[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]

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.

[snoutback]

The fridge opens and closes. Aluminum squeaks softly beneath the finger rubbing at it, while warm water runs over his hands. In the midst of it all, Roadhog spaces out enough that Junkrat says something about stars and is gone well before he can register it and turn his body around.

The look he was going to give the other tumbles through the empty space behind him, all the way back to the bed in the humvee half of Junkrat's hodgepodge home, where it lands in the soft rolls of the comforter and draws on and on and on into a weighty stare. He nearly calls it a night right then and there, but Roadhog eventually returns to his senses with a vigorous shake of his head.

Wandering out of his sight isn't something Junkrat is allowed to be doing right now.

A couple of minutes after Junkrat deserts him, Roadhog shows up at the base of the ladder. "Tired, Rat," he calls up from the bottom.

[muroieda]

Junkrat has already gotten comfortable in his hammock by the time Roadhog comes out. He hears the footfalls and the labored breath below him, and he figures that the other finally decided to come join him in his stargazing...but apparently not.

When he hears his voice call out, Junkrat sits up and peers over the edge of the railing. The moon is just waxing gibbous, but the stars alone cast the area in enough light to see without issue--even through the tinted lenses of Roadhog's mask.

"I'm not."

While most people would interpret his tone as tough shit, what he actually means is that, while he recognizes that Hog has earned some well-deserved rest, Junkrat has been too wound up by the fact that he's finally showed up and will likely spend hours sleeplessly tossing and turning and inevitably keeping Roadhog away from the sleep that he needs. Junkrat needs a few minutes to let his mind run in circles to tire itself out first before he can actually sleep.

He knows what Roadhog was implying--by coming out here just to tell him that he was tired--that Junkrat needed to come down and join him in bed in order for either of them to sleep. Junkrat has had two months to get used to the idea of sleeping alone, but Roadhog hasn't. Still, it's just as easy to fall into old routines, comfortable habits, and having conversations with far less words spoken than what is being said.

"Think ya can make it up here?" Junkrat asks, gesturing his head over his shoulder. "Hammock's big enough for ya."

[snoutback]

Time was usually the answer to the few problems violence couldn't solve. Though Roadhog prefaces his grab for the rung with a sigh, from past experience and many failed attempts to drag Junkrat back to bed when a plan hadn't gone accordingly, Roadhog recognizes that time is what Junkrat needs right now in order to defuse.

"Said I'm tired, not geriatric."

If only to prove a point, Hog lugs himself up the ladder at the same pace he normally would, only stopping off briefly on one of the middle rungs to knock the dirt from the soles of his boots.

The hammock is not only big, but seems adequately thick, supported by cables in visibly better shape than what most everything else outwardly appears around here. It starts to tip as if cresting a grand wave as Roadhog sits at the edge and swings both legs aboard, rocking to and fro with each of his momentous movements until he gets his weight centered. As they level out, he lifts his elbow out of Junkrat's way, draping his arm over and off the far side.

"Talk if it helps," he urges.

Might not necessarily say anything back, but his silence won't mean objection. Might lie limp like he's asleep, but he'll be listening.

[muroieda]

Junkrat scoffs. "Makes it feel like it sometimes."

Not that he's saying that it makes Junkrat feel like Roadhog is geriatric; he's talking about himself, because yes, even Junkrat can get exhausted and tired too, though the number of people who he's allowed to see him like that can be counted on a single hand.

He shuffles out of Roadhog's way entirely as he climbs up the ladder, half-leaning half-sitting on top of the railing to wait for the other to get comfortable. The hammock has been adequately prepared for the weight load; even the entire burden of Roadhog's bulk, it bows comfortably without touching the ground. Once he, and the hammock, have stilled, there's only enough room on either side of him to actually climb in if he so wanted--but instead, he chooses to settle himself in the clearance between the other's legs, inviting himself to make a backrest out of the rounded dome of Roadhog's gut.

It's rare for the larger bloke to invite Junkrat to ramble on, so the gesture doesn't get overlooked--but it does make him throw a mildly surprised look over his shoulder.

"Lots ta talk about now that yer here," he warns, fidgeting with his fingers idly. "And just about all of it'll get me wound back up again."

Except...

He feels a metallic clink between his fingers and he looks down at them taking in the gold and blue that practically glow in the low nighttime light. He pinches his ring between a metal thumb and finger and rotates it back and forth without taking it off.

A picture's worth a thousand words. Junkrat reaches into the rear pocket of his shorts and produces his omnicomm, pulling up the ever-growing storage folder full of nothing but selfies of him and Fareeha. A picture's worth a million words, and a million pictures--well.

Junkrat turns around just enough to reach a long arm over Roadhog's belly to invite him to take the mobile device from him and look through the pictures.

"I got hitched."

[snoutback]

"In the morning, then."

