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Things were weird since joining Overwatch. The Junker duo was forbidden from doing typical Junker things; stealing, blowing things up, snapping necks, blowing things up, making explosives, and of course, blowing things up. Crimes were typically frowned upon, that much was obvious, but even more so now that the Junkers carried the title of Overwatch Heroes. That doesn’t stop Junkrat’s fingers from twitching over his detonator. He doesn’t complain, he’s never felt more spoiled in his life. Three meals a day with snacks in between, more water than he ever could have dreamed of, cool temperatures and pretty scenery. But it’s still strange. It’s not Junker style. Roadhog is almost certain Junkrat just see’s this as a job, and when it’s over he’s gonna blow the place, literally and metaphorically. Roadhog wouldn’t admit it, but he was itching for some excitement too. The recon missions and virtual simulations that Overwatch did just weren’t fueling the adrenaline as much as the real thing did.
They’re sitting at a cafe- the Junkers in a cafe is a joke to begin with, with how much they stick out, but the fact that they’re there and haven’t raided the place yet is a miracle- eating sandwiches. Some other Overwatch Heroes are there too, but they’re more popular amongst the people and are signing autographs. Which is stupid, Roadhog thinks. The whole thing is stupid. Overwatch doesn’t do anything but sit on their ass and take credit for real vigilante work. They sure didn’t help out in Australia, so the people took things into their own hands, and look how that turned out. It was kind of ironic, that the man who nearly wiped out a continent because of the lack of aid from a certain group was now a part of that certain group. He didn’t have time to sit around and wait for orders, he had revenge to take. Take revenge on the shits in parliament and power who let it get so bad down there. What good does sitting on his ass eating snacks do when he could be out there, kicking a suit’s butt and taking their cash to boot?
Junkrat is yammering about something, probably his bombs, and Roadhog is sick of his voice. He’s sick of waiting around to do something useful, sick of watching these pompous “Heroes” bask in glory they didn’t earn, sick of the nasty stares these civvies give him, give Junkrat, and sick of how they can judge them without knowing the hell they’ve been through without a second thought. He’s sick of looking at Junkrat and the self hatred that comes with seeing what he’s done in action. He’s sick of waiting to bust some heads, sick of waiting for Overwatch to get their shit together and get rid of the corrupt government that even to this day refuses to aid the Mad Max world that is Australia.
And in particular, he’s sick of the kid sitting adjacent from them.
Junkrat hasn’t noticed, too invested in whatever garbage he’s spewing to pay attention, which Roadhog is incredibly grateful for, because the last thing he wants is to stick out more than they already do. It’s a kid about Junkrat’s age- though Junkrat looks older than he is. Twenty five at the youngest, probably. He’s got long, thick brown hair and a equally thick beard and mustache combo, bulky square glasses and a crooked nose. He’s been leering at Roadhog the entire time they’ve sat there, occasionally leaning over to whisper nasty comments about obesity to his friends. Roadhog rolls his eyes behind his mask and tightens his arms over his chest. He can feel the rage bubbling up in his chest, every noise seeming to make something lurch in his abdomen. He squeezes his bicep and taps his foot to keep himself under control. If Junkrat truly does see this as just another job, he’ll want to ride this out as long as possible, and getting kicked out for bad behavior will not do either of them favors.
Roadhog nearly snatches the trash out of Junkrat’s hands once he’s done eating. One, to make sure Junkrat just doesn’t throw it to the floor, as he often does, and two, so they can clean up and get the fuck out of this goddamn cafe.
He just barely drops the wrappers into the can when a hot bowl of soup hits him in the shoulder, along with a sandwich. He looks at the goopy mess on his arm, torn between processing what just happened and ripping the cafe apart- along with the victim who threw this shit- to pieces, that he’s frozen in place, watching as the soup and sandwich bits ooze down his arm.
“Sorry! You’re so fat, we thought you’d want an extra serving, fat-ass!” That asshole from before is standing now, sneering. And then that snob is laughing, his friends snickering behind him, and all Roadhog see’s is red.
Roadhog has every intention of tearing that smirk off that bastards face, Overwatch be damned, along with every single hair of that thick beard, but before he can even react Junkrat is there, laughing, but in a way that means something has either gone boom or is about to. There aren’t any flames or screaming around him yet, and the other Heroes have their eyes zeroed in on them, but Roadhog takes a step back just in case.
