Where am I - what am I doing here?

Lúcio snorts. “As if Hanzo would allow a speck of dust to breach his perimeter.”

“Right; fine,” Junkrat shrugs, sheepish.  “Guess I might be coming down with something.” He barely finishes the sentence before another set of sneezes curl him into himself. “Ht’Rushhew! Ussshhah! Hih-ih… Hit’schuuuh!”

“Sounds like a distinct possibility.” Hana says, tone dry as the Outback.

“You’re a right dag, ain’t ya.” Junkrat blows his nose, then finds himself talking before thinking. “Any chance I can hitch a ride out of here ‘fore the storm sets in?” 

Hana types something on her keyboard, eyes narrowed, clearly figuring, but Lúcio shakes his head. “Mei says it’s coming on faster than expected. No one’s allowed in or out until it passes. Not even Lena.” 

As if to prove her right the wind rises, tree branches tap the window like fingers and Junkrat can’t stop the shiver that comes over him. “Yeah, nah, course not. Didn’t really think ya could. She’ll be apples. Just…” just wishes it didn’t look like he’s ‘bout to spend his birthday snowed in, alone, with what feels like it’s shaping up to be a right bastard of a cold.

“Dude! You didn’t mention it’s your birthday,” Hana interrupts and Junkrat blinks, confused. Hadn’t actually said it out loud, had he? But no, she’s still focused on the screen in front of her. “You’re a leapling?” Lucio also looks at her screen. “Born on the extra leap year day,” he clarifies at Hana’s perplexed expression. “And you’re not celebrating?”

Junkrat rubs the back of his neck. “Ain’t a big thing, birthdays.” Never had been, that he could remember. Sure, sometimes he and Roadie’d grab Chinese take away and shell out for whiskey with a name, rather than the usual rotgut. Maybe smoke a couple joints. Nothing like he saw on the holovids. Parties. Family. Ain’t that he missed it, exactly. Could you miss something you’d never had? Have to ask Roadie. Bloke loved questions like that.

“You’re turning thirty! Of course it’s a big thing,” Hana protests, incredulous. “We’re throwing you a party when you get back-”

Junkrat opens his mouth to argue, doesn’t need a party, but a sneeze rips through him, followed on by the usual additional two before he can even snag another breath. 

“When you’re not spewing germs,” she amends. “And don’t worry, old man, we won’t keep you up past your bedtime.”

Lúcio punches her shoulder. “Who’re you calling old? He’s only a couple years ahead of me.” 

“Got a point though.” Junkrat runs his hand through his hair and a few strands drift over his shoulder to the floor. “Old comes early in Junkertown - pretty sure I’m older than either of my parents got to be.” 

No one laughs. Lúcio looks like Rat slapped him.

Bollocks. Making shit worse, as usual. Thinking’s slow through the fog of congestion and dull headache. If only everything didn’t feel so odd, wavery and swirling, he’d know the right tone to take. Right words to use. Roadie woulda laughed, but Rat knows better than to joke about shit like that with Hana and Lú. “Ain’t serious, mate. Honestly. Didn’t mean nothing. Sorry.”

“I’m not mad, Rat. Just -”

“So disappointed,” Hana interrupts, perfectly mimicking Mercy at her most frustrated, a tone Junkrat knows all too well. 

He laughs, but it quickly devolves into coughing and his lungs crackle ominously when he takes a breath.

“You sure you’re going to be okay, Jamie?” Lú asks.

Heat floods his cheeks. Only Roadie uses that name, and every time his stomach aches like the phantom pains of his missing limbs, something cut out of the center of him. “Ain’t I always?” Junkrat forces his smile wider. “Wanted some time alone, now I got it, yeah?” Wanted… hell, planned… time alone with Roadie, but the mission took precedence. Which, course it did. But understanding don’t lessen annoyance.

“I could convince Lena that you’re really sick and need evacuation. Healer privilege.”  Lú’s still trying to figure how to drag him out of danger, as usual. Shouldn’t have asked for a ride. Bloke’s gonna worry.

“Ain’t Lena needs convincing. Jack’s sure as shit not gonna allow her to risk it just ‘cause I got the sniffles.” Sheila might be Overwatch’s pilot and a damn good one, but Morrison’s word’s law. “Give me a couple days an’ she’ll be apples, mate. No worries. Catch me up on the game. Connection’s shit out here, back of beyond.” 

Lúcio’s brow is still scrunched, doubtful, but he can’t resist an opportunity to brag about his favorite team. Hana moves over to give him room on the sofa and lets him interrupt her story. He puts an arm around her, drawing her close. She listens with an expression so fond that Junkrat wishes he’d sneeze again just so he’d have a reason to look away.

When they finally sign off and the screen goes dark, he sags. Cabin feels colder, emptier after the warmth of their laughter; their birthday wishes echo in his ears. His nose itches and he rubs it in the tissue, sniffling. Seems right bloody unfair he’s coming down sick and Roadie ain’t even around to appreciate.

He should get moving, make sure everything’s closed up for the storm, but even though it’s barely half-four he’s completely knackered. Rests his cheek on the table, wood cool, polished smooth against his skin. Lingering scents of wax and turpentine tease his already sensitive sinuses. He sniffs and the burn intensifies.

Closing his eyes, he conjures Roadie sitting in the empty chair across from him, arms crossed over his chest, statue-still, gaze burning behind the dark lenses of his mask, watching as Rat breathes in gently, softly, letting the tickle feather over his nose. Imagines Roadie barely breathing while his own breath hitches once, twice, and then “Hut’chhhiew! Uh-Esssh! Huhr’Usshhuh!” His sneezing shatters the silence, but it closes back over him immediately like water. 

No blessings. No Roadhog. Morrison better fucking appreciate his support on this mission, saving the world or whatever the fuck. Junkrat blinks his eyes open, rubs away the irritated tears. Everything fucking leaks when he’s sick. Disgusting. 

