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He hadn’t wanted to come to the shopping center, but they honestly didn’t have much of a choice.
Jamison had managed to badly singe his last presentable shirt, and Roadhog was pretty sure that his own get-up (essentially a toned down biker outfit, all denim and black leather) wasn’t going to be appropriate for this next job that Rat wanted to pull. So he’d bought them both stupid t-shirts from the resort gift shop - the kind with a woman’s body wearing a bikini airbrushed on the front - and Rat had shoplifted some hats and sunglasses, and it was off to the fucking outlet mall to find something slightly more respectable.
This wouldn’t keep happening, he reflected as he parked their stolen car, if Jamison didn’t insist on spending all of their money on explosives and lavish hotels. They could easily have gone to ground for at least half a year on what they’d pulled during that last bank heist, but Jamison had insisted on a ridiculous seaside vacation at the kind of stupid couples resort where they stared in horror at the big man and his scrawny peg-legged companion right up until Roadhog slapped a wad of cash down on the desk, and then it was all smiles and ‘sir’s and an upgrade to the spa package, which Jamison gleefully took advantage of while Hog sat in the room and stared out at the ocean and wondered how the hell he’d gotten himself tangled up with such an idiot.
There were a number of stores in the shopping center, and Roadhog reached over, gripping the back of Rat’s t-shirt with a massive meaty hand. “No. Shopping,” he rumbled. Jamison opened his eyes wide in feigned innocence as he tugged on his stolen baseball cap. It was embroidered with the legend I’M WITH STUPID and an arrow that pointed down.
“I thought that’s what we were here for,” Rat wheedled. Roadhog put on his own hat (I’D RATHER BE FISHING) and gave Junkrat a little shake.
“Clothes only,” he said. “Stay close to me.”
“Fine,” Rat muttered. “Buzzkill.”
Hog retrieved a handgun from the glove compartment and tucked it down the back of his pants. The scrap gun was too big to hide under his clothes, but he didn’t feel safe without some kind of protection, and ever since the Incident At The Arby’s, Jamison was forbidden from taking his bombs anywhere unless they fully intended to blow something up.
They drew a few glances from the other people in the parking lot, but Roadhog ignored them. These were ordinary people doing ordinary things, and they wouldn’t dare start shit with a man as big as he was. Still, the more people looked, the more likely they were to recall the strange duo when the cops came knocking, so Roadhog hurried Jamison through the parking lot, a huge hand planted between his shoulder blades.
“Are we gonna get lunch while we’re out?” Rat asked, tipping his head back to grin up at Roadhog.
“Sure,” Hog answered absently. There it was, one of those generic stores with the kind of clothes that ordinary people wore. It’s for a job, he reminded himself as his eyes crawled in disgust over the polo-shirt-wearing mannequin in the store’s window. It’s for a job and it’s for Jamie…
He was so focused on getting the clothes and getting this all over with that he didn’t even notice the pet store next door until Jamison twisted away from his hand and bounded through the doors with an excited whoop! Roadhog stood a moment, rubbing the bridge of his nose with thick fingers in an attempt to massage away the headache that he felt forming behind his eyes. He should have just come here himself and left Jamie at the resort.
There was a long honk and Roadhog slowly turned his head to stare at the offending car. The woman behind the wheel was one of those middle-aged white women with the kind of haircut that struck fear into the hearts of retail workers. Her name was probably Karen. She gestured impatiently for him to move out of the crosswalk and Hog, who had already endured enough petty annoyance for one day, balled up his fist and slammed it down on her hood so hard that the metal buckled.
Her screams of rage were a balm to his weary soul as he lumbered into the pet shop after Jamison.
Inside was a maze of temporary kennels stacked up and around the wide entrance to the store. From among the wire bars rose a varying chorus of meows, baby talk, and cooing. A large, colorful sign declared that it was “Cat Adoption Day!” and Roadhog sighed. Rat was nowhere to be seen, but he could hear a familiar high pitched giggle from further inside the labyrinth and so he closed his eyes briefly, then took the plunge.
He found Jamison with his fingers threaded through one of the kennels, his face a mask of manic delight. On the other side of the bars, a fluffy orange kitten was gnawing at him, tail lashing wildly. There were several children clustered around, some accompanied by parents, some just left to roam wild. All of them were laughing and pointing and some had managed to push close to play with their own kittens.
Roadhog elbowed through the crowd and dropped a hand on Jamison’s shoulder. Jamie turned around with a guilty start and smiled sheepishly up at him. “It’s Cat Adoption Day,” he offered, the sentence ending on a hopeful little uptick.
“No,” Roadhog said. “Come on.”
“Can I just—?” He whipped around, squirming out of Roadhog’s grip and waving one of the attendants over. “I just wanna look at that one, the little orange one.” The kitten, deprived of Jamison’s finger, rose from its prone position and bounded after him, meowing loudly for attention.
“Ew, gross!” a little boy exclaimed. “It’s only got three legs!”
