.)

Don't you ever tame your demons - in which Rat comes down sick and discovers something unexpected about Roadie. part 1, part 2, part 3

Let there be hotel complaints and grievances raised - in which Junkrat and Roadhog attend a fancy party and Rat uses the opportunity to tease Hog. Hog doesn't take it lying down. part 1, part 2, part 3

I am the offering and the fire which consumes it - in which Junkrat and Roadhog rob a Hindu temple and Junkrat discovers an allergy.

The 'verse where Junkrat, Roadhog, and Lúcio are together

Be Still My Indelible Friend - in which Roadhog is sick and just wants to be left alone. Doesn't he?

Offer Me My Deathless Death - in which Lúcio invites Junkrat and Roadhog to a Cosmic Mass, everyone must get stoned, and fun is had by all.

Love's Perfect Ache - in which Junkrat gets caught stealing, and is suspected of taking advantage.

I wish I could put the blame on you-'verse (a different depiction of Junkrat/Roadhog. This is not a healthy relationship, necessarily. But it is kinky. And fetishy. Mostly porn-without-plot)

I'm going all the way down, I'm leaving today - Roadhog's gotten all he needs from Rat and says he's moving on. Rat gives him everything, to keep him. Dom/sub, allergies.

My lips may promise but my heart is a whore - Junkrat's itchy and pushes Roadhog to get what he wants. Dom/sub, allergies.

The Sandman Fly down into the endless mysteries - Just before closing time, Desire pays Hob and Dream an unexpected visit, and leaves them a gift. This is unattached to my other Sandman fics.

To love what is lovely, and will not last - Hob and Retired!Dream celebrate the longest night with a gathering of friends. As usual, Hob wishes for more.

A Thing in Me Still Dreams of Trees - Written for Sicktember 2022 day two prompt, homesick. Morpheus escapes the fishbowl and finds himself yearning from home, even once he's returned. (no pairing in this fic.)

The Leaves Dream Now - After Morpheus' escape from the fishbowl, though still dealing with lingering consequences, he visits Hob, searching for shelter from storms within and without. (Dreamling, but can be read as platonic.)

The Magnus Archives It couldn't be had, what he wanted to hold (part 1) - post-series, somewhere else? somewhen else? A holiday, a cabin in Scotland. Everything's perfectly normal, isn't it?

Your hand in mine, we walk the miles - tiny ficlet originally written for @caramelfuzz bday. A moment where Jon discovers a shred of humanity left in him, imagined between eps 162 and 163.

There's no time in the bardo, no time in the in-between - a post-ep200 idea of Jon's experience in the bardo, a liminal place between our life and the afterlife.

Comes the summer rain - a short Jon/Martin safe house fic

D:20 - Fantasy High - this is (very) loosely based on Dimension:20's live action tabletop RPG. All the actors are adults, and I've written the characters as adults. Can also be read as O/C's.

The Dreams in Which I'm Dying - Twenty-some-odd years after the events of Sophomore year, Fabian faces down one of the last pirates of the Crimson Claw. It doesn't go well, and he goes to Garthy O'Brien for a port in the storm.

Worn out places, worn out faces - As proprietor of a pirate brothel, Gold Gardens, Garthy is the one who takes care of others. Can they learn to receive care?

The only heaven I'll be sent to - "Lovey, there are a plethora of ways in which I enjoy getting down." Garthy discovers a new way.

Lord of the Rings

Light of Some Kind - a very rare foray into f/f writing. Not sneezefic. The reality of marriage is different than Eowyn has imagined. She finds comfort and understanding in Arwen.

Bandom ah, the dreaded RPS. While this is technically based on Ed Vedder of Pearl Jam, and Anthony Kiedis of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, it can be read as O/Cs.

Saw things so much clearer - on the anniversary of the Roskilde festival, Ed deals with grief and self-recrimination. Anthony helps him see more clearly.

[littlekatleaf]

I was walking far from home

Yes, the T/MA fic is still in progress. Yes, I have a million other things I should be doing. But what can I say? A couple of fic ideas stuck, and I needed a little of my comfort pair. Just a tiny bit, from the 'A soul that's born in cold and rain-'verse. Saw a white dog chase its tail And a pair of hearts carved into a stone I saw kindness and an angel Crying, "Take me back home, take me back home." ~ Iron & Wine, "Walking Far From Home"

Junkrat takes a long hit off the joint, holds the smoke deep in his lungs, resisting the urge to cough, hands it to Roadhog. When he exhales, the cloud hovers for a long minute, frozen. Traffic signals blink red, red, red. Late enough there ain’t many cars on the road, especially in the middle of a snow storm. Probably shoulda listened to Lúcio and sat tight til morning. But Roadie’d had a shit enough day, deserved a joint–sick or no, and Morrison was being a wanker about smoke in the hotel room. So here they are, wandering through some shit town back of beyond, trying not to freeze their sacks off. Fat flakes of snow swirl and eddy around their feet. It’s quiet, though. And quiet’s hard to come by traveling with Overwatch.

The snow under their boots squeaks and crunches, until Roadhog pauses, gazing up. Junkrat stops too, though all he can see when he looks up is a dizzying spiral of flakes. They spin him ‘round til he’s not sure if he’s standing or falling. He stumbles, off balance. Roadie puts an arm around him. Steadied, he leans against the comforting solidity of his bodyguard and keeps watching the snow. 

Roadhog shivers, once, sharply.

Rat glances up, tries to read the expression behind the mask. “Cold?”

Roadhog shrugs.

“Course ya are. Felt the shiver, didn’t I?” Rat laughs at himself. “More appropriate question’d be who’s not cold.” He shrugs out of his coat.

“Don’t need it. I’m fine.” Roadie pushes his hand away.

“Come off it, mate; got fingers like icy poles.” 

“Ain’t gonna fit me, Rat.”

“Step up from nothin’ though, ain’t it.” Doesn’t ask it as a question.

Roadhog takes a breath like he’s gonna continue the argument, but before he can say anything, he sneezes, twice, harshly stifled.

Junkrat laughs. “See? Bless ya.” Drapes the coat over his shoulders. “Better, right?”

“Better,” Roadhog agrees, reluctantly.

They walk again, passing the joint between them. Rat knuckles his nose against a rising itch. If he sneezes he knows it’ll give Roadie a reason to return the coat. Might seem like the bloke’s impervious to everything, but gotta protect his lungs, specially when he’s already fighting a virus. 

“Ever miss it?” Roadhog asks suddenly, turning to face him. The lingering cold isn’t enough to explain the gravel in his voice. 

Junkrat scrambles to find the thread of their convo in the tangle of his thoughts and building clouds of a headache. Comes up empty. “Miss what?”

Roadie shrugs again. 

Something about the slope of his shoulders, the angle of his head make a shiver run over Junkrat, colder than the snowflakes melting on his cheeks. Wants to offer him something else, something warmer than a stupid coat what doesn’t even cover him, but ain’t got nothing. Tries for a joke. “The fuckin’ sun? Bein’ warm?” 

“The sun, the warm…” The words puff out on a cloud of smoke. “The bike. The road.” Crackle hiss as he inhales and the ember of the joint glows bright in the darkness. 

A pause, long enough that Junkrat thinks maybe that’s all he’s gonna say. “The jobs? The dosh?” Sniffs, tries to keep it quiet. Pats his pockets, but of course no scrap of tissue.

Roadhog passes him the joint. “Yeah, nah.” Pulls Rat’s coat a little closer, stares up into the sky again. “The right weather at the right time. The farm. The house.”

In the silence that follows, Rat can almost feel the rumble of the bike, the grit of dust in his teeth, the warm gust of wind through his hair.  When he blinks it’s their place he sees, mismatched furniture scavenged from who knew where. His workroom with its plans and secrets. All hardscrabble from leftovers, nothin’ nice like what the Watchpoints got. But it fit them. Never had to try to be someone they ain’t. “Freedom,” Rat says slowly.  He takes a last hit of the joint, stubs it out on the bottom of his boot and flicks the end away. “Home.”

“Home.”’ Roadhog glances down and catches the shudder that Rat can’t suppress. “You’re shivering.”

“Ain’t nothing.” Junkrat walks faster, though knows damn well Roadhog can more than keep up. Especially when he has to work to avoid slipping with the prosthetic.

“Like hell. Shouldn’tve given me your coat.” Roadhog doesn’t even have the decency to look like it’s hard to hold his pace while a trickle of sweat slides down Rat’s back, despite the chill.

“I’m fine. You’re the one with the cold.” 

“That was days ago.” But while he tries to downplay it, Roadhog stifles another pair of sneezes.

Rat grins, triumphant. “Blehh… heh shoo!” His own sneeze bursts free with only enough warning that he can only lift the collar of his shirt to cover it. “Ha’Rrrasshhh! AT’Chhuh!”

“Ain’t looking so hot, Rat.”

Even through the mask, Junkrat feels the intensity of his gaze and he finally sags into Roadhog. “Ain’t feelin so hot, to be honest.” 

Roadie palms Junkrat’s forehead and the cold is a relief. Closes his eyes.

“All right, let’s get you back.”

Back. To the hotel. Then to the Watchpoint. But not home. Not yet. Maybe not at all. “Yeah,” he says, as they turn back. “I miss it.”

[littlekatleaf]

Ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves?

Wherein the roles are reversed - Roadie finds himself in trouble and Rat has to get him out of it.

If I was born as a black thorn tree I’d wanna be felled by you, held by you Fuel the pyre of your enemies Ain’t it warming you, the world goin’ up in flames? Ain’t it the life where you, you’re lighting off the blaze? ~ Hozier, NFWMB

Mick takes a long drag off his cigarillo, exhales a stream of smoke across the table, and studies Roadhog through narrowed eyes. “What brought this change of heart?”

Behind him the jukebox shudders and grinds out some noise that’s supposed to pass for music. Bass pulses against Roadhog’s chest, guitar chords slice his ear drums. He grinds his teeth, shrugs, resisting the urge to wave the stinking smoke away. “Guess he pissed me off one too many times.” Breathe, he reminds himself. Relaxes his fists and folds his hands over his stomach. Nothing to hide.

“As if that’s somethin’ unusual. Bloke never shuts up. He’s a fuckin’ freak.” Mick tilts back in his chair and props a bootheel on the table. He waits a beat. Two. Roadhog lets the insult pass. Doesn’t grab his rutting dirty boot and shove him to the floor. “Why now?”

Behind his mask, Roadhog bites his lip. He’d assumed Mick’d be too sidetracked by the idea of the Queen’s reward to question the why of it. Think fast… stick close to the truth, best way to lie. “He’s sick. Makes him a liability.” He lets his own pause sit, then adds, “Makes him vulnerable.”

The silence between them stretches again. Roadhog doesn’t move, even though his whole body feels guitar-string taut and ready to snap. The hair at his nape raises, but he refuses to turn and look behind him, holding Mick’s gaze steady.

Mick blinks first. He tosses back the last finger of whiskey, grimaces, and pushes up from the table. “C’mon, then.” He doesn’t even check to make sure Roadhog follows, just heads for the back of the bar and shoves through the door.

Roadhog drops money on the table - someone’s gotta pay for the drinks - and walks after. His back prickles with stares as he passes other gamblers and barflies, none familiar. Been away too long. His boot heels thud in a room gone suddenly silent. The air is heavy with the scent of stale beer and a gathering tension. Storm brewing. He keeps walking.

The door clicks closed behind him, he catches the sound of a latch turning, headlights blink on at the end of the alley blocking any hope of exit, and it’s suddenly clear just how fucked everything is.

Shoulda known, he thinks, as a knife blade flashes under the streetlight, slicing a burning line across his side. He turns to face the threat, yanking his hook free a beat too late. A second and third figure step out of the darkness into the circle of light and a blade pierces the seam in his shoulder pads, going deep. Blood trickles, warm and wet, down his arm. His hook falls from nerveless fingers, clattering to the asphalt. Fuck. 

Shoulda listened to Rat - said it’s a bad idea; Rat who always rushes in, no matter what. Shouldn’t’ve been so damnable stubborn. He’d been sure, though, that he could still pull it off, the lies and subterfuge. The opportunity to take down another of the Queen’s henchmen was too tempting to let pass. “It’ll make you safer,” he’d told Rat. “I can handle it.” Make both of them safer, one less person knew what he’d done. Least Rat’ll relish the opportunity for an ‘I told you so’. If he’s lucky.

Drops to one knee, like maybe the scratches are more than ‘merely a flesh wound’… Junkrat loves that fucking movie… Shakes his head… focus, he can’t… focus. The edges of his vision blur, sparks dance in his eyes. Jesus, ain’t drunk more than a shot, not near enough to rattle him like this. He sucks in a breath, forcing himself back to center, back under control. His fingers close around the knife he hid in his boot and he surges back up, driving the blade deep into the chest of the first attacker, then jerking it back and whirling to meet the next. Breath wheezes in his lungs, sweat burns his eyes, reality warps and wavers. He goes down, but it takes more than three and he goes down swinging. Darkness swallows him.

A flashboom and Roadhog’s dropped unceremoniously back into consciousness. He blinks, ears ringing in the aftermath. Tries to push himself up, but can’t make his body work right yet. 

“Well well, what the fuck do we have here? Not my bodyguard trying to hog all the fun to himself? What a terrible idea.” The giggle is grating, manic. Doesn’t even need to turn his head to know - Junkrat. Relief washes through him, leaving him limp. Clouds of smoke billow from the broken windows behind Junkrat; his hair smolders and his teeth are bared in a coyote grin. 

Mick steps back, then attempts to cover his retreat with bravado. “Ain’t much of a bodyguard. He’s in the process of selling your scrawny arse out for the price of a whiskey.” 

Junkrat shrugs, steps over Roadhog with barely a glance. “Hope it was decent leastways,, not the usual rotgut this shithole serves.” He positions himself between what’s left of the Queen’s men and Roadhog, back straight and unbowed. A roughness in his voice and a sheen of sweat over his skin the only hints of illness and those could be explained away with nerves.

“Ain’t worth more’n a glass of piss.” Mick’s gaze flicks over him, assessing, then he smirks. “Looking worse than usual, Rat.” The words an insult on his lips.  “More like vermin. Didn’t think that was possible. Guess he wasn’t lying when he said you’re sick.”

Junkrat goes stiff, his fingers twitch, tap against his leg. “Been accused of a lotta shit ain’t true, one more ain’t gonna hurt.” His tone is deceptively light.

Mick’s still edging backward, toward the van blocking the mouth of the alley. “Lies or not, it’s ten of us to one of you.”

“Sounds like fair odds, ta me.” 

“We took him down,” Mick jutted his chin toward Roadhog. “Think you're gonna give us more of a fight?”

“Oh, I guaran-goddamn-tee it, mate.” He giggles again and the sound echoes off the brick walls, but then his tone goes dark. “Ain’t no one, no one, fucks with Roadhog and walks away from it.” 

“Looks like I’m walking.”

