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They're on the same team this round, he and Roadie and Angel Face. He and Roadie and Angel Face and Angel Face and Angel Face. There's others too, but he and Roadie and Angel Face. They make a good team, Junkrat thinks. A good team.
Sometimes, when Mercy Angel Angela Face is on his team, he gets nervous. Gets antsy and giggly and maybe he gets a little more trigger happy and maybe he gets a little more fire-hungry when he feels her presence, like a bonfire, right behind him, beside him, close to him. On the same team.
This time around, this bout of battle, Roadie looks at him like he doesn’t have it in him to be surprised by the giggles anymore.
And Junkie—that’s him, that’s what he calls himself, pleased to meet ya—only has it in him to stick his tongue out before the doors open and the battle begins.
In the heat of battle, Junkie, Junker, that’s Mr. Fawkes to you, likes to watch things explode. He really likes watching things explode. It makes his skin feel like it’s dancing. No, that’s her, that’s Angel Eyes, she’s behind him with her staff and her healing while he shoots and throws and she’s here, watching him, watching over him—it makes his skin tingly.
From the time they’ve spent together, being on the same team and all, Jamison Junkie Junkrat, JJJ, has learned that she hates war, sure, but she will never, not ever turn down her responsibility to heal and do good in the field of battle. All she asks for is to be protected. Junkrat really hopes he’s been doing good job at that so far. He really hopes so. Usually, he doesn’t give a rat’s arse (he’s funny, that’s funny) about what his teammates think of him but with her—
With her she’s good and light and lovely. She’s airy and air stokes fires in the right amounts and he hopes he’s doing right in her book.
She says, “Your damage is increased, Mr. Fawkes,” and it makes Junkrat want to fly, so he does. Place mine, detonate, we’re flying now, cobber!
Roadie, in this round, Roadhog is having fun, seems like. While Junkrat’s in the air, Roadie gets someone on the line, shoots, and throws a thumbs up. From this high up, Junkrat can’t hear his laughter but he imagines it in his head clear as day. Behind him he hears angel wings soaring with him. And it’s a second, a split second where everything is right near perfect.
Then her voice cuts through his daydream.
She almost sounds vicious in the way she snarls, “Get them off me!” And it makes Junkrat’s belly do a flop. His foot and peg land on solid ground, a second floor landing, but she’s on the first floor still, on the ground, she fell from the air with a grimace on her face.
She’s not looking at him, but rather at her attacker. It’s the emo guy; the dark, brooding, ghosty, shooty guy. Man, he hates this guy. He can’t take a joke and all he ever talks about is how he got betrayed by his closest friends or whatever. Cry me a river, mate.
It’s a split second, Junkrat knows, a split, split second, half a second, where he just takes in the situation. A split second is enough for it to light a fuse inside him. A match gets dropped on the powder keg in his chest. The way the ghost guy looks at Angel Face…
Junkrat drops down. Cheap Reap aims his guns at Ms. Ziegler. She backs up into a wall, takes out her pistol reluctantly.
Junkie calls out, loud enough to ring over the sounds of battle close by, “Oi!”
The goth bloke’s leather turtleneck or whatever squeaks as he turns his head to look at Junkrat. Apparently, he doesn’t like being interrupted, but Junkie could not give less of a shit. He barks, a guard dog sound, a manic sound, and throws a punch to the air in front of him, a trap on the ground. Gives a few steps forwards and shoots Mr. Emo with his explodey bits. He throws down all five and Reaper does his ghost thing, only Junkrat keeps coming, keeps shooting. The powder keg in his chest is bursting with the need for blood.
As he’s driving the shotgunny swagman back, advancing with bloodthirst, firethirst, he feels a breeze at his back, a tingle in his muscles. It’s her; she’s here. Here with him, helping him, giving him power. Firepower. Firepower. He smiles viciously and watches as ghost guy comes back into a tangible form. He keeps on. Firethirst, firepower. Cheaper is breathing heavily, shooting Junkrat back. And it hurts, yeah, but she’s here. She brings him back to healthy. Could bring him back to life if needed.
Junkrat throws a mine into the air between them, between him and the Grim. With a giggle, he blows it while it’s still traveling, blasting them both back. Only, Junkie is fine, a-okay. In fact, he flies again.
Reaper? He’s dead. Dead dead dead dead dead dead dead! Dead before he hits the ground, dead as a doorstop! Junkrat did it! With giddy giggle, Junkrat reloads his weapon, turns his face towards the sky, allows himself to feel even happier.
When he turns around to go back into the thick of battle, to help Roadhog and the rest of his drongos/teammates, he catches the look on Angel Face’s angel face. It’s something he’s seen before, in the Soldier’s eyes and in Roadie’s too. Like Junkrat’s surprised them in some way. It would make him scoff and feel offended in any other scenario with any other person because what the hell? Why would good ol’ Junkie ever surprise you? As if he’s not good enough at first glance? Bleh, stick out his tongue, call them tossers. But on her face….
On her face, it feels like forest fires and outback fires and city fires and gold. Like detonators and controlled explosions and gas fires, chemical fires, scalding sunlight. A blessing. Angel Face the angel, blessing him.
Her words, unexpected by Junkrat, sound like they’re coming from underwater. She says, “Thank you, Mr. Fawkes.” Then, Junkrat shakes himself, bodily, and forces himself to listen. “I… thought you might not come back for me. I am not used to….”
And oh. Oh. Ohhhhh. Junkie feels his face melt into a gushy sort of smile. If Roadie was here, he’d laugh and laugh and tease, and Junkrat would be miffed but he’s kind of completely in crush with Angel Fa— Angela. So his smile is bleedingly soft, eyes tender, he thinks. He’s gone all soft, all around. His words are kinda mushy at the edges when he says, almost like a secret, “You ain't gettin’ rid of me that easy.”
He means to say more but it’s all he can manage because then Angela ‘Mercy’ Ziegler is smiling at him. A private kind of smile. Reserved for him.
It’s brief. A split second. Enough for the powder keg to smooth into a few embers, right at the pit of his stomach.
The sounds of battle get closer. It’s what shakes her back into her duty stance. She nods once, straightens her shoulders. Hits him with the blue-flame-blue-stream. Says, “Right beside you.”
Junkrat smiles, wide and showing off his bright, gold tooth. He’s floaty, floaty, floaty—