Work Text:
Junkrat’s mechanical fingers trembled as he gripped the 3/16 wrench tighter, his thick brows knitted tightly together in the center as he concentrated harder than he should have on tightening a loose nut. The clock on the wall behind his head ticked past 04:26. The machinery shop’s ancient fluorescent lights flickered above him, making his tired eyes twitch and strain. Torbjorn had begrudgingly allowed him to have his own little corner of the shop for tinkering and building with the promise he wouldn’t set anything off inside or take any tools without permission.
Another flicker of the old fluorescents had him blinking and bringing his flesh left arm up to rub his eyes with the back of his grimy hand. Eyes closed brought him both relief from the flickering light but allowed the resulting darkness to flood his mind’s eye and images he hoped to stomp down to bubble to the surface.
The roar of his engine rattling his eardrums as he pushes the pedal to the floorboard, desperate to shake his pursuers. He doesn’t notice the odd texture of the road as it suddenly gives way beneath his car’s wheels, the nose dipping as the car dove nose first into a manmade pothole full of spikes. The car hits the bottom and his face collides with the steering wheel, busting his nose and nearly knocking him unconscious. The punctured engine bursts into flame as he struggled to break free of his car turned metal coffin.
Staring down the nose of a sawn off shotgun, it’s handler an older man that not two minutes earlier begged him for anything he could spare, looking fragile and underfed. Hatred burns in the man’s eyes as his hand squeezes the trigger. He lunges forward and grabs the barrel as the gun goes off just past his ear. They both struggle for control of the gun, but he manages to pry it out of the other’s hands. The man lunges for him, and he tries to fire, but there’s no more ammo. The man tackles him to the ground and he’s forced to fight for his life with nothing but the empty shotgun as a bludgeon. He can still hear the wet crack of bone and tissue.
The mangled, run-over body of his new friend, a woman considered elderly out in the wastes. He’d met her two months prior when she had promised him a portion of her stash of supplies if he helped free her from the scavengers keeping her hostage. They had made fast friends after her escape. Though her body now lay twisted and broken, her blood soaking the dry, thirsty soil beneath her. He hadn’t been fast enough to warn her. But there’s no time to mourn. He can hear the shouting and the engines revving as they come for him too.
The junker gives a miserable whine and shakes his head like a wet dog, desperately shaking the memories from his brain. He tightens his grip on the wrench, his hands shaking worse than before. He tells himself he’s safe now. Deep in the old Overwatch base in Gibraltar. Thousands of miles away from his past. The people here may not like him or Roadie, but they’d never lay a hand on him unless he gave them good reason to.
But his brain tells him he’s not safe here. He’ll never be safe. There’s always going to be something lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to relax, waiting for him to let down his guard so they can run him through with a pike or blow his head off and take everything from him.
A harsh shudder starts at the base of his neck and rattles its way down his spine, causing the wrench to slip off the nut and out of his hand, clattering noisily to the floor in the silence of the old machine shop. The sound echoes off the concrete walls and sparks off his adrenaline. He jumps up from his spot on the bench, body tense and ready to bolt. Blood whooshes past his ears as he waits, and listens… The silence is deafening now, louder than any bomb he could ever create. It’s so loud… He can’t hear anything.
But then over the din of nothingness, the door to the machine shop clicks and the following creak shatters Junk’s racing thought train. He glances wide eyed over his shoulder at the door as someone pokes their head in.
“Hey man… You alright? I heard something fall.” Sleepy brown eyes gaze into his own wild orange ones.
So he’d woken someone up. “Aye, sorry Froggie. Jus’ dropped me wrench. Wot’re you doin’ up? Did I wake ya?” Junkrat found himself relieved at how solid his own voice sounded, though his ears were still ringing.
“Mh, nah. I was just on my way back from the bathroom. I could ask you the same thing though. It’s almost 5AM, dude.” Lúcio points out, giving a yawn and looking slightly more awake as he leans against the doorway, wearing naught but a pair of green patterned boxers and what looked like an old concert t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Those dark eyes study Junkrat suspiciously and he suddenly feels a little bare.
