[OPEN]

[snoutback]

Who| Roadhog, Junkrat, and YOU.
What| Reunions, playing watchdog, sparring.
Where| Mess Hall, Junkrat's Habitat, and the Sim Room.
When| Catch-all for May.
Warnings/Notes| swearing, sexual references/innuendo



Closed to Junkrat

Forty-eight hours after waking up, Roadhog's head is still spinning. Suddenly aliens were real, and the revelation's caught him with his pants around his ankles, companionless, unarmed, and struggling to form a solid plan on his own. Been some time since he's been visited by this kind of unease. Not a touch since the day Oz disappeared behind him, a granular speck on a great blue sea. And what's miserable is that he just knows it's because Junkrat isn't here to talk a mile a minute about how they were gonna survey the ship's security fixtures, squeeze around 'em to plant explosives in four, five, or a dozen different places, and then stage their fiery escape into the final frontier at the helm of a shiny new starcruiser—all casual, like it's gonna be the easiest thing in the world.

Presumably somewhere there were civilian accommodations on this hunk of junk, but Roadhog's been far too busy trying to make sense of his surroundings — and by extension his entire predicament — to sleep or to find something to eat, half-hoping he'll just happen across his partner so they can get straight back to business. At this point, his hunger pangs were developing a mind of their own, subconsciously influencing the route he takes. It's as he pops his head into a too bright - too busy mess hall that, at last, just as Hog was teetering on the brink of being tired enough to give up chase for a while, or possibly even entirely...

There's the little shit.

Were he not used to singling Junkrat out of worse, a single wild blonde head throwing up smoke signals would still have blended in seamlessly amidst the visual chaos of dozens of spandex-clad bodies. Roadhog makes a definitive beeline for his fellow Junker, ignoring the fact that the Jamison he knew wouldn't be sitting calmly at a table with so many new stimuli around him.

He has every intention of shuffling him off and away from this terrible clamor, but for now he plants his hand on the table beside Rat, leaning partway around him so that his eyes can bore into the jut of one high cheekbone. "Bout time--"

May 19th and beyond, Habitation Area, OTA

The days that follow are quieter than he expects, as Junkrat's busy schedule pulls him to and fro. Usually it's him telling Rat to stay put at the safehouse when errands need running. To be the one left like this is a foreign concept, just like how the people who come 'round asking for the bossman aren't waving around money or guns. Or how some of them haven't even heard of Rat at all, and are simply tourists, wandering all these little bits and pieces of worlds that aren't theirs without aim.

If you've got words for Rat at any point after the eighteenth, you might instead come across a plush hulk of a man with an uncannily similar taste in fashion. Either lazing about, stretched out in a sagging beach chair like he owns the place, or toiling away inside a large, dilapidated building that wasn't there when you visited before. While he's obviously noticed you coming from quite a long ways off, his foreboding silence suggests he won't be saying g'day unless you give him a very good reason.

Roadhog can tell the sightseers from Rat's actual acquaintances by how little caution they demonstrate as they walk the red earth, laden with buried mines. For them, he at the very least growls a half-hearted "Stop." Or if it's too late and his ears pick up a faint click: "Don't move."

Late May, Sim Room, OTA

Come time and many discussions with Junkrat, Roadhog's own schedule becomes a back and forth. Never could he have predicted a gig of theirs would involve classes. You been taking yours? If your mind isn't too burnt out on the new and unusual, you might notice a fresh face, or technically mask. Even without any visible expression or audibly spoken word, the big brute does not even once seem interested in anything the instructor has to say. At least, that is, until class moves into the sim room, where his leather snout points up in silent but overt wonder, as billions of data points begin to construct the realest fake world technology can offer.

It might be a typical city street, chock with pedestrians. It might be a lush alien jungle full of natural threats, or it might be a featureless desert that could've passed for Oz were it not for the looming gas giant taking up half the horizon. The possibilities are endless.

The only thing that isn't up for debate is that it's time to practice trading blows with another metahuman and your assigned partner is this humongous newcomer.


(Final prompt can be a cooperative training exercise rather than a 1 v 1 if you'd prefer!)

