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 LĂșcio, 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 LĂșcio 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 LĂșcio 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.
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âŠ..not even six hours later i got an offer of a well paying full time long-term job with free room and board in queens in nyc, allowing me independence and a way to escape an abusive situation and an unhealthy environment
likes charge reblogs cast, folks, this is the good luck post
the last time I reblogged this post right before I got a great job, in a permanent work-from-home position, with benefits, retirement, and a salary literally 3x what I was making before, doing something I really like.Â
i reblogged this 16 hours ago and can confirm. this works. went to test drive cars today with the intent of purchasing, and on the way to the dealership got a phone call, turned around, ended up being gifted one from a coworker who was just getting rid of it.
Well, this has been in progress for approximately a century and a half. (Derailed by youngest kiddo health challenges, and - you know - the state of the States. But Kiddo's improving and I'm taking my joy where I can find it. In Overwatch sickfic. Still. Always.)
With the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet
Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat
Settle soft and pure as snow
I fell in love with the fire long ago
~ Hozier, Would That I
âSo then Brigitte saysâŠâ
The image of Hanaâs face on the vid-screen blurs and Junkrat blinks, eyelids heavy, nods when she pauses for breath. Gotta focus. Mind wanders even a moment and sheâll be three subjects on and ainât no way to catch up. But his nose is tickling and heâs not sure how long heâll be able to avoid sneezing whichâll interrupt the conversation and derail his thoughts certain. Rubs his nose against his knuckle, attempting to push back the urge, then sniffs quiet as he can. He nods again, clenching his jaw against a yawn. Probably shouldâve begged off the call sooner, but it was nice to have something to listen to beside the wind and his own circling thoughts.Â
âI swear I told her about the plan LĂș and I made-Â Hey, you listening?â Hana interrupts herself, switching focus.
Junkrat startles, attention abruptly snapping to. âCourse,â he says. âCanât believe youâd doubt me.â Then, before he even realizes itâs going to happen, a sneeze barrels through him and he only just manages to turn away from the screen as he aims toward his elbow. âHutâRushhew! Usssh! HuhâRushhuh!â They scrape his throat and he coughs a little after.
âHoly shit - bless you.â
âTa,â he says, swiping a tissue over his nose and trying a grin. âGotta tell McCree to quit putting off the chores. Pretty sure this place ainât seen a good cleaning in a couple months, at least.â
âUh huh.â Rolls her eyes strong enough to pull a muscle, but she lets the lie slide and launches back into her story.
Junkrat loses the thread immediately. His head aches, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He presses the cool metal of his mech hand into his eye socket, acts like heâs rubbing away an itch. Wishes heâd thought to shut the light before taking the call.Â
âRat? You all right?â LĂșcioâs leaned over Hanaâs shoulder, brow furrowed. Bloody healers, always noticing things. Must be later than heâd realized, if the hockey match is over.
 âTouch of allergies.â Just a little luck and he can finish the call before LĂș catches on. âWho won?â
âGive you three guesses and the last two donât count. Also, I'm sorry man, but we all know no oneâs got allergies in the middle of winter.
âHeâs claiming that McCree didnât clean the cabin,â Hana says.Â
LĂșcio snorts. âAs if Hanzo would allow a speck of dust to breach his perimeter.â
âRight; fine,â Junkrat shrugs, sheepish. âGuess I might be coming down with something.â He barely finishes the sentence before another set of sneezes curl him into himself. âHtâRushhew! Ussshhah! Hih-ih⊠Hitâschuuuh!â
âSounds like a distinct possibility.â Hana says, tone dry as the Outback.
âYouâre a right dag, ainât ya.â Junkrat blows his nose, then finds himself talking before thinking. âAny chance I can hitch a ride out of here âfore the storm sets in?âÂ
Hana types something on her keyboard, eyes narrowed, clearly figuring, but LĂșcio shakes his head. âMei says itâs coming on faster than expected. No oneâs allowed in or out until it passes. Not even Lena.âÂ
As if to prove her right the wind rises, tree branches tap the window like fingers and Junkrat canât stop the shiver that comes over him. âYeah, nah, course not. Didnât really think ya could. Sheâll be apples. JustâŠâ just wishes it didnât look like heâs âbout to spend his birthday snowed in, alone, with what feels like itâs shaping up to be a right bastard of a cold.
âDude! You didnât mention itâs your birthday,â Hana interrupts and Junkrat blinks, confused. Hadnât actually said it out loud, had he? But no, sheâs still focused on the screen in front of her.
âYouâre a leapling?â Lucio also looks at her screen. âBorn on the extra leap year day,â he clarifies at Hanaâs perplexed expression. âAnd youâre not celebrating?â
Junkrat rubs the back of his neck. âAinât a big thing, birthdays.â Never had been, that he could remember. Sure, sometimes he and Roadieâd 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. Ainât that he missed it, exactly. Could you miss something youâd never had? Have to ask Roadie. Bloke loved questions like that.
âYouâre turning thirty! Of course itâs a big thing,â Hana protests, incredulous. âWeâre throwing you a party when you get back-â
Junkrat opens his mouth to argue, doesnât need a party, but a sneeze rips through him, followed on by the usual additional two before he can even snag another breath.Â
âWhen youâre not spewing germs,â she amends. âAnd donât worry, old man, we wonât keep you up past your bedtime.â
LĂșcio punches her shoulder. âWhoâre you calling old? Heâs only a couple years ahead of me.âÂ
âGot a point though.â Junkrat runs his hand through his hair and a few strands drift over his shoulder to the floor. âOld comes early in Junkertown - pretty sure Iâm older than either of my parents got to be.âÂ
No one laughs. LĂșcio looks like Rat slapped him.
Bollocks. Making shit worse, as usual. Thinkingâs slow through the fog of congestion and dull headache. If only everything didnât feel so odd, wavery and swirling, heâd 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 LĂș. âAinât serious, mate. Honestly. Didnât mean nothing. Sorry.â
âIâm not mad, Rat. Just -â
âSo disappointed,â Hana interrupts, perfectly mimicking Mercy at her most frustrated, a tone Junkrat knows all too well.Â
He laughs, but it quickly devolves into coughing and his lungs crackle ominously when he takes a breath.
âYou sure youâre going to be okay, Jamie?â LĂș 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. âAinât I always?â Junkrat forces his smile wider. âWanted some time alone, now I got it, yeah?â Wanted⊠hell, planned⊠time alone with Roadie, but the mission took precedence. Which, course it did. But understanding donât lessen annoyance.
âI could convince Lena that youâre really sick and need evacuation. Healer privilege.â LĂșâs still trying to figure how to drag him out of danger, as usual. Shouldnât have asked for a ride. Blokeâs gonna worry.
âAinât Lena needs convincing. Jackâs sure as shit not gonna allow her to risk it just âcause I got the sniffles.â Sheila might be Overwatchâs pilot and a damn good one, but Morrisonâs wordâs law. âGive me a couple days anâ sheâll be apples, mate. No worries. Catch me up on the game. Connectionâs shit out here, back of beyond.âÂ
LĂșcioâs brow is still scrunched, doubtful, but he canât 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 heâd sneeze again just so heâd 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 heâs coming down sick and Roadie ainât even around to appreciate.
He should get moving, make sure everythingâs closed up for the storm, but even though itâs barely half-four heâs 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 âHutâchhhiew! Uh-Esssh! HuhrâUsshhuh!â His sneezing shatters the silence, but it closes back over him immediately like water.Â
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 heâs sick. Disgusting.Â
The grandfather clock in the corner marks time, each move of the second hand ticking against his brain. Older than his parents. Heâd laughed when he said it, but maybe⊠maybe LĂșâs right. Thinking about it, ainât 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 couldnâtâve been more than twenties, neither one.Â
What does he have to show for all these years - this life longer than theirs, longer than so many in Junkertown? Pile oâdosh 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 Ratâs stomach twists, knots. Whatâs it even mean, all those died and he didnât?Â
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. Ainât gonna let the place fall apart just because heâs a little under the weather. He yanks a jacket from the rack and forces the door open against the windâs resistance.Â
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.
Itâs 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 theyâre wrapped proper and wonât freeze. He hauls wood for the fireplace, hoping thereâs enough split to last out the weather, or at least this plague. Reckons using an axe now risks what limbs heâs got left, woozy as heâs feeling.Â
Heâs just securing the shed door so it doesnât blow open when the stormâs 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 doesnât 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 Overwatchâs law, from Hanaâs bright laughter and LĂșcioâs too-kind eyes. Follow - down into the deep and quieting dark. He does, ducking under low-hanging branches, following a path that isnât 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 hadnât seen, his other ankle twists, and heâs falling before he can catch himself.Â
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 painâs not sharp enough to indicate a break. Stupid to wander around in the dark, full moon or no. Roadieâd call him a galah and heâd 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 heâs the only living thing in kilometers.Â
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 canât 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.Â
Turning thirty⊠of course itâs a big thing⊠gonna throw you a party⊠More years than not heâd forget his birthday entirely. Hard to remember, when itâs a day only happens every four years. Maybe thatâs why he never feels his right age. Times when Mercyâs reading him the riot act about some dumb fool thing heâs done - again - he feels like a kid what failed a test on an untaught lesson. Missing something everyone else knows. Other times heâll sit with Hana and LĂș, play holovid games and listen to the ease of their banter, dazzled in the light of their laughter, sure as sure he ainât never been that young. Maybe thirtyâll be different. Maybe somethingâll shift and heâll be right. Maybe.Â
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 heâs been walking ages, but canât remember where heâs going, or where heâs coming from. He pauses, squints into the distance. A few scraggling bushes dot the horizon, nothing else. No buildings, no people.Â
Turns to look behind. Outline of a shack at the edge of his vision. Roadieâs? Canât see details this far away. Silence presses against his ears. No birdsong, no insects hum. No rumble of Hogâs hog. Not even a breeze stirs the air. Better turn back - Roadhogâll remember what he was doing, give him direction. Can always count on the big lug to be his brains, when things get foggy.Â
At first feels like heâs 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 heâs right in front of the door. Blinks, confused. Door opens on its own. Weird.
