#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic
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To love what is lovely, and will not last
I come, after a long absence, with Sandman fic. Not exactly what I'd planned, but I've been fiddling with it for so long and everything else has been blocked behind it.... It's almost 3am and I'm calling it done.
To stop time
when something wonderful
has touched us
as with a match
which is lit, and bright,
but does not hurt
in the common way,
but delightfully
~ Mary Oliver, “Snow Geese”
Hob’s alarm beeps insistently, dragging him from the ocean of sleep and washing him onto the shore of waking - blinking, bleary. He grabs for the phone to silence it. Not even out of bed when his thoughts turn to the day’s tasks - marking long overdue, final edits of a journal article and likely several desperate calls from students wanting to earn extra credit. At least he has the solstice party after, as a treat.
Beside him, Morpheus shifts. “Time is it,” he mumbles into the pillow, voice rough, sleep-worn.
“Half six,” Hob says, tugging a shirt over his head. “Gotta get to work.”
“Are you mad? It’s only been three hours.”
As though the words remind his body, Hob yawns, then coughs into his sleeve. “Two hours too long. I’ve got at least three days’ work to pack in before the party.”
Morpheus peers at him. Frowns. “You’re still recovering from your illness. Come back to bed.”
“Don’t fuss; I’m much improved. Nowhere near my death.” Hob pokes him in the ribs, gently. Morpheus obliges with a sound that bears passing resemblance to a chuckle. “Besides the Dean’ll have my job, tenure or no, if I don’t get marks in today.” Hob forces himself to stand before the softness of the sheets and the warmth of Morpheus’s body pull him back. He more than half expects Morpheus to reach for him, attempt to draw him down.
Instead, Morpheus stares rather blankly for a long minute then abruptly turns his back, burrowing deeper into the quilts. Hob sighs. Deeply. He wishes he could say fuck it all and join him, but the fresher flu set him back significantly. No matter what he’d rather, procrastination is right out. Blasted responsibilities.
He consumes an entire pot of coffee which somehow manages to make him edgy without ridding him of tiredness. Cheek propped on fist, he works his way through the stack of final essays and take-home exams and doesn’t allow himself to move from his desk until midday. As he wanders into the kitchen, still trying to decide whether the last student really makes the argument he’s attempting, Hob catches a trailing melody from Morpheus’s studio, the echo of a beat. Something electronic - Paul Van Dyk, maybe? - better for a rave than a Saturday noon, but it’s what Morpheus prefers when he’s painting. Hob smiles; at least one of them is having fun. He pictures Morpheus in his usual pose - scowling at the canvas like it’s personally insulted him, one paintbrush in his hand, another tucked behind his ear, hair wild and paint spattered.
Hob goes to put his mug into the dishwasher, but finds it still full of clean dishes. Sighing, he adds it to a pile of dirty plates, glasses, and another mug that’s sticky with honey and redolent of mint and chamomile. He frowns. Unusual - Morpheus drinking tea, but Hob supposes the flat is chilly. Luckily the stack doesn’t overbalance and he promises himself he’ll take care of it after the party. Stomach rumbling, he opens the refrigerator to see what leftovers might still be edible and discovers, miracle of all miracles, a sandwich so freshly made the lettuce hasn’t yet wilted. It’s his favorite - brie and green apple - and he instantly forgives Morpheus ignoring the washing up as he takes a huge bite. With fortification, he might just make it to the end of the day.
Finally the third frantic student call is patiently attended to, the last of the marks are uploaded to the university system, the email to his editor is sent into the ether, and Hob feels distinctly lighter. He clatters down stairs to find final party preparations in full swing. Gabriel’s directing Morpheus in proper placement of furniture and decorations, Mako’s checking the sound system for Geordie’s band, and Jamie’s setting up the bar. After two decades of parties, none of them need his instruction, and even his practiced eye can’t find anything out of place. He expects no less, and yet the pride in what they’ve built brings a warmth to his chest. Nothing like mulled wine, holiday songs, good food and friends to pass the longest night and welcome the sun’s return at dawn.
Hob watches as Morpheus, balancing rather precariously on the edge of a chair across the room, attempts to drape a pine garland over the doorway. As he stretches to get the angle just right, his shirt slides up, exposing a pale strip of skin, stark against the black of his jeans. Hob imagines brushing his fingertips over that expanse, making Morpheus shiver under his touch. Suddenly Morpheus flinches, sharp. The chair tips, but he manages to catch himself at the last moment, dropping lightly to the floor.
“All right?” Hob asks, surprised at the unusual lapse of grace.
Morpheus nods as he passes, heading for the stairs. He doesn’t meet Hob’s gaze.
Hob turns to follow, but his phone rings. Jilly’s car’s broken down, can someone give her a ride? Never one to look askance at a fortunate turn of events, he gives her Geordie’s number. There’s plenty of room in the band’s van, they’re coming from the same end of town - and if Geordie has been looking for an excuse to talk to her for weeks, well that’s just a lucky coincidence.
“Meddling, are we?” Jamie laughs at Hob’s guilty startle.
He pulls an affronted expression. “I’d never. Nudge, maybe. Hint. A bit. Never meddle.”
Jamie raises an eyebrow.
Mako tosses a towel at him. “Get back to work and quit giving him shit. After all, worked with us, didn’t it?”
“Maybe.” But the hint of a smile curls Jamie’s lips and he follows Mako’s orders. “Better get yourself presentable, boss. You know Lena and Emily are gonna be here any minute.”
Hob looks down, realizing he hasn’t yet changed out of his ancient sweatshirt, then over at the clock above the bar. “Bollocks. Is it possible to be late to your own party?”
“For you? Absolutely.”
“Remind me again why I hired you?”
“Because I make the filthiest martinis.” Jamie grins wolfishly as he tips gin and vermouth into a shaker.
Mako rolls his eyes. “Filthy something anyway.”
“Pot, kettle.”
Their good-natured bickering follows Hob upstairs where he finds Morpheus in his favorite spot, curled on the window seat. Party or no, he’s wearing his usual grey t-shirt and black jeans. In defiance of the season, his feet are bare.
“It is beginning to snow,” Morpheus says, not looking away from the gathering dusk where fat flakes of snow are, indeed, swirling down and dusting the grass and trees.
Hob considers whether suggesting Morpheus put on something warmer would make him sound like a nagging mum. Probably would do. “It’s said to bring luck, if the first snowfall of the year happens on the solstice,” he says instead, forcing himself to pay attention to the puzzle of his own attire. He needs something appropriate to the party, but comfortable.
“Might the weather keep your friends from attending the festivities?” Morpheus’s expression is unreadable in the blurry reflection of the window, but the wistfulness of his tone is clear and it takes Hob aback. While Morpheus hasn’t whinged about the annual solstice gathering, and has, point of fact, encouraged Hob to continue the tradition, he has also tended to be solitary since he … retired. Hob hadn’t imagined he would be looking forward to a gathering, no matter the occasion.
“Not likely. The heavy snow isn’t supposed to come until later tomorrow, and it takes more than a few centimeters to make Lena miss a party. There’ll be plenty of time for people to sober up in the morning and make their way home before the storm really hits.” He doesn’t acknowledge that Morpheus has named them Hob’s friends, as though they are not Morpheus’s as well, but he notes the fact.
“Good. I-I’ve never-” Morpheus’s voice catches on a hitching breath and he curls into himself, pinching a set of sneezes into silence. It takes him a second to recover.
“Bless you. Never…?” Hob prompts, when he seems to be lost in thought.
Morpheus blinks back to himself. “N-never -” He sniffles, presses a curled finger under his nose, rubs gently. “- been to a party.” He manages to finish in a rush, then crumples again. “Httnxxt! N’xxt! Hih-N’xxtch!” He shivers, gooseflesh rising along his arms.
“Bless you. All right?”
“Yes, I’m fine. Just. A passing chill.”
Unable to resist, Hob pulls a flannel shirt from his wardrobe and holds it out. “I know, I know. It’s got long sleeves and color and everything. But as you may have heard, the weather outside is frightful and this will keep you warm.”
Morpheus heaves a long suffering sigh, then slides the shirt on anyway. The blue is almost exactly the same shade as his eyes, rich and deep as the Aegean Sea.
“I find it extremely hard to believe that the King of All Night’s Dreaming has never gone to a party,” Hob says. He finally decides on his most ridiculous ugly Christmas jumper - bright red, covered with black cats in Santa hats - a gift from an American student years ago.
Morpheus glares at him through watery eyes. “Not one I wished to attend.”
“Not even in the Fey realms?”
“You will not tempt me to speak a word against the Fey,” Morpheus says archly, then sniffles again, marring the hauteur.
“You sure you’re alright?”
Morpheus nods, but his focus has shifted. “I am…” He’s interrupted by a sneeze, then a second and third tumble after, harsh even muffled in his sleeve. “Ht’Isshuh! Hih-Issshh-isshue!” He takes the tissue Hob offers. “I am, perhaps, coming down with something,” he admits ruefully.
“Perhaps,” Hob echoes, teasing. “A foregone conclusion, considering my state these last days.” He digs through the bottom of the wardrobe. He’s sure there’s a belt in there somewhere. And at least one matching pair of socks.
“I’m sorry. I had been. Hoping. To attend a party simply as a guest. And to better acquaint myself with those who are important to you.” Morpheus clears his throat, then coughs.
Hob pauses and looks up from his search, startled. “You’re sorry,” he asks, the apology the first thing his brain latches on to. Rare, even now, for Morpheus to apologize for a small matter.
Morpheus shrugs, gaze turned out the window again. “I’ve been telling myself I am not ill, but I can no longer deny it. Promise you’ll tell me stories of the night come morning?”
“Are you feeling that badly? To miss it?” Though Hob had spent a day in bed himself, that was mostly at Morpheus’s insistence. He’d barely had a fever and was fine to muddle through. But Morpheus had badgered him into resting after the intensity of the semester, playing into his own procrastination tendencies too well.
He brushes a hand over Morpheus’s forehead, then his cheeks. He’s still cool to the touch, though now that Hob’s slowed down enough to pay attention, he notices the shadows pooled under blue eyes, the slight pinch between brows that indicates headache, visible even in the window reflection, remembers the tea mug, the morning distance. Morpheus must have realized he was getting sick even then and hoped to stave it off.
“I don’t wish anyone else to catch this.”
“Just don’t snog other people and they won’t.”
Morpheus finally turns to face him and glowers. “I would never.”
“I know you wouldn’t. Come on, duck.” Hob shifts, leaning Dream against his side and carding gentle fingers through his ever-messy hair. “Everyone else has already had the crud. Even Jamie, and he never gets sick.”
“Truly?” Morpheus sighs, hope warring with suspicion in his voice.
Hob does his best impression of innocence. “Would I lie to you?”
“Without a doubt, if it gets you what you want.”
“What I want is you. It really is okay.” He leans down, presses a kiss to Morpheus’s temple. “And Mei isn’t coming, thank all that’s holy. She’s the only one who might be bothered.”
“You dislike her.” Morpheus says slowly, as though he’s piecing together a puzzle. “It cannot be simply her subject.”
Hob shakes his head. “I could forgive her teaching Shakespeare. I could even forgive her enjoying it. But she was unkind to you.” More than once, he doesn’t add.
“A minor incident,” Morpheus argues, but a faint flush colors his cheeks and when they join the party, he stays close to Hob’s side far longer than usual before retreating to a chair in an out of the way corner, beside the hearth.
With ease born of long practice, Hob threads his way through the pub, greeting the guests and chatting easily with each, while keeping a sliver of his focus on Morpheus. At first he sits alone, an island in the flow of the crowd. To the untrained eye, he seems distant, uninterested, his face impassive, body carefully rigid. Behind the mask, Hob knows, Morpheus is following the currents of conversations surrounding him. Technically no longer Prince of Stories, they still seem to nourish him.
Hob is all the way across the pub when he catches sight of Lena and Emily pulling chairs up to join Morpheus. Lena’s got a look in her eye that bodes ill for Hob - she knows too many embarrassing stories and never hesitates to share. Before he can intercept them, he’s pulled into a heated debate over whether Irish whiskey or Scotch is superior. By the time he manages to extricate himself, it’s clear that they’ve made themselves comfortable. Not surprising, but what does surprise him is that Morpheus actually seems to be equally comfortable with them. For the first time his body is at ease as he listens intently to something Lena’s saying.
“And that’s why he isn’t allowed to… Oh, oops,” she interrupts herself as Hob comes in earshot, but she doesn’t look even the slightest bit embarrassed.
“Hello Hob.” A hint of mirth quirks Morpheus’s lips.
Hob directs an exaggerated frown at Lena. “You’d better not be telling him about the pub in Dublin.”
“She wasn’t, but now she must,” Morpheus says, his voice little more than a rasp. His breath catches. Stutters. “Ex-excuse me,” he manages to say, turning away hastily. “Hih…ht’Issh! Issh! Hih-Isssh!”
Lena and Emily chorus blessings and Hob bites his tongue on the urge to ask how he’s feeling; he’d just brush off Hob’s concern, say it’s nothing. An oily feeling of disquiet curls into Hob’s belly anyway. He tells himself firmly to ignore it. “Dammit, Lena, that means I’ll have to tell him about what got us banished from Trinity’s library and I’m not nearly drunk enough for that.”
“The night is young,” Lena says. ”Go get yourself another drink. It’s time for your boyfriend to get to know the real you.”
Morpheus catches his gaze. “I could use a drink as well.”
Hob tosses up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right. Just leave me with a scrap of reputation, yeah?”
“I make no promises,” Lena says and her grin is wicked. Even as he walks away, Hob is certain he hears Morpheus chuckling under his breath.
“Good turnout,” Jamie says when Hob joins him behind the bar. He’s right - somewhere above fifty people, professors and students mingling with a few of the pub’s regulars. Someone’s pushed tables aside and a few brave (and inebriated) souls are dancing. Others play cards or darts, and he’s pretty sure he can make out a couple snogging in a darker corner. There’s plenty of food, the plates and cutlery seem well stocked, the music isn’t loud enough to keep people from talking. Everything is in order. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves. But maybe he should make another circuit of the pub, just to be certain…
“Gabriel’s got it under control, boss. And if anyone starts anything, Mako will handle it. Take the night off for once.”
Hob winces. “Am I that obvious?”
“Let’s just say best you avoid the poker table. Or, actually, fancy a game?”
“Sod off; you’re on duty,” Hob says, laughing.
“And so’s Gabe. Enjoy the party. The company.” He looks meaningfully toward the little group by the hearth.
“I will. I am.” It’s true, he realizes. Emily leans forward, gesturing emphatically, managing to interrupt Lena and take the story over herself. Not upset in the least, Lena’s expression is a little proud of her girlfriend’s audacity, and more than a little fond. Morpheus presses a hand over his mouth as he laughs, but even muffled, the abrupt wounded goose honk of it startles both Lena and Emily into giggles as well. His eyes shine, simply reflected firelight. No longer magic and yet… still his Stranger. Once lost, now found. His Friend, who has known him over so many long years, and who he is finally getting to know as well.
Morpheus straightens, moves slightly away from the others. Hob wonders if he’s offended - or hurt - by their reaction. But then he grabs a napkin from the table and his laughter disintegrates into coughing.
“Poor bloke’s been sick a lot this winter. Better take one of these for him,” Jamie says, handing Hob two steaming mugs of mulled wine. “Tell him feel better soon, yeah?”
“Thanks. I’ll tell him.” Hob forces himself to smile, but the uncomfortable disquiet has returned. He hadn’t paid close attention, but now that Jamie’s pointed it out, he can’t ignore it. Morpheus has been ill on and off since the beginning of the school year. There are a thousand reasons for it - everyone gets sick with new germs and uni is a veritable petri dish; Morpheus hasn’t even had a body for that long, of course it would be vulnerable. But what if it’s worse? He blinks and in the darkness a flash of a body laid out on marble, covered with a sheer cloth and yet he knows who it was… he knows.
“There’s mulled wine? And you didn’t bring us any? Rude,” Lena says.
“Sorry, only two hands,” Hob hands one to Morpheus, then takes a deep drink of his own.
“Oh, I love this song - dance?” Emily asks as Geordie and the band begin a reel. To Hob’s relief Lena agrees. She takes Emily’s arm and they whirl into the knot of dancers. Morpheus watches them go, still smiling - but the light of the fire casts the angles of his face into strange, deep shadows and Hob drinks again.
“Robert.” Though it’s still rough, Morpheus’s voice is somewhat stronger. There’s a question in it that Hob doesn’t want to answer.
He keeps his eyes on his mug. “Jamie says he hopes you feel better soon.”
“Hob.”
“Do you want to dance, too? I’m not great, but once I finish this drink…” he takes another, longer swallow.
“Enough,” Morpheus says, the command no less forceful for coming through a human throat.
Hob finally looks down to find Morpheus gazing up at him with eyes that no longer swirl with endless constellations, but are still deeper than Hob can fathom. He releases the mug and Morpheus takes his hand, smoothing the pad of his thumb over the inside of Hob’s wrist.
“What has disturbed you?”
“I… The longest night is not long enough.”
“No?”
Hob shakes his head. He always wants more time.
Morpheus draws him down, puts an arm around him, rests his head on Hob’s shoulder. “I believe it is true - the first snowfall on Yule is indeed fortunate.”
“Why,” Hob asks into his hair.
“Because I have good drink. Good music. Good friends. And you. It is enough.” He presses his lips to Hob’s wrist and warmth flows through the contact, through Hob’s whole body until it feels like he glows bright as the flames.
“I suppose it is.”
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The Leaves Dream Now
This was supposed to be just a little D/reamling short fic and yet here we are, nearly 5k words and a million days later and I'm ending here because if I don't post now it'll be another 5k words and 50 million days. Though it's technically Hob/Dream in my head, it can be platonic if you choose to read it that way. Still deciding if I want to do another part where it's .... less platonic.
Don’t you imagine the leaves dream now
How comfortable it will be to touch
The earth instead of the
Nothingness of the air and the endless
Freshets of wind? …
And don’t you hear
The goldenrod whispering goodbye
~ Mary Oliver, Song for Autumn
Morpheus inhales deeply of the night air as it curls softly around him. It cools the heat of his skin, soothing, reminding him he is free. Still, he feels hollow as a reed and he cannot tell the cause. Perhaps some of his essence lingers in the basement darkness, held in the remains of the sphere. A wave of dizziness makes his head go light and he closes his eyes against it. He takes another breath - fresh air, not stale. His feet are planted firm on wood boards, not cold crystal. His coat hem brushes his calves–he is clothed, no longer stripped bare before one and all.
“You should wait, my Lord,” Lucienne’s voice carries over waves lapping the pier, though she speaks quietly. “Rest more. Retrieve your tools. Then return.”
“You presume to decree what I may or may not do?” Morpheus looks back at her, anger kindling in the center of his chest, steadying him, honing his focus. Apparently grown bold in his absence, she has reached out as though to take hold of his arm, to physically restrain him. He steps back, increasing the distance between them.
She sighs, puts her hand in the pocket of her waistcoat. “Of course not.” No matter how sharp her tone, her expression stays studiously neutral. “I merely point out that you are… not at your best. Your project can wait.”
“I am decades late to our appointed meeting. He has waited long enough.” Morpheus doesn’t consider the roots of his urgency. Refuses to entertain the passing thought that she might speak truth. His entire body aches with exhaustion, alternately shivering and sweating. He pushes the sensations away, refusing to bend to the damnable weakness. “I will make him wait no longer.”
He kneels at the end of the dock and gazes into the ink dark water. Stars shine above, reflect in the water below, whirl and wheel, and he goes dazed, giddy with their bright cold light and swirls, slides, falls into stars, into water, into the cold currents of liminal space between Dreaming and Waking.
He falls. The currents push him, pull him, set him spinning, tumbling, down and down. Tendrils trail icy over his hair, his coat, his hands, grasping but not quite holding him. Focus, he must focus on where-when-who, else he may end up off course and lost. He tenses against the cold, closes his eyes to see, WhiteHorse-Now-Hob. Only what he desires, nothing more. His concentration narrows. He sees, currents shift to his will, he straightens and arrow-plummets.
Morpheus stumbles as he coalesces, staggered by solid ground. Wind stirs his hair, slides cold fingers down the back of his neck. He shivers, and not simply due to the chill air. The White Horse is shuttered. Enclosed in a sheet metal fence. Windows boarded over. Graffiti splashed across the walls. Like so much else it is tainted by his absence. Without his touch, keeping it a place for the two of them through the centuries, the protections crumbled. Too late. He is long too late. And where is Hob?
A playbill flutters against the fence and Morpheus blinks as he registers. the red painted words right in front of his face. The New Inn. An arrow, pointing right. He tenses against the urge to walk faster, to hope - after all, what are the chances? Their agreement broken, meeting place desolate - his own precipitous departure at their last meeting - why would Hob return? He walks slowly, but still follows the arrows. He must know.
He pauses as he turns a corner and The New Inn comes into sight. It is not a replica of the old, yet there is something of the same substance in it. Sun spills oblique between gathering clouds. It slants across the front of the pub, reflecting from the windows so he cannot see inside. Dusk pools beneath surrounding trees; shadows congregate between buildings. The air smells faintly of fallen apples, sweet and fermented. Rotting. Leaves, crimson, gold, umber rustle dryly above his head. Wrong pub, wrong hour, wrong season, wrong year.
A headache begins to throb behind his eyes, tightening around his forehead, and he gives in to the urge to rub his temples, then pinch the bridge of his nose. Travel to the waking world cost more strength than he has yet regained. He ignores the need gnawing at him. Merely a physical result of his imprisonment, nothing more. He cannot change what is past, his mistakes, his failure - but he can make amends.
Morpheus feels the thread that is Hob in the tapestry of the Dreaming, but he has not - dares not - follow it to be certain of Hob’s location or his mood. Doing so would be neither wise nor kind. At least he knows Hob has not yet sought his elder sister, wherever he is, whatever he feels. He blinks and the ruins of his throne room quake and fall once more, clink of broken glass echoes in his ears. If the very heart of the Dreaming could not survive his… absence, how much less something as ephemeral as friendship. He swallows against a burning in his throat. For the first time in more than seven hundred years he is uncertain of his reception. If, indeed, Hob is here at all. He would be well within his rights to be as far from this place as possible.
Another gust of wind rushes over him, a spatter of rain follows, and Morpheus realizes he delays. Tugging his coat tighter around himself and fisting his hands in his pockets he crosses to the Inn.
A bell chimes cheerfully as he opens the door. He steps over the threshold and a wave of sound and warmth washes over him. Though the room is relatively small, it feels cozy rather than crowded. People sit around small tables in groups of two or three, laughing and chattering. A couple of larger booths, both full, occupy the corners. Instead of the stale beer and cigarette smoke scent of the White Horse, there’s just a hint of woodsmoke from the fireplace overlaid with something savory simmering unseen in the kitchen. Music plays in the background, fiddles and pipes, an Irish folk tune he hasn’t heard in several hundred years.
He casts his gaze over the room, searching, barely able to draw full breath until he sees the familiar dark head bent over a scattering of papers and half-full pint of cider at one of the smaller tables, slightly set apart from the rest but closest to the fireplace. Here. He is here. Morpheus feels himself drawn forward, iron filings to magnet. He pauses by the empty chair, and Hob’s pen stills.
Slowly, much too slowly, Hob looks up. Morpheus wants to retreat back into shadow, into the Dreaming. He wants to let himself bask in the warmth of Hob’s presence. He wants to laugh, wants to cry, wants to sit perfectly still and listen to Hob tell him of every moment that has passed in the last hundred and thirty-three years. He wants to say nothing. He wants to say everything. He’s balanced on the edge.
Hob smiles, equal parts surprised and pleased. “You’re late.” Teasing. True.
Morpheus wants to fly, wants to fall. A small chuckle escapes. “It seems I owe you an apology. I’ve always heard it impolite to keep one’s friends waiting.” Because whatever else they might be, now or before or after, they are, have been, will be friends.
Welcome emanates from Hob’s entire countenance, no touch of recrimination, and Morpheus allows himself to take the seat across from his friend. “I am sorry,” he says. “If I could have come…” His throat closes and he can force no more words. Cannot bring himself to explain, to speak the truth. If he hadn’t been caught, severed from the Dreaming, from himself; if he hadn’t been powerless… There’s a hot prickling behind his eyes; he rubs his nose against a sudden urge to sneeze.
“What’s a decade or two in the span of centuries.” Hob shrugs. He offers grace, doesn’t ask questions. Instead he launches into the tale of how he became proprietor of the New Inn, from his discovery that the White Horse was to be demolished, to his decision that the town still needed a welcoming place, to his purchase of building and land, to the ribbon cutting ceremony. Never content to do one thing only, Hob tells of how he also became a professor, and shares stories from his classes, vignettes of his student’s lives. Tales of open mic nights and Sunday study sessions. He describes his students, and the pub’s regulars in enough detail that when Morpheus lets his focus expand he can see the web of connection Hob has made here shine bright in the Dreaming.
Hob describes changing technology and a changing world. Everything moving so much faster, everything so much louder and yet he meets it all with unbridled enthusiasm. Time passes and still there is much to learn, to know, to explore. To experience. The flow of his story, of his life, fills a need Morpheus hasn’t yet named. Hasn’t even recognized.
Finally, Hob raises his pint and discovers the glass empty. “I’m in need of another drink if I’m to keep talking. Can I get you anything?”
Morpheus shakes his head, words still beyond him. Tangled somewhere between throat and tongue. Trapped. They build like water behind a dam. But who do you care about? Who makes your heart sing? Are we truly friends?
Hob hesitates for a moment, eyeing him carefully before moving away to the bar. The shadow of a frown hovers between his brows and his apprehension prickles Morpheus’s awareness. An ephemeral image - not true daydream, more half-formed worry - slips past the barriers Morpheus has erected between them and flashes across his awareness. it’s an image of himself dissipating like smoke as Hob turns away, disappearing as though he had never been. Unreachable for innumerable years, possibly this time never to return. A well-worn fear Hob has turned in his thoughts, year upon year. Loss, of the only one who has witnessed his life across the centuries.
Guilt mingles with exhaustion and his headache grips Morpheus like a fist. Though he’s close to the fire, he shudders with a chill and sneezes, once then again and again, hard fast paroxysms he cannot stifle against the back of his wrist, though he tries. They leave him blinking and bleary.
“Was that you?” Hob asks, glancing at Morpheus over his shoulder.
“I’m afraid so,” he admits. “My apologies,” His breath wavers, the sensation urgent, needful, and he manages to create a handkerchief only at the very last moment. “Hiihhisssh! Hihisssh! …” He snags a breath, two, but is overcome again. “Ht’issshhh!” Morpheus raises his head from the fabric to find a steaming mug in front of him, and Hob gazing at him with mingling amusement and concern.
“God bless you. Two apologies in one meeting; a record.” Hob raises a brow, pushes the mug slightly closer and holds out a tissue. “You know, humanity has moved on in the past century or so - from wiping our noses on our sleeves, to germy cloths we stick in our pockets, to tissues which we can use once and throw away.”
Morpheus’s lips twitch. “Indeed. Impressive.” Inclining his head slightly in acknowledgement, he takes the tissue and the mug, closing his hands around the porcelain. The steam smells of cinnamon and clove, honey and a good, strong, whiskey. Though he neither hungers nor thirsts, he sips. The drink is sweet laced with spice and eases the pain in his throat. Warmth curls in his stomach. Maybe from the alcohol, maybe for the fact that Hob gifted it to him.
Morpheus drinks again, studying Hob intently in turn. He nearly glows with contentment, simple pleasure in being in this place at this moment. He carries himself with ease and confidence - he plays scholar now, but his body is still that of a warrior. Clearly the intervening years have, on balance, been kind to him. Though he looks near as young as he did when they first met, there are fine lines crinkling in the corners of his lips, a few grey hairs scattered in the brown, a weight of wisdom hard won. Even still, questions lurk behind Hob’s eyes.
Silence slips into the space between them, tension crackles, barometric pressure falling before a storm. Hob cants forward and before he can stop himself, Morpheus leans back. “Do you still wish to live?” He asks because he always asks. He asks because he doesn’t wish Hob to ask. He asks because he still wonders, cannot quite believe, that Hob would choose this.