Comments

[muroieda]

"I ain't makin' anything up! Look, I can prove it--"

Junkrat dives a hand into his bag and quickly pulls out his own omnicomm, tapping on it furiously as he tries to bring out the evidence that, for this entire time, he's been trusting more than his own memory. It has his attention for the entire ride into the lift, but as soon as the stranger in the lift looks up at the Legionnare that this roving boar is lugging around like a bundle of felled lumber, Junkrat makes eye contact, along with a cheerful smile and a wave of his fingers carrying a normalcy beyond comprehension.

"Oh, g'day!"

And then he goes back to typing on his omnicomm. A few floors later, Junkrat holds his omnicomm behind him, pointing the screen directly into the porthole of Roadhog's mask so he can watch a recorded video play.

"See? Six months ago."

[snoutback]

Roadhog squints into the flickering feed, not really having a whole lot of choice.

It's an aerial view of a stand off in the middle of a street, like a shot from a surveillance drone that got cut and sent to a news-station. The figures on the ground are quite a ways off, but it's them. They were a hard pair to impersonate.

The guy picking a fight with them, on the other hand, could've been any one of the mooks they'd just passed out in the hall. Without warning, he vanishes, and what happens next gives the fuss Junkrat made over his head new meaning.

The camera zooms in, and at this point someone's deliberately slowed the action in post-processing to track the progress of a man-shaped blur frame by frame through the shot. As an indistinct limb hovers at the end of his digital doppelganger's snout, the recording fades out, replaced by a flashing replay symbol.

"—Where's the rest?"

Surely that ain't the end, right? Left staring at the Omnicom and questioning his own mental acuity--or what's left of it--Roadhog doesn't budge as the lifts dings, leaving their unfortunate tagalong to writhe and claw their way past him to reach their floor.

[muroieda]

"Dunno," he answers honestly. He waits until the doors of the lift have shut before speaking up again. "Figured if our friend from Dorado hasn't been able to find longer footage, then it probably doesn't exist. Oh--" He tilts his omnicomm to the side so he can point upwards, as if extrapolating on a concept. "They're here, by the by, but under, like, seven different layers of secret identity. Act like ya don't know 'em."

He claps the omnicomm shut and pouches it.

"But why do ya want ta see the rest of it anyway? I know yer inta that kinda thing but w--"

It dawns on him like a sack of concrete.

"...Unless you can't recall any of it, either...?" Junkrat asks slowly. It was normal for Junkrat to forget things, but Roadhog? Roadhog never forgets.

[snoutback]

"The hacker," Roadhog mutters back distractedly. It isn't a question, because he recalls those meetings well. Drink after drink hitting his stomach, a crick in his neck as he hunched to fit at the table, and the scent of thick cigar smoke that crept inside his mask, making him suck down hogdrogen just to feel sure that his lungs were still working. That memory is crisp, and it's been years since.

After Luna Park, that's where the hole is. What he'd previously thought added up to a few hours or maybe a day of unconsciousness. Now, that little black spot is starting to seem bigger and bigger; it's nearly due to be reclassified as a chasm by the time Junkrat poses the question Roadhog was forced to ask himself the moment he identified himself on the screen. He just shakes his head.

No.

The doors ding again and the lift's automated voice wishes them something trite while Roadhog squeezes out of it. He takes only the necessary steps to clear the threshold, then stands stock still just outside, waiting for Junkrat to tell him where to go. Some things Roadhog wouldn't mind having punched out of his head for good, but after hanging around a human sieve for all these years, he'd learned how to treasure his more immediate memory.

[muroieda]

"Yeah, that one."

He remembers the job, he remembers Sombra (now, anyway), and he remembers spending way too friggen long on that damn tunnel. He only remembers Calveras as a vague, fleeting afterthought.

Junkrat looks up at the back of Roadhog's head when he feels the negatory shake against his hip, then drops his head back down just in time to make sure that he won't be clocking the back of it against any part of the lift entrance. He lets out a thoughtful little noise as he rubs his chin with a metal thumb. Roadhog not knowing...that carries an implication, he's sure, but he doesn't know what it would be.