“Inspiration knows no schedule mate! You’re a creator too arent’cha? Bombs are just me own form a’ music. Ya know how it is.” Junkrat grins wide and shrugs, crouching to pick up the wrench he’d dropped and raising his hand to waggle it in Lúcio’s direction.
“Don’t know if it’s quite the same thing, but sure, whatever you say. I still don’t know how you people work when it’s so quiet. Don’t y’all have a radio in here or somethin’?” Lúcio glances around the shop.
“Huh? Naw. Ol’ Torby wouldn’ let me touch it even if he ‘ad one.”
“Want me to lend you one? Just don’t take it apart.”
“Why do I need one?”
“Trust me dude. Working to music makes things a hundred times better. I’ll be right back.” Lúcio disappears from the doorway and lets the door close behind him, leaving Junkrat alone in the loud silence. He huffs a breath and forces himself to sit back down on the bench, his fingers fidgeting around the wrench and rotating it between his fingers. Maybe Froggie was onto something.
True to his word, Lúcio reappeared about 5 minutes later, startling Junkrat and causing him to almost drop his wrench again. “Jumpy much?” Lúcio raises a brow, now wearing a pair of pajama pants and a hoodie and carrying a small round speaker thing in one hand.
“Oi, ‘f anyone’s jumpy, it’s you, Froggie.” Junkrat deflects, fidgeting in place while he watched Lúcio pick his way carefully around the small piles of scrap and projects.
“Ya prolly shoulda put some shoes on.” He points out, making note of Lúcio’s barefootedness.
“Probably. Wasn’t really thinking about it.” Lúcio responds, focusing on clearing a small spot on Junkrat’s cluttered workbench for the small speaker. Once satisfied with it’s position, he turns it on and steps back.
“I put some music in there I think you might like. If there’s a song you don’t like, all you gotta do is say ‘Skip,’ and it’ll skip to the next one. You can also tell it to play, pause, and replay.” He takes a step back as a strong drumline fills the shop, loud and clear, though not too loud as to be distracting. A smooth but strong guitar riff follows, notes dancing along the rhythm of the drums.
Junkrat blinks and subconsciously starts to nod along with the music. Another guitar picks up and starts in on a badass solo over the top of the other instruments.
“Huh… Maybe yer right about this one, Froggie.”
“I told you so.” Lúcio can’t help but smile, watching the lanky junker tap his left boot and set the wrench aside to pick up the wire strippers instead. The shaking Lúcio had noticed in those mismatched hands had started to subside as stressed energy was being redirected into tapping with the rhythm and focus redirected from whatever had been bothering the junker to the music.
“There’s about 4 hours of music on there. I can add more later but I think I’m gonna head back to bed. I’ll see you tomorr-....well, technically later today.” Lúcio gave a little stretch and a yawn before starting to pad his way cautiously around the piles of metal scrap on his way to the door.
“Oi, hold up.” Junkrat looks up from the project in his lap just as Lúcio reaches out to grab the door handle.
“Sup?”
“Thanks fer the music. ‘Preciate it.”
Lúcio gave an amused huff and smiled back at the junker.
“No problem. Music always helps me when I’m in rough patches. Lemme know when you hit the end of the playlist if you want me to add more music or change anything. G’night Junkrat.”
“Jamison.”
“Huh?”
“M’ name. Jamison. Or Jamie ‘f you like.” The junker’s eyes flitted quickly from his project to Lúcio and back.
“Heh, alright. Have a good night, Jamie.” Lúcio finally exited the garage, the door creaking shut behind him.
The song eventually ends and soon another song takes its place, chasing away the silence and the horrific flashbacks of his past that followed. He works on his project for another good hour before he ends up passing out on the bench, the music having lulled his mind and body enough for sleep to take him, not to be woken until Torbjorn found him later that morning after breakfast.