Temperatureâs 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. âOi, Hog?â Silence swallows the words. No answer.Â
One chair at the table. One plate, one mug of coffee, still steaming. No Roadhog. None of Ratâs stuff neither. Corner where he keeps his gear empty.Â
Heavy footsteps thump overhead, ceiling creaks. A sense of foreboding crawls over him, setting the hair at his nape prickling up. He doesnât call out again, doesnât dare. Better leave before whoever⊠whateverâs⊠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.Â
Footsteps closer now, boots on the stairs. Gotta be Roadhog. Who else could be in his place? Tension tightens his shoulders, gut twists. Ainât Roadie. Somehow heâs certain of it. Doesnât want to look, doesnât want to know. Canât resist. Even as he still wrestles with the door, glances over his shoulder as the footsteps descend. Roadhogâs boots, camo pants, tattoo across his stomach but where his face should be, where his mask would be, a horrible blank emptiness. Canât 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, heâs alone in the corridor. He coughs, wipes sweat from his forehead, lungs ache like heâs been running. Clearly ainât in Junkertown. WhereâŠ?
One of the Watchpoints he realizes, glancing around himself. Likely Gibraltar. Ainât as familiar as some of the other bases, but he should be able to find Winstonâs lab. Maybe he can explain what the hell that thing was.Â
Sets off in the direction Ratâs pretty sureâll lead to the lab. Walks past closed doors with only a passing glance. They are labeled, but he canât make out the writing. Seems to squirm and blur as he tries. Makes him feel vaguely nauseated, so he quits trying. Keeps walking.Â
Turns a corner and nearly collides with a figure coming toward him.Â
âCareful,â she snaps, passing without another word. Like she donât even know him.
âSatya, wait,â he calls, but she doesnât break stride, disappears around the corner. He frowns, perplexed. She ainât never liked him, but this is beyond. Canât recollect anything heâs done recently to piss her off.
How big is Gibraltar, anyway? Seems like he shouldâve found the lab already, feels heâs 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, canât 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.
âHey, man. Whatâre you doing here?âÂ
The touch on his shoulder is gentle but Rat still startles, heart thudding in his throat. âDamn LĂș, made me jump. Iâm fucking lost. Canât find Winstonâs lab.â
âHow do you know my name,â LĂș asks, a small crease between his brows.Â
âHas everyone here lost their damn minds? How the hellâd I not know someone I been working longside for years. My memory sure as shit ainât perfect, but you never forget a thing.â Makes no sense. Werenât they friends? Heâd thought anyway.
LĂșcio shakes his head. âI donât know how you passed the security system, but you need to leave. I donât know you. You donât belong here.â The door slides open for him, and heâs backing through, and Rat recognizes his room. His and Roadieâs, but LĂșâs turntables, sound system, computers, cords spread across the workbench, not his own plans and projects in progress. LĂșâs clothes hang next to Roadieâs. Everything neat and orderly the way Roadie likes it; no sign of Ratâs sprawling chaos.
A shadow falls across the floor, LĂșcio turns to meet it, and Junkrat goes cold. Knows whatâs coming. He wants to run, wants to warn LĂș, but heâs frozen, body and voice. Roadhogâs form comes around the corner, moving fast and its face is still the awful empty staring blankness and Junkrat wrenches himself back and away andâŠ
Opens his eyes to full night, fire gone out. Heâs shaking hard enough worries his bones will break. Furnace didnât kick on, though the cabin feels cold enough to see his breath. Storm mustâve 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 itâs going to split and he massages his temple, wishing for relief. But before he can gather the energy, sleep tugs him back under.
âSure you got that under control?â Roadhogâs voice rumbles through the comm, muffled slightly by his mask.
âTold ya I do, didnât I? Be quiet and keep watch,â Rat snaps. He sniffs, sleeves his nose against a drip. What is he doing? Canât 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.Â
Roadhog on watch. Comms. A mask of his own puddled at his feet. Doing something they ainât supposed to be, somewhere they ainât supposed to be.Â
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 Queenâs just won a challenge. He shudders, cold and empathetic for whatever bloke just took a fall.
Right. Recollects the plan now - gonna blow the Queenâs summer shack. Payback for all sheâs 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. Anâ Roadhog doubted him. Thought he couldnât 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 Queenâs rusty hinge voice scrapes through the comm. âWhat the bloody hellâre you doing here, all on your own? Whereâs the vermin?â
Junkratâs mouth goes dry, a trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck. Hog better think quick, come up with something plausible.
âRealize I owe you somewhat. Come up to Bobbyâs for a round.â
âPint of that rotgut ainât coming close to paying your debts.â
âCourse not, but got some information might go a ways toward...â Comm garbles and cuts out.Â
For a long minute only static buzz in his head. What information does Roadhog have that heâd even consider sharing with her? Ratâs hands are still, though his heart beats double time. Gotta be a ruse. Get her away from the work Ratâs doing. Get the rest of the crew to follow. Ainât actually going to tell her a damn thing.
Timeâs 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 thereâs 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. Ainât 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 itâs 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 fireâs consumed his throat, his lungs, his blood until heâs nothing but flame and heâs 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 thereâs 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 doesnât trip over something in the dark.Â
Heâs 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 heâs sure heâs still dreaming because Roadhogâs framed in the doorway, larger than life and covered in snow. Junkratâs mouth goes dry, shivers catpawing up his spine. His face is gonna be the horrible blankness and -
âJesus, Rat. LĂșcioâs right, you look like shit.â Roadhog stomps snow from his boots, wipes fog from the eyes of his mask - his normal mask - closes the door behind himself.Â
âFeel like it, too.â Junkratâs voice rasps, smoke and gravel. He clears his throat, tries again, âThe fuck are you doing here?â 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. âQuit talking; hurts to listen to ya. Finished the mission,â 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. âMorrison - â
âMight run Overwatch, but bloke donât run the world,â Roadie interrupts. âFound myself a ride on one of the last supply ships in before the storm. Had to borrow someoneâs ute to make it up the mountain from the port. Colder than a witchâs tit in here. Lost power?âÂ
âShoulda built the fire better.â
âAinât criticizing ya, Rat. Come on,â 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 doesnât 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.
âTorb,â he calls, guessing. Torbâs workshop door shines like that when heâs 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 canât 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. Sheâs 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 canât quite catch.
âShhh, Jamie-love,â she says, hushing, lulling.Â
âMama,â 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, âDonât worry, just a little fever, youâll be right soon enough.â She dips a flannel into a basin of water, gently wipes it over the boyâs 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.
âWhat have you done,â she demands, sharp, cracking like tree branches in an ice storm.
âI⊠What?â Words, thoughts, dissolve and scatter.
âHow many have you killed?â
He shakes his head, voice lodged in his throat.
âEverything youâve done... Everyone youâve murdered⊠Why did you live when we died?â Tone colder than stormwind and it freezes him where he stands, shivering.Â
I donât know, he tries to say, but his teeth are chattering too hard to form the words. Iâm sorryâŠ
âGet out.âÂ
Wake up⊠gotta wake up⊠She stands. He stumbles back like heâs been shoved right in the center of his chest. He falls⊠fallsâŠ
Wakes, gasping, shuddering. Her questions circle - what have you done⊠how many have you killed⊠murdered⊠why did you live⊠why did you live⊠whyâŠ.
âHey, slow it down. Breathe.â Roadhogâs voice comes clear, then the weight of his hand on Ratâs forehead, grounding.
World around comes back more slowly. Crackle from the rebuilt fire, scent of soup warming on the stove. Roadhogâs been busy. Junkrat tries to focus on breathing, but lapses into another coughing jag, hastily muffled in his elbow.Â
âGot quite a fever. Whenâs your next dose of paracetamol due,â Roadie asks.
âHavenât taken any.âÂ
Roadie disappears down the hall, reappearing moments later with more pillows, doona, tissues, bottle of meds and glass of water. âNot exactly the best way to spend your birthday.â He moves Rat over, settles down beside him.
Junkrat shrugs, nestles down in the blankets, head in Roadhogâs lap. âBetter now.â His thoughts drift lazily, circling memory and dream, questions surfacing like bubbles before floating away. Takes some effort to hold one without popping. âHoggie, you think itâs possible to miss something ya ainât never had?â
Roadhog hums a considering noise. Rat appreciates the pause, means he takes the question serious instead of brushing him off like heâs ridiculous.