“Yeah, walking away like a fucking coward. Come on, Mick, step on up. I promise you - only one of us gon’ make it out alive and it ain’t you.” Even as he’s talking, he slips his hand into the rucksack resting against his hip. 

Maybe he should back up, Roadhog realizes as there’s the telltale scratchhiss of a lighter being flicked. He shoves himself up and back, Mick turns to run and Junkrat tosses his first bomb with a high, bright peal of laughter that sounds like glass shattering and the world explodes again.

When the smoke clears, not much left of Mick and his boys. The van’s a charred metal skeleton. Bodies not much better off. At the mouth of the alley, Junkrat’s bent nearly double, coughing hard enough to gag.

“Hey, you right?”

Somehow he manages to grate out a giggle as the paroxysm slows, and if that isn’t just like him. “Guess mighta been smart to check which way the wind’s blowing before setting shit on fire.” He wipes his eyes, then his nose, against his wrist, sniffing.  But it’s clearly too late. Doesn’t even get a full breath before a fit of sneezing sends him slamming forward again. “Huh-Issh! Issh! Issh!” He shakes his head, but his eyes are still hazy, his nostrils flaring just a bit. “Huh’IIISHuh! Fucking hell.”

“Jesus, Rat. Bless you. Gonna live?” 

“Jury’s still out.” He blinks, takes a cautious breath and seems relieved when his lungs do what they’re supposed to. Then, coming back to himself, he crosses to Roadhog and crouches next to him. “How bad?” he asks, eyeing the blood staining Roadhog’s arm and shirt. “Stitches I can do, or do we need the ambo?”

Roadhog shrugs with his good shoulder, trying not to wince. “Haven’t had a chance to look.” Haven’t been able to bring himself to look. Other people’s blood never fusses him, but there’s something about his own that makes him break out in a cold sweat.

Junkrat nods and, leaning closer, rips the shirt away from the wound. “Not too bad. I can fix it. Do a better job of cleaning when we get back.”  He pulls a small kit from the rucksack, swipes an alcohol wipe over the needle and begins to sew.

Roadhog shivers, tries to focus on the way Rat smells like a combination of cough drops and gunpowder. Not a combination most would find attractive, but Roadhog’s never considered himself one of most. He watches Rat’s expression as he examines the wounds. His gaze is intent and thoughtful. Soot dusts his cheeks, blurring his freckles. Roadie reaches up, brushes some away with his thumb and Rat’s eyes lock with his, the gold reflecting flames. 

“You came for me,” he says. “Didn’t think you would. Thought you were too…” sick, pissed off, both? 

“Course I did. Always come for you.” 

Later, he’ll blame the blood loss, the likely concussion, the possibly drugged whiskey but now he doesn’t care. He needs Rat, now. The kiss is as violent as the rest of the encounter. Their touches bruise and the edge of pain sharpens pleasure until it drives through him like a spike. Rat’s skin is hot, fevered and he keeps sniffling, rubbing his nose in the crook of Roadhog’s neck. 

“Roadie… Think I’m gonna…” his voice is rough, words interrupted by hitching breath. 

“Wait.” Command in the word and Junkrat crushes his nose against the heel of his palm, attempting to obey.

“Don’t know… if I…” his lip is slightly curled, eyelids fluttering and his breath hitches… hitches… “hih… ihhh… Ht!” He swallows the first but is quickly overwhelmed. “Ih’Rriishh!” It explodes from him. “HtCH! Ah-SHhhhuh!” The sneezes keep coming and Roadhog burns like Rat lit him aflame. 

As the flames subside to embers, Roadhog slowly becomes aware of the sound of sirens in the distance.

“Better get moving,” Junkrat says, giving him a hand up, somehow already put back together as though nothing happened.

“Thank you.”

Junkrat cocks his head quizzically.

“For…” Roadhog gestures at the alley. The destruction, the fixing. The rescue. “Everything.”

Junkrat grins. “O’ course. Need my Hoggie, don’t I? After all, who else’s gonna appreciate my mess?”

[littlekatleaf]

Be As You've Always Been

Back on my Roadrat bullshit, bitchez. (As always, I am bitchez.)

When all the worst we fear lets fall its weight When the gyre widens on a window, wave breaks ~ Hozier, Be

“It’s ridiculous,” Roadhog grumbles into his mug of coffee. His voice rasps and he clears his throat irritably. It doesn’t help, and neither does the sip he takes, as the liquid burns his throat instead of soothing the ache. Fucking cold.

Junkrat shrugs, doesn’t bother responding or even looking up from where he’s stuffing a few more grenades into his rucksack.

“It’s barely a plan. And to go off without me… no backup. It’s insane.”

“So ya keep tellin’ me,” Junkrat replies, clearly unconcerned. “Don’t know why ya think it’s gonna be different this time.”

“Guess I thought maybe you’d listen for once in your life.”

“An’ what fun would that be?” Junkrat zips the sack closed and finally looks over at him, eyes shining with that particular glint that means shit’s about to get lit. One way or another.

Roadhog sighs and relents. What else can he do? He doesn’t have the energy to try and hold Junkrat back now. It’s gone too far. As usual. If he could walk more than three meters without needing hogdrogen, if he could take a full breath without coughing hard enough to lose a lung, if he were well, he could protect Rat from the worst of the fallout. Since he can’t… “Promise you’ll comm if,” - when - “shit goes sideways.”

“Ain’t gonna go no ways other than what I want.” There’s an edge in Junkrat’s voice, the promise of violence. Then his mood shifts, mercurial as always, and he laughs. “But if it does, ‘course I will. Gotta give ya a chance to earn your keep, ya bloody bludger.”

Roadhog snorts. “Number of times I’ve saved your skinny arse more than makes up for the pittance you’ve given me.”

“Pig’s arse!” The door slams on Junkrat’s laughter, the sound trailing behind him.

Roadhog rolls his eyes - fucking terrible pun. Even so… even so he huffs half a laugh. He can never resist. All too quickly, though, silence swallows him. Usually the quiet left in Junkrat’s wake is a relief, a small island of solitude, a hint of before. Before he blew in like a cyclone and upended Roadhog’s life.

There’s no ease in it today. A hint of electricity in the air raises the hair on his arms and even from his seat at the table he can see the bank of cumulonimbus piling up in the west. His joints ache, like the fever just passed but deeper. Cold front. Like to be a storm. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes… He shakes his head, pushes himself to his feet. Not going to sit and wait for it. He turns his back to the window and begins to wash the dishes.

He’s just putting the last pans into the cabinet when the storm breaks, rain lashing against the cabin. Wind howls around the building, whining down the chimney and in the edges of the sound there’s an echo of her voice calling, calling him - “Daddy! Daddy!”

He closes his eyes for just a moment, sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly. Not going to go there this time. Not going to… He leans his forehead against the wood. Stay in this time, in this place. His hands fist at his sides, nails cutting into palms. The pain grounds. Need music. Something to drown the sound of the storm. Just as he reaches out for the vid screen lightning flashes, there’s a pop in the distance, and power cuts.

“Goddamn it,” he says out loud and the hoarseness of his voice pisses him off. Fucking fuses. Now he’s going to have to go out in the rain, when he’s sick, and fix the fuse box. Damn Junkrat anyway. He should be here taking care of it, instead of pulling some stupid asinine caper by himself like a complete idiot. And what if something happened to him? What if he’s trying to comm right now but can’t get through because the power’s out? What if he’s hurt? Or worse… and he doesn’t have anyone at his back? “Damn him.”

Feels like he’s caught in one of Junkrat’s steel traps. If he had the first clue where the Rat was, he could get on the Harley and be there and fuck the consequences, but he doesn’t so he’s stuck here. In the dark. In the silence that’s too damn loud. Completely unable to settle anywhere, he paces.

A crack splits the sky and the concussive blast that follows nearly knocks Junkrat from his foot. He staggers for a second, but even though he can’t hear himself through the ringing in his ears, he laughs. Mine might’ve exploded a fraction of a second earlier than planned, but the resulting gout of flames catches the suits even as they flee. None left to tell tales, not even the Queen’s favorite dealer. Killing him would hit her where it hurt - an unexpected bonus, on top of the bag of dosh they’d dropped when they ran. Victory’s sweet and if he’d listened to Roadhog, he’d have missed it. Gonna give him so much shit.

He shoulders the bag and winces when the strap hits a bruise on his chest. It’s possible that Roadie might - just might- have a point about taking a job alone when he’s coming down sick, though. Brain feels slow, thoughts foggy - not good for specific trajectory calculations. Mine went off a second sooner and he’d end up short another leg. He imagines himself trying to walk on two pegs and laughs again.

Ain’t gonna mention that picture to Hoggie, though. Bloke’s got no sense of humor when it comes to things like this, for some reason Rat can’t fathom. Not the worst beating he’s taken and nowhere near bad enough to disturb the Hog when he’s just getting over being sick. Not looking forward to the walk back though, way his leg’s aching and his head, too.

Instead of dwelling on that, or the annoying tickle that’s beginning to build somewhere between his sinuses and the back of his throat, Junkrat focuses on remembering the way the flames shot up and out of the mine, the way the explosion shuddered his heart in his chest.

Every now and again a breeze kicks up, swirling tiny cyclones of dry leaves and dust. He coughs, knuckles his nose, but doesn’t look up. Lost in reverie, he doesn’t notice the gathering clouds. He misses the first the rumble of thunder in the distance, the sound fits so seamlessly into his memory.  But the first drops of rain are cold enough to startle him back to himself. He rubs his hands over his bare arms and shivers. Bollocks.

A tongue of lightning licks down from the sky and the roll of thunder that follows reverberates his chest more intensely than the mine. Fuck - Roadie’s alone in the cabin. Hadn’t even thought to look at the weather before heading out. Maybe Roadhog had… maybe that’s why he was trying so hard to call off the heist. Such a fucking idiot, just like Hog always says. Junkrat ducks his head as wind whips rain against him and, ignoring the cramp in his thigh and the building congestion, he walks faster.

By the time he finally reaches the cabin, he’s completely soaked, out of breath, and shivering hard enough that his teeth chatter. Doesn’t matter though. He’s back, he’s got the money, and he fucking did it all by himself.

The wind catches the door as he opens it and slams it back against the wall with a thud. “You’re never gonna believe what happened, Roadie,” he says, sniffling a little. “The Queen’s fuckin’ dealer was there! Blew him an’ the other fuckin’ drongos sky high, before the sky opened.” He giggles, slams the door closed and drops the bag onto the floor.

Roadhog, of course, isn’t saying anything. Just standing there in the middle of the room like a statue, watching him.

“Ridiculous,” Junkrat sniffs, yanking open the zipper to show off the haul. “Who’s ridiculous now?” He rubs his nose with his wrist, but a sudden sneeze crashes over him. “Huh… R’issshew! Shit.” There’s a spatter of raindrops on the floor.

Roadhog cocks a brow.

“Don’t even… heh R’ussshew! Fucking… say… Ahshhhuh! … anything.”

“Are you finished?”

Junkrat shrugs, both because he’s not completely sure and also because it’ll irritate Roadhog.

“Do you have any fucking idea how stupid you were?” Roadhog yanks the dish towel off its hook. “It’s one thing to rob a couple of low level dipshits pushing some penny ante dope. It’s another thing entirely to go up against one of the Queen’s people, by yourself. What were you thinking?” He closes the distance between them before Junkrat can back up and starts rubbing the shit out of his hair. “I told you…”

“Don’t you come the raw prawn to me,” Junkrat interrupts. He ducks away from the towel, and pokes Roadhog in the center of the chest. “I’ve been taking care of myself for fucking twenty years, mate. Not incompetant.” “No?” Roadhog brushes his hand away, like it’s nothing. He crosses his arms and studies Rat. Carefully. Intently. Like he can see every bruise, every scratch, even in the dim light of the storm.

Junkrat sets his jaw, resists the urge to shiver as a raindrop traces a path down the back of his neck. He yanks the towel out of Roadhog’s hands and wipes his own head just as harshly. “If this is incompetence, I’m fucking fine with it,” he says. “I mean, what’s competence get you? Fuck all, that’s what. Sit around here on your fat date. How ya gonna pay for your fancy motorcycle parts? How ya gonna pay for the chemicals for your hogdrogen? Think all that shit just magically appears?”

“Junkrat…”

“So yeah, I’m a little banged up. Little sore. But so the fuck what? I got what we need and not only that, but I fuckin’ stuck it to that bitch. She ain’t gonna be quite so,” he snags a gasp on a sudden need to sneeze again. “Huh… R’issshew! Usshhew!  At’chhh!” He tries to cover but is shivering too hard to do a proper job of it. God damnit; hard to prove he’s not a mess when he keeps acting like one.

“Rat...”

He sniffles, trying to stave off another set of sneezes. Gotta get it together. “Don’t start. I’m fine. Ju…just… Hut’chhuh!  Isshh!  Huh-at’sshuh!  Just cold,” he manages to say. “Ain’t gonna cark it.”

“Jamie.”

There’s an unusual warmth in Roadie’s gravelly voice and it startles Junkrat into silence.

“Did a good job.” He wraps a blanket around Junkrat and it’s surprising enough that Rat just stands there and lets him do it. He’s still gaping when Roadie takes the towel from him and dries his hair again, but gently. “Just… shoulda been there for you.” His tone is still weird, a little shaky.

“Sound like you were the one freezing yer sack off out there,” Junkrat says. “What’s…” A flash of lighting illuminates the cabin, thunder claps simultaneously, Roadhog flinches, and Junkrat suddenly understands. “I ain’t that bad off,” he says, more quietly. “And ya said it yourself, it’s my own stupidity, rushing in when I’m a little…” He sniffs, then sneezes harshly into the blanket. “It’s not your fault.”

“Shoulda…” “Shoulda nothin’. Everything ain’t under your control, Hog. Strong as you are, can’t stop some shit from happening. Just the way of the world, fucked as it is.” Junkrat shrugs. He tugs a jacket over himself, blanket and all, and heads for the door. “I’ll have the fuse fixed in a tick an’ you can make dinner. ‘M starved.”

Roadhog lets him go back out into the storm just long enough to get the electric back up. He knows it’s Rat’s way of apologizing. And for his part, by the time Junkrat returns, he’s got the shower running hot. He scrounges up enough ingredients for a halfway decent chicken noodle soup that Junkrat appreciates, even though it’s barely better than the tinned shit his daughter loved when she was sick. For a second, he wonders whether Junkrat’d ever had someone to make him soup - back when he was always Jamie. And whether he’s thinking of them when he gazes blankly into the steam curling up from the bowl.

A silence hangs between them. Rain hammers against the roof. Thunder still rumbles, though farther away now. The room feels full of unspoken presence. The hair at his nape prickles, his shoulder muscles tighten anticipating a touch, even though Junkrat’s sitting right across from him at the table. “Rat,” he says, even though he doesn’t know exactly what he wants to ask. His voice sounds near as strangled as when he’s wearing his mask.

