legionmissions | TO HAVE AND TO HOLD [modplot]

Entry tags:

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD [modplot]

Who| Anyone who wants in
What| "To Have and to Hold" plot
Where| The planet Olum, Matihara Temple
When| Set vaguely the same time as "Gods Among Us" and "Other Mother"
Warnings/Notes| N/A

The planet Olum is a genuinely welcoming place. While the clothes they have to wear for the rituals are a bit...odd (provided they don't opt for coverups), they are comfortable, especially with such a balmy climate. Despite the Olumites allowing outsiders into their ceremonies, there's a distinct lack of tourist-ey elements; no gift shops, no merchants selling anything, just a spirit of genuine unity and celebration. The Olumite marriage guides seem to genuinely care about helping people with their relationships, and seem happy to share their cultural traditions with other species.

As far as missions go, it's definitely a nice vacation from the usual life or death struggles.

It means the Legionnaires have no distractions. They have to settle in and try to navigate this while faking sincerity as best as they can.

[ooc: All information about the setting can be found on the infopost.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Fareeha is usually so focused on the details, the faults, looking for the cracks so she can fix it - whether it's in a mission objective or her own personality - that it tends to permeate her existence and she looses track of the bigger picture.

It seems she could learn a few things from him, as much as she was trying to keep an eye on him. His smile is infectious, and as they dance she lets a little more of herself go; another wall breaks down, and she's having fun.

He's continuing to surprise her, and for a moment she forgets entirely about the mission at hand.

Mission? What mission? All that exists is the moment.

He hasn't the slightest idea how much time passes, because he doesn't care enough to pay attention. All that matters is the music and the company. Even at the most discordant parts of her melody, he takes her by the waist and tosses her into the air and catches her just to spin her down to the length of his arm, a wild ride to endure the pain.

But all good things must come to an end, and the song is no exception. As it dies down, so does Junkrat's feverish attempt to keep up the beat, and through his exerted panting he still maintains a bright, amused smile.

A few moments pass, he bends down to wrap his arms around Fareeha's waist to pick her up and does a neat spin on his prosthetic leg, laughing the whole time. When he comes to a rest, he doesn't quite let her go, still panting and grinning at her from a vantage he doesn't get very often: looking up at her.

He's moving her fast enough that she doesn't have time or inclination to really think, instead simply reacting and following his lead and finding herself thrilled by the whole experience. She's tossed to and fro, pulled in pushed out, tossed up, all against this mashup of what the stones dictate their inner music is. It's an other-worldy experience and Fareeha has no other choice than to hang on and enjoy the ride.

And enjoy it she does. She's smiling wide, laughing when the mood strikes her, and letting him take her away when the music hits its darker strains. If she's honest with herself, she hasn't felt this light joyful for a long while.

When the tones die down and the beat fades away into the air, she's left panting as well, hands on his shoulders, looking down at him and looking grateful. Words seem to escape her for the moment, between the experience and the excursion, but her gratitude is clear.

After a breathy laugh, he finally bends down and gently lets Fareeha back down on her feet. What--what are they supposed to do now? After a moment like that, it feels wrong for everything to come to an abrupt halt, and Junkrat feels like there's something else to chase down here, even though he hasn't the slightest idea what it could be. Black-painted fingertips still linger on her upper arm, not quite in grasp, not quite ready to break the contact.

"Reckon..."

The silence feels deafening in comparison to the music. What do people usually do after dancing? What do people usually do here?

"...I could go for a swim now, yeah. You comin'?"

Yes yes yes yes please say yes.

It is an incredibly odd moment, with the sudden silence pressing in on her ears. She's not sure how she feels in the aftermath, with a growing objective clarity. She's here for a mission, and to keep an eye on him. She quietly reminds herself of that face, closing off a little as she glances away while she gets her bearings.

But, she doesn't shift away from him. "Yeah, sure. That sounds like it'd be fun." She looks back and smiles; it's all good, really.

Something's...changed. He doesn't know what it is, but it's enough for him to recoil his hand like he'd been electrocuted.

"Ace."

You'd think that someone like Junkrat would never have to force a smile, but there it is. He turns away and leads the way out of the circle, giving it one last glance before they leave the clearing.