Roadhog won't deny that at some point he needed to hear it all. Despite extraordinary circumstances, one thing hasn't changed: Junkrat's word is the only one around here he trusts, even if his accounts were sometimes riddled with holes. He could count on Rat not to leave out a single detail he did happen to remember.

Though, that ain't saying Rat didn't spout some pretty unbelievable things sometimes.

Roadhog responds with a bleary croak that sounds an awful lot like 'you what?' before groping for the device, balancing his hand on his quietly heaving chest to navigate the sea of thumbnails. Fortunately, Roadhog has had some practice with tiny smartphones and doesn't fumble and close out the entire gallery in the process of selecting a photo at random in order to bring it into full view.

...and it isn't a joke.

He peels his mask the rest of the way up, cracking a naked eye at it.

Almost feels like peering through a porthole into another reality.

The only reason he's sure that it isn't is because Junkrat is still pallid and balding, though the ravages of the wasteland are diminished even more so than usual by the big, happy smile on his face. The woman next to him is smiling too, both of them wearing wisps of golden pearlescent dust like they've just gotten back from the club.

Flicking left, he gets a better look at her. She has naturally fierce features, even though all she's doing in the next one is sitting with her hand wrapped around a cuppa.

"Pretty," is all he comments--too baffled to come up with much else.

[muroieda]

"Right beaut, yeah," he agrees. Junkrat half-twists, half-rolls over, curling up his legs over Roadhog's thigh as he rests his chest against the other's rotund midsection, bringing his hands up and folding them under his head so that the poor guy doesn't have a twenty-degree chin stabbing him in the stomach.

"She's from our world. Ran inta'er shortly after showin' up here and she actually tolerated me--not 'cause she was lookin' fer info or had some kinda ulterior motive. Couple'a weeks later there's this job posted fer us Leiggos ta fake gettin' married so we could steal some magic relics or some shite like that, and when we got back we got real-married 'cause..."

Junkrat's shoulders shrug.

"Figured why not. Keen on each other enough."

[snoutback]

"Rings and everything, mm."

From the beginning, the pretty little piece on Junkrat's hand hadn't escaped his notice. Just wasn't until now that his brain parsed it as a wedding band, when before it could just have easily been some old thing Rat had pilfered and liked enough to wear around for a while.

The screen is quite bright, but Roadhog doggedly squints through the rest of the evidence on the lookout for anything suspect, instead finding that the woman's smile never seems to become at odds with itself as the settings change and time presumably passes. She must know what she's dealing with by now, surely.

"Guess some people got a thing for bushfires, after all," he concludes and goes back to watching Junkrat bob up and down with his diaphragm, letting the omnicom flop facedown on his skin. For the sake of letting his partner simmer down and getting some damn sleep, he'll save his real doubts for later.

[muroieda]

"That's what I said!"

Junkrat lets out an even-mannered, self-deprecatory giggle.

"Nah yeah, she's bloody bonza fer a normie. Not like she's perfect or anythin'--not like a bot sympathizer but a tad more trustin' than I would prefer. Got some hangups about her family that she's tryin' ta work through. Military sheila, got a thing fer rockets. Do ya remember the Anubis thing that was on the news a coupl'a months ago? That was her n' her crew takin' it out. Force ta reckon with. Helpin' me stay on the "straight'n narrow" that this place expects out of us without makin' herself a huge joykill."

For what it's worth, this rambling isn't the kind that is hip whirling out of control--just his idle thoughts as they come and go.

[snoutback]

"Hmph." Roadhog's uncovered face grins openly. He ain't about to throw open his arms to welcome this girl into their fold, but even he's got to acknowledge that the scrawny rat's somehow gone and caught himself a ten. "Careful when you're ducking 'round her mappa tassie, don't go makin' it literal."

With that, he closes his eyes, shutting out the beautiful but bothersome twilight. Rat's monologue trickles on without prompt, a constant IV drip of information that Roadhog passively absorbs, even as tired as he is.

By the final point, Roadhog sounds as enlightened as can be:

"Wondered why this place wasn't rubble."

'Splains that.

[muroieda]

He lets out a juvenile giggle at Roadhog's euphemism. "Ah, mate, if she was scared of a lil' fire she probably wouldn't be spendin' this much time with me. Who knows? Maybe she's inta that kinda thing."

Junkrat shifts so he can cross his arms, making an uncomfortable arm-pillow for him to rest his cheek on. He yawns--a good sign.

"Well...that and the fact that space is a cold, loveless vaccuum. Love me some nighttime sky but I don't care ta meet my demise as a suffocating popsicle. A ratsicle."

Such self-control.

[snoutback]

Roadhog sees that yawn and raises him one, his mouth stretching to the absolute limit as a sound pours out that's far more subdued than the effort would suggest.

"Heard it's the size of the moon," he slurs, directly post-yawn. "Big job for a little Rat, anyway."

[muroieda]

"Not impossible," an important thing to point out, "with the right motivation."

