Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first time you meet Jamison “Junkrat” Fawkes, you’re ten years old and supposed to be helping your mum sort scrap. Instead, you’re following the noise.

The outpost sits just outside Junkertown’s main gate, a sprawl of rusted corrugated metal and half-dead machines. People say the wasteland’s full of ghosts — but the thing that rattles the walls that day isn’t a ghost. It’s a boom.

A deep, rolling explosion that kicks up a cloud of red dust and sends a ripple through the hot air.

You duck behind a broken signpost, heart hammering, and peek out. There, half-buried in smoke and laughter, is a boy. Fifteen, maybe sixteen years old. Tall and thin like he hasn’t quite grown into himself, wild blond hair sticking out in every direction, and a grin that’s a little too wide to be entirely safe.

He’s crouched beside what used to be a vending machine, scribbling in a soot-smudged notebook and muttering to himself.

“Reckon the fuse’s jus’ a tick too short, eh? Coulda blown me bloody eyebrows off again—hah! Beauty o’ progress, that!”

You take one cautious step forward, and he looks up so fast you think he’ll topple over. His goggles slide down his nose, and for a second, he just stares — like he wasn’t expecting anyone human to show up.

Then the grin snaps back on.

“Crikey! Didn’t see ya there, little sheila. Don’t sneak up on a man when he’s flirtin’ with combustion!”

You blink at him, unsure if you’re in trouble or about to learn something amazing. “You’re the one making all that noise.”

“Noise? That there’s art, luv!”

He gestures proudly at the crater. A chunk of metal still smokes in the dirt.

“She went boom like a dream. Been tweakin’ the powder ratio for days.”

He watches you then — not quite wary, but curious — like he’s deciding if you’ll bolt.

“Ain’t scared, are ya?”

You shake your head. “Should I be?”

That earns you a spark of genuine delight. “Only if I start singin’. That’s usually a bad sign.”

He laughs — loud, wild, bright — the kind of sound that fills up the emptiness of the wasteland. You don’t know it yet, but that laugh is going to stay with you for years.

Chapter Text

You hadn’t planned on stealing.

But plans don’t mean much when your stomach feels like it’s eating itself.

The market’s crowded today — traders shouting, engines coughing smoke, the air thick with dust and the smell of fried meat you can’t afford. You wait until one of the vendors turns, then reach for a dented tin of beans.

Your fingers close around it — and then a shout.

“Oi! Thief!”

You run.

Feet pounding, breath tearing at your throat, the can clutched to your chest. You dart between stalls, duck under hanging tarps, shove past a crate of scrap. Behind you, the shouting follows — heavier boots, angrier voices.

You almost make it out into the alley before you trip over a pipe and hit the dirt. The can rolls away.

You scramble for it—

—and a hand grabs your collar.

“Gotcha now, you little—”

The man doesn’t finish his sentence, because something explodes.

Not close — just close enough that the shockwave sends both of you stumbling. Dust rains from the roofs, and when you blink the grit out of your eyes, the man’s gone.

Instead, standing in the mouth of the alley, smoke curling around him like a lover, is someone you half-remember.

He’s taller now, broader through the shoulders, still wild-haired and grinning — but his right arm and leg are metal, rough-welded and gleaming dull in the sun.

“Well, look what the scrap dragged in,” he says, accent thick and bright even through the ringing in your ears.

You freeze. “...Jamison?”

He blinks, and for a heartbeat something flickers — recognition, maybe surprise. Then he huffs a laugh.

“Strewth. You’ve grown.”

You don’t know what to say. The last time you saw him, you were barely up to his chest. Now you have dust in your hair, grime on your hands, and hunger in your bones.

He tilts his head, mechanical fingers clinking as he gestures toward the tin still lying in the dirt.

“That worth nearly gettin’ caught over?”

You swallow. “Wasn’t exactly spoiled for choice.”

He studies you a moment longer, then shrugs and limps forward, each step uneven but steady.

“C’mon. Ain’t right to let someone starve in my alley.”

You hesitate, but he’s already turning away, the smoke following him like it knows his rhythm. You trail after him — not quite trusting, not quite afraid.

He leads you into a half-collapsed shack, cluttered with scrap and tools and the sharp scent of gunpowder. A bomb casing hums quietly on the workbench. He rummages through a crate until he finds a dusty can with no label, tosses it to you.

“Here. Dunno what it is, but it’s food.”

You pry it open with shaking hands. He leans back against the wall, one metal knee creaking, watching you eat without saying much.

“You still blow things up?” you manage between bites.

He grins, teeth bright in the dim light. “More than ever.”

Something in his eyes softens, just a little.

“Ain’t much else I’m good at.”

You look at the gleam of metal where flesh used to be, the burn marks across his collarbone, and you realize the wasteland’s carved pieces out of both of you — just in different ways.

For now, though, you eat. He tinkers. The world burns quietly outside, and for the first time in a long while, you don’t feel quite so alone.

Chapter Text

You’re sixteen now, and the world hasn’t been kind about it.

The mirror shard in your pocket says you’ve grown taller, but not much else. Too thin, shoulders like wire, dust in your hair that never fully comes out. You don’t even look female half the time, just another stray with sharp elbows and sunburned skin. It’s fine. No one looks twice at strays.

Except him.