"Maybe there's somethin' about that weird dark wasteland that really messed us up..." he conjectures out loud. For some reason, he remembers that.

His train of thought gets interrupted when Roadhog comes to a halt. "Oh, just keep walkin', mate. Y'll know what yer lookin' fer when ya find it."

Really specific instructions. At least Junkrat is very consistent with his branding. He tries to get his brain back on track, but they get distracted by by another, unrelated idle thought. He had to have been specifically in the mess hall for one reason or another.

"Ya hungry?"

[snoutback]

"Yeah," he mutters. "Had nothin' to do with Superman's fist." It's said low, even for Roadhog. And he's fine with Rat doing as Rat does and rapidly changing the subject to something else. He hasn't got much energy left, and thinking about brain damage was a lot more draining than barreling around with Junkrat on his back.

Helps that the HB (which stood for habitation, apparently) turns out to be a pretty huge distraction just by nature of existing. Up top, Roadhog's eyes hadn't wandered much, but here his snout pulls this way and that. And he can't quite suss out whether or not what he's seeing is some kinda' hard-light projection, or if someone really went through the trouble of hauling all of the resources for this into space.

Then Rat chimes in again.

"Don't talk to me about food unless you've got some," Roadhog hisses, and the threat it carries is deadly serious, but his pace subtly picks back up for the first time since it'd begun to falter after their ride in the lift. That perked him right up.

[muroieda]

"I do, if ya need it roight away, but all I have on me is stable rations fer emergencies. At home, though? I got more food than y'd ever want, mate. Well--" He chuckles. "In one sittin', anyway."

You'd think he was exaggerating.

He's not.

"Anyway, yer gonna love that about this place, mate. Everything here--and I mean everything--totally vejjo! Been able ta shake off the rust on me meatless barbecue and I got a few new recipes I been workin' on that I wanna get yer feedback on."

No small amount of emphasis can be put on the fact that Junkrat intentionally designed his habitat to keep himself in check in the ways Roadhog has for years. A day/night cycle to remind him to sleep regularly, a barbecue pit to ignore the passion for barbecue that keeps him eating (because he certainly doesn't waste food), a small enclosed area so he can pack the rest of it with explosives so he can sleep better under a thick, heavy, too-warm duvet.

[snoutback]

...That so, huh?

Roadhog swallows heavily, and Junkrat's enthusiasm carries on to mask the ungainly sound of Hog licking his chops, just like a starved dog staring at a packed table— except the table's so far off he can't even see it yet. It's just a daydream, covered from end to end in all of his favorite things; the little shit knew exactly what he liked and how to cook it better than him.

Suddenly, the hand that's been keeping Junkrat secure begins rolling him over by the waist. Though, rather than simply letting him back down like he should, Roadhog maintains a light grip, steadying Rat so he could climb into a more comfortable position if he preferred. The scenery kept on changing, but this at least was familiar.

"They still do dairy?" He doesn't say ice cream, but what he means is ice cream, first and foremost.

[muroieda]

You know what they say: the way to a pig's heart is through his stomach.

With the familiarity of a gymnist on a beam, Junkrat shifts out of Roadhog's grip once he's given the allowance to, turning himself around and planting a seat over the thick trapezius not guarded by half a tire and spikes. He secures himself in place by wrapping his fingers around one of the straps affixing Roadhog's harness to him, while the business end of his peg leg hooks into one of the metal carabiners on the front of said harness.

"Not as dairy-dairy," he answers, "but the substitutes are pretty rippah. Coconut milk goes off well in tea. Cheese has been kinda pass-or-fail, depends on which one. Had ta modify me recipes ta suit the butter but that wasn't too hard. Haven't found a yogurt I care fer yet. I think y'll like the ice cream, though. Ya can tell it's different but it's still thick and sweet."

Of course he means ice cream, which is why he saves the best for last.

[snoutback]

Slowly, Roadhog replaces his hand, this time curling it around a bony knee instead of a hip, then glances up at Junkrat now towering above his head, merely watching his expression as he gives his analysis.

"Mm..."

So far, it was sounding like this bright future where no piggy had to worry about being made into bacon might also come with one small caveat.