The grandfather clock in the corner marks time, each move of the second hand ticking against his brain. Older than his parents. He’d laughed when he said it, but maybe… maybe Lú’s right. Thinking about it, ain’t exactly funny. How old were they, when they slipped through the holes of his memory? One into Omnium explosion and flame, the other drawing inward, desiccated and cancer-skeletal. Casts his mind back, searching for details mostly lost in fog. Figures they couldn’t’ve been more than twenties, neither one. 

What does he have to show for all these years - this life longer than theirs, longer than so many in Junkertown? Pile o’dosh and a hard drive. Always thought it was enough, relatively speaking. Pile could still grow. Could buy whatever Roadie wants; could buy his freedom, maybe. But Rat’s stomach twists, knots. What’s it even mean, all those died and he didn’t? 

A particularly strong gust of wind howls down the chimney, a shutter slams against the wall, and Junkrat lurches up, sways as the room does a slow swirl. He grits his teeth, grips the edge of the table until the lightheadedness passes. Ain’t gonna let the place fall apart just because he’s a little under the weather. He yanks a jacket from the rack and forces the door open against the wind’s resistance. 

The last rays of sun gild clouds wreathing mountain peaks. Long fingers of shadow reach across the yard. The air is sharp with the scent of piñon and cypress. Icicles glitter in oak and maple. The land is grim and beautiful in its starkness. Junkrat pauses just over the threshold for a moment, appreciating the biting cold against the heat of his skin, the soothing deep quiet of winter, then heads for the shed to grab a ladder and tools.

It’s a race against fading light and gathering clouds. Against rising fever and aching joints. Junkrat fixes the shutters, knocks snow from the eaves, gives the pipes a once-over to make sure they’re wrapped proper and won’t freeze. He hauls wood for the fireplace, hoping there’s enough split to last out the weather, or at least this plague. Reckons using an axe now risks what limbs he’s got left, woozy as he’s feeling. 

He’s just securing the shed door so it doesn’t blow open when the storm’s first flurries drift down, dusting his shoulders and sparking cold on his cheeks. He sniffs, sleeves his nose and looks up, realizing night has fallen. Clouds scuttle over the moon hanging full and yellow above the mountains. Wind moans through the pines. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howl rises, curling into the air. A pause, then another answers, call and response, rising and falling together, a ghostdance.

The high lonesome sound hooks, tugs something in his chest. He coughs, but it doesn’t help. Rubs the heel of his palm over his breastbone. The song beckons and he takes a step forward. Follow, it calls. Into the wood, into the softness, the solitude. Follow - away from the cabin, from the long arm of Overwatch’s law, from Hana’s bright laughter and Lúcio’s too-kind eyes. Follow - down into the deep and quieting dark. He does, ducking under low-hanging branches, following a path that isn’t exactly a path, pulled by the hook and the song and the ache in his chest. Until his prosthesis slides on a patch of ice he hadn’t seen, his other ankle twists, and he’s falling before he can catch himself. 

Junkrat lands hard on his back, breath knocked from his lungs, dazed. It takes more than a minute to gather himself and push back to standing. His ankle throbs when he puts weight on it, but pain’s not sharp enough to indicate a break. Stupid to wander around in the dark, full moon or no. Roadie’d call him a galah and he’d be right. Brushes snow from his hair and a wet clump slides down the back of his collar. He shudders with the chill then sneezes, heavy and exhausted. The wolves have gone silent; snow creaks cold under his boot, wind soughs though pines. Feels he’s the only living thing in kilometers. 

He manages to get a fire laid and lit before collapsing onto the couch. With the last of his energy he takes off the prosthetics to keep them from rubbing. Ankle aches, joints ache, dull but building with the fever. Flames burn high and bright, but he can’t stop shivering. Trek to the bedroom for the doona feels like crossing the Outback on foot so he tugs the scratchy wool afghan off the back of the sofa. Wraps it tight around himself, trying to ignore the way it rubs against oversensitive skin. Curls onto his side, knee to chest, listens to the ticking of the clock. Blinks slow. Drifts. 

Turning thirty… of course it’s a big thing… gonna throw you a party… More years than not he’d forget his birthday entirely. Hard to remember, when it’s a day only happens every four years. Maybe that’s why he never feels his right age. Times when Mercy’s reading him the riot act about some dumb fool thing he’s done - again - he feels like a kid what failed a test on an untaught lesson. Missing something everyone else knows. Other times he’ll sit with Hana and Lú, play holovid games and listen to the ease of their banter, dazzled in the light of their laughter, sure as sure he ain’t never been that young. Maybe thirty’ll be different. Maybe something’ll shift and he’ll be right. Maybe. 

Fire cracks, snaps, sparks float up the chimney. Imagines them spinning into the sky, scattering stars. Embers pulse below the logs like heartbeat. Eyelids feel scrubbed with sandpaper so he lets them fall closed. World rocks and tilts; he slides away.

Sun beats down on the top of his head, sky wide, empty, white with heat. Dust puffs up around his boot, sweat trickles down his back. Leg aches like he’s been walking ages, but can’t remember where he’s going, or where he’s coming from. He pauses, squints into the distance. A few scraggling bushes dot the horizon, nothing else. No buildings, no people. 

Turns to look behind. Outline of a shack at the edge of his vision. Roadie’s? Can’t see details this far away. Silence presses against his ears. No birdsong, no insects hum. No rumble of Hog’s hog. Not even a breeze stirs the air. Better turn back - Roadhog’ll remember what he was doing, give him direction. Can always count on the big lug to be his brains, when things get foggy. 

At first feels like he’s walking in place, buildings far away as before. Just him and the sun and the heat and the dust, coating his throat, skin, inside of his nose. He shudders into a sneeze, then another and another, and when he straightens again he’s right in front of the door. Blinks, confused. Door opens on its own. Weird.

Temperature’s at least ten degrees cooler inside and he shivers at the change. Squints, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Door clicks closed behind him.  “Oi, Hog?” Silence swallows the words. No answer. 

One chair at the table. One plate, one mug of coffee, still steaming. No Roadhog. None of Rat’s stuff neither. Corner where he keeps his gear empty. 