You find Jamison behind his workshop, half-buried in a mess of copper wire and half-built mines. The late afternoon light glints off the metal that’s become part of him — his right side now all improvised engineering and stubbornness. The rest of him is still boy-shaped, if a whole lot taller now, still alive in ways the wasteland forgot how to be.

He’s stripped to the waist in the heat, a dozen small scars laddering his ribs like tally marks. Every movement is restless energy — his flesh hand jittering, his prosthetic one twitching as if the metal has its own thoughts. He hums while he works, off-key and bright, and the air smells of oil, salt, and smoke.
You tell yourself you only came for spare parts, but you stand there too long before speaking.

“That one’s new.”

He startles, then grins over his shoulder. “Ain’t she a beaut? Gonna make a big boom.”

He taps the device with a screwdriver, and for a heartbeat you’re sure it’ll go off. It doesn’t. He laughs at your flinch.

“Relax. Fuse ain’t even wired yet.”

You roll your eyes, try to sound unimpressed. “You said that last time.”

“An’ it didn’t blow, did it?”

He flashes a smile so bright it feels like another explosion. His teeth are crooked, his freckles dusted with soot, his eyes gold in the sun — wild and clever and too alive. You shouldn’t be staring, but it’s hard not to. He moves like he’s always mid-dance with danger, and you’ve never seen anything so beautiful.

You crouch beside him, pretending to study the bomb’s casing. “You ever stop?”

“From what?”

“From… this. Explodin’ things. Tinkerin’. Yellin’ at yourself.”

He chuckles, deep and rasped. “If I stop, the noise catches up. Can’t have that.”

You glance up at him. “Noise?”

He twirls the screwdriver once between his fingers, then grins. “The thinkin’ kind.”

You don’t ask more. You just watch his profile — the way soot sits in the curve of his jaw, the faint shimmer of sweat on his collarbone, the hair that refuses to obey gravity. He’s chaos wrapped around a live wire of a heartbeat that dances to its own fuse, and you, with your hollow eyes and calloused hands, can’t figure out why your chest hurts when he laughs.

He notices you looking. Not the why of it, just the look.

“You gone quiet on me, scrap-rat."

“Just tired.” You force a smile. “You talk too much.”

“That I do.” He grins, turning back to the bomb. “Lucky for you I talk better’n I sing.”

You laugh — small, startled. He tosses you a pair of gloves and nods toward the mess of wire.

“Well, don’t just sit there. Hand me the blue one.”

You do. His fingers brush yours — warm flesh against oil-slick metal. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

For the first time, you start to understand the danger that isn’t made of gunpowder.

Chapter Text

Overwatch base smells of ozone, oil, and coffee that’s been reheated too many times. You’ve been here three days, still getting used to the uniforms and the way people say mission instead of job.

They brought you in because you’re good with machines— good at making broken things work again. A lifetime of scavenging teaches you the value of a bolt, the patience of metal.

You’re elbow-deep in a pulse-mine schematic when the door slams open.

“Oi, Hog! You seen the new recruit yet? They said somethin’ about—”

The voice hits you before the sight does: that unmistakable rhythm, vowels warped by sun and sand. You look up and time folds in on itself.

He’s there. Taller than memory, broader, every movement still jittering with barely contained energy. Hair still defying gravity, but his skin is mapped with new scars. His right arm and leg gleam brighter now, newer tech, Overwatch refinements that can’t quite disguise the junker bones beneath.

And his grin— God, that grin— hasn’t changed at all.

For half a heartbeat you’re fourteen again, soot-streaked and starving, watching him laugh over a half-built bomb.

He stops mid-sentence. The wrench in his hand clatters to the floor.

“...Strewth.”

Mako snorts behind him. “What?”

“Nothin’, mate,” Junkrat mutters, eyes still fixed on you like he’s trying to make sure you’re not a mirage.

You wipe your palms on your coveralls, trying for calm, professional. “Jamison Fawkes, right? I heard you were on base.”

Your voice sounds steady. It shouldn’t.

Inside, everything’s fizzing— old crush, old dust, the shock of seeing that wild light still burning behind his eyes.

He blinks once, twice, and that slow, incredulous smile creeps back.

“Well, I’ll be buggered. You’re— Yer the scrap-rat from Junkertown.”

The nickname should sting, but it feels like sunlight. You lift your chin, lips twitching. “Not much of a rat anymore.”

“No,” he breathes, looking you up and down, “You’re bloody stunning.”

The room tilts a little. You manage to laugh, casual, grown-up, not at all like the kid who once blushed at his grin.

“Still talk too much, Fawkes.”

“Still listenin’,” he says teasingly.

Mako clears his throat loudly. “You two done, or should I leave you the room?”

You glance down at your schematics, heat crawling up your neck. Jamison’s prosthetic hand fumbles the wrench again, and it clatters against the floor a second time. He curses under his breath, and Mako’s low chuckle rumbles like an engine.

You pick up the wrench, press it back into his hand.

“Try not to blow up the lab.”

“No promises there,” he says, but he’s still staring at you like you’re the first water a man dying of thirst is seeing.

You turn back to your workbench, pretending to focus. Inside, every part of you hums like a lit fuse.

Chapter Text

He’s had years of explosions, fights, jobs, missions, noise— but nothing hits quite like that look on your face when you turned around.

He can still see the kid you were, all dirt and stubbornness, but now you’re standing there with grease on your cheek and confidence in your shoulders, and it’s unfair how it makes his chest ache.