Fareeha can tell. She can see the way he recoils and can see that smile doesn't come as easily as the optimistic fervor he had before. Part of it cuts at her, after such a wonderful dance and beautiful song, but she needs to deal with some of the thoughts and feelings that it kicked up.

The swim is a good chance for it, and without intending she falls into mindless laps where she's listening to the splash of the water and the distant echoes under the waves. Okay so she might not be the most fun beach partner. But, it does put her in a better headspace for the next couple rituals. She's affable, and kind, but she's keeping a little distance. They've got two more rituals to go.

The next one is fairly low-stress and just fun; a newlyweds' game with questions and answers. Shouldn't be too hard, Fareeha thinks ...

It's fine if she wants to do laps; he figures she's not going to join him in trying to fight the surf, or making sandcastles in the wet sand just to destroy them in various, overdramatic ways. He needs the moment alone for a bit of catharsis; it'd be better if he had some firecrackers, but his own hands (and foot) will have to do for now.

Eventually he wanders off, not too far, in order to get some food and a colorful, fruity alcoholic drink. It helps a lot more than he wants to admit, and it helps put him in the right mindset for the searching questions ritual.

It doesn't take long from him to switch from "trying to guess the right answer" to "trying to come up with the most outlandish, hilarious ones". It's merely coincidence when some of them actually manage to be way closer to the truth than he intended.

But for the review ceremony...

He'd be a lot more worried if he hadn't just finished his drink. More stones this time -- should equal another good time, right?

"Probably would get more cheese in the holes in Swiss," he jests, a self-depreciatory jab at himself and his terrible memory. "Shouldn't take that long," he says with a wink, holding out his arm for her to help herself. Ladies first -- she gets to choose whatever posture they should be in for the ritual.

The questions game was just the thing to lighten the mood without making it awkward, ad Junkrat taking the low road and having fun with it made it even better. By the end of it she was light and laughing.

Once they reach the magitek stones for the final ritual, though, she's sobered up a little (she probably also could have done with a colorful, fruity alcoholic drink herself). Again, she appreciates his sunny disposition, but she can't help walking into the circle and taking a knee with a bit of reservation. She's not sure how this particular ritual is going to go, but she if it's true they're delving into memories, she already knows there's a lot there Junkrat isn't exactly going to be happy to see. Additionally, there's a lot there she doesn't really want anyone to see.

But for the sake of the ruse, and in some small part a continued endeavor to learn about Junkrat for herself, she keeps her concerns to herself. "Hopefully not, we've got the testing grounds to get to."

"In the morrow," he specifies. The ritual grounds don't open up until then, and he's perfectly fine with that. The rest of the day can be spent doing whatever else they want around here without obligation, and even though free time doesn't necessarily equate to something fun and safe for everyone else when Junkrat is involved, he's not too worried. Not when he's got just enough of a buzz to chill him out.

She's not alone in wanting a lot of her memories to stay stuck where they already are. He's hoping that there will be some kind of way to cheat the system, get a distraction going, something to keep his few well-kept secrets undisturbed. He takes a seat in the circle, much more casual than Fareeha with his legs crossed and slouching forward with his hands on his shin (and shin analogue).

There's a moment of stillness, and he feels his mind wander against his will. That's not particularly unusual - his mind is usually swimming in a million half-coherent thoughts all at the same time - but where it ends up is unexpected. The person that manifests is a taller than average, well-built woman with ashen blonde hair, long and mildly curly hair pulled forward over her shoulders in loose, low-hanging pigtails. She's dressed in just a tanktop and shorts, shoulders and thighs riddled with tan lines.

Junkrat laughs nervously. This is going to be a lot harder than he was hoping for. "They're goin' real far back, huh..."

She's spitting mad. Jamison! she seethes, standing over him, and he giggles - his perspective changes to look at the mess before him: an entire solar panel, yanked off the array and dismantled to what looks like beyond repair. It's not destroyed, just taken apart with an aggressive thoroughness, and his lack of organization makes it seem a lot worse than it actually is. But this is what she does for a living, she knows what she's looking at, and it's nothing she can't fix. She won't need to.

She puts a hand on his head and the anger soothes away, but she still gives him a stern look. Ya can't just take down our equipment like that, Jamie. If ya can't put that back together before supper, ya won't get any.

Okayyyy!