âDonât know about missing, exactly. Longing for, sure. Wishing.â He threads his fingers through Ratâs hair absently as he considers. âBut maybe those words donât quite capture what youâre asking. Why?â
âTalking to Hana and LĂș earlier. Got me thinking about birthdays anâ parties anâ sorta felt like maybe I was missing what the holovids show.âÂ
âYeah, nah.â Junkrat blows his nose, everything feeling a tangle. âWas it ever?â Roadhogâd remember, back before the Omnium blew, back before everything went to shit.
 âTime or two, maybe close. But few anâ far between times.âÂ
âTell me about one?â
Roadieâs eyes go vague, seeing something in the distance, physically and temporally. He hesitates for so long, Rat wonders whether heâll actually answer. Then his chest rises and falls in a deep sigh, and he says, âWent 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.â
Junkrat almost sees the scene, though Roadhog â mask, tattoos, big fuckoff boots -- donât really fit. Maybe it was before Roadhog. Rat canât picture him without the scars, when he was Mako. Something in him doesnât want to. He sniffs, presses the back of his hand under his nose, trying not to sneeze and interrupt the story. The memory.
âAll 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.â Thereâs a strange tone in Roadhogâs 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 thatâs been building takes advantage of his distraction and he sneezes instead, a harsh paroxysm that curls him into himself. âHutâRushhew! Usssh! HuhâRushhuh!â Tears well and spill and heâs left mopping himself up. âFuckinâ gross.â
Roadhog reaches for the tissue box. âGonna live?âÂ
The toneâs shifted, mood changed. Roadieâs laughing at him, which is better than the alternative, but Rat canât stop the tears that keep on, even after the sneezing backs off.
Takes Roadie a second to notice. âWhatâs up?â
Junkrat shrugs, shakes his head. How can he put it into words? Hana and Luâs 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 canât answer, is afraid to answer. âFever gave me weird dreams,â he says finally.
Roadhog is silent. Waits.
âAnd turning thirty, makes a bloke think, ya know?â
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. âThinking, like. Howâm I still alive? Longer than my parents. Than so many people. Maybe ainât really worth it.â
âWhatâs worth got to do with anything? Think thereâs a scale, someone weighing and choosing? You, not you?â
âCould be.â Flicker of anger. âCould be my ma thinks she got right shafted with the deal, dead and buried and Iâm⊠what? Stealing fuckall and blowing shit up and killing people what get in my way.â 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.Â
âWhen youâre a parent, that ainât the way you think.â
âHow the fuck would you know?â
A heavy silence falls between them and it bites at Rat like fleas. Heâs said something wrong again, but isnât sure what. Roadhogâs not looking at him anymore and it feels like heâs pulled back and away even though he hasnât moved. Heâs staring at the fire, expression utterly flat. The moment stretches.
âIâm sorry,â Junkrat blurts. Take it back, whatever it is, to get rid of the awful stillness.
A log snaps, Roadhog blinks and shifts. âThings happened back there should never have. Choices made, actions taken. We all got regrets. Donât take yours out on me. Gotta make your own peace with whatâs done, whatâs undone, and what you do next.â But he reaches back out, puts his arm around Junkrat, who leans into him again. This time the quiet is easier.
âMorrisonâs gonna be pissed you stole a ute,â Junkrat says.
Roadieâs chuckle is a low rumble against Ratâs ear. âNah, left payment for time used. Sure McCreeâll send it back when he finds it.â A pause. âAnd Jamie, your maâs happy youâre still here. Sheâd trade herself in a heartbeat.â
Rat rests his head on Roadieâs shoulder, and this time doesnât ask how Mako knows.
Well, this has been in progress for approximately a century and a half. (Derailed by youngest kiddo health challenges, and - you know - the state of the States. But Kiddo's improving and I'm taking my joy where I can find it. In Overwatch sickfic. Still. Always.)
With the roar of the fire, my heart rose to its feet
Like the ashes of ash I saw rise in the heat
Settle soft and pure as snow
I fell in love with the fire long ago
~ Hozier, Would That I
âSo then Brigitte saysâŠâ
The image of Hanaâs face on the vid-screen blurs and Junkrat blinks, eyelids heavy, nods when she pauses for breath. Gotta focus. Mind wanders even a moment and sheâll be three subjects on and ainât no way to catch up. But his nose is tickling and heâs not sure how long heâll be able to avoid sneezing whichâll interrupt the conversation and derail his thoughts certain. Rubs his nose against his knuckle, attempting to push back the urge, then sniffs quiet as he can. He nods again, clenching his jaw against a yawn. Probably shouldâve begged off the call sooner, but it was nice to have something to listen to beside the wind and his own circling thoughts.Â
âI swear I told her about the plan LĂș and I made-Â Hey, you listening?â Hana interrupts herself, switching focus.
Junkrat startles, attention abruptly snapping to. âCourse,â he says. âCanât believe youâd doubt me.â Then, before he even realizes itâs going to happen, a sneeze barrels through him and he only just manages to turn away from the screen as he aims toward his elbow. âHutâRushhew! Usssh! HuhâRushhuh!â They scrape his throat and he coughs a little after.
âHoly shit - bless you.â
âTa,â he says, swiping a tissue over his nose and trying a grin. âGotta tell McCree to quit putting off the chores. Pretty sure this place ainât seen a good cleaning in a couple months, at least.â
âUh huh.â Rolls her eyes strong enough to pull a muscle, but she lets the lie slide and launches back into her story.
Junkrat loses the thread immediately. His head aches, throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He presses the cool metal of his mech hand into his eye socket, acts like heâs rubbing away an itch. Wishes heâd thought to shut the light before taking the call.Â
âRat? You all right?â LĂșcioâs leaned over Hanaâs shoulder, brow furrowed. Bloody healers, always noticing things. Must be later than heâd realized, if the hockey match is over.
 âTouch of allergies.â Just a little luck and he can finish the call before LĂș catches on. âWho won?â
âGive you three guesses and the last two donât count. Also, I'm sorry man, but we all know no oneâs got allergies in the middle of winter.
âHeâs claiming that McCree didnât clean the cabin,â Hana says.Â
LĂșcio snorts. âAs if Hanzo would allow a speck of dust to breach his perimeter.â
âRight; fine,â Junkrat shrugs, sheepish. âGuess I might be coming down with something.â He barely finishes the sentence before another set of sneezes curl him into himself. âHtâRushhew! Ussshhah! Hih-ih⊠Hitâschuuuh!â
âSounds like a distinct possibility.â Hana says, tone dry as the Outback.
âYouâre a right dag, ainât ya.â Junkrat blows his nose, then finds himself talking before thinking. âAny chance I can hitch a ride out of here âfore the storm sets in?âÂ
Hana types something on her keyboard, eyes narrowed, clearly figuring, but LĂșcio shakes his head. âMei says itâs coming on faster than expected. No oneâs allowed in or out until it passes. Not even Lena.âÂ
As if to prove her right the wind rises, tree branches tap the window like fingers and Junkrat canât stop the shiver that comes over him. âYeah, nah, course not. Didnât really think ya could. Sheâll be apples. JustâŠâ just wishes it didnât look like heâs âbout to spend his birthday snowed in, alone, with what feels like itâs shaping up to be a right bastard of a cold.
âDude! You didnât mention itâs your birthday,â Hana interrupts and Junkrat blinks, confused. Hadnât actually said it out loud, had he? But no, sheâs still focused on the screen in front of her.
âYouâre a leapling?â Lucio also looks at her screen. âBorn on the extra leap year day,â he clarifies at Hanaâs perplexed expression. âAnd youâre not celebrating?â
Junkrat rubs the back of his neck. âAinât a big thing, birthdays.â Never had been, that he could remember. Sure, sometimes he and Roadieâd 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. Ainât that he missed it, exactly. Could you miss something youâd never had? Have to ask Roadie. Bloke loved questions like that.
âYouâre turning thirty! Of course itâs a big thing,â Hana protests, incredulous. âWeâre throwing you a party when you get back-â
Junkrat opens his mouth to argue, doesnât need a party, but a sneeze rips through him, followed on by the usual additional two before he can even snag another breath.Â
âWhen youâre not spewing germs,â she amends. âAnd donât worry, old man, we wonât keep you up past your bedtime.â
LĂșcio punches her shoulder. âWhoâre you calling old? Heâs only a couple years ahead of me.âÂ
âGot a point though.â Junkrat runs his hand through his hair and a few strands drift over his shoulder to the floor. âOld comes early in Junkertown - pretty sure Iâm older than either of my parents got to be.âÂ
No one laughs. LĂșcio looks like Rat slapped him.
Bollocks. Making shit worse, as usual. Thinkingâs slow through the fog of congestion and dull headache. If only everything didnât feel so odd, wavery and swirling, heâd 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 LĂș. âAinât serious, mate. Honestly. Didnât mean nothing. Sorry.â
âIâm not mad, Rat. Just -â
âSo disappointed,â Hana interrupts, perfectly mimicking Mercy at her most frustrated, a tone Junkrat knows all too well.Â
He laughs, but it quickly devolves into coughing and his lungs crackle ominously when he takes a breath.
âYou sure youâre going to be okay, Jamie?â LĂș 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. âAinât I always?â Junkrat forces his smile wider. âWanted some time alone, now I got it, yeah?â Wanted⊠hell, planned⊠time alone with Roadie, but the mission took precedence. Which, course it did. But understanding donât lessen annoyance.