Not that Junkrat is lazy. Oh, no, not at all. But for something to hold his attention for that long, something would have to have really set off a special kind of wrath that Junkrat reserves only for special occasions.

[snoutback]

And boy would they regret crossing the bugger in the half-second before the flash flame boiled their eyeballs in their sockets.

The corners of Roadhog's mouth upturn dreamily just imagining an explosion that big.

It's a wonder how much things can change.

"Yeah," he grunts after a decent while, lacing his hands over the crest of his belly and resettling his back with a small shimmy.

"You've got help now."

[muroieda]

Junkrat lifts his head back up to give Roadhog a smirk.

"Awwh," he coos out, reaching out and--with just enough arm length to pull it off--boops Roadhog on his exposed, broad nose. Normally this would've been directed at the snout of his mask, but he'll make do. "I thought ya said ya didn't want ta be me pack mule any longer."

...It always has been a little give or take with what Junkrat manages to remember.

[snoutback]

Not expecting to actually feel the tip of Junkrat's finger make purchase, a small jolt runs through all forty of Roadhog's stones. Wasn't often his face got touched by anybody else, and for that he glares at the other, slowly bringing a hand up underneath Junkrat's chin.

"Never was a mule."

Very lightly he squishes Junkrat's cheeks between a thumb and a forefinger, leans forward just a bit, and makes an especially piggish snort.

Roadhog.

[muroieda]

Junkrat tries to grin, but it's difficult to pull off with his cheek muscles pinned. He does what he can, though, and responds to Roadhog's pig-snort with his own glottal snort of agreement.

"Pack-swine," he corrects himself. "Although pigs were never bred for bein' beasts of burden...on the other hand, y've never found me any truffles." Junkrat's shoulders heave in a shrug, still trying to give him a cheeky smirk. "Would not complain if ya did though."

[snoutback]

Watching Junkrat's face twitch ineffectively, Roadhog mushes his fingers upward, aiding him in producing a distorted version of the intended smirk. He barks out a laugh at the tight U-shape that was formerly Junkrat's mouth before his grip finally relents, dropping away.

"You'll need a sow for that."

Pig fact for a pig fact.

[muroieda]

Junkrat is quick to replace his support with an elbow that sinks into Roadhog's belly, making a muted crater as he plants his chin in the ball of his hand. His elbow is hardly a soft object but, all things considered, probably rounder than his chin.

He looks down at Roadhog through cocky, slit eyes with a smirk to match.

"Didn't think it'd make a difference t'ya."

[snoutback]

Knows his shit then, does he? A slow shake of his silver head and Roadhog concedes, scarred mug faintly mirroring the other's expression.

"Suppose not."

Coupled with a jerk of his chin, Roadhog flicks his eyes upward. "Stars're up there, you feel like lookin' at 'em at some point," he reminds Rat what he'd dragged them out here for--not to imply that he cared one way or another if he wanted to keep wasting his time staring at him instead.

[muroieda]

Of course he does. If it's a passion of his best friend's, well... "Heh."

Ah, the stars. "Oh, yeah," he comments quietly, craning his neck to look upward at the fake, beautiful sky for a few seconds, then--speaking plenty without a single word--simply crosses his arms and rests his head on Roadhog's stomach again. It leaves only the flame-licked ends of his hair pointed towards the stars, and he glances over Mako's face for a few seconds before closing his eyes.

Why would he want to look at the same old stars when he finally has his friend back?

[snoutback]

Actions would always speak louder to Roadhog than the words he'd chosen to abandon.

Roadhog yawns again, the silence between them otherwise drawing out, but in a moment the larger Junker lays a calloused hand over Junkrat's back like a scratchy old blanket.

His immediate, physical response is separated from his eventual verbal one by a vast delay spanning incalculable minutes.

"That mean we can go?"

[muroieda]

There's a tension between Junkrat's shoulderblades when Roadhog places a hand over him, but the weight and the warmth eases it out of him. He immediately falls asleep--or dozes, he's not quite sure--and the span of time between Roadhog's gesture and question could either be a matter of hours, minutes, or even seconds and Junkrat is none the wiser.

"Yeah," he says, roused from his half-sleep. "M'ready fer bed."

With a sudden grogginess he picks himself up off of Roadhog and wobbles towards the ladder. Sure, there might be a porthole under the hammock that leads directly to his bed, but that's exclusively for use when there's no risk of infesting his bed with dirt, i.e. used it to get up there in the first place. Junkrat may have no problem getting dirty or living in a place that looks like a wreck, but that doesn't mean he likes living in filth.

More opportunities to get injured by accident. More opportunities for things to get lost or forgotten.

Once he gets inside, he sits on the edge of the bed and pulls off his clothes and prosthetics, goes through his usual nighttime cleaning routine with a bit of tired sluggishness, then reaches for the television remote, giving it a tap to turn the television on and turning to Roadhog.

"An entire universe's telly ta watch," he proposes. "Whaddya wanna put on?"