“Is that the question you want to ask me? After all this time? You know my answer - yes. In the best of life, in the worst of life, yes. Always yes. Tell me, Stranger - what is it you truly wish to know?” He doesn’t move, either closer or away, just waits perfectly still, as though to do otherwise might startle Morpheus, send him away again.
“I… I wish…” the word tastes strange on his tongue, piquant and sweet, sparks and candy floss. The odd juxtaposition puts him in mind of his little sister. That and the way the edges of the room, the edges of his thoughts undulate, unsettling. He drinks again, an excuse for his lapse into silence, feeling Hob watching him with those warm, brown eyes that are so unbearably kind. He wishes Hob would turn his gaze away, look anywhere else, because it fills him with wishes he doesn’t know how to speak into existence, tiny bursts of fantasy that flash through his thoughts. I wish I hadn’t been forced to miss our meeting- I wish I hadn’t been so weak- I wish I hadn’t let myself get taken- I wish I knew how to fix this- I wish I took more time, gathered my pieces, shored up my power- I wish I knew you, more of you, all of you, not just glimpses century by century…
He sniffs, steam and alcohol working against him to tease free another set of sneezes even as he tries to stave them off. He presses a crooked finger under his nose to no avail. “Pardon,” he manages to say before ducking into his sleeve, completely forgetting the tissue in the suddenness of the need. “H-h… Ihd’shht! … Hih-shht!....” He teeters, breathless, waiting, wanting but the third sneeze dangles just out of reach. He sniffs, sniffs again, but can neither find release nor relief.
“Bless you?” Hob says, a ghost of laughter in the question.
Morpheus attempts a scowl, but something shifts and he’s suddenly wrenched forward with the missing third. “Huh’RIshoo!” It scrapes his throat, uncomfortably loud even muffled as it is.
Concern flashes over Hob’s expression, almost too quick to catch before he smooths it back to light good humor. “What’s that? You wish to be somewhere away from this crowd, somewhere quiet with such luxurious amenities as a lumpy sofa, an unlimited supply of the good tissues, and perhaps some cold medicine that won’t actually cure you but will at least get you high enough that you forget how shit you feel? Well you’re in luck, mate. My flat is just above, and has all that and a bottle of whiskey better than anything they serve in this dive.”
Morpheus obliges him with the edge of a smile. “Perhaps you’d better speak to the proprietor about his choice of whiskey.”
“Perhaps I had.” Hob actually laughs but then goes serious. “Come, Stranger, will you not join me?”
The invitation feels like an open hand, extended. Morpheous allows himself to imagine for a moment taking the offering, following Hob upstairs into a space that is unmistakably his. Imagines himself welcomed despite his absence, his distance, his failures. He imagines a possibility that will never be. Because he knows what will happen, should he give in to the desire. Knows the path that will follow, and what’s worse, knows the ending of the path.
He should take his leave, return to his realm and his duty left so long untended. Rebuild from the ruins. He has the answer he came for; he has offered his apology to Hob. He should walk away from this… this temptation. But he cannot keep himself from longing for another way.
As Morpheus wavers, torn between yearning and experience, between exhaustion and duty, Hob gathers his papers, pockets his pen, pushes back from the table, and stands. “You don’t need to stay long. Just a drink and a bit of quiet, until the storm clears?”
Lightning flashes in the window beside them, a roll of thunder follows, loud enough to be heard over the music. Tree branches toss wind-lashed, leaves flurry, swirl to the ground and something brittle and dry cracks in Morpheus’s chest. The thought of going out into the driving rain, getting soaked before traversing the liminal lands, sends a chill catpawing up his spine and he shivers, blows his nose. “Very well. For a brief time.”
Hob grins, glint of triumph in his eyes, then gone. He calls a farewell to the bartender and waves to a couple of patrons as he passes. “Picked a fine day to visit, middle of a storm. Several decades late as you already are, you might have waited for nicer weather.” Both teasing and not, he leads Morpheus through the pub and up a dark stairwell. The treads creak under Hob’s feet, but remain silent at Morpheus’s passing.
Another brilliant flash and in the span between light and sound, Morpheus doubts. Does he dare trust this man enough to be in a place of his dominion, at his request? Does he truly believe that were Hob to understand the extent of both his usual power and current vulnerability that Hob would not take advantage? When others had done so for less?
Thunder cracks, wind whines at the window. Hob manages to unlock the door without dropping either his papers or the rest of the pint he’d brought with him. Light spills from the doorway, enticing. “Make yourself comfortable; I’m just going to put these away.” Hob toes off his shoes, then heads down the hall. “And please ignore the mess, it’s the maid’s century off,” he adds over his shoulder, sounding not at all concerned about what Morpheus might think. Unable to resist, finally, a place of shelter from the storm, Morpheus crosses the threshold.
Despite Hob’s warning, there is little disarray in the living room. While a jacket is tossed over the back of a chair, the coffee table is covered with student essays, scholarly journals, and a couple of mostly empty mugs, and the couch holds a rumpled blanket, a bed pillow and more student essays, the atmosphere is comfortable. Lived in. The radiator clicks and hisses, rain rattles on the roof, and as he rifles through cabinets, Hob hums one of the songs that had been playing in the pub below, slightly off key.
Morpheus finds himself drawn to one of Hob’s bookshelves, to see what storytellers he has chosen to bring with him. First editions press close to pulp fiction, shelved by some plan known only to Hob. Text books and poetry. Walt Whitman and Oscar Wilde, Audre Lorde and Octavia Butler, Adrienne Rich and Michel Foucault. He runs his finger along the spines, slides a book free and flips it open, letting the words flow through him - November, no one comes./ But I come, trying/ to breathe that word/ into the well’s ear/ which should make the leaves fly up/ like a green jet… They taste of deep red wine, dark chocolate, of frost and snowfall.
Unfortunately, the book is dusty, and he is struck with the urge to sneeze. He’s still trying to find the tissue he’d stuck in one of his pockets when the first crests. He stifles it into silence with an effort. The next hits faster, and the third breaks free just enough to shudder his frame. “Hnxt! H’ntxxsh!” He finally is able to blow his nose but instead of quelling the sensation, it only grows. He scrubs his nose roughly, which doesn’t help either. His breathing catches and he’s stuck in limbo, both wanting to sneeze again and fighting it.
“Thought I had a bit of Lemsip, but looks like I’m out.” Hob says, pulling Morpheus’s attention from his struggle. “Which isn’t much of a loss, honestly, considering it tastes like hot lemonade and does fuck all. Got paracetamol, though, if you’ve fever.”
“There… is no need; I am not ill.” Easier to claim this than explain the fullness of the situation. But speaking upsets the tenuous control he’s managed, he ducks into his sleeve again, and the sneezes convulse him. “Hihisssh!…Hih’isssh! H-hissshih!” He’s painfully aware of making both a liar and a spectacle of himself. If only he could stop sneezing long enough to return to the Dreaming.. “H-hih’Risshh! Isssh! Issshhuh!” He stumbles slightly, off balance and out of breath. It takes him more than a moment to recover and realize Hob has a hand on his back, gentling him like a feral creature.
“Good gods, man. Bless you. Ill or no, something is wrong.” Hob’s hand is a star, burning against his skin. Each point of contact a separate slice of pain, as though a festering wound lanced to release poison. He flinches away from the touch before he can stop himself - and regrets it immediately as Hob looks as though he’d been slapped.
“Perhaps there is. Something wrong,” he allows, permitting Hob to urge him onto the couch, this time without touch, and to settle on the other end, a respectable distance between their bodies. Morpheus draws his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, attempting to distract himself from the way his back still burns in the shape of Hob’s hand. A long silence falls, broken only by the rumble of the storm outside and the hiss of the radiator.
“I waited for you, you know.” Hob says finally, sounding more subdued than Morpheus has heard since 1689. “All day.”
Morpheus glances at him, but his gaze is turned to the window, to the streaks of raindrops and distant flashing lightning.
“Every time the door opened, I startled. Must’ve looked half mad.” He snorts a laugh, at the memory. At himself. “Waited all night, too. After they kicked me out and closed up I loitered in the parking lot like a derelict.” He runs his hands through his hair, frowning slightly. “I was so sure you’d come, so sure I was right.” He sighs. “As the days passed… weeks… years… being right mattered less. And I was not so certain anymore.
“As time passed, I realized that I had hoped you were lonely,” he looks at Morpheus sidelong and his lips quirk, rueful. “I wouldn’t want you to feel so, truly. But I was and, like a fool, I hoped you might be as well. So I wouldn’t be alone in it.” Hob scrubs his hands over his face and somewhere a clock strikes the hour. “I spoke out of turn. I should not have done so. I, too, am sorry.”
“You have nothing for which to apologize, Hob Gadling. I would have come to you, were it possible. Unfortunately I was… detained.” The minute he speaks the words, he wants to take them back. He has no plan to explain his absence to Hob. He doesn’t wish to admit the truth, but even less does he wish to lie - so he had thought to say nothing. But he could not - could not - allow Hob to blame himself for Morpheus’s own failure.
“Detained? What do you mean?” Hob’s focus snaps to Morpheus and he resists the urge to look away. As though, like a child, not to see is to be unseen.
“I was held against my will. For some time.” Between one heartbeat and the next Hob’s living room wavers, goes dark, silent. Warmth bleeds away; he shivers. The world is muffled, closed behind crystal and magics. His skin crawls with the memory of eyes upon him, constantly watching. His breaths come short and sharp, seeking air he technically doesn’t need but still cannot get. He rubs a hand over his chest, then worries at the frayed edge of his sleeve. He’s coming unraveled.
Hob goes pale. “For fuck’s sake. How much time?”
Morpheus swallows, coughs carefully in his sleeve. “One hundred and thirty three years.” His voice rasps.
“Over a century…” Hob’s voice is so low he might be talking only to himself.
“I do not measure time as you do.” Again he speaks without considering.
“You don’t…” Hob shakes his head, lurches to his feet. “I promised you whiskey and I get the sense I’m going to need it as well, momentarily.” He disappears around a corner, but his voice floats back with the sound of cabinets opening, a bottle being opened, liquid poured. “When did you get free? How? Are you - ” He cuts himself off mid-question. “Of course you aren’t. Stupid to ask. Just… why?”
“A mistake. They expected - hoped for - someone else. Desired something I could not give.”
Hob strides back, thrusts a glass into Morpheus’s hand. “A mistake? A mistake?” His tone is sharp with disbelief and his anger cuts at Morpheus. “A mistake is crossing the street against the light. Losing a glove. Forgetting an appointment. Kidnapping is not a mistake.”
“No, I suppose not.” Morpheus keeps his tone mild and Hob tosses back half of his drink in one go.
He calms himself with a visible effort, and when he sits on the couch again he’s nearer than before. Close enough that Morpheus can feel the heat of him. Can hear the faint thump of his heart. “What happened to you, my friend?”
Morpheus sips and the alcohol tastes of smoke and ash, dust and ruin, on his tongue. He has told no one the entirety of it. Not even Lucienne. Pieces, of course, she knows. She had mourned Jessamy as deeply as Morpheus himself. She knows better than any other the damage to the Dreaming. But there are things he cannot bring himself to burden her with. And things he is not certain he can speak aloud.
“Sharing wounds with another can help allow them to close,” Hob says. “Eleanor told me that, once upon a time. And I have unburdened my soul to you many times. Please, let me return the favor.” In his words echo the feel of welcome, of invitation, of grace offered freely, open palm and Morpheus finds himself helpless against it.
“To understand what befell me, you must know who, what, I am.” He steels himself, unfolds, and allows his form to shift, to draw in shadows, to draw in cloud and stars. “I am Dream of the Endless,” he says and his voice carries the echo of thunder in the distance. “Lord of Dreams and Nightmares. In this aspect I am called Morpheus.
“In 1916 an occultist and his Order, in an ill-thought plot to summon and imprison my sister, Death, captured me, instead. Though had they captured her, they would yet fail - she does not return anyone from the Sunless Lands, even one who is most beloved, even when he is lost before his time. And she does not respond well to threat.” It’s a little easier, now that he’s begun. He tells of his exhaustion, returning home from a quest that had taxed him near beyond endurance, of being drawn off course and stolen away, of waking in the darkness, encircled in magic and quartz, cut off from dreams and the Dreaming. He tells of Jessamy’s death, ripped from her life so violently and how he could do nothing. He tells of being unable to reach his power, his magic, himself, how his kingdom fell to ruin and how he could do nothing. He tells of hearing the voices of panic and pain in the waking world, and how he could do nothing. He tells how the cries for succor echoed in his head, how they still do.
He talks until his voice wears thin, and thinner, to no more than a whisper, “I should have done something…” and then he falls silent. At some point Hob has laid one hand on Morpheus shoulder. This time the contact does not burn, but is a balm. Hob says nothing, but draws him close, and Morpheus leans his head on Hob’s shoulder. The radiator has clicked off. The worst of the storm has blown past. They just sit, and the quiet wraps around them like a quilt. Soft. Gentle.
At last Morpheus takes a breath and begins to draw himself together, carefully pulling scattered threads back to center, weaving his control in place. “Thank you, Hob Gadling. For your hospitality, and your kindness. I am in your debt.”
“Nonsense. We are friends. Friends don’t keep tally.” He allows Morpheus to sit up, to put distance between them again. “You don’t need to go.”
“It’s late,” Morpheus says as a clock chimes midnight. Even as he stands, he realizes he’s going to sneeze again. He curls in on himself, shivering. “Hihisssh!…Hih’isssh! H-hissshih!” He’s still trying to decide if he’s done sneezing when he feels arms wrap around him. He stiffens, but then Hob begins to rub his back.
“Bless you. At least stay until the rain stops. You need rest.”
“Very well, just until the rain stops.”
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It couldn't be had, what he wanted to hold (1 of ?)
The idea of this fic has been lingering in the background of my brain since mid-2020 - finally taking a stab at it. TMA, Jon/Martin. Takes place post finale, though you don't need to have finished the series to read this.
Trying hard not to awaken
The voice of regret in his ear
He can’t escape the timeline
So much worse than he had feared
Lived every moment
Wishing the past would disappear
~ Eddie Vedder, Long Way
Ever since he could remember (and how long is that?), whenever Jon had a fever, no matter how slight, he would have nightmares. Not dim shadows, vague with foreboding, but technicolor, detailed. Not flimsy things, easily torn away, but more like cobwebs, clinging and sticky. Worse, they were just close enough to reality that he was always left questioning after, which dream, which not?
“That doesn’t sound promising.” Martin’s voice breaks the stillness.
Jon looks up from his book, blinking. “Mmm?”
“You’ve been sniffling for the past hour.” Fortunately, instead of annoyed, he sounds concerned. In the soft light of evening, Martin’s hair glows. His glasses reflect firelight. He looks warm and soft and Jon wishes they were curled up together on the couch. But Martin had wanted the table for his tea and notebook, a chance to write in quiet for a change. Jon’s trying not to be greedy. After all he has Martin to himself for a whole fortnight. He can allow the few feet of space between them.
“Sorry, have I?” He rubs absently at his nose. He hadn’t realized, but now that his concentration is broken, maybe he does feel a bit like he needs a handkerchief. “Allergies must be… ht’ngxt!”
Martin huffs. “Allergies, in the middle of November?”
“Mold,” Jon suggests, hopefully.
“I told you Tim was sick. Sasha told you Tim was sick! But did you listen?” Even as he scolds, Martin pulls a clean square of cloth from his pocket and holds it out. Behind his glasses, his eyes sparkle, fond.
Jon takes the handkerchief, but can’t bring himself to use it, not with Martin looking. “Well, what was I supposed to do?” His voice takes on Tim’s cadence. “Abandon him to ride the tube, when I’m already forcing him to spend the most boring day ever at a rare book conference even though he’s practically dying of plague?”
“Nice impression,” Martin says, laughing. “Maybe next time pay for his cab?”
Jon shrugs, smiles as well. “Bit of a cold, not the end of the world.” But the words echo strangely in his ears, and he rubs his temples with cold fingertips.
“Headache?”
“No, I’m fine.”
The expression on Martin’s face speaks clear as words – if you say so – laden with doubt.
“Really,” Jon assures him.
“It’s so weird when you do that.”
“Sorry?”
“Answer something I didn’t actually say.” Martin leans over and brushes Jon’s hair from his forehead - not so surreptitiously checking for fever.
“You need to work on your poker face.”
“That’s not what Tim says.”
“He lets you win.”
Martin gasps, hand to his chest in mock affront. “He would never!” But they both know he absolutely would, especially when it means Jon would lose, especially when it’s Martin. “Take it back, or I’ll publish that limerick I wrote the other night.” He brandishes his pencil.
Jon waves the handkerchief, white flag of surrender. “All right, all right. I rescind my statement.”
“Best you had,” Martin says, turning back to his notebook.
Freed from his gaze, Jon ducks his head and blows his nose, hoping it will ease the drippiness and building tickles. He’s still hoping for allergies. After all, the flora and fauna of Scotland is likely different enough that it could cause some sensitivity.
Instead of the relief he wants, the sensation rises more intensely and he’s forced to stifle several sneezes into the cloth. He exhales on a sigh. Well, if he has to be ill, at least he’s already taken time off from the Institute.
Martin murmurs a blessing.
Outside the cabin, wind whistles and clouds scuttle over the setting sun. The fire snaps, a log shifts and breaks, sending up a swirl of sparks. Martin’s pencil scratches across the page. Jon leans his head against the back of the couch and closes his eyes, just for a moment. There are worse places to be ill, he supposes. Unfortunate, though, he might not be able to do everything Martin wants. See the sights, such as they are.
He must have dozed because when next he opens his eyes, Martin has disappeared, and there’s a steaming mug of tea on the little side table next to his arm, as well as a box of tissues. Even though his senses are beginning to have that familiar wrapped in cotton wool feeling, he can still catch the sharp scent of mint and a bright note of lemon. He takes a sip and sighs. Just the slightest bit of honey sweetness to soothe his throat. Perfect, as always. And under the cup, a note.
Just ran down to the shops to pick up a few things. Didn’t want to wake you. Back soon. ~ M
He smiles, even though he feels markedly worse. The headache has settled into his sinuses, pulsing behind his eyes. His skin tingles with chills, though his face feels overwarm. Hopefully one of the things Martin’s picking up is LemSip. The steam from the mug makes his nose tickle, just on the wrong side of a sneeze. Not quite enough to get there, but enough to leave him hazy and short of breath.
He’s still staring rather vaguely into the middle distance, waiting to see what develops, when his phone chirps, urgent. He startles and fumbles it for a minute before managing to accept the call.
“Oi, Boss. How’s Scotland?” Tim’s voice is too loud, too cheerful, no lingering remnants of his cold. Nothing keeps him down for long.
“What do you need, Tim?”
“Is that any way to greet your very best friend?”
“When I specifically said only call in an emergency, yes.”
“How do you know it’s not?”
“We’ve been gone two days. Even you couldn’t manufacture an emergency in less than 48 hours.”
“Oh, ye of little faith!”
“What have you done?” Unease slides into his stomach, oily. When he blinks, strange shadows shift in the periphery of his vision.
“Nothing, honest. I just wanted to…”
But Jon doesn’t hear what, exactly, Tim wants because relief washes over him, and in its wake the sneezes finally hit their tipping point. He manages to hold the phone away from himself and grab up a couple of tissues. He stifles the sneezes, mostly.
“Ht’ngxt! N’gxt! Ch’t!” He exhales wearily. “Pardon.”
“Geez, Boss. Bless you,” Tim says.
“Thank you. I think Scotland might not agree with me.”
Tim laughs. “Sure, Scotland. Or maybe it’s that your body can’t handle breathing fresh air. Your lungs need the refined yet musty atmosphere of the Institute.”
“Yes yes, as you always say.” He wants to sniff, to blow his nose. He does neither. “Why did you ring?” He asks finally, pleased he managed it without sneezing, and with his consonants sounding mostly normal. Silence falls on the other end of the connection long enough that he checks to make sure the signal hasn’t dropped.
“How are you, Jon?” Tim’s voice has gone low, unwontedly serious.
Even from this distance, even though Tim can’t see him, Jon shifts uncomfortably. “Just a touch of cold. No cause for concern,” he says, aware of how stiff he sounds as he does.
A sigh crackles through the speaker, a mix of frustration and fond. “Not what I meant, and you know it.”
He does know, (why does he always know?) wishes he didn’t. Unspoken words hang between them with the cold, damp, grey of fog. What about the nightmares? What about the weight loss? What about the damned silence? He doesn’t glance down to see mist swirling around his ankles. He tenses against the urge to shiver, but the chills shudder through him anyway and he pinches off another set of sneezes. “I’m fine,” he insists, irritated at his own stubbornness.
“And how’s Marto?” Tim asks, even as the questions he leaves unvoiced ghost underneath. Why won’t you talk to me anymore? Why do you keep disappearing?
“He’s writing,” Jon answers. He blows his nose quietly, easier now that the beam of Tim’s curiosity is focused elsewhere. “Enjoying the pastoral - appreciating the cows.” In between taking care of me, he doesn’t say, unwilling to answer the unspoken.
“He deserves the break.” The words are careful, but Jon catches their edge, no matter how slight.
“He does.” This time the silence lingers between them, neither able to breach the divide grown between.
“Don’t forget to ask him about that pub,” Sasha calls from somewhere in the background.
“Right!” Relief palpable, Tim latches on to the question. “You check out the pub with the open mic night Gerry suggested?”
“It’s only been two days; we’ve barely arrived.”
“Plenty long enough to visit several different establishments. You’re falling down on the job, Boss.”
Jon forces himself to laugh and it comes out naturally enough that the tension between them eases, for the moment at least. By the time Martin returns from the shops, the conversation is more effortless and for a while the four of them trade banter over speaker phone as Martin cooks dinner and they eat. Almost like they’re all together in one room. It’s getting on half ten when Jon’s voice goes from scratchy to a mere croaky whisper and he interrupts himself with yawns more often than sneezes.
“Better let the marsh frog get some sleep,” Tim says, yawning as well.
“Pardon me; frog?” Jon protests, but with no real heat.
Sasha laughs. “Only the most adorable of marsh frogs, round and bright green. Barely slimy at all.”
“Not making it better.”
They ring off, still laughing, though it edges Jon into a spasm of coughing.
“All right?” Martin asks, a hand on his back comforting and gentle.
Jon nods. He is, mostly. But despite the lingering warmth from good conversation with friends, there’s a background hum of unease, static and disjointed, that leaves him feeling somewhat off-kilter.
He slides into bed and Martin pulls him close. He sighs, relaxing into Martin’s warmth. Focus on this, he tells himself. On the softness of the mattress, the ghosting of Martin’s breath across his head, the way the moonlight spills in the window, the soft chirp of crickets and hiss of wind through the trees. Nothing to fret, they are safe here. He turns his thoughts away from why that might even be in question
“Feel better, love,” Martin says. “Sleep well.”
Jon drifts.
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Worn out places, worn out faces
A continuation of 'the dreams in which I'm dying'.
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head, I wanna drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow
~ Tears for Fears, Mad World
Were he as far along his redemption path as he likes to believe, Fabian would have expected such a thing to happen. Especially considering the amount of time they spent with him while he was sick. But though he understands the concept intellectually, theoretically, he never truly believed that Garthy O’Brien could be capable of something as utterly pedestrian as coming down with a cold. As it is, it takes him an embarrassingly long time to figure it out.
To be fair, for his first couple of days in the Gold Gardens, Fabian is incapable of noticing much; he’s too exhausted and ill, spending most of his time in an odd liminal space between wakefulness and fever reverie. Every time he surfaces, whether from dream or worse, Garthy is there with damp flannels for his forehead, comforting, even to oversensitive skin. The touch of their cool hands sliding over his body, caressing, brings him back to himself, grounds him in this time, this place. Other times Garthy simply sits nearby, a quiet presence that dispels the lingering mists of nightmare with a glow of safety. They come with offerings: tea and tinctures, things to relieve headache and cough; grapes and passion fruit and oranges when he has little appetite, a strengthening stew with fresh fish when he begins to feel somewhat better, things to nourish his body. When he’s able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time, they bring entertainment - a game of chance, or stories of adventures they’d heard over the years. Fabian always prefers the stories, Garthy’s voice soothing as their touch.
Of course he notices a few days in when Garthy begins spending less time with him, but assumes it’s simply a matter of business requiring more of their attention. After all, they have the whole of the Gardens under their purview and it’s not like pirates are a calm, law-abiding bunch. Though Garthy runs a tight ship, with clear rules, there are always those who see the rules more as guidelines, who need to test the limits. When Garthy does appear in his room again, they seem quiet, their usual shine somewhat dulled. Fabian mentions it once, but they merely smile, say they are fine, just a little tired. Again, reasonable, considering the situation. So he doesn’t press.
Then, somewhere around the fourth night, he realizes Garthy hasn’t visited all day. He tells himself it’s fine, he doesn’t need a babysitter, as he shuffles a deck of cards and lays out a game of solitaire. Nothing to worry about, Garthy’s just busy, as he picks up and puts down a novel for the fifth time in as many minutes. He tells himself he’s not waiting. Not listening for footsteps on the other side of the door, for that silk voice calling a greeting. There is nothing but silence and he can’t shake the sense that something’s wrong. Shadows gather in the corners of the room and spread, barely held at bay by the candles he ignites in their sconces. The air is heavy. As the last of the light fades from the sky, he can’t sit still any longer. For the first time since his arrival, he leaves his room and goes to find them.
At first the corridor is silent as his room, his footsteps loud in his ears. Then he rounds a corner and it’s as if someone switched a channel - music spills forth from one of the entertainment halls. He quickens his steps and as he crosses the threshold the sounds engulf him. Laughter and shouts, click of dominos, rattle of dice, clink of ice cubes in glasses, thud of darts striking home. The usual raucousness of the Gold Gardens. It should reassure him, the normalcy of it. And yet… and yet there’s a disquieting edge, a manic energy barely held in check. Fabian frowns, glancing around the room to see if he can suss out the cause.
The house band, minus Bob, are playing a reel and the fiddling echoes off the walls; stomping boots resound. Pirates dance frenetic, elbows and knees flying, nearly colliding. Others drink at a bar, cheering on the players or the dancers. Some bet on a game of cards, on darts, on who can drink the most. Under the laughter there’s a knife edge of malice that has Fabian wishing he hadn’t left his sword in his room, rules or no rules. Something is very wrong and it sends a chill down his spine that has nothing to do with fever.
Suddenly realizing several of the surrounding patrons are scrutinizing him as intently as he’d been them, he heads to the bar for a drink. Mead on an empty stomach while he’s still feeling off wouldn’t be the wisest, but he figures he can handle a pint of mulled cider and it will give him a plausible reason for being there. He orders from the bartender, wishing it were Cullen, who he knows well enough to inquire about the situation. Unfortunately it’s someone he doesn’t recognize and who doesn’t seem to recognize him either. By the time he has his drink, the others have gone back to their own drinks or their games.
Luckily so, as the pirate next to him lights up a pipe, puffing forth clouds of sweet smelling smoke that sets Fabian’s nose to itching. Before he can stave them off he’s sneezing into his sleeve. “Ht’ngxt! H’Nxgt! H’tchh!” He grabs for a handkerchief, only to discover that, of course, he’s forgotten it and he’s left begging a rag off the bartender.
“Aye, yer better not be bringing the plague in here,” the smoking pirate says.
Fabian considers coughing at the man, but shakes his head. “Allergies,” he manages, half a lie, half not, before crushing another set of sneezes into the rag.
Something about this seems to amuse the pirate, because he smirks, sucks deep on the pipe, and exhales directly at Fabian.
He tries to avoid breathing in, but even with the rag still held to his face, the smoke pervades the air. Without much choice, he surrenders and allows the fit to overtake him. “H’tchsh! Chh! H’tsh!”
The paroxysm lasts long enough that he begins to wonder if he’s ever going to be able to catch his breath. Every time the sneezing begins to trail off, the smoking pirate just takes another puff of his pipe and sets Fabian off again. Others surrounding them laugh like it’s the height of ridiculousness, and he wonders dizzily if they’re right.
Suddenly an arm curls around his shoulders. “All right Bill, I do think this is more than enough. You’ve had your fun. It’s time to move on.”