“Huh-isssh! Isssh!  Ah-shhuh!” Junkrat sneezes suddenly, and even though he manages to cover with the blanket he’s got draped around his shoulders again, it’s loud enough that Roadhog startles. Which, of course, cracks Junkrat up so he’s giggling even as he’s gearing up for another set of sneezes. “Jumpy,” he says, when he can finally catch his breath.

“Well you sneeze louder than the fucking storm.”

“Fair point,” Rat says and slurps the last of his soup, then yawns. “Bloody knackered.”

“It’s early yet.” Roadhog wants to unsay the words even as they leave his lips. He sounds too fucking needy and he hates it. But if Rat goes to sleep now, he’ll be alone in the silence again. He grabs the empty bowls and takes them to the sink.

Junkrat hums a considering noise. “Heard they’re streaming the mech battles tonight. Think Wrecking Ball’s gonna be fighting. Wanna watch?”

The excitement of the battle keeps Junkrat awake long enough to watch Wrecking Ball demolish the other competitors, though his cheering is somewhat muted by the hoarseness of his voice. As the night wears on, he slowly fades until he dozes off, head pillowed on Roadhog’s lap. The rhythm of his snoring is oddly comforting and Roadhog finds himself relaxing as the rain slows to a steady patter. He picks up his novel and begins to read.

Maybe he dozes too, because a whisper threads through him. Not your fault. Can’t control everything… and when he blinks, there are tears on his cheeks.

[littlekatleaf]

I fretted fire

Awake late, feeling some kinda way, so must be writing Roadrat bits. This is pre-Buried in a burning flame

It’s not tonight Where I’m set alight And I blink in sight Of your blinding light ~ Hozier, Would That I

Roadhog rests the handle of the hoe against his leg, presses his fists to the small of his back, and stretches until he’s rewarded with a cracking relief of pressure. Thank Gods, the sun’s dipping close to the horizon, last rays reddened and dulled by the dust that coats everything. Still hotter than a shearer’s armpit though it must be half eight. Been working since dawn with only an hour or so rest in the hottest part of the arvo when Junkrat brought him a pint and a sanger.

Why he’s making this effort he can’t say - land so fucked with radiation and drought nothing’ll grow beyond a bit of Kangaroo Grass and the odd Boxthorn or Eucalyptus. But Junkrat’d gotten the idea in his head that Roadhog’s farm should be a farm. Without animals (Junkrat’s efforts at cattle rustling had, so far, failed), very least they could do would be grow some vegetables. Or something. Junkrat had been so caught by the idea that he’d actually bartered seeds from Bobby, who’d managed to keep Lisa’s garden alive even without her. Must’ve been some high value scrap, too - Bobby didn’t hand seeds to just anyone.

After all that work, Roadhog couldn’t bring himself to tell Junkrat no, so here he is, sweat pooling in the waistband of his jeans and burning his eyes, too much sun stinging along his shoulders. Unreasonably pleased at the neat rows he’s sown. Grow, don’t grow, he can’t control the plants any more than he can the weather… but he’s made the attempt. Junkrat swears he can rig up some sort of irrigation contraption, but Roadhog has his doubts. More than half suspects the claim is born of wanting to avoid the physical labor of planting. Prepping the field and actually sowing the seeds isn’t exactly an afternoon’s stroll, and even less so when the surrounding air feels straight off a barbie.

Lifts a hand to shade his eyes, gazes to the horizon, as if that’ll make the wished-for clouds gather. As if the puff of breeze is anything but hot and dry. Nothing to be seen but kilometers of arid waste. Another, longer, gust of wind, just as hot, lifts the hair from the back of his neck and sends another trickle of sweat down the center of his back. Roadhog frowns. Bushfire weather. The sky looms empty and flat. No hint of relief. But no smoke neither. Reckons it’d be safe enough, for now.

Heads to the house. Needs food and a shower, not necessarily in that order. Door to Junkrat’s workroom is closed but there’s no sounds of tinkering. Figures. No way he’s got enough scrap to actually build something that works.

Roadhog keeps the shower cold and the relief as it washes over him is exquisite. Still relishing the cool drops of water as they slide from the end of his ponytail and down the back of his neck, he rummages in the refrigerator for something to cook.

“Hungry, Rat?” he calls, but there’s no answer. Could be too immersed in plans to hear. Happens like that sometimes, like he’s swallowed whole by whatever’s caught his attention. So Roadhog doesn’t bother waiting for an answer, instead browning the last of the meat. He hums as he chops a couple of rather sad looking carrots, a zucchini that’s on the edge of edible, a capsicum and a few handfuls of wilted cabbage. Garlic, ginger, soy sauce sizzle in the wok and his stomach growls. To his surprise, though, even the scent of food doesn’t bring Junkrat from his room. He frowns, but lets it go. Plates the stir fry, leaves one on the counter - reckons Rat’ll emerge sooner or later.

Takes his own meal to the porch, hopes the breeze still kicking up dust devils will offer some measure of break from the heat. It doesn't. Instead, even as he eats a tension gathers between his brows, along his shoulders, tightening his stomach. Something in the air, an odd heaviness that tastes of electricity. A memory, locked firmly away, threatens to slip free. It chases him back inside and he digs through the cabinets until he finds an old bottle of gut rot whiskey, cracks the lid and takes a long swig, straight. Makes him cough, and the knot of trepidation loosens only slightly. He takes another drink and it burns his esophagus all the way down, pooling in his belly like lava. He keeps drinking anyway, standing in the doorway, eyes trained on the horizon. Watching. Until the last lingering glow of the sun has disappeared and the bottle is empty.

Then he finds himself in front of Junkrat’s closed door. Still no sounds from inside and he raises his fist to knock. But what will he say? What can he say? It’s hot? Feels like something’s coming? He’s afraid? Jesus, even thinking it feels fucking insane. Drops his fist, turns from the door and the odd silence.

Should probably go to bed. A headache hovers at the edges of his awareness threatening hangover, and to hopefully avoid it, he fills a glass of water, finishes it, fills it again. Rubs sweat from his forehead with the back of his wrist. If he goes to bed, though, he’ll have to turn his back to the horizon. Have to close his eyes. Let the wind whine down the chimney… Can't bear it. So he paces. From kitchen to bedroom and back. Only sounds the wind and his own footsteps.

Until the work room door creaks open as he passes it for the hundredth, thousandth, some number beyond counting time. Junkrat freezes in the doorway, Roadhog in the middle of the hallway. Their gazes snag, catch.

Rat’s clutching a blanket around his shoulders, even in the heat. He tries to grin, but the expression’s a brittle and cracking thing. “Heya Hoggie,” he says, voice full of gravel and he coughs.

“...”

“Sorry didn’t give ya a hand with the planting. Been feelin’ sorta…” Sentence trails off and Rat’s gaze goes hazy before a heavy sneeze hastily muffled into the blanket rocks him forward.

“Bless,” Roadhog says but Junkrat waves it away.

“Don’t bother. Still gonna - ” he manages before ducking into the blanket as another sneeze shudders through him.

Roadhog takes a breath, but Junkrat sneezes a third time, and a fourth. Roadhog pauses, raises a brow. “...”

“Yeah, think I’m finished.”

“Bless. Forget the planting, ain’t a worry.”

Junkrat rubs his eyes. “What’re ya doin’ still awake, though? Thought sure you’d be sleepin’.”

Roadhog shrugs. The wind moans in between a window and its jamb and he shivers before he can suppress it.

Understanding dawns across Rat’s face. “Ah, it’s like that, o’ course.” Clears his throat. “C’mon. You can sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“But you’re sick,” Roadhog protests through a yawn wide enough to crack his jaws.

“An’ I been sleepin’ most of the day. Can manage for a while.”

Roadhog wants to argue, but finds himself following Junkrat to the bedroom, lying down at Rat’s urging. His eyelids are so heavy. “Rat…”

“Sleep,” Junkrat says.

Only once does Roadhog jerk awake, the scent of smoke lingering in his nostrils, the echo of her cries in his ears. He blinks, and in the deep black of night he barely makes out Junkrat’s silhouette outlined by faint moonlight, all sharp angles and scarecrow hair, perched in the window, still keeping watch.

“Ain’t nothing but a dream,” Junkrat rasps, just above a whisper.

“I heard…”

“The wind,” Rat says firmly.

They’re both silent for a while. Roadhog shifts, trying to get comfortable.

As though the confirmation that he’s still awake gives Junkrat the courage he says, “You can tell me about it, ya know.”

“...”

“Nightmares.” A long pause, then an admission, “I get ‘em too.”

“...” “One day,” Rat says. “You can tell me one day.”

Maybe he will. But for now, trusting that Junkrat will watch for spark or flame, Roadhog lets himself fall back into sleep.

[littlekatleaf]

Love's perfect ache

Well look at that, I am alive and I come bearing fic! This takes place after "Offer me my deathless death".

But my peace has always depended On all the ashes in my wake. ~ Hozier, Arsonist’s Lullaby

When Roadhog slides out from under the covers, off to do his usual early morning routine - tea, meditation, some sorta martial arts practice with Hanzo - Junkrat doesn’t complain, just rolls over, curling closer to Lúcio. Shivers a little, but Lú wraps an arm around him and he slides back down into sleep, grounded and warm.

Chills wake him the second time, shivering hard enough to rattle teeth. Sun’s higher now, though still not a reasonable time to wake. Mystery as to why both Roadie and Lú are morning people. Be funny, weren’t so annoying. Least Roadie has the sense to grumble about it until he’s caffeinated. Not Lúcio. Bright and cheerful at the asscrack of dawn as he is midday. Or midnight. Where’d he go, anyway? Junkrat pries his eyes open, blinking against a rising need to sneeze and catches sight of Lúcio picking his shorts up off the floor. “Oi Lú, ya ain’t need to clean up after me,” he blurts, but too late.

The necklace, forgotten until just this second, slides from his pocket and onto the floor where it lays, glittering. Lúcio frowns, scoops it up. Silent as Roadie. Not like his usual self.

“I can explain.” Maybe starting to talk’ll jumpstart his brain because at the moment it’s empty and dry as the middle of the Outback. “Found it during your set last night. Just walkin’ through the crowd an’ accidentally bumped into this sheila when I sneezed. She dropped it an’ before I could catch her attention to give it back she disappeared. Ain’t no way to find out who she was.”

“She dropped it.”

Junkrat shrugs. “Guess I surprised her.” Staying closer to truth needs less creativity. Still feeling fuzzy headed.

“Really.”

“Would I lie to ya?”

“I didn’t think so.” There’s an odd note in Lúcio’s voice. He doesn’t meet Junkrat’s eyes as he drops the necklace into his hand.

Makes a sickness rise in Junkrat’s stomach that has nothing to do with the cold. Doesn’t even want the damn thing anymore. Seemed like such a good idea at the time. “All right, fine. I took it. What ya lookin’ like that for though, mate? Reckon ya know what I do. No need to be a fuckin’ prig about it.”

“I thought I knew what you did, Junkrat.” Lúcio’s still quiet. Too quiet. Junkrat prefers yellin’ and cussin’ - get it all out and over with.

“Look, ain’t like the loss is gonna hurt her. Stupid rich cunt. Reckon she got plenty more where that came from.” Clenches his fingers so tight around the fucking necklace that the stones cut into his skin. Keeps feeling like he’s gonna sneeze, and it’s got him off his game.

Lúcio shakes his head. He's gathering up his stuff - more than just the clothes he’d shed the night before. Headphones, holopad, handheld game, toothbrush. A mug. A buddha. Everything he’d brought to their room.

“Come on, what d’ya want me to do? Turn myself in? Throw myself on Morrison’s mercy?” Even as he’s trying to keep his tone arch, a pit is widening in his stomach. Gotta be something he can say, something he can do to make this right. Throat’s dry and aching and he coughs a little to clear it. Doesn’t help, still tight.

Lúcio doesn’t even look up from his backpack. Just slides in his notebook and a scarf Roadhog made him.

“Come on, Lú. She’s some suit, not even anyone we know. Ain’t no love lost between you and the suits. You really telling me ya give a flying fuck about one tiny necklace, after all the shit they done?”

Lúcio shoulders the backpack and gives Junkrat a long measuring look.

His gaze is so piercing that Rat squirms under the scrutiny. Luckily the feathery tickle that’s been bothering him suddenly spikes into a need. Almost grins but catches himself in time. He wrenches forward with a sneeze, quickly followed by two more. “Huh Iiiishew! Tsh! Isshew! Ugh. Sorry, I…”

Lúcio cuts off the apology. “Save it. I can't believe you’d use that against me. That’s a low move, even for you.”

“Wait, what?” The words hit like a fist to the stomach. Hurts enough that he actually folds his arms over his middle. He blinks, confused at the unexpected attack. “What do you mean, even for me?”

“You fight dirty, Junkrat.” Lúcio sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look. I knew what you and Roadhog did before you joined Overwatch. I’m not naive.”

“Might beg to differ,” Junkrat mumbles, unable to help himself.

Lúcio doesn’t even bother to acknowledge the interruption. “I just thought you’d changed. Thought… I don’t know… maybe that being around us, getting to know who we are and what we stand for… I guess I hoped that you’d actually changed. Guess you were just using us to stay out of prison. Mei warned me, but I assumed she was being cynical.”

Junkrat opens his mouth to argue but before he can even get a word out, he sneezes. Hadn’t even felt it coming. The usual triplicate. “Heh-Iiishh! Issh! T’issh!” Just finishes one set when another hits. “Heh T’chew! Ishh! Ah-Rrishh!” Only gets a breath or two before another washes over him. “Hih… uh’shhh! Isshew! Huh-Ashhhuh!” Rubs his nose. “Jesus, that coulda killed…” looks up over his sleeve; realizes he’s alone. “Me,” he finishes in a mutter. Lúcio’d gone somewhere in the middle of the sneezing and Junkrat hadn’t even heard the door close. Well fuck.

He should follow, confront Lúcio. Have a proper row instead of this… whatever this is. But he’s tired, still. Not sure where Lú’s gone and the thought of having to traipse all over the fucking Watchpoint to find him feels like too much work. Considers searching out coffee, breakfast, something to soothe the edgy sensation making him want to climb out of his skin. Instead he ends up sitting on the sofa, just sorta staring aimlessly at the spot where Lúcio usually kept his Buddha.

Doesn’t know how much time passes before the door creaks open and Roadhog steps in.

“You’d better fucking apologize to Lúcio, Rat.” He’s got his arms crossed over his chest, doing his best enforcer impression.

“Not so much as a ‘good mornin’, how ya feelin’?” Junkrat snaps back.

Roadhog shrugs, clearly unconcerned. “Afternoon now, and you sound like shit, so you probably feel like shit. Doesn’t make any difference.”

“You’re my bodyguard. Why’s he got you in here fighting his battles for him?” The edge of his own tone pisses him off more. “What, exactly, deserves an apology anyway? So I stole one single, solitary fuckin’ necklace, ain’t from no one he knows, ain’t none of his business.”

Roadhog just stares at him, with his fucking blank-faced mask. Times like these Junkrat wants to rip the leather from his face. Instead he clenches his fists in his pockets.