Two tiny hands reach out and start picking at the tools and parts from the dusty red ground. They couldn't belong to anyone older than four or five years old. It gets put back together, and Jamie gets up and dusts himself off, and goes inside; the rickety screen door slams behind him and he hears whispered conversation in the dining room. He peeks around the corner and finds Mum and some other woman with black hair -- he can't remember what she looks like -- talking to each other in hushed words that they think he can't hear.

There's got to be something we can do, Mum utters. People live here.

We tried protesting in Perth, her conversational partner offers weakly. Just a couple hundred of us could get there. Most of us can't afford to get to the cities. Everything falls on deaf ears, and the government doesn't care.

He knows what they're talking about. The "factory". Mum doesn't talk to him about it because she doesn't want to scare him, but he figured it out a long time ago on his own, talking to the other neighborhood kids. A robot factory.

They won the war. He doesn't get it. Why would they want to make more? Jamie looks at a portrait on the mantle. It's of Mum while she was still round with him, and Dad, his buzzcut strawberry blonde hair and the smile Jamie inherited, dressed in his RAN uniform. Chief petty officer, from his colors. He remembers that. They had this picture taken because there was a chance that he wouldn't come back from his deployment.

They were right.

And now they were making more of the things that killed him, in their own backyard. Jamie can see it being built, not that well, in the distance when he looks out through the back porch windows.

Junkrat looks away, even though he wasn't really looking at Fareeha to begin with, hiding his watering eyes with his warmer hand. He really doesn't want to have to relive this.

He remembers the day of the explosion. Two older neighborhood kids are using rugby as a front to beating the weird kid, and he never really gets any help even through the tears because ah, kids'll be kids, and it's ironic that the flash of white that momentarily erases the red earth and levels their forgotten village is the first thing to ever have saved his skin. They're out on an open expanse, so they all get tossed a harmless some hundred feet away from where they were. It's what finally gets the bullies to run away, and Jamie goes to the only place he could: back home. He wishes that he hadn't.

Oh, thank God, you're safe, Mum gurgles out. She's pinned between two mangled solar arrays. He can't see the blood through his tears, he can't see the wounds that are seeping the life out of her. He clings to her arm, begging her not to die, and Junkrat doubles over as he screams too, tears pouring out between his fingers. He didn't have to watch his father die, and part of him wishes he didn't have the memory of what it feels like to hold someone while they took their last breaths.

Yer a strong, smart boy, she says, trying her hardest to smile for him. Keep fighting. Survive. Y'll prove them all wrong, my Jamie...

So he does. The next few years are a horrid blur, a combination of radiation and brushes with starvation. He proved them all wrong, all right - living out of his mangled house and utilizing anything he could find in the name of survival. It wasn't easy to start with, but everything got worse. Jamie takes his first life when one of those bullies shows up on his porch with a shotgun, politely asking for all of the food stored in Jamie's still-working fridge.

He'd been just a few weeks too late, because Jamie had already figured out how to safely dismantle and reassemble a fragmentation grenade. Junkrat remembers that it was the first time he'd laughed in a long time when he painted the porch walls with the bully's entrails. And destroyed the porch in the process. The second time an explosion had saved his life - but this time, it was his own.

Time passes. Puberty hits, he loses his mind, he loses his hair, he loses his teeth. After a few days of no sleep and one far too ambitious project later, he loses his limbs as well. Ah, that's why stabilizers exist. He laughs hysterically like the audience of stand-up bit that doesn't know how to quit, amazed that the blast hadn't knocked him unconscious. His blowtorch is still primed, still hot from warping metal, and he uses it to cauterize his wounds as best he can before the blood loss finally takes him out for the count.

His first prosthetics aren't that great, but they're enough to get around. They're enough to pilfer goods from anyone stupid or cocky enough to leave them unsupervised without a trap or a weapon, unlike his own wrecked home. Each successful hit gets him braver, gets him better materials for better prosthetics, gets him fed, and eventually people are begrudgingly showing up at his doorstep for weapons, for vehicles, for limbs, and he makes a new name for himself: Junkrat.

With the kind of skills that has people both coming for his goods and for his neck, he eventually makes his way to the front door of the wrecked omnium to see what he can find.

"No!" Junkrat protests in reality, clawing at his head in desperation. "Not this, not this, she can't--"

Most Junkers wouldn't be well-read enough to really understand what he stumbled across, deep inside the seed of Junkertown. A veritable treasure to some, a plague to others, a burden to him for having no use for it but the knowledge that it exists.