He keeps trying to play it cool. He can’t. His hands won’t stop shaking; even the prosthetic twitches. He drops the damn wrench again.

“Get a grip, Rat,” Mako mutters.

“Tryin’, mate,” he hisses back, though it comes out with a slightly histerical laugh.

Because what else can he do? You’re here, in Overwatch blues, alive and brilliant, and for the first time since the wasteland he feels something that isn’t hunger or fire.

He watches you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, eyes narrowing at a schematic like you’re defusing the universe.

And he thinks— she’s still not scared of the noise.

He’s chaos wrapped around a live wire of a heartbeat, and right now it’s sparking like mad.

Chapter Text

You’re starting to get used to Overwatch’s rhythm — missions, debriefs, the whine of engines and the constant smell of oil. It almost feels normal. Almost.

What’s not normal is Jamison Fawkes acting like he’s forgotten how to talk.

For someone who usually fills every silence with noise, he’s been… different.

He still cracks jokes, still tinkers, still explodes things just to “test the resonance,” but lately his words stumble. His laugh comes too fast. He looks away too quick when your eyes meet.

You chalk it up to stress. Or maybe the new prosthetic calibration.

You’re bent over an engine when Cassidy strolls into the hangar, hat tipped, grin lazy as a cat’s stretch.

“Well now, sugar, they didn’t tell me we had mechanics this pretty workin’ in the guts of the ship.”

You snort, not looking up. “Flattery gets you nowhere, cowboy.”

“Oh, reckon it gets me a smile at least.”

He leans against the workbench, easy confidence radiating off him. You give him a polite smirk, the kind you save for people who mean well but don’t understand how long it takes to unbolt a thermal coil.

Across the room, something clatters.

You glance over— Jamison’s dropped a whole crate of detonator caps.

“Bloody hell!” He scrambles to pick them up, muttering under his breath.

Mako, nearby, rumbles a sound that might be laughter. “You’re makin’ a scene.”

“Ain’t makin’ nothin’!” Jamison snaps, too loud, too defensive.

You frown. “You okay over there?”

He waves a hand, metal fingers twitching. “Peachy! Just— bit of static in the wires, that’s all.”

Cassidy chuckles. “You boys sure know how to make an entrance.”

“Ain’t no entrance, cowboy,” Jamison mutters, “just clumsy, ain’t I?”

You don’t catch the edge in his voice. You just smile faintly, trying to diffuse the awkwardness. “You? Clumsy? Shocking.”

He doesn’t grin back.

Later, when you head out to the flight deck, he’s there again, half in shadow, goggles perched on his forehead. You mean to tease him about the caps, but the look on his face stops you.

It’s soft, almost wounded. Like he’s looking at something too bright to touch.

“You an’ Cassidy get on all right then?” he asks, casual, not looking at you.

You blink. “Yeah, he’s funny.”

“Funny,” he repeats, quiet. “Yeah. Bet he is.”

You tilt your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothin’.” He forces a grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Reckon he’s a good sort. Real smooth, that one. Knows how t’talk to people.”

“You talk just fine, Jamie.”

He laughs— short, sharp, wrong. “Yeah, when I ain’t blowin’ up the bloody conversation.”

You open your mouth to say something, but he’s already turning away, prosthetic arm glinting in the sunset.

“Anyway. Don’t let me keep ya. Got bombs t’build, hearts t’break, y’know the drill.”

And before you can ask what that means, he’s gone — a flash of smoke and movement and the faint scent of gunpowder lingering in the air.

You stand there for a long moment, staring at the space he left behind, the words still caught somewhere in your throat. You don’t know what you said wrong, only that the air feels heavier without his noise in it.

Mako watches from the corner, silent, and shakes his head.

Chapter Text

You hear it before you see it — that wet, sneering sound of someone enjoying their own cruelty.

“Bloody hell, what’s that smell? You been sleepin’ in the engine bay again, Rat?”

Jamison freezes mid-motion. The wrench in his hand stops turning, his grin falters for half a second. He tries to laugh it off.

“Nah, mate. That’s just the perfume o’ the Outback — dust, diesel, an’ bad manners.”

The tech doesn’t let it go. He’s new, soft hands and clean boots — someone who’s never had to ration water by the mouthful.

“Figures. Damn Junker trash. Don’t know why command lets the likes of you and that hog monster in here. Should’ve left you both out where you belong.”

The room goes too quiet. You can feel the heat crawl up your spine before your brain catches up. You’re halfway across the hangar before you even realize you’ve dropped your datapad.

“Oi.”

That one word lands like a shockwave. Heads turn. It’s not the volume — it’s the accent, thick and raw, the one you spent years sanding down to sound “normal,” to make people forget where you came from.

You step between them, close enough to smell the ozone off the generator.

“You wanna say that again, mate?”

He blinks. “I was just—”

“Nah, nah, don’t start backpedalin’ now. You had a lot t’say a second ago.”

Your vowels are broader now, that buried accent grinding through every word. You can feel it, the old rhythm, the one you spent years unlearning.

“What’s wrong, eh? Can’t stand a bit o’ soot on your clean little hands? Don’t like breathin’ the same air as us junkers?”

The man looks nervous. He should.

“Thought not,” you mutter, voice dropping low. “So do us all a favour and keep your mouth shut, ya useless bloody cunt.”