“Ain’t the necklace,” Roadhog says finally. “You tried to turn him on to get out of an argument.”

“Fuckin’ well didn’t,” Rat protests. “That’s what he thinks of me? That’s what you think of me?” Both of them. Both of them think he’s fucking selfish, that he’d use anything to his advantage, even if it hurt someone else. The understanding is worse than the headache pounding his temples. Worse than the fact that Lúcio left in the first place.

Roadhog’s still stone. And Junkrat’s nose is tickling. Because of course it is. Scrubs at it with rough knuckles, but instead of backing off like it did the night before, it just increased the intensity of the sensation. Ducks away from Roadhog, tries to hide the sneezes in the collar of his shirt.

It’s another interminable round of sneezing. When he finally catches his breath, realizes Roadhog is right in front of him. Feels Roadie’s frown, even behind the mask. Suddenly he reaches out and presses a hand to Junkrat’s forehead.

Huffs a small surprised breath. “Got a fever.”

Junkrat’s turn to shrug. “Told ya last night I was gettin’ sick.”

“Thought you were… exaggerating for effect.” Roadhog has the grace to sound contrite.

“A little, maybe.” Junkrat coughs.

“Not much, apparently.” Roadhog sighs, sits next to him and puts an arm around his shoulders, drawing him close.

Junkrat leans into his warmth, his solidity. “Didn’t want to piss him off,” he says. “Just took the necklace without thinkin’. An’ maybe I was trying to get out of trouble - don’t like to have him mad at me.”

“Not the one who needs your apology, Rat. He’s in his room.” Roadhog squeezes his shoulders once, presses a kiss to the top of his head and stands up.

Junkrat sighs and looks wistfully at the bed. Absolutely bloody knackered, but knows he won’t be able to sleep with Lúcio angry. With one last longing sigh, he heads across the Watchpoint to find Lúcio.

At first there’s no response to his knock. The ache in his stomach’s back, and he clears his throat nervously. Pitches his voice loud enough to carry through the door, but hopefully not loud enough for Mei to hear him. “Oi, Lúcio? Open up, mate.”

Still nothing. Jesus, had he really fucked it up this badly, that he won’t even answer the door? Knocks again, louder. “Come on, Lú, least let me apologize.” Shoulda brought tissues, he realizes as his nose runs. He sniffles, and as he does the door finally slides back.

To Rat’s surprise, Lúcio can pull off a look almost as forbidding as Roadhog. Might be a good bit shorter, and half Roadie’s weight, but he’s channeling the largeness of his stage presence and it sends Rat back a step.

“What do you want?” No welcome in his voice or his posture. He stands in the center of the doorway and crosses his arms.

“Said I wanted to apologize,” Junkrat says, biting off the words. Then reconsiders. “Wait, no. Ain’t how I mean it.” He tries to collect his thoughts, to say the right thing for once. “I am sorry, Lú. For stealin’ the necklace. An’ for tryin’ to take advantage of a situation…” to his utter dismay he realizes he needs to sneeze again. This time he’s got enough advanced warning to actually step back away from the doorway and turn fully away.

Starts slow, just a weirdly spaced out triple. “Huhtshh!... Tssh!.. Huh… ihhh... Tshhhuh!” They do nothing to clear the tickle, he just keeps sneezing. He loses count after nine and by the end of it his throat’s gone raw.

“Saúde, Rat, Jesus. You okay?” Lúcio’s resting a hand in the center of his back, warmth radiates out from the touch, and it steadies him. Luckily Lúcio’s also more prepared, passing tissues over his shoulder.

Junkrat blows his nose, tries to clean up a bit. “Been better. Really am crook. Ain’t makin’ that up.”

Lúcio pulls him into a hug. “Yeah, no shit. I’m sorry for saying that, I know you wouldn’t. I was just so pissed. Come on, come inside. I felt like I got hit by a truck when I was down with the cold.” Draws him into the room. The lights are dimmed, soft music playing, and when Lúcio urges him to lay down in his bed he has to resist the urge to immediately curl up and sleep.

To his surprise, Lúcio lays next to him. They both stare at the ceiling, rather than at each other.

“You lied to me, Junkrat,” Lúcio says quietly. His voice is firm. Won’t take no shit.

“I didn’t…”

“You said she dropped the necklace.”

Fuck. He did. “Just… didn’t want ya lookin’ at me like that. Like you was disappointed in me. Like you was judging me. For takin’ something from a suit. A suit who has more than enough and…” “You have more than enough now, don’t you?”

The question stops him cold.

“You work for Overwatch, you get paid, you get room and board. You aren’t in Junkertown. You aren’t alone. You don’t have to do that anymore.”

For a minute wishes he’d sneeze again, just to have something to break the silence. “And when Overwatch is done with me,” he asks, just above a whisper, “what then?”

Lúcio pauses before he answers. “That’s up to you, isn’t it? Up to you how much you change, and how real that change is.”

[littlekatleaf]

The shape that I'm in now

(It's 1 am, I must be posting Roadrat snz fic. This takes place in the same 'verse as 'Buried in a burning flame' and 'My heart as spent as ashes, but takes place before them. Not that it's necessary for the story, just to orient.)

Whatever here that’s left of me Is yours just as it was ~ Hozier, As It Was

Junkrat rolled over, trying to ease the ache in his hip, but it didn’t help. Sheets scratchy on oversensitive skin. Eyes hot, dryer than the fuckin’ desert, nose running like to make up for it. Flipped the pillow, but both sides were already too warm. Everything hurt, from toenails to eyelids. Even his fucking missing limbs hurt, however the hell that worked. What sucked the most, though was the silence. It pulsed against his eardrums, buzzed in his head.

Had told Roadhog to go. No choice about it. Bones’d been aching with impending fever, head felt packed with sand. Knew what was coming and didn’t want Roadhog to see. Didn’t want to be seen. Not when felt like his skin was peeled back, leaving all of his quivering insides bare. Being sick was being vulnerable. In Junkertown being vulnerable meant you was good as dead.

Felt Roadhog watching him from the first handful of sneezes. “Nobody fuckin’ cleans this shithole,” Junkrat had grumbled, trying to play it off. Roadhog said nothing.

Didn’t say a word when Junkrat blamed the spices in the stir fry for the second fit.

Unfortunately the third handful of sneezes seemed to have blown all thoughts from his brain and he was still trying to recover when Roadhog asked, “All right, Rat?”

“‘M fine. If you want to get in my pants just say so.” Might have intended it to sound flirty but it came off pissy.

Roadhog crossed his arms over his chest. “Ain’t like that. You just look…” “Ain’t neither of us winning a beauty pageant, Hog. Mind your business.” Least that time sounded like maybe he could be joking, even with the edge in his voice.

Tried to bite the sneezes back after that. Pinch them off. Smother them in his sleeve. But every single time he felt Roadhog’s eyes on him, watching. Made the hairs raise at his nape and finally he snapped, shouting at Roadhog to get the fuck out and leave him alone.

Roadie had, and he was fine with it. Just perfectly fuckin’ apples, mate. Went to bed, tried to sleep it off. But couldn’t. Now he tossed back the sheets, pushed himself up, buckled on his prosthetics. Make himself tea. Caffeine might dull the headache. Heat’d feel good on his throat.

You wanted to be by yourself... teasing whisper of her voice through the buzzing. You told him to go. You should be happy - here all alone with your disease. Could practically feel her breath at his ear and he swayed for a minute, dizzy. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near you.

“Shows what you know. Roadhog likes it when I sneeze.” Hated how defensive it sounded. Proof that he was only good for one thing.

Perhaps, but this is beyond even his depravity. Look at yourself, Jamison.

Without really meaning to, his gaze flicked over to the mirror that hung above the washbasin, then away again. Not before he’d seen himself though - scarecrow hair, singed in more places than he’d realized, skin and bones, dark circles around his eyes, nose red, lips cracked from breathing through his mouth. Expression going blank as the need to sneeze came over him. “Huh-R’iiishh! Isshew! R’iishew!” Managed to catch them in a tissue at the last minute, but it was a close thing.

Disgusting. And weak. I absolutely cannot fathom why he has not left you behind yet. Ill so often. Missing half your limbs. In need of protection. What kind of man are you?

“Shut it,” he said. Much as hated to admit it, she was right. Knew full well all the ways he was lacking. Rubbed his dripping nose on a handful of tissues.

Perhaps he just enjoys toying with you. Drawing things out before he takes your treasure and returns to the Queen. Her tone is a purr. A predator does love to tease its prey.

“Roadhog ain’t the Queen’s. Not anymore.”

No? He told you that, did he?

“Yes.” Sort of. What had Roadhog said when they met? Freelance? What did that mean? He wouldn’t… would he? If he got pissed off enough? If Junkrat was enough of a pain in the ass? A sudden chill whipped through him and he shivered. Grabbed a windcheater off the hook on the back of the door and yanked it over his head. Roadie’s, he realized as the soft cotton engulfed him. At least he was warm. Tugged the hood up over his head. Maybe that would block out her voice.

Pathetic… The whisper echoed in his ears, then faded - taking his energy with it. Giving up on the tea plan he curled up in a corner of the couch. Pulled in his knees, tugged the windcheater down over him and tried to disappear. Just needed to get smaller. Smaller.

A sneeze jag shook him awake. Took him a second to catch his breath and open his eyes. There was Roadie, holding out a tissue. Didn’t want to take it, but the alternative was worse. And messier. “Thanks,” he said, stuffiness blurring the consonants. Blowing his nose helped, but only a little.

Roadhog didn’t say anything, just turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. Kettle rattled, water hit the basin. Click snap of the flame catching on the stove. Clink of spoon against mug.

Apologize, Jamison. Unless you want to test his patience even further.

Don’t need your input, he said, but only in his head. Always weirded Roadhog out when he answered aloud. Cleared his throat, attempted to pitch his voice loud enough to carry, even though felt like he’d been swallowing sandpaper in his sleep. “Oi, Roadie?”

Nothing. Sighing to himself, Junkrat untangled his limbs, ignoring the shivering. Maybe Roadhog wouldn’t notice. Managed to reach the kitchen this time. Roadhog’s back was turned, head slightly bent over whatever he was doing.

Rat hesitated in the doorway. While his mouth usually moved faster than his brain, at the moment neither seemed to be online. He leaned against the jamb, waiting for inspiration to strike. Instead he sneezed, catching them in his sleeve, then coughing after. “Ugh, fuck. I’ll wash this I swear.”

“...” The skepticism was clear even without words.

“Ain’t gonna forget this time.”

“...”

Junkrat coughed a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right I probably will.” Rubbed the back of his neck where it ached. “Roadie, I’m…” sorry he was going to say but Roadhog turned, offering a steaming mug.

“I know. Drink.”

Couldn’t smell anything through his clogged nose so he sipped warily. Then sighed, relief and gratitude. “Where the hell’d you find Lemsip?”

“Bobby had some.”

“An’ he just gave it to you?” Meds were hard to come by, even stupid shit like cold medicine.

Roadhog shrugged. “He owed me somewhat.”

The steam made his nose run and tickle and he sniffled a little. Which only served to trigger another round of sneezes and he slopped hot liquid over his hand. “Ow, god fucking dammit.”

“Here, let me…” Roadhog reached for his hand, but he stepped back.

“No, it’s fine.”

“Rat. I said let me.”

The darkness of his tone sent a shiver down Rat’s spine. The command in it was as unmistakable as the warmth. Junkrat stopped, pinned, barely breathing. Roadhog wiped his hand, carefully, like the burn could have been serious. Then he laid a palm over Rat’s forehead, fingers pleasantly cool. Junkrat leaned into the touch.

“Really got a fever, don’t you.”

It wasn’t a question, exactly but Junkrat nodded anyway. “Feelin’ shit, to be honest.” A hot flush chased the chills. Had to tell Roadie the truth, but didn’t make it any easier.

“You hurting?”

Rat shrugged, nodded again.

“Come on,” Roadhog put an arm around him, led him back into the bedroom. “Lie down.”

“Ain’t tired,” he tried. Not quite enough energy to be a proper brat.

“Not planning on sleep. Lie down.”

Junkrat did as he was told, but closed his eyes as the bed dipped and Roadhog sat down beside him. With gentle fingers he disconnected Junkrat’s prosthetics and set them aside. Even though he’d only been wearing them a short time, they’d already rubbed sore spots on his skin. Roadhog knew to avoid those places as he began to massage the muscles in Rat’s forearm, kneading until the knots loosened, then moved on to Rat’s thigh.

As the tension drained away, Rat sighed so deep was almost a groan. “God, that’s good.” Roadhog let go of him, but didn’t move away. There was the soft sound of a jar being opened and a teasing scent of menthol that Rat could smell even through the congestion. Vicks, of course. “For the cough,” he asked, smirking.

“It’ll help,” Roadhog said, but this time Rat knew it was a question. Making sure he was okay with it.

“It will,” Rat agreed. Put him back on easier footing. Hog gave him a little care, he’d get Hog off. Fair and square.

Roadie slid his hands up under the windcheater and goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch. Junkrat’s back arched, “Oh,” he breathed. “It’s so… Itchew! Huh-Itchh! Itchhuh!” Luckily he’d pulled the sleeves over his hand because he covered just with his hand before realizing.

“Bless you,” Roadhog said, without pausing from the massage.

“Th...thank y-Ihchuuh! Ah’tchh! Chh!” The sensations together were almost overwhelming. Felt like he was tingling along every nerve, shivering with both chills and desire, surprised to find himself going hard, even as he kept sneezing.

“You blushing, or is that the fever?” Roadhog’s voice a rumble in his ear and even that made a shudder run through him.

“Both,” he sighed. Nothing he could do about it, body betraying him with every sneeze.

Roadie chuckles. “You do that so well.”

“Wh… Huhitch!... Itch! Ishhew! … what?"

“Lose control.” An answer but also a command as he tugged Rat’s boxers down and slid inside, surprisingly gently.

“Oh…” Words gone. Thoughts gone. Only feeling left. Heat, fever, want, like fire in his blood. Waves of trembling over him. Hog deep inside, moving with a gentle but implacable rhythm, driving him higher, stoking the flames. He clenched his mech hand in the sheets, clung to Hog with his flesh hand, fingers tightening convulsively. And as the flames built so, too, did the need to sneeze. Little panting breath, interrupted by sniffles and teasing hitches.

“Lose it, Rat,” Roadhog said.

“Ah’Rrrishhah! Ushhew! Isshah!” The flames engulfed him, he shook with release. For a long, long moment he could only blink blearily at the ceiling, utterly spent. “Holy shit,” he managed, finally.

At some point Roadie’d gotten a cool washcloth and he wiped it carefully over Rat, washing away sweat and the vaporub. Just when the cold was about to set him shivering, Roadhog pulled a blanket over him, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You did good, Rat.”

A burst of warmth flowered in his chest and tears sprang up. Rat blinked them back, scrubbed his face with his hand. “‘M a fucking mess,” he said.