“Oh man, that was’ah good one mate! Really clever. But y’know, I jus’ don’t think we share’ah sense’ah hum’ah, see?” Junkrat is towering over this man, in a way someone that skinny should not be able to. Roadhog can’t see his face, but from the way the man’s eyes are wide behind his glasses and the paleness of his skin, Roadhog guesses that Junkrat’s eyes burn with murder.
“Because, y’see, I can think ah’things that are ah’lot funnier than that, but ye probably wouldn’t.”
Junkrat backs him up, up, up until me trips over the table. The man flounders for balance, and Junkrat catches him with his prosthetic hand. The man gasps, breaking his cowering stare with Junkrat to take a quick glimpse at the robotic arm and realize just how badly he’s fucked himself.
“Because y’know whot I think is funny? Watchin’ yer eyes pop out to make room fer me thumbs.”
Junkrat licks his lips.
“Or that choked sound ye’ make when I rip out yer tongue and ye’ spit out blood.”
Junkrat’s other hand grasps the man’s shoulder, and he and his friends shriek at the sound of tearing fabric. The front of the man’s shirt is ruined, strings and buttons have flown everywhere. Junkrat drops him on the table, which buckles under his weight and he falls to the floor, dumping the table’s contents on his head.
“Yeah, those r’pretty funny tah’me. But most people don’t share that humor, y’know? So ah’usually keep it t’myself.”
Junkrat’s turned around and come back to Roadhog, using the tattered rag that was the cheeky bastard’s shirt to wipe away the soup and bits of lettuce stuck to Roadhog’s arm. The large man blinks behind the mask and looks down at the mess, so completely stunned he’d nearly forgotten about the hot liquid on his arm.
“Now I ain’t one tah’think b’fore I act, ye can just ask me tubby friend ‘ere. But I like t’think I’m a decent person, somewhere in the shallow hole of me heart, and I know when and when not ta’poke fun at strangers.”
Junkrat dumps the ruined fabric into the trash can. It didn’t do the greatest job, but it’s mostly clean and got the point across.
“So t’next time yer feelin’ funny, maybe, look at who yer dealin’ with, yeah mate? B’cause next time, ye might not get so lucky.”
Junkrat grasped Roadhog’s hand, now mostly clean of soup, and pulled him along.
“Anyways, ah’know someone in ‘ere’s bound t’have called the cops, so we’ll take our leave now. An’ next time mate?”
Junkrat pushes Roadhog through the door, turning over his shoulder to smile at the stunned patrons of the cafe. His smile holds anything but kindness.
“Mind yer fuckin’ business.”
He closed the door behind him and giggled once after a moment. His grin was back to that shit eating mirth it usually had, and he practically vibrated as he slunk his way to Roadhog’s Harley.
“We best be off, aye mate? B’fore the jacks show up.”
Roadhog lumbered over to his seat in his beloved vehicle, taking a moment to adjust. He felt surreal. He felt sick. He felt anger and grief and glee and gratitude all at once and it made his head swim. He was angry at that man and all the other assholes who either shared his sentiment or didn’t say anything. He felt grief over causing a scene because they can never seem to catch a break, can they? He felt glee over watching that man’s face melt away into sheer terror, and euphoria at the rush of adrenaline buzzing in his veins. Oh how he’s missed that feeling.
But mostly, he feels gratitude for Junkrat; for not tolerating fatphobic bullshit, for standing up and saying something, for getting the point across without actually hurting anyone and getting them both in more shit they were already in, and for just standing up for him in general. Standing between him and the enemy, a role Roadhog- as bodyguard- usually took on.
He thought about that, the implications, and smiled. They shared everything fifty-fifty, might as well share the role of bodyguard too.
He revved the engine once, twice, enjoying the thrum beneath his fingers.
“Hey, Junkrat.”
“Yeah mate?”
“...thanks.”
Junkrat blinked, then smiled a truly giddy smile, before slapping Roadhog’s thick arm.
“Oh c’moff it mate! Y’know ye would’ve done the same fer me. Let’s get outta ‘ere already!”
The sirens of cops blared behind them. Junkrat’s big, scraggly smile stayed just as excited as always, if not wider. Roadhog let himself almost smile- not really smile, he hadn’t really smiled in over two decades- behind his mask as the ‘Hog sped off into the road.
God he’d missed this.