Jamison lets out a laugh — quick, startled, half-delighted. “Strewth! Didn’t think ya still had that spunk in ya.”

You glance over your shoulder at him, pulse still racing. “Guess you forgot where I came from.”

His grin widens, teeth bright against soot. “Wouldn’t dare to.”

The tech mutters something that sounds like an apology and slips away fast. You exhale, suddenly aware that the whole hangar is watching. Jamison’s still standing there, eyes wide, like he can’t quite believe you’d done that — for him.

From the corner, Mako gives a low, amused grunt. He doesn’t say a word, but the look he throws you as he passes — a slow nod, half hidden behind his mask — says enough.

You turn back to your workbench, trying to look busy, trying not to notice the way Jamison keeps sneaking glances at you like you’ve just set off the best explosion he’s ever seen.

Chapter Text

The mission was supposed to be simple: in, sabotage, out.

Nothing ever stays simple with explosives.

You’re sitting on a crate in the med-bay, a strip of gauze pressed to the gash on your forearm. The antiseptic stings. You hiss through your teeth.

“Should’ve seen that shrapnel comin’,” you mutter.

Across from you, Jamison perches on a worktable, ankle bouncing, one sleeve shredded and a shallow burn streaking across his shoulder. The med-bot tried to make him sit still; it gave up ten minutes ago.

He grins anyway. “Least we both got souvenirs, eh?”

You roll your eyes. “You call second-degree burns a souvenir?”

“If it leaves a scar, it’s art.”

He says it with such absurd sincerity that you laugh despite yourself.

When you look up again, the sound dies in your throat.

The overhead light is harsh, and it picks out every speck of soot, every coppery freckle scattered across his face. There’s a constellation just under his left eye you never noticed before. His hair’s a mess of smoke-blond curls, goggles perched crooked on his forehead, and for someone covered in dust and danger he’s — beautiful. Ridiculous and brilliant and beautiful.

He catches you staring. “What?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothin’.”

He tilts his head, smile lopsided. “Yer blushin’, luv.”

“Heat,” you lie. “Med-bay’s too warm.”

“Right. Must be.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip.

He picks up the gauze roll from beside you, hands surprisingly gentle as he nods at your arm. “Let me.”

You hesitate, then let him. His fingers—one metal, one flesh—move careful as clockwork, the prosthetic whining softly as it tightens the wrap. When he’s done, he sits back, looking absurdly proud of himself.

“See? Proper patch-job. Didn’t even blow anythin’ up.”

You huff a laugh. “Miracle of the century.”

He grins wider, freckles shifting with it, and for one dizzy moment you think you could trace each one with your thumb.

“You’re starin’ again,” he murmurs.

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“’m not.”

“Are bloody so—an’ don’t lie, ya terrible liar.”

You open your mouth, but Mako’s shadow fills the doorway before you can answer. He looks between you, snorts, and drops a battered first-aid tin onto the table he just used on himself.

“You two done playin’ nurse? Grub should be ready, ’n I’m starvin’.”

Then he lumbers off down the hall, leaving you both blushing and looking everywhere but at the other.

Chapter Text

The day the transport lands, the whole base hums with activity. Someone important is visiting—brass, investors, scientists, you’re not sure. You’ve got an engine to tune and no interest in politics.

At least, you did.

“Oh my! You must be Jamison Fawkes,” she says. “The demolitions expert. Fascinating work!”

You glance up from your tools just in time to see her—polished boots, perfect hair, and a clipboard that probably cost more than a month’s rations back home. She’s standing too close. Laughing too loudly. Her hand lands on his arm like she owns the right.

Jamison, oblivious as ever, grins wide. “Ah, yeah, that’s me! Demo-bloke, resident boom-artist, at yer service.”

He wiggles the fingers of his prosthetic hand like he’s showing off fireworks.

“Oh, you’re funny!” she says, laughing too loud. “I’ve read your file. You’ve done some remarkable work. It really helped the teams in the field.”

He scratches the back of his neck, a faint flush creeping up under the soot. “Ah, y’know. Bit o’ this, bit o’ that. Blow somethin’ up, learn somethin’ new.”

She steps closer. Too close. “You must show me sometime. I’d love to see your process.”

You clench your jaw so tight it hurts. You drop your wrench, maybe on purpose. It hits the floor with a clang that echoes down the hangar.

They both jump. You don’t apologize.

“Need a hand, luv?” he calls over, cheerful, like nothing’s wrong.

The visitor gives you a look—polite, dismissive, the kind reserved for people who clean engines instead of designing them. “You must be the mechanic.”

“Engineer,” you correct. “Someone’s gotta keep his toys from killin’ the rest of us.”

Jamison grins. “Oi! Me toys are perfectly safe! Most days.”

She giggles again. Giggles. You swear under your breath.

“Right. Safe,” you bite out, your voice sharper now. “That why we keep bloody fire extinguishers by the door? Or ‘cause ya can’t go a week without somethin’ catchin’ on fire?”

He smirks at you, voice low and teasing. “Jealous of me admirers, are ya?”

You glare at him, words spilling faster than you mean them to. “Don’t flatter yerself. Ain’t got time t’compete with some fancy clipboard doll.”

He blinks, then grins faintly. “Y’know, when you get mad, that fancy talk o’ yours slips right back into Junkertown.”