“...”

“I mean, sure we have fun. But look at me.” Waved a hand over himself. “Missing a piece or two. Fuckin’ sick all the time. Maybe we should just… go our own ways.”

“...”

“Got enough of a haul to make up for the fight in the bar. Enough to make this bodyguard gig thing worthwhile. We should maybe quit while we’re ahead.” Before you get tired of me, he didn’t say, but it was there on his tongue.

“Rat.” Clink of buckles as Roadhog took off his mask.

Junkrat resisted the urge to look at him. Didn’t want to read the truth of his feelings in his eyes.

“Look at me.”

He does, for a second, then away again.

“You see the scars. All of them. You think they make me ugly?”

“No!” Surprise had him actually meeting Roadhog’s gaze. Caught, he couldn't look away. “Just part of who ya are.” He reached up and traced one from the corner of Roadie’s eye, curving down and along his jaw. No, the scars had surprised him at first, but never bothered him.

“Need the hogdrogen. The mask. So I’m weak?”

“Course not.” First person to mistake Hog for weak wouldn’t live to regret it.

“This place tried to kill us. In so many ways. But it fucking hasn’t. Don’t let it win, Jamie. Don’t let it.”

Junkrat swallowed hard. Nobody called him that, not for years and years. “I won’t,” he said.

Roadhog lay next to him and Junkrat curled into him. Roadhog pulled him closer, carded his fingers through Rat’s hair. “Sleep, Jamie.”

I’m yours, he thought as he drifted away. Whatever’s left of me.

[littlekatleaf]

Posting random Roadrat bits at 12am, why not? Sleep is for the weak. A response to @airborneglitter's recent prompt about someone who usually has a tiny sneeze.

Even before Roadhog opens his eyes he can feel the ominous pressure in his sinuses and behind his eyes, the raw burn at the back of his throat. Of course he’s getting sick, after the unexpected plunge into the icy river in the middle of the training exercises at Volskaya yesterday. Lúcio clearly felt terrible for the misplaced boop, so of course Roadhog had brushed the whole thing off, told him it’s fine, not to worry. Unfortunately, seems like his body didn’t listen. Fuck. He shivers a little, but Junkrat’s warm against his back, breathing soft and even. Clearly it’s too early even for Rat to be awake. Maybe a little more sleep will get rid of whatever this is.

He’s just about to drift off when his nose is suffused with a tickle so intensely sharp that it makes his eyes water. What the fuck? Barely has time to finish the thought when a sneeze wrenches him forward. “Ah’Tchoo!” He jerks, the bed jerks, Junkrat jerks straight up, eyes wide. But he’s got no chance to apologize because another sneeze crashes over him. “Ah’Tchhoo!”

“Jeezus H. tap dancing Christ, Hog. I nearly pissed myself. What in the name of fuck was that?”

Roadhog glares, best he can through watery eyes and a tickle that still hasn’t completely let up. “Pretty sure you’ve heard a sneeze before.”

Junkrat shakes his head, but is clearly biting his cheek to keep from laughing. “Not like that. Not from you.”

“Fuck off.” His cheeks are hot, even if the rest of him is cold, so he’s pretty sure he���s fucking blushing.

“Well bless ya, Hoggie.” Rat pats his arm, undaunted laughter bright in his tone. “Just maybe some warning next time?”

“Try my best,” he says. But to his utter annoyance, he discovers it's easier said than done.

The next time it happens, the sensation wakes him out of a dead sleep. “Ah’TCHOO! TCHOO!” Catches them in a tissue he’s grabbed just in time, but it does nothing to muffle the ungodly loud sound.

“Bless ya. Damn Roadie, since when do you sneeze like that?” Junkrat glances over from the couch, where he’s playing a game of solitaire, cards spread on the coffee table in front of him.

“No fucking idea.” No matter how much he hates the tiny sneezes he usually has, this is worse.

“Ya sound like me.” Junkrat lays down a card, pauses, looks thoughtful. “Maybe I sneeze like you now?”

“Don’t think that’s how it works.”

“Never know.”

The third time it happens Roadhog thinks maybe he gives himself a heart attack. He’s managed to get out of bed, but not moved past the couch. He’s sipping a mug of coffee, wishing his whole head didn’t feel packed with concrete and wondering whether he might be able to go back to bed without Junkrat commentary. As if Junkrat could let anything go by without commentary. But at the moment Rat’s engrossed in tinkering something on his workbench, so maybe he can.

Roadhog puts the empty mug on the table and stands, but hasn’t even taken two steps when the need to sneeze spikes directly through the center of his head. Shit - scaring Rat while he’s working isn’t exactly the safest prospect but it’s too late. He raises the pachimari blanket he’s got wrapped around himself to try and smother the sound. “Ah’TCHOO! TCHOO!” It doesn’t work. The sneezes bend him practically double and scrape his throat.

There’s a clatter as Junkrat drops a screwdriver. He blows out a breath, then sets a mine carefully onto the table. “Lord a’ mercy. Bless ya. Reckon I’d better work on that another time,” he says.

“Reckon you had,” Roadhog agrees.

The fourth time it happens, he starts to worry that this is just the way he sneezes now. He’s given up on sleeping, given up on reading, given up on knitting. Mostly he’s just sitting in a bit of a daze, listening to Junkrat prattle on about something. Doesn’t even really remember where the story started. Or have the first clue where it might be going. Fortunately Rat doesn’t seem to mind, just rambles on as he stirs a pot of soup, which he actually seems to be cooking without setting anything on fire.

Roadhog manages only one word of warning as the all encompassing tickle floods over him. “Gonna... Ah’TCHOO! TCHOO!” He groans, blows his nose. “This fucking sucks.” The words rasp even more than usual. He clears his throat, but it doesn’t help.

“Jesus, bless ya.” Junkrat frowns a little. “You all right? Sounds like maybe that hurt.”

Roadhog shrugs. “Been better.”

Junkrat crosses the room, presses his hand to Roadhog’s forehead, then his cheek, then the side of his neck. “Feels like ya got a fever. C’mon Hoggie. Lay down and rest.” He tugs the blanket up practically to Roadhog’s chin. Makes him feel unexpectedly comforted. “Soup’ll be ready in a tick. Then we can watch whatever ya want until ya fall asleep. Yeah, even the pachimari movie. Again.”

[littlekatleaf]

Offer me my deathless death

This took me way longer to write than I expected - but it also wouldn't leave me alone. Had to finish before getting back to "My heart as spent as ashes". This takes place in the same universe as "Be still my indelible friend".

The only Heaven I'll be sent to Is when I'm alone with you I was born sick, but I love it Command me to be well Amen, Amen, Amen ~ Hozier, Take Me to Church

“Lúcio wants us to go where,” Roadhog asks without looking up from his knitting. Not that Junkrat minds - knows well how focused he can be, and just as well how to capture his attention, when necessary.

“A Cosmic Mass.”

Roadhog frowns and his gaze is still on the yarn. “The fuck is that?”

A little more blunt than Junkrat’s own question (tries to be on his best behavior with Lúcio, generally speaking) but idea’s the same. “Apparently it’s like a rave, but with some sorta spiritual shit mixed in. He’s DJing a set at the end of the night.”

“He really wants us to be there?” Roadhog actually sounds wistful. He’s got his mask off, feet up, cup of tea on the table beside him, and before Junkrat’s interruption he’d been listening to some overly relaxing music. Makes Rat want to laugh. As if sitting around like an old cunt would be better than a party.

“Ain’t got no one else, with Hana away. Can you imagine Morrison trying to fit in at a rave?” Suddenly imagining the commander in makeup and neon rave gear, Junkrat bursts into laughter. Takes a minute to collect himself, as Roadhog attempts to ignore him. “Ah come on, Roadie, it’ll be fun.”

“...” Doubt clear in the stubborn set of his body.

Junkrat crosses the room, drapes himself over the back of Roadie’s chair, lets his voice go low, teasing, and speaks right in his ear. “There’s incense, to make it seem proper church.” Roadhog stills, like he’s been frozen. Not even sure he’s breathing. Junkrat grins, showing teeth. Ups the ante. “An’ I been feeling a little sniffly. Little sneezy. Maybe coming down sick.”

“You don’t play fair,” Roadhog grumbles and Rat knows he’s won.

“Not if I can help it,” Junkrat agrees, nuzzles against Roadie’s neck for an instant, then pushes himself off to find something to wear.

By the time they find the open space preserve Lúcio’d described, the sun disappeared behind the surrounding hills. Long shadows fall across the path, but the way is lit by luminarias’ glowing circles. The air is cool, crisp with the scent of bay and laurel. In the distance there’s the thump of bass, like a heartbeat. They follow the trail of candles through the forest, across a wooden bridge and up, up into the hills that rise gently, steadily, around switch-backs and through groves of oak and pine and the music grows louder, more insistent, until they crest the hill. Something’s making Junkrat’s nose run. Maybe the cool air. Maybe the joint they’re passing back and forth. Maybe he actually is coming down sick. Doesn’t matter. Sniffs once, then again.

Roadhog’s given up on the grumbling. Rat feels his attention laser-focused. Glances at him sidelong. Behind the smoked lenses Roadhog’s eyes burn, raking over him so intently that it feels like physical touch. His body goes loose and easy, imagining those hands on him, strong. Someone walks by, swinging a gold filigreed container that wafts smoke from its numerous tiny star-shaped holes. Breathes deep the spicy, sweet scent of incense and smiles through the rising wave of desire.

Feels like each tendril of smoke drifts directly to a point somewhere in the center of his nose and stays. “Fuh… fucking allergies,” he manages to say and then the wave is crashing over him and pulling him down. At the last minute he ducks to the side, away from Roadie, because he’s a shit and knows it’ll tease. “Hih-k’tchh! It’chh! Chh!” Drags in a breath, but only manages to stifle two of the next three. “Ah-R’iissshuh!” The last bursts from him loud enough that people around them glance over. Tries to look contrite. “Pardon,” he says.

“Saúde! I knew that had to be you, Junkrat.” Lúcio appears from the crowd, slings an arm around Rat’s shoulders.

Junkrat raises a brow. “How d’ya mean?”

“Uh, what I mean is,” Lúcio clears his throat, a brief flicker of embarrassment crossing his face. “Like, you’re…”

Junkrat laughs, passes him the joint, lets him off the hook. “Not exactly inconspicuous, are we?” He gestures to the crowd, mostly older, mostly hippie throwbacks. Even though he and Roadie’d left the armor and rip tire at the base, they don’t exactly look like many of the others. Not to mention Roadhog is a good foot taller than anyone else.

“Not exactly.” Lúcio’s answering grin is a little lopsided and it catches Junkrat’s interest. What had Lúcio noticed about him? Had a sneaking suspicion, though it was something he expected of Hog, not Lúcio. Have to test the situation, because if he’s right… well, the evening might be even more entertaining than he’s been hoping.

Lets Lúcio draw him through the crowd, arm still around his shoulders. Roadhog walks, solid and protecting, at his other side and the focused attention between the two of them make Junkrat’s skin feel electric, tiny sparks lighting up his synapses. Bass is still throbbing off to one side. Nose tickling in that odd, feathery way. Just enough to keep him sniffing but not enough for actual sneezes. All of the stimulation swirls together until it all fizzes through him like a shaken beer. Wishes vaguely that he’d brought even one grenade. Just something small. Release a little pent up energy.

Lúcio’s explaining the way the Mass goes, the set he’s going to play, talking just a little too fast, little too bright, not quite meeting either Junkrat’s eyes, or Roadie’s. Junkrat’s trying to pay attention but keeps being sidetracked by the tension under the words. An odd edge. Makes him feel like he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin. Finally, Lúcio’s obvious discomfort urges Junkrat to give him some shit.

Bumps his hip against Lúcio’s, lightly. “Never took ya for a God-type.”

Lúcio shrugs, gaze sliding away to the people they’re passing. “A gig’s a gig,” he says. “Come on, mate. Ain’t no need to be that way about it. Not criticizing ya, just curious.” Curious, wanting to get beneath the surface, to figure out what makes Lú tick. Always gotta figure how things work, how they’re wired. Bombs. People. Different types of explosions, but equally thrilling. So, if they’re gonna be more than… if they’re gonna be more, he needs to figure Lúcio. “This ain’t just a rave to you, is it?” Considers. There’s an energy to the night, a frisson that he can almost taste.

After a surprisingly long pause, Lúcio meets his eyes, straight on. “You really want to know?”

“Course. I want to know you, Lú.” Means know in all the flavors of the word, Junkrat realizes.

Lúcio sighs, tips his face to the sky and takes a hit off the joint. Holds the smoke for a few beats. Exhales. Directs his words to the stars. “Sometimes when I play? The music is... different. Sometimes it’s a bridge, a web. Starts with the beat. The drums, the bass. They come in a wave. Break over me. Flow through me. Like I’m a conduit. If I can hold the connection, it flows into the audience and we’re all connected. More than the sum of our parts. When that happens, the power in it…” Lúcio closes his eyes. “Like sticking your finger into an electric socket. The first time it happened, in one of the clubs in Rio, I think I was high for a week.” Lúcio frowns, opens his eyes. “Then, once in a while… even more rarely… you can shape that energy, turn it to a new thing. Revolution.” He blinks, coming back to himself. “Words don’t really encompass...”

For the first time, Junkrat begins to understand the connection between Lúcio’s music and his role in the uprising of the favelas. Even so, he isn’t sure what to do with the knowledge, so he makes a joke. “Expect you’ll be providing the experience, then.”

“Always do my best. But,” Lúcio fixes Junkrat with an unusually intense gaze. “If you keep yourself separate, you won’t feel it. It’s a mutual thing.”

“Meant ya need to hand over the joint, mate.” Holds out his hand for it, bites his tongue on a laugh.

Roadhog cuffs the back of Rat’s head, growls,“Don’t tease him. He’s tighter than a nun’s arsehole.”

The blow, though light, is enough to snap Junkrat back to serious. Lúcio shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny and hands him the joint.

“Ya are,” Junkrat says thoughtfully. Lúcio’s never tense about a gig - performing natural as breathing for him. And the joint’s done nothing for the tension in Lúcio’s jaw, his shoulders. “Relax, mate,” he murmurs, leans forward and kisses Lúcio full on the lips. Smells of patchouli and weed and Junkrat pulls him closer, deepening the kiss and the tension hums between them. Different than Roadie, Lúcio is lithe and wiry. Dancer’s body. Tastes of clove, of cinnamon, sweet and hot. Desire pulses with the bass as heat rises in the slight breath of air between them.

Only for a second, before Junkrat’s nose is tickling again and he’s forced to step back. Through eyes that keep fluttering toward closed can see Lúcio’s expression of confused dismay. Holds up a finger - wait, he wants to say. Can’t. Needs to sneeze; the feeling’s just right there, lingering. Insubstantial but insistent. The tension between the desire and the action is unexpectedly pleasurable. Wanting in more places than one. Feeling Roadie staring. Breathes slow, careful, until the need suddenly spikes and he wrenches forward.