Heavy footsteps thump overhead, ceiling creaks. A sense of foreboding crawls over him, setting the hair at his nape prickling up. He doesn’t call out again, doesn’t dare. Better leave before whoever… whatever’s… up there comes down. Takes hold of the door handle but the knob slips under his fingers, refusing to budge. Bloody fucking thing. He struggles, but it holds fast. 

Footsteps closer now, boots on the stairs. Gotta be Roadhog. Who else could be in his place? Tension tightens his shoulders, gut twists. Ain’t Roadie. Somehow he’s certain of it. Doesn’t want to look, doesn’t want to know. Can’t resist. Even as he still wrestles with the door, glances over his shoulder as the footsteps descend. Roadhog’s boots, camo pants, tattoo across his stomach but where his face should be, where his mask would be, a horrible blank emptiness. Can’t be real. Gotta be a dream.  Wake up. Gotta wake up. Whatever it is moves across the room unnatural fast. It reaches for him. Desperation clutches his lungs. Leans a shoulder against the wood, shoves, then stumbles through -

Boot and prosthetic ring as he hits the metal floor and he staggers for a second before catching his balance. Presses himself back against a wall; has the thing followed? No, he’s alone in the corridor. He coughs, wipes sweat from his forehead, lungs ache like he’s been running. Clearly ain’t in Junkertown. Where…?

One of the Watchpoints he realizes, glancing around himself. Likely Gibraltar. Ain’t as familiar as some of the other bases, but he should be able to find Winston’s lab. Maybe he can explain what the hell that thing was. 

Sets off in the direction Rat’s pretty sure’ll lead to the lab. Walks past closed doors with only a passing glance. They are labeled, but he can’t make out the writing. Seems to squirm and blur as he tries. Makes him feel vaguely nauseated, so he quits trying. Keeps walking. 

Turns a corner and nearly collides with a figure coming toward him. 

“Careful,” she snaps, passing without another word. Like she don’t even know him.

“Satya, wait,” he calls, but she doesn’t break stride, disappears around the corner. He frowns, perplexed. She ain’t never liked him, but this is beyond. Can’t recollect anything he’s done recently to piss her off.

How big is Gibraltar, anyway? Seems like he should’ve found the lab already, feels he’s been walking for ages. He pauses, squints at the nearest door; letters still refuse to form words, stubborn sons of bitches. Raises his hand to the scanner but it blinks red and the door stays closed. Fuck sake, can’t a thing just be easy? He slides down the wall to the floor, unsure where to go, what to do. Rests his head on his arms.

“Hey, man. What’re you doing here?” 

The touch on his shoulder is gentle but Rat still startles, heart thudding in his throat. “Damn Lú, made me jump. I’m fucking lost. Can’t find Winston’s lab.”

“How do you know my name,” Lú asks, a small crease between his brows. 

“Has everyone here lost their damn minds? How the hell’d I not know someone I been working longside for years. My memory sure as shit ain’t perfect, but you never forget a thing.” Makes no sense. Weren’t they friends? He’d thought anyway.

Lúcio shakes his head. “I don’t know how you passed the security system, but you need to leave. I don’t know you. You don’t belong here.” The door slides open for him, and he’s backing through, and Rat recognizes his room. His and Roadie’s, but Lú’s turntables, sound system, computers, cords spread across the workbench, not his own plans and projects in progress. Lú’s clothes hang next to Roadie’s. Everything neat and orderly the way Roadie likes it; no sign of Rat’s sprawling chaos.

A shadow falls across the floor, Lúcio turns to meet it, and Junkrat goes cold. Knows what’s coming. He wants to run, wants to warn Lú, but he’s frozen, body and voice. Roadhog’s form comes around the corner, moving fast and its face is still the awful empty staring blankness and Junkrat wrenches himself back and away and…

Opens his eyes to full night, fire gone out. He’s shaking hard enough worries his bones will break. Furnace didn’t kick on, though the cabin feels cold enough to see his breath. Storm must’ve knocked out power. Get up ya useless shit, tells himself. Rebuild the fire. Get water, meds. But everything aches, hair to foot. Eyelids. Bones. Head feels like it’s going to split and he massages his temple, wishing for relief. But before he can gather the energy, sleep tugs him back under.

“Sure you got that under control?” Roadhog’s voice rumbles through the comm, muffled slightly by his mask.

“Told ya I do, didn’t I? Be quiet and keep watch,” Rat snaps. He sniffs, sleeves his nose against a drip. What is he doing? Can’t quite remember. Blinks down at the tangle of wires and electronic components on the floor in front of him. Putting something together? Taking it apart? Construction or destruction, could go either way. One leads to the other anyway, so does it really matter? Rubs his hand over his forehead and tries to follow thoughts that dart away like minnows. 

Roadhog on watch. Comms. A mask of his own puddled at his feet. Doing something they ain’t supposed to be, somewhere they ain’t supposed to be. 

Small room, bare wood floor, dust covered. Nobody else been here in a while. Shelves along one wall, mostly empty except for a few dilapidated boxes, rusted spade, clearly nothing worth taking. Quiet, but just at the edge of his hearing a murmur of voices. Boisterous. None he can make out enough to recognize, until one sharp barking laugh cuts through the tangle. Knows that sound from any distance. The Queen’s just won a challenge. He shudders, cold and empathetic for whatever bloke just took a fall.

Right. Recollects the plan now - gonna blow the Queen’s summer shack. Payback for all she’s taken from them. All of them. Make her think twice before trying again. He swallows a cough and bends over the bomb in progress, crimping two wires and setting the fuse. An’ Roadhog doubted him. Thought he couldn’t keep it together just because of a little fever. Bollocks to that. Tenses against another shiver threatens to make his hands shake.

A screen door creaks opens, then slaps closed and the Queen’s rusty hinge voice scrapes through the comm. “What the bloody hell’re you doing here, all on your own? Where’s the vermin?”

Junkrat’s mouth goes dry, a trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck. Hog better think quick, come up with something plausible.