"You'll fix it if I don't."

Was that a request, a jest, or a threat?

There's a certain cadence to his voice, the very slight suggestion of a smirk that might help narrow it down. Makin' decent vegan ice cream on a space station can't be that much harder than cooking up C4 out in the wastes, right?

[muroieda]

"Don't think I'll need ta, but if ya really don't care fer it I'll see what I can do."

Which would probably involve making an over-the-top ice cream maker from scratch, too. If it's worth doing, it's worth overdoing, especially for his big pig.

A hundred more steps later and the habitats they've been walking through quickly fade into nothingness--faster than they physically should. A dusk sun paints the sky in dark blues and casts deep oranges and yellows against the clouds, matching the baked red earth beneath Roadhog's feet.

The monstrosity of Junkrat's camper lays in the distance, and no one hazards attempting approaching it. In fact, no one is currently trying to traverse this beautiful but unwelcoming desert but them, leaving it pleasantly quiet and unoccupied for as far as the eye can see.

"Home sweet home!" Junkrat exclaims, holding his arms out with a flourish. "Except without the radiation and plenty of clean water and neutral-pH rain." He lets go of Roadhog's harness to pat him on the back, with a tone both cheerful and relieved; sentimental: "Welcome home, Roadie."

[snoutback]

Up to this point, flashes of city blocks and wooded acres and sighing coastlines have all failed to stymie Roadhog's march, but as the unfamiliar bleeds away to reveal the undeniable his heavy footfalls roll to a hesitant stop.

Home sweet home, says Rat.

"No, it isn't," Hog says back, tiredly, without biting down on Rat's cheer quite as hard as he could, or as hard as he might want to. This shit's all too confusing to speak of fondly. Though, after the initial shock subsides; after disputing whether he should feel relieved just because of a bunch of red dirt; and after realizing he can't deny that he is: "But it's close."

Although he'd been apathetic when passing through the other habitats, Roadhog kicks the dirt experimentally, taking out a swathe with the steel tusk of his boot. Red mist roils out of the wound in the ground, real enough that it stayed clinging to his camo, while his heel rocks back and forth inside the hole, digging it deeper.

"Don't get it, though..." It's home, but who bothers to recreate Australia hundreds of years after it stopped mattering to anyone? "—How. Why's this here? How're we seein' this?" He had a feeling it had everything to do with Junkrat and the reason he was dressed so differently.

Sooner rather than later, Roadhog stops fussing about uselessly—stops hunting for seams and starts looking out for the little glowing indicators that'd mark any den of Rat's as his. The insane grin of Junkrat's mayhem tag said it all, seemingly growing wider as he set off for the branded vehicle.

[muroieda]

There's an indignant silence as Junkrat scowls at Roadhog pointing out that it wasn't really home. That's obvious. But they've never really had something they could call a home for years now. He doesn't actually speak up until he starts asking questions:

"I made it this way."

He actually has a low, defensive tone. Pretty much everyone who's been here has asked the same question, if you could make anything, why choose to make a wasteland? Sure, it's not like he held Oz in some kind of honored, sentimental regard, because let's face it: he holds no alliance to the country that most would associate with Oz, but the dusty red earth was just as much a part of him as his jagged hairline and missing limbs.

So too was Roadhog, the only one who manages to show some kind of degree of discontentment that actually manages to get to Junkrat's core.

"We all get our little pockets to make whatever we want. Anything we want. Tried makin' somethin' fancy, tried makin' somethin' out of this world, tried makin' somethin' luxury, but nothin' felt right. Nothin' felt like a place I could sleep in. So I just went with somethin' more familiar."

Then, after a beat:

"If ya don't care fer it, ya can go make yer own."

...he didn't intend it to come out so sour, but it does anyway.

[snoutback]

It's just like Junkrat to decide that the best place to get snippy with him was in the middle of a mine field.

Once again, the affront seems to come out of nowhere, and yet Roadhog can barely remember the last time they weren't on the same page. He'd struck a nerve he hadn't intended to. Hadn't even known was exposed. For all it irks him, he avoids having to stagger to a stop for a third time, at least.