The silence that fell then was incomplete but ominous, as both Roadhog and Junkrat pivoted to regard the boy. Rat wasn’t especially sensitive about the fact that he was missing limbs but Hog knew from long experience that he had a soft spot for other people and creatures who were similarly disabled; once during a bank job, he’d slipped a 5,000 dollar bundle of cash into the pocket of a teller who had a prosthetic arm, and he’d once blown up the shop belonging to a man who’d made rude comments about a customer in a wheelchair.
“I’m sorry, maybe I didn’t hear that right,” Rat said, hooking the fingers of his prosthetic hand in the wire mesh of the kennel. He gripped, twisted, and the bars buckled. The kid took a few steps back, looking over his shoulder for some responsible adult to protect him. “Did you just say ‘ew, gross’? To a kitten?”
Roadhog very seriously considered just wrapping an arm around Jamison’s waist and carrying him out of the store. They could find ugly clothes somewhere else, surely. But the kitten had already squirmed out of the kennel and onto Rat’s shoulder and Roadhog could hear the escalating tones of one of the cat ladies behind him. His headache throbbed. They weren’t getting out of this one without some property damage.
He didn’t hear what Rat said next, as he’d leaned in close to the kid and was muttering something that, judging by the maniacal grin on his face, would give the poor little bastard nightmares until he turned 18. He did, however, see a glint of metal in Rat’s cupped hand and knew immediately that his admonishments to leave the grenades at the hotel had been thoroughly ignored. As he’d expected, honestly, but still.
“We’re leaving,” he said, gripping the back of Jamison’s shirt and lifting him bodily off the ground. The kitten hissed and Jamison reached up, scooping it off his shoulder and holding it close against his chest.
“Sir, excuse me! Sir!” One of the cat ladies was running after them with a clipboard and Roadhog sighed again. When would people learn? “Sir, you can’t leave with the cat! There are adoption fees and paperwork and—”
Her mouth snapped shut so fast that her teeth clicked together and Roadhog looked regretfully at the gun in his own hand, wishing it could be different this time. Junkrat, still dangling from Hog’s other hand like a scruffed kitten, giggled and kicked his legs in barely concealed delight.
“Don’t,” he told the woman, and she nodded frantically, backing away until she could dart behind a stack of kennels. No one else tried to stop them as he carried Rat out through the automatic doors and set him down on the sidewalk. The skinny little psycho immediately cozied up against his side, head resting on Roadhog’s broad shoulder.
“What d’you think I should name him?” he asked, holding the kitten up. “I was thinking… Louise!”
“Rat,” said Roadhog.
“No, that’s a stupid name,” Junkrat answered, tickling the kitten under the chin. “That’s my name.”
“RAT,” said Roadhog.
“I dunno, do you think he looks like a Louise? Maybe he’s more of a Grant,” Junkrat mused.
“Jamie,” said Roadhog.
“What?” Rat finally looked away from the kitten, paused a moment, and then gave a high, nervous laugh. “How’d they get here so quick?”
From the cluster of police cars, strategically parked so that there was no way for them to escape, there came a familiar voice. “That’s him!” the Karen screeched. “That’s the one that hit my car!”
“Tch,” Jamison said. “We hit a car? When did that happen, I don’t remember us hitting a car…”
“I hit it,” Hog answered. “With a fist.”
“So this is your fault,” Jamison mused.
“Mmhmm.”
“Not mine.”
“Yes.”
“Well. Interesting turn of events, ain’t it!”
“Just throw the fucking grenade, Jamie.”
It was a messy escape, and Hog would reflect on that later, safe in a cheap motel with Jamie curled up against his chest, the yet to be named kitten purring beside his ear. The heat was on even more so than it had been before, but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. And maybe that was the problem, maybe he was too indulgent.
Jamie stirred and muttered in his sleep and Roadhog sighed, wrapping a huge arm around him and pulling him closer. Maybe he was indulgent, but what the fuck, right? He’d never intended to get tangled up with this little maniac in any way other than the purely financial but, looking at Jamie’s sleeping face, mouth wide open as he snored and drooled the night away, Hog couldn’t imagine it any other way.
He heard sirens out on the highway and listened intently for a moment until they dwindled away, lost in the night. They would have to be so much more careful now, would have to be careful not to be seen in public together, hell, they might even have to leave the country for a while. And all over a fucking kitten.
Hog glanced up at it, nestled on the pillow, sleeping with its face buried in Jamie’s wild, singed hair, and he sighed again. Even now he didn’t regret it. Maybe the part where they’d blown up a dozen police cars and stolen a motorcycle, yes, fine, that he could file away in the Regrets folder, and he would absolutely be having a serious conversation with Jamison about how No Grenades In Public did not actually mean Bring As Many As You Can Fit In Your Pockets Without Hog Noticing.
But apart from that - apart from the general theft, the property damage, the fact that they hadn’t accomplished anything that they’d set out to do, and also that they now appeared to be the owners of a small orange kitten - it hadn’t been a bad day after all.