“Huh’issshew!!... Iishh! Heh…” The third one disappears, leaving him a little off balance. “Ugh, definitely coming down sick. Sneezes only stick like that when ’m getting the wog.” But even as he’s complaining, he smirks, rewarded by the flush coloring Roadhog’s neck, the way Lúcio fidgets, both trying not to seem to be staring but also darting glances at him as he rubs his nose against another rising tickle.

“Shouldn’t be smoking, Rat.” The slightly strangled tone of Roadie’s voice makes it obvious- only saying it because he feels a little guilty for enjoying. Which he shouldn’t, because Rat wants him to enjoy.

Junkrat lifts his chin in challenge. “Ain’t my daddy, Hog.” Sucks in a long hit off the joint, holding Roadhog’s gaze.

Lúcio snorts and swipes the joint from Junkrat, breaking the tension. “He’s right, though.”

“Oi, ain’t no excuse for stealing. We’re supposed to be the villains. You’re supposed to be th… the… ” Resurgence of the feathery itch sidetracks him. Breath hitches, snagged by the urge to sneeze. Presses a knuckle to the tip of his nose. Tingles. Not sure if he wants to rub it away or urge it closer. Just presses, gently. The sensation subsides, but only a bit. “The hero,” he manages to say.

Lúcio purses his lips, blows a stream of smoke that drifts directly under Junkrat’s nose and the tickle is a thousand times worse. Or better?

“Oh that heh… heh…helps...” His face falls, gaze hazy. Can’t focus on anything when he feels like this. Really wants to sneeze. It’s right there, right on the edge. Maybe?... No?... Another breath. Yes... “Heh… H’t!” Only half a sneeze and it’s gone. “Shit.”

“Helps with what?” Roadie asks, deadpan.

“Fuckin’ nothin’, apparently. Unsatisfying,” Junkrat mutters, sniffling like a kid and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Still has to sneeze. A diffuse, faint feeling, sometimes there, sometimes not. Wispy. Keeps his breath shaky, his hand hovering uselessly halfway between his nose and his chest. Might sneeze. Might not. His cheeks go hot. Weird to have both Hog and Lúcio watching while he makes an idiot of himself.

“You okay, Rat?” Lúcio asks, forehead creased with concern.

Junkrat shakes his head, slowly. Not because he’s not okay but because the sneezes finally decide yes and the need rises so sharp and overwhelming it’s almost pain and he ducks his head. “Huh-t’chhew! Ihht’chew!” A beat, two. Fucking shit.

“Something missing,” Roadhog asks, insufferable bastard, and he wants to answer, wants to say something cutting but only manages to flip him off before the missing third reappears with vengeance.

“Ah’Riiish-uh!” He sighs with relief. “Fucking finally.” Blinks tears from his eyes and realizes both Roadhog and Lúcio are staring with identical hunger. Goes suddenly hard, their desire stoking his own. Grins. “‘Scuse me,” he says but it sounds more proud than apologetic.

“Saúde,” Lúcio says just as Roadie says, “Bless you.”

The look that goes between them is surprise and a measuring-up and Rat laughs. Shakes his head. “Can’t believe you two cunts gave me the wog, and now you’re fuckin’ enjoying my misery.”

“You said you never get sick,” Lúcio argues, even as a guilty expression crosses his face.

Roadhog shrugs off Lúcio’s concern. “Rat’s full of shit; he don’t care,” he says, shifting alliances like a bastard.

“Oi, Roadie, blowin’ me cover? Get stuffed.” Not angry, though, not really. Knows what his sneezing does to Roadhog and seems like Lúcio might be the same. If he’s right, the fun they’ll have more than makes up for a minor inconvenience. Hopes he is because suddenly Rat wants both of them. Rubs his nose against the feathery tickle that’s still threatening to both disappear and to explode, but patently unclear which will happen.

In that moment of stillness between possible explosions, the music goes abruptly silent and Lúcio glances at the stage where the previous DJ is taking her final bows. “Gotta do my…” he gestures with his chin.

“Go be the conduit,” Roadhog says. “We’ll be here.”

Lúcio grins at both of them, presses a quick kiss to Roadie’s cheek then bounds onstage to thundering applause.

As the lights sweep over the audience, Junkrat suddenly realizes the people he’s assumed to be old hippies are no such thing. The cloth and cut of their bohemian outfits is expensive, the patchwork bags designer. The gold of the incense burners actual gold. He eyes the diamonds, obviously real and expensive, practically dripping from one sheila’s ears and draped around her neck, sparkling at each of her fingers. Clasp looks surprisingly cheap for the likely cost of the necklace. Be a shame if it somehow got broken.

Glances at Roadie, raises a brow, tilts his head at the shiela who is completely entranced by the beginning of Lúcio’s set. Ain’t paying a bit of attention to her surroundings.

Roadhog shakes his head and Junkrat knows he’s frowning behind the mask.

“Not like she’d miss it,” Junkrat urges. “What Morrison don’t know ain’t gonna bother him.”

“And if Lúcio gets blamed?”

“Ain’t planning on getting caught.”

“Rat, no…”

Junkrat just grins and slides into the crowd, following the glitter of the sheila’s jewelry. The bass vibrates in his ribs, merging with the flutter of anticipation. Moves with the rhythm of the audience, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume. Cloying and overly floral. But he’s focused. Eyes on the target, vaguest idea of a plan beginning to form. Takes a deep breath and lets the sneezes crash over him. “Huh-R’iiisssh! Issh! Isssha!” Just manages to throw his arm up over his mouth and stumbles forward on the explosion. Bumps smack into the sheila and uses the ensuing scuffle to snap the clasp of her necklace.

She turns. “Watch it, asshole,” she says, looking disgusted.

“Oh, shit, sorry, mate! Touch of allergies or something. Hope I didn’t get you!” He apologizes immediately, profusely, playing up his accent. The necklace slides off and into his waiting hand. He pockets it, then lets the crowd flow between them and makes his way back to Roadhog.

“Cannot believe you sinned during fucking church,” Roadhog says.

Junkrat shrugs. “She ain’t a good Christian. Didn’t even bless me.”

Roadhog shakes his head, but Rat catches the rumble of his chuckle. Roadie draws him away from the crowd, into a pool of darkness at the side of things. It’s not private, but no one’s watching them - the focus is on Lú, center stage, surrounded by his equipment, face alight with joy. The music spills from the stage like a waterfall, flowing around him, the spotlight shines over him and he glows. Counts down the beat with one finger til it drops, breaking into a new pattern.

Junkrat’s seen him in battle, burning with a fierce joy. Seen him wielding his sonic amplifier to heal, equally bright and fierce. But this, this is where Lúcio belongs. “Join me,” Lúcio’s voice amplified drifts over the notes of the music. “Float. Ride the currents and eddies. Slide down deep into the darkness. Into the depths. Further down to the deepest part. Sink in, curl in, and in that place touch truth, touch love. Touch the One, because that is you, too. You are safe here in the womb of the world.”

Junkrat does, feels the darkness swirling around him.

“Now feel the touch of the moonlight, uncurl into that light. Stretch into the night, reach for the God beyond God that is unlimited and free. Let’s dance our prayers in community.”

The music surrounds him, a shining bubble. Feels like Junkrat can reach out and touch it. Press against it, barrier between him and whatever Lúcio is creating. Like a window he can’t penetrate. Maybe it’s the necklace? Maybe Roadie was right and he shouldn’t have stolen it. Maybe...

Then a hand on his shoulder, grounding him again. “You’re okay, Rat,” Roadhog says and it cuts through the smoke fogging his thoughts and suddenly he realizes two things. He is okay, and he’s going to sneeze and it’s not going to be contained.

“Heh-issh! Issh! Ish! Sh! ...Ehh..Hehh.. R’issh-iishhuh! Fuck.” Keeps his face buried in the sleeve of his shirt, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and assess the damage. His cheeks are hot and he’s uncomfortably hard.

Suddenly Roadie’s fist’s tangled in his hair, tugging his head up. “You’re a mess,” he says, examining Rat far too carefully.

He is a mess. Wants to hide, to turn away but he can’t do either - Hog’s fist still tight in his hair, holding him immobile. “Sorry,” he says and this time he actually means it. Wonders vaguely, through the floating fog of weedsmoke and lust and the lingering urge to sneeze, if someone actually could immolate from embarrassment.

“You should be.” Roadhog pulls a bandana out of his pocket and wipes Junkrat’s nose, then raises his mask just enough to press their lips together.

Junkrat groans into the kiss and wraps his arms around Roadhog, tugging him closer, closer, aching with desire.

Lúcio's song shifts, and though the beat still throbs, an ethereal voice sings a melody in a language Junkrat doesn’t understand. He closes his eyes and the notes float cool and light over his skin. The music casts a glittering web over and between them, connecting them each to the other and both to Lúcio. A low thrumming, slowly building vibration buzzing along his skin and through his body. Rumbling deep and dark, then tenor notes over the bass like hope. Until the melody opens like dawn breaking and cracks him open too and washes him in joy.

Only the roar of applause from the crowd interrupts. Junkrat looks up just in time to see Lúcio bound down from the stage, still glowing with the leftover power of the music and he dashes over to them and they open their arms and pull him in.

The three of them make their way down the hill, back to the hovercar waiting to take them back to the Watchpoint. Roadhog’s hand on one elbow and Lúcio’s hand on his other shoulder keep Junkrat from stumbling, his head still swirling with music and weed and want and the heat of Lúcio’s touch and the strength of Roadhog’s hand.

Finally, finally he collapses onto his bed, tugging Roadie and Lúcio down with him. Their hands are roaming over each other, legs entwined. And he’s going to sneeze again. “Hold on,” he manages to say. Freezes, stuck teetering on the edge. Feathery tickles whisper at the back of his nose.

“All right?” Lúcio asks.

“Something wrong?” Roadhog adds.

“F...fuck ya both. Gotta… gotta… Huh-R’iiisssh! Issh! Isssha! Ugh,” he sighs. “Still gotta… Itchhh! Huh-isssh! Isshew!” It’s like no matter how many times he sneezes, just can’t clear the tickle. But it feels so unbearably good. The build and build and tremble and release only to build again right after. And Lúcio’s hand closes over his cock and he reaches for Roadhog and Roadie takes Lúcio in his hand and they move together, still tangled in Lúcio’s web. Pleasure throbs through Junkrat in waves pushing him higher and he draws Lú and Roadie with him, high and higher and when he tumbles over the precipice, they fall too.

And as he drifts in the aftermath, Lúcio pressed warm against his left side, Roadhog against his right Junkrat feels maybe he’s glowing too.

[littlekatleaf]

O tidings of comfort and joy

Needed a little Christmas Roadrat fluff. 

Come unto Him, ye That are heavy laden And He will give you rest. ~ Handel’s Messiah December always felt like a long month, and this one more than most. Roadhog’d wanted to put the frigid, damp of London behind them, head back to Straya, spend Christmas on the beach and let the sun bake the chill from his bones. But just as they were about to make their escape, a rare storm blew in and all of the airports were closed. Couldn’t find a way out for any amount of money or any attempts at intimidation. And he had tried significant amounts of both. So instead of heat, sand, lapping waves, and pints of Coopers they were stuck in a shitty, drafty hotel room. Nothing else to be found anywhere. Full up for the holiday, apparently. 

Junkrat had been irritatingly cheerful. “Come on, mate - least it beats sleepin’ in the airport. Bed’s clean enough. An’ more comfortable than the floor.”

“Clean enough for what,” Roadhog grumbled. Didn’t want to admit Rat had a point. He was tired. The past several weeks had been shit - heists gone wrong almost as often as gone right, and too many narrow escapes from the cops… Been on the run too long. Needed a break. Both of them. 

Junkrat’d been sniffling and sneezing for a couple of days, clearly coming down with something. Every time Roadhog had asked him about it, he’d shrugged off the concern, said he was fine.  Roadhog had his doubts. Cold weather always got to Rat. Going home would’ve helped.

Now Junkrat was off, who knew where, doing who knew what. Left the room at lunch time and wouldn’t let Roadhog go with him. “Just need to clear me head. Enjoy yer quiet. Be back before ya notice I’m gone.” Which was bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it. Junkrat’s absence was, amazingly enough, more annoying than his presence. The silence louder than his chatter. No way to relax, when more than half of his attention was attuned to the surroundings. Listening for the particular step-tap of Junkrat’s foot and peg. Listening for sirens. Explosions. Commotion. But hearing none of it. 

As he waited, darkness gathered in the corners of the room and spread. Days too short, nights too long. A solitary string of fairy lights outlined the window, someone’s pitiful attempt at holiday cheer. Several of the bulbs were burned out. Bare branches tapped against the window. Wind whistled through a gap between the sill and the jambs. The opposite of festive. Piss-poor excuse for a Christmas. 

Roadhog shook his head at himself. He’d wanted to make something of the day, for a change. Been ages since he’d marked the holiday with anything more than a few extra pints, maybe a joint or two. Then he and Junkrat had been passing the window display at Harrods, with its giant tree decorated with glass baubles and silver tinsel, presents stacked beneath. Junkrat had gazed at the tree for long minutes.“Never had one of them,” he’d said. Just in passing. But there was a wistfulness in his tone and Roadhog had found himself wanting to change that.

Then a door slammed down the hall. There was the step-tap he’d been waiting for, and the sound of slightly off-key whistling. He reached for his paperback, and flicked on the light, anything to make it look like he hadn’t just been sitting there in the dark, waiting. Then the lock clicked, the door swung open and Junkrat blew in with a gust of wind. He was grinning, a tiny pine tree, no bigger than a houseplant in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. Snow dusted his hair and his shoulders and glistened in his eyelashes. His cheeks and nose were bright red.

“Happy Christmas, Roadie!” He kicked the door shut behind him. “Ain’t much, but beggars can’t be choosers when all the shops are closed.”

 “...”

“Brr, freezing out there!” He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, sniffed. “Not my kinda weather, even though the snow is dead lovely. Makes everything quiet and calm. Like a whole other world, ya know? Hey, think we can actually light a fire in this place?” Junkrat rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a corkscrew, then unwrapped two of the plastic cups and poured each full. 

Roadhog finally pushed past his bemusement and crossed the room to the fireplace. To his surprise, it had been laid with wood and kindling, so it didn’t take long before he had a tidy fire going.

Junkrat handed him one of the cups. “Cheers,” he said and took a long drink.

Roadhog drank as well and the wine was smooth, a deep velvet red. It warmed a trail down his throat to curl in his stomach. He sighed and felt himself begin to relax.

Suddenly Junkrat turned away. “Huh-isssh! Isshhew! Huh-issh! Shit! Almost spilled.” 

“Bless you. All right?”

“Course. Just a chill.” He shivered. “Could maybe use some warming?” His smile was both teasing and a little shy.

 Roadhog tugged him close, put his arms around him. He smelled of snow and pine.

“Sorry, still… sneezy…” Rat’s breathing wavered, his eyes fluttered closed. “Issh! Huh-isshah!” 

