Easy to replace, he says. Roadhog offers a single dry laugh. That thing had weighed almost as much as Rat himself, and yet he's sure he means it. Much more convinced than he is of the idea of relying on normie docs. On that note, Hog just closes his eyes and fantasizes about getting his gun back. The acid pitching around angrily in his guts is enough to keep him from nodding off completely.

In the time it takes Junkrat to leave and come back, he doesn't move at all. Hearing his one and a half footsteps plink past, one eye cracks back open and climbs Junkrat's calf. He sees his bare back and unburdened shoulders and decides, yeah, that's a pretty good idea.

Roadhog unhitches the bracer from his wrist and peels his pauldron away with it, both of which get unceremoniously plunked into the chair he's still refusing to get back up and use. His old, often forgotten shotgun is laid out across those. Last order of business is his harness, and his hand pauses over the main buckle holding it in place when Junkrat takes it upon himself to remind him again that they're gonna be living in a damn comic book.

"Like a cartoon."

He quickly resumes shrugging his vest off; once it's in his hands, he runs his fingers over the pins on the front. All accounted for.

"Guess that suits you..."

Hog's never... been one to sound too impressed by what isn't right in front of him, laid out plain. While he doesn't forego considering some of the possibilities--big burlap sacks, suitcases, pockets, the obvious stuff--his thinking doesn't truly start to broaden until he's caught in an endless loop, listening to Junkrat start to take things off the tray, and off, and off, and off, and off.

Curious, he draws his head around until he can better see the causation.

"Oo," Roadhog changes his tune. "Works on the icebox."