He appreciates it when she holds his hand, but he shifts his own so that he can thread his fingers with hers, fingertips pressed into the back of her hand like Fareeha is the only thing anchoring him to reality.
He's expecting that when they get to her part of this violent, one-sided mental tug-of-war, that her side will be a respite. Comparatively speaking, it is, but only because there is less viscera, less bouts of insanity, but just as much emotion. Hope and disappointment, dogged determination and crushing loss, emotional betrayal.
Memories aren't just facts, figures, figments of the past. They're the experiences that define a person, wounds opened up by raw emotion to heal over by toughened scars. Junkrat has never been the kind of person to begrudge someone for having a life that could be described as easier than his, because that's the nature of the world; everyone has their own struggles, and none are more or less significant than someone else's.
He has no reservations like Fareeha does about personal space - it would be more accurate to say that he has absolutely no respect for it at all - so when the desire to reach out and hold her strikes, there's no gut instinct that pulls him back from it.
With his flesh hand against the back of her head, he presses her face into his chest, cradling her against his body. His face is still wet with his own still falling tears, but he presses his cheek against the side of her head.
She's trying to hold it in, as if he wasn't already feeling the brunt of her emotions, as if there was something to hide at this point. The pitcher has already fallen, spilling its contents, and she still grasps it like there's still a chance that she'll be able to stop that last drip from escaping. He knows she's a bull-headed person, but he can't just sit here and watch her torture herself.
"Knock it off," vibrates out of his chest. His voice is actually pretty deep when it's not trilled through his mania. "You're just making it hurt more by holding it in."
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He's expecting that when they get to her part of this violent, one-sided mental tug-of-war, that her side will be a respite. Comparatively speaking, it is, but only because there is less viscera, less bouts of insanity, but just as much emotion. Hope and disappointment, dogged determination and crushing loss, emotional betrayal.
Memories aren't just facts, figures, figments of the past. They're the experiences that define a person, wounds opened up by raw emotion to heal over by toughened scars. Junkrat has never been the kind of person to begrudge someone for having a life that could be described as easier than his, because that's the nature of the world; everyone has their own struggles, and none are more or less significant than someone else's.
He has no reservations like Fareeha does about personal space - it would be more accurate to say that he has absolutely no respect for it at all - so when the desire to reach out and hold her strikes, there's no gut instinct that pulls him back from it.
With his flesh hand against the back of her head, he presses her face into his chest, cradling her against his body. His face is still wet with his own still falling tears, but he presses his cheek against the side of her head.
She's trying to hold it in, as if he wasn't already feeling the brunt of her emotions, as if there was something to hide at this point. The pitcher has already fallen, spilling its contents, and she still grasps it like there's still a chance that she'll be able to stop that last drip from escaping. He knows she's a bull-headed person, but he can't just sit here and watch her torture herself.
"Knock it off," vibrates out of his chest. His voice is actually pretty deep when it's not trilled through his mania. "You're just making it hurt more by holding it in."