âI could convince Lena that youâre really sick and need evacuation. Healer privilege.â LĂșâs still trying to figure how to drag him out of danger, as usual. Shouldnât have asked for a ride. Blokeâs gonna worry.
âAinât Lena needs convincing. Jackâs sure as shit not gonna allow her to risk it just âcause I got the sniffles.â Sheila might be Overwatchâs pilot and a damn good one, but Morrisonâs wordâs law. âGive me a couple days anâ sheâll be apples, mate. No worries. Catch me up on the game. Connectionâs shit out here, back of beyond.âÂ
LĂșcioâs brow is still scrunched, doubtful, but he canât 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 heâd sneeze again just so heâd 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 heâs coming down sick and Roadie ainât even around to appreciate.
He should get moving, make sure everythingâs closed up for the storm, but even though itâs barely half-four heâs 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 âHutâchhhiew! Uh-Esssh! HuhrâUsshhuh!â His sneezing shatters the silence, but it closes back over him immediately like water.Â
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 heâs sick. Disgusting.Â
The grandfather clock in the corner marks time, each move of the second hand ticking against his brain. Older than his parents. Heâd laughed when he said it, but maybe⊠maybe LĂșâs right. Thinking about it, ainât 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 couldnâtâve been more than twenties, neither one.Â
What does he have to show for all these years - this life longer than theirs, longer than so many in Junkertown? Pile oâdosh 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 Ratâs stomach twists, knots. Whatâs it even mean, all those died and he didnât?Â
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. Ainât gonna let the place fall apart just because heâs a little under the weather. He yanks a jacket from the rack and forces the door open against the windâs resistance.Â
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.
Itâs 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 theyâre wrapped proper and wonât freeze. He hauls wood for the fireplace, hoping thereâs enough split to last out the weather, or at least this plague. Reckons using an axe now risks what limbs heâs got left, woozy as heâs feeling.Â
Heâs just securing the shed door so it doesnât blow open when the stormâs 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 doesnât 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 Overwatchâs law, from Hanaâs bright laughter and LĂșcioâs too-kind eyes. Follow - down into the deep and quieting dark. He does, ducking under low-hanging branches, following a path that isnât 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 hadnât seen, his other ankle twists, and heâs falling before he can catch himself.Â
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 painâs not sharp enough to indicate a break. Stupid to wander around in the dark, full moon or no. Roadieâd call him a galah and heâd 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 heâs the only living thing in kilometers.Â
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 canât 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.Â
Turning thirty⊠of course itâs a big thing⊠gonna throw you a party⊠More years than not heâd forget his birthday entirely. Hard to remember, when itâs a day only happens every four years. Maybe thatâs why he never feels his right age. Times when Mercyâs reading him the riot act about some dumb fool thing heâs done - again - he feels like a kid what failed a test on an untaught lesson. Missing something everyone else knows. Other times heâll sit with Hana and LĂș, play holovid games and listen to the ease of their banter, dazzled in the light of their laughter, sure as sure he ainât never been that young. Maybe thirtyâll be different. Maybe somethingâll shift and heâll be right. Maybe.Â
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 heâs been walking ages, but canât remember where heâs going, or where heâs coming from. He pauses, squints into the distance. A few scraggling bushes dot the horizon, nothing else. No buildings, no people.Â
Turns to look behind. Outline of a shack at the edge of his vision. Roadieâs? Canât see details this far away. Silence presses against his ears. No birdsong, no insects hum. No rumble of Hogâs hog. Not even a breeze stirs the air. Better turn back - Roadhogâll remember what he was doing, give him direction. Can always count on the big lug to be his brains, when things get foggy.Â
At first feels like heâs 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 heâs right in front of the door. Blinks, confused. Door opens on its own. Weird.
Temperatureâs 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. âOi, Hog?â Silence swallows the words. No answer.Â
One chair at the table. One plate, one mug of coffee, still steaming. No Roadhog. None of Ratâs stuff neither. Corner where he keeps his gear empty.Â
Heavy footsteps thump overhead, ceiling creaks. A sense of foreboding crawls over him, setting the hair at his nape prickling up. He doesnât call out again, doesnât dare. Better leave before whoever⊠whateverâs⊠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.Â
Footsteps closer now, boots on the stairs. Gotta be Roadhog. Who else could be in his place? Tension tightens his shoulders, gut twists. Ainât Roadie. Somehow heâs certain of it. Doesnât want to look, doesnât want to know. Canât resist. Even as he still wrestles with the door, glances over his shoulder as the footsteps descend. Roadhogâs boots, camo pants, tattoo across his stomach but where his face should be, where his mask would be, a horrible blank emptiness. Canât 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, heâs alone in the corridor. He coughs, wipes sweat from his forehead, lungs ache like heâs been running. Clearly ainât in Junkertown. WhereâŠ?
One of the Watchpoints he realizes, glancing around himself. Likely Gibraltar. Ainât as familiar as some of the other bases, but he should be able to find Winstonâs lab. Maybe he can explain what the hell that thing was.Â
Sets off in the direction Ratâs pretty sureâll lead to the lab. Walks past closed doors with only a passing glance. They are labeled, but he canât make out the writing. Seems to squirm and blur as he tries. Makes him feel vaguely nauseated, so he quits trying. Keeps walking.Â
Turns a corner and nearly collides with a figure coming toward him.Â
âCareful,â she snaps, passing without another word. Like she donât even know him.
âSatya, wait,â he calls, but she doesnât break stride, disappears around the corner. He frowns, perplexed. She ainât never liked him, but this is beyond. Canât recollect anything heâs done recently to piss her off.
How big is Gibraltar, anyway? Seems like he shouldâve found the lab already, feels heâs 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, canât 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.
âHey, man. Whatâre you doing here?âÂ
The touch on his shoulder is gentle but Rat still startles, heart thudding in his throat. âDamn LĂș, made me jump. Iâm fucking lost. Canât find Winstonâs lab.â
âHow do you know my name,â LĂș asks, a small crease between his brows.Â
âHas everyone here lost their damn minds? How the hellâd I not know someone I been working longside for years. My memory sure as shit ainât perfect, but you never forget a thing.â Makes no sense. Werenât they friends? Heâd thought anyway.
LĂșcio shakes his head. âI donât know how you passed the security system, but you need to leave. I donât know you. You donât belong here.â The door slides open for him, and heâs backing through, and Rat recognizes his room. His and Roadieâs, but LĂșâs turntables, sound system, computers, cords spread across the workbench, not his own plans and projects in progress. LĂșâs clothes hang next to Roadieâs. Everything neat and orderly the way Roadie likes it; no sign of Ratâs sprawling chaos.
A shadow falls across the floor, LĂșcio turns to meet it, and Junkrat goes cold. Knows whatâs coming. He wants to run, wants to warn LĂș, but heâs frozen, body and voice. Roadhogâs form comes around the corner, moving fast and its face is still the awful empty staring blankness and Junkrat wrenches himself back and away andâŠ
Opens his eyes to full night, fire gone out. Heâs shaking hard enough worries his bones will break. Furnace didnât kick on, though the cabin feels cold enough to see his breath. Storm mustâve 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 itâs going to split and he massages his temple, wishing for relief. But before he can gather the energy, sleep tugs him back under.
âSure you got that under control?â Roadhogâs voice rumbles through the comm, muffled slightly by his mask.
âTold ya I do, didnât I? Be quiet and keep watch,â Rat snaps. He sniffs, sleeves his nose against a drip. What is he doing? Canât 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.Â
Roadhog on watch. Comms. A mask of his own puddled at his feet. Doing something they ainât supposed to be, somewhere they ainât supposed to be.Â
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 Queenâs just won a challenge. He shudders, cold and empathetic for whatever bloke just took a fall.
Right. Recollects the plan now - gonna blow the Queenâs summer shack. Payback for all sheâs 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. Anâ Roadhog doubted him. Thought he couldnât 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 Queenâs rusty hinge voice scrapes through the comm. âWhat the bloody hellâre you doing here, all on your own? Whereâs the vermin?â
Junkratâs mouth goes dry, a trickle of sweat slides down the back of his neck. Hog better think quick, come up with something plausible.
âRealize I owe you somewhat. Come up to Bobbyâs for a round.â
âPint of that rotgut ainât coming close to paying your debts.â
âCourse not, but got some information might go a ways toward...â Comm garbles and cuts out.Â
For a long minute only static buzz in his head. What information does Roadhog have that heâd even consider sharing with her? Ratâs hands are still, though his heart beats double time. Gotta be a ruse. Get her away from the work Ratâs doing. Get the rest of the crew to follow. Ainât actually going to tell her a damn thing.
Timeâs 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 thereâs 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. Ainât 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 itâs 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 fireâs consumed his throat, his lungs, his blood until heâs nothing but flame and heâs 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 thereâs 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 doesnât trip over something in the dark.Â
Heâs 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 heâs sure heâs still dreaming because Roadhogâs framed in the doorway, larger than life and covered in snow. Junkratâs mouth goes dry, shivers catpawing up his spine. His face is gonna be the horrible blankness and -
âJesus, Rat. LĂșcioâs right, you look like shit.â Roadhog stomps snow from his boots, wipes fog from the eyes of his mask - his normal mask - closes the door behind himself.Â
âFeel like it, too.â Junkratâs voice rasps, smoke and gravel. He clears his throat, tries again, âThe fuck are you doing here?â 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. âQuit talking; hurts to listen to ya. Finished the mission,â 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. âMorrison - â
âMight run Overwatch, but bloke donât run the world,â Roadie interrupts. âFound myself a ride on one of the last supply ships in before the storm. Had to borrow someoneâs ute to make it up the mountain from the port. Colder than a witchâs tit in here. Lost power?âÂ
âShoulda built the fire better.â
âAinât criticizing ya, Rat. Come on,â 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 doesnât 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.