Life becomes a lot harder. There are more than just his fellow Junkers that want to tan his hide now. Even with his quick thinking and reflexes, he knows there's going to be an inevitable moment where he screws up. He needs some kind of authority on his side - in a place that stopped recognizing authority years ago, delegating the responsibility to Enforcers. Someone that people feared, even him.

So, he started getting under the skin of the scariest badass in Junkertown: Roadhog. It's originally just a game of cat and mouse until Roadhog can finally get his hands around him, expecting that Junkrat will cough up reparations for all the damage he caused. He pays forward, not with repairs, but the truth, a job, and a getaway plan.

Several jobs.

It doesn't take Roadhog long to laugh too. They gain momentum in their exploits quickly enough to escape out of Junkertown, cause a fuss in Australia's coastal cities, and eventually escape out of the country itself.

Life becomes easier.

And a lot less lonely.

Junkrat is in a shaking, vulnerable heap of a fetal position in front of Fareeha when the whole thing is over.

As he settles down across from her, she can't help but quietly notice how at odds they seem. The holographic projectors, at least, have given them some semblance of consistency to aesthetically suggest why of course these two would have ended up together. Their body language tells another story, though; the way he's settled comfortably compared to her military-at-rest sort of vibe. She has little time to dwell on it, though, as the first strains of his thought interrupt her and demand her full attention.

It's a hard thing to watch. In part because of the rough life he's lived, of the losses he's experienced and the hardships he'd been thrust up against. But it was also an outright intrusion; seeing these memories - feeling them, vivid and real so that she can taste the sulfur and feel the warm splash of blood and dirt. Her breath catches on the fumes, her stomach flips with the sight of sprawling viscera.

Fareeha holds her own. She doesn't get sick, or cry out in pity, or otherwise demean or diminish his experiences. She attempts to give Junkrat some respect and space by not looking at him - as much as she wants to, to see that he's alright, to offer some kind of support - she also doesn't want to intrude anymore than she's essentially being forced to. The moments he cries out are the hardest; she's not sure if she's making the best decision in keeping still (fists curling slightly now and again, in anger, in concern), but she can't think anything else would be much better.

That is, until it's over - finally over, and his last, most recent memory is fading into the distance. She opens her eyes and looks down at him. She's learned through her lifetime, through training and experience, to hold her emotions close to the chest, but Junkrat seemed to lay everything out on his sleeve. Seeing him curled up on the ground makes her more aware of how different they are, and how much they - in a way - compliment each other; she has a wry thought that, perhaps together they make a single well-rounded individual.

She kneels fully, reaching down to slip her hand in his and grip it tightly, palm to palm, like one would initiate an arm wrestle. She's not here to fight him, but to ofer up her strength any way she can, even if it's just a momentary connection.

"Hey, Jamison, it'll be alright --"

The final word dies on her lips as her half of the ritual starts up, and her hand tightens involuntarily. She's young - 12? 8? She's in a Gi practicing martial arts moves as a woman with an eye tattoo teaches her stances, punches, kicks. She's a thorough but fair teacher, and Fareeha is a determined and bright pupil. The woman speaks in Arabic, directing her, and through the magitech stones it's understandable to Junkrat. Fareeha dutifully listens. She admires and respects this woman; her mother. There are a few flashes of memories from times she visited Overwatch with her, spending time with Jack, and Torbjorn, and Reinhardt. These halls were like a second home, these people a second family. There's a comfort when she's around them, and it's from them and their actions that she pulls her main inspirations for life.

Then, in a jarring shift, she's slightly older; eating breakfast with her father while the news plays on the television. Her mother, Jack Morrison, and Gabriel Reyes are on the screen; Overwatch has had another success. Fareeha bursts with pride. She finishes her breakfast, washes her dishes, then starts to head back to her room. She pauses, head tilted back towards the kitchen where her father is pouring another cup of coffee and continuing to watch the news. She takes the moment to head instead to a hall closet, opening it up and reaching to the upper shelf to take down her mother's beret. She runs back to her room (where there is a large poster of Reinhardt Wilhelm next to her bed - his lion-like hair blowing in a righteous breeze - and quietly closes the door. Fareeha stands in front of her mirror and puts the hat on, taking a few moments to fuss with it until it's sitting just right - just the way she's seen her mother wear it - and then she salutes her reflection. That'll be her, she thinks; she'll be just like her mother and helping others.