"...You wanna get tossed?" Roadhog rumbles low, jabbing a thumb at the armed land, as if Junkrat needed some reminding of just how bad that could get. Then his hand swings back into place with a light whap! and tightens around his employer's thigh, because he's not actually going to do that, or let him try to risk hopping and skipping away himself. "Didn't expect it is all."

In space.

In the future.

"Feels like someone's trying to get into my head," Hog clarifies, or tries. "For damn sure didn't know they were holding any kinda giveaway." And he's not going to go make his own, whatever that entails, although it explains how Junkrat's little slice of Oz got to being so accurate. It wasn't just a convenient template someone'd left lying around.

[muroieda]

"I'll take me chances," he snaps back, but it's mostly for the sake of follow-through than actually requesting to be thrown face-first into his own land mines, because he knows that hand on his thigh intends to keep him exactly where he is.

"Yeah nah, it'll feel like that fer a while, mate," he follows up with a softer tone. "Been here for two months n' I'm still tryin' ta work it all out. I dunno if it's 'cause they forgot ta tell me stuff or I just didn't retain it, but..."

He shrugs.

"Universe is a pretty big place, and now we're at the center of it...or whatever."

Then, reminded by the sentiment, Junkrat tilts his head to the side and looks down at the peripheral of Roadhog's mask.

"Speakin' of unannounced giveaways, did they tell ya what shiny powers ya got ta work with, or do ya gotta find that out on yer own like I did?"

[snoutback]

That also gets a dismal shake from Hog's head. His fault, though. He'd been sloppy, asking questions in no particular order, and the tightness of his grip had made it harder to understand what was being said. Most of his current understanding had to be gleaned after the fact, as in the end he'd had to cut his bed rest quite short when he was spotted with his hand wrapped around that nurse's head, squeezing it a shocking shade of purple.

"Got what answers I could, took back what I could, and got out," Roadhog elaborates, planting a palm against Junkrat's camper as he reaches it. It's there to support him, given that he slowly capsizes the moment Rat disembarks, as though it's something he's been holding back for a long, long while.

"No ammo, no hogdrogen. Scrap gun's gone."

Turning so it's his back and not his stomach that's lightly squealing against the metal siding, Roadhog goes down like a glob of butter sliding down the side of a pan, going and going until he's hands flat and ass flat in the dirt, croaking out a sigh. Then, several seconds later he glances to his left and snorts, for the first time noticing the lawn chairs not but two feet from his resting place. Bit late, now.

[muroieda]

Junkrat takes the invitation to slip off of Roadhog's shoulder, planting one foot and peg firmly on the ground.

"Mmh."

The missing scrap gun is pretty obvious. It's a hard weapon to hide without trying to disguise it. "Gun's easy to replace--will need ta make somethin' compatible with the--" air quotes "kid-friendly shite they want us ta use, but they give us an unlimited supply of it. Hogdrogen--"

So much for hoping Hog would show up with a few canisters that Rat can bum a whiff when the nausea gets bad enough that he can't eat.

"...harder ta replace, but at least we've got access ta decent medical care here."

At least, that's where he's gone when anything came up that he couldn't handle on his own. There's a beat where Junkrat watches Roadhog slide down the side of his camper, then looks over to the lawn chairs, then back at Roadhog, but instead of saying anything he just gives a shrug to himself. Big guy gets to do whatever he wants, sit wherever he wants.

"I'm gonna go change inta somethin' more comfortable and then we'll see about gettin' ya fed."

With that, he disappears into the camper and is only gone for a few minutes. Admittedly, the thing that takes the longest is trying to figure out what he wants to make, something to introduce to Roadhog as pretty exemplary of what he has to work with around here.

He comes out with a tray of food, having to use both hands to balance exactly the amount of food you'd think that Roadhog needs in order to fill his stomach. His Legion colors have been traded in for a pair of tennis shorts and a high-top sneaker, but the gold ring with a lapis lazuli stone hasn't gone anywhere.

"Oh, I almost forgot," he starts back up as he sets out the food and fires up the barbie. "I can make any container hold an infinite number of stuff, provided I can get it inta the thing ta begin with. That's what I've been able ta do since getting here."