“Aww, I ain’t hurting nothin’, Garthy. Just having a bit of a laugh.”
An out-of-place breeze drifts through, clearing the air so Fabian can draw a full breath without sneezing and the relief is exquisite. He sags against Garthy, exhausted. Their arm tightens around him for an instant, then releases him, their gaze intent on Bill.
“And now no one is laughing. I suggest you toddle off before it becomes your turn to provide us humor.” Their tone is deceptively calm, the underlying edge sharp as the scimitar curving behind their back.
Bill looks like he’s about to complain, but catches an ominous glint in Garthy’s eyes and clearly thinks better of it. Grumbling to himself, he walks away and the others follow.
Fabian muffles a, hopefully last and definitely exhausted, set of sneezes into the rag, then blows his nose. Gods he’s disgusting. His face feels swollen, his eyes and nose itchy. He looks up from the cloth to find Garthy turned slightly away, their back to the bar, surveying the room. “Excuse me. You have my gratitude, Garthy.”
“It’s not at all necessary, lovey. I will tolerate no cruelty under my roof.” Garthy flicks a look at him, then away again, their focus clearly elsewhere.
Even though the words are kind enough, there’s a detachment, an unexpected space between them Fabian knows neither how to define, nor how to cross. Maybe he’s been reading into the time they’ve spent with him. The care they offered. Maybe it is nothing more than what they’d offer to any other wealthy patron. The thought twists his stomach. A silence falls between them.
As if an unseen bank of fog rolls over the revelers, the mood in the room shifts, and though it’s significantly quieter than before, it’s no less unsettling. Game tables that moments earlier had onlookers waiting to take their turns emptied. One lone fiddle calls, plaintive. A mournful piper answers. Dancers disperse, fading into the shadows. Those drinking at the bar have an air of melancholy. Fabian glances at Garthy to see if they’ve caught the change as well, only to see an odd weariness in the lines of their face. He’s about to ask about it, when their eyes blink closed and a brief shudder runs over them.
Fabian frowns. “All right?” He reaches for them, but they move away so smoothly he’s unsure whether they’re actually avoiding his touch or whether they are merely trying to catch a pint of mead that has just been knocked from the bar.
They pluck the glass from the air before it hits the floor. “As rain, darling. No cause for concern.” Again the darting look, vague smile, shifting attention. Somehow Garthy’s right beside him, and not there in the exact same moment.
Cause or no, Fabian’s concerned. So when Trixie approaches with a request for Garthy’s assistance, even though he’s not invited and Garthy seems not to consider him at all, Fabian follows. She leads them to another room, one Fabian has visited but rarely. Only the highest stakes betting take place at these tables and while he’s had the coin to participate, he feels no need to seek out a rush that way. He much prefers the physical risk to the financial. And unlike Riz, Fabian has nothing that even resembles a poker face.
In the Gardens’ other game halls, players and their audience shout out bets, cheer on those they back, and jeer those they oppose, loudly and voluminously. Not here. In this room, bets are made with silent signals, above the table so all can see, if they know what to look for. Drinks are expensive - no mead or horse piss beer, but rather elvish wine, smooth and bright as starlight and dwarvish spirits, strong enough to melt mithril or so it’s claimed. The carpeted floor indicates no one would dare be drunk or boisterous enough to spill; it quiets footfalls and seems to swallow extraneous noise. Despite the outward calm, there’s an undercurrent of tension.
Bob stands at the edge of a small stage beyond the games tables at the far end of the room, haloed by a spotlight still shining on her. Though she’s moved herself as far as possible from a tall, well-dressed pirate, he’s got her trapped between his body and the wall, one hand bracing himself beside her head. He’s canted forward, reaching out to caress her cheek.
Garthy cuts through the crowd like a sword through flesh, swift and deadly. Their hand closes around the pirate’s wrist before he makes contact. “You weren’t thinking of touching a lady without her permission, were you, Mackenzie?”
Mackenzie turns. There’s a flash of anger, then it’s gone and he’s grinning. “I would never presume,” he says.
“Wise decision. Why don’t you have a seat. Continue your game.” The words are couched as a suggestion, but the command underneath is clear.
Mackenzie’s eyes narrow. “Well, now, Garthy - you didn’t even give her the chance to say yes before you interrupted our moment.”
Fabian sees the muscles tense along Garthy’s back. One hand fists, then relaxes. They shift slightly, but their voice is smooth and composed as always. “Very well. Barbarella, are you enjoying the attention Mackenzie is providing?”
She lifts her chin. “In no regard.”
“You have your answer. Return to your game or remove yourself from the premises.”
There’s a moment where the balance is unclear, whether Mackenzie will make the smart choice and follow Garthy’s suggestion, or whether he’ll make the foolish one and press the situation. In that brief hesitation, another tremor runs over Garthy.
Like a shark smelling blood in the water, Mackenzie turns to face them squarely. “I believe I shall do neither. She claims now that she doesn’t want me, but her actions earlier speak more loudly than these words. She dissembles for your benefit.”
“You callin’ me a liar?” Bob demands, voice rising. She seems to take strength from Trixie’s presence at her side.
“In no regard.” He mimics her and his smile shows teeth. “I simply presume that, as you had no objection to my ministrations until they arrived, you must be under pressure to speak words they wish to hear.”
“That’s ridiculous! I was performing. You understand the difference, right?”
“So you are merely a cock tease.”
A flash of anger sizzles through Fabian, smelling of ozone, and before he even realizes what he means to do, his fist slams into Mackenzie’s face, rocking the pirate back on his heels. Fabian steps forward, but before he can land another punch Mackenzie throws his own and they grapple.
“Enough!” Garthy’s voice reverberates in Fabian’s head. A shock sparks between them and both Fabian and Mackenzie are knocked apart.
“You’d better leash your dog,” Mackenzie sneers at Garthy, rubbing his jaw. His lip drips blood down his immaculate white shirt.
“I am no one’s dog.” Fabian lunges for him again but an invisible force holds him back.
“I said enough, and I meant the both of you. This behavior is childish. Fabian, please return to your room. Mackenzie, as you do not know how to treat ladies, or my guests, I must request that you depart. You are not welcome to return until you have learned appropriate respect.”
Fabian’s heart skips. Shit. He’s truly fucked up. He doesn’t think Garthy’s ever been angry with him. “Garthy, let me explain…”
“I will speak to you later,” they interrupt, coldly. But they turn to meet Fabian’s gaze straight on. For a moment it’s like a glamour drops and he’s struck by how utterly exhausted Garthy looks, with dark shadows under their eyes and a strange flush over their cheekbones deepening the usual light green of their skin. “Please, Fabian,” they add in a whisper meant only for his ears.
For a second he lingers, torn between the desire to stay, to offer his strength, and the desire to do as Garthy asks. He’s just about to make another appeal - he can be more help here than hiding in his room - when their expression goes hazy and vague. They press a loose fist under their nose, their eyes squeeze shut, the tremor goes over them again and he suddenly realizes Garthy is stifling a sneeze, completely silently. He’s just about to offer a blessing when they shake their head, the tiniest of movements. Fabian bites his tongue, turns on his heel and does as he’s asked. It’s the least he can do. Literally.
His intention is to stay awake until Garthy comes to give him a well-deserved rebuke for his actions at the bar. He’s still not completely sure what caused the intensity of his anger. The pirate had been treating Bob rudely, but starting a fist fight in the Gold Gardens, of all places, is hardly an appropriate response. He wants to wait, but the fire is warm, the bed is soft and he’s still feeling worn down. His eyes drift closed.
The next day dawns bright and clear after an interminable period of rain and fog. Fabian wakes, blinking in the unexpected sunlight. Wanting fresh air, he pushes the window open and a breeze sweeps in, edged with a lingering chill of winter, though on the mainland the season’s turned to spring, and a tang of salt. It’s early enough that the city is relatively quiet; only gulls cry as they wheel overhead, and in the distance thereafter a clang of bells and a shout or two. He gazes out for a long moment, across Leviathan to Crow’s Keep. For the first time since … everything… the sight of it doesn’t bring a full body shiver and a wave of regret. Yes, there’s still sadness, but it’s manageable. Survivable. He has survived.
He stretches; knots along his shoulders pop. The sun warms his skin and it reminds him of how he feels when Garthy looks at him. He feels a similar unfurling inside - wings, or a sail. Like he can catch the wind and fly. And yet, there’s a lingering feeling of guilt keeping him tethered. He owes Garthy an apology. Despite their words, they have yet to come to him, and so, no matter the way things had gone the night before, he heads for Garthy’s chambers.
He can’t remember a time that he’s been awake this early in the Gardens before. Maybe if he stayed up until dawn with Riz or Ragh, but certainly never alone after a nearly full night’s sleep. The halls are empty of other revelers, the stages dark, instruments lay silent. The games tables are deserted, littered with empty bottles and crumpled napkins. A cigar stub or two. If it weren’t for a couple entangled in a corner, too busy with each other to notice his passing, he might begin to wonder whether he’d woken in a building inhabited only by ghosts and memories. An unsettled feeling twists in his stomach, an echo of last night’s melancholy. For a second he considers retreating to his room to wait until a more decent hour. Maybe then the Gardens won’t feel so haunted. He actually turns back and takes a couple of steps before he realizes how ridiculous he’s being. Of course no one’s around. Everyone is sleeping. He’ll find Garthy, apologize, and it’ll be fine. He hastens his pace, moving quickly through the desolate halls.
It’s with some relief that he rounds the corner to Garthy’s private rooms. Even the Goliath guards, standing tall and forbidding, blocking his path, don’t dispel the sensation. He feels himself grinning up at them rather foolishly. “Good morning. Is Garthy in?”
Neither of the guards look like the morning is at all good. “They are,” one says, but doesn’t move away from the door.
“May I see them?” He keeps his tone even and manages to resist the urge to roll his eye at the literalness of the answer, but only just.
The guards’ expressions go vacant for a breath, then they exchange a look. One gives a nearly imperceptible nod. They each take a single step to the side, scimitars held crossed before them. Fabian is left to walk the gauntlet. The hairs at his nape prickle as he passes between, and he has no doubt that were he armed or bent on some nefarious purpose, they would strike him down before he put a hand on the latch. Even knowing he is doing nothing of the sort, he can’t keep muscles from tensing along his back, fingers flexing with the urge to reach for his absent sword. He takes a deep breath, lifts the latch and pushes open the door.
For a second, when he steps through, all Fabian can do is blink. Somehow he’d expected the room to be curtained and dark, that Garthy might even be sleeping. Instead sunlight streams so brightly through the windows that the air itself sparkles gold. It feels almost thick, like pollen hazed summer and just the thought teases him into a sneeze, and then the requisite two more. “H’tchsh! Chh! H’tsh!”
“Blessings, Fabian. Did you need something?” Garthy’s voice swirls around him.
He turns, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from. Instead of the chamber he’s imagined (ornate, dark wood, silks and satins, incense) it’s as though Garthy brought the garden inside. The floor is loam and grass and soft moss. Ivy and morning glory grow up the walls, curling around corners and blooming violet blue. Tendrils of star jasmine and honeysuckle vines climb shelves, and frame the windows. There are roses and orchids and iris. Lilies and bromeliads, cosmos and hibiscus. There are flowers he’s never seen, even in the gardens of Fallinel. As the breeze passes over the blooms the scent is intoxicating and Fabian feels slightly drunk, lightheaded and giddy.
“I just …missed you,” he says though it’s not at all what he meant to say and it feels strange to do so to a disembodied voice.
A low laugh ripples from the shadows and Garthy appears from among a waterfall of vines and leaves. “Well, here I am.”
Jasmine blossoms dot their braids like fallen stars and drift over their shoulders. Their eyes shine the same brilliant gold as the sun. The coins at the hem of the scarves around their waist jingle softly as they move toward Fabian. He feels entirely immobilized, as if they’ve cast an enchantment upon him. A wave of desire rises and sweeps through his body, completely unexpected, but not altogether unwelcome. He longs to reach out, to touch Garthy, to pull them close. He still cannot move, and maybe they have enchanted him and maybe that’s completely fine.
Garthy draws closer and it’s their glow dazzling Fabian’s eye, their spicysweet scent clouding his mind, their breath against his cheek and his knees go weak. He’s sunstruck, melting. Lay me down here in the grass, he thinks but cannot say. Let me touch you, let me taste you. Let me… please. The words slide from his thoughts and maybe Garthy hears them anyway because they do take him, lay him down, slide the clothes from his body, trail kisses down his neck, over his collar bone, down the center of his chest and the sun shines warm on his skin and Garthy’s hands press his wrists into the moss and he arches against them as they dip lower, teasing with tongue and the lightest scrape of teeth. More, he wants more. He aches, burns with wanting, fire along his skin, fire through his veins, fire where Garthy’s hands touch…
It’s at that moment that he finally, fully realizes - they are feverish - and the understanding snaps him back into himself like a bubble popping.
“Garthy, don’t…” he manages to say. The lingering sparkles of enchantment fizz at the edges of his awareness, attempting to dazzle and draw him back in.
They frown. “What’s the matter, darling? I thought this was why you sought me out.”
“Yes,” his mouth answers of its own accord and he shakes his head, grasps after clarity. “I mean, no.”
A mix of puzzlement and a bit of … hurt? … darken their eyes. They move off Fabian, putting space between them. They smile, but it’s brittle. “I am sorry if I’ve misinterpreted…”
“Wait,” Fabian reaches out, grasps their wrist, feeling the heat of their fever even there. Wisps of desire keep trying to fog his thoughts and tangle his tongue. “You didn’t... I wanted to… want to... I just mean... you don’t have to…”
He’s still fumbling for words when Garthy’s own focus seems to waver. They rub the side of their nose with a curled finger once, then again as their breath hitches in their chest, then shudder with one of their completely silent sneezes.
“Bless you,” Fabian says. “That’s what I mean. You’re sick. And you don’t have to try and hide it.” As though the words banish the last of the spell, everything snaps into sharp focus. Without the glamour, Fabian can suddenly see how ill Garthy looks, worn and frayed. The surroundings go flat and ordinary. The flowers are lovely, bright in the sun, but nothing more than that. Nothing magic.
They flush, caught out, and shrug. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s bullshit, not to put too fine a point on it.” He sits up, tugging his clothes back on, putting himself back together. “You’re a furnace. You clearly caught whatever I had. And I felt like death warmed over, so you can’t feel much better.”
“It’s not your place...”
“To what? Care about you?” Fabian asks, unaccountably stung.
“It’s my job to take care of you.”
“Is that all it is to you? Honestly?” The sun still pours in the windows, but the warmth has gone from the air. Fabian almost expects his breath to fog as he speaks. He wonders if Garthy even realizes the effects of his illness on the Gardens.
Garthy shivers. “You misunderstand me.” They clear their throat as the usual silk of their voice snags rough. “I give comfort. It is why I am here. It’s why I exist. I…” they interrupt themself with another silent sneeze.
“Don’t,” Fabian says. “That sounds like it hurts.” He tugs Garthy’s hand gently away from their face.
“You don’t need to worry about me.” But the effect of their words is somewhat muted by the sneezes that tumble out after. “Ah-T’shhiew!” They manage a breath, then another sneeze shivers over them. “AhTschiew! Oh… ah-again? AhTschoo!”
“Bless you,” Fabian sighs. “I’m not worried about you… exactly. But you have to admit, it’s a pretty fucked up idea, that you exist entirely for other people.”
Garthy shrugs again, but this time when they smile, it holds a glint of brightness. “I don’t mind. I know where I fit in the world, where the Divine wants me. Not everyone has the luxury.”
Fabian blinks at them for a minute, unable to decide whether their acceptance makes it better or worse. Despite Kristen being on a first-name basis with at least one version of the Divine, he’s never felt the presence of anything more, anything beyond the everyday. And he’s certainly never been told that he’s supposed to be anything in particular (by anyone other than his Papa, of course, and look how well that turned out). “All destiny and Divine fate aside, you are still mortal. Is there a rule that you aren’t allowed to take a measure of comfort when it’s freely offered?”
They laugh. “It has never come up. After all, it’s not as though patrons come to the Gold Gardens to be attended by someone who is…” Garthy pauses, maybe considering their words, “a bit of a mess.”
“That’s still getting it backwards,” Fabian points out. “And I don’t think it’s physically possible for you to be a mess.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to Garthy’s too-warm forehead, then cups their cheek. “Let someone take care of you for a change.”
The gold of their eyes shine suspiciously bright. “If you wish.”
“I do,” Fabian says, hoping to give them an out, a way to preserve their dignity.
“Very well darling.”A smile spreads across Garthy’s face and Fabian feels that piece of his heart unfurl into its light, a sail catching wind.
He wants what had been interrupted, wants to ease Garthy as he’d been given ease. He presses his forehead to Garthy’s. “Can we…” he whispers, and their lips come together. The kiss deepens, tasting of cinnamon and clove. Their scent swirls around him, their heat making his head swim. He sinks to the ground again and Garthy falls with him. Yes, he wants to lose himself in this, in the heat of it. Hands slide over skin, he traces their scars with fingertips, then with tongue, teasing and tasting as he goes. The Zajiri script sparks against his lips, and though he doesn’t speak the language, it moves through him, a litany of healing and worship. Beneath his touch, Garthy glows incandescent with fever and desire. They flow together, liquid, slow and luxurious. Fabian slides one hand lower, slipping between Garthy’s legs, caressing. A small moan escapes them, their own prayer, their own petition, and kissing them is like kissing the fire elemental, lighting all his synapses until he feels he glows as well. Garthy wraps a hand around him and begins to stroke. The fire between them builds, builds, until Fabian wonders if he might burst into flame like a phoenix. And then Garthy’s breath snags, catches and Fabian watches their expression shift, gaze going vague and distant. Their eyebrows rise, and there is a moment where everything stops - breath, movement, heartbeat, all - as they balance on the fulcrum.
Then their eyes squeeze and with one sharp movement everything explodes. “Ah’tch-shew! Ah-tchoo! Ahshh!”
He feels like he’s in the center of a firework, surrounded with a shower of sparks, and if he’s falling through the night sky it doesn’t matter because Garthy is falling with him and they burn through the darkness together.
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The shape that I'm in now
(It's 1 am, I must be posting Roadrat snz fic. This takes place in the same 'verse as 'Buried in a burning flame' and 'My heart as spent as ashes, but takes place before them. Not that it's necessary for the story, just to orient.)
Whatever here that’s left of me
Is yours just as it was
~ Hozier, As It Was
Junkrat rolled over, trying to ease the ache in his hip, but it didn’t help. Sheets scratchy on oversensitive skin. Eyes hot, dryer than the fuckin’ desert, nose running like to make up for it. Flipped the pillow, but both sides were already too warm. Everything hurt, from toenails to eyelids. Even his fucking missing limbs hurt, however the hell that worked. What sucked the most, though was the silence. It pulsed against his eardrums, buzzed in his head.
Had told Roadhog to go. No choice about it. Bones’d been aching with impending fever, head felt packed with sand. Knew what was coming and didn’t want Roadhog to see. Didn’t want to be seen. Not when felt like his skin was peeled back, leaving all of his quivering insides bare. Being sick was being vulnerable. In Junkertown being vulnerable meant you was good as dead.
Felt Roadhog watching him from the first handful of sneezes. “Nobody fuckin’ cleans this shithole,” Junkrat had grumbled, trying to play it off. Roadhog said nothing.
Didn’t say a word when Junkrat blamed the spices in the stir fry for the second fit.
Unfortunately the third handful of sneezes seemed to have blown all thoughts from his brain and he was still trying to recover when Roadhog asked, “All right, Rat?”
“‘M fine. If you want to get in my pants just say so.” Might have intended it to sound flirty but it came off pissy.
Roadhog crossed his arms over his chest. “Ain’t like that. You just look…”
“Ain’t neither of us winning a beauty pageant, Hog. Mind your business.” Least that time sounded like maybe he could be joking, even with the edge in his voice.
Tried to bite the sneezes back after that. Pinch them off. Smother them in his sleeve. But every single time he felt Roadhog’s eyes on him, watching. Made the hairs raise at his nape and finally he snapped, shouting at Roadhog to get the fuck out and leave him alone.
Roadie had, and he was fine with it. Just perfectly fuckin’ apples, mate. Went to bed, tried to sleep it off. But couldn’t. Now he tossed back the sheets, pushed himself up, buckled on his prosthetics. Make himself tea. Caffeine might dull the headache. Heat’d feel good on his throat.
You wanted to be by yourself... teasing whisper of her voice through the buzzing. You told him to go. You should be happy - here all alone with your disease. Could practically feel her breath at his ear and he swayed for a minute, dizzy. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near you.
“Shows what you know. Roadhog likes it when I sneeze.” Hated how defensive it sounded. Proof that he was only good for one thing.
Perhaps, but this is beyond even his depravity. Look at yourself, Jamison.
Without really meaning to, his gaze flicked over to the mirror that hung above the washbasin, then away again. Not before he’d seen himself though - scarecrow hair, singed in more places than he’d realized, skin and bones, dark circles around his eyes, nose red, lips cracked from breathing through his mouth. Expression going blank as the need to sneeze came over him. “Huh-R’iiishh! Isshew! R’iishew!” Managed to catch them in a tissue at the last minute, but it was a close thing.
Disgusting. And weak. I absolutely cannot fathom why he has not left you behind yet. Ill so often. Missing half your limbs. In need of protection. What kind of man are you?
“Shut it,” he said. Much as hated to admit it, she was right. Knew full well all the ways he was lacking. Rubbed his dripping nose on a handful of tissues.
Perhaps he just enjoys toying with you. Drawing things out before he takes your treasure and returns to the Queen. Her tone is a purr. A predator does love to tease its prey.
“Roadhog ain’t the Queen’s. Not anymore.”
No? He told you that, did he?
“Yes.” Sort of. What had Roadhog said when they met? Freelance? What did that mean? He wouldn’t… would he? If he got pissed off enough? If Junkrat was enough of a pain in the ass? A sudden chill whipped through him and he shivered. Grabbed a windcheater off the hook on the back of the door and yanked it over his head. Roadie’s, he realized as the soft cotton engulfed him. At least he was warm. Tugged the hood up over his head. Maybe that would block out her voice.
Pathetic… The whisper echoed in his ears, then faded - taking his energy with it. Giving up on the tea plan he curled up in a corner of the couch. Pulled in his knees, tugged the windcheater down over him and tried to disappear. Just needed to get smaller. Smaller.
A sneeze jag shook him awake. Took him a second to catch his breath and open his eyes. There was Roadie, holding out a tissue. Didn’t want to take it, but the alternative was worse. And messier. “Thanks,” he said, stuffiness blurring the consonants. Blowing his nose helped, but only a little.
Roadhog didn’t say anything, just turned on his heel and disappeared into the kitchen. Kettle rattled, water hit the basin. Click snap of the flame catching on the stove. Clink of spoon against mug.
Apologize, Jamison. Unless you want to test his patience even further.
Don’t need your input, he said, but only in his head. Always weirded Roadhog out when he answered aloud. Cleared his throat, attempted to pitch his voice loud enough to carry, even though felt like he’d been swallowing sandpaper in his sleep. “Oi, Roadie?”
Nothing. Sighing to himself, Junkrat untangled his limbs, ignoring the shivering. Maybe Roadhog wouldn’t notice. Managed to reach the kitchen this time. Roadhog’s back was turned, head slightly bent over whatever he was doing.
Rat hesitated in the doorway. While his mouth usually moved faster than his brain, at the moment neither seemed to be online. He leaned against the jamb, waiting for inspiration to strike. Instead he sneezed, catching them in his sleeve, then coughing after. “Ugh, fuck. I’ll wash this I swear.”
“...” The skepticism was clear even without words.
“Ain’t gonna forget this time.”
“...”
Junkrat coughed a laugh. “Yeah, you’re right I probably will.” Rubbed the back of his neck where it ached. “Roadie, I’m…” sorry he was going to say but Roadhog turned, offering a steaming mug.
“I know. Drink.”
Couldn’t smell anything through his clogged nose so he sipped warily. Then sighed, relief and gratitude. “Where the hell’d you find Lemsip?”
“Bobby had some.”
“An’ he just gave it to you?” Meds were hard to come by, even stupid shit like cold medicine.
Roadhog shrugged. “He owed me somewhat.”
The steam made his nose run and tickle and he sniffled a little. Which only served to trigger another round of sneezes and he slopped hot liquid over his hand. “Ow, god fucking dammit.”
“Here, let me…” Roadhog reached for his hand, but he stepped back.
“No, it’s fine.”
“Rat. I said let me.”
The darkness of his tone sent a shiver down Rat’s spine. The command in it was as unmistakable as the warmth. Junkrat stopped, pinned, barely breathing. Roadhog wiped his hand, carefully, like the burn could have been serious. Then he laid a palm over Rat’s forehead, fingers pleasantly cool. Junkrat leaned into the touch.
“Really got a fever, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, exactly but Junkrat nodded anyway. “Feelin’ shit, to be honest.” A hot flush chased the chills. Had to tell Roadie the truth, but didn’t make it any easier.
“You hurting?”
Rat shrugged, nodded again.
“Come on,” Roadhog put an arm around him, led him back into the bedroom. “Lie down.”
“Ain’t tired,” he tried. Not quite enough energy to be a proper brat.
“Not planning on sleep. Lie down.”
Junkrat did as he was told, but closed his eyes as the bed dipped and Roadhog sat down beside him. With gentle fingers he disconnected Junkrat’s prosthetics and set them aside. Even though he’d only been wearing them a short time, they’d already rubbed sore spots on his skin. Roadhog knew to avoid those places as he began to massage the muscles in Rat’s forearm, kneading until the knots loosened, then moved on to Rat’s thigh.
As the tension drained away, Rat sighed so deep was almost a groan. “God, that’s good.” Roadhog let go of him, but didn’t move away. There was the soft sound of a jar being opened and a teasing scent of menthol that Rat could smell even through the congestion. Vicks, of course. “For the cough,” he asked, smirking.
“It’ll help,” Roadhog said, but this time Rat knew it was a question. Making sure he was okay with it.
“It will,” Rat agreed. Put him back on easier footing. Hog gave him a little care, he’d get Hog off. Fair and square.
Roadie slid his hands up under the windcheater and goosebumps rose in the wake of his touch. Junkrat’s back arched, “Oh,” he breathed. “It’s so… Itchew! Huh-Itchh! Itchhuh!” Luckily he’d pulled the sleeves over his hand because he covered just with his hand before realizing.
“Bless you,” Roadhog said, without pausing from the massage.
“Th...thank y-Ihchuuh! Ah’tchh! Chh!” The sensations together were almost overwhelming. Felt like he was tingling along every nerve, shivering with both chills and desire, surprised to find himself going hard, even as he kept sneezing.
“You blushing, or is that the fever?” Roadhog’s voice a rumble in his ear and even that made a shudder run through him.
“Both,” he sighed. Nothing he could do about it, body betraying him with every sneeze.
Roadie chuckles. “You do that so well.”
“Wh… Huhitch!... Itch! Ishhew! … what?"
“Lose control.” An answer but also a command as he tugged Rat’s boxers down and slid inside, surprisingly gently.
“Oh…” Words gone. Thoughts gone. Only feeling left. Heat, fever, want, like fire in his blood. Waves of trembling over him. Hog deep inside, moving with a gentle but implacable rhythm, driving him higher, stoking the flames. He clenched his mech hand in the sheets, clung to Hog with his flesh hand, fingers tightening convulsively. And as the flames built so, too, did the need to sneeze. Little panting breath, interrupted by sniffles and teasing hitches.
“Lose it, Rat,” Roadhog said.
“Ah’Rrrishhah! Ushhew! Isshah!” The flames engulfed him, he shook with release. For a long, long moment he could only blink blearily at the ceiling, utterly spent. “Holy shit,” he managed, finally.
At some point Roadie’d gotten a cool washcloth and he wiped it carefully over Rat, washing away sweat and the vaporub. Just when the cold was about to set him shivering, Roadhog pulled a blanket over him, then leaned down and kissed his forehead. “You did good, Rat.”
A burst of warmth flowered in his chest and tears sprang up. Rat blinked them back, scrubbed his face with his hand. “‘M a fucking mess,” he said.
“...”