“Realize I owe you somewhat. Come up to Bobby’s for a round.”

“Pint of that rotgut ain’t coming close to paying your debts.”

“Course not, but got some information might go a ways toward...” Comm garbles and cuts out. 

For a long minute only static buzz in his head. What information does Roadhog have that he’d even consider sharing with her? Rat’s hands are still, though his heart beats double time. Gotta be a ruse. Get her away from the work Rat’s doing. Get the rest of the crew to follow. Ain’t actually going to tell her a damn thing.

Time’s short. Needs to finish before she comes back. Turns his focus to the calculations. Set the fuse too long and might end up with collateral damage. Too short and he might be collateral damage. Hard to concentrate, to keep the numbers straight, to see the measurements clear. He wipes his forehead on his arm and bites his lip against the urge to sneeze. Come on, think - done this a thousand times.

Finally makes the last cut, puts lighter to fuse and steps back to admire his work. A thin thread of smoke drifts up, itches his nose and before he can move back shudders into a sneeze, followed on by two more. And then the world explodes.

Sharp roar and blast of heat burst over him, toss him across the room like a doll. At first there’s no pain, only the flames dancing high and blinding bright, sending showers of sparks swirling into the blackness above and his heart rises with them. Ain’t nothing like explosion. Like fire. The power in the blast, the purifying burn, clearing away what needs to be destroyed, opening space for new growth. He relishes the heat, finally chasing the chill from his body. He reaches toward the flames, needing more warmth, needing more, offering himself to the pyre. It reaches back, licking along his skin with greedy tongue, setting him alight. At first it’s just an emberglow, curling around his arm, sliding over his chest, down around his leg, up his neck, his hair ignites like a torch and he is entirely engulfed. Sparks dance along each nerve, exquisite pain. Opens his mouth to scream, but the fire’s consumed his throat, his lungs, his blood until he’s nothing but flame and he’s laughing as his eyes burn. The smoke closes around him and all he can do is cough.

The coughing wrack his body, shaking him back to himself, back to the cabin and the cold. He shudders, tries to catch his breath and realizes there’s pounding at the door. His fingers fumble with the buckles of his prosthetic and for a moment he wants to just let whoever it is move on. Find some other refuge. But the closest neighbor is a good several kilometers away, and the wind is still howling. He pushes himself up, clutches the edges of the afghan tight around himself, and makes his unsteady way across the cabin, hoping he doesn’t trip over something in the dark. 

He’s not even through the kitchen when the door opens with a bang, a gust of wind swirls through the entry and the shadow lurking there lifts a torch, shining practically in his eyes and dazzling him nearly blind, before moving it aside. For a second he’s sure he’s still dreaming because Roadhog’s framed in the doorway, larger than life and covered in snow. Junkrat’s mouth goes dry, shivers catpawing up his spine. His face is gonna be the horrible blankness and -

“Jesus, Rat. Lúcio’s right, you look like shit.” Roadhog stomps snow from his boots, wipes fog from the eyes of his mask - his normal mask - closes the door behind himself. 

“Feel like it, too.” Junkrat’s voice rasps, smoke and gravel. He clears his throat, tries again, “The fuck are you doing here?” Barely a thread of sound this time.

Always the neat and tidy one, Roadie hangs up his coat and folds his mask neat on the bench. “Quit talking; hurts to listen to ya. Finished the mission,” he says turning back, and never has the deep scars marring his cheeks, lips, nose looked more perfect.

Junkrat slumps against the wall, as relief washes over him.  “Morrison - “

“Might run Overwatch, but bloke don’t run the world,” Roadie interrupts. “Found myself a ride on one of the last supply ships in before the storm. Had to borrow someone’s ute to make it up the mountain from the port. Colder than a witch’s tit in here. Lost power?” 

“Shoulda built the fire better.”

“Ain’t criticizing ya, Rat. Come on,” Roadie puts an arm around his shoulders, steadying him as dizziness makes the world list and sway, walks him into the living room. Rat leans into the warmth he radiates, furnace-like as always.

Might fall onto the couch more than sit, but Roadie doesn’t comment, just sets to work rebuilding the fire with the last couple of logs, then heads back out into the storm for more wood. Junkrat tries to stay awake, wants to ground himself in this time, in this place - in reality - but exhaustion pulls him back down before Roadhog returns.

Finds himself in empty dark. In the distance, the outline of a door, light shining from below. He makes his way toward it.

“Torb,” he calls, guessing. Torb’s workshop door shines like that when he’s smithing turrets. But no clang of hammer to iron. Not silence, either. A lilting sound teases the edge of his thoughts. Familiar, sweet. He stops at the closed door, reaches for the handle but can’t quite bring his fingers to close around it. Words float through the wood, a lullaby - babies rocked in cradles and falling from trees, lovely despite the violence. He knows that voice. Knows the warmth of it, bonfire on a late fall evening. Heart squeezes, thumps in the center of his throat, and the door creaks open on a room barely big as a closet.

A single candle glows gold over a woman sitting on the side of a small bed. Her jeans are worn thin, shirt patched and threadbare, but her hair shines brighter than the ingots he and Roadie liberated from the El Dorado Bank. She’s the one singing and he takes a step closer, wanting her to stop, wanting her to never stop. The bedsheets rustle and someone moans, mumbles words he can’t quite catch.

“Shhh, Jamie-love,” she says, hushing, lulling. 

“Mama,” he says and the boy-in-the-bed says at the same time, word splitting dry lips, and her face comes clear in weird double vision, seeing her above and before him simultaneously.

Her voice is calm, steady, as she soothes, “Don’t worry, just a little fever, you’ll be right soon enough.” She dips a flannel into a basin of water, gently wipes it over the boy’s cheeks, his chest, then folds it and drapes it over his forehead.

Rat shudders as a drop of water somehow traces down his own collar and as though she feels his eyes on her, she looks to him, motionless in the doorway. The candlelight shadows her eyes, hollows her cheeks skull-like. In the depths of the sockets her gaze burns with disappointment.

