Chapter Text
Jamison “Junkrat” Fawkes growled in frustration as he stared down at the bloodstains in his underwear. Or, he liked to think of it as a growl. His growls always came out half yip, half muffled scream. Not very intimidating. But he guessed that was why he had Roadhog – so he wouldn't have to be intimidating.
Right now, he wasn't so focused on his inadequate growl (though it did cross his mind because what didn't cross his mind). He was more concerned with the mess in his boxers. When his low‑down guts had started stabbing him like fucking knives, he had desperately hoped against all reason that it was just food poisoning. Or some kind of deadly rupture, or the radiation catching up with him or something. Anything but this fucking bullshit. Usually, with the radiation of the Outback and the malnutrition and the juice he'd been taking on-and-off for years, his period was spotty at its worst. But between his recent stay in Hanamura and being “off again” with the juice, it was back in full force. Eyes still cast downwards, he heard a surprisingly gentle knock on the door of the hotel bathroom. Though, Hog was careful to be gentle when he wasn't actively trying to destroy something, so it maybe wasn't that surprising.
“You alright in there Rat?” asked that deep growl of a voice from the other side. It sounded softer, somehow, without the mask filtering it. Junkrat kind of liked it, actually. Scratch that. He loved it. Almost as much as he loved Roadhog's unmasked face. And, not to get soppy, but he wanted to personally thank every country that wasn't irradiated to hell and back for making this moment possible. But it still wasn't enough to make this situation any less bloody awful. Heh. Bloody awful.
“Fuckin great,” Junkrat replied, clutching at his abdomen as another knife stabbed into his guts. He moaned slightly, and he heard a doubtful growl from Roadhog. “Foine, foine! It's bloody shark week in here.” A confused grunt. Junkrat sighed. “Y'know, the red scare, crimson horror, red badge of courage. The curse. Red sky at morning.” Silence. Finding himself exhausted of all euphemisms, Junkrat let out another half-scream. “Me monthly! I'm on me fuckin period!”
“Oh,” said Roadhog simply.
“That's it?” seethed Junkrat. “'Oh'?” He could practically hear his bodyguard shrugging from the other side of the door.
“Forgot.” And Junkrat couldn't even pretend that didn't make him feel a bit better. Roadhog knew, of course. Roadhog was the one who, once they pulled their first heist and got the money together, had threatened (er, pressured, that was the word they used) the good surgeon into giving him his top surgery. When they were able, when it wasn't too risky or complicated, Roadie helped him nab the juice that staved off his monthly cycle.
Junkrat had tried to hide the offending bodyparts from Roadhog, had even managed managed for all of a week before his bodyguard accidentally spotted him peeling off a worn-out, torn-up, sweat- and blood-stained binder. Rat had proceeded to spill his guts to the closest thing he had to a friend. He'd be lying if he pretended there weren't some tears. Roadhog, who had found himself warming up to his boss much quicker than expected, had told him they'd get him a new binder. So hearing that it had slipped Roadhog's mind that Junkrat would even have a period eased some of the tension in his shoulders and back.
Tension which immediately returned when his organs spazzed and doubled him over again. He must've groaned, because Roadhog spoke up again.
“Anything I can do, Boss?” he asked. Junkrat would've gotten melty at being called boss if he hadn't been hurting so much. He tried to think through the loop of “shit fuck shit goddamn fuck shit bugger me oh fuck” that was going through his head. Or maybe it was actually coming out of his mouth. Oops.
“Errands,” he managed.
“What d'you need?” Fuck. More thinking.
“Rags,” he said. “Uh, pads, tampons, whatever.” He sucked in a breath. “New underwear,” he said, his face reddening. “Snacks. Don't care what. Somethin disgusting. And somethin to stop the goddamn pain.” He squinched his eyes shut and tugged at his hair. “Please.”
“Sure Boss. Be right back.” A moment of silence. “Love you.” Junkrat teared up a bit. Didn't matter how many times he heard it, he didn't think he was going to get used to that one.
“Love you, too.” He heard a grunt of acknowledgment, then heavy footsteps and the hotel room door opening and closing. Once Hog was safely out, Junkrat pulled up his shorts and let himself fall onto the tile bathroom floor in the fetal position. His limbs clanked and clattered against the ceramic tiles.
He couldn't stop thinking about how, with the juice, he wouldn't be dealing with this at all. Once he stopped (which happened periodically; he didn't exactly have the most stable lifestyle), he always had a hard time to remembering to try to start again. Or it was too many steps to get it and he got lost in the middle of them. Especially when he and Roadhog were never in the same place for more than what felt like three seconds. Bombs were easy. Coordinating shit enough to get T was hard. His scattered brain was just… like that. Always had been. Lying on the cold, hard floor, he started to convulse with dry sobs. His shitty fucking brain was always like that – over-emotional and moving from feeling to feeling in a matter of minutes. His period just made it worse. The side of him that couldn't stay still was always at war with the side that was just tired from living on the run for so long. From having to look out for murderers and thieves and police and people who would torture him for years until he finally let out his secrets and they killed him. Rat had always been twitchy – hard not to be for a starved kid in the Outback – but it was worse to know that the paranoia he'd always harbored was actually verifiable.