“I mean, sure we have fun. But look at me.” Waved a hand over himself. “Missing a piece or two. Fuckin’ sick all the time. Maybe we should just… go our own ways.”
“...”
“Got enough of a haul to make up for the fight in the bar. Enough to make this bodyguard gig thing worthwhile. We should maybe quit while we’re ahead.” Before you get tired of me, he didn’t say, but it was there on his tongue.
“Rat.” Clink of buckles as Roadhog took off his mask.
Junkrat resisted the urge to look at him. Didn’t want to read the truth of his feelings in his eyes.
“Look at me.”
He does, for a second, then away again.
“You see the scars. All of them. You think they make me ugly?”
“No!” Surprise had him actually meeting Roadhog’s gaze. Caught, he couldn't look away. “Just part of who ya are.” He reached up and traced one from the corner of Roadie’s eye, curving down and along his jaw. No, the scars had surprised him at first, but never bothered him.
“Need the hogdrogen. The mask. So I’m weak?”
“Course not.” First person to mistake Hog for weak wouldn’t live to regret it.
“This place tried to kill us. In so many ways. But it fucking hasn’t. Don’t let it win, Jamie. Don’t let it.”
Junkrat swallowed hard. Nobody called him that, not for years and years. “I won’t,” he said.
Roadhog lay next to him and Junkrat curled into him. Roadhog pulled him closer, carded his fingers through Rat’s hair. “Sleep, Jamie.”
I’m yours, he thought as he drifted away. Whatever’s left of me.
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Offer me my deathless death
This took me way longer to write than I expected - but it also wouldn't leave me alone. Had to finish before getting back to "My heart as spent as ashes". This takes place in the same universe as "Be still my indelible friend".
The only Heaven I'll be sent to
Is when I'm alone with you
I was born sick, but I love it
Command me to be well
Amen, Amen, Amen
~ Hozier, Take Me to Church
“Lúcio wants us to go where,” Roadhog asks without looking up from his knitting. Not that Junkrat minds - knows well how focused he can be, and just as well how to capture his attention, when necessary.
“A Cosmic Mass.”
Roadhog frowns and his gaze is still on the yarn. “The fuck is that?”
A little more blunt than Junkrat’s own question (tries to be on his best behavior with Lúcio, generally speaking) but idea’s the same. “Apparently it’s like a rave, but with some sorta spiritual shit mixed in. He’s DJing a set at the end of the night.”
“He really wants us to be there?” Roadhog actually sounds wistful. He’s got his mask off, feet up, cup of tea on the table beside him, and before Junkrat’s interruption he’d been listening to some overly relaxing music. Makes Rat want to laugh. As if sitting around like an old cunt would be better than a party.
“Ain’t got no one else, with Hana away. Can you imagine Morrison trying to fit in at a rave?” Suddenly imagining the commander in makeup and neon rave gear, Junkrat bursts into laughter. Takes a minute to collect himself, as Roadhog attempts to ignore him. “Ah come on, Roadie, it’ll be fun.”
“...” Doubt clear in the stubborn set of his body.
Junkrat crosses the room, drapes himself over the back of Roadie’s chair, lets his voice go low, teasing, and speaks right in his ear. “There’s incense, to make it seem proper church.” Roadhog stills, like he’s been frozen. Not even sure he’s breathing. Junkrat grins, showing teeth. Ups the ante. “An’ I been feeling a little sniffly. Little sneezy. Maybe coming down sick.”
“You don’t play fair,” Roadhog grumbles and Rat knows he’s won.
“Not if I can help it,” Junkrat agrees, nuzzles against Roadie’s neck for an instant, then pushes himself off to find something to wear.
By the time they find the open space preserve Lúcio’d described, the sun disappeared behind the surrounding hills. Long shadows fall across the path, but the way is lit by luminarias’ glowing circles. The air is cool, crisp with the scent of bay and laurel. In the distance there’s the thump of bass, like a heartbeat. They follow the trail of candles through the forest, across a wooden bridge and up, up into the hills that rise gently, steadily, around switch-backs and through groves of oak and pine and the music grows louder, more insistent, until they crest the hill. Something’s making Junkrat’s nose run. Maybe the cool air. Maybe the joint they’re passing back and forth. Maybe he actually is coming down sick. Doesn’t matter. Sniffs once, then again.
Roadhog’s given up on the grumbling. Rat feels his attention laser-focused. Glances at him sidelong. Behind the smoked lenses Roadhog’s eyes burn, raking over him so intently that it feels like physical touch. His body goes loose and easy, imagining those hands on him, strong. Someone walks by, swinging a gold filigreed container that wafts smoke from its numerous tiny star-shaped holes. Breathes deep the spicy, sweet scent of incense and smiles through the rising wave of desire.
Feels like each tendril of smoke drifts directly to a point somewhere in the center of his nose and stays. “Fuh… fucking allergies,” he manages to say and then the wave is crashing over him and pulling him down. At the last minute he ducks to the side, away from Roadie, because he’s a shit and knows it’ll tease. “Hih-k’tchh! It’chh! Chh!” Drags in a breath, but only manages to stifle two of the next three. “Ah-R’iissshuh!” The last bursts from him loud enough that people around them glance over. Tries to look contrite. “Pardon,” he says.
“Saúde! I knew that had to be you, Junkrat.” Lúcio appears from the crowd, slings an arm around Rat’s shoulders.
Junkrat raises a brow. “How d’ya mean?”
“Uh, what I mean is,” Lúcio clears his throat, a brief flicker of embarrassment crossing his face. “Like, you’re…”
Junkrat laughs, passes him the joint, lets him off the hook. “Not exactly inconspicuous, are we?” He gestures to the crowd, mostly older, mostly hippie throwbacks. Even though he and Roadie’d left the armor and rip tire at the base, they don’t exactly look like many of the others. Not to mention Roadhog is a good foot taller than anyone else.
“Not exactly.” Lúcio’s answering grin is a little lopsided and it catches Junkrat’s interest. What had Lúcio noticed about him? Had a sneaking suspicion, though it was something he expected of Hog, not Lúcio. Have to test the situation, because if he’s right… well, the evening might be even more entertaining than he’s been hoping.
Lets Lúcio draw him through the crowd, arm still around his shoulders. Roadhog walks, solid and protecting, at his other side and the focused attention between the two of them make Junkrat’s skin feel electric, tiny sparks lighting up his synapses. Bass is still throbbing off to one side. Nose tickling in that odd, feathery way. Just enough to keep him sniffing but not enough for actual sneezes. All of the stimulation swirls together until it all fizzes through him like a shaken beer. Wishes vaguely that he’d brought even one grenade. Just something small. Release a little pent up energy.
Lúcio’s explaining the way the Mass goes, the set he’s going to play, talking just a little too fast, little too bright, not quite meeting either Junkrat’s eyes, or Roadie’s. Junkrat’s trying to pay attention but keeps being sidetracked by the tension under the words. An odd edge. Makes him feel like he’s gonna vibrate out of his skin. Finally, Lúcio’s obvious discomfort urges Junkrat to give him some shit.
Bumps his hip against Lúcio’s, lightly. “Never took ya for a God-type.”
Lúcio shrugs, gaze sliding away to the people they’re passing. “A gig’s a gig,” he says.
“Come on, mate. Ain’t no need to be that way about it. Not criticizing ya, just curious.” Curious, wanting to get beneath the surface, to figure out what makes Lú tick. Always gotta figure how things work, how they’re wired. Bombs. People. Different types of explosions, but equally thrilling. So, if they’re gonna be more than… if they’re gonna be more, he needs to figure Lúcio. “This ain’t just a rave to you, is it?” Considers. There’s an energy to the night, a frisson that he can almost taste.
After a surprisingly long pause, Lúcio meets his eyes, straight on. “You really want to know?”
“Course. I want to know you, Lú.” Means know in all the flavors of the word, Junkrat realizes.
Lúcio sighs, tips his face to the sky and takes a hit off the joint. Holds the smoke for a few beats. Exhales. Directs his words to the stars. “Sometimes when I play? The music is... different. Sometimes it’s a bridge, a web. Starts with the beat. The drums, the bass. They come in a wave. Break over me. Flow through me. Like I’m a conduit. If I can hold the connection, it flows into the audience and we’re all connected. More than the sum of our parts. When that happens, the power in it…” Lúcio closes his eyes. “Like sticking your finger into an electric socket. The first time it happened, in one of the clubs in Rio, I think I was high for a week.” Lúcio frowns, opens his eyes. “Then, once in a while… even more rarely… you can shape that energy, turn it to a new thing. Revolution.” He blinks, coming back to himself. “Words don’t really encompass...”
For the first time, Junkrat begins to understand the connection between Lúcio’s music and his role in the uprising of the favelas. Even so, he isn’t sure what to do with the knowledge, so he makes a joke. “Expect you’ll be providing the experience, then.”
“Always do my best. But,” Lúcio fixes Junkrat with an unusually intense gaze. “If you keep yourself separate, you won’t feel it. It’s a mutual thing.”
“Meant ya need to hand over the joint, mate.” Holds out his hand for it, bites his tongue on a laugh.
Roadhog cuffs the back of Rat’s head, growls,“Don’t tease him. He’s tighter than a nun’s arsehole.”
The blow, though light, is enough to snap Junkrat back to serious. Lúcio shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny and hands him the joint.
“Ya are,” Junkrat says thoughtfully. Lúcio’s never tense about a gig - performing natural as breathing for him. And the joint’s done nothing for the tension in Lúcio’s jaw, his shoulders. “Relax, mate,” he murmurs, leans forward and kisses Lúcio full on the lips. Smells of patchouli and weed and Junkrat pulls him closer, deepening the kiss and the tension hums between them. Different than Roadie, Lúcio is lithe and wiry. Dancer’s body. Tastes of clove, of cinnamon, sweet and hot. Desire pulses with the bass as heat rises in the slight breath of air between them.
Only for a second, before Junkrat’s nose is tickling again and he’s forced to step back. Through eyes that keep fluttering toward closed can see Lúcio’s expression of confused dismay. Holds up a finger - wait, he wants to say. Can’t. Needs to sneeze; the feeling’s just right there, lingering. Insubstantial but insistent. The tension between the desire and the action is unexpectedly pleasurable. Wanting in more places than one. Feeling Roadie staring. Breathes slow, careful, until the need suddenly spikes and he wrenches forward.
“Huh’issshew!!... Iishh! Heh…” The third one disappears, leaving him a little off balance. “Ugh, definitely coming down sick. Sneezes only stick like that when ’m getting the wog.” But even as he’s complaining, he smirks, rewarded by the flush coloring Roadhog’s neck, the way Lúcio fidgets, both trying not to seem to be staring but also darting glances at him as he rubs his nose against another rising tickle.
“Shouldn’t be smoking, Rat.” The slightly strangled tone of Roadie’s voice makes it obvious- only saying it because he feels a little guilty for enjoying. Which he shouldn’t, because Rat wants him to enjoy.
Junkrat lifts his chin in challenge. “Ain’t my daddy, Hog.” Sucks in a long hit off the joint, holding Roadhog’s gaze.
Lúcio snorts and swipes the joint from Junkrat, breaking the tension. “He’s right, though.”
“Oi, ain’t no excuse for stealing. We’re supposed to be the villains. You’re supposed to be th… the… ” Resurgence of the feathery itch sidetracks him. Breath hitches, snagged by the urge to sneeze. Presses a knuckle to the tip of his nose. Tingles. Not sure if he wants to rub it away or urge it closer. Just presses, gently. The sensation subsides, but only a bit. “The hero,” he manages to say.
Lúcio purses his lips, blows a stream of smoke that drifts directly under Junkrat’s nose and the tickle is a thousand times worse. Or better?
“Oh that heh… heh…helps...” His face falls, gaze hazy. Can’t focus on anything when he feels like this. Really wants to sneeze. It’s right there, right on the edge. Maybe?... No?... Another breath. Yes... “Heh… H’t!” Only half a sneeze and it’s gone. “Shit.”
“Helps with what?” Roadie asks, deadpan.
“Fuckin’ nothin’, apparently. Unsatisfying,” Junkrat mutters, sniffling like a kid and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Still has to sneeze. A diffuse, faint feeling, sometimes there, sometimes not. Wispy. Keeps his breath shaky, his hand hovering uselessly halfway between his nose and his chest. Might sneeze. Might not. His cheeks go hot. Weird to have both Hog and Lúcio watching while he makes an idiot of himself.
“You okay, Rat?” Lúcio asks, forehead creased with concern.
Junkrat shakes his head, slowly. Not because he’s not okay but because the sneezes finally decide yes and the need rises so sharp and overwhelming it’s almost pain and he ducks his head. “Huh-t’chhew! Ihht’chew!” A beat, two. Fucking shit.
“Something missing,” Roadhog asks, insufferable bastard, and he wants to answer, wants to say something cutting but only manages to flip him off before the missing third reappears with vengeance.
“Ah’Riiish-uh!” He sighs with relief. “Fucking finally.” Blinks tears from his eyes and realizes both Roadhog and Lúcio are staring with identical hunger. Goes suddenly hard, their desire stoking his own. Grins. “‘Scuse me,” he says but it sounds more proud than apologetic.
“Saúde,” Lúcio says just as Roadie says, “Bless you.”
The look that goes between them is surprise and a measuring-up and Rat laughs. Shakes his head. “Can’t believe you two cunts gave me the wog, and now you’re fuckin’ enjoying my misery.”
“You said you never get sick,” Lúcio argues, even as a guilty expression crosses his face.
Roadhog shrugs off Lúcio’s concern. “Rat’s full of shit; he don’t care,” he says, shifting alliances like a bastard.
“Oi, Roadie, blowin’ me cover? Get stuffed.” Not angry, though, not really. Knows what his sneezing does to Roadhog and seems like Lúcio might be the same. If he’s right, the fun they’ll have more than makes up for a minor inconvenience. Hopes he is because suddenly Rat wants both of them. Rubs his nose against the feathery tickle that’s still threatening to both disappear and to explode, but patently unclear which will happen.
In that moment of stillness between possible explosions, the music goes abruptly silent and Lúcio glances at the stage where the previous DJ is taking her final bows. “Gotta do my…” he gestures with his chin.
“Go be the conduit,” Roadhog says. “We’ll be here.”
Lúcio grins at both of them, presses a quick kiss to Roadie’s cheek then bounds onstage to thundering applause.
As the lights sweep over the audience, Junkrat suddenly realizes the people he’s assumed to be old hippies are no such thing. The cloth and cut of their bohemian outfits is expensive, the patchwork bags designer. The gold of the incense burners actual gold. He eyes the diamonds, obviously real and expensive, practically dripping from one sheila’s ears and draped around her neck, sparkling at each of her fingers. Clasp looks surprisingly cheap for the likely cost of the necklace. Be a shame if it somehow got broken.
Glances at Roadie, raises a brow, tilts his head at the shiela who is completely entranced by the beginning of Lúcio’s set. Ain’t paying a bit of attention to her surroundings.
Roadhog shakes his head and Junkrat knows he’s frowning behind the mask.
“Not like she’d miss it,” Junkrat urges. “What Morrison don’t know ain’t gonna bother him.”
“And if Lúcio gets blamed?”
“Ain’t planning on getting caught.”
“Rat, no…”
Junkrat just grins and slides into the crowd, following the glitter of the sheila’s jewelry. The bass vibrates in his ribs, merging with the flutter of anticipation. Moves with the rhythm of the audience, close enough to catch the scent of her perfume. Cloying and overly floral. But he’s focused. Eyes on the target, vaguest idea of a plan beginning to form. Takes a deep breath and lets the sneezes crash over him. “Huh-R’iiisssh! Issh! Isssha!” Just manages to throw his arm up over his mouth and stumbles forward on the explosion. Bumps smack into the sheila and uses the ensuing scuffle to snap the clasp of her necklace.
She turns. “Watch it, asshole,” she says, looking disgusted.
“Oh, shit, sorry, mate! Touch of allergies or something. Hope I didn’t get you!” He apologizes immediately, profusely, playing up his accent. The necklace slides off and into his waiting hand. He pockets it, then lets the crowd flow between them and makes his way back to Roadhog.
“Cannot believe you sinned during fucking church,” Roadhog says.
Junkrat shrugs. “She ain’t a good Christian. Didn’t even bless me.”
Roadhog shakes his head, but Rat catches the rumble of his chuckle. Roadie draws him away from the crowd, into a pool of darkness at the side of things. It’s not private, but no one’s watching them - the focus is on Lú, center stage, surrounded by his equipment, face alight with joy. The music spills from the stage like a waterfall, flowing around him, the spotlight shines over him and he glows. Counts down the beat with one finger til it drops, breaking into a new pattern.
Junkrat’s seen him in battle, burning with a fierce joy. Seen him wielding his sonic amplifier to heal, equally bright and fierce. But this, this is where Lúcio belongs. “Join me,” Lúcio’s voice amplified drifts over the notes of the music. “Float. Ride the currents and eddies. Slide down deep into the darkness. Into the depths. Further down to the deepest part. Sink in, curl in, and in that place touch truth, touch love. Touch the One, because that is you, too. You are safe here in the womb of the world.”
Junkrat does, feels the darkness swirling around him.
“Now feel the touch of the moonlight, uncurl into that light. Stretch into the night, reach for the God beyond God that is unlimited and free. Let’s dance our prayers in community.”
The music surrounds him, a shining bubble. Feels like Junkrat can reach out and touch it. Press against it, barrier between him and whatever Lúcio is creating. Like a window he can’t penetrate. Maybe it’s the necklace? Maybe Roadie was right and he shouldn’t have stolen it. Maybe...
Then a hand on his shoulder, grounding him again. “You’re okay, Rat,” Roadhog says and it cuts through the smoke fogging his thoughts and suddenly he realizes two things. He is okay, and he’s going to sneeze and it’s not going to be contained.
“Heh-issh! Issh! Ish! Sh! ...Ehh..Hehh.. R’issh-iishhuh! Fuck.” Keeps his face buried in the sleeve of his shirt, trying to gather his scattered thoughts and assess the damage. His cheeks are hot and he’s uncomfortably hard.
Suddenly Roadie’s fist’s tangled in his hair, tugging his head up. “You’re a mess,” he says, examining Rat far too carefully.
He is a mess. Wants to hide, to turn away but he can’t do either - Hog’s fist still tight in his hair, holding him immobile. “Sorry,” he says and this time he actually means it. Wonders vaguely, through the floating fog of weedsmoke and lust and the lingering urge to sneeze, if someone actually could immolate from embarrassment.
“You should be.” Roadhog pulls a bandana out of his pocket and wipes Junkrat’s nose, then raises his mask just enough to press their lips together.
Junkrat groans into the kiss and wraps his arms around Roadhog, tugging him closer, closer, aching with desire.
Lúcio's song shifts, and though the beat still throbs, an ethereal voice sings a melody in a language Junkrat doesn’t understand. He closes his eyes and the notes float cool and light over his skin. The music casts a glittering web over and between them, connecting them each to the other and both to Lúcio. A low thrumming, slowly building vibration buzzing along his skin and through his body. Rumbling deep and dark, then tenor notes over the bass like hope. Until the melody opens like dawn breaking and cracks him open too and washes him in joy.
Only the roar of applause from the crowd interrupts. Junkrat looks up just in time to see Lúcio bound down from the stage, still glowing with the leftover power of the music and he dashes over to them and they open their arms and pull him in.
The three of them make their way down the hill, back to the hovercar waiting to take them back to the Watchpoint. Roadhog’s hand on one elbow and Lúcio’s hand on his other shoulder keep Junkrat from stumbling, his head still swirling with music and weed and want and the heat of Lúcio’s touch and the strength of Roadhog’s hand.
Finally, finally he collapses onto his bed, tugging Roadie and Lúcio down with him. Their hands are roaming over each other, legs entwined. And he’s going to sneeze again. “Hold on,” he manages to say. Freezes, stuck teetering on the edge. Feathery tickles whisper at the back of his nose.
“All right?” Lúcio asks.
“Something wrong?” Roadhog adds.
“F...fuck ya both. Gotta… gotta… Huh-R’iiisssh! Issh! Isssha! Ugh,” he sighs. “Still gotta… Itchhh! Huh-isssh! Isshew!” It’s like no matter how many times he sneezes, just can’t clear the tickle. But it feels so unbearably good. The build and build and tremble and release only to build again right after. And Lúcio’s hand closes over his cock and he reaches for Roadhog and Roadie takes Lúcio in his hand and they move together, still tangled in Lúcio’s web. Pleasure throbs through Junkrat in waves pushing him higher and he draws Lú and Roadie with him, high and higher and when he tumbles over the precipice, they fall too.
And as he drifts in the aftermath, Lúcio pressed warm against his left side, Roadhog against his right Junkrat feels maybe he’s glowing too.
#oversnez#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic#snezfic#oof this one kicked my ass#love Rat/Hog/Lu but damn is complex
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (end)
Holy shitballs. Pretty close to exactly a year ago I got this idea - Junkrat and Roadhog have Christmas with some of the Overwatch crew. It was gonna be short and sweet and fluffy. I started writing in... February? 10 months and 21K words later I ended up with something almost entirely different. Oops? Thanks for joining me on the ride!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9
Meds and tea and whiskey and food and mitten and probably a bit of fever still and the lingering feel of Roadie’s hand on his forehead all swirled together into an edgy excitement that made his blood fizz in his veins. Twitchy, itchy. Been looking forward to setting off the fireworks for months - been working them up that long and planning even longer. Had to get it all just right, then combine it with Lucio’s music, get the timing connected to the right shapes, the explosions to the right second… had to be focused, had to be precise and he loved the challenge. The sparks of thrill tingled along his spine and the fire they ignited burned away the lingering crud of sickness leaving him sharp and clear.
He enlisted Hana and Lucio to round up the others, betting they’d be able to convince anyone who was reluctant much better than he would. Even so, he was urging them down to the lake, torches bobbing through the dark, throwing odd shadows between the trees. Maybe talking a little faster than usual but how else was he going to impress upon them how exciting this was?
“Know it’s cold - hadn’t really thought about that when I was planning. I mean, hadn’t planned to be here at all, just thought we’d be at the Watchpoint. Course, this is better, discounting the cold. Which is hard to do, but Roadie’s getting the bonfire goin’ - he could light a fire in the middle of a monsoon so no worries on that count. An’ Hana brought some whiskey to help so she’ll be right. Ya need to stand here, no closer. Gonna be over the water. Safe as houses, but can’t be too careful - least according to Morrison, ha! Now turn off the torches. Better the darker it is. Lucky ain’t moonrise yet…”
“What are we doing out here in the middle of the night when we could be curled up on the couch?” Mei asked no one in particular.
Junkrat ignored her. She’d see, they’d all see and he knew they’d love it just as much as he did if they gave it a chance. Lucio had been kind enough to not only have his sound system set up, but also brought out the box of fireworks so Junkrat didn’t have to lug it himself.
Didn’t take but a minute to set it all up, music on automatic once he started the program. All he had to do was hit the power and light the first fuse.
Music came up slow, soft, bit of piano, then edge of something electronic, rising bass and the first firework streaked up to the center of the sky and as the beat kicked in it exploded in a rain of silver and gold. At the crackling boom the others fell silent, faces tilted to the sky. The sparkles reflected in their eyes and Lucio’s soft ‘oh!’ and Hana’s squeal of delight made even the cold worthwhile.
Let it start slow. Basic colors, red, blue, green, as well as the gold and silver. Usual shapes, circles, stars, ones that looked like fountains or willows. Then the music shifted, became rhythmic and complex with a minor edge and he sent the first special rockets. The streaks crisscrossed, intersecting like Satya’s hard light shield, like one of her knit shawls and around it burst snowflakes, all in shades of blue and silver.
Music shifted again, bright and quick - and the second set of his own rockets split the air with a whistling crack then exploded in a crackling red heart, then a gold arrow streamed through. Lena bumped Emily’s hip with her own as their names twined through the heart. Another shift, one of Lucio’s songs, written for Hana and the rockets burst into pink bunnies and green frogs that seemed to bounce up the mountains ringing them and into the stars.
As the music shifted a final time, setting a beat with a swing, Lena grabbed Emily’s hand and pulled her into a twirl, hands clenched firm but light, feet moving quick, spinning each other in and out and then they were dancing and so were Hana and Lucio and even Mei tugged Satya into the group.
And then - perfect timing, as the music sang “Seeing’ stars, I’m seeing stars” the final bursts of fireworks - his favorite of the bunch - exploded overhead and Junkrat couldn’t stop his grin at the stars he’d created. Spread above him and Roadie was their night sky. The Saucepan and the Crux. Looking right, looking perfect, not upside down like here.
For a long moment Roadhog said nothing, just stood with his face tipped up, sparks reflecting in his mask as the fireworks cracked and popped and the music thumped and the others laughed and danced.
“Thought ya might like a bit of Straya,” Junkrat said finally, unable to wait for Roadhog to say something. Anything. Maybe he hadn’t recognized it after all. Or maybe it wasn't anything like he’d hoped. Maybe it only looked like home because he was remembering it so clearly. Imagining it. Making it all up again. He shoved his hand in his pocket as a gust of wind swept over them and a sneeze slammed into him, followed quickly by two more. “Huh-r’isssh! Isshh! Ishhew!”
Didn’t even hear Roadhog move, but suddenly he was right there, shoving his hat down over Junkrat’s head and then wrapping his scarf around Junkrat’s neck.
“Stay warm, idiot.”
“Trying,” he said, shivering still. He let Roadie lead him over to the fire which had grown to a roaring height, pouring out a welcome heat. Pine logs crackled and spat sparks swirling into the sky to swirl with the real stars and their backwards constellations.
Lucio cranked his own mix and the bass echoed off the mountains and Lena and Emily still danced with him and Hana. Mei and Satya huddled together, passing a mug of something between them and for a moment, just for a minute, everything felt fine. Felt good.
Junkrat glanced at Roadhog, and though the mask obscured his expression, there was a looseness in his shoulders, something in the tilt of his head that seemed to speak of relaxation and calm. Made the cold and exhaustion worth it. “Happy Christmas, Roadie.”
“Happy Christmas, Rat.” The warmth in his tone did more to drive away the chill than the fire and Junkrat leaned against his side, letting himself enjoy the closeness.
After a bit, the others joined them around the fire and Lena passed a joint around, “For everyone except you, Junkrat. Sorry.”
He shrugged, pulled a flask out of his pocket. “Not gonna share my plague. Got this anyway.” The whiskey left a warm curl in the center of his belly, his muscles loose and easy. Satya told a story about a Snow Queen whose frozen heart melted with the love of a peasant girl, and though Junkrat wanted to roll his eyes, he understood the feeling. The desire to have one’s own story told in myth - to be connected to something bigger. Lena told a story about Father Christmas. Mei about a Chinese hunter, Jia Deng, who hunted with a pet wolf and left gifts of his hunt with the poor during the cruel months of winter. Then Roadie exhaled a long puff of smoke and said,
“Bet you never heard of the Holiday Boar.”
Junkrat giggled into his scarf. “Ain’t gonna tell that one to this lot, are ya?”
Lena cocked her head quizzically. “No, can’t say I have.”
“Well. Long before the Omnium exploded, before the Omnics were even an idea someone had, the Outback was still a hardscrabble place. Dusty and hot and many were desperately poor, trying to eke a living out of land that wasn’t easily giving. One day a wild boar appeared in a village, ribs showing through its skin, hair falling out in patches, it was the most pathetic excuse for a creature the villagers had seen. Most tried to chase it away with kicks and shouts and stones thrown.
“At the edge of the village there was a farmer. He lived alone on the land. When the boar came to his homestead, the farmer’s first reaction was the same as the others - he wanted to chase it away. Nothing good could come of bringing another mouth to feed into his life. But as he raised a hand to throw a stone, he caught a glimpse of the creature’s eyes and his long dead daughter’s voice spoke in his heart. ‘Papa, please.’ His hand fell and he sighed and the boar stayed.
“In the beginning he found it annoying, an intrusion on his solitude. Still, he fed the creature, sharing the little he had, and in return it kept him company, following him like a dog and seeming to listen when he spoke. Come winter the boar was healthy and grown to a surprising size. Villagers who saw it walking with the farmer nodded knowingly - at the first cold snap he’d likely kill it, and the meat could feed them all.