Except it doesn't exactly work out that way; Fareeha's in her teens now, and she's fighting with her mother. As the two of them are similarly bull-headed, stubborn women, their fights are intense. Her mother's aged - hair starting to streak white, wrinkles etched across her face, and a certain weight in her eyes, even as she yells back at her daughter "No, and that's my final answer; do not ask again."

A few years pass. She's standing with a duffel bag by a bus bound for a local army base. Her father stands with her as she tries to call her mother, but the call goes straight to voicemail. Fareeha chooses not to leave a message, instead clicking her phone off and then hugging her father before joining the other recruits and boarding the bus. As it pulls out, she waves at her father until he's no longer in sight, and then settles back against her seat. She's closed off; people try to talk to her, and while she isn't mean, she doesn't exactly encourage the conversation. Once she arrives at boot camp, the whole of her focus goes entirely into her training. She's determined to show her mother she's worthy of being an Overwatch agent one way or another, and if she has to prove it through the army, then she will damn well prove it through the army.

She excels. She's an otherworldly force; between her stubborn nature to never give in to a challenge, the edge afforded her by early combat training, and her ability to creatively assess and and accomplish her objectives, she quickly rises through the ranks. All the same, Fareeha continues to hold herself apart. While other soldiers joke and banter, during leave when they hit the bars and the clubs, Fareeha continues to study field guides, or to work out, or otherwise continue her military training. It's a lonely existance, punctuated by letters and calls with her father and the occasional civil interactions with her mother.

But then the scene changes - it's nothing exceptionally different from the story of her military career, but the familiarity of it is burned into her for eternity and for the first time since her memories started - a sound escapes her. It's not quite a word, whatever it was supposed to be half-choked and strangled before it could become a full thought. So far, everything that's come out has been awkward, but for the most part she owns up to what made her who she is, and she knows she's grown from these early interactions. But this ...

this ... is a moment that gutted her once, and though she knows things now that she didn't back then, it's still one of the few times she's been jarred enough out of her own walls. She's in the barracks. She has a phone call. Her captain leads her to it and though she can't entirely read his face she knows him well enough to know this call is going to change everything.

"This is Lieutenant-Commander Fareeha Amari."
"Fareeha, it's Jack." Jack Morrison, who's voice she knew from childhood; who needed no introduction. But, in those three words, she could already sense what might be coming. Her stomach drops, but she doggedly maintains her professionalism.
"Jack -- it's been a while."
"It has, it ... Fareeha, it's about your mother."
She didn't speak. She could feel her throat start to close up, and her head fill with cotton. His next few words felt worlds away, and yet she could still hear them echoing in her ears today.
"There was an incident, in our last mission."
Another long pause. A small, objective part of her knew this must be hard on him, but she just wanted to know; to have o doubts about what she was going to have to be dealing with. "Please, Jack ... just tell me ..."
"I'm sorry, Fareeha. She didn't make it."

Clearance levels meant she never found out anything more. There was a memorial service. There was no funeral, because there was no body recovered. She attended in her military dress, dodging paparazzi to and from, using car service with tinted windows. Overwatch had been on shaky ground for a while and out came the cockroaches to sensationalize the death of one of the founding members, except for Fareeha, that had been her mother.

She quietly pulls her hand from Junkrat's in order to reach up and press against the bridge of her nose. She hasn't ever cried much throughout her life, but she did when she'd thought her mother died, and she's remembering that horror again.

A year later, Overwatch crumbles entirely, and she's forced to watch from the sidelines as the extended family she grew up with - that had so much import on the woman she became - died, or disappeared, or were forced into retirement. She's stopped watching the news, leaving the room anytime an Op-Ed piece started up on the television that her colleagues were watching. It's a painful, dark time in her life where she falls more bitter and angry.

The memories continue, slipping back into her continued military career. She's not any better with people, but she does eventually leave with distinguished service and not long after is offered a position with Helix Securities International. It's an honor to anyone in her position, and for the first time in a long time she's excited again; a change of pace, something different, new missions outside the scope of what the regular army could do.