âTorb,â he calls, guessing. Torbâs workshop door shines like that when heâs 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 canât 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. Sheâs 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 canât quite catch.
âShhh, Jamie-love,â she says, hushing, lulling.Â
âMama,â 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, âDonât worry, just a little fever, youâll be right soon enough.â She dips a flannel into a basin of water, gently wipes it over the boyâs 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.
âWhat have you done,â she demands, sharp, cracking like tree branches in an ice storm.
âI⊠What?â Words, thoughts, dissolve and scatter.
âHow many have you killed?â
He shakes his head, voice lodged in his throat.
âEverything youâve done... Everyone youâve murdered⊠Why did you live when we died?â Tone colder than stormwind and it freezes him where he stands, shivering.Â
I donât know, he tries to say, but his teeth are chattering too hard to form the words. Iâm sorryâŠ
âGet out.âÂ
Wake up⊠gotta wake up⊠She stands. He stumbles back like heâs been shoved right in the center of his chest. He falls⊠fallsâŠ
Wakes, gasping, shuddering. Her questions circle - what have you done⊠how many have you killed⊠murdered⊠why did you live⊠why did you live⊠whyâŠ.
âHey, slow it down. Breathe.â Roadhogâs voice comes clear, then the weight of his hand on Ratâs forehead, grounding.
World around comes back more slowly. Crackle from the rebuilt fire, scent of soup warming on the stove. Roadhogâs been busy. Junkrat tries to focus on breathing, but lapses into another coughing jag, hastily muffled in his elbow.Â
âGot quite a fever. Whenâs your next dose of paracetamol due,â Roadie asks.
âHavenât taken any.âÂ
Roadie disappears down the hall, reappearing moments later with more pillows, doona, tissues, bottle of meds and glass of water. âNot exactly the best way to spend your birthday.â He moves Rat over, settles down beside him.
Junkrat shrugs, nestles down in the blankets, head in Roadhogâs lap. âBetter now.â His thoughts drift lazily, circling memory and dream, questions surfacing like bubbles before floating away. Takes some effort to hold one without popping. âHoggie, you think itâs possible to miss something ya ainât never had?â
Roadhog hums a considering noise. Rat appreciates the pause, means he takes the question serious instead of brushing him off like heâs ridiculous.
âDonât know about missing, exactly. Longing for, sure. Wishing.â He threads his fingers through Ratâs hair absently as he considers. âBut maybe those words donât quite capture what youâre asking. Why?â
âTalking to Hana and LĂș earlier. Got me thinking about birthdays anâ parties anâ sorta felt like maybe I was missing what the holovids show.âÂ
âYeah, nah.â Junkrat blows his nose, everything feeling a tangle. âWas it ever?â Roadhogâd remember, back before the Omnium blew, back before everything went to shit.
 âTime or two, maybe close. But few anâ far between times.âÂ
âTell me about one?â
Roadieâs eyes go vague, seeing something in the distance, physically and temporally. He hesitates for so long, Rat wonders whether heâll actually answer. Then his chest rises and falls in a deep sigh, and he says, âWent 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.â
Junkrat almost sees the scene, though Roadhog â mask, tattoos, big fuckoff boots -- donât really fit. Maybe it was before Roadhog. Rat canât picture him without the scars, when he was Mako. Something in him doesnât want to. He sniffs, presses the back of his hand under his nose, trying not to sneeze and interrupt the story. The memory.
âAll 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.â Thereâs a strange tone in Roadhogâs 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 thatâs been building takes advantage of his distraction and he sneezes instead, a harsh paroxysm that curls him into himself. âHutâRushhew! Usssh! HuhâRushhuh!â Tears well and spill and heâs left mopping himself up. âFuckinâ gross.â
Roadhog reaches for the tissue box. âGonna live?âÂ
The toneâs shifted, mood changed. Roadieâs laughing at him, which is better than the alternative, but Rat canât stop the tears that keep on, even after the sneezing backs off.
Takes Roadie a second to notice. âWhatâs up?â
Junkrat shrugs, shakes his head. How can he put it into words? Hana and Luâs 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 canât answer, is afraid to answer. âFever gave me weird dreams,â he says finally.
Roadhog is silent. Waits.
âAnd turning thirty, makes a bloke think, ya know?â
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. âThinking, like. Howâm I still alive? Longer than my parents. Than so many people. Maybe ainât really worth it.â
âWhatâs worth got to do with anything? Think thereâs a scale, someone weighing and choosing? You, not you?â
âCould be.â Flicker of anger. âCould be my ma thinks she got right shafted with the deal, dead and buried and Iâm⊠what? Stealing fuckall and blowing shit up and killing people what get in my way.â 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.Â
âWhen youâre a parent, that ainât the way you think.â
âHow the fuck would you know?â
A heavy silence falls between them and it bites at Rat like fleas. Heâs said something wrong again, but isnât sure what. Roadhogâs not looking at him anymore and it feels like heâs pulled back and away even though he hasnât moved. Heâs staring at the fire, expression utterly flat. The moment stretches.
âIâm sorry,â Junkrat blurts. Take it back, whatever it is, to get rid of the awful stillness.
A log snaps, Roadhog blinks and shifts. âThings happened back there should never have. Choices made, actions taken. We all got regrets. Donât take yours out on me. Gotta make your own peace with whatâs done, whatâs undone, and what you do next.â But he reaches back out, puts his arm around Junkrat, who leans into him again. This time the quiet is easier.
âMorrisonâs gonna be pissed you stole a ute,â Junkrat says.
Roadieâs chuckle is a low rumble against Ratâs ear. âNah, left payment for time used. Sure McCreeâll send it back when he finds it.â A pause. âAnd Jamie, your maâs happy youâre still here. Sheâd trade herself in a heartbeat.â
Rat rests his head on Roadieâs shoulder, and this time doesnât ask how Mako knows.
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commission for @littlekatleaf /  sketchdump
Based on their fics âI am the offering and the fire which consumes itâ & âBuried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 1)â
Come unto Him, ye
That are heavy laden
And He will give you rest.
~ Handelâs Messiah
December always felt like a long month, and this one more than most. Roadhogâd 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. Couldnât 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.Â
Junkrat had been irritatingly cheerful. âCome on, mate - least it beats sleepinâ in the airport. Bedâs clean enough. Anâ more comfortable than the floor.â
âClean enough for what,â Roadhog grumbled. Didnât 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.Â
Junkratâd been sniffling and sneezing for a couple of days, clearly coming down with something. Every time Roadhog had asked him about it, heâd shrugged off the concern, said he was fine. Roadhog had his doubts. Cold weather always got to Rat. Going home wouldâve helped.
Now Junkrat was off, who knew where, doing who knew what. Left the room at lunch time and wouldnât let Roadhog go with him. âJust need to clear me head. Enjoy yer quiet. Be back before ya notice Iâm gone.â Which was bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it. Junkratâs 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 Junkratâs foot and peg. Listening for sirens. Explosions. Commotion. But hearing none of it.Â
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, someoneâs 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.Â
Roadhog shook his head at himself. Heâd wanted to make something of the day, for a change. Been ages since heâd 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.âNever had one of them,â heâd 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 heâd 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 hadnât 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.
âHappy Christmas, Roadie!â He kicked the door shut behind him. âAinât much, but beggars canât be choosers when all the shops are closed.â
 ââŠâ
âBrr, freezing out there!â He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, sniffed. âNot 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?â Junkrat rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a corkscrew, then unwrapped two of the plastic cups and poured each full.Â
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 didnât take long before he had a tidy fire going.
Junkrat handed him one of the cups. âCheers,â 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. âHuh-isssh! Isshhew! Huh-issh! Shit! Almost spilled.âÂ
âBless you. All right?â
âCourse. Just a chill.â He shivered. âCould maybe use some warming?â His smile was both teasing and a little shy.
 Roadhog tugged him close, put his arms around him. He smelled of snow and pine.
âBless,â 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, Junkratâs head tucked in the curve of Roadhogâs neck, warmth surrounding them, Roadhog realized he was happy.
It's been a very long time since I posted a new fic - that said, one should drop tomorrow. And, as it's seasonally appropriate I wanted to reblog the Boyz.
Well wtf, it's a new fandom for me. Unexpected! I started watching D/imension20 RPGs and fell in love with F/abian Seacaster and G/arthy O'Brien from F/antasy H/igh and P/irates of L/eviathan. This takes place 20 years after the events of the games.
And I find it kind of funny
I find it kind of sad
The dreams in which Iâm dying
Are the best Iâve ever had.
~ Tears for Fears, Mad World
It begins with nightmares - dark, heavy things Fabian doesnât remember on waking. At least, not the first few nights. Heâs left with nothing more than vague shadows and a lingering sense of unease. Everything seems wrong - his apartment simultaneously too big and claustrophobically small. Heâs suffused with restlessness. He knows somethingâs coming, like a squall brewing just beyond the horizon. He might not be able to see the gathering clouds, but feels the barometric pressure plummeting.
