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“It’s hot,” Junkrat says. He gets a non-committal grunt in response that he takes as a Roadhog agreeing with him. “Do we have a fan or something? Geez!”
No, they do not have a fan. Roadhog remembers the last time they did have one, and how quickly it was dismantled and turned into another explosive. Oh, how he loved that fan. Sitting himself in front of it and feeling the cold jet of air wash over him in the middle of the Australian heat. They had it maybe three days, but it lasted longer than the portable heater they had brought to Russia to steal who-knows-what from some god forsaken vault deep underground.
Roadhog grunts again, leaning back against the wall, his body slumped over underneath an open window. The hovel they’ve found is small, almost unwelcoming, but empty. No food, no working water, just another victim of the apocalypse. After another attempt at worming their way back ‘home’, the two had found themselves stranded again. At this point, Roadhog wonders why Junkrat insists on trying over and over again, but he supposes the other man just bores easily. The same can’t be said about Roadhog.
Roadhog just enjoys doing nothing. While he sits there, content to stay cool by not moving, letting any bit of air from the breeze outside tickle the top of his head… Junkrat is restless. Always moving, always shifting. Never able to get comfortable on the old couch he had taken all for himself. He told Roadhog to not get near it lest he broke the thing, which led to a swift swat around the head. Something in the rat’s eyes made him acutely aware of how little he cared.
“Think we could make a fan?” Junkrat asks. Roadhog grunts again. Junkrat sighs and slides off the couch to lie on the floor, his eyes firmly on Roadhog’s lazed form. “Can’t be that hard, really. Not when you’re us.”
Junkrat then springs to his feet to go rummaging through their supply bags. Roadhog sighs. He just wants one day off. One day where they aren’t tinkering or inventing or stealing. In this heat, he’d like it to be today. It’s not like Junkrat can force him into doing anything, but he is so damn loud when he wants something that the best way to finally get him to shut up is to go along with it. Maybe Roadhog should invest in earplugs. Or a gag.
“Right, you think this could be a fan blade?” Junkrat asks as he holds up a random bit of scrap metal. He looks pleased with himself, his lips curled into a triumphant smile. Roadhog shakes his head, and his face drops immediately into one of over-exaggerated despair. He smiles under his mask. That’s always fun. “You find something, then!”
Roadhog shakes his head, grunting again. Junkrat nods his head, hands on his hips.
“Yuh-huh!”
“Nuh-uh,” Roadhog mumbles.
This goes on for a very long time until Junkrat kicks an empty can of whatever at the wall. The metal used to make the cans is not very good compared to the metal they can find elsewhere, but it’s solid enough and comes to them in fuckloads. Once upon a time, the metal was apparently good enough to stop gun shots. But that was with bullets, not the pulse rifles that are around today. Junkrat kicks the can again. And again.
And again.
And again.
And-
“Stop,” Roadhog says. Just to cause problems, Junkrat doesn’t. “Rat.”
“I ain’t doing anything!”
Petulant. Idiotic. Stupid. All the words that tickled the tip of Roadhog’s tongue before the sound of a tin can hitting the walls of the room interrupted him. Roadhog glared at his partner. This is definitely not indicative to a day off. They could be sat here, doing nothing, while the world around them moves on. Just for a day. They don’t need to be doing something stupid all the time. He groans loudly as the can gets kicked over his direction.
Junkrat makes a point of hitching his harness up and storming over, limping dramatically as if his peg is brand new. Roadhog just stares at him as he drags out the tin can with his peg then kicks it across the room again with his foot. Then he heads over to it to continue this game of kick-the-can-around-to-annoy-Roadhog. All plans of making a fan are seemingly forgotten as Junkrat reaches the tin again, kicking it back over towards his partner just to follow suit.
Roadhog already had enough. As soon as Junkrat makes it close enough to him to kick the tin away, his hand reaches out and grabs the man by the back of his neck. Even sitting down, with how hunched over Junkrat is, it’s an easy grab. His hand could easily envelope his neck, but Roadhog makes sure he simply pinches the flesh like a cat with her kitten. Much the same, Junkrat seems to go entirely still.
“Stop,” Roadhog says again before dragging Junkrat to the floor with him.
“Can’t blame a guy for trying to stay active!” Junkrat says, about to get up again before he’s tugged back down. This, as well, happens a few more times before Junkrat concedes and ends up with his back against the same wall. Their arms press up together, but neither men say or do anything about it. “Now what?”
“Do nothing.”
“Nothing? You want me to just sit here all day with you?”
Roadhog grunts affirmative.
“I can’t do that! We have so much to do today!”
Roadhog grunts, shrugging his shoulders.
“I don’t care that you don’t care! We have to plan the next heist! And make a fan! And-”
Junkrat’s mouth is then covered with Roadhog’s massive hand. He yells obscenities behind it. No reaction. He licks it. No reaction. He bites it. No reaction. Eventually, Junkrat slumps down against the wall too, and the hand leaves his face. His head falls against the wall, and he groans exasperatedly.
“I don’t like doing nothing.”
Another grunt, maybe just in acknowledgement.
“Can we at least talk?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m gonna talk anyway,” Junkrat announces, leaning against Roadhog’s arm more than the wall. Personal space is an art lost on the rat, Roadhog thinks. But somehow, he doesn’t feel inclined to push him away.
The rest of the day is spent doing not much else, even if it isn’t spent in silence. Occasionally, there’ll be a lull in conversation as Junkrat catches his breath or Roadhog adds a two word contribution. More frequently, Junkrat will end up resting his hand on Roadhog’s thigh as he gets closer and more enthusiastic about a point he’s making. The blaring heat seems to be slowly getting to the other man, too, as his exaggerated ministrations slowly start to die down.
Then there is silence, and sitting still, and not doing anything. Roadhog slumped over, with Junkrat somehow weaselled underneath his arm. Even though they’re both hot, sticky, and kind of gross, it’s… good. But Roadhog doesn’t know what to do in the silence anymore, so it isn’t exactly perfect. He misses the sound of Junkrat’s voice about half an hour after he finally shuts up, which he wasn’t expecting nor willing to admit to himself.
“Talk more,” he grunts out after a few more minutes, “now.”
That is the one instruction Junkrat seems to be willing to follow, speaking less animatedly but still constantly about something Roadhog ignores. He just listens to the cadence of the other man’s voice as he enjoys the rest of his day off.