She begins as a security chief, and is issued her first iteration of a limited-flight jump-jet armor systems. Once she gets herself established and assigned a team, she graduates to a full Raptora systems. It's brilliant blue, the helmet fashioned like a hawk with a gold visor.

In light of fighting new and more dangerous foes, and after what happened with her mother, she finds time to make her way to a tattoo parlor. She talks to the artist, pours over a few reference pictures, and together they settle on a final design. She settles herself into the chair, hands folded over her stomach as the artist finishes setting up his station. He spins his chair to settle his hands over her face, and the machine whirs to life. The pain is cathartic, and by the end of it she has a symbol of protection with her always.

The next set of memories hit like a missile barrage; straight from the battleground as her Helix team sets out to deal with Anubis. They find the wounded engineer, and she's the one that signs his death warrant, choosing to push on instead of take the time to call help. An omnic puts his pistol to his chin and pulls the trigger; it's a teammate - afriend - she can't act fast enough, isn't close enough to stop him, can only scream his name as she watches him sacrifice himself. They're ambushed. Omnics appear from every conceivable corner; the Helix team breaks up, each shooting into a different corner of the sky. She's on the ground again, her Captain lays through a broken brick wall, he doesn't make it. It's up to her to rally the rest of the team together and finish this damned Omnic god program before it could get to the heavy weapons. There's smoke and fire, explosions, gunfire. Anubis controls the omnics around them and itself sits watching as Fareeha has to make that choice - and in doing so finally changes an integral part of herself. Only then is she able to both help her teammate, and finally put down Anubis; offering him the distraction while he hacks into its systems. There's a moment when it all goes dark as she's inundated; overwhelmed and covered in Omnics before they all simultaneously shut down.

For a moment Fareeha thinks this is it; there's a long moment of darkness, of nothingness, but the light fades into view and she's looking at a letter. It's a familiar Arabic script, and she softly mutters to herself, to the magitech rocks, to whoever will listen, to just stop.

It's a letter from her mother, read with that same smokey tone that had opened up Fareeha's memories with martial arts instruction - albeit older with a definite crag to the edges. Fareeha's mother, who'd been presumed dead, who had - for six years - done nothing to contact her, or any other family. Six years Fareeha had carried that grief. The letter, at least, does some of the job of explaining why, but Fareeha's still processing it. She's equal parts grateful and livid, the two extremes mixing and leaving her feeling sick.

Fareeha has resorted to sitting, her feet tucked up under her, one hand around her stomach and the other shielding her face. While she's learned to start opening herself up to people, it's still not an instinctive response. In stark contrast to Junkrat's reactions to his own memories, she's attempting to shove it all back in; erect the walls, don't show weakness. Don't break. Swallow it back. She's forcing herself to breathe slowly and deliberately, trying to get a handle on herself before she faces him again.

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."

Fareeha did feel guilty, because she had so much to be grateful for, and she felt immensely petty about being bitter for her mother coming back from the dead whilst being comforted by someone who'd had to see his own mother die. But if something doesn't bend, it's more prone to break, and Fareeha's spent so much of her life denying herself emotional outbursts that a moment like this threatens to undo her. Experiencing not just all of the important emotional beats in her own life, but someone else's too - someone who struggled more, who was up against more, and who had survived against all odds - puts her right on the edge of what she's able to handle.

She's still tense as Junkrat coaxes her against his chest, but when he gently chastises her she sags against him, reaching one hand around his back for stability as she finally allows herself to cry - soft and steady. It's beyond even her memory the last time she let go like this.

But there's truth to his words, and once she eventually settles herself she feels a little less weighted. There's still a numbness after the whole thing, and she's searching for the right words to follow up with what she'd seen from Junkrat, but as she leans back from him and wipes her face she gives him a wan smile.

For all that they pretty much sat here the entire time, she's exhausted. She takes a moment to compose herself, rubbing her face, finger-combing her hair back into place, and tugging at her shirt. "I don't know about you, but I could really go for some comfort food right about now."

He lets her take as long as she needs, not once moving from his post. It's not like he's some kind of steadfast bulwark here; he's crying just like her. Junkrat is experienced with this, letting his tears fall freely and still running his magitech hand up and down her shoulder and back to comfort her. There are no words, no medication, no technology in the entire universe that can heal invisible wounds like physical human contact.

His hold on