[snoutback]

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."

[muroieda]

A prosthetic hand excuses itself from working to snap his fingers in Roadhog's direction. An electric spark crackles between them as he winks.

"Got it in one, big guy."

Tiny camper, endless possibilities.

"Trust, the irony isn't lost on me. At first I thought it was kinda disappointing, 'cause lots of us have some real flashy abilities, and here I am with a bag of infinite holding, roight? Talk about a ripoff. But I started playin' with it, tryin' ta figure out what I could really do with it. Once I found out that I can turn anythin' into a veritable bag of infinite holdin', I realized I made out like a bandit!"

Junkrat cackles, because he means it both figuratively and literally. So much useful stuff just sitting around ready for the taking and getting a new workshop set up in this little tin-can in space, and he did it all in a single trip.

He puts a few pieces of food on the barbie, prepping a salad with a variety of different vegetables while the stuff on the grill sizzles and sends fragrant smells through the air. Eggplant, tomato, cheese. If Hog wasn't starved already, he will be in a hot second.

[snoutback]

That's assuming the sizzling hasn't gotten under his skin. Already, Roadhog's been assaulted by the mental image of all that food covered in perfect grill lines. Added to that, the smell only makes it more vivid. His mask was designed not to let a single wisp of hogdrogen go to waste; it didn't serve the purpose of filtering out fine particles.

"Good," Roadhog grunts, trying not to seem distracted. "Done bein' the pack mule."

He rubs his shoulders, scratching at all the places he couldn't throughout the evening, and as he quickly runs out of useful things to do with the odd, restless energy gradually coming out to play, Hog ends up sinking further down to lie face up on the ground, one arm slung behind his head so at the very least he'll stop looking at the loaded grill.

Food's not like people. He can't stare it down to make it do what he wants faster.

[muroieda]

The side of Junkrat's mouth quirks upward into a cocky smirk. "Y'll do wot I need ya to do."

It's not a question, it's a statement. Junkrat will tell him what needs to be done, and he'll do it, because that's how it's been for years now. The job description never really ended at "keep Jamison Fawkes alive." For what it's worth though, those packs are going to be feel like near-empty baggage to both of them from now on.

He won't bother trying to fill the air with vacant chatter; even a blind man could tell the poor bloke was slaughtered. Within reason, too; it's not like showing up on this place and wandering this giant ship was easy. Junkrat simply busies himself with food prep for a few minutes, humming a cheerful tune to himself in the process.

By the time the salad is done, so too are the sandwich fixings. On a polished hubcap that would be a rather proportional plate in Roadhog's hands, he places a sandwich (halloumi, tomato medallions with black salt, and eggplant crammed between slices of rye) and a large portion of salad (iceberg, mesclun, and arugula mix, topped with chopped mushrooms, faux-hardboiled eggs, carrot sticks, tomato wedges, sprinkled with feta crumble and a hand-made Italian dressing). Holding it between both hands, he takes it over to Roadhog and, unsure if he's asleep or not with that mask and naturally uneven breathing, makes an affectionate clicking noise with his tongue as if beckoning a pet. If the guy's dead asleep, he'll let him rest instead.

[snoutback]

Roadhog lets his neck go fully slack, his head rolling to point in entirely the opposite direction of Junkrat -- not that he could see jackshit like this anyhow.

"Hff..."

Some time later when Junkrat strolls over with an offering, his encroaching footsteps pull Roadhog from his half-slumber. Though he doesn't start collecting himself until the click. He grips the dirt and lifts his nose to smell, not caring that he's responding to a call like an animal.

Wallowing backward on his elbows, Roadhog wedges his shoulders up the side of Junkrat's camper until he's propped himself just vertically enough to eat without choking. Likewise, Hog pushes his mask up just enough to uncover his mouth, hungrily baring prominent lower canines as he takes the improvised hubcap-plate, which he balances rather shamelessly atop the dome of his stomach before digging in.