“Bless,” Roadhog murmured into his hair. Junkrat tilted his head up and their lips met and he tasted winedark and warm. They came together slowly, the fire building between them like a candle in the darkness, a soft glow but burning bright and clear. And after, when they lay curled together in the bed which was, after all, clean enough, Junkrat’s head tucked in the curve of Roadhog’s neck, warmth surrounding them, Roadhog realized he was happy.

[littlekatleaf]

Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (end)

Holy shitballs. Pretty close to exactly a year ago I got this idea - Junkrat and Roadhog have Christmas with some of the Overwatch crew. It was gonna be short and sweet and fluffy. I started writing in... February? 10 months and 21K words later I ended up with something almost entirely different. Oops? Thanks for joining me on the ride!  Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 9

Meds and tea and whiskey and food and mitten and probably a bit of fever still and the lingering feel of Roadie’s hand on his forehead all swirled together into an edgy excitement that made his blood fizz in his veins. Twitchy, itchy. Been looking forward to setting off the fireworks for months - been working them up that long and planning even longer. Had to get it all just right, then combine it with Lucio’s music, get the timing connected to the right shapes, the explosions to the right second… had to be focused, had to be precise and he loved the challenge. The sparks of thrill tingled along his spine and the fire they ignited burned away the lingering crud of sickness leaving him sharp and clear.

He enlisted Hana and Lucio to round up the others, betting they’d be able to convince anyone who was reluctant much better than he would. Even so, he was urging them down to the lake, torches bobbing through the dark, throwing odd shadows between the trees. Maybe talking a little faster than usual but how else was he going to impress upon them how exciting this was? 

“Know it’s cold - hadn’t really thought about that when I was planning. I mean, hadn’t planned to be here at all, just thought we’d be at the Watchpoint. Course, this is better, discounting the cold. Which is hard to do, but Roadie’s getting the bonfire goin’ - he could light a fire in the middle of a monsoon so no worries on that count. An’ Hana brought some whiskey to help so she’ll be right. Ya need to stand here, no closer. Gonna be over the water.  Safe as houses, but can’t be too careful - least according to Morrison, ha! Now turn off the torches. Better the darker it is. Lucky ain’t moonrise yet…” 

“What are we doing out here in the middle of the night when we could be curled up on the couch?” Mei asked no one in particular.

Junkrat ignored her. She’d see, they’d all see and he knew they’d love it just as much as he did if they gave it a chance. Lucio had been kind enough to not only have his sound system set up, but also brought out the box of fireworks so Junkrat didn’t have to lug it himself.

Didn’t take but a minute to set it all up, music on automatic once he started the program. All he had to do was hit the power and light the first fuse.

Music came up slow, soft, bit of piano, then edge of something electronic, rising bass and the first firework streaked up to the center of the sky and as the beat kicked in it exploded in a rain of silver and gold. At the crackling boom the others fell silent, faces tilted to the sky. The sparkles reflected in their eyes and Lucio’s soft ‘oh!’ and Hana’s squeal of delight made even the cold worthwhile. 

Let it start slow. Basic colors, red, blue, green, as well as the gold and silver. Usual shapes, circles, stars, ones that looked like fountains or willows. Then the music shifted, became rhythmic and complex with a minor edge and he sent the first special rockets. The streaks crisscrossed, intersecting like Satya’s hard light shield, like one of her knit shawls and around it burst snowflakes, all in shades of blue and silver. 

Music shifted again, bright and quick - and the second set of his own rockets split the air with a whistling crack then exploded in a crackling red heart, then a gold arrow streamed through. Lena bumped Emily’s hip with her own as their names twined through the heart. Another shift, one of Lucio’s songs, written for Hana and the rockets burst into pink bunnies and green frogs that seemed to bounce up the mountains ringing them and into the stars. 

As the music shifted a final time, setting a beat with a swing, Lena grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her into a twirl, hands clenched firm but light, feet moving quick, spinning each other in and out and then they were dancing and so were Hana and Lucio and even Mei tugged Satya into the group. 

And then - perfect timing, as the music sang “Seeing’ stars, I’m seeing stars” the final bursts of fireworks - his favorite of the bunch - exploded overhead and Junkrat couldn’t stop his grin at the stars he’d created. Spread above him and Roadie was their night sky. The Saucepan and the Crux. Looking right, looking perfect, not upside down like here.

For a long moment Roadhog said nothing, just stood with his face tipped up, sparks reflecting in his mask as the fireworks cracked and popped and the music thumped and the others laughed and danced.

“Thought ya might like a bit of Straya,” Junkrat said finally, unable to wait for Roadhog to say something. Anything. Maybe he hadn’t recognized it after all. Or maybe it wasn't anything like he’d hoped. Maybe it only looked like home because he was remembering it so clearly. Imagining it. Making it all up again. He shoved his hand in his pocket as a gust of wind swept over them and a sneeze slammed into him, followed quickly by two more. “Huh-r’isssh! Isshh! Ishhew!” 

Didn’t even hear Roadhog move, but suddenly he was right there, shoving his hat down over Junkrat’s head and then wrapping his scarf around Junkrat’s neck. “Stay warm, idiot.”

“Trying,” he said, shivering still. He let Roadie lead him over to the fire which had grown to a roaring height, pouring out a welcome heat. Pine logs crackled and spat sparks swirling into the sky to swirl with the real stars and their backwards constellations.

Lucio cranked his own mix and the bass echoed off the mountains and Lena and Emily still danced with him and Hana. Mei and Satya huddled together, passing a mug of something between them and for a moment, just for a minute, everything felt fine. Felt good.

Junkrat glanced at Roadhog, and though the mask obscured his expression, there was a looseness in his shoulders, something in the tilt of his head that seemed to speak of relaxation and calm. Made the cold and exhaustion worth it. “Happy Christmas, Roadie.” 

“Happy Christmas, Rat.” The warmth in his tone did more to drive away the chill than the fire and Junkrat leaned against his side, letting himself enjoy the closeness. 

After a bit, the others joined them around the fire and Lena passed a joint around, “For everyone except you, Junkrat. Sorry.” 

He shrugged, pulled a flask out of his pocket. “Not gonna share my plague. Got this anyway.” The whiskey left a warm curl in the center of his belly, his muscles loose and easy. Satya told a story about a Snow Queen whose frozen heart melted with the love of a peasant girl, and though Junkrat wanted to roll his eyes, he understood the feeling. The desire to have one’s own story told in myth - to be connected to something bigger. Lena told a story about Father Christmas. Mei about a Chinese hunter, Jia Deng, who hunted with a pet wolf and left gifts of his hunt with the poor during the cruel months of winter. Then Roadie exhaled a long puff of smoke and said,

“Bet you never heard of the Holiday Boar.”

Junkrat giggled into his scarf. “Ain’t gonna tell that one to this lot, are ya?”

Lena cocked her head quizzically. “No, can’t say I have.”

“Well. Long before the Omnium exploded, before the Omnics were even an idea someone had, the Outback was still a hardscrabble place. Dusty and hot and many were desperately poor, trying to eke a living out of land that wasn’t easily giving. One day a wild boar appeared in a village, ribs showing through its skin, hair falling out in patches, it was the most pathetic excuse for a creature the villagers had seen. Most tried to chase it away with kicks and shouts and stones thrown. 

“At the edge of the village there was a farmer. He lived alone on the land. When the boar came to his homestead, the farmer’s first reaction was the same as the others - he wanted to chase it away. Nothing good could come of bringing another mouth to feed into his life. But as he raised a hand to throw a stone, he caught a glimpse of the creature’s eyes and his long dead daughter’s voice spoke in his heart. ‘Papa, please.’ His hand fell and he sighed and the boar stayed.

“In the beginning he found it annoying, an intrusion on his solitude. Still, he fed the creature, sharing the little he had, and in return it kept him company, following him like a dog and seeming to listen when he spoke. Come winter the boar was healthy and grown to a surprising size. Villagers who saw it walking with the farmer nodded knowingly - at the first cold snap he’d likely kill it, and the meat could feed them all.

“But the cold came and still the boar walked with the farmer. The villagers eyed them more than a little oddly. Finally, on the longest night of the year, the farmer was sitting by a fire with the boar at his side as usual. The farmer was lamenting that the land had been even more reticent than usual, and he was likely to lose his home to the mortgagers. 

“The boar’s stomach gave a great rumble, then it leaned forward and puked up a pile of gold coins onto the ground. The farmer never went hungry again and the village prospered.”

Junkrat couldn’t help himself, he burst out laughing. 

Hana laughed too, shook her head. “There’s no way that’s a thing.”

“It’s Australia,” Roadhog argued, deadpan voice. “It absolutely is.”

Lucio nodded, took a drag from the joint. “I could see it.”

They told stories and Lucio led them in carols and the warmth of the fire and the whiskey and Roadhog at his side and Lena’s jokes “What do you call a dinosaur fart? A blast from the past! Why does a duck have tail feathers? To cover his butt quack!” and Emily’s laughter lulled Junkrat into a doze.

“He snores louder than a boar,” Satya said, irritably. Lena giggled.

“You gave him your scarf,” Hana said to Roadhog and her tone was equal parts teasing and curious.

Junkrat felt Roadie’s shoulders move in a shrug. “Never takes care of himself, even when he’s sick.” But though he was more than half asleep, he could hear the tight coldness of the comment. The relaxed ease had gone. Junkrat wanted to sit up and interrupt, but he was just so tired.

“Gave him your cold too, huh.” Still that sing-song teasing tone, but it cut at Junkrat.

“Maybe.”

“Come on, Roadhog. What’s up with you two, anyway? He won’t give us a straight answer.”

Felt like everyone’s eyes were on them, staring. Junkrat tensed. Sit up, he told himself. Stop this. But he didn’t. He wanted to know what Roadhog would say, even more than he didn’t want to know.

Roadhog’s shoulder moved in another shrug. “Someone’s gotta keep him from offing himself on accident.”

Mei laughed; least no one else did.

Ice through his body, through his stomach, his mind, his lungs. He coughed against it, but it didn’t move. The fire had burned down to little more than embers and even scarf and hat, mitten and whiskey weren’t enough to keep him warm. He forced himself up then, away from Roadhog. Faked a yawn like he just woke up.

“Knackered. Gonna call it a night. Happy Christmas all.” Forced the words past lips that felt frozen and barely heard the others saying goodnight and thanks for the fireworks. 

The moon glowed on the snow, lighting the way back to the cabin enough to keep him from stumbling on tree roots and rocks. His foot crunched softly on pine needles and he heard Roadhog’s louder footfalls behind him. He walked faster. Just wanted to be inside, to be alone, to be warm, to be silent. Even the light of the Christmas tree seemed to mock him with its fake promise of coziness. He’d take a bath, let the water warm his bones, soothe the chills, then sleep. 

“When I said ya ain’t gotta babysit me no more, I meant it,” Junkrat said stiffly as Roadhog followed him into the bathroom. “Promise I ain’t gonna drown in the bath. Even I’m not stupid enough to do that.”

“How’re you going to get in and out?” Roadhog asked bluntly.

Junkrat turned to look and of course there were no bars to let him navigate it himself. Once he took off his prosthetics he’d be screwed. Fuck. He pushed past Roadhog and out of the bathroom. Wasn’t worth it.  

But the bedroom was just as bad. Wanted to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a century or ten, but Roadhog was standing there in the middle of the room taking up all of the space and all of the air and Junkrat knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with his… looming. Instead he shoved the pillows to the head of the cot and sat against the wall, wrapping a blanket around himself. Just barely resisted pulling it over his head, too. Knew Roadie would stare and it was making him jittery. Not in a good way. His head ached again, skin tight with the too hot too cold feeling of returning fever. Should have asked Lucio for more meds. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing for relief. Wishing for Roadie’s hand on his forehead again, cool and firm and steadying.

“Gonna tell me what’s eating you?” Roadhog asked, finally. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked down at Junkrat from his full height. Not exactly the most inviting posture. 

“What are we?” The question spilled from him like he was vomiting. “An’ don’t give me some stupid shit like you don’t know what I mean. Hana asks and Lucio asks and you avoid the question.”

“Why do we need to put words to it? Why do they need to know anything?” 

Junkrat shrugged. It wasn’t for them that he needed words. It was him. He needed a foundation, an understanding. Because things were slippery and they could slide away from him before he had a chance to catch hold. “It’s me askin’. Now that ya ain’t my bodyguard. What are we?”

A long pause, a silence full of all the things Roadhog didn’t say. 

“Morrison said I could leave,” Junkrat blurted, unable to stand it.

Roadhog waited.

“Said if this do-gooder shit was too bloody difficult he’d have Lena turn me in. Serve my time and then whatever came next was my choice.”

No response.

“Told him I’d have to talk to you about it, but he said just meant me. I been thinkin...’ we should do it. Could probably convince him to let you go too. Then when we were far enough away could hijack the Orca, dump Lena and head back to Straya. Head home. Get the treasure, sell it to the Queen and find a place to just… live.” He blinked and the after-image of fireworks burst across his vision, constellations in all their permutations. Home. Was it? Didn’t really know anymore… But maybe there it wouldn’t be so hard, maybe there it would be like it had been.

Still no response, no movement at all. Like Roadhog’d turned to stone. Mountain. Felt his gaze go cold, measuring, calculating. Had seen Roadhog turn that gaze on others, size them up, find them lacking… but not on himself. He froze. Utterly still. Waited for the judgment to fall. Then Roadhog laughed. Not like something was funny, or maybe like he was funny and the sound was brittle and sharp in his ears.

“What’s so bloody funny, mate?” and his own voice held an edge.

“The idea that I would want to leave this,” he gestured around the room, taking in everything, “give up the good thing I got going here to… what? Live out some tiny shit life in that hellhole with you? Why the fuck do you think I’d want to go back to that? And with you?” He positively roared with laughter. “You are thick as a rock. Batshit crazy. A complete mess. Sure, when there wasn’t anyone else around who wasn’t trying to kill me, you were good for a laugh. A way to get my rocks off. But in the real world? Fuck no.”

“Fuck you too.” The words scraped his throat and he wished he had covered his head because he had that ominous prickling behind his eyes like he was going to fucking cry, or sneeze, and either way he was fucking well not going to give Roadhog the satisfaction.

“You want to know what we are, Junkrat? We ain’t shit. Nothing. Do what you want, stay or go. I couldn’t possibly give less of a shit.”

“Well that’s fuckin’ clear as crystal. Why don’t you fuck off then an’ let me sleep.” He grit his teeth, bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted iron. Not going to crumble. Watched as Roadhog turned and crossed the room. Watched the door click shut behind him. Watched the blank wall and refused to let himself crack. Silence then, that he’d wanted. But no warmth. Even wrapped in blankets felt like he was sitting in a snowstorm. Everything muffled and frozen. Freezing.

Then that chuckle in his head. You got an answer. Might not have been the one you wanted, but really Jamison, what did you expect? Did you honestly think he would go back to an irradiated waste land and a criminal life to be with you?