“What have you done,” she demands, sharp, cracking like tree branches in an ice storm.

“I… What?” Words, thoughts, dissolve and scatter.

“How many have you killed?”

He shakes his head, voice lodged in his throat. “Everything you’ve done... Everyone you’ve murdered… Why did you live when we died?” Tone colder than stormwind and it freezes him where he stands, shivering. 

I don’t know, he tries to say, but his teeth are chattering too hard to form the words. I’m sorry…

“Get out.” 

Wake up… gotta wake up… She stands. He stumbles back like he’s been shoved right in the center of his chest. He falls… falls…

Wakes, gasping, shuddering. Her questions circle - what have you done… how many have you killed… murdered… why did you live… why did you live… why….

“Hey, slow it down. Breathe.”  Roadhog’s voice comes clear, then the weight of his hand on Rat’s forehead, grounding.

World around comes back more slowly. Crackle from the rebuilt fire, scent of soup warming on the stove. Roadhog’s been busy. Junkrat tries to focus on breathing, but lapses into another coughing jag, hastily muffled in his elbow. 

“Got quite a fever. When’s your next dose of paracetamol due,” Roadie asks.

“Haven’t taken any.” 

Roadie disappears down the hall, reappearing moments later with more pillows, doona, tissues, bottle of meds and glass of water. “Not exactly the best way to spend your birthday.” He moves Rat over, settles down beside him.

Junkrat shrugs, nestles down in the blankets, head in Roadhog’s lap. “Better now.” His thoughts drift lazily, circling memory and dream, questions surfacing like bubbles before floating away. Takes some effort to hold one without popping. “Hoggie, you think it’s possible to miss something ya ain’t never had?”

Roadhog hums a considering noise. Rat appreciates the pause, means he takes the question serious instead of brushing him off like he’s ridiculous.

“Don’t know about missing, exactly. Longing for, sure. Wishing.” He threads his fingers through Rat’s hair absently as he considers. “But maybe those words don’t quite capture what you’re asking. Why?”

“Talking to Hana and Lú earlier. Got me thinking about birthdays an’ parties an’ sorta felt like maybe I was missing what the holovids show.” 

Roadhog nods, slowly. “Makes sense. Nothing exactly picture perfect, back home.”

“Yeah, nah.” Junkrat blows his nose, everything feeling a tangle. “Was it ever?” Roadhog’d remember, back before the Omnium blew, back before everything went to shit.

 “Time or two, maybe close. But few an’ far between times.” 

“Tell me about one?”

Roadie’s eyes go vague, seeing something in the distance, physically and temporally. He hesitates for so long, Rat wonders whether he’ll actually answer. Then his chest rises and falls in a deep sigh, and he says, “Went to one of those holovid story type birthday parties, once. Kid party. Rainbow balloons. Cupcakes frosted pink and covered in fairy sprinkles. Presents piled up on one end of a card table, burgers and snags piled on the other. Ankle biters in frilly princess dresses and Sunday suits, running every which way, parents laughing and shouting at them. Terrible clown with terrible magic. Not half-bad balloon man, though. Perfect October afternoon, wildflowers, warming breeze, sky bluer than the balloons.”

Junkrat almost sees the scene, though Roadhog – mask, tattoos, big fuckoff boots -- don’t really fit. Maybe it was before Roadhog. Rat can’t picture him without the scars, when he was Mako. Something in him doesn’t want to. He sniffs, presses the back of his hand under his nose, trying not to sneeze and interrupt the story. The memory.

“All about her favorites. Favorite food, favorite ice cream, favorite flavor cake. Favorite music, games. She wanted the clown, the balloon animals. So excited to be turning five - old enough to go to school with her friends. Felt like the beginning of everything.” There’s a strange tone in Roadhog’s voice, one Rat rarely hears. It hooks, tugs at the same place the wolf song did.

Takes a breath to ask who she was to him, but the tickle that’s been building takes advantage of his distraction and he sneezes instead, a harsh paroxysm that curls him into himself. “Hut’Rushhew! Usssh! Huh’Rushhuh!”  Tears well and spill and he’s left mopping himself up. “Fuckin’ gross.”

Roadhog reaches for the tissue box. “Gonna live?” 

The tone’s shifted, mood changed. Roadie’s laughing at him, which is better than the alternative, but Rat can’t stop the tears that keep on, even after the sneezing backs off.

Takes Roadie a second to notice. “What’s up?”

Junkrat shrugs, shakes his head. How can he put it into words? Hana and Lu’s kindness and teasing, the stark cold winter, ache of fever, the strangeness and fear of nightmare, of how he was erased and the questions his mom asked that he can’t answer, is afraid to answer. “Fever gave me weird dreams,” he says finally.

Roadhog is silent. Waits.

“And turning thirty, makes a bloke think, ya know?”

Holds his silence. Letting Rat take his own time putting the words together.

Junkrat looks down, ripping a clean tissue into smaller and smaller pieces. “Thinking, like. How’m I still alive? Longer than my parents. Than so many people. Maybe ain’t really worth it.”

“What’s worth got to do with anything? Think there’s a scale, someone weighing and choosing? You, not you?”

“Could be.” Flicker of anger. “Could be my ma thinks she got right shafted with the deal, dead and buried and I’m… what? Stealing fuckall and blowing shit up and killing people what get in my way.” With nothing else to throw, and no energy to get up and walk away, Rat tosses the bits of tissue and they drift to the floor like snow. Does nothing to dissipate the anger. 

“When you’re a parent, that ain’t the way you think.”

“How the fuck would you know?”

A heavy silence falls between them and it bites at Rat like fleas. He’s said something wrong again, but isn’t sure what. Roadhog’s not looking at him anymore and it feels like he’s pulled back and away even though he hasn’t moved. He’s staring at the fire, expression utterly flat. The moment stretches.

“I’m sorry,” Junkrat blurts. Take it back, whatever it is, to get rid of the awful stillness.

