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fandomweekly2017-01-09 12:03 am
masu_trout) wrote in fandomweekly2017-01-09 12:03 am
Entry tags:
[#027] Luxury Accommodations (Overwatch)
Theme Prompt: #027 - Flophouse
Title: Luxury Accommodations
Fandom: Overwatch
Rating/Warnings: N/A
Bonus: No
Word Count: 978
Summary: A Junker's idea of luxury doesn't really match the rest of the world's. (Roadhog/Junkrat)
“Look at us!” Junkrat hollered, grinning wildly. “Living like kings!”
He stretched his hands to the ceiling, metal and flesh in parallel, and flopped backwards onto the thin bed. A cloud of dust burst into the air under the force of his weight.
Roadhog slid sideways to fit himself through the door, then rubbed at the lenses of his mask to clear the dust away. The room had once been painted white, but time and sunlight and cigarette smoke had turned it a faint yellow. A single bed took up the majority of the room; two particle board nightstands surrounded it on either side. Across from the bed, a TV that might have been twenty or thirty years old sat haphazardly atop a rickety table.
Flimsy, he thought. Not particularly defensible. But that could work in their favor, too—always nice to know you could make an escape straight through a wall if someone tried to fence you in.
“This'll do,” he grunted.
It was the nicest place Roadhog had stayed in for at least a decade. By Junkrat's reaction, it was probably the nicest room his employer had ever set foot inside.
“This'll do? This'll do?” Junkrat's face screwed up into exaggerated outrage, his eyes going sharp and bright and his mouth pulling into a flat line. “I asked at the front desk, Roadie, and you know what kind of water rationing they have? Fuckin' none! I could stick my whole entire head under the sink and just let the water run over my face and there's not a goddamn person in this place who'd complain.”
Roadhog briefly considered trying to explain the concept of hot tubs or swimming pools to Junkrat, but dismissed the idea—he'd have to see for himself. How could anyone raised in a post-Omnic Australia wrap their head around the idea of clean, radiation-free water coming from a pipe; of fresh fruits and vegetables that cost less than a month's pay; of resources so plentiful that people would throw their electronics away just for getting old?
Sometimes Roadhog could hardly believe it himself. The home he'd once known seemed like a strange, faraway dream. Nowadays he'd struggle to even grow a single scrawny plant—violence had rewritten all his instincts, crowded out the old memories with new scripts for survival.
He was Roadhog. He was a Junker.
And now, he was out of Australia for good.
“There'll be better,” he said. He cracked his knuckles and shook the pins and needles out of his arms.
For the first time since they'd started this madcap trans-continental dash, he let himself think of the big picture. No more focusing on which dock employee to bribe next or which crowded steamliner to sneak into the cargo hold of. They'd made it out, really out, and now they were free to do what they wanted.
Junkrat paused and cocked his head. “You mean décor or what? 'Cause I guess I could do for something a touch sturdier to hold my spare parts in, if we're getting real picky.”
“No.” Roadhog shook his head. Hard to explain, harder when it was him doing the explaining—he'd never been good with words, even back before—but he wanted to try. He wanted to let Junkrat know all the opportunities his treasure and their partnership had opened up. “We'll be in rooms with floors made from polished stone. We'll have phones that call people whose only job is to bring us food when we want it. We'll have windows that look down on cities bigger than you've ever seen.”
“Junkrat,” he said, and spread his arms wide, “we are going to be rich.”
For a moment, Junkrat didn't say anything. He just stared up at Roadhog, legs dangling halfway off the bed, eyes wild as ever. Then, suddenly, he started laughing. It was a hysterical noise, part humor and part disbelief and part nothing more than the crazy that Junkrat always carried around with him. “That's… that's what the rest of the world is like? Really?”
“Same here as it was there: nothing you can't buy if you don't have money.” Roadhog snorted. “We get these jobs done, we'll have the money.”
Junkrat was laying on the bed, half-asleep but still tense with a nervous sort of energy. Experience told Roadhog it would turn into an insufferable second wind if he didn't sleep soon; nothing like being woken up at five in the morning by exploding shrapnel to keep you on your toes.
“Go to sleep,” he said, carefully settling his weight on the corner of the bed before pushing Junkrat over to make some room. The thing wasn't nearly big enough for the both of them, but they were used to that. He pressed the valve of his mask to Junkrat's cheek in an oddly intimate gesture—stupid, unprofessional, but he was the only fucking person on this continent Roadhog felt the least bit fond of and that had to mean something—then let Junkrat mold his bony form around Roadhog's mass until they were both something close to comfortable.
This time it meant he ended up with an elbow in his gut and a cold metal prosthetic pressed against his thigh.
“In the morning,” Roadhog said, “you need to shower. People will notice otherwise.”
“The fuck's a shower?” Junkrat asked sleepily.
“A big box. You walk inside and water pours on you until you're clean.”
Junkrat was still for a long, long moment. “You're kidding, right?” A hand—flesh, thankfully—slammed into Roadhog's shoulder. “Hey, you useless lump, don't ignore me!”
“Go to sleep,” Roadhog grumbled.
“But seriously—”
“Sleep.” Roadhog briefly considered just rolling over and crushing Junkrat. At least that way he'd get some peace and quiet.