“But the cold came and still the boar walked with the farmer. The villagers eyed them more than a little oddly. Finally, on the longest night of the year, the farmer was sitting by a fire with the boar at his side as usual. The farmer was lamenting that the land had been even more reticent than usual, and he was likely to lose his home to the mortgagers.
“The boar’s stomach gave a great rumble, then it leaned forward and puked up a pile of gold coins onto the ground. The farmer never went hungry again and the village prospered.”
Junkrat couldn’t help himself, he burst out laughing.
Hana laughed too, shook her head. “There’s no way that’s a thing.”
“It’s Australia,” Roadhog argued, deadpan voice. “It absolutely is.”
Lucio nodded, took a drag from the joint. “I could see it.”
They told stories and Lucio led them in carols and the warmth of the fire and the whiskey and Roadhog at his side and Lena’s jokes “What do you call a dinosaur fart? A blast from the past! Why does a duck have tail feathers? To cover his butt quack!” and Emily’s laughter lulled Junkrat into a doze.
“He snores louder than a boar,” Satya said, irritably. Lena giggled.
“You gave him your scarf,” Hana said to Roadhog and her tone was equal parts teasing and curious.
Junkrat felt Roadie’s shoulders move in a shrug. “Never takes care of himself, even when he’s sick.” But though he was more than half asleep, he could hear the tight coldness of the comment. The relaxed ease had gone. Junkrat wanted to sit up and interrupt, but he was just so tired.
“Gave him your cold too, huh.” Still that sing-song teasing tone, but it cut at Junkrat.
“Maybe.”
“Come on, Roadhog. What’s up with you two, anyway? He won’t give us a straight answer.”
Felt like everyone’s eyes were on them, staring. Junkrat tensed. Sit up, he told himself. Stop this. But he didn’t. He wanted to know what Roadhog would say, even more than he didn’t want to know.
Roadhog’s shoulder moved in another shrug. “Someone’s gotta keep him from offing himself on accident.”
Mei laughed; least no one else did.
Ice through his body, through his stomach, his mind, his lungs. He coughed against it, but it didn’t move. The fire had burned down to little more than embers and even scarf and hat, mitten and whiskey weren’t enough to keep him warm. He forced himself up then, away from Roadhog. Faked a yawn like he just woke up.
“Knackered. Gonna call it a night. Happy Christmas all.” Forced the words past lips that felt frozen and barely heard the others saying goodnight and thanks for the fireworks.
The moon glowed on the snow, lighting the way back to the cabin enough to keep him from stumbling on tree roots and rocks. His foot crunched softly on pine needles and he heard Roadhog’s louder footfalls behind him. He walked faster. Just wanted to be inside, to be alone, to be warm, to be silent. Even the light of the Christmas tree seemed to mock him with its fake promise of coziness. He’d take a bath, let the water warm his bones, soothe the chills, then sleep.
“When I said ya ain’t gotta babysit me no more, I meant it,” Junkrat said stiffly as Roadhog followed him into the bathroom. “Promise I ain’t gonna drown in the bath. Even I’m not stupid enough to do that.”
“How’re you going to get in and out?” Roadhog asked bluntly.
Junkrat turned to look and of course there were no bars to let him navigate it himself. Once he took off his prosthetics he’d be screwed. Fuck. He pushed past Roadhog and out of the bathroom. Wasn’t worth it.
But the bedroom was just as bad. Wanted to collapse onto the bed and sleep for a century or ten, but Roadhog was standing there in the middle of the room taking up all of the space and all of the air and Junkrat knew he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep with his… looming. Instead he shoved the pillows to the head of the cot and sat against the wall, wrapping a blanket around himself. Just barely resisted pulling it over his head, too. Knew Roadie would stare and it was making him jittery. Not in a good way. His head ached again, skin tight with the too hot too cold feeling of returning fever. Should have asked Lucio for more meds. He rubbed a hand over his face, wishing for relief. Wishing for Roadie’s hand on his forehead again, cool and firm and steadying.
“Gonna tell me what’s eating you?” Roadhog asked, finally. His arms were crossed over his chest and he looked down at Junkrat from his full height. Not exactly the most inviting posture.
“What are we?” The question spilled from him like he was vomiting. “An’ don’t give me some stupid shit like you don’t know what I mean. Hana asks and Lucio asks and you avoid the question.”
“Why do we need to put words to it? Why do they need to know anything?”
Junkrat shrugged. It wasn’t for them that he needed words. It was him. He needed a foundation, an understanding. Because things were slippery and they could slide away from him before he had a chance to catch hold. “It’s me askin’. Now that ya ain’t my bodyguard. What are we?”
A long pause, a silence full of all the things Roadhog didn’t say.
“Morrison said I could leave,” Junkrat blurted, unable to stand it.
Roadhog waited.
“Said if this do-gooder shit was too bloody difficult he’d have Lena turn me in. Serve my time and then whatever came next was my choice.”
No response.
“Told him I’d have to talk to you about it, but he said just meant me. I been thinkin...’ we should do it. Could probably convince him to let you go too. Then when we were far enough away could hijack the Orca, dump Lena and head back to Straya. Head home. Get the treasure, sell it to the Queen and find a place to just… live.” He blinked and the after-image of fireworks burst across his vision, constellations in all their permutations. Home. Was it? Didn’t really know anymore… But maybe there it wouldn’t be so hard, maybe there it would be like it had been.
Still no response, no movement at all. Like Roadhog’d turned to stone. Mountain. Felt his gaze go cold, measuring, calculating. Had seen Roadhog turn that gaze on others, size them up, find them lacking… but not on himself. He froze. Utterly still. Waited for the judgment to fall. Then Roadhog laughed. Not like something was funny, or maybe like he was funny and the sound was brittle and sharp in his ears.
“What’s so bloody funny, mate?” and his own voice held an edge.
“The idea that I would want to leave this,” he gestured around the room, taking in everything, “give up the good thing I got going here to… what? Live out some tiny shit life in that hellhole with you? Why the fuck do you think I’d want to go back to that? And with you?” He positively roared with laughter. “You are thick as a rock. Batshit crazy. A complete mess. Sure, when there wasn’t anyone else around who wasn’t trying to kill me, you were good for a laugh. A way to get my rocks off. But in the real world? Fuck no.”
“Fuck you too.” The words scraped his throat and he wished he had covered his head because he had that ominous prickling behind his eyes like he was going to fucking cry, or sneeze, and either way he was fucking well not going to give Roadhog the satisfaction.
“You want to know what we are, Junkrat? We ain’t shit. Nothing. Do what you want, stay or go. I couldn’t possibly give less of a shit.”
“Well that’s fuckin’ clear as crystal. Why don’t you fuck off then an’ let me sleep.” He grit his teeth, bit the inside of his cheek hard enough that he tasted iron. Not going to crumble. Watched as Roadhog turned and crossed the room. Watched the door click shut behind him. Watched the blank wall and refused to let himself crack. Silence then, that he’d wanted. But no warmth. Even wrapped in blankets felt like he was sitting in a snowstorm. Everything muffled and frozen. Freezing.
Then that chuckle in his head. You got an answer. Might not have been the one you wanted, but really Jamison, what did you expect? Did you honestly think he would go back to an irradiated waste land and a criminal life to be with you?
He thumped his head back against the wall, squeezed his eyes shut. Clenched his fist so hard his nails bit into his palm. Shut it. Ain’t real.
No? So make me be silent, then. More laughter. Oh Jamison. How do you think someone would want to be with you when your own mother couldn’t stand to be with you?
You don’t know nothing ‘bout my mum, he told her. Nothing. But a couple tears leaked free, and the tingling prickles made him sneeze and he buried his head in the blankets and let himself go until he fell asleep, her laughter and Roadhog’s laughter still ringing in his head.
Sleep was restless, part of him kept jerking awake thinking he heard the door open. He hadn’t. When he finally woke completely he felt like he’d been hit by the ute, then had it back over him again. He stumbled out to the living room where he found Hana and Lucio playing a game with Emily, and Mei and Satya watching.
“Morning, Junkrat,” Lucio said.
“More like afternoon,” Hana corrected.
“Potato potahto,” Lucio shrugged. “Wanna join? You can play winner.”
“Nah,” he cleared his throat, tried to sound nonchalant. “Where’s Roadie?”
“Apparently Morrison sent him on some mission. Something going on in Australia. Lena took him early this morning,” Satya said.
“Guess you didn’t go ‘cause you’re sick?” Hana asked.
“Yeah. Something like that.” His head went light. Hadn’t thought Roadhog would actually leave. Take the treasure for himself and go… but there it was. He made his way into the kitchen on a floor that seemed to rock like a boat. Opened the sat comm with numb fingers.
“Morrison.”
“It’s Fawkes. I’ll take your offer. I want to turn myself in.”
#oversnez#snezfic#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic#this fic took me out behind the barn and shot me in the head#what you doing Roadie??#Merry Fuckin' Christmas
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My heart as spent as ashes (Part One)
I couldn't very well leave Junkrat and Roadhog that way, so here I go again - this is a companion piece to Buried in a burning flame and you’ll want to read that first, if you haven’t.
Confutatis maledictis (When the accursed have been condemned)
Flammis acribus addictis (And doomed to the searing flames)
Voca me cum benedictis (Summon me with the saved.)
Oro supplex et acclinis, (Supplicant and prostrate, I entreat you)
Cor contritum quasi cinis (My heart as spent as ashes,)
Gere curam Mei finis (Have care for my fate.)
~ Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, Requiem Mass in D Minor
Would you please sit down, you’re making me nervous,” Lena said, equal parts joking and sharp.
“Sorry.” Roadhog forced himself to sit. He didn’t want to, he wanted to keep moving. It was the only thing that gave him some measure of relief. As if he deserved relief. He’d already tried to listen to music, tried to read, but couldn’t concentrate on any of it. His gaze would skim over the words, but all he’d see were Junkrat’s eyes burning fever bright in his too pale face. The music would pound at his ears, but all he’d hear was Junkrat asking again and again, ‘what are we?’ And his own answer, designed to crush, to wound, to keep Junkat from following him, from finding out what he’d done. But if he moved, if he paced, he could outrun his own horrible fucking decision.
Lena glanced at him, then back out the window of the Orca, made a minute adjustment to one of the dials in front of her. “Not bringing Junkrat with you back to Australia?”
“No.” Maybe if he kept his answers monosyllabic she’d take the hint.
“Hmm.” Looked at him, away again. Somehow, even in the darting glances it felt like she saw more than he’d like. “You guys have a fight?”
Fuck. “No.”
She raised a brow. “Alright, Roadie. You blew your cover over the past couple days. You are more than capable of conversation.”
The nickname surprised him. No one, other than Junkrat, called him Roadie. It felt like a punch to the gut. Should have been Rat here with him. Should have been them together against everything and everyone else. “Don’t,” he ground out.
“What?”
“Call me that.”
She swiveled the chair suddenly to face him full on, and even though she was tiny, there was steel in her. He saw, then, why Morrison made her his second despite her age. She wasn’t one to be easily intimidated. “All right, Roadhog. Clearly something’s going on. I know you don’t need me to explain why secrets are dangerous in this line of work. Hana’s opinion notwithstanding, I’m not about to pry into your relationship with Junkrat.” She waved off whatever comment he might have been about to make before he’d barely drawn breath. “But Jack doesn’t send agents out solo. Ever.”
“Not an agent.”
“Now you’re splitting hairs.” She sighed. “I know not all of us were exactly subtle with our hesitation about bringing you two aboard. Some of Jack’s rolls of the dice turn out better than others, and I’ll admit to being one of the reluctant ones.”
That was surprising - unlike Torbjörn and Satya who, while not as sharp with him as they were with Junkrat, had been distant and Mei was downright rude a time or two, Lena’d always acted friendly enough. “We are an acquired taste,” he said wryly. Couldn’t exactly take it personal. Neither he nor the Rat were the usual brand of hero. Or, any hero at all. They’d gotten on somewhat better with McCree, who also inhabited the grayer area.
Lena snorted a laugh. “I eat Hana’s soondae. I like unusual flavors.” She sobered again. “What I’m trying to say, however badly, is that you and Junkrat have both proven yourselves over and over again, and I wish that I’d proven myself to you as well.”
Roadhog frowned, even though he knew she couldn’t see it behind the mask. He was still trying to process when she continued.
“Look, I can’t come with you right now - the others are going to need a way back to the Watchpoint, and I’ll need to get Emily home… but after that, tell me where you’ll be and I can meet you. I won’t be more than a day behind, day and a half at the absolute outside. Whatever you’re going to do, let me help. Or at least have your back, since Junkrat won’t be there. You can trust me, Roadhog.”
His first inclination was to say no. Finding the hard drive should be easy enough, couldn’t imagine anyone else would be anywhere nearby considering how deep in the Outback Rat’s hidey hole was. But he knew how fast rumors traveled, and the Queen had her henchmen spread out well beyond Junkertown. He’d been gone long enough to not recognize them all anymore. Or have dirt on them to keep them blind, deaf, and mute. Might be prudent to have someone at his back, in case. And even though she didn’t know it, Roadhog realized, somewhat to his own surprise, he did trust Lena.
They’d fought side by side often enough, against Null Sector, against Talon, and she was quick on her feet and sharp. Had a good head for logistics and cool under pressure. She was young, but seasoned. And she’d made Rat soup. It counted for more than he’d like to admit.
“Don’t necessarily know what I’d be getting you into,” he said slowly, watching her reaction.
She shrugged. “Not fussed. You don’t have to face it alone, whatever it is.”
He still wanted to say no, to retreat into his solitude and silence. But he found himself nodding instead. “I’ll meet you at Bobby’s, on the outskirts of Junkertown. Bit of a shit pub and you don’t want to order any food if you value your stomach, but Bobby’s a good bloke. Known him since… for a long time. If I’m not there, he’ll know how to get word to me.”
Lena nodded once, then turned back to the controls. She didn’t ask anything more about what the mission was, and he appreciated that. Didn’t try to make small talk, and he appreciated that more. Didn’t ask anything further about Junkrat, and he appreciated that most of all.
But it didn’t mean his thoughts were occupied with anything else. No matter how he tried to focus on a plan (Have to see if the bike was still hidden out in Bobby’s garage, otherwise the trip into the Outback was going to be a good sight more complex. Have to gather some provisions. Consider where he might be able to access whatever data was on the hard drive before Morrison got a look at it. Preferably without Lena watching.) most of his thoughts circled on Rat.
50/50 of everything. Treasure’s here. Didn’t need to see the note anymore even to remember the coordinates. Junkrat’s blocky letters were engraved on his mind. Why did you have to scavenge the fucking Omnium? Completely irradiated ruins, what could possibly go wrong? Couldn’t leave well enough alone? Never could, he sighed inwardly. Leaving anything alone once his interest was snagged wasn’t in Junkrat’s repertoire. Like his namesake that way. Got them into more than one messy situation, but also got them some good hauls.
Once in a while it got them something amazing - like the fireworks display. He didn’t have the first clue how Junkrat’d made them with such intricate results. The constellations had been perfect, spread across the sky like home. How many nights had they lay side by side, gazing at the stars in comfortable silence? Well, silence on his part. Rat was always chattering about something, but never seemed to mind Roadhog’s reticence. Now the silence pressed in on him.
Jesus, was he really going to go through with this? Walk away from Rat completely? Leave him behind? His boot heels clanked dully on the floor as he crossed the room. The fear that had squeezed his chest when Junkrat brought up the treasure rose in his throat again. The absolute panic that Junkrat would find out that it was all his fucking fault had dropped a fog over his mind. It swirled with Hana’s insistent teasing and Junkrat’s pointed questions about their relationship. Never needed to make it anything one way or another until Hana started asking but then Rat’s attention had been caught. He asked, asked again, tossing the questions like grenades, unconcerned about the possible fallout. Roadhog’d felt trapped, claustrophobic, desperate, and suddenly all the awful shit was spouting out of his mouth and Junkrat just sat there and took it, with only a minor show of self-defense. Behind that anger, Roadhog had seen the hurt, the betrayal and it twisted his gut.
Stop, he told himself. Turned that shit off before, could do it again. Be Roadhog, not Roadie. Certainly not Mako. Never Mako.
“For fuck’s sake, Roadhog, if you can’t relax, would you at least make yourself useful and brew some tea? I could use the caffeine.” Lena was glaring at him with exasperation.
“Right,” he said. Something to occupy his hands. His thoughts for a few minutes. As the kettle whistled he thought he heard Lena talking with someone, but he couldn’t make out what they said. He poured the water over the tea leaves - proper tea, not like the bagged crap; probably Mei’s doing. Waited the right amount of time for the leaves to steep, watching the steam curl over the mugs. Fragrant, lightly floral and a hint of bergamot. Could practically taste it, just from the scent. Knew the tannins would be perfectly balanced. It wouldn’t slap him with bitterness like every single cup in Junkertown. Whoever Lena was talking to likely had nothing to do with Junkrat. No need for his heart to be hammering in his throat.
He removed the leaves and mixed in a touch of honey. The sweet would highlight the brightness of the citrus without being overpowering. Not like when Rat made it - got a sugar rush along with the caffeine high. Incorrigible sweet-tooth.
“Thanks,” Lena said when he handed her a mug, and she sipped with a grateful smile. “Better?”
He nodded. It was true, as far as it went.
“Lucio just called.” She took another sip.
Roadhog tried to keep his breathing steady, ignore the sudden skip of his heart. Didn’t ask. Waited.
“Jack made Junkrat an offer. Be all in with us, or take his chances with the law. Apparently Junkrat picked the coppers.”
Roadhog swallowed his tea carefully, said nothing. His stomach churned.
“Lucio said he’s not allowed to go anywhere until he gets over the virus, which buys him some time.”
She stopped again, maybe waiting for him to say something. But what could he say? Things were spiralling out of control and it felt like everything he did only made it worse. At least if Junkrat was in jail, Roadhog could retrieve the hard drive without interruption and destroy any potentially incriminating evidence. Then maybe he could rescue Rat. Breaking him out wouldn’t be impossible, hell - they’d done it before. Even if he’d fucked things between them all to hell, breaking him out would balance the scales somewhat. Hopefully. Maybe. He nodded at Lena and took another drink of tea. It was bitter on his tongue.
She gazed at him for a long, long minute, then turned back to the controls without pressing further. Somehow it still felt like she was watching him.
He drank, and tried not to notice the oily nausea that sat in his stomach, or any of the concerns clamoring for attention behind the firmly closed door of his thoughts. He’d make this work.
Junkrat closed the comm connection and leaned his head against the wall for just a minute - how could he be this bloody knackered already - when a voice behind him made him startle and turn.
“I’m sure I didn’t hear that right,” Hana said.
“Hooly dooley, ya sneak up on a bloke.” Tried to plaster an approximation of a grin on his face. Suspected it didn’t work when it wasn’t returned.
“I don’t sneak. You just couldn’t hear me because you were too busy telling Mr. By The Book that you wanted to turn yourself in to get away from us.”
Rubbed the back of his neck, cleared his throat. “Uh, ain’t what I meant, really.”
“Really,” Hana echoed. “Could’ve fooled me.” She crossed her arms over her chest and actually glared at him. Felt a little like being menaced by a bunny, unexpected and more disturbing for it.
Junkrat sighed. “Ain’t personal, love. Finally realized I ain’t cut out for the hero thing, an’ Morrison agrees. According to The Rules, can’t just let me go wandering off into the sunset after all the shit I done. So it’s off to the cop shop for me.”
“That’s gotta be the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say, and I’ve heard you say some outrageous stuff.”
“Cheers.” Irritation rose in response. “Does fuckin’ everyone think I’m a fuckwit?” Haven’t you learned not to ask questions you don’t want answered?
“Maybe not everyone. Lucio, what do you think,” Hana demanded, grabbing his arm as he went to walk by.
Lucio eyed them warily, like he might be drawn into a trap. “About what?”
“Not up for a vote.” Knew he wasn’t going to be able to just sneak away without anyone commenting, especially with everyone on top of each other in the little cabin, but he’d hoped for a bit more time to figure a cover story.
“Junkrat,” Hana stabbed him with her glare again, “wants to get away from us so bad he’s choosing jail over us.”
“Wait, what?” Lucio’s expression was almost comically surprised. “What is she talking about?”
Junkrat pinched the bridge of his nose. His calm felt brittle, like a thin sheet of ice over a deep lake. If it cracked he’d fall through… “Just tellin’ her I ain’t a hero. So… did the crimes gotta do the time is all.”
“And I told him that’s the stupidest idea in a long line of bad ideas. Now you tell him I’m right and he’s a moron!”
“I’m not sure calling him that helps,” Lucio said.
“An idiot, then. I always thought Roadhog was just a grump when said it, but I’m starting to understand.”
Could practically feel the blood draining from his face; mention of Roadhog made everything feel worse. Bared his teeth in a grin. “With friends like this, it’s a wonder why I’d wanna leave.”
“Woah woah woah.” Lucio held up his hands. “Hold on. We’re all getting a little testy. Junkrat, you look like you’re about to fall over. You’re not going anywhere until you’re better.” He looked from one to the other. Hana still bristled. “Come on, I’ll make us tea and we can talk this through.”
“Not really in the mood for a drink,” he tried. Even less in the mood for any convo. Mostly wished he could just hide in the bedroom until Lena came back.
“I’ll leave the turpentine out this time.” Lucio gently, but firmly, guided both of them into the kitchen where he put the kettle on to boil. Hana rummaged through the cabinets for the tea and clean mugs.
Junkrat hesitated, perched on the edge of the window seat, half wanting to escape and half wanting the soothing warmth of a hot drink. The wind rattled the window in its frame, the bare branches of an oak tapped against the glass. Clouds scuttled across the sky, a swirl of snow floated down. A chill crept up his spine and he shivered, smothering a set of sneezes into his elbow.
Hana, turning back with a plate of biscuits shaped like stars and candy canes and snow flakes that someone had made, caught the motion and suddenly her irritation vanished. “Bless. Still sick, huh?”
“Guess so.” Took a bickie, nibbled the edge. Sugar dusted the table and sweetness spread over his tongue.
“But that’s not why Roadhog left without you, is it?” Lucio asked, setting a steaming mug in front of him.
“Don’t know what you mean, mate.” Roadie wasn’t the only one who could play vague.
“You two are never apart, even when he was sick. Now he’s on assignment in Australia, without you? Something’s wrong with this picture.”
Damn observant healers. Shoved the rest of the bickie in his mouth, trying to buy some time. If only his brain didn’t feel like it was wrapped in candy floss, thoughts muffled and slow. Both Lucio and Hana sat down at the table and he squirmed under their attention. “Why ya always got a million questions? Ain’t it enough that things are what they are?”
“Because for some unfathomable reason we like you, Junkrat.” Hana softened the words with a smile. “That means we want to know what’s going on with you. I know Roadhog probably skewed your experiences a little, but friends talk to their friends.”
Junkrat ran a hand over his face. “An’ I thought Roadie was complicated.”
“We want to help,” Lucio said.
“Not much to be done. Morrison said if I couldn’t be a proper member of the team, follow the rules an’ regulations an’ all, then he’d let me do my time in jail and then be on me way. Figure I should take him up on it.” Took a drink of tea. Lucio’d made it exactly the way he liked, enough sugar to rot the teeth. Felt good on his raw throat. “Tell ya the truth, don’t really fit with you. Make a better criminal than hero. So.” He shrugged. “Lena’ll drop me somewhere in London, make sure I turn myself in.”
“You know, it took all of us time to fit in with Overwatch. It’s not an easy transition to make,” Lucio pointed out.
“Yeah, Lu kept Morrison from killing me so many times…” The look she gave Lucio was fond.
“I think we hit double digits. She had a tendency to rush into things.”
“Keeps you on your toes,” Hana grinned. “So really, I know what it’s like. If you just give it a chance…”
“Nah, given it plenty of thought. ‘Specially the way things went at the settlement. Bolloxed it up, even doin’ me best. Decision’s made.”
Lucio frowned. “What does Roadhog think?”
‘Do what you want, stay or go. I couldn’t possibly give less of a shit.’ Roadhog’s words echoed just as clear as when he’d said them. Junkrat chuckled and it sounded dangerously close to a sob. “Said it’s on me. Doesn’t really care either way.” He sniffed and knuckled his nose. Hana and Lucio traded a look over his head. “I appreciate ya wantin’ to help. But done is done.”
“Rat,” Lucio started. He put a hand on Junkrat’s arm and the touch was firm but so gentle and it combined with the heat of the tea and the glow of their company and the kindness in their eyes and Junkrat didn’t understand, he didn’t understand at all, and he hated not understanding.
He laughed, and it throbbed in his head with the darkness of Roadhog’s laughter, and her laughter but he couldn’t stop it just pouring out of him. “Earlier ya asked about us an’ I said I thought I fucked it up, an’ I did,” he could barely get the words out through the laughter. “I did. I fucked it up. I asked him, I actually asked him what we were! As if I mattered. As if I meant anything at all. Why the fuck would I think I was anything other than a job? But I had to ask. I had to know. Well, clear as now, ain’t it.”
Somewhere along the way, to his complete and utter mortification the laughter had slid into tears and he couldn’t stop them, even with fists pressed to his eyes tight tight, they just kept falling like rain, but cold, like snow and he was shivering with it. “So he’s gone because o’ course he is, an’ I’m here an’ I shouldn’t be, an’ I don’t know where I’m going, an’ if I’d been someone else, if I’d been a right person… a good person… if I’d been… if I was just anyone else…” words dissolved into hiccuping gasps and suddenly arms were around him, holding him, bringing his pieces back together. Tethering him. Voice in his ear, low and musical.
“Hey. Hey, hey Rat, it’s alright. It’s okay. Come on, breathe with me, okay? Slow breaths.” Lucio’s voice, calm and steady. Junkrat pressed his face into Lucio’s shoulder, and the flannel was soft on his cheek.
Eventually the tears stopped, caught his breath. “Sorry,” he mumbled, face hot.
“No worries.”
Junkrat sat back, scrubbed his hand over his face, coughed. “Fevers tend to cook me brains a bit. Usually I just hole up until they’re over. Sorry to flood your shirt.”
Hana passed him tissues, his tea. “We’re going to Australia, too,” she said, matter-of-factly.
“Hana…” Lucio said, skeptical, warning.
“What? Something weird’s going on. You saw the way Roadhog always looked at him. You saw him give him the scarf. That is not the way someone looks at their boss. Screw Morrison’s rules, screw jail. We’re going to figure this out.”
“But,” Junkrat said.
Hana waved him off. “You said it yourself, you’ve still got a fever. Even Morrison won’t send you to jail when you’re sick. When Lena comes, she can take us to Australia and you can find out whatever the hell Roadhog is doing.”
It was a terrible idea. Going back to Straya, with the possibility of a confrontation with the Queen, the possibility of seeing Roadhog again (‘thick as a rock… batshit crazy… we ain’t shit…). It was rushing in, like Lucio said they shouldn’t do…
You are quite the glutton for punishment, Jamison. But maybe you should go back, after all the treasure is half yours - will you let Roadhog keep all of it for himself? Junkrat frowned to himself. Bint had a point, much as he hated to admit it. Treasure was half his, an’ if he was gonna be making his own way, better be sure he had what he needed. Not let Roadhog get one over on him.
“Let’s do it,” he said.
#oversnez#snezfic#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic#everyone's on the bad idea train#what's that about fools rush in?
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (9 of 10)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
As Junkrat followed Roadhog into the cabin, he hunched into his jacket. Wished he could just disappear, but had to face the consequences of his cock up. Always rushing in… Shut it, told the voice. Her voice. Wished he knew how it worked, so he could turn it off. Head throbbed like Rein’d been at it with his hammer. Pressed the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. Mech hand’s chill felt good, but the pressure did fuck all to relieve the headache. Worse, though, was the disorientation of seeing her alive and in the flesh all these years later, when he’d almost convinced himself she’d been a figment of his imagination, a piece of fever dream from the infection after losing his limbs.
“Fawkes.” Morrison’s voice burst through the sat comm, sharp and grating - clearly ready to give him a gobful.
Junkrat startled. “Yeah.” Everyone else’d fucked off. Even Roadie’d left him to the dressing down. Some bodyguard he was.