He must've fallen asleep at some point during his agony, because the sound of another gentle knock on the door jolted him awake with an almost violent inhalation of breath. Junkrat wiped a small trail of drool off his face before moaning pitifully in response.
“Rat?” said Roadhog from outside the door. “I got the stuff you wanted.”
“Yeah?” asked Junkrat weakly.
“Yeah,” answered Roadhog. There was a long pause. “Door's locked. You gotta let me in, boss.”
“Roight,” said Junkrat. He planted his arm on the floor and pushed himself up, groaning in the process. He had known that this moment would come – the moment when he had to get out of the fetal position and finally stand – but he hadn't been ready for it. For a minute, he swore to God that cramps hurt more than losing his arm and leg. He knew it wasn't true, but it made him feel less like a pansy for being so debilitated by his own uterus. When he unlocked the door and crack it open, Roadhog holding the plastic bags of convenience-store goods looked like Saint Peter welcoming him through the gates of heaven. Which was great, because like hell was that ever gonna happen. Junkrat would've cackled at the thought if he hadn't felt so miserable. And embarrassed.
“Thanks mate,” he mumbled, blushing and not meeting Roadhog's eyes as he snatched the bags from his bodyguard's hands. He scurried back inside, slamming the door behind him. A moment or two later, after Junkrat had had time to put a tampon in and replace his underwear (and mourn the bloody state of his shorts), there was another knock on the door.
“Can I come in?” asked Roadhog. Junkrat groaned and buried his face in his hands, ashamed, but aware that letting Roadhog in was probably the right choice.
“Yeah,” he said meekly. The door creaked open and 550lbs of muscle and fat and comfort stepped into the bathroom, which suddenly seemed much smaller by comparison. Rather than talk, he sat down on the floor and started rummaging through the plastic bags. He pulled out a pill bottle that looked positively minuscule in his large hand.
“Take any of these yet?” he asked. Without looking up, Junkrat shook his head. He heard the sound of water running.
“Hand,” said Roadhog gruffly. Obediently, Junkrat held out his hand. Roadhog deposited two pills, small and oval and blue, into it, and Junkrat tossed them back into his throat. “Water,” said Roadhog, and Junkrat took the cup, even though he had already swallowed the pills dry.
“Bottle says to take two at first, then a third if you need it,” Roadhog explained. “Tell me how you're feeling after thirty minutes.” Junkrat nodded, embarrassment coloring his face as he felt tears slipping down his cheeks. Roadhog laid a careful (always careful, always so careful with him) on his shoulder. “How're you doing?”
“Forgot how much it hurts, Roadie,” he said, wiping his nose on his arm. “Got blood on me shorts, too.” His favorite shorts, the ones with his and Hog's patches on them, the ones he wore whenever Roadie didn't make him wear something else because they were filthy. And they always were filthy, but they didn't usually have his own blood staining the crotch. The thought made the tears roll even faster. He felt a heavy pair of arms wrap around him.
“The pills will help,” said Roadhog, his voice a low rumble. “Bought you a heating pad, too. Chocolate-covered potato chips. Some of the underwear has skulls on it.” He gave Junkrat a squeeze around the shoulders. “Got a plan, too. You take a shower.” Junkrat groaned, but Roadhog talked over it. “You'll feel better. Then, laundry. For your shorts.”
“It's a set-in stain, Roadie,” Junkrat hiccuped. “Ain't comin' out.”
“Got a stain stick,” replied Roadhog, waving a tiny red cylinder in his large hand. “Blood's got no chance.” A pause while Junkrat sniffled a bit and tried to gather himself enough to actually look at his partner. It didn't work.
“I don't wanna take a shower,” he said miserably.
“You're taking a shower,” said Roadhog flatly. His voice softened. “And I'm staying here until you're done. Want help?”
“Yeah,” said Junkrat. And so he let Roadhog help him take off his prosthetics and turn on the water and get it to the right temperature, help him get into a position where he could lean against the wall and clean himself (because he sure as hell wasn't letting Roadie wash him when he was like this), let him move the hotel toiletries so that Junkrat could reach them more easily. He let Roadhog comfort him when he shouted and yelped because the sensation of the water pounding on his back was too overwhelming. And as he did his best to get himself clean, he made himself think about his partner, who had gotten him chocolate potato chips and underwear and a heating pad and pads and tampons and even a fucking stain stick (whatever the hell that was). And in spite of everything, he smiled a little bit. He'd never had a family before.