Dirt-streaked fingers cram handfuls of moist arugula down his gullet and linger in front, waiting to be licked clean by a studded tongue. The sandwich gets special attention as he takes a single bite and chews it slowly, a pensive expression on his lips while he studies the layers exposed within his own large bitemark. After swallowing, those lips turn up in approval. He tips Junkrat the sandwich as if it were a toast of white wine, then the rest begins to disappear in a more violent fashion.

In a of couple minutes, he lifts a clean hubcap into the air for Junkrat's consideration, wagging it slightly. Next?

[muroieda]

Once Roadhog takes his repurposed plate, Junkrat returns to his station and picks up his own -- just a small version of the same salad. He's not hungry because he has no appetite, but rather because he's been pretty consistently snacking like a bird throughout the day. Settling in on the other chair unoccupied by gear, Junkrat contently nurses his own salad with his own dirty fingers, watching Hog intensely, hungrily awaiting the critique (or praise). A grin spreads over his face at the tilt of his sandwich, giving the other a casual salute. He minds his own business after then until movement catches his peripheral vision: Roadhog asking for seconds.

"Oh, yeah. One tic," he says, reaching out and taking the hubcap from him and throwing another sandwich for him, this time without a salad. He has infinite space, sure, but that doesn't mean he has infinite things inside the storage. The hubcap and new sandwich is returned to Roadhog on Junkrat's way back inside the camper. There's a little bit of rustling around, but whatever he's working on, he won't bring it outside and allow Roadhog to see it.

With impeccable timing, as soon as Roadhog polishes off the second sandwich, another hubcap is lowered over his shoulder. On it lays one big banana, split lengthwise, the cavity between the halves filled with giant scoops of strawberry, vanilla, and chocolate ice cream, drizzled with chocolate syrup, topped with whipped cream and maraschino cherries. It's not really fancy in its presentation, because this kind of ice cream is kind of hard to scoop into picture-perfect spheres, but at least it comes with a utensil this time: a wooden spoon.

"Ta daa!"

[snoutback]

Roadhog has room to spare after tucking away the second sandwich. He always has room. But he's not planning on asking for thirds tonight, with drowsiness finally starting to edge out the (considerable) desire to continue indulging on Rat's cooking. He's yawning with teeth and gums, like some tired beast out in the wild, when Junkrat unexpectedly lowers the dessert into his direct line of sight.

Roadhog does a double-take--up at Junkrat, not at the plate--before accepting this last and final offering. He opts to go for the strawberry first, and the entire time he's sampling his first bite he emits a pleased hum through the lump of ice cream dissolving in his mouth.

He can't attack it like he did the sandwiches, not if he wants to avoid brain-freeze, but it's still a race that Roadhog has no trouble winning against the tepid Australian night. Once he finishes, instead of handing Junkrat back a hubcap covered in sticky residue, Roadhog clambers to his feet and starts heading up the steps to Junkrat's camper. As he does, he forks over a grin.

"You were right."

...

"Preciate it."

Then, Hog ducks inside and keeps on ducking, with little other choice than to stay bowed at the neck, singed ponytail bending and trailing along the ceiling. The benefit of such a claustrophobic space is that it doesn't take long to find where Junkrat washes up his cutlery, get the water blasting, and start hosing off his 'plate' with the pullout faucet.

[muroieda]

He watches the other's reaction with keen interest, though there's no part of him that seems anxious about Roadhog's judgment. Junkrat is not the connoisseur of ice cream that Roadhog is -- usually much too sweet for him to really enjoy it unless he was already in the mood for it -- but he's confident in his knowledge of the other's preferences.

Finished with his desert, Roadhog stands to his full height and Junkrat exchanges the grin with his own, sharp and cocky, tilting his head back and exposing the long, slender lines of his neck and the single sharp angle that his Adam's apple breaks them with.

"'Course I was. I know what me piggy likes."

When the other makes his leave to shove himself into the camper, Junkrat tidies up what he can from the leftovers from cooking, soon to join his companion inside to pack what's left back into the fridge.

"Stars're out," he suggests, if Roadhog is at all interested in seeing Junkrat's idea of an ideal night sky. Whether or not he'll take the offer is a moot point, because Jamie is already on his way back out to climb up the ladder on the back of the humvee and stretch out on the hammock strung across opposite sides of the turret rails.