At first he attempts to dance out of the way - to dodge and evade - but the dread wraps around him like his own battle sheet, tangling him tight. He tries to ignore the tension singing along his shoulders, the constant twist in his gut. Itâs nothing, he tells himself, less than nothing. Thereâs no time for it to be something. Rumor has it the ship carrying one of the last pirates of the Crimson Claw will reach the mouth of Leviathan in mere days. If heâs going to meet it, he needs to pull together a party. Barely enough time remains to cement plans once he knows the groupâs strengths and weaknesses.
As he paces his living room, trying to outrun the apprehension, Fabianâs eye is caught by a piece of red string, like Riz always used in his conspiracy boards. In that instant he longs for them. The Bad Kids. No matter how many years passed since any of them were kids, itâs still at the heart of who they are. (Isnât it?) They fit together in their roles. Like that movie Kristen made them all watch once - a brain, and an athlete, and a basket case, a princess and a criminal. The others had bickered good naturedly over roles that night - specifically who was the basket case. Kristen joked it was Gilear. Ragh said it was her. Fabian didn't need to argue because he knew the truth - Riz was the brain, Gorgug the athlete, Adaine the princess, Fig the criminal, Kristen the saint. Himself the basket case. Even in all the intervening years, heâs never found a group that connects as well as they had, before they all went their separate ways. Even if they hadnât lost touch, none of the others adventure anymore. In their absence he needs to choose alternatives, like he always does, attempting to fill the holes they left behind - and failing.
He picks up his crystal, turning it over in his hands. The group chat is saved, they are all still members, but no one has used it in years. Maybe heâs wrong; maybe he needs to let them go.
He knows thereâs no time for self-indulgence. But he still stalls, the trepidation casting a fog of doubt over every option. He cannot decide on even one person to trust. Perhaps this time he should go alone. He can defeat one single pirate himself. The rest - crew and spoils alike - is irrelevant. The Maelstromâs Maw will likely bring in the boat and then he can attack. He rubs his forehead against a growing headache and puts the decision off again.
Two nights pass, with only the lightest veil of sleep and even that torn by disquiet. The intervening days feel equally foggy with a mix of exhaustion and dread. Fabian drags himself through the necessary tasks by his fingernails until heâs done everything he can without a crew. A crew on which he still has not managed to settle. In the midst of circling the problem for the five hundredth, or five thousandth, time his crystal flashes an alert. The shipâs been sighted just a few nautical miles off Harroway Bay and will reach Leviathan before dawn. Heâs waited too long, he realizes. It will be a solo adventure, then. Nothing else for it.
Fabian knows, almost from the moment he engages, that heâs made a deep mistake attempting the attack this way. Though he comes upon the pirate in the dead of night, alone as planned, he hadnât considered that the pirateâs shipmates might still be within earshot. His blade only crosses the pirateâs 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 heâs a half-beat behind in the dance, perpetually off-step. The pirate presses his advantage; Fabian retreats. Suddenly thereâs 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. âYer goinâ down, boy.â
âNot a boy anymore.â At least heâll die in battle, and if heâs very lucky heâll take this scourge to hell with him. Make his papa proud.
âThat remains to be seen,â 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 wonât obey. His lungs ache and he canât 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 itâs a feint.
Iâm 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 pirateâs 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 hadnât 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. âDo it,â he says from between gritted teeth.
The pirate barks a laugh, but shakes his head. âAinât worth the world oâ hurt that would bring down on me head, boy. Chungledown Bimâs a right devil and yer marked as his. Canât let ya follow for another go at me, though this has been a delight.â
A brilliant flash of pain blinds him. The crystal slides through his fingers. He falls⊠and falls⊠and fallsâŠ
through ropes that burn his skin and do nothing to slow his speed and his body hits water that closes over his head like heâs 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 heâs been breathing water and smoke, but he still lays where heâd fallen, in some Four Castles back alley. His bodyâs 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, thereâs 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 heâs 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. Heâs 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.
âIf youâd just sneeze like a normal person, instead of those pinchy things, youâd be done in one, Fabiahn,â Riz would say, drawing his name out like his elvish grandfather did.
âItâs called being polite, The Ball,â heâd reply. âAnd what do you know about normal?â
âAbout as much as you.â
Theyâd laugh together and Fabianâs 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, Bobâs 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 heâs been on Leviathan and longer since heâs sought refuge at the Gold Gardens, he trusts the reputation heâs built in the intervening years yet holds. âGood evening. I find myself in need of a room for the night,â he says. âI have payment.â
The other guard, a half-orc he vaguely recognizes from previous visits, turns to him. Her face betrays no reaction to his disheveled state. Itâs likely that sheâs seen worse. âAh, Master Seacaster. Garthy OâBrien has made it known there is always room for you here. Please, enter.â
Fabian sketches a small bow. The doors swing wide and the heat that flows out and envelops him is nearly as heavenly as Bobâs voice. But the change in temperature makes his nose run. He sniffs, presses the back of his wrist against the tickling itch, but canât stop the inevitable. Heâs barely inside before heâs sneezing again and wishing for something other than his sleeve to cover with. âHâtchsh! Chh! Hâtsh!â He hopes the music and general merriment of the patrons is enough to hide the slight sound, but of course he is noticed.
âBlessings, Fabian, darling. Are you ill?â 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.
âI beg your pardon, Garthy,â Fabian says, attempting his usual charming smile. Heâs 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. âIâm fine. Just a little chilled from the rain. And you, my friend, are a sight for sore eyes. Eye.â His mouth quirks. âMight there be a room for a traveler seeking shelter from the storm?â
Garthy considers him for a long moment, gaze intent. Fabian resists the urge to look away, to avoid scrutiny. Itâll 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. âI have told you before, lovey, you are always welcome here. You and yours. Come.â They turn down a hallway and Fabian follows.
Bobâs voice, the rattle of dice, the din of too much conversation fade and Fabian releases a breath he didnât realize heâd 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 heâd 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 didnât, 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. Itâs 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 canât find the words. Any words.
âWould you like something to eat? Or perhaps a warm drink?â Garthyâs voice is quiet, as though they might be intruding.
âNo, thank you,â he says. Kippers, Master Fabian? Cathildaâs voice in his head. I donât deserve kippers. He didnât. Doesnât. 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 fatherâs 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 doesnât catch, and flames rise in the hearth, hot and bright, crackling cheerfully. âAt least let me take your wet things,â they say. âYouâre shaking.â
He hadnât 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 heâs fine, but a chill cascades over him, followed by several sneezes, instantly proving him wrong. âHângxt! Fuck. HâNtch! Ngxt!â He straightens and Garthy offers a handkerchief. Abashed, he takes it, blows his nose. âPardon me.â Before he can gather himself, heâs 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.
âBless you, darling.â 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 doesnât resist, suddenly beyond exhausted. Everything feels like itâs happening at a distance. Or maybe through a pane of glass. âCome, have a lay down. Thingsâll look better in the morning.â
Fabian nods, even though heâs 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. Itâs strangely comforting and he wants to bury his face in Garthyâs hair, but instead he drifts out and out andâŠ
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 thereâs nothing. He tries to look down, what he might assume is down, only to find no body. Nothing. Itâs 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 donât exist.You never existed. You are not even memory. You are a nonentity. A nullity. He opens his mouth to argue, but thereâs no mouth, no vocal cords, no lungs, no breath. No words. No thoughts. Just deep, endless cold. Bone aching cold, if he had bones.
â...safeâŠYouâre all right. Wake up, Fabian, love.â Garthyâs 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. âCome on, darling. Youâre dreaming.â
âShouldâve left me; felt better there. Nothing hurts when you donât have a body,â 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. âLet me help you feel better, here in your body.â 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 Fabianâs own calloused hands. He longs for Garthy to wrap their arms around him, to hold him close until his shivering stops, until heâs finally warm. He doesnât know how to ask.
Instead he moves back, putting a bit of distance between them. âIâm not wâŠâ he starts to say, but an unexpected set of sneezes interrupts and he only just manages to pull the handkerchief from his robe pocket. âHtângxt! Heh...ihh⊠Nxgt! Hâtchh!â
Heat rises in Fabianâs cheeks and he coughs a laugh. âThat either. But no.â He gestures broadly, including the room, the bath, Garthy themself. âNot worth this.â
Garthy tilts their head with a puzzled frown. âOh, lovey, of course you are.â They press one finger to Fabianâs lips before he can continue arguing. âShh. Itâs all right.â They take Fabianâs 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.
Gathyâs 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 canât be more than five and heâs sobbing. His papa is away, his mama asleep in her room even though itâs not even dark outside and heâs sick and scared. But then Cathildaâs there, as she always is, and sheâs cleaning him up and humming a lullaby. Tears rise now, before he can stop them, dripping into the water.
It takes him several minutes to gather his thoughts; they feel ephemeral as clouds floating through his mind. âItâs been twenty years, Garthy. Shouldnât it have faded?â He coughs, trying to clear the lump in his throat. âI still see them, you know. My fatherâs warlocks.â He presses the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. Breathe, he tells himself.
Garthy hums a listening noise.