“How can I impress upon you the seriousness of the situation? You ignored my orders…”
“Pig’s arse!” Feeling like shit or not, wasn’t about to take it without an argument. “Ya just asked where Lena was, an’ assumed I’d send her. Said the device needed retrieval, didn’t specify by who.”
A long pause. Not even a sigh. Then, “Technically you are correct. However…” Morrison’s voice buzzed in his ears like a mozzie. Everything feeling fuzzy again and his chest ached where she’d hit him with whatever her light shit was. And his fuckin’ nose was itching. Absolutely not gonna start sneezing in the middle of Morrison’s big speech. He scrubbed at his nose with his wrist and held his breath.
Lena passed the doorway and mimicked Morrison’s ‘blah blah blah’ face. To Junkrat’s disappointment she didn’t interrupt, just kept walking. Had to swallow inopportune giggles else it’d just give him more shit to bitch about. Sheila was right - dipstick always ran on at the mouth. And if he didn’t shut up soon, Junkrat was pretty sure he was going to fall asleep leaning against the wall. Instead, he interrupted.
“Look, I know I fucked it up. Lena made it abundantly clear. How ‘bout we skip the yellin’ and go right to the punishment?”
“I am not your father, Fawkes.”
“Fuckin’ right ya ain’t.”
“But I am the commander. You’ve been with us long enough to know how we work. Yet you continue to operate as you’d been, as though Rutledge is the only one you can trust.”
“Goes without sayin’, don’t it?” Junkrat shrugged. “Least I know long as Roadie gets his dosh he’s gonna be there when I need him. Ain’t gonna go jack on me. Can’t exactly trust a bloke gives you a choice between workin’ for a clandestine organization and the lock up.”
Morrison sighed, rubbed a hand over his scarred face, then surprised Junkrat with a small chuckle. “You’ve got a point. But the choice is still yours, Fawkes. If you are dissatisfied with your responsibilities -- if you feel you are overly burdened by the opportunity to turn the tide toward good -- Lena will deliver you to the authorities in London.”
“Call that a choice,” he grumbled, but the possibility caught his attention. Might be able to convince her to drop him off far enough from a cop shop to have a chance of escape. Could claim he jumped her. Hell, could actually jump her - and how disturbing was it that wasn’t his first thought? You know what happens when you let your guard down, Jamison. When you start to trust. Whatever they might tell you… you know the truth.
He did know the truth. All too well. “Gotta talk about it with Roadie.”
“This offer isn't for him. Just you.”
Junkrat frowned. “Ya gonna keep my... bodyguard?” Swallowed back the other thought, other wish. Why wouldn’t they? Here’s the opportunity they’ve been waiting for - prune your dead weight, as they’ve wanted from the beginning. And Rutledge can return to his beloved quiet.
“We need people who are committed to the cause. For all of Rutledge’s… lack of perspicacity when it comes to your jobs, he’s demonstrated more than enough dedication in his life before you.”
Well well. I wonder what, exactly, Jack knows about him that you, for all your years together, do not. Junkrat ground his teeth. He don’t know nothing ‘bout Roadhog. Nothing.
Unless he did. The idea sank to the pit of his stomach where it sat like lead. Didn’t care that Roadie had a life before him - because of course he did - but the idea that he might have talked about it with Morrison, of all people, and that they might have some common ground, besides being old grey-haired dills. Pissed him off. Of course they have things in common, you utter child. You are not exactly the pinnacle of intelligent conversation. Rutledge is far more than he’s ever let on to you.
Let that pass. Who gave two shits about ‘intelligent’? Thing he hated was Roadhog’d shared something about his past, about who he was. About things that mattered. And he hadn’t shared them with Junkrat.
Junkrat’d never pressed him about the time before they met. He’d heard rumors, of course, everyone in Junkertown’d heard about Roadhog, Queen’s biggest, cruelest, most blood-thirsty enforcer… But in their years together Junkrat had begun to realize that some of the rumors were just that and nothing more. Not to say Roadhog wasn’t any of those things - he was all of them. When he needed to be. Junkrat knew Roadhog, knew Roadie… but Rutledge… Mako… he didn’t know. And Morrison… fuckin’ Morrison… did.
“...Fawkes?”
Junkrat blinked. Shit. He’d apparently kept talking and seemed to be waiting for an answer. But couldn’t for the life of him figure what. Took a breath to answer anyway, and suddenly the sneezes he’d been fighting off burst out. “H’gnxt! … H’gnxt!” Just managed to pinch them back, maybe the comm’d miss the sound? And maybe Morrison’d dozed off too, not to see.
“Ah. Lena mentioned you were ill.”
Of fucking course. Junkrat scowled, muscles tightening along his back. Wanted to argue it, but suddenly felt like more trouble than was worth. Especially since Lena’d already said. So he sighed, and muffled the following coughs into his sleeve. “Yeah.”
“We can revisit this when you recover.” Morrison’s voice changed. While it wasn’t warm, exactly, it had lost the edge and bordered on kind. “Do you need Angela to check in?” His eyes narrowed, like he’d be able to read the truth of what Rat said through the screen.
“Nah, I’ll be right. Just gotta sleep.” No call to bring out the big guns, so to speak. Like her name implied, Mercy was the epitome of compassion, but she was still a doctor. Still a scientist, at bottom. Last thing he needed was poking and prodding.
“Very well.” A pause, then, “Let me know if you decide to take the offer.”
The comm connection dropped and Junkrat sagged back against the wall. Fuck. Was all fucked up. Didn’t even need her voice tellin’ him it was his fault. Course it was. Needed to fix it, but how? Had no idea where she’d scarpered off to with the bomb.
What about Morrison’s offer? He’d sounded serious, like it was honest. Maybe that was the solution - let Roadie stay here, help the do-gooders. Forget this… whatever it was between them. And he could… what? Serve his time? Go back to his old life? Without Roadie… what was his old life? He rubbed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. Couldn’t think through the bloody fog in his brain. Sleep would help, but damn - getting to the bedroom felt like a lot of fucking work at the moment. He closed his eyes. Maybe a short nap right here.
“Didn’t think Morrison would actually kill you,” Lucio said, startling him back to himself. “And through the sat comm no less.”
Junkrat snorted. “Still alive, but was a close thing.” He sighed, stretched in an attempt to work the aches out of his body. “Don’t mean to be an arse but I gotta lie down. Bloody fuckin’ knackered.”
“It’s all good. You got meds? There’s stuff in my kit if you don’t.” Lucio hesitated, like he wasn’t sure of how Junkrat would take his words. “And Hana made me promise to tell you that the bed offer was honest.”
Junkrat raised a brow and was rewarded as Lucio’s cheeks darkened in a blush.
“Just for a nap. We’re gonna be busy.”
The other brow joined the first and Lucio smacked his arm.
“Playing video games, asshole.” They laughed together until Junkrat shuddered into a sneeze.
“Huh-r’isssh! Isshew! Fuck.” He sniffed. “I'm disgusting. Not gonna get plague germs in yer bed. Comfortable where I am.”
“Saúde.” Lucio put an arm around him. “You’re not disgusting.”
Junkrat looked at him over the tissues he was using to blow his nose. Then wrenched forward with yet another sneeze.
Lucio laughed. “Okay -- you are disgusting but it’s fine. It’s just the way it is sometimes.”
“Glad to provide amusement.” But even though he pouted, the warmth and weight of Lucio’s arm around him settled his churning thoughts and without really meaning to, he found himself leaning into Lucio. He sighed. “Any chance yer sonic amplifier could get rid of this fuckin’ disease?”
Lucio shook his head. “Doesn’t work that way, unfortunately. It’s only a stopgap measure - keep someone going until their own body can do the work. Sorry, man.”
“Nah, no worries. Sorta figured.”
“Sucks that you’re sick on Christmas.”
Junkrat bit back a groan. Shit - forgot. Christmas. The surprise. Wished he’d chosen an inside sort of thing, but sleep’d take the edge off, least enough to get through the rest of the evening. “It’s a hell of a Christmas gift.” He squinted at the clock. “Would ya mind waking me in a couple of hours?”
“Sure…?”
“Don’t want to end up sleeping straight through - got the fireworks to set off.”
“You sure you still want to do that? It’s gonna be freezing.”
“Not exactly a Christmas prezzy if it’s not on Christmas, is it.” Didn’t want to admit Lucio’s point. He shivered just thinking of going back outside. But the explosions would be worth it. And these were gonna be bloody fantastic. Worked on ‘em way too hard for way too long to be put off by the fuckin’ wog.
“If you’re sure…”
“Thanks, mate.” Pushed himself away from the wall, away from the disquieting comfort of Lucio’s arm and made his unsteady way back to the bedroom.
Where he was disgruntled to find Roadhog sitting on the cot, clearly waiting for him.“Can’t believe you left me to Morrison’s tender mercy.” Even as he spoke, realized it came out more pissy than he intended, but better to be on offense than defense.
Roadhog, of course, just looked at him. Waited.
“Had to give me shit for fuckin up. An’ not trusting them.” Shook his head. “Can ya believe that? Blackmails us to join Overwatch and then is all up in arms because you’re the only one I trust. Like I’m going to depend on any of them when they’re only keeping us around for the demolition.”
Roadhog huffed what sounded suspiciously like disagreement but didn’t say anything.
“Practically killed me. Had to have Lucio rescue me.”
“Sounds like a job for a healer.” Roadhog’s shrug was visible in his voice.
Junkrat surprised himself with a laugh. “All right, ya got a point.” Still shivering, wrapped his arms around himself. “Would ya move; really need a lie down.”
“Take the bed.”
“But ya ain’t gonna fit on that tiny thing.” Gestured at the cot with his chin so he didn’t have to let got of himself.
“I’m not going to sleep in the middle of the day. And you’re sick. Need to rest. Take the bed.” Roadie’s voice was firm, not up for argument. Which was, truth be told, fine with Junkrat. Every aching muscle in his body longed for the comfort of a real mattress. No springs poking him in the side.
“Thanks.” Shrugged out of his jacket and flopped onto the mattress gracelessly. Everything fucking hurt. His muscles, his bones, his hair, his eyeballs. Even his missing limbs. However the hell that worked. Taking off the prosthetics felt like too much work, only to have to put them back on again in a couple of hours. He curled onto his side, wrapping the blankets tight around himself until he was cocooned, and waited for sleep.
And waited. He rolled over, hoping to ease the ache in his back, but laying on his stomach hurt his chest. Rolled back. Waited. He was still fucking cold. Shoulda left the jacket on. His head throbbed in time with the beating of his heart. And he kept feeling like he needed to sneeze, but the urge left off just before explosion.
The room was quiet, ‘cept for Roadhog’s breathing, his own sniffling, and every now and again a page turning. From elsewhere in the cabin a murmur of voices, one of Hana’s video games, music. Lena’s voice, pitched and exited, chased by the darker alto of Emily. Once Mei laughed. Life going on.
Without you. Yeah, and? They clearly don’t need you. They are happy without you. Don’t need them either. Perfectly fine here with Roadie. But even as he thought it, the cot squeaked, then Roadhog’s boots crossed the room and the door clicked open and shut.
You were saying? Laughter in the voice.
Fuck off. Didn’t mean anything, Roadie leaving him here. Or maybe it did. Maybe it meant he’d tied himself up in knots for nothing. Made things other than they were. Always doing that - chasing imaginings, random sparks. Could be one of those times. Snow falling behind his closed eyes, cold seeping through his jacket, his pants, and Roadhog’s non-answer to his question, ‘really don’t think now’s a good time’. Never a good time to tell someone they weren’t nothing more than a job. ‘Specially when they’d clearly confused the bit of comfort they’d taken in each other for something else. Something more.
Shut up, told himself - brain, voice, all. Tugged the blankets over his head. Maybe it would block everything out.
His fitful doze broke when a hand cupped his forehead. Didn’t need to open his eyes - knew the size of it, the callouses, the slight smell of leather and smoke. Roadie. Tried not to think about how good it felt, cool and dry against his own damp heat. “What,” he asked, still half asleep. Voice came out a croak. Cleared his throat, tried again. “What ya want?”
“Lucio said you wanted to be woken. Sent some… Tylenol? Looks like paracetamol or something.” Rattle of pills in a bottle, then clunk of a mug being put on the nightstand. “Mei brewed you a medicinal tea. Smells like moldy leaves, but she swears her Mum always cured her with it.” Another clink, spoon against bowl. “Lena made you soup - chicken noodle, apparently. Less likely to taste like bog water, but I haven’t tried it myself. Presumably she’s a better cook than you. Hana sent a couple fingers of whiskey to wash down the tea. And Satya knitted you this. Said you don’t need to kill anyone?”
Junkrat forced open his eyes to find Roadhog holding up a single mitten, knitted in garish orange and yellow, head tilted questioningly. He coughed a laugh, muffling it in his sleeve. “She knows how much I hate the cold.” Not gonna go into it, not even with Roadie. He sat up carefully, waiting to see which of his body parts protested the movement. All of them. Meds better take the edge off or this was gonna suck. He clenched his muscles against a shiver. The rectangle of window was black - sun had gone down while he slept.
Junkrat shook a handful of pills from the bottle but before he could swallow them all, Roadhog was taking some away. “Oi, what’s the deal?”
“Just two.”
“I wanna feel better faster.”
“Not how it works.”
Junkrat grumbled but gulped two down with the horrible tea Mei gave him. Nearly gagged on it. “Guess she ain’t forgiven me for the bodgy crack,” he said ruefully. Taste on his tongue like compost. The whiskey burned off the taste - and several layers of the skin of his throat as well. Coughed to clear the sting.
Luckily the soup Lena’d made was better than anything he ever managed. Couldn’t taste much, but the heat was soothing to his throat, the noodles soft but not slimy, and even though he couldn’t finish the whole bowl, it settled comfortably in his stomach and he felt warm for the first time in ages. Too bad he was gonna have to go out again. The meds had driven the headache back to a dull throb and when he pushed himself up to stand, he felt solid. He pulled his jacket back on, then tugged on the mitten from Satya - the wool surprisingly soft and not as itchy as usual.
“Oddest mitten I’ve ever seen,” Roadie pointed out as Junkrat wriggled his fingers. She’d ended the hand part at his knuckles.
“Nah, it’s genius. Can still work with the wires an’ all.”
#oversnez#snezfic#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic#hey it's almost Christmas again soooo#penultimate chapter bitches#party time! Need some fireworks?
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 8)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7
Lucio squeezed Roadhog’s arm as he passed on the way to the settlement. Roadhog wanted to say something, to express his gratitude for Lucio’s help, for his kindness to Junkrat. But words weren’t his strong suit - though they had been once upon a time, and he’d certainly improved during his years with Junkrat (when he could get a word in edgewise). But at the moment it all felt inadequate, so he just put his own hand over Lucio’s for a second. “Thanks,” he managed, and though his voice was rough, Lucio smiled at him, still with that endless kindness. As Roadhog followed Junkrat’s plodding figure through the snowy hills, the warmth of Lucio’s hand on his arm lingered.
It didn’t take him long to catch up and for a while they walked together in silence, punctuated only by an occasional sniff from Junkrat. He wasn’t sure how to start a conversation, he wasn’t sure what tack to take - but if there was one thing Junkrat couldn’t handle, it was extended silence. So he bit his tongue and walked.
As usual, it worked.
“Come to tell me yer heading back to Straya?” His voice was hoarse, blurred with congestion.
Roadhog held his silence.
“I mean, ya got my note, ain’t ya?”
Roadhog nodded, though he wasn’t sure Junkrat noticed, because he kept his eyes down. It was unclear whether this was to follow a trail only he could see, to keep from tripping, or to avoid Roadhog’s gaze - though likely it was all three in equal measure.
“I been thinkin’,” Junkrat said finally, then paused. “I know, dangerous prospect.” He coughed a laugh. “I think it’s time to go our own ways.” He coughed again, this time without laughing. “I mean, we can’t go our own ways right now, since we’re stuck with these do-gooders. But ya ain’t gotta babysit me no more.”
Roadhog tilted his head, tried to catch Junkrat’s eyes, failed. He stayed silent because whatever he’d expected Rat to come out with, that wasn’t it.
“Not sayin’ ya ain’t done a fine job. Kept me alive long enough to make some decent dosh. Kept me outta the Queen’s clutches. Got outta Straya. Guess that’s the point, ain’t it. The Queen’s reach’s not long enough to touch me here. An’ even if it was, she ain’t gonna mess with Overwatch. Not gonna take ‘em on. So what I’m sayin’ is… I don’t need you. And with your half of the treasure, you don’t need me, neither.”
To say that Junkrat’s suggestion took him aback was an understatement. He’d thought Rat enjoyed their… whatever it was. Partnership? Friendship? Companionship?
Better that he was wrong, though. He should be jumping at this chance to be alone again, finally. Hell, he’d found Junkrat annoying as shit plenty of times. Most of the time, in the beginning. But… somewhere along the way the sharpness of that anger, the thorn-poke of having someone else intrude on his solitude day after day had smoothed and blunted into something else.
Junkrat gasped sharply and Roadhog turned, heart pounding, to see what happened.
But Junkrat only lurched forward with a particularly violent sneeze. “Haah R’aaasshhh-uh!!”
“Bless…”
“Hiih-Iiishh!” Another wrenching sneeze interrupted and Junkrat waved off the blessing, clearly gearing up for a third. “At’chhh-uh! …. Bloody hell,” Junkrat grumbled, sniffling and wiping his nose on the sleeve of his jacket.”
“For fuck’s sake, blow your nose.” Roadhog shoved a handful of tissues at him, irrationally irritated.
He did, scowling. “What’s yer problem? Thought you’d be happy to be rid of me.”
“Where’d you get a bloody idiotic idea like that?”
Junkrat shrugged. “Maybe from you always callin’ me an idiot?”
“Only when you’re acting like one.”
“Piss off,” Junkrat said, but without any real heat behind the words. He blew his nose again. “I just… maybe you don’t understand ‘bout the treasure. Guess we ain’t never talked about it, so how would you? It’s… it’s worth … a lot. Don’t rightly know how much ‘cause I never tried to sell it. Truth is, liked keepin’ it just cause the Queen wanted it so bad.” He laughed. “You take it to her an’... an’ I bet she’d let you have yer old job back.”
“Don’t think there’s money enough in the world for that.” Not that he’d want it, even if there were. That life was over and done, regardless of Junkrat.
“Ain’t money, mate.”
Well now that was a surprise. Though, why should it be? They’d amassed plenty of money from the jobs they’d pulled. Jewels, too. Some priceless art. Stood to reason this would be something else. Plus, rumor had it Junkrat’d scavenged it from the ruins of the Omnium. Wouldn’t have been money there. Might have been some valuable scrap, but the Queen wouldn’t care about that. “So what is it?”
“Hard drive. From the mainframe.”
Roadhog’s mouth went dry and for a minute the air in his lungs seemed to vanish. This… this was bigger than Junkrat knew. The Queen wasn’t the only one who’d want the information on that drive. Far from it. The information one could get on the Omnics from that drive he could only guess. But the information from the security cams on the night of the… incident? That he could imagine with crystal clarity. He and the others had assumed everything had been destroyed in the explosion that night, mainframe included. No one had been insane enough to delve into the radioactive rubble to check. No wonder the Queen wanted Junkrat so badly - either get the drive or kill him before he did anything with it, she’d not have a real preference.
“Don’t know for sure what’s on it. Ain't had access to a computer capable of taking it. Thinking Overwatch might, though.”
Junkrat went quiet and Roadhog let him. Overwatch likely did. If he tried it and succeeded... if Junkrat found out about that night, about what ALF had done - about what Roadhog had done… Fuck. That would change everything, and rightly so. For the first time since they’d joined Overwatch, or longer, since they left the country for jobs they could pull further afield, Roadhog felt a sudden urge to go back. While Rat was safe with Hana and Lucio and the rest of them, he could find the drive and see what was on it. He could destroy it, permanently this time. Or maybe he could sell it to the Queen - to keep her secret. Not for his job, but for Junkrat’s (and his own) safety - in case she decided they were worth the risk of confronting Overwatch, or if they ever wanted to go back. Go home.
His stomach turned. It was clear - he was going to have to go. Without Junkrat if at all possible. But how? Overwatch was not about to let him take off for Australia on his own, too risky. The longer he left the drive, the greater chance it would be found. How dependable could Junkrat’s hiding place be? Maybe he could tell Morrison what Junkrat’s treasure was? Morrison’d be happy for any intel on the Omnics - something that could give Overwatch an edge. Even if he couldn’t convince Morrrison to send him alone, maybe he could suggest Hana and Lucio. If he had to bring Junkrat, they could keep him busy while Roadhog searched the drive and deleted any incriminating evidence.
He was so focused on his thoughts that he barely registered how uncharacteristically silent Junkrat was. Until he suddenly snapped forward with a sneeze loud enough, even muffled by a handful of tissues, to actually make Roadhog jump.
“Hut’Aaatchhah!” He gasped a breath then, “Issshah!” and one more, “Hupt-choo!” hard enough that it actually knocked him off balance. He grabbed at Roadhog’s arm to stay upright.
Roadhog put a steadying hand on his back. “Jesus, Rat. All right?”
To his surprise, and consternation, Junkrat shook his head. “No. I ain’t… ain’t feelin’ good.”
Roadhog only just registered how white Junkrat had gone before he crumpled. Roadhog dropped his gun and barely managed to catch him before he hit the ground. This was not fucking good. He lowered himself to sit and cradled Junkrat’s head in his lap.
“Junkrat,” he called quietly. “Come on, Rat, wake up.” He cupped Junkrat’s cheek, gently. The heat from his skin was shocking - his fever had clearly worsened. Roadhog sighed, smoothed the hair back from Rat’s forehead. “I’m sorry,” he said, just above a whisper. For all of it, he meant. For Junkrat being sick and the way he was and for never having a chance to become whoever he could have been had he not grown up alone in an irradiated shitheap.
Junkrat’s eyes moved behind closed lids, like he dreamed. He didn’t respond, but his body shivered with chills.
Fuck it all, sitting around whinging about the past not going to do any good. “All right, Rat - need to get you warm. Let’s go.” Put Junkrat’s arm around his neck, slid his own arm under Junkrat’s legs and lifted. He was surprisingly light.
Junkrat’s head lolled against his chest. He’ll be okay, Roadhog told himself. Just pushed too hard with a fever. Get him back to the cabin, put him to bed and he’d be just fine. Give him some meds. Maybe Lucio could help, too. Didn’t need to worry; wouldn’t do any good. Just needed to keep moving forward.
The way back down the hill was a bit more treacherous than up, especially as carrying Junkrat threw off his center of balance just enough to be awkward. Even so, Roadhog relished the need to focus on his movements, because then he couldn’t focus on the fact that Junkrat still wasn’t awake and the heat of his body was making Roadhog sweat even with the chill of the wind whipping down the mountain.
He’d just caught sight of the roofs of the settlement a short way below when Junkrat shifted uncomfortably and groaned.
“Hey,” Roadhog said. “I got you.”
“Ugh,” Junkrat pushed against Roadhog’s chest. “Put me down, Roadie. Ain’t a kid.”
“You fainted. I’m carrying you until Lucio takes a look at you.”
“Fuck that; ain’t fainted. Just…” he paused like he was looking for an alternate explanation. “Just needed a hard reboot. Turn me off, then back on again. ‘M fine.” He struggled against Roadhog’s hold until Roadhog had to put him down before dropping him.
“You’re impossible.”
“So everyone keeps tellin’ me.” Junkrat scowled. He was slightly unsteady as he walked, but Roadhog knew better than to try to help him when he was in one of his moods. Instead, he made sure he walked close enough to catch Junkrat if he fell again, but far enough that he could deny hovering.
They held a strained silence until they reached the settlement. Roadhog knew that anything he might offer would just piss Junkrat off more. The others were waiting in the ute - and the gust of warm air that puffed from the door as Junkrat yanked it open was a relief.
“‘M sorry, Tracer. Couldn’t catch her,” Junkrat said, immediately. “Know I shoulda waited for ya in the first place. Thought I could take care of it without having to interrupt yer holiday.”
Lena sighed, looking at them through the rearview mirror as she drove back to the cabin. “I appreciate the apology, Junkrat. And I appreciate the sentiment, I really do. But you also have got to understand - Overwatch works the way it does for a reason. It might feel like a pain in the ass… ok, it definitely feels like a pain sometimes,” she rolled her eyes, “especially when Morrison’s going on and bloody on… But honestly, we work better as a team. And when you take off on your own - without letting anyone know where you went, we can’t be a team.”
“Got it,” Junkrat said, muffling coughs into his fist.
Hana twisted around in her seat and frowned. “That sounds not great.”
Junkrat shrugged. “Feels not great.”
This time when Lucio reached over to feel his forehead, Junkrat didn’t move away. In fact, Roadhog was almost sure he leaned into the touch. “Looks like you’re going to be spending the rest of the holiday in bed. You’re hotter than hell.”
Junkrat cocked a brow. “Hana, gonna stand for your man propositioning me like that?”
“There’s plenty of room in the bed,” she replied archly.
Roadhog listened to them laugh, even as Junkrat coughed again, and found himself beginning to relax. Junkrat was safe, was warm, and Lucio would be able to tell if there were anything seriously wrong with him. They’d put him to bed, and he’d sleep off the sickness and maybe the mood, and while he did, Roadhog could figure out what to do about the treasure. And what to do about their partnership.
#oversnez#snezfic#Reboot the Rat#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic#almost complete after many thousand words#Christmas fics in August#just a fluffy holiday fic I thought
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (Part 7)
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
The angle of sun streaming in the window led Roadhog to believe it was later than he’d expected. He thought he’d be stuck with insomnia when he woke before dawn, but apparently he was wrong. Junkrat hadn’t disturbed him with his usual early-morning energetic ramblings, either. He glanced at the cot, but it was empty, the sheets as balled up as they’d been earlier. Rat must’ve spent the night on the couch. It was good that he was spending time with people his own age, he told himself again. For what had to be the fifth time since he’d found Junkrat curled easily between Hana and Lucio, their arms wrapped around him, his head pillowed on Lucio’s shoulder. It was good that he was making friends, that he felt comfortable with them. So why did it feel… distinctly not good? He shook his head at himself. Junkrat needed a wider world - which was one of the reasons Roadhog had agreed to join Overwatch in the first place.
The scents of coffee and pancakes drifted through the air. Other than the faint sounds of cookware in the kitchen and an old Christmas carol on Lucio’s sound system, the cabin was quiet. Without Rat’s incessant chatter and pestering, Roadhog decided to take advantage of the calm. He picked up the novel he’d been working his way through, some Western by Larry McMurtry- probably left by McCree - and began to read.
He finished a chapter, began the next, and suddenly realized he’d been reading the same sentence over and over for the last several minutes. He was listening. The cabin was still peaceful. Yes, he caught the vague murmur of chatting, silverware on dishes, Christmas carols… but no Junkrat. No convo, no peg against the floor, no laughter, not even coughing. Nothing. He put down the book. Something wasn’t right. Junkrat was not quiet - always a running commentary to whoever he was with, to himself, mumbling and giggles, random humming, snatches of songs. Even when he was asleep he muttered and sometimes moaned… he was absolutely never silent.
Roadhog dressed and tightened the buckles on his mask. It was possible Junkrat was still asleep. He was sick, after all. But wouldn’t he have come back to bed by now? As Roadhog crossed the room he noticed a folded piece of paper that had been shoved under the door. He bent, picked it up and unfolded it. Rat’s scrawl across the page.
“50/50 of everything. Treasure’s here.” Below the words, coordinates. Australia. Deep in the Outback. Roadhog sighed. Not good. Junkrat always divvied up the haul right after a heist - never made Roadhog wait or argue for his half. The only thing Junkrat ever held back was his treasure - which he’d found before they were a partnership. It might be argued that Junkrat had promised 50/50 of everything, not specifying new takes only, that Roadhog deserved at least that for keeping him alive - and Roadhog had, in fact, made this very argument to himself several times over the years - but the truth was he had no claim to it.
They’d never spoken about the treasure; hell, he didn’t even know what it was. Just something the Queen wanted badly enough that it was a draw for her enforcers and all sorts of thugs and scavengers looking to make a deal or quick money. The question was, why had Junkrat given him this information now, and in this way? Why not just tell him? Or wait until they were back in Australia. Something was going on and he was pretty damn sure he wasn’t going to like it, whatever it was.