A log snaps, Roadhog blinks and shifts. “Things happened back there should never have. Choices made, actions taken. We all got regrets. Don’t take yours out on me. Gotta make your own peace with what’s done, what’s undone, and what you do next.” But he reaches back out, puts his arm around Junkrat, who leans into him again. This time the quiet is easier.

“Morrison’s gonna be pissed you stole a ute,” Junkrat says.

Roadie’s chuckle is a low rumble against Rat’s ear. “Nah, left payment for time used. Sure McCree’ll send it back when he finds it.” A pause. “And Jamie, your ma’s happy you’re still here. She’d trade herself in a heartbeat.”

Fabian knows, almost from the moment he engages, that he’s made a deep mistake attempting the attack this way. Though he comes upon the pirate in the dead of night, alone as planned, he hadn’t considered that the pirate’s shipmates might still be within earshot. His blade only crosses the pirate’s once before he hears heavy boots closing fast.

The pirate thrusts and he manages to parry, but only just. His body feels strange and disconnected, as though he’s a half-beat behind in the dance, perpetually off-step. The pirate presses his advantage; Fabian retreats. Suddenly there’s a flash of light on another drawn sword and several more pirates surround him. At his best he can handle eight, maybe ten. He is not at his best, and light from the streetlamp falls on fifteen.

The pirate grins. “Yer goin’ down, boy.”

“Not a boy anymore.” At least he’ll die in battle, and if he’s very lucky he’ll take this scourge to hell with him. Make his papa proud.

“That remains to be seen,” another says.

The battle is fierce. Swords clash, lunge and dodge, strike-parry-riposte, movements Fabian knows in his sleep, but something is wrong. His body won’t obey. His lungs ache and he can’t catch his breath. Sweat drips into his eye, burning. And then - an opening - the pirate attacking leaves his flank unguarded and Fabian darts in fast - too fast to pull back when he realizes it’s a feint.

I’m fucked, he has time to think, as the pirate whirls. A sharp blow cracks across his elbow, his fingers go numb and his sword falls, clattering to the cobblestone. One of the crew kicks the back of his knees and he stumbles forward and drops. He grabs for his sword, but just as his hand closes around it, the point of the pirate’s sword is at his throat. Should have known it would end this way. Alone. On Leviathan. Fitting for it to be here, tonight - on the anniversary. The way it should have ended if he hadn’t run like a coward, abandoning Alistair to Captain James. Fabian fumbles in his pocket for his crystal, wishing for just enough time to send a last message to the Bad Kids. “Do it,” he says from between gritted teeth.

The pirate barks a laugh, but shakes his head. “Ain’t worth the world o’ hurt that would bring down on me head, boy. Chungledown Bim’s a right devil and yer marked as his. Can’t let ya follow for another go at me, though this has been a delight.”

A brilliant flash of pain blinds him. The crystal slides through his fingers. He falls… and falls… and falls…

through ropes that burn his skin and do nothing to slow his speed and his body hits water that closes over his head like he’s been swallowed whole and still he falls through freezing darkness until the ocean parts and he falls through fire and the flames crackle and whisper - What will you tell the Captain when you meet him in Hell? Have you written your name on the face of the world, Fabian? No, you have written nothing. Nothing to be remembered by. Even your friends have forgotten you. How does it feel to be a failure of a pirate and a failure of a friend? the whisper turns to choking smoke and

Fabian coughs himself awake, lungs aching like he’s been breathing water and smoke, but he still lays where he’d fallen, in some Four Castles back alley. His body’s not been hijacked. Not dropped here by imps. He blinks up at the sky for a long moment, struggling to orient himself. The sky is heavy with clouds, hiding even a sliver of moon. Fat drops of rain pelt down, edged with ice. He blinks the water from his eye and pushes himself to his feet. Once again he staggers through the streets of Leviathan, shivering hard enough to rattle teeth. This time, however, there’s no Cathilda to wrap him in a blanket, no Hangvan to disappear into. No Kristen to slap sense back into him. He wraps his arms around himself, but the rain soaks his shirt and finds no warmth.

Those he passes take no notice of him, perhaps assuming he’s nothing more than another drunken pirate. Even so, he needs to find a place to lay low. Given enough time someone will roll him just to see if he has any coin. Or simply for the fun of it. He’s not even sure, at this moment, that he could defend himself against a single assailant. His head aches where the pirate hit him and his throat is unaccountably raw. Then, as if to add insult to injury, he sneezes. Once, twice, thrice, smothered in the sleeve of his shirt. He always sneezes in threes. Riz teased him mercilessly about it.

“If you’d just sneeze like a normal person, instead of those pinchy things, you’d be done in one, Fabiahn,” Riz would say, drawing his name out like his elvish grandfather did.

“It’s called being polite, The Ball,” he’d reply. “And what do you know about normal?”

“About as much as you.”

They’d laugh together and Fabian’s embarrassment would ease. He would give anything for Riz to be laughing with him now.

Suddenly a door slams open and a wash of warm yellow light spills over the ground in front of him. He glances up. Maybe Kristen sent Cassandra to watch over him, because his meandering path has brought him to the Gold Gardens. The exiting patron brushes past with a muttered curse, but Fabian barely notices. As the doors swing shut, Bob’s voice slips through, full of dream and promise. Fabian checks his pockets and breathes a sigh of relief at the comforting feel of coin.

He stands straighter, raises his chin, allowing the light to fall on his face, scars and eyepatch and all, as the Goliath guard regards him suspiciously. Though it has been some time since he’s been on Leviathan and longer since he’s sought refuge at the Gold Gardens, he trusts the reputation he’s built in the intervening years yet holds. “Good evening. I find myself in need of a room for the night,” he says. “I have payment.”

The other guard, a half-orc he vaguely recognizes from previous visits, turns to him. Her face betrays no reaction to his disheveled state. It’s likely that she’s seen worse. “Ah, Master Seacaster. Garthy O’Brien has made it known there is always room for you here. Please, enter.”