âI shouldnât have gone alone that night. I just wanted a moment in Crowâs Keep - weâd 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 wasnât supposed to be interacting with pirates. But heâd taken me up to watch the sun rise. He said heâd 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 pocketsâŠ
âHe gave me cotton candy, told me it was one heâd harvested himself. Iâd never imagined clouds tasted so sweetâŠâ he licks his lips, remembering how the candy had melted on his tongue, just like a rain cloud.
âI thought, maybe⊠somehow⊠if I spoke to him from the top of the world, he might hear me.â Fabian laughs at himself, coughs on a sob but manages to swallow it back. âOf course, Papa wasnât listening. He was busy taking over Hell and selling spells to pirates. Always on to a bigger adventure, even in death.
âWhen the warlocks came, I let myself get swept up. Figuratively, as well as literally. I told them about Papa. About what Iâd done⊠and it wasnât enough. I killed him and it wasnât enough.â He takes a ragged breath and Garthy rubs his back in slow circles. âI thought we could take Captain James. I thought I could take Captain James. It would make up for⊠everything.â He sucks in another breath, on the edge of desperation. He canât get enough air. When he blinks, he feels Whitclawâs tentacles on his face, cold fingers gripping him tight, raw hatred pulsing in the air between them.
âIt went so fast. So fast. If I didnât run⊠if I didnât⊠he would have killed me⊠with the others. I didnât stop to think, I didnât even grab Alistair and he was fighting for me. I abandoned him⊠and I didnât die, but he did. Because I fucked up.â Fabian sits in silence for several minutes, jaw clenched, struggling to breathe and not cry.
âI thought the guilt would fade,â he finally says, voice rough and not much above a whisper. âI thought the good Iâve done since would make up for it. I thought the adventures I had with the Bad Kids would make up for it. But it hasnât. It doesnât. And theyâre gone⊠I thought killing the last of Whitclawâs men would be penance. But I fucked that up, too.â
The only sound for a long moment is the rain on the roof, thunder rolling in the distance. Then Fabian takes a breath like heâs about to dive into the ocean and turns to face Garthy. âAm I forgivable?â
âOh my darling Fabian. Of course you are. You are already forgiven.â They lean forward and brush the lightest kiss across his lips. âYes, dire mistakes were made. And you have repented of those mistakes, and made reparations. You did not follow in your fatherâs 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.â
A warm breeze whirls through the room and the candles suddenly go out. Itâs as though the light has been transmuted into a seed of hope in Fabian, gold as the irises of Garthyâs eyes. Back in bed, Fabian curls into Garthy and they wrap their arms around him, holding tight until his trembling passes.
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Itâs been a really fucking rough year for my family and Iâve been barely hanging inâŠ. then Pearl Jam decided to save my ass and dropped a new album. I just might make it. Eddie Vedderâs voice manâŠ
Come unto Him, ye
That are heavy laden
And He will give you rest.
~ Handelâs Messiah
December always felt like a long month, and this one more than most. Roadhogâd 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. Couldnât 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.Â
Junkrat had been irritatingly cheerful. âCome on, mate - least it beats sleepinâ in the airport. Bedâs clean enough. Anâ more comfortable than the floor.â
âClean enough for what,â Roadhog grumbled. Didnât 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.Â
Junkratâd been sniffling and sneezing for a couple of days, clearly coming down with something. Every time Roadhog had asked him about it, heâd shrugged off the concern, said he was fine. Roadhog had his doubts. Cold weather always got to Rat. Going home wouldâve helped.
Now Junkrat was off, who knew where, doing who knew what. Left the room at lunch time and wouldnât let Roadhog go with him. âJust need to clear me head. Enjoy yer quiet. Be back before ya notice Iâm gone.â Which was bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it. Junkratâs 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 Junkratâs foot and peg. Listening for sirens. Explosions. Commotion. But hearing none of it.Â
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, someoneâs 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.Â
Roadhog shook his head at himself. Heâd wanted to make something of the day, for a change. Been ages since heâd 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.âNever had one of them,â heâd 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 heâd 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 hadnât 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.
âHappy Christmas, Roadie!â He kicked the door shut behind him. âAinât much, but beggars canât be choosers when all the shops are closed.â
 ââŠâ
âBrr, freezing out there!â He rubbed his nose on his sleeve, sniffed. âNot 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?â Junkrat rummaged in one of the drawers and pulled out a corkscrew, then unwrapped two of the plastic cups and poured each full.Â
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 didnât take long before he had a tidy fire going.
Junkrat handed him one of the cups. âCheers,â 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. âHuh-isssh! Isshhew! Huh-issh! Shit! Almost spilled.âÂ
âBless you. All right?â
âCourse. Just a chill.â He shivered. âCould maybe use some warming?â His smile was both teasing and a little shy.
 Roadhog tugged him close, put his arms around him. He smelled of snow and pine.
âBless,â 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, Junkratâs head tucked in the curve of Roadhogâs neck, warmth surrounding them, Roadhog realized he was happy.
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Needed a little soft, holiday story for the Junkerboys. It's almost Christmas, I must be feeling melancholy.
I wouldnât know where to start
Sweet music playing in the dark
Be still, my foolish heart
Donât 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. Roadieâs voice echoes in his memory, âGonna need glasses before youâre thirty if you keep squinting like that.â Blokeâs got a point, as always. He sighs and sits back, giving in to his aching body. When he looks up reason everythingâs gone vague and blurry is abruptly clear - lightâs changed. Fat cloudsâd been lining the horizon now blanket the sky, winter sun too anemic to dent them.Â
He glances back down at the launcher, still in pieces, screws and metal bits scattered over the workbench. Not as far as heâd like to be - Chrissieâs coming on soon. Gotta have Roadieâs prezzie ready. Itâs close, but detonation speed needs tweaking - donât 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 Roadieâd not be caught dead reading. He straightens, stretches, spine pops. Stomach rumbling too. How longâs 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. Canât 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 heâs gonna need to sneeze. Rubs his nose. Ignores it.
âOi, Roadie,â he calls. No answer. He frowns. Hog hadnât mentioned anything, had he? Wouldnât go on a mission without him. Wouldnât go hang with Hana or LĂșcio, sick as heâs been. Mightâve 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. Blokeâd been sick for a while and didnât seem to be improving.
Lack of caffeineâs making his thoughts feel slow, his head full of sludge. Must be why he canât seem to figure where Roadhog might have gone. Heâs still trying to puzzle it when thereâs 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.
âAs Mr. Rutledge seems to be incapable of following the simplest of instructions, I appeal to your better judgment, Jamison.â 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. âBreaking out the surname and suggesting I have anything approximating good judgment? What the bloody hellâd he do?â
âI 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?â
Junkrat shrugs. âNot here.âÂ
âIndeed not. He was outdoors. Working in the garden. With neither jacket nor hat.â
Junkrat shakes his head at Roadhog, struggling not to laugh. Least itâs someone else getting the dressing down for a change. âHow very dare you.â
âJust taking care of a couple of things,â Hog protests. âNot a big deal.â
âThis is not a joke.â Mercy directs a glare at Junkrat before turning back to Roadhog. She sighs, deeply. âI am not coddling you or some such foolishness,â she says. âIâm trying to save you from yourself. While the infection is relatively mild at the moment, if you donât take care it will worsen. I would not have you risk the lung function you still have, Mako.â
Roadie ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, looking for all the world like a child being chastised. âYes, maâam,â he says.
âTake all of the antibiotics. Use the inhaler.â She shoves them into his hand and pivots to leave. âAnd donât call me maâam,â she adds, over her shoulder. âDoctor, if you must.â The door whirs open and closed behind her.
Junkrat blows out a breath. âAinât like no doctor I ever met.â Not like heâs met many; âdoctorsâ in Junkertown more like glorified butchers, but still. He raises a brow at Roadhog. âSheilaâs 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.â
âDonât start with me, Rat,â Roadhog grumbles. âIâm 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 Iâd be better by now.â He tosses the bottle of meds toward the coffee table and misses. It hits the floor with a rattle.Â
Junkrat moves to pick it up but is stopped by Roadhogâs glare. He holds up his hands in mock surrender and backs off. Knows better than to push straight on when heâs 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. âFucking hell,â he rasps, breathless. Least itâs enough that he takes a hit from the inhaler without Rat needing to say anything. Probably better he doesnât. Blokeâs emanating as much pissed off energy as fever.
Instead Junkrat drops a bag of LĂșcioâs medicinal tea into a Pachimari shaped mug and fills it at the instant hot tap. He adds a dollop of honey, enough to soothe Roadieâs throat, but woefully small to Ratâs own eyes. Somehow Hoggie lacks a reasonable appreciation for the sweeter things in life. The rising steam smells of cinnamon and clove, comforting as LĂč himself.Â
Roadhogâs retreated to the couch, resignation clear in the set of his shoulders. Heâs taken off his boots. âTa,â he says, voice glass on gravel, when Rat holds out the peace offering. Makes Ratâs own throat ache to hear. âDocâs right. I was acting like a bloody idiot. Gardenâs gonna be what it is. Not the end of the world.â
âAlready been through that once.â Junkrat floats the admittedly sad attempt at a joke. Testing. Predictably no response. Junkrat frowns, then nods. âAinât a lotta people smarter than the doc.â
âJust wish Iâd gotten the roses wrapped.â 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 Junkratâs spine but he manages to suppress it. Hoggieâs roses ainât just any flower. Ainât replaceable. Little bit of home, here in this place that isnât 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, shouldnât have a problem. Starts with the roses. Makes sure theyâre trimmed and wrapped proper. Gonna keep the roses safe. The memories safe. Heâs 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.Â
By the time heâs done, everything set and settled down to the last twig, the worldâs gone dim and silent with snowfall. Itâs 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.Â
âThere you are. Been wondering where youâd got to,â Roadie says.