He pocketed the note and headed into the living room. Hana was on the vid screen, playing some racing game against Lucio. Mei and Satya were reading. No Junkrat. He could hear Lena and Emily cleaning up in the kitchen and he went around the corner to see whether maybe the Rat was there, just oddly quiet.
“Good morning, Roadhog! Happy Christmas,” Lena said brightly. “There’s still some pancakes and eggs left, if you or Junkrat are hungry.”
Shit. “Thanks, maybe later.” He shifted a little uncomfortably. “You seen Junkrat this morning?”
Emily shook her head. “No, sorry.”
Lena glanced at him, frowning. “He’s not with you?”
“Not since…” flash of Junkrat on the edge of his bed, making a bid for attention. And himself, exhausted, annoyed… confused… brushing him off, “last night.”
“He hasn’t been around at all.” Lena said, still frowning. Instead of reassuring him that someone else cared, her concern heightened his own discomfort. He wasn’t just being paranoid. He’d rather be paranoid.
“Maybe Lucio or Hana knows where he went?” Emily suggested. Roadhog nodded.
He hesitated in the doorway of the living room, waiting for a break in the vid race. He wanted to ask and didn’t in almost equal measure. Because if he didn’t ask he could keep thinking that everything was just fine. That the note meant nothing. That Junkrat went for a walk. In the middle of winter. In the freezing cold. Which he hated. With a fever. While doing so wasn’t completely out of character - Rat had an infuriating habit of following whatever idea happened through his brain at the moment, no matter how idiotic - it didn’t seem particularly likely.
“Happy Christmas, man,” Lucio said, putting down his controller as Hana beat him yet again.
“Thanks. You too.” Roadhog cleared his throat. “Either of you seen Junkrat?” He hoped the mask kept his voice from sounding as anxious as he thought it did.
“Not since the middle of the night,” Lucio said. “Hana and I couldn’t sleep and when we came out for some hot chocolate he was hanging out on the couch. I might have spiked the chocolate a bit more than I meant, and we all sorta passed out.”
“He wasn’t there when we woke up,” Hana added. “I assumed he’d just gone to bed where he could actually stretch out. He was looking pretty rough last night, to be honest.”
Roadhog sighed, “Fuck.”
Hana put down her controller too, attention turned completely from the game. “He’s not with you? That’s totally weird.”
Roadhog shook his head. “Maybe he went for a walk,” he said, trying the words out loud. They sounded even less plausible than they had when he just thought them.
“He didn’t really seem up for that,” Lucio said. “Want me to come help you find him?” His eyes were warm and kind and Roadhog suddenly understood why Junkrat felt comfortable with him.
“Please,” he said and before anyone could comment on the way his voice went hoarse, he headed to the mud room to put on his boots.
It ended up that Lucio, Hana, Lena and Emily all headed out with Roadhog to see if they could find Junkrat. He couldn’t have gone far, Roadhog told himself. He hadn’t taken the ute. Unfortunately the wind had picked up again and if Rat’d left prints in the snow, they’d been erased.
The others fanned out, exploring the woods and the path to the frozen lake, but Roadhog stayed closer to the cabin. First he checked the ute, both the seats and the rear cargo space. Then he headed into the Orca. More hidey holes there. When he got sick, Junkrat was more like his namesake even than usual. With his tendency to expansiveness, Roadhog had assumed he’d be one of those annoying sick people who whinged and complained about every little sniffle. It took a while to realize how wrong he’d been.
The first time Rat got sick Roadhog hadn’t even known. Junkrat’d disappeared for a few days without warning and when he returned he was even skinnier and pale under the dust and gunpowder. He’d made no mention of it, until Roadhog cussed him out about the impossibility of protecting someone who was nowhere to be found. Looking somewhat sheepish, Junkrat admitted he’d been in no need of protection, except from his own body. The next time he warned Roadhog that he was ill before - again - disappearing. A couple of days later Roadhog had found him sweating out a fever in a nest of blankets in his work room. He was like a feral creature, hiding until his weakness passed.
It was a marked contrast to when Roadhog himself fell ill. It happened relatively rarely, but his lungs were more susceptible to infection after the destruction of the Omnium and the ensuing radiation exposure. When he started feeling sick, he hoped he’d be able to shake the chest cold without it turning into anything worse. He hadn’t been so lucky.
The first time Junkrat heard him sneeze he’d burst into a fit of laughter. “That’s yer sneeze, mate? Big bastard like you sneezin’ like a fucking kitten.” Junkrat’d nearly fallen off the chair laughing. Roadhog could feel himself go red, and thanked Whoever for his mask because if Junkrat had seen him blush he’d never hear the end of it.
“Not everyone sneezes like a bomb blast,” he grumbled.
Junkrat kept laughing. “What can I say, I’m explosive.” But Junkrat had also brought him Fairy Bread and tea, then made himself scarce - leaving Roadhog in peace and quiet for once.
The infection ended up settling deep in his lungs. His fever had spiked and he’d coughed hard enough to lose his breath, even with the hogdrogen. Junkrat hovered in his peripheral, wide-eyed and overflowing with nervous chatter. Plied him with juice and tea and soup and when the fever wouldn’t budge and neither would the coughing, Junkrat robbed a chemist.
Roadhog had swum up through a fever dream that felt like quicksand to find Junkrat dumping a bag of loot over the bed. Not cash, but paracetamol, azithromycin, Bisolvon, tissues, Codral day and night time, Betadine lozenges, Lemsip, more juice, and electrolyte solution.
“It’s like a chemist exploded in here,” Roadhog had said.
Junkrat shrugged, faking innocent then laughed. “Kinda,” he admitted and, imitating the panicked look of the druggist at his explosive entrance, made Roadhog laugh through his coughing. “Didn’t know what you like, so I got some of everything. Woulda got you codeine, ‘cause I’m pretty sure this stuff won’t do shit, but the druggist said it ain’t good for people with pneumonia.”
“Thanks, Rat.” He’d blamed the fever for his bemusement, but even when he was better he was still taken aback at Junkrat’s thoughtfulness. And Junkrat never let him return the favor.
“Dammit, where the fuck did you go?” He slammed his first into the side of the Orca, only succeeding in bruising his knuckles. After an hour of fruitless search he had to give up. There was no telling where Junkrat had gone.
The mood in the cabin was subdued. Hana tried to get him to join the quest game she and Luico were playing but he knew he wouldn’t be able to focus. Lena and Emily invited him to join them in watching Nightmare Before Christmas, which Mei claimed wasn’t a Christmas movie at all. Satya offered to teach him the new knitting stitch she’d perfected, but he couldn’t even concentrate on that.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” Mei said.
Roadhog just nodded and went back to pacing between the front window and the back door. Just as he was passing the kitchen for the twenty or thirtieth time, the sat comm beeped.
“What,” he said.
“Rutledge, Morrison. Is Lena back? She hasn’t reported in.”
“Back? She hasn’t gone anywhere.”
Morrison heaved a sigh. “I told Fawkes to inform her immediately. Let me talk to him.”
Roadhog’s stomach sank. “He’s not here.”
“Shit, Fawkes. Fucking loose cannon.”
Roadhog only realized how hard he was gripping the comm when the plastic cracked. “Watch it,” he found himself growling before he considered who he was talking to. “Where is he?”
“He’s not supposed to be anywhere. I told him to send Lena.”
“Morrison.”
“The settlement. We needed a device extracted before Null Sector got hold of it.”
“Fuck.” He cut the sat comm link, grabbed his gun, and headed for the ute. Lena and Hana must have overheard because they raced after him. Not even a moment later Lucio swung up in the seat beside him and Lena pulled out of the driveway with a squeal of tires and spray of gravel.
Of all the stupid, imbecilic, idiotic things for Junkrat to do. He’d like to be shocked, or even surprised but he wasn’t. He could follow Rat’s thinking perfectly - why interrupt anyone else’s sleep when he could take care of it himself? Always trying to prove himself, when he never needed to. Who gave a shit what Overwatch thought of him, of either of them?
He took a deep breath. It would be fine. They’d find Junkrat in the settlement, with the device. He’d just gotten sidetracked scavenging. Hell, maybe he found something worthwhile. Then he’d be proud. Be absolutely intolerable with the gloating. Probably call Morrison himself to give an I-told-you-so. And wouldn’t he laugh like mad to know Roadhog was … concerned. Roadie could hear him now, “Aww, ya worried about me did ya? You know I always land on me feet.” He’d giggle, wait for Roadhog’s exasperated sigh. “Well, foot.” And he pretty much did… except when he didn’t. Which is where Roadhog came in. Or should have. If he hadn’t been sleeping like a fucking rock.
Roadhog stared out the window, squinting into the sun reflecting off the snow. If Rat made it out of the settlement he wouldn’t be right on the trail. He was too wary for that. And Roadhog didn’t want to miss any sign of him, but it was hard to make anything out in the shadows between the trees.
Lena drove right up to the settlement this time - no need for surprise when Junkrat was already there. She cut the engine and the silence pressed close. No sounds of struggle, of bots or gunfire, but also no sound of a rummaging Rat. Somewhere in the distance a bird sang. Another answered. Nothing else. Not even a snapping twig. Felt deserted.
The group paired off to search the cabins, Hana and Lucio taking the three on the left, himself and Lena the three to the right. Nothing of note in the first cabin. He yanked open the door to the second and for a minute he thought he might throw up. The remains of what had been a table and chairs were scattered across the room. Bits of bright yellow grenade casing littered the floor. A scorch mark marred one wall. He swallowed. Hard. Junkrat - what happened? Where was he?
A hand touched his arm and he whirled, gun up, only to find Lena, hands held out empty.
“Sorry, sorry! I know better… just... “ she gestured to the room, the destruction. “He’s not here, though. No blood.”
No body, she meant. Neither whoever he’d aimed for, nor his. At least not his. If he wasn’t here, and he had been, there’d be a trail. Roadhog would find it, and would find him. And if someone had hurt him… well, they wouldn’t have long to regret it.
“Roadhog,” Lucio’s voice, urgent but not afraid, shouted from somewhere outside.
“Go,” Lena told him. “I’ll finish here.”
He ran. Followed the soft pulsing and flash of Lucio’s sonic amplifier, around the back of the cabins, up a trail toward the foothills and his breath rushed out.
Junkrat leaned against one of the pines, clearly trying to look nonchalant, but Roadhog could read the pain in every line of his body, from the clench of his jaw to the tension in his shoulders and the awkward way his hip was canted. He shook his head at something Lucio just said to him, that Roadhog couldn’t hear.
“Nah, mate. ‘M aces. Need to get the… thing. Morrison sent me for. Following this sheila. Gotta hurry.” He rubbed his forehead, swayed for a second, caught himself with one hand on the tree. His face went even paler.
“Come on, Junkrat, Lena and Hana will take care of it. Let me take you back to the cabin.” Lucio reached for him, but he stumbled back.
“No. My fuckin’ mess to clean up.”
“That’s not the way this works. Haven’t you learned yet? You’re not alone; we’re a team.” Even though Roadhog caught a hint of frustration in his voice, Lucio’s tone was warm.
“Might be the way of it for you. Not me. An’ ain’t no one ordered me to do anything, so not breaking any laws or rules or whatever.”
“It’s not about rules, Junkrat. It’s about taking care of people who are important to us.”
A tremor ran through Junkrat’s body; his eyes darted to the side like he was looking for an escape route. His gaze fell on Roadhog and his back straightened, his resolve clearly hardening.
“No. Gonna fix this.” He pushed himself away from the tree and headed farther up into the foothills, almost staggering.
Lucio watched him for a minute, then turned to Roadhog. “He’s not okay.”
“Usually isn’t.” A laugh worked free, because even though it was true, and wasn’t funny, at least Junkrat was alive, and moving and everything else could be fixed. “I’ll take care of it. Him.”
“Are you sure? If you tie him up I’ll help you drag him back.”
“I won’t say I’ve never considered it, but in this case I don’t think it will be necessary.”
Lucio shrugged. “Good luck.”
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 5)
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four
Junkrat tossed on the cot, trying to find relief; sleep a haze over his mind...
gotta escape this prison of skin and bone and virus and float into the black sky, swirl with the snow, spin with the stars but can’t escape - somethin’ he needs to do? No, somethin’ he wants… wants more’n he wants revenge on the Queen… more’n he wants gold… more’n he wants what he gave his limbs for… Want, take, have. Always been the way of it. But can’t take this. Can’t steal it. Can’t have it. Gotta be given… and who would give to him? Even in this weird sleep the edge of knowledge makes his stomach twist…
Fingers clenched in the sheets and the voice...
who would give to you, Jamison? No one. Scrawny little rat. Plague rat. Lab rat. Junkrat. Laughter, cold and hard, stabbing into the center of his head, throbbing behind his eyes. Did taking that name make you feel stronger? Make you believe you could leave me behind? You know I am always with you. No matter where you go. Just right here. Closer than close. tapping on his forehead... Gotta get away, gotta escape… can’t… Try to twist away, but fingernails grip him, begin tearing the skin from his right arm and his throat burns with the echo of a howl released long ago…
His body jerked and sleep slid over him again…
fragments of ideas circle his thoughts like portents. ‘Soul is bent, feels the weight of truth… falling through, left behind, no choice but to run to the mountains… out of time, must decide... to fall or run... into the eye of the storm … no sign or omen… from the day you’re born… you’ll always hit the ground running…’
He runs. Over the snow between the trees, breath rasping in his lungs, the rattle pop of gunshots echoing in the distance. Where’s Hana? Lucio? Roadhog? Can’t see them. Ahead? Behind? He opens his mouth to shout, but his voice won’t work. He runs faster. Between the trees Hana, facing down a Bastion unit, her mech gone, her blaster jammed. He runs faster. Where are his grenades? Bombs? He has nothing. Runs faster but the Bastion fires and Hana falls and he runs faster but he slips and
he is falling. Falling and snow swirling around him and he falls through the snow, through the sky… where is the ground? Shivers so hard his bones crack. Suddenly the sharp cold of Roadhog’s hook around his middle, pulling him in, pulling him close against Roadie’s body and the snow melts with the heat of his skin. At first the warmth is a comfort, bringing feeling back into his body where he’d gone numb. Roadie cups his cheek with one hand and he closes his eyes, yes… leans into the comfort, the safety… and Roadhog’s arms go around him, hold him tight… too tight… too hot, burning, like he is too close to the blast that destroyed the Omnium, flesh melting from his bones. “You think I want someone like you? Weak? Pathetic?” Rumble of laughter. Flames lick his skin, his lungs, and Roadhog watches him burn, fire reflecting in his blank masked eyes and
Junkrat gasped awake, eyes burning, skin burning with fever. Bright ghost-pain in his arm, his leg. Heart pounded against the cage of his ribs. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then over his chest, checking the skin, relieved to find it unburned. Dreaming, he told himself. Were dreaming. Focus - be here, now - not there, then. Scratchy sheets. Cot spring poking his back. Roadhog snoring.
He sat up slowly, staring through the dark, could just make out the hill of Roadhog’s stomach, rising and falling slowly as he slept. Roadhog wouldn’t really leave him to burn, right? Was just a dream, right? You know how to convince him to keep you, at least for the moment. You know what you can do for him… whispered suggestion and restlessness suffused Junkrat’s body, a need like an itch just out of reach. Hunger, almost but not quite desire. Ugly edge of desperation. Felt like he was burning from the inside out. Slipped off the cot and crossed the room. Roadhog didn’t move, even as Junkrat sat on the edge of the bed.
Breathed in slowly, tickle rising in response. Not quite enough, though. Again. Slow, careful breath, teasing. Almost. Again. Breathe, slow, and then… yes… “Hih...it’sch! T’chh!” Pinched them off, keep it under control. Roadhog stirred, turned masked face toward him, lenses reflecting moonlight instead of flames.
“....”
“Sorry, got a tickle.” Tried for his usual cockiness, but not sure he pulled it off. Fortunately another sneeze interrupted him. “Ah-t’chh! T’chh! H’gnxt!” He sighed, sniffed, slid his hand under the sheet, teasing along the waistband of Roadhog’s boxers.
Suddenly Roadhog’s hand grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing, Rat?”
“Just… just thought you’d like…” Dammit, the sneezes were still coming. “Huh-Issh! Ah’Risshh!”
“Don’t.” Roadhog bit the word off.
“But…”
“No. Go to bed, Rat.” Roadhog released his hand and rolled over, away from him.
Shit. Junkrat swallowed. Lips dry, mouth dry. Needed a drink. Made his slightly unsteady way to the kitchen. Ground felt not quite solid underfoot and his head ached. How’d he fuck this one up? Wanted tea, but was too much effort, settled for water instead. He finished a whole glass before his eyes were caught by a soft glow lighting the living room.
Someone had dragged in a pine tree and decorated it for Christmas. Strings of white fairy lights and glass baubles in rainbow hues. ‘Stead of going back to the bedroom to stare at the walls and try to figure how he’d pissed Roadie off, he curled up on the couch. The tree made the room feel warm, cozy. Tried to remember other Christmases. Had there ever been a tree? Presents? Not in the years by himself. Never with Roadie, neither - Chrissie always just another day.
“Ahrisssh! Issshuh!” The sneezes burst from him unexpectedly - just managed to catch ‘em in the crook of his arm, his cheeks heating at the noise. Fuck - gonna wake up the entire place.
As if the thought summoned him, Lucio appeared in the doorway. “Saúde, Junkrat.”
“Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to wake ya.”
“Nah, you didn’t. Couldn’t sleep.” Lucio hesitated. “I was gonna make myself some cocoa. Want some?”
“Please.”
Must’ve dozed off, because felt like only a second passed before the couch dipped as Lucio and Hana sat on either side of him. Lucio handed him a mug. Even through the congestion he caught the sweet scent of chocolate. “Not gonna want to be so close,” he warned.
Hana shrugged off his concern. “No worries, mate,” she copied his accent to horrible effect.
“‘S my line,” he said, coughing on a laugh.
“No offense, but you sound horrible.” Least she was matter of fact about it. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“Is Roadhog snoring? Hana could wake the dead when she gets going. And she talks in her sleep. You wouldn’t believe the stuff she says…”
“Hey!” She reached behind Junkrat to cuff Lucio on the back of the head. “You swore you wouldn’t tell.”
Lucio shrugged, grinning.
“Nah. I mean, yeah he is - like a freight train. But it don’t bother me none. I’m used to it.” The steam curled up from the mug, loosening congestion and making his nose tickle. He rubbed it against the back of his hand. Took a sip of the chocolate and coughed on it. “Hooly dooly, what’s in there, turpentine?”
“Found some Peppermint Schnapps. I figured it would help all of us get some sleep.” Lucio took a tentative drink and made a face. “Might be a little old.”
“So why are you awake,” Hana pressed. “Lucio’s worried about you. ”
“Hana!”
“Turn about’s fair play.” She laughed. “Not like it’s something to be embarrassed about, anyway.”
“For guys it is,” Lucio mumbled.
“Weird dreams,” Junkrat said, hoping it would be enough to explain without encouraging more questions. He took a long drink. Unfortunately the alcohol spiked straight to his nose and he knew he was going to sneeze again… not exactly reassuring. Should never got started in the first place. And he was going to spill his drink. Fuck. “Could you takethisplease,” had to rush it through, luckily Lucio seemed to know what was going on because he took the mug just as the first sneeze sent Junkrat lurching forward. “AhRissshah! Issh! HaRiiissh-uh!”
“Done?” Hana patted his back gently.
Shook his head, face still buried in his elbow. “Huh-iisssh! Issshh! AhRiish!”
“Bless. Now?”
Shook his head again, words beyond his ability. Tried to pinch it back. “H’gnxt! … H’gnxt!” Just popped his ears and he finally gave up. “Hih-Riiisshhh!” Waited a minute to catch his breath and decide whether he’d sneezed his brains out or just felt like it. “Done,” he finally managed to mumble.
“Color me impressed,” Hana said and bonked him in the head with a tissue box.
He grabbed a handful without lifting his face from his elbow. Didn’t think it was gonna be a pretty sight. “Ugh, sorry. Plague rat is right.” He shivered.
“Dude, it’s not a big deal. Everyone gets sick sometimes.” Lucio gave him back his cocoa then tugged a throw blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around him.
“Yeah, like on our first date,” Hana said, leaning against Junkrat’s shoulder. Lucio leaned in on the other side and slowly his shaking stopped.
“Oh my God, don’t tell that story,” Lucio groaned.
“He didn’t want to cancel, even though he wasn’t feeling well…”
“Because I’d been trying to get you to agree to go out with me for weeks!”
“So we get to the bar, and Lena and Emily are there…”
“And Hana suggests a double date.”
“I didn’t suggest you agree to the drinking contest.”
“I had to impress you, didn’t I?”
“I tried to warn you...”
“But she didn’t tell me Lena can drink Rein under the table.”
Junkrat laughed. The warmth of the blanket and the comfort of Lucio and Hana on either side of him grounded him and the tension in his shoulders began to loosen.
“So three shots in, Lucio passes out - falls right off his barstool - and I end up taking care of him for the rest of the night.”
“And she is going to tell this story until the end of my days…” Lucio gusted a sigh.
“What about you and Roadhog? First date story?”
Junkrat took a drink, stalling to give his brain a minute to come up with how the hell to answer her question.
“Give him a break, Hana.” Then he glanced at Junkrat out of the corner of his eyes. “Look at him. You think they go on dates?”
“Ha! Ok, fair. How’d you meet, then?”
It was a much easier story to tell - the attempted attack by the Queen’s goons, his own quick thinking offer to Roadhog, who accepted for reasons of his own and the beatdown they provided the goons instead. Might have slid over the bit about the treasure the Queen wanted, and added a couple of extra goons, but didn’t need to exaggerate Roadhog’s prowess. He’d taken them down and barely even broken a sweat. “Was a beautiful thing,” he finished, smiling at the memory.
“I think we have slightly different ideas of beauty.” Hana said, making a face.
“No accounting for taste,” Junkrat shrugged and yawned. The alcohol tasted like ass, but also made him sleepy. “Didn’t know what I was getting into that day. Thought I was just saving my ass… but…” he yawned again.
“But?”
“But think I put myself in more danger than the Queen’s drongo’s would’ve been.”
Hana frowned. “What do you mean?”
Junkrat rubbed his eyes. He was tired down to his bones and it all combined to loosen his tongue. “You asked if we’re just… business partners. An’... to tell ya the truth, I dunno what the hell we are.” He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his leg. “Wasn’t supposed to be anything other than a job. 50/50 - I plan, he’s my bodyguard. Easy, right? But something got fucked up somewhere and I think I…” He rubbed his hands over his face. Couldn’t say it. Not even to them. “Fucked it up.”
Hana put an arm around him. “He’s still here.”
“For the money.”
“Are you sure,” Lucio asked.
“Yes.”
#snezfic#oversnez#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic#rat what is you doin#lyrics quoted from Calexico
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive flame (part 6)
Part One Part Two Part Three Part Four Part Five
Something was buzzing right in his ear. Almost like a chainsaw but not quite. On the other side, hair tickled his cheek. What dragged him back to full awareness, though, was the flayed feeling of being watched. Junkrat shifted and opened his eyes. The room was empty, but a door clicked shut down the hall. Waking up sandwiched between two people was odd. More so that neither was Roadhog. Most odd, though, was how comfortable he felt. Despite the congestion and headache, his body was relaxed, warm. Sleep had been dreamless and deep. Untangled himself from the blanket, from Hana and Lucio’s arms, carefully so he didn’t wake them.
Least the floor felt solid under him again. Maybe getting better. Step-tapped down the hall, listening to see who might be awake in the not-yet dawn. Nothing from Mei and Satya’s room or Lena and Emily. Also silence from his own room, which could only mean Roadhog was awake. Otherwise the snoring’d be enough to deafen. He stood in front of the closed door for a long minute. Knock? Just go in? That idea felt weird. Wished it didn’t - didn’t used to. What had changed? Maybe should go back to the couch and pretend like everything was fine. Would be easiest - he considered it with longing. Now that he’d been up a minute realized was still a little dizzy. Unfortunately, though Hana and Lucio were cozy he didn’t want to give them whatever plague he had.
Raised a hand to knock. Hesitated. Maybe Roadie’d just got up for the bathroom. No reason to interrupt him, demanding an explanation for something he hadn’t done. Dropped his hand. Stepped back.
He turned and detoured to the kitchen - maybe another drink’d knock him out. Give Roadhog enough time to fall asleep too; then he could crash in the cot with no one the wiser. He’d just put the kettle on to boil when the house sat comm beeped.
Jumped to reach it before the sound woke someone. “Yeah?”
“Fawkes - it’s Morrison.” As if it’d be anyone else on the other end of the comm at the ass crack of dawn on Christmas.
“Hey old man.” Serve him right, callin’ him Fawkes. Ain’t no one called him that.
The disapproval practically radiated from the link through the silence, then “Where’s Lena?”
“Still sleepin’, her ‘n everyone else. Ain’t even daybreak here, mate.”
Another heavy silence. Wondered whether Morrison’d call him out for insubordination. Or at least being annoying. Grinned as Morrison contented himself with a deep sigh. “There’s been further intel. Null Sector was sent to retrieve a device that was supposed to be under guard in the settlement attacked yesterday morning. Our source says they weren’t successful. It’s unclear whether the device was left behind or taken when the settlement was vacated. We need to send in a recon team to ascertain whether the device is still in play.”
Junkrat considered asking whether he remembered it was a holiday, but figured he did. Maybe it was just another day for Morrison, too. “Suppose this needs to happen asap, yeah?”
“If we don’t get in there, they will. I hope I don’t need to explain how problematic that would be.”
“Nah. Got it.”
“I’m sending schematics. Have Lena look them over before she goes, then delete. Can’t have anyone else getting hold of them. And tell her to report immediately upon her return.”
“Always does, don’t she?” For all her tendency to lighthearted fun, Lena was conscientious and responsible and it grated to think Morrison didn’t recognize that.
Course Morrison didn’t bother to respond, just cut the connection.
“Dipstick,” Junkrat muttered. The question was, what to do now? Not a question, really. Wake Tracer, interrupt her holiday, and give her Morrison’s assignment. After all, who else could do it? The whispered tone was sly. Had a point though - why did Lena need to have her holiday morning interrupted for a simple recon mission? Seemed like something one person could do alone. Why drag anyone else out into the cold. Oh Jamison. You think you could be trusted with this? Laughter scraped his thoughts. He scowled. Course - why else would Morrison tell me. A small, considering hum. Perhaps… a chance to prove yourself somewhat useful. Yes; exactly. He’d take care of it - be back before anyone else got up. Prove it wasn’t just Roadhog they needed.
The kettle whistled shrill and he startled, yanked it off the burner. Fortunately still heard Hana snoring from the living room. Dumped boiling water over two teabags, Roadie’s opinion be damned. No time for ‘real’ tea. Needed to get moving before someone caught him. He checked the files Morrison had sent - straightforward enough. A small case, with something inside that looked very much like a bomb - one big enough to take out several city blocks. He memorized the look of the case, the details of the bomb - tried not to imagine what the explosion would look like… would feel like. Then deleted the files. Gonna do what he was supposed to this time. Gonna follow orders. Not gonna take the device for himself and disappear. Not this time.
Are you quite certain you are capable? The illness, the fever… you are likely not up to it. Perhaps you should wake Tracer. He clenched his jaw. ‘M fine. Can do this on me own; told the voice. Told himself. Not weak. Not pathetic. Almost like his own body rebelled his decision, a sudden urge to sneeze had him scrambling to keep from spilling his tea as he stifled the fit. Just a cold. She’ll be right.
In case, though… in case he wasn’t capable…and maybe to see… see whether it was the money, the treasure… Junkrat found a piece of paper and scribbled a handful of words and a set of coordinates. Not the words he really needed to say, but the question he needed answered. In case, and to see. He slipped the paper under Roadhog’s door - usual snoring now - and headed out. Be back before anyone realized he was gone - but if not, the note would tell Roadhog what he’d need to know.