He thumped his head back against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his fist so hard his nails bit into his palm. Shut it. Ain’t real.

No? So make me be silent, then. More laughter. Oh Jamison. How do you think someone would want to be with you when your own mother couldn’t stand to be with you? 

You don’t know nothing ‘bout my mum, he told her. Nothing. But a couple tears leaked free, and the tingling prickles made him sneeze and he buried his head in the blankets and let himself go until he fell asleep, her laughter and Roadhog’s laughter still ringing in his head.

Sleep was restless, part of him kept jerking awake thinking he heard the door open. He hadn’t. When he finally woke completely he felt like he’d been hit by the ute, then had it back over him again. He stumbled out to the living room where he found Hana and Lucio playing a game with Emily, and Mei and Satya watching. 

“Morning, Junkrat,” Lucio said.

“More like afternoon,” Hana corrected.

“Potato potahto,” Lucio shrugged. “Wanna join? You can play winner.”

“Nah,” he cleared his throat, tried to sound nonchalant. “Where’s Roadie?”

“Apparently Morrison sent him on some mission. Something going on in Australia. Lena took him early this morning,” Satya said. “Guess you didn’t go ‘cause you’re sick?” Hana asked.

“Yeah. Something like that.” His head went light. Hadn’t thought Roadhog would actually leave. Take the treasure for himself and go… but there it was. He made his way into the kitchen on a floor that seemed to rock like a boat. Opened the sat comm with numb fingers. 

“Morrison.” “It’s Fawkes. I’ll take your offer. I want to turn myself in.”

[littlekatleaf]

Be still my indelible friend (Overwatch)

So this is inspired by the “Love Triangle” scenario @lovely-starry-universe​ shared. (sorry it’s not TMA, @beaugtifuw​ but maybe consider it as an alternative to death?) This is also separate from my other fics.

Be still my indelible friend, you are unbreaking Though quaking, though crazy That’s just wasteland, baby ~ Hozier, “Wasteland, Baby!” Roadhog wanted to rub his eyes, aching behind his mask. He felt like he was going to sneeze, but his head throbbed and sneezing would make it worse. He really wanted to disappear into his quarters and sleep whatever this was off, without the mask so he could sneeze as necessary and blow his nose. Unfortunately he was stuck here, trying to keep Junkrat from noticing he was getting sick. 

Junkrat always noticed, even if he was in the middle of working something up for Torbjörn, or messing with one of Lena’s pulse bombs. Could be completely immersed in his work, muttering about whatever crossed his mind as he pieced things together, but the minute Roadhog started feeling off, sometimes before he actually registered the sensation in his own body, Junkrat would be there with tea or Kleenex or cough drops. Whatever Roadhog might need. Or want. No matter how many times Roadhog told him to stop - didn’t need coddling - Junkrat just shrugged and kept on. Irritating. Not a sook and rankled that Junkrat thought he was. 

Reckoned the Rat had a point, though. Hard to intimidate when one was constantly sniffling. Like he was doing right now. Just about to get up and find his own tissues when footsteps clanked down the passage outside the door and Junkrat finally looked up from his wires. Not at him, though. At the man currently leaning in the doorway.

“Oi, Lucio! Welcome back, mate. How’d it go,” Junkrat asked.

Lucio gusted a sigh. “Horrible. She’s gonna be gone for months, and as a goodbye gift she gave me her cold.”

Junkrat laughed, but not meanly. “Now that ain’t fair.” He crossed the room and pressed his hand to Lucio’s forehead. “Might be warm.”

“Eh, no big. Just feel a little under… the… weather.” His voice wavered up on the word and suddenly he pitched forward. “Hitchoo! I’tchoo!” 

“Bless ya, mate.” Junkrat tossed him a box of tissues from under a pile of detritus.

“Oh, thanks, man.” Lucio shook his head at himself. “Could’ve been a disaster.” 

“Who takes care of the medic when the medic’s feelin’ crook?”

 Lucio pulled a tragic face, but was clearly trying not to grin.  “No one, now that Hana’s away.”

“That ain’t right. Patched me up often enough, right Roadie? Only fair if I do the same. C’mere; sit.” He steered Lucio to the other side of the couch, put a blanket around his shoulders. Then he began to fill, not the kettle for tea, but the coffee pot. Lucio liked coffee. Roadhog didn’t.

 As the coffee brewed, Junkrat asked Lucio about the trip to Busan. 

Lucio made a so-so gesture. “Meeting the parents was okay - they didn’t hate me. Maybe. But Dae-hyun’s another story. I’m surprised he didn’t try to poison my soda.”

“But you’re the dead nicest person I ever met. Can’t imagine you were rude. What’d ya do?”

“He thinks it’s my fault Hana won’t be more than his friend.”

“An’ it ain’t?”

“Nah, she sees him like a brother. Anyway, we’re open. If she wanted to be with him, it’d be fine with me.”

“Huh,” Junkrat made a considering noise and Roadhog caught him looking at Lucio with an unreadable expression. Which was weird - Junkrat usually had the opposite of a poker face. Made playing cards against him profitable.

When Lucio’s voice went hoarse, Junkrat took over the conversation, making his usual terrible jokes. Going into far too much detail about the modification to Torb’s turret he was working on. Nattering. 

And Roadhog realized he was going to sneeze. Hated doing it with the mask; small as the sneezes were, still felt fucking gross. Hated more doing it with an audience. Too many comments over the years about ‘big guy, tiny sneeze’ ha ha ha fucking hilarious. Ducked his head, tried holding his breath and kept it tightly contained to just a shudder.

No one responded. Thank fuck.

Felt odd, though. Unsettled. Maybe he was getting a fever? But he didn’t have that bone deep ache yet. Just felt… not right.

The day wore on. At some point Lucio switched from coffee to orange juice. His voice was barely more than a croak. Junkrat teased him about sounding like a frog and instead of biting his head off, like Roadhog would have - well deserved, in his opinion - Lucio just laughed and pretended to eat a fly. Roadhog rolled his eyes. Immature. Both of them. 

Lucio shivered, just once, and Junkrat dug his own scarf out of another pile of random crap and wrapped it carefully around Lucio’s neck, the orange and yellow stripes shining bright against his dark skin.

“Thanks, man,” Lucio said, sincerely, a flush rising up his neck. Fever? Or something else? He put his hand on Junkrat’s arm, and Rat covered it with his own. Roadhog looked away.

Every single time Lucio sneezed, Junkrat blessed him. And at each blessing, Lucio said thanks. He didn’t get irritated, he didn’t snap or growl. He just kept Junkrat cheerful company, laughing at Rat’s jokes (even, or maybe especially, the terrible ones), making listening noises in response to his endless stories, face nuzzled down in Junkrat’s scarf. 

Finally, Junkrat noticed his head nodding forward, eyes drooping closed. “Why’nt you head to bed, mate? Ain’t gotta keep us entertained.”

Lucio yawned, stretched. “Sorry. Just exhausted suddenly. I was going to stop by the mess hall for some food first, but…” He sneezed suddenly, ducking into the scarf. “Oops! Shit. I’ll wash it before I give it back, I promise.”

“Bless ya. No worries.” Junkrat shrugged. “Saw Mei cooking some of her chicken noodle soup earlier. I’ll bring you a bowl.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Junkrat. If Mercy caught me anywhere near the mess with this cold I wouldn't have to worry about being sick for very long.”

Junkrat mimed a shudder. “Too right. Sheila only looks sweet and innocent.”

“Thanks again.” Lucio tossed a wave over his shoulder as he sauntered out. “See ya, Roadhog.”

Junkrat whistled tunelessly as he cleaned up his workbench. Roadhog struggled against another sneeze. He tried to ignore it, to think of something else, but the tickle was insistent. Fuck it. He ducked his head, sneezed once, then again. Junkrat’s whistle didn’t falter. Was focused, maybe, on what he was doing. Roadhog tried to breathe carefully, but his nose wanted to drip so he sniffed, and then he needed to sneeze again.  An annoying as shit self-perpetuating cycle. 

He glanced around the room for the box of tissues. Apparently Lucio’d taken it with him. Of fucking course. “Junkrat. Gonna head up to my quarters for a bit.” Maybe he’d be focused enough not to ask…

“Ya ain’t hungry? ‘S well past lunch. Don’t think I’ve ever heard ya turn down a meal, ‘specially when Mei’s cooking.”

Roadhog wanted to groan, but kept it to a sigh. “No, yeah. Let’s go.” He was a little hungry. He’d pick up a bowl of soup in the mess hall and when Junkrat made his delivery to Lucio he could slip off. Soup would help, and maybe then he could get sleep. Or at least a little peace and quiet.

Luckily no one was in the mess hall when they stopped by, so it was a shorter trip than if Junkrat’d had someone to talk at. Just filled their bowls and, balancing his own and Lucio’s because sometimes Rat’s mech hand had trouble with the porcelain, followed Rat to Lucio’s quarters. Shit - his nose wanted to drip. Sniffed against it, which triggered an urge to sneeze. With his hands full of soup. Balls. Couldn’t even get Junkrat’s attention, any attempt to talk and he’d lose the tenuous control he clung to. 

A breath, another breath… only a few more steps until he could hand off the bowl… and he realized he wasn’t going to make it. Stopped and braced for it and “Ht’nxxt!  Ngxxt! …. Ht’nxxt!” Let his breath out carefully. It felt like he’d exploded his sinuses, but at least he didn’t spill scalding liquid over his hands. Small mercy. Junkrat was already knocking at Lucio’s door, a rhythmic tapping that wasn’t like his usual fist at Roadhog’s door.

Lucio opened the door and a soft tune wafted out like smoke. He’d clearly been working on some new music. A pair of headphones was around his neck. He’d changed from his travel clothes into a pair of sweatpants, and an oversized sweatshirt with two laughing gingerbread men that said, “Let’s get baked.” 

“Thanks, guys. Appreciate it.” He seemed to notice Roadhog staring and glanced down, then chuckled. “It’s from Hana,” he said, as if that explained everything.  “I’d invite you in, but I’m probably contagious.”

“Ah, no need to sit around all by your lonesome, sick an’ miserable. I never get sick. And Roadie’s already got it. He’s been sneezing all day.” Junkrat waved a hand at Roadhog dismissively. 

“Oh, sorry Roadhog! I didn’t know you were sick.”

“Ain’t nothing,” he mumbled. So Junkrat knew? And hadn’t said anything? Hadn’t even blessed him once? What the hell? 

Lucio stepped back to let them in and, with no idea how to bow out gracefully, Roadhog followed. The room was dark, lit only by a few strings of colorful fairy lights. Lucio’d made himself a nest on the couch, pillows and blankets and his laptop. His sound system sent out a low bass beat, overlaid with electronic melody and a voice that sounded almost like Hana, singing something he couldn't make out. In the corner of the room was an altar with a buddha statue and a candle lit in front. He let Junkrat take the spot next to Lucio on the couch, and sat on an arm chair across from them. It was a surprisingly welcoming space and Roadhog found himself relaxing, almost against his will. 

Junkrat made himself useful, cleaning up the dishes when they’d finished eating. Making sure Lucio was comfortable, that he had a glass of water and tissues in easy reach. When Lucio yawned, Junkrat pulled him close, to lean against his shoulder. He launched into some ridiculous, and likely embellished, story about a heist he’d pulled on the Queen of Junkertown sometime in the years before he and Roadhog started working together. Lucio made impressed noises, egging him on, and each story got less likely than the last. 

And then Lucio turned away from Junkrat, sneezing again. “Hitchoo! I’tchoo! Ugh, excuse me. I’m so gross.” He blew his nose.

“Bless ya. And no ya ain’t. Least ya got a normal sneeze, not like me. I sneeze like a bomb going off.” Junkrat tugged him close again and Lucio relaxed against his side, laughing.

“It’s true, though. An’ apparently size don’t matter in these things ‘cause Roadie sneezes like a kitten.”

Roadhog felt himself going red under the mask. He really, really did not want to be having this conversation. Not with Lucio, and not with the tickle that was building again. “Could you not make fun of me for five fucking minutes? Damn, Junkrat.”

“Don’t be such a touchy bastard. Ya know I don’t mean nothing by it.”

He wanted to keep arguing, to cuss Junkrat out for being such an asshole, especially while he was just as sick as Lucio, but part of him wondered whether he might, actually, be overreacting. Worse, he was pretty sure he was going to sneeze. He raised a wrist to the nose of his mask, like that was somehow going to help, but the tickle was too strong to  be contained. “Huh… chu! Chu! Chu!” Kept his head down when he finished because Junkrat was right, he did sneeze like a fucking kitten and he hated it. Hated that Junkrat teased him about it, hated that Lucio was there to hear it, hated that he hadn’t just gone to his quarters before Lucio ever got back from Busan.

“Bless you, Roadhog,” Lucio said after a couple beats of silence. And that just made it worse. Lucio blessing him, not Junkrat. 

The cold must be fucking him up more than he thought, because everything just felt like shit suddenly. His head hurt and his body hurt and his eyes hurt. He needed to blow his nose but then he’d have to take off his mask and Lucio would see all the fucking scars and he’d ask too many questions because he wouldn’t know not to and what could he possibly say? And Junkrat was ignoring him and paying attention to Lucio and he fucking hated that and he didn’t know why it bothered him so much and he didn’t want it to bother him, but it did, bothered him like a blister his boot kept rubbing over and over. Irritating and painful and it was just one more thing on top of everything and he hated it. Because Junkrat was his friend first. Was his first… but Lucio was so much nicer about everything. So much kinder and softer and not at all an asshole.

Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and he realized he’d been shaking, just a little. “Ya okay, Hoggie?” Junkrat’s voice was unusually soft, almost gentle.

“Fine,” he said, but the attempted sharpness was blunted with congestion and he coughed. And he didn’t push away Rat’s hand.

“No, ya ain’t.” Junkrat stood between Roadhog and Lucio, and carefully loosened the mask then lifted it away from his face, slow enough to be stopped. Roadhog didn’t. Then, just as carefully, Junkrat took a Kleenex and wiped Roadie’s eyes. Then his nose. Roadhog sighed and rested his forehead on Junkrat’s belly. “Hey, hey. What’s this, then? Thought ya didn’t want any attention when you’re sick.”

“Thought not, too,” he mumbled without moving. 

“Ya jealous.” There was the lilt of laughter in the words.

Roadhog shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Ya are!  Ain’t no reason for it! Might be mean as cat’s piss when yer sick, but it don’t matter. You’re my Hog, an’ that’s the way of it.”

 “But Lucio…”

“Reckon I can take care of ya both. Yeah?”

Roadhog nodded, and when Junkrat stepped aside, Roadhog kept the mask off and Lucio didn’t ask about the scars, or make any comment at all. He just smiled and offered a movie night and that was how they ended up sprawled across Lucio’s bed, Roadhog on one side, Lucio on the other and Junkrat between them, arms around them both. Sometime in the middle of the movie, they dozed off, warm and comfortable.