Junkrat startles. âGonna kill Hanzo for givinâ you the ninja lessons.â
This time Roadhog huffs the particular laugh means heâs torn between amusement and not wanting to encourage Rat.Â
Junkrat wraps his arms around himself and sleeves his nose. Still itching, but knows if he starts sneezing Roadieâll make him go inside and heâs not ready yet. Luckily Roadhogâs smart enough to have put on more appropriate winter gear. âSee ya ainât risking Mercyâs wrath.â
Feels Roadie smile behind the mask. âNah. Once is more than enough.â He pauses and the snow drifts down, dusting their shoulders. âThank you for this, Jamie.â Roughness of his voice now got nothing to do with being sick.Â
Junkrat looks up at him, puzzled. âWell âcourse, mate. Couldnât exactly let them die, could I?âÂ
âYou could.â Roadhog says, still facing the garden. âDid a good job, Rat.â He puts an arm around Junkrat.Â
Rat leans into the warmth, then curls forward with a harsh sneeze, hastily muffled in his scarf. Another follows, and a third. âShit. Jigâs up.â
This time Roadie actually laughs. âBless you. Better get back inside before Mercy hears you sneezing.â
Later, even in a pair of Roadieâs pjs and wrapped in several of their blankets, Junkrat still shivers. âF-fuckinâ freezinâ. Ainât never gonna be warm again. Barely moreân a corpse. Heat of life already left my bonesâŠâ Plays up the whinge, because he can, and muffles a round of sneezing in the blankets.
Roadhog reaches over, palms his forehead, but gently. âDefinitely has not. And donât be disgusting.â He tosses a box of tissues at Junkrat who canât free his hands quick enough to catch it. It bounces off his chest.
âThis the way you show your appreciation? Some caretaker you are.â Tugs free a handful just in time to catch another, in triplicate. âFucking hell.â
âNah. This is the way I show my appreciation.â 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 theyâd go home. Least they had a piece, even if it slept in the winter dark.
Needed a little soft, holiday story for the Junkerboys. It's almost Christmas, I must be feeling melancholy.
I wouldnât know where to start
Sweet music playing in the dark
Be still, my foolish heart
Donât 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. Roadieâs voice echoes in his memory, âGonna need glasses before youâre thirty if you keep squinting like that.â Blokeâs got a point, as always. He sighs and sits back, giving in to his aching body. When he looks up reason everythingâs gone vague and blurry is abruptly clear - lightâs changed. Fat cloudsâd been lining the horizon now blanket the sky, winter sun too anemic to dent them.Â
He glances back down at the launcher, still in pieces, screws and metal bits scattered over the workbench. Not as far as heâd like to be - Chrissieâs coming on soon. Gotta have Roadieâs prezzie ready. Itâs close, but detonation speed needs tweaking - donât 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 Roadieâd not be caught dead reading. He straightens, stretches, spine pops. Stomach rumbling too. How longâs 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. Canât 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 heâs gonna need to sneeze. Rubs his nose. Ignores it.
âOi, Roadie,â he calls. No answer. He frowns. Hog hadnât mentioned anything, had he? Wouldnât go on a mission without him. Wouldnât go hang with Hana or LĂșcio, sick as heâs been. Mightâve 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. Blokeâd been sick for a while and didnât seem to be improving.
Lack of caffeineâs making his thoughts feel slow, his head full of sludge. Must be why he canât seem to figure where Roadhog might have gone. Heâs still trying to puzzle it when thereâs 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.
âAs Mr. Rutledge seems to be incapable of following the simplest of instructions, I appeal to your better judgment, Jamison.â 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. âBreaking out the surname and suggesting I have anything approximating good judgment? What the bloody hellâd he do?â
âI 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?â
Junkrat shrugs. âNot here.âÂ
âIndeed not. He was outdoors. Working in the garden. With neither jacket nor hat.â
Junkrat shakes his head at Roadhog, struggling not to laugh. Least itâs someone else getting the dressing down for a change. âHow very dare you.â
âJust taking care of a couple of things,â Hog protests. âNot a big deal.â
âThis is not a joke.â Mercy directs a glare at Junkrat before turning back to Roadhog. She sighs, deeply. âI am not coddling you or some such foolishness,â she says. âIâm trying to save you from yourself. While the infection is relatively mild at the moment, if you donât take care it will worsen. I would not have you risk the lung function you still have, Mako.â
Roadie ducks his head, rubs the back of his neck, looking for all the world like a child being chastised. âYes, maâam,â he says.
âTake all of the antibiotics. Use the inhaler.â She shoves them into his hand and pivots to leave. âAnd donât call me maâam,â she adds, over her shoulder. âDoctor, if you must.â The door whirs open and closed behind her.
Junkrat blows out a breath. âAinât like no doctor I ever met.â Not like heâs met many; âdoctorsâ in Junkertown more like glorified butchers, but still. He raises a brow at Roadhog. âSheilaâs 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.â
âDonât start with me, Rat,â Roadhog grumbles. âIâm 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 Iâd be better by now.â He tosses the bottle of meds toward the coffee table and misses. It hits the floor with a rattle.Â
Junkrat moves to pick it up but is stopped by Roadhogâs glare. He holds up his hands in mock surrender and backs off. Knows better than to push straight on when heâs 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. âFucking hell,â he rasps, breathless. Least itâs enough that he takes a hit from the inhaler without Rat needing to say anything. Probably better he doesnât. Blokeâs emanating as much pissed off energy as fever.
Instead Junkrat drops a bag of LĂșcioâs medicinal tea into a Pachimari shaped mug and fills it at the instant hot tap. He adds a dollop of honey, enough to soothe Roadieâs throat, but woefully small to Ratâs own eyes. Somehow Hoggie lacks a reasonable appreciation for the sweeter things in life. The rising steam smells of cinnamon and clove, comforting as LĂč himself.Â
Roadhogâs retreated to the couch, resignation clear in the set of his shoulders. Heâs taken off his boots. âTa,â he says, voice glass on gravel, when Rat holds out the peace offering. Makes Ratâs own throat ache to hear. âDocâs right. I was acting like a bloody idiot. Gardenâs gonna be what it is. Not the end of the world.â
âAlready been through that once.â Junkrat floats the admittedly sad attempt at a joke. Testing. Predictably no response. Junkrat frowns, then nods. âAinât a lotta people smarter than the doc.â
âJust wish Iâd gotten the roses wrapped.â 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 Junkratâs spine but he manages to suppress it. Hoggieâs roses ainât just any flower. Ainât replaceable. Little bit of home, here in this place that isnât 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, shouldnât have a problem. Starts with the roses. Makes sure theyâre trimmed and wrapped proper. Gonna keep the roses safe. The memories safe. Heâs 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.Â
By the time heâs done, everything set and settled down to the last twig, the worldâs gone dim and silent with snowfall. Itâs 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.Â
âThere you are. Been wondering where youâd got to,â Roadie says.
Junkrat startles. âGonna kill Hanzo for givinâ you the ninja lessons.â
This time Roadhog huffs the particular laugh means heâs torn between amusement and not wanting to encourage Rat.Â
Junkrat wraps his arms around himself and sleeves his nose. Still itching, but knows if he starts sneezing Roadieâll make him go inside and heâs not ready yet. Luckily Roadhogâs smart enough to have put on more appropriate winter gear. âSee ya ainât risking Mercyâs wrath.â
Feels Roadie smile behind the mask. âNah. Once is more than enough.â He pauses and the snow drifts down, dusting their shoulders. âThank you for this, Jamie.â Roughness of his voice now got nothing to do with being sick.Â
Junkrat looks up at him, puzzled. âWell âcourse, mate. Couldnât exactly let them die, could I?âÂ
âYou could.â Roadhog says, still facing the garden. âDid a good job, Rat.â He puts an arm around Junkrat.Â
Rat leans into the warmth, then curls forward with a harsh sneeze, hastily muffled in his scarf. Another follows, and a third. âShit. Jigâs up.â
This time Roadie actually laughs. âBless you. Better get back inside before Mercy hears you sneezing.â
Later, even in a pair of Roadieâs pjs and wrapped in several of their blankets, Junkrat still shivers. âF-fuckinâ freezinâ. Ainât never gonna be warm again. Barely moreân a corpse. Heat of life already left my bonesâŠâ Plays up the whinge, because he can, and muffles a round of sneezing in the blankets.
Roadhog reaches over, palms his forehead, but gently. âDefinitely has not. And donât be disgusting.â He tosses a box of tissues at Junkrat who canât free his hands quick enough to catch it. It bounces off his chest.
âThis the way you show your appreciation? Some caretaker you are.â Tugs free a handful just in time to catch another, in triplicate. âFucking hell.â
âNah. This is the way I show my appreciation.â 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 theyâd go home. Least they had a piece, even if it slept in the winter dark.