Night was cold - though supposed that went without sayin’. Always cold, here. Not sure he was gonna ever get warm. Be a bit of a hike, without the ute… but didn’t want to risk disturbing Lena to get the keys. Didn’t mind a walk now and then. The tea was still warm, the caffeine lending him a measure of energy. Somehow, his body felt a little floaty. Make the walk easier, maybe. The snow had stopped, sky gone clear and dotted with stars that shimmered like diamonds scattered on deep indigo velvet. The moon was high and full, reflecting light over the snow covered fire road.
Junkrat walked, following the tire tracks from earlier in the day, just barely visible. Good thing, too - not sure he’d remember the way otherwise. His breath puffed clouds. The depth of the quiet was unexpected - birds still sleeping, too cold for crickets. Snow creaked under his steps, ice-covered tree branches snapped. Then, somewhere in the mountains above the high, mournful cry of a coyote. Raised the hair at his nape, a chill of goose flesh over his arms. An answering yip, off to his right. Another farther ahead. Hunting. Wondered who was prey? Another howl, then a high scream, and more barking howls. The pack had caught something, likely a rabbit, and the sounds made him shiver. Rubbed a hand over his forehead, kept walking as the sun rose over the mountains.
As he drew closer to the settlement even through the congestion, he caught the lingering scent of explosives, of charred metal and burned wood. Fortunately, still seemed just as deserted as it had before. Bots no more than twists of metal and scrap. Listened carefully for any signs of life, of movement but there was nothing. A breeze kicked up, rustling tree branches and sending skirls of snow swirling around his foot. He shivered suddenly, coughed. Right. Check the cabins fast, in and out and no meandering.
Former inhabitants must’ve cleared out in a hurry - one of the cabins had the remnants of an unfinished meal scattered over the table. A spilled mug, puddle of coffee frozen. Stove unlit, the place was no warmer than outside. Clothes, books, toiletries all left behind. First cabin clear - no case. Second and third cabins much the same. Was downright eerie.
Junkrat was entering the last cabin when he caught the unmistakable crunch of footsteps from somewhere behind the building. His heart tripped, double-timed. Fuck. No chance it was any of the Overwatch crew - they’d have taken the ute and hadn’t heard it. Not bots, either, steps too light and quick for a mech. Looked around the cabin - hide or fight? Hadn’t brought much in the way of weapons. Couple of grenades and that was it. Perhaps you didn’t think this one through, yes? What will you do now, with no bodyguard to protect you?
Junkrat pushed the thoughts away. Fuck that. He’d lived most of his life on his own. Didn’t need Roadie. Exactly. He’d figure this out. The cabin was all one room, not offering much in the way of hiding places. Under the bed would only be a trap. Maybe if he closed the door quick and quiet the lock would hold… Was just about to do so when a small black case caught his eye. Someone had shoved it under the bed, but not far enough. The case or the door?
Kicked the case farther into the darkness under the bed and lurched for the door as a shadow fell across the entrance. Click of bootheel on the threshold. A sense of foreboding washed over him like nausea. Junkrat squinted in the dim light of dawn and the figure lifted her head, revealing a shock of red hair and suddenly his entire body went numb.
“Well, well, well. Jamison Fawkes.” Her face was still in shadows but he knew that voice, the Irish lilt. Hearing it outside his head made the world tilt and he almost staggered. “There were rumors that Overwatch had taken in a Hog and its pet Rat.” She glanced around the room, as though Roadhog might be hiding somewhere. “You’ve come alone?” Her tone was one of delight.
“Ain’t alone. Me body guard’s just in the other cabin.” Lies came easily, and though his voice was hoarse, it was steady. He lifted his chin. “An’ I ain’t a kid no more, neither.”
“It has been some time. Indeed, you are no longer a child.” Felt her gaze taking in every inch of his body. A shiver he couldn’t suppress climbed up the back of his neck. She stepped toward him and he resisted the urge to move back. She reached out and placed her right hand on his chest. Her fingers were like white spider legs, and her nails were dagger sharp and still painted purple. His heart stuttered under her palm. “You feel hot - are you ill?”
“Just your hands are cold,” he tried, but even as he said it, he knew he was going to sneeze. Fucking always. He ducked away from her as his body convulsed. “AhRissshah! Issh! HaRiiissh-uh!”
As he tried to catch his breath, she backed away from him. Didn’t realize she was moving toward the bed until it was too late. She leaned down and with one swift motion pulled the case free. “Overwatch should have sent someone else. Not a boy...weak… ill.” Her teeth flashed in a grin. “I would love to stay, to see how you have been after all this time, but I must deliver this. Perhaps I will return, and perhaps you will still be here.”
Knew he should run, but he had no energy left. Reached into his pocket for a grenade instead- maybe it’d take him out, but she wouldn’t have the bomb. Could see exactly how a real explosion felt. He yanked free the explosive, she raised her right hand and a stream of purple and gold energy flew from her palm. Everything went white, then black.
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 3)
Part One
Part Two
“Did ya see that shit,” Junkrat said as he squeezed close to the door to let Roadhog have room next to him. “Bloody fuckin’ bonzer, mate. Blasted those dipsticks back to the scrap heap. An’ the fire, what a beaut.” Only had to blink to feel it again. The weightlessness of flying. The OR14 exploding into scrap. The whooshing rush as air filled the explosion’s vacuum. The flames. The burn. The acrid stench of sulfur and potassium. “Fuckin’ did it. Fuckin’ won!”
“For the love of God, shut up.” Roadhog interrupted and only then did the silence of the others register.
Tracer’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her jaw clenched. Mei stared out the window, pointedly ignoring him. Even Lucio and D.Va were quiet.
He frowned. Missed something, somewhere. Cast his thoughts back. “No one hurt?” Assumed someone woulda said immediately, or just gone without waiting for him and Roadhog.
“None of us,” Mei said shortly, emphasizing the ‘us’.
“Someone else?” Flash of Emily and Tracer forehead to forehead.
“Don’t know. Tracer can’t reach them on her com.”
Junkrat sat back. “Shit. Didn’t think...”
“Of course not! You never do. An idea crosses what passes for your mind and you’re off doing something on your own - something incredibly insane and dangerous - and paying no attention to what you’re supposed to be doing. What you were ordered to do.”
“Coulda left me.” Came out a little more defensive than he meant it, but hell, was true.
“And the team’d be two men short because Roadhog was trying to keep your stupid, scrawny ass alive.”
“What if you’d gotten hurt? Or Roadhog? We wouldn’t have known or been able to help you,” Lucio added, quietly.
“Been fine on our own plenty of times.” Swallowed hard as he said it - hadn’t really thought about Roadie gettin’ hurt. Mei’s right - you never think. Rubbed his forehead, as if he’d get rid of the voice that way.
“It’s not how we do it, Junkrat. You know that,” Hana said. The disappointment in her expression was a kick in the teeth. Rather have Mei yellin’ at him.
He did know that. He’d just forgotten. Or maybe not really understood. Made no sense. Sure Roadhog saved his ass any number of times even when it put him in the line of fire - but that was a job. Doing shit for dosh, made sense. This? This made none. Mei didn’t like him, Tracer didn’t seem to have an opinion either way - he sure as shit wasn’t as important as her Emily. An’ while he reckoned Hana and Lucio liked him fine enough, they’d known Emily and Satya far longer. Just stood to reason they’d add it up and let him ‘n Roadie fend for themselves. Simple matter of maths. Apparently he’d missed something in the calculation. Mei tallied it for you - six necessary to succeed. Subtract two and you fail. Really, Jamison - must you be so stupid?
Tracer parked the ute where it would be hidden by the Orca. The brilliant blue sky glared down at them; sun reflected off the metal of the ship and the snow covered trees and into Junkrat’s eyes. His head throbbed and he squinted against it. Adrenaline still fizzed through him, making his teeth want to chatter and his hands shake. Or maybe it was the cold again? The sweat of the fight had cooled in the winter wind. Shoved fists into his pockets, followed Roadhog and the others, head down.
Silence. No sign of bots; no sign of Emily or Satya neither. Least the traps hadn’t been tripped. Tracer reached out and rapped a pattern on the door. No more than a second passed before it was yanked wide and Emily fell into Tracer’s arms.
“You’re all right!” Emily said, breathlessly.
Was like Tracer faded into Lena as he watched. The tension bled from her body as she held Emily close. “So are you,” she murmured into Emily’s hair.
“What happened,” Satya asked, putting an arm around Mei and drawing her inside. They all followed.
“There was an attack, like Morrison warned. But the settlement was deserted. No one’d been there in weeks. Lena thought it meant they’d be coming for you and Emily. You are okay?” Mei studied her carefully, like she might be hiding something.
Satya nodded. “We are. It has been quiet.”
“So much for a relaxing vacation.” Mei gusted out a breath, laughed, and just like that the tension dissipated. Lena and Emily disappeared to their room, likely to have a naughty. Satya and Mei lingered for only a second before disappearing as well. Hana and Lucio took over the vid screen for a game. Roadhog picked up his book, but Junkrat could tell he was watching Hana play more than actually reading.
Suddenly feeling like a puppet with its strings cut, Junkrat slumped. Adrenaline’d been the only thing keeping him going and now that it was gone he needed to crash. Made his slightly unsteady way to the bedroom, stripped off his shirt and pants - reeked of sweat and explosives - and flopped onto the cot without taking off his prosthetics. Waking up so early after late night whiskey was kicking his ass. He’d just rest a minute, til the headache fucked off.
“Junkrat? … Hey, Junkrat?”
“Mmf…?” He surfaced from sleep like he’d been underwater, disoriented. Where…? He squinted at the sunlight streaming in the window, then discovered Emily hovering in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. Right - Taos. Vacation. And, if the way he felt at the moment was any indication, a burgeoning case of the wog. Just fucking aces. He resisted the urge to sniffle and raised a brow at Emily. “Needed somethin’, mate?”
“Um. Roadhog asked me to wake you - food’s ready, if you’re hungry.” Her gaze skittered over him, and he realized somewhat belatedly that the sheet’d slipped low over his hips. Least his bits were still covered.
“Be there in a tick,” Junkrat said. He sat up, snagged a t-shirt and yanked it over his head. “Tell him not to be such a bloody bludger next time.”
“Might, if I had the first clue what that means.”
Junkrat laughed. “Just sayin’ he’s a lazy bastard, making ya do his dirty work.”
“Not a big deal,” Emily shrugged. “He’s in the middle of a game with Hana.”
Soon as she was gone, he let himself slump back on the pillow again. His head felt heavy, thoughts slow and muddy. Truth was, he wasn’t hungry. Would really rather go back to sleep, but then they’d figure out something was wrong. He was always hungry. So he pushed himself to stand, tugged on a relatively clean pair of pants, raked a hand through his hair and headed for the stairs.
Unfortunately, standing up seemed to redistribute the congestion in his head and his nose prickled. Tried a small sniff, but it didn’t help, the sensation only increased. He hunched his shoulders, pinched his nose and squelched the sneeze into silence. Fuck it hurt, always felt like he was exploding his brain when he did that. But was better than anyone suspecting. He knuckled his nose roughly, and the itch faded.
Someone’d made brekkie for… well, whatever meal it was. Maybe scrambled eggs and toast wouldn’t kill him. And coffee. Needed fuckin’ loads of coffee. Snagged a chair between Roadie and Lucio.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Hana said, toasting him with her coffee cup, then narrowed her eyes. “Mostly, that is.”
“Yeah, you look rough, man. You okay?” Lucio asked.
“’M fine. Little too much ta drink last night, reckon.” Felt Roadie giving him a look behind the mask. Ignored him.
Lena laughed. “I’ve seen you drink way more than that. Sure you didn’t get hurt blowing yourself up?”
“Fuck no. Done that millions a times. Worked up mines special. Wanna try it?”
“Fuck no,” she echoed and he laughed.
“It’s a rush. All that power… Closest thing ta flyin’.”
“I’ll stick to the Orca, thanks.”
Waved away her concern. “Ah, it’s safe as houses.”
Lena looked meaningfully at his mech arm and he faked an expression of affront.
“That ain’t got nothin’ to do with me own work. How could you even think it?”
“How did it happen, then,” Mei asked, like she didn’t believe him.
Yes, Jamison. Tell them how it happened. Mouth went dry and it took him a second to swallow the bite of eggs he’d taken without choking. Cleared his throat. “Not really a story for dinner table convo,” he managed and took a long drink of coffee.
“A better story is how he got the gold tooth,” Roadhog said and launched into a woefully unembellished tale of the bar fight and subsequent need for a replacement tooth. Somehow this led to other stories about heists gone wrong in various ways … your fault… and the others were laughing and sure he’d laughed at his own cock ups plenty of times but there was an odd echoing edge of this laughter and it scraped against his skin like sandpaper. Rubbed a hand through his hair. Leg started jittering. Got up, took his unfinished plate and Roadhog’s empty one and left them in the sink, trying not to notice that his hand was shaking.
Listen to them laughing. You think you can trust them? In the joke, you’re the punchline. Ain’t the way it is. No? Wait until they see how weak you really are. See if they keep you around then - or if it’s just Roadhog they want. But we’re a…
A what, Jamison? What are you and Roadhog?
... A duo. Where I go, he goes. He’s my… my bodyguard. And when he gets a better offer? One where he won’t have to put up with you? Suddenly a hand touched his arm and he jumped.
“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Lucio said apologetically. “You sure you’re okay?” He frowned, reached toward Junkrat’s forehead. “You feel a little warm.”
Junkrat stepped back, out of reach. “I’m f…” but even as he was saying it, he realized he was about to sneeze. Shit. He just managed to twist to the side, ducking away from Lucio. “Ah’Riiish!”
“Santinho,” Lucio said.
Only a second for a breath before another hit. “Ah’Riiish-iish!”
“Deus te ajude.”
Another breath, another sneeze. “Ah’Riiish-uh!”
“Deus, te faça feliz.” Lucio handed him a tissue.
Junkrat blew his nose. “What ya sayin’, mate?”
Lucio shrugged. “Just what my grandma used to say when I was a kid. Don’t usually get to say all three, though.”
“Aww, you got Roadhog’s cold,” Hana said. “How’d that happen?” Her tone was teasing, insinuating.
“No, ‘m fine,” Junkrat said, but spoiled it by sneezing again. Least this time he had tissues.
“Gross, you’re like a plague rat,” Mei said and Hana actually laughed. See?
“Rack off,” Junkrat said. Hadn’t thought Hana would laugh at him. Not really.
“She didn’t mean anything by it.” Satya looked at him flatly.
“Fuck you.”
“Rat.” Roadhog’s voice was low, warning.
“Nah, fuck this.” Out out out. Had to get out. Get away. He turned and, yanking his jacket from the peg by the door, slammed out.
#snezfic#oversnez#constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic#finally got there#rat what is you doin#haha messed up my own title
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 1)
Boy, come on out from the cold
You’re lost outside there, don’t you know
~ The White Buffalo, “Wish It Was True”
“Wouldn’ta asked ya to come if I knew you were still sick, mate.” Junkrat eyed Roadhog as they boarded the Orca, trying to see how he was really doing. Not easy behind the mask, but he’d heard the coughing, even if Hana and Lucio, a few steps ahead and in an animated discussion about some ancient video game called Fortnite, didn’t seem to. Hog looked better, but never complained so Junkrat had to be observant.
“I’m fine. And perfectly capable of saying no to you.”
“Truer words,” Junkrat agreed with a laugh. “Pretty sure you enjoy tellin’ me no. But ya got a soft spot for the D.Va.”
Roadhog shrugged but didn’t try to deny it. “Someone needs to keep an eye on you kids.”
“Don’t know what yer talkin’ about. Always on me best behavior.” Felt Roadie rolling his eyes behind the smoked lenses of his mask. Junkrat grinned. Couldn’t let Roadie down, now could he? After all, gonna call him a kid, might as well act like one.
“Better be. I won’t be able to save you from Mei otherwise.”
Junkrat, frowning, considered. Mei might present a challenge. “Some bodyguard you are, can’t even protect me from a slip of a sheila.” Glanced at Roadhog out of the corner of his eye. “Don’t know why she hates me so much. Must be a fire n’ ice thing.”
Roadhog huffed his wheezy laugh. ‘F he was able to find Rat’s admittedly naff joke funny must be okay. Leastwise enough for a small trip to a cabin in Taos. Mei and Satya’d planned it for those what didn’t have somewhere else to go over the holiday - Rat’d assumed anyone not them. So he’d been surprised when Hana invited them to join. Sure they were friendly enough - played video games, watched movies, that sorta thing, but this was different. When Hana first brought it up late one night, after they’d been playing one of her favorite games for too many hours to count, eyes blurring with exhaustion and screen glare, Rat thought she just meant Lucio.
“What about you and Roadhog,” she’d clarified.
“Me an’ Roadie,” he’d echoed, brain lagging a beat behind.
“Gonna join? You should! You don’t have any family in Australia, do you? What else would you do?”
Neither him nor Hog had anyone in Straya, not anymore, but didn’t need mentioning. “Figured we’d hold down the Watchpoint with Winston and Morrison.”
Hana shook her head. “Lame. Holidays are supposed to be fun.”
“And Morrison’s the Anti-Fun,” Lucio added.
“Fair point, both of ya - but Mei…”
Hana waved off his concern. “She just hasn’t gotten to know you yet.” She paused, cocked a brow. “She’s a little slow to warm up.”
Lucio groaned. “Ugh. That was a Junkrat joke if I ever heard one.”
Junkrat had laughed, said he’d have to ask Roadhog and didn’t miss the look that went between them.
“So what’s with you two?” Hana was sprawled on her bed, chin propped on her fists, feet kicked up behind her. Picture of nonchalance, but her eyes were intent and curious.
Junkrat cocked his head. “What d’ya mean?”
“Like, I know he’s your bodyguard and…” She scrunched up her nose like she was looking for the right words. “Business partner? You guys pulled those heists all over the world… but… is that it?”
Lucio nudged her none-too-gently with his elbow from where he lay next to her. “Hana…”
“What? I’m just curious. You don’t mind, do you Junkrat?”
He shrugged. He didn’t, exactly. But he also didn’t, exactly, know how to answer. Never put words to it, who they were to each other. Might consider Hana and Lucio closest to friends he had other’n Roadie, still... couldn’t talk ‘bout shit like that with them. Trust didn’t come easy in Junkertown. Just because he an’ the Hog were taking their chances with Overwatch rather than prison didn’t mean it came easy here either.
Luckily Lucio saved him. “Mind or not, you shouldn’t pry.”
Hana stuck her tongue out at Lucio, but left off. When Junkrat managed to win the game he was pretty sure it was an apology. No one beat the D.Va unless she let them.
Roadhog seemed perfectly normal on the flight. Well, normal for Roadie. Spent the time reading or knitting or just looking out the window. Too calm to Junkrat’s way of thinking, and quickly bored, he dozed off. Time they landed, Rat was more than ready to get out and stretch his leg.
“Welcome to Taos,” Lena said.
The bay doors opened with a click-swish and a gust of cold, crisp air swept through the ship. Junkrat shivered - got cold nights in the Outback, but this was downright frigid. Didn’t think he’d ever get used to Christmas in winter. He tugged his jacket tighter around himself and followed Roadhog through snowdrifts to a small cabin surrounded by pines that scented the breeze sharp and clean. Put him in the mind of home - times he and Roadie would head up North, let the Queen forget about them for a bit. Just them and the bike and the road and nights under the stars. Wondered if Hog ever thought about it. Ever missed it.
“You’re quiet,” Lucio said, coming up alongside, knapsack over his shoulder.
Junkrat tried to shake off the mood. “Just thinkin’, mate.”
“Everything all right?”
“Right as,” he said - then a snowball smacked into the back of his head, dropping bits down the back of his collar and making him shudder. “Oi!”
Hana burst into laughter. “Gotcha!”
“Gonna regret that,” Junkrat called, depositing his bag carefully on the porch. Wouldn’t get on with Mei ‘f he blew up the cabin.
“Not likely!” She threw another snowball, but Junkrat ducked behind Roadhog and it thudded against Roadhog’s back and disintegrated.
Junkrat laughed and his breath puffed a cloud. “Nice aim. Good thing ya ain’t on damage.”
Hana snorted. “You’re one to talk; you just toss grenades and hope for the best.”
Junkrat didn’t argue, lobbed his own snowball. And caught Mei in the back of the head. “Ah fuck, sorry…” but almost before the words were out of his mouth she’d blasted him in the chest. He yelped as bits of snow slid down the neck of his shirt. Mei laughed and suddenly the air was full of flying snow. Loose teams and shifting alliances formed but Emily, Roadie and Satya bailed quickly. Emily offered to make tea and cocoa for everyone and Roadhog went to help. He was coughing.
Junkrat was about to ask him, again, if he was okay when one of Lucio’s snowballs - well aimed - smacked him in the cheek. Easily sidetracked, he returned fire.
The fight raged until the last light faded from the sky and the first stars appeared, and even though it was cold the heat of the battle kept them warm, and they were laughing when they tramped into the cabin, stomping snow from their boots and brushing it from their shoulders.
“Think Jesse left any whiskey last time he stayed,” Lena asked, hanging up her jacket.
“What do you think I put in the drinks?” Emily handed them each a steaming cup.
Junkrat curled his hand around the hot ceramic gratefully. The snow in his hair had melted and trickled cold water down the back of his neck. He shivered and sniffed against a dripping nose, but the alcohol burned warm in his stomach and Lucio was setting up his equipment and Mei was cooking something that smelled delicious and soon the music was bumping and they were crowded around the tiny kitchen table and Lena was boasting about some mission she’d been on, gesturing wildly with her chopsticks, and Emily asked about their heist in Dorado and maybe he played it up but even Satya was smiling and Roadie huffed his usual laugh and Rat was warm all through and it didn’t matter that his head was starting to hurt and his throat was too because he was warm and content and maybe it was going to be okay.
The warmth didn’t fade, even as he scrambled into the cold sheets of the cot. Didn’t matter that the bed was barely big enough for Roadie alone; Junkrat was used to sleeping anywhere he happened to pass out. Just lucky that lately had been next to Hog. Might be cold an’ snowy outside, wind might be whining, but here was warm and it was a good night.
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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 4)
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
At first anger kept him warm, relatively speaking. Or maybe was the fever. Didn’t need Lucio’s comments to know that his temperature was rising. Had that weird shivery/hot sensation and his skin felt too tight. Ghost arm an’ leg beginning to ache, too. He sighed, rubbed his nose. Always the way - Hog’d go down with the sniffles for a day or two and be fine, then he’d catch it and be kicked in the ass for a week. Usually didn’t really care, just hide out until it was over, but nowhere to be alone in this place. Wished he could ask Lena to give him a ride back to the Watchpoint. Plenty of places to hole up there - no one around to watch. Even if she weren’t (reasonably) pissed at him for being a wanker, not like she’d want to fly half a day just to turn around and come back. No, he was trapped, like or not.
He rubbed his leg where it connected to the prosthetic. Didn’t seem to matter how long he’d slept, still felt dragged by exhaustion. He perched on the edge of a rock, ignoring the cold that seeped through his pants. Later than he’d thought - the sun had slid behind the iron grey mountains, making their edges glow like flame. Had to admit, a beautiful place. Clouds gathered in the west, heavy and dark. The air smelled sharp with coming snow and pine. The wind had died down to a slight breeze and other than birds chirping sleepily as they nested for the night, it was quiet. Reminded him of home. Not Junkertown, where it was never silent, but out in the High Country. What he wouldn’t give to be there now, just him and Roadhog. So much easier when it was just the two of them.
The cold was making his nose run. He sniffed, wishing he’d thought to take more tissues on his way out. Didn’t really help, just made him want to sneeze. For a minute he pressed the back of his hand to his nose, trying to stave off the inevitable… but why? No one out here to notice. So instead he just waited as the desire built to urge, then urge to need. Finally the hitching breath reached its apex and tipped him over the edge. He folded forward with a wrenching sneeze.
“AhRissshah! Issh! HaRiiissh-uh!” Tried to grab a breath but the sneezes kept coming, tumbling over each other. “Huh-iisssh! Issshh! AhRiish!” Shit - needed one more, but it was stuck. Breathed in slowly, carefully. Come on, come on… his whole face felt like it itched. Scrunched his nose. It was *right there*. Just not quite enough. “Hih… Fuck…” Must look ridiculous. Least no one to see. One more breath and suddenly it burst out of him in a rush. “Ha-Ashhuh!” He shook his head slightly, groaned with the relief of it.
“Bless you, Rat.” Roadhog said. Was a testament to the volume of the fit that he hadn’t heard Roadie’s approach.
“Ta,” he said, taking the offered tissues and blowing his nose. “Ya heard that, then?”
“Pretty sure people heard you back home.”
Felt his cheeks go hot. Well, hotter. Cleared his throat. “Think I’m allergic to somethin’,” he tried.
“Uh huh. No pollen in the middle of winter. And just cause it’s called hay fever doesn’t mean you actually get a fever.”
“I don’t...”
“It’s -1 out here and you’re sweating.”
Junkrat sighed, coughed. “Fine. ‘M sick. Yer fault, ya big lug. Splittin’ shit 50/50 don’t mean germs.”
“Told you not to spend so much time with me.” Roadhog sat down next to him on the rock.
“Who’s gonna make you ramen, ‘f I don’t?”
Roadhog laughed. “You brought that from the take-away.”
“‘Course. Didn’t need to add food poisoning to the situation.” He shivered as the breeze picked up.
“Come back inside, Rat. You’re going to freeze.”
“Not yet.” A few fat flakes of snow drifted down, and he tilted his head up to watch them. Landed light on his cheeks and hand, like feathers. “Snowing,” he said, though it was obvious. Just so lovely. Made everything feel soft and quiet.
“Perfect for Christmas Eve.” Roadie put an arm around him and he leaned into the warmth, still staring into the sky. The falling snow spun lazily on puffs of breeze. Made him feel like he was falling too, but up, into the endless darkness.
“Why’re ya here,” he asked suddenly.
“Because Hana invited us and you wanted to come. I can’t be your bodyguard from the Watchpoint.”
Junkrat looked at him sidelong. “Know that ain’t what I meant.”
“Because you’re sick and it’s fucking cold as balls out here but you won’t come inside like a normal person.”
“Ain’t what I meant, neither.” He sniffed, nose running again. Or maybe still. He’s not going to answer you, you know. He doesn’t want to tell you the truth. You’re pressing his kink button. If it weren’t for that, you’d be on your own.
Roadhog huffed a breath. “What do you mean, Junkrat?”
“Nothing. Nevermind.” He moved away from Roadhog, stood up - maybe too quickly because he swayed for a second, dizzy. Roadhog reached for him, but he stepped back. Felt like he was going to sneeze again. Didn’t want to do it here, now.
“It’s not nothing. What do you want to know?”
“I want to know why! Why are ya with me? Why do ya put up with me?” Junkrat scrubbed his nose with his fist, trying to drive back the tickle. “What are we to each other? What the hell are we even doing?”
“Rat, I really don’t think now’s a good time…” Roadhog’s voice was horribly gentle and it twisted in Junkrat’s stomach.
“Yeah, nah. Of course not.” He cleared his throat. “Just forget it. Don’t know what I’m t..talking about…” His breath hitched on the need to sneeze, but he refused to let it come.
“But...” Roadhog reached for his arm but he kept backing away.
“No, it’s fine. You...you’re right. Too fucking cold to sit here,” he turned and started back to the cabin.
“Come on, Rat, wait.” Roadhog’s footsteps crunched in the snow as he followed.
Junkrat tried to walk faster, but the sneezes caught up to him first. He curled in on himself, trying to contain them, barely managing to squelch them into silence, though the paroxysm sent him stumbling.
Roadhog took his elbow but he wrenched away. “Don’t touch me. Just don’t.” For the first time, maybe ever, Junkrat was glad for Roadhog’s mask so he didn’t have to see his expression. Didn’t have to see whatever was in his eyes - lust, pity, scorn. None of it what he wanted to see, what he longed for.
Roadhog let him go and Junkrat went back inside, slipping past the others without a word. He left his coat and clothes in a pile on the floor and crawled into his cot. Sleep, he needed to sleep. Maybe he’d wake up and the wog would be gone and everything would be better. He pulled the quilts tight around him and closed his eyes, hearing a murmur of voices, too soft to make out words.
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