Your cheeks burn. “So what if it does?”

“Nothin’.” His grin softens, honest for once. “Kinda like it, is all.”

The visitor touches his arm again to get his attention, light and easy, and something hot and ugly spikes in your chest. You can’t stand it.

“I’ll be in the bloody workshop,” you mutter. “Can’t get a damn thing done with all this blabberin’.”

You grab your tools and storm out before you can say something you’ll regret.

Behind you, you hear his confused voice trail after you. “Oi—what’d I say?”

Mako’s there by the doorway, as always, watching everything without watching it.

“What’d I do?” Jamison asks, still baffled.

Mako grunts, shaking his head. “You breathed, mate.”

“...What’s that s’posed t’mean?”

“Means yer ’n idiot.”

Mako turns and walks off, leaving Jamison standing in the middle of the hangar—hair a mess, heart racing, and no idea what kind of explosion he’s just caused.

The clipboard lady keeps talking, but he isn’t listening. Not anymore.

Chapter Text

You’ve been avoiding him.

Not deliberately — at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. You just happen to be busy every time Jamison wanders into the workshop, or the mess, or anywhere else you might accidentally have to make eye contact.

He, apparently, has noticed.

You’re hunched over a half-disassembled pulse mine when his shadow fills the doorway.

“Y’know, for someone tryin’ to avoid me, you’re doin’ a terrible job.”

You jump, dropping the screwdriver. “Bloody hell, Fawkes—make some noise when you walk, will ya?”

“Didn’t think anyone could miss me stompin’ around.”

He leans against the frame, grin all teeth and trouble, but there’s a flicker of nerves behind it — a tension you’ve never seen on him before.

“So,” he says, scratching the back of his neck, “Mako reckons I said somethin’ wrong the other day.”

You keep your eyes on the mine. “He’s right.”

“He usually is,” he admits, then tilts his head. “Still dunno what it was, though. Was it the admirer bit?”

You grunt. “Forget it.”

“Wasn’t jealous, were ya?”

You look up just long enough to glare. “In your dreams.”

“Ain’t complainin’ if that’s where I show up.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again. He’s grinning, the bastard — proud of himself, like he’s testing a theory he’s not sure he wants answered.

You stand, wipe your hands on a rag. “You come here just to run your mouth, or did you actually need something?”

He fidgets, prosthetic fingers tapping against his thigh. “Maybe both.”

“Spit it out, then.”

“Just—” he hesitates, uncharacteristically shy, “—maybe I just wanted to see if you’d look at me like that again.”

You freeze. “Like what?”

“Like I’m worth lookin’ at.” He laughs awkwardly. “Means maybe I got jealous first.”

Your face burns hotter. “You’re full of it.”

“Might be.” He shrugs, a little pink creeping up his neck. “But you’re the one blushin’.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“’m not.”

“Then stop doin’ it.”

You throw the rag at him. “Get outta my workshop before I test these charges on you.”

He laughs, backing toward the door, both hands raised. “I’ll take that as a maybe.”

“You should take it as a warning.”

He pauses in the doorway, smile softening just a little. “Yeah. Still worth it.”

When he’s gone, the workshop feels too quiet. You press a hand to your chest, try to calm the wild, fluttery thing there, and mutter to the empty room:

“Idiot.”

Out in the hall, Jamison’s still grinning like someone who just lit the fuse and can’t wait to see what happens next.

Chapter Text

It’s late when you find him.

Half the base is asleep, lights dimmed to standby. You’re heading to the workshop because you left a wrench you actually like — the one with the worn grip — when you hear it: the tinny buzz of old music from a radio that’s more patch than metal.

He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over some mess of wires and casings. A low lamp pools gold across his shoulders, makes the oil streaks on his back shine like constellations. There’s a smear of soot on his cheek, a new nick on his knuckles.

You lose count of how many little scars you can see.

He doesn’t notice you right away, too caught up in whatever he’s building.

Something about it feels… quiet. Wrong, almost. Junkrat without laughter is like fire without smoke.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you ask softly.

He startles, almost knocks over the lamp. “Crikey—don’t sneak up on a bloke like that!”

“You’re the loud one, Jamie. You shouldn’t be easy to sneak up on.”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “Guess I was in me head.”

You crouch down beside him. The floor’s cold, metal against your knees. “What are you making?”

He shrugs, fiddling with a piece of wire that’s already twisted to death. “Nothin’ worth showin’. Just… tinkerin’. Keeps me from thinkin’ too loud.”

The words hit something old in your chest — a memory, half-buried.

He said almost the same thing years ago, back in Junkertown. Keeps me from thinkin’ too loud. You’d laughed then, too young to understand what he meant. Now you do.

A long silence settles between you. The hum of the lamp. The whir of his prosthetic. His breathing, uneven.

You reach for the wrench you came for, but your hand pauses halfway, drawn instead to the grease-smudged skin of his arm. You stop yourself — hover an inch away. You can feel the heat of him.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. Just watches your fingers like he can’t decide if he wants to pull away or lean in.

Mako steps inside, ducking under the frame, movements slower than usual. He sets down a dented thermos with a quiet thunk. “He forgets to eat when he gets like this.”

Jamison rolls his eyes. “I don’t forget. I just get busy.”

“Same thing,” Mako says. “You look like a burnt match.”