Fabian sketches a small bow. The doors swing wide and the heat that flows out and envelops him is nearly as heavenly as Bob’s voice. But the change in temperature makes his nose run. He sniffs, presses the back of his wrist against the tickling itch, but can’t stop the inevitable. He’s barely inside before he’s sneezing again and wishing for something other than his sleeve to cover with. “H’tchsh! Chh! H’tsh!” He hopes the music and general merriment of the patrons is enough to hide the slight sound, but of course he is noticed.

“Blessings, Fabian, darling. Are you ill?” Garthy touches his shoulder gently and before he can stop himself, Fabian flinches away. His skin feels too tight, even the light pressure too much sensation. They take a step back, one hand raised in a calming gesture.

“I beg your pardon, Garthy,” Fabian says, attempting his usual charming smile. He’s not sure he pulls it off, because a small frown of concern still lingers between their brows. Somehow the expression does nothing to mar their beauty; the proprietor of the Gold Gardens is exquisite as always, the few silver threads in their black dreads the only indicator of years passing. “I’m fine. Just a little chilled from the rain. And you, my friend, are a sight for sore eyes. Eye.” His mouth quirks. “Might there be a room for a traveler seeking shelter from the storm?”

Garthy considers him for a long moment, gaze intent. Fabian resists the urge to look away, to avoid scrutiny. It’ll only make them more suspicious. He concentrates on keeping his expression vaguely flirtatious, his stance loose and easy. At last Garthy gives the smallest nod, allowing him his ruse. “I have told you before, lovey, you are always welcome here. You and yours. Come.” They turn down a hallway and Fabian follows.

Bob’s voice, the rattle of dice, the din of too much conversation fade and Fabian releases a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. The Bad Kids always stayed in a room just off the main parlor, right in the midst of the action. Fig and Gorgug would take over for the house band and practically blow the roof off. Kristen would try to outdrink that biggest pirate she could find, and usually ended up drunk-best-friends with everyone. If Tracker had to pull her out of a fight or two, well, that just kept things interesting. Ragh and Fabian would drink too much mead and take too much snuff and Ragh would challenge the wrong people to wrestling matches and Fabian would beat the wrong people at dice and sometimes fists would be thrown. Good naturedly, of course. Adaine would watch them all over the spine of a book from the Compass Points and shake her head. Sometimes she had to heal one or another of them, but she never seemed to mind. Riz would disappear into the crowd for indeterminate amounts of time, only to suddenly appear at their table with a sharp-toothed grin and clues to whatever mystery they were trying to solve that he’d gleaned from overheard conversations. Fig and Kristen, especially, never wanted the nights to end. Sometime around dawn, though, Kristen and Tracker would peel off, followed by Fig and Ayda. The rest of them shared a room, Fabian, Riz, Gorgug, and Ragh all sprawled on a huge bed while Adaine tranced on a chaise nearby. Somehow Fabian slept better those nights than before or since, even though the room was never peaceful, or silent. Ragh and Gorgug snored. Adaine muttered to herself in her trance. Riz, when he slept, was restless, taking up more room than a three and a half foot tall goblin should. When he didn’t, his pen would scratch across his notebook for hours. None of it ever bothered Fabian.

A door creaks open, startling Fabian out of his thoughts. The room Garthy offers is a small and simply furnished space, just a bed, desk, and fireplace. Fabian crosses the room to a large window and looks out over the edge of the city to the black ocean beyond. It’s still raining, drops pattering against the pane. He should say something to Garthy. Thank them for the room, make a joke about another Leviathan brawl gone badly. He can’t find the words. Any words.

“Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps a warm drink?” Garthy’s voice is quiet, as though they might be intruding.

“No, thank you,” he says. Kippers, Master Fabian? Cathilda’s voice in his head. I don’t deserve kippers. He didn’t. Doesn’t. Twenty men dead. Twenty innocent men. Worst of all, Alistair Ash. Still a child. Dead because he needed to prove that he was a true pirate, heir to his father’s fame. That he is worthy. Instead he left Alistair to the fate that should have been his. He rubs his hand over his eye as though he could rub away the ache. The failure.

Garthy whispers something Fabian doesn’t catch, and flames rise in the hearth, hot and bright, crackling cheerfully. “At least let me take your wet things,” they say. “You’re shaking.”

He hadn’t realized how cold he still feels, despite being out of the wind and rain, until Garthy points it out. He takes a breath to declare, again, that he’s fine, but a chill cascades over him, followed by several sneezes, instantly proving him wrong. “H’ngxt! Fuck. H’Ntch! Ngxt!” He straightens and Garthy offers a handkerchief. Abashed, he takes it, blows his nose. “Pardon me.” Before he can gather himself, he’s overtaken again. At least this time he has a handkerchief to mute the sound. The sneezes shiver through him hard enough to send drops of rain spattering from his hair.

“Bless you, darling.” Garthy draws him closer to the fire. With deft fingers they undress him, peeling sodden clothes from his body, then wrap him in a thick robe. He doesn’t resist, suddenly beyond exhausted. Everything feels like it’s happening at a distance. Or maybe through a pane of glass. “Come, have a lay down. Things’ll look better in the morning.”

Fabian nods, even though he’s certain things will look just the same. He barely slides between the sheets when his eye drifts closed. He feels the bed dip slightly as Garthy sits beside him and, seeking warmth, he curls close. They smell spicy and sweet, like cinnamon and sandalwood and orange blossoms. Garthy curves a hand over his forehead. It’s strangely comforting and he wants to bury his face in Garthy’s hair, but instead he drifts out and out and…

floats in a strange grey emptiness. He can only identify his surroundings by absence. No color. No sound. No touch. He thinks he lifts his hands, or tries to lift his hands, or what should be his hands, but there’s nothing. He tries to look down, what he might assume is down, only to find no body. Nothing. It’s like the Nightmare Forest, but worse because they defeated the Nightmare King. They defeated Kalina. Which means this must be real. This nought. Of course no one reaches out… you don’t exist.You never existed. You are not even memory. You are a nonentity. A nullity. He opens his mouth to argue, but there’s no mouth, no vocal cords, no lungs, no breath. No words. No thoughts. Just deep, endless cold. Bone aching cold, if he had bones.