(And anyway, from the texture of these sheets, blood probably wasn't the worst thing ever smeared on them.)
Title: Luxury Accommodations
Fandom: Overwatch
Rating/Warnings: N/A
Bonus: No
Word Count: 978
Summary: A Junker's idea of luxury doesn't really match the rest of the world's. (Roadhog/Junkrat)
“Look at us!” Junkrat hollered, grinning wildly. “Living like kings!”
He stretched his hands to the ceiling, metal and flesh in parallel, and flopped backwards onto the thin bed. A cloud of dust burst into the air under the force of his weight.
Roadhog slid sideways to fit himself through the door, then rubbed at the lenses of his mask to clear the dust away. The room had once been painted white, but time and sunlight and cigarette smoke had turned it a faint yellow. A single bed took up the majority of the room; two particle board nightstands surrounded it on either side. Across from the bed, a TV that might have been twenty or thirty years old sat haphazardly atop a rickety table.
Flimsy, he thought. Not particularly defensible. But that could work in their favor, too—always nice to know you could make an escape straight through a wall if someone tried to fence you in.
“This'll do,” he grunted.
It was the nicest place Roadhog had stayed in for at least a decade. By Junkrat's reaction, it was probably the nicest room his employer had ever set foot inside.
“This'll do? This'll do?” Junkrat's face screwed up into exaggerated outrage, his eyes going sharp and bright and his mouth pulling into a flat line. “I asked at the front desk, Roadie, and you know what kind of water rationing they have? Fuckin' none! I could stick my whole entire head under the sink and just let the water run over my face and there's not a goddamn person in this place who'd complain.”
Roadhog briefly considered trying to explain the concept of hot tubs or swimming pools to Junkrat, but dismissed the idea—he'd have to see for himself. How could anyone raised in a post-Omnic Australia wrap their head around the idea of clean, radiation-free water coming from a pipe; of fresh fruits and vegetables that cost less than a month's pay; of resources so plentiful that people would throw their electronics away just for getting old?
Sometimes Roadhog could hardly believe it himself. The home he'd once known seemed like a strange, faraway dream. Nowadays he'd struggle to even grow a single scrawny plant—violence had rewritten all his instincts, crowded out the old memories with new scripts for survival.
He was Roadhog. He was a Junker.
And now, he was out of Australia for good.
“There'll be better,” he said. He cracked his knuckles and shook the pins and needles out of his arms.
For the first time since they'd started this madcap trans-continental dash, he let himself think of the big picture. No more focusing on which dock employee to bribe next or which crowded steamliner to sneak into the cargo hold of. They'd made it out, really out, and now they were free to do what they wanted.
Junkrat paused and cocked his head. “You mean décor or what? 'Cause I guess I could do for something a touch sturdier to hold my spare parts in, if we're getting real picky.”
“No.” Roadhog shook his head. Hard to explain, harder when it was him doing the explaining—he'd never been good with words, even back before—but he wanted to try. He wanted to let Junkrat know all the opportunities his treasure and their partnership had opened up. “We'll be in rooms with floors made from polished stone. We'll have phones that call people whose only job is to bring us food when we want it. We'll have windows that look down on cities bigger than you've ever seen.”
“Junkrat,” he said, and spread his arms wide, “we are going to be rich.”
For a moment, Junkrat didn't say anything. He just stared up at Roadhog, legs dangling halfway off the bed, eyes wild as ever. Then, suddenly, he started laughing. It was a hysterical noise, part humor and part disbelief and part nothing more than the crazy that Junkrat always carried around with him. “That's… that's what the rest of the world is like? Really?”
“Same here as it was there: nothing you can't buy if you don't have money.” Roadhog snorted. “We get these jobs done, we'll have the money.”
Junkrat was laying on the bed, half-asleep but still tense with a nervous sort of energy. Experience told Roadhog it would turn into an insufferable second wind if he didn't sleep soon; nothing like being woken up at five in the morning by exploding shrapnel to keep you on your toes.
“Go to sleep,” he said, carefully settling his weight on the corner of the bed before pushing Junkrat over to make some room. The thing wasn't nearly big enough for the both of them, but they were used to that. He pressed the valve of his mask to Junkrat's cheek in an oddly intimate gesture—stupid, unprofessional, but he was the only fucking person on this continent Roadhog felt the least bit fond of and that had to mean something—then let Junkrat mold his bony form around Roadhog's mass until they were both something close to comfortable.
This time it meant he ended up with an elbow in his gut and a cold metal prosthetic pressed against his thigh.
“In the morning,” Roadhog said, “you need to shower. People will notice otherwise.”
“The fuck's a shower?” Junkrat asked sleepily.
“A big box. You walk inside and water pours on you until you're clean.”
Junkrat was still for a long, long moment. “You're kidding, right?” A hand—flesh, thankfully—slammed into Roadhog's shoulder. “Hey, you useless lump, don't ignore me!”
“Go to sleep,” Roadhog grumbled.
“But seriously—”
“Sleep.” Roadhog briefly considered just rolling over and crushing Junkrat. At least that way he'd get some peace and quiet.
(And anyway, from the texture of these sheets, blood probably wasn't the worst thing ever smeared on them.)
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