You glance at the thermos. “That stew again?”

“Always is.”

Jamie makes a face. “Roadie, it tastes like regret,” he whines.

“Eat,” Mako orders simply, handing it over.

The wiry Junker mutters something under his breath, but he takes it. His metal fingers scrape the cup’s edge, and for a second, you notice how careful he is with it — how careful he is with everything that isn’t meant to explode.

You settle next to him, close enough to feel the tremor in his prosthetic as he eats. Mako watches, silent. His eyes — what you can see of them — flick between you both.

The big guy shifts his weight, voice rumbling low. “Guess you don’t need me to tell ya—he don’t do well with quiet.”

Jamison snorts softly, mouth full. “Who wants quiet anyway? Too loud in there.” He taps his temple.

You don’t say anything. You just reach over and brush a smudge of soot off his cheek with your thumb. You don’t even register what you’re doing until your thumb meets his skin. His breath catches like you’ve pulled a trigger.

He freezes, eyes darting to yours, wide and unsure. Mako doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink.

“You missed a spot,” you murmur.

For a second, you think he’s going to pull away. Instead, he leans just slightly into your hand, the faintest pressure — a starving thing pretending not to beg.

Then he laughs — soft, almost embarrassed. “Reckon I’ll need more’n that t’get clean.”

“Probably,” you say, voice a little too shaky.

Mako pushes himself upright, heading for the door. He mutters on his way out.

“Oh, heavens. You two are gonna be trouble.”

Jamie stares at the floor after he leaves. “He worries too much.”

“He’s allowed,” you say quietly. “Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t forget you’re human.”

He chuckles, low and uneven, and looks up at you through his lashes. “Dunno ’bout human. Half scrap, half noise.”

You smile, thumb still tingling where it touched him. “Still counts.”

For once, he doesn’t argue.

Chapter Text

You’re not sure when the plan stopped making sense.

It was supposed to be clean — a demolition run, twenty minutes in and out, detonate the charges and regroup. You were there to monitor the blast calibrations, to make sure the explosions didn’t take down the entire structure with them.

Winston had only agreed to let you go after far too much convincing — “strictly for field calibration,” he’d said, brow furrowed with worry. You’d promised to stay behind cover. You’d lied.

Truth was, you went because he was going.

The first half of the mission goes smooth as silk — textbook perfect. Charges placed, data stable, everything reading within parameters. You’re just starting to think maybe, just maybe, this one might actually go to plan.

Then the alarms start screaming.

Enemy fire rips through the corridor, bright arcs of plasma lighting up the dust. The air tastes like metal and smoke. You can barely see through the haze — just the flicker of Jamison’s wild hair and the glint of his right prosthetic ahead of you.

“Fawkes, hold up!” someone yells “We’re not cleared to—”

He laughs through the comm, voice crackling with static and confidence. You can see him from where you are perched with your datapad in a safe distance. He is waving and laughing manically.

“Don’tcha worry, I’ve got this one!”

And then the world goes white.

The explosion tears through the tunnel like a living thing. Heat slams into you, pressure knocks you flat. For a second, there’s nothing but sound — deafening, bone-deep, endless.

When you manage to push yourself up, the corridor is a wreck of fire and dust. The comms are chaos — shouting, static, someone screaming for a medic. You can’t hear him.

“Jamison?” you rasp into the comm. “Junkrat, answer me!”

No reply.

The panic hits like a second blast. All hell breaks loose — people running, shouting orders, smoke curling from the broken walls — but it all blurs into background noise. You’ve got tunnel vision. You can only see the space where he was standing seconds ago.

“Jamie!” you scream, voice breaking.

Someone grabs you from behind — Cassidy, maybe — yelling something about the ceiling collapsing. You don’t hear it. You wrench free and stumble forward through the smoke.

“He’s down there!”

“You can’t go—”

“Let go of me!”

You claw through the rubble, tearing open your gloves, hands raw on sharp edges. Metal groans under your weight. Then you see it — the dull gleam of his prosthetic arm jutting from under a slab of concrete. Sparks leap from the joint; a hydraulic hose has split, oozing thick, dark fluid that smells like burnt oil.

Suddenly Mako’s there with you, moving with terrifying calm. He grips the debris and heaves it aside like it weighs nothing, clearing a path. You drop to your knees beside the unconscious Junker — half buried, skin pale beneath the soot, freckles ghost-light against blood and dust.

His chest rises shallowly, lips cracked, a streak of red cutting through the grime at his temple.

“Jamie, hey—hey, open your eyes,” you choke out, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, you crazy bastard.”

He doesn’t stir.

“Commander,” Roadhog growls into the comm, “we’ve got him.”

Soldier 76’s voice answers immediately, crisp and strained.

“Get him to evac. Contact Dr. Ziegler — she needs to be ready when you touch down.”

You nod without thinking. Mako lifts him carefully, one arm under his back, the other cradling his legs. You trail beside him, one hand pressed to Jamison’s shoulder, your knuckles white.

“Don’t you dare die on us,” you whisper. “You hear me? Don’t you bloody dare. I swear, if you die, I’ll drag you all the way back from hell just to kill you myself.”

No response. Just the faint rattle of breath and the smell of smoke.

⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡⟡

The flight back is short, tense, too quiet. The transport hums with the sound of engines and heart monitors. No one talks — they just look. At you. At your hands still stained with soot and blood. You stare straight ahead, every bump in the air making you flinch.

When you land, Mercy and the med team are already waiting on the pad. She’s barking orders before the ramp even touches the ground.

You follow Mako down, still clutching Jamison’s sleeve. You don’t realize you’re in the way until someone tries to pull him from your grip.

“We’ve got him,” Mercy says firmly, but her voice sounds distant, like it’s coming through water.

You don’t let go. You can’t. Not until Mako’s heavy hand closes over yours. It’s gentle — steady — and somehow that makes it worse.

“Let ‘em work, kid,” he says quietly. “He’s not done yet.”

Your fingers loosen one by one. Mako pries your hand free and passes Jamison to the medics, who wheel him inside. You stand there, empty-handed, trembling, oil and blood tacky on your skin.

You catch one last glimpse of him — limp on the stretcher, hair matted, his face too still — before the med-bay doors slide shut.

The noise fades, swallowed by the hum of engines and the hollow thud of your heartbeat.

And for the first time since you met him, the world feels too quiet.

You never realised how much life his noise carried until it was gone.

Until it was silent.

Chapter Text

The med-bay reeks of disinfectant and ozone — like metal trying to scrub itself clean. The sound of machines fills the room: beeping, hissing, the low hum of something keeping him alive.

You’ve seen Jamison covered in soot, blood, and burns more times than you can count. You’ve seen him limp back laughing, proud of the blast radius. But you’ve never seen him still. The guy was fidgety even in his sleep.

Mercy’s voice cuts through the static in your head.

“You need to wait outside.”

You shake your head. “No.”

“He needs surgery. It’s not safe for you here.”

“He’s never safe,” you snap before you can stop yourself. “You think I don’t know that?”

Her expression softens, but she doesn’t argue. “We’ll do everything we can.”

That phrase — you’ve heard it before. It sounds too much like a goodbye.

You don’t know how long it’s been since the doors closed.

The world has shrunk to the narrow bench outside the med-bay and the sound of machines through the wall. Your hands are still filthy, dried streaks of oil and blood in every crease.

You don’t even hear Mako until he’s beside you. He doesn’t speak right away — just unscrews a canteen and starts quietly wiping your hands with a rag, his huge fingers surprisingly gentle. The water smells faintly of metal.

“He’ll pull through,” Mako rumbles after a while.

You swallow hard. “You don’t know that.”

He glances at you. “You do.”

You let out a shaky laugh that feels too much like a sob. “Under all that laughter and noise, he’s a little tragic, y’know? A boy who never stopped runnin’ from fire, ’cause if he ever stopped, he might have to feel it.”

Mako doesn’t answer, just keeps cleaning, slow and methodical.

You stare down at your scraped palms. “He’s not just chaos. He’s what happens when someone uses chaos as armor.” Your voice breaks halfway through. “And I don’t think he even knows he’s wearin’ it anymore.”

The rag stills in Mako’s hand.

“You see him clear,” he says quietly.

“Too clear,” you whisper. “And I can’t do a damn thing to help him.”

He finishes wiping your hands and sets the rag aside, his big palm resting briefly against your shoulder.

“Maybe you already did.”

You don’t answer. You just sit there until Mercy appears again, her coat streaked with ash.

“He’s stable,” she says softly. “But unconscious. Might take a while until he wakes up.”

Stable. That word means nothing when you see him lying there — pale, still, a breathing machine doing the work for his chest. There’s a line of stitches along his temple, and his right arm’s half-stripped of plating.

You stand at the edge of the bed and stare, trying to find the man who never stopped moving.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “You absolute bloody idiot.”

The monitors beep steadily. You talk anyway.

“You can’t keep doin’ this. Running in first. Taking every hit like it’s your job. You can’t—”

Your throat closes. You press your palms to your eyes, shaking. “Why do you keep—why do you keep throwin’ yourself in front of everything? You don’t even care if—”

Your voice cracks. “Why do you care so little?”

And then it happens — the words tear out of you like shrapnel. Something that was inevitable.

“Because I care! Because I love you, you idiot!”

The room goes silent except for the machines. Your own breath sounds foreign in your ears.

You drop into the chair beside the bed, hand trembling as you reach for his — metal and flesh, cold and rough and familiar.

“You’re not allowed to die,” you whisper. “Not now. Not after all this. Not after we survived the fucking Wastelands and Junkertown.”

You sit there for a long time, the only sound the rhythm of machines and the small hitch of your breath. You don’t notice the faint twitch beneath your fingers — the smallest flex of his hand against yours — until the monitor stutters, one uneven beep.

Your head snaps up.

“Mercy?”

No answer. Just another tiny movement. His fingers curl, barely there, then still again.

You lean forward, pulse roaring in your ears. “Jamie?”

Nothing. Only the soft hiss of the respirator and the steady rhythm of the heart monitor returning to normal.

Chapter Text

You’ve gotten very good at pretending you’re busy.

Every time the med-bay doors opened, you were somewhere else — elbow-deep in engine guts, recalibrating security drones that didn’t need it, checking diagnostics twice just to hear the hum of a machine instead of your own pulse.

You told Mercy you were “giving him space.”

You told yourself you were “letting him rest.”

Truth was, you were hiding.

Because if he heard you — really heard you — everything between you could change. And if he didn’t, if he’d never remember what you said… that hurt in a different way entirely.

So you worked.

And you listened.

Every whispered update from the med team found you anyway — stable vitals, minor relapses, slow recovery. Mako would pass you in the hall and give a simple nod, a silent still here. You pretended that was enough.

When he finally left the med-bay, the base buzzed with quiet relief. Someone mentioned seeing him in the courtyard, still limping, grinning like the world hadn’t tried to kill him again.

You didn’t go. You couldn’t.

Instead, you found a far corner of the outpost — a maintenance pier overlooking the water. The air smelled like oil and salt, cables humming faintly beneath your boots. You kept your hands busy patching a drone uplink, pretending you didn’t hear the footsteps behind you.

“Knew I’d find ya eventually.”

You freeze. His voice — hoarse, but undeniably alive. You don’t turn around.

“Should be restin’,” you mutter.

“Restin’s borin’,” he says, a hint of laughter that almost covers the strain in it. “’Sides, had somethin’ I needed t’do first.”

You tighten a bolt that doesn’t need tightening. “You’re supposed to avoid stress.”

He grins, a little sheepish, thumb hooking in the strap of his toolbelt. “Guess I’m only stressed ‘cause you weren’t there.”

You look up at him then, caught completely off-guard. He’s closer than you thought—close enough that you can see the faint shimmer of new stitches at his temple, the freckles scattered over the bridge of his nose. The wind catches the ends of his hair, the light turning the sun-bleached strands to fire.

Your breath hitches.

“You scared me,” you whisper.

His voice soft he said “Didn’t think I could ever scare ya.”

Silence stretches between you, full of everything left unsaid.

You look away first, fiddling with a screw that doesn’t need fixing, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. He shifts his weight, prosthetic fingers flexing once, then still. You both stand there like you’ve forgotten how to move.

The waves slap gently against the pylons below. Somewhere far off, gulls cry over the water. The world feels smaller now—quieter, steadier—and the air between you hums with something that feels like a fuse waiting for a spark.

When you finally glance back up, he’s already watching you. The moment your eyes meet, you both freeze again.

It’s almost funny—how two people who’ve survived explosions and the wastelands can be undone by a few inches of air.

He swallows, voice rough.

“I, uh… ain’t good with words, y’know that.”

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

“So maybe I should just—”

You don’t even have time to ask what before he leans in.

It isn’t sudden; it’s hesitant, almost clumsy, like he’s afraid you’ll change your mind. You don’t. You meet him halfway, and the rest of the world falls away.

He tastes faintly of gunpowder, the air around you warm from the sun and the lingering scent of oil. His lips are rough, uncertain, as if he’s trying to remember how gentle feels. One of his hands—warm flesh—cups your jaw; the other—metal, cool and trembling—rests against your hip. The contrast makes you shiver.

You breathe him in, the faint rasp of his laugh breaking against your mouth, and for once, there’s no chaos, no noise, no running. Just him.

When he finally pulls back, it’s by an inch, his forehead still resting against yours. Both of you are breathing too hard for how little you’ve moved.

He gives a tiny, incredulous laugh. “Crikey… took us long enough, didn’t it?”

You can’t help but smile. “Yeah. But it was worth the wait.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guess nearly gettin’ blown t’bits has its perks, huh?”

You make a face and jab him lightly in the ribs. “That’s not funny.”

He yelps, more in mock offense than pain. “Oi! Careful, fragile here!”

“Should’ve thought of that before the explosion,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth betrays you.

He’s still chuckling when he leans in again, catching your protest on his lips. This kiss is softer — a brush of warmth, lighter than the breeze off the water.

For once, you don’t mind the silence that follows. It doesn’t feel empty anymore.

It feels like peace.

Chapter Text

A few days later, everything’s changed—and somehow, nothing has.

The base sounds the same: machines humming, comms crackling, someone yelling about calibration errors two halls over. You’re back at your workstation, hands stained with grease and oil, tools scattered across the bench in your usual barely-organized chaos.

But now, when you look up, there he is.

Jamie’s in his corner of the hangar, hunched over a pile of scrap like it’s treasure. There’s soot on his cheek again, a smudge on his neck, goggles crooked on his forehead. He’s muttering to himself, half humming, half laughing at whatever contraption he’s building.

And this time, you don’t have to pretend you’re not watching.

He glances up, catches you staring, and that ridiculous, bright grin spreads across his face—freckled and lopsided and so him it makes your chest ache in the best way. You shake your head, pretending to get back to work, but you’re smiling, too.

From somewhere behind the mountain of spare parts, Mako’s voice rumbles, deadpan as ever.

“You two done makin’ eyes, or do I need t’get a bucket?”

Junkrat snorts, trying and failing to look innocent. “Aww, don’t be jealous, Roadie.”

Mako doesn’t even look up.

“Jealous ain’t the word I’d use. More like nauseous. Try not t’jump each other in here, yeah?”

“No promises.” Jamison adds, grinning wide enough for Mako to groan.

The big man sighs, heading for the exit. “You’re both impossible.”

“Love ya too, Hoggie!” the smaller man calls after him, sing-song, before turning back to you.

You toss a bolt at him. He dodges it easily, still laughing.

For a while, there’s only the sound of tools and his humming, the kind of comfortable noise that used to make your head hurt but now just feels like home.

Everything’s changed.

And nothing has.