“...safe…You’re all right. Wake up, Fabian, love.” Garthy’s voice coalesces from the cold, at first sounding sharp as ice breaking. But they know his name, beckon him back into form by shaping the word. “Come on, darling. You’re dreaming.”

“Should’ve left me; felt better there. Nothing hurts when you don’t have a body,” he mumbles, and even though he has vocal cords again, he sounds nothing like himself. He clears his throat, sniffs.

Garthy laughs, low and kind. “Let me help you feel better, here in your body.” They cup his cheek gently, then urge him up and through a door to a bathing chamber.

A large bathtub stands in the center of the room, steam rising in soft curls. It is surrounded with dozens of candles and in their light Garthy glows, irises and tattoos molten gold. Fabian reaches for them, hesitantly. As if touching them might dim their shine. They smile tenderly, allowing him to trace the Zajiri script, the flowers and leaves with one tentative finger. He wonders what the writing might mean. Their skin is soft under Fabian’s own calloused hands. He longs for Garthy to wrap their arms around him, to hold him close until his shivering stops, until he’s finally warm. He doesn’t know how to ask.

Instead he moves back, putting a bit of distance between them. “I’m not w…” he starts to say, but an unexpected set of sneezes interrupts and he only just manages to pull the handkerchief from his robe pocket. “Ht’ngxt! Heh...ihh… Nxgt! H’tchh!”

“Not well?” Garthy suggests, steadying him. “Blessings.”

Heat rises in Fabian’s cheeks and he coughs a laugh. “That either. But no.” He gestures broadly, including the room, the bath, Garthy themself. “Not worth this.”

Garthy tilts their head with a puzzled frown. “Oh, lovey, of course you are.” They press one finger to Fabian’s lips before he can continue arguing. “Shh. It’s all right.” They take Fabian’s elbow, guiding him into the bath.

Fabian sinks into the heat with a deep sigh as his muscles begin to relax. He slides down, submerging himself completely in warm darkness. The water closes over his face; he rests his head on the bottom of the tub, and the only thing he hears is the thump of his own heart in his ears, still beating, beating, beating. At last his breath runs out and he surfaces with a gasp.

Gathy’s pulled a stool up beside the bath and as Fabian wipes water out of his eye, they wet a cloth and begin to wash his back, humming quietly. The soap smells of eucalyptus and peppermint, cool and clean. Fabian shivers once, and only slowly eases into the touch, closing his eye as Garthy washes his hair, gently working his fingers over his scalp. A memory rises, unbidden - himself, in the bath, he can’t be more than five and he’s sobbing. His papa is away, his mama asleep in her room even though it’s not even dark outside and he’s sick and scared. But then Cathilda’s there, as she always is, and she’s cleaning him up and humming a lullaby. Tears rise now, before he can stop them, dripping into the water.

“What’s distressing you, love?” Garthy asks.

It takes him several minutes to gather his thoughts; they feel ephemeral as clouds floating through his mind. “It’s been twenty years, Garthy. Shouldn’t it have faded?” He coughs, trying to clear the lump in his throat. “I still see them, you know. My father’s warlocks.” He presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. Breathe, he tells himself.

Garthy hums a listening noise.

“I shouldn’t have gone alone that night. I just wanted a moment in Crow’s Keep - we’d gone there together, my papa and I. When I was little. It was the one time Mama got angry at him, for bringing me to Leviathan, when he wasn’t supposed to be interacting with pirates. But he’d taken me up to watch the sun rise. He said he’d bring me to the top of the world, that we could touch the clouds. If I was lucky, I might even bring some home in my pockets…

“He gave me cotton candy, told me it was one he’d harvested himself. I’d never imagined clouds tasted so sweet…” he licks his lips, remembering how the candy had melted on his tongue, just like a rain cloud.

“I thought, maybe… somehow… if I spoke to him from the top of the world, he might hear me.” Fabian laughs at himself, coughs on a sob but manages to swallow it back. “Of course, Papa wasn’t listening. He was busy taking over Hell and selling spells to pirates. Always on to a bigger adventure, even in death.

“When the warlocks came, I let myself get swept up. Figuratively, as well as literally. I told them about Papa. About what I’d done… and it wasn’t enough. I killed him and it wasn’t enough.” He takes a ragged breath and Garthy rubs his back in slow circles. “I thought we could take Captain James. I thought I could take Captain James. It would make up for… everything.” He sucks in another breath, on the edge of desperation. He can’t get enough air. When he blinks, he feels Whitclaw’s tentacles on his face, cold fingers gripping him tight, raw hatred pulsing in the air between them.

“It went so fast. So fast. If I didn’t run… if I didn’t… he would have killed me… with the others. I didn’t stop to think, I didn’t even grab Alistair and he was fighting for me. I abandoned him… and I didn’t die, but he did. Because I fucked up.” Fabian sits in silence for several minutes, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe and not cry.

“I thought the guilt would fade,” he finally says, voice rough and not much above a whisper. “I thought the good I’ve done since would make up for it. I thought the adventures I had with the Bad Kids would make up for it. But it hasn’t. It doesn’t. And they’re gone… I thought killing the last of Whitclaw’s men would be penance. But I fucked that up, too.”

The only sound for a long moment is the rain on the roof, thunder rolling in the distance. Then Fabian takes a breath like he’s about to dive into the ocean and turns to face Garthy. “Am I forgivable?”

“Oh my darling Fabian. Of course you are. You are already forgiven.” They lean forward and brush the lightest kiss across his lips. “Yes, dire mistakes were made. And you have repented of those mistakes, and made reparations. You did not follow in your father’s footsteps; you found your own way. You have made a good man of yourself. You help those who are in need. You do not take advantage of anyone. You are generous, kind, thoughtful. Tales of your deeds are not spoken of as widely as Captain Bill Seacaster, but I have heard them nonetheless. Be proud of who you have become, Fabian Aramais Seacaster. And you should know that Alistair Ash lives again.”