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There’s no doubt in Junkrat’s mind that Mercy--Angela--Mercy--Ms. Ziegler-- is an incredibly valuable asset in the battlefield. A right corker of a nurse. A doctor. He thinks she’s a doctor? Whatever she is, she’s an ace at it.
In the heat of battle, when he’s exploding, doing exploding, blowing things up, the heat of the battle, the heat of explosion, and he feels the cool breeze of her wings fly up behind him and the slight, hair-raising tingle of her staff hit him, it heats up his bones, the heat of her presence? The heat of having her near. It’s an energy boost in more ways than one. She’s there, watching him.
Sometimes, in battle, she will fly to him and say, “Hello, Mr. Fawkes,” before she hits him with the healing stream. Socks him in the jaw with the healing touch, the touch of her staff, the stream, the cool air of her presence.
Has she ever talked to him? He flits through his memories of her. The short lived training program, getting hit by her staff the first time, being revived by her. Living, being alive in her presence.
She’s always smiling when he sees her. Unless she’s not. She’s like that sometimes.
After battle, in the training rooms and locker rooms, he always uses Roadhog to cover his staring at her. He can’t help it. She just kind of glows. Like fire. Like explosions.
She hates war, he knows that much. Junkrat has seen her frowning when the monkey or the falcon--bird girl, she flies, flies up and makes things explode, he likes her--mention war. Junkrat isn’t spying but he isn’t not spying. It’s not his fault his mate’s so bloody huge and just meant for being hidden behind and listening to her and looking at her frown when falcon girl, the pharaoh, the phalcon, the floaty, mentions something about being in the army and Mercy, Angela, Angel, just--frowns. Delicate little mouth turned down at the ends, frown lines at the edges cutting through her skin, and Junkrat--sighs. He sighs and Roadhog scoffs so hard, his belly jumps.
Roadhog says, “Subtle.”
And Junkrat dislikes, wants to punch. He throws up two fingers and pushes them into Roadhog’s face. “Shove it, you arsehole.”
Roadhog’s heaving laughter makes Junkrat sneer.
It’s a crush, Jameson--Junkrat--Mr. Fawkes realizes vaguely. In battle, he jumps off his mines with little to no care, just the feel of an explosion and the whoosh of air, but then Mercy’s there, Mercy, Angela, the angel, is there, flying with him and turning her staff onto him and he feels the energy tingling on his skin and he-- trips. He trips, steps wrong, falls on his bum. But she’s still there, looking at him kindly. He needs to collect himself, they’re in battle, in the middle of battle, something she hates, she hates this, hates the battle (hates him? He’s too scared to ask, he doesn’t want the answer). He needs to get up. But she lays a hand on his knee, his real one, not his bucket of bolts one. And she just.
She asks him, “Are you alright, Mr. Fawkes?”
There’s worry in her eyes and she’s brighter than any explosion Junkrat has ever witnessed.
He finds himself giggling. Uncontrollably so. His giggle, he considers as his best quality, right up there with his explosions, his grenades, his fashion style, his explosions. But now, he’s not sure about himself. He nods anyway, trying to contain his giggles and failing, scrambling up to standing and gripping his frag launcher, his weapon, his baby in his hand. He keeps nodding and she stand up too, re-engaging the healing stream and nodding back him, sharply.
She says, “Let’s get you back out there.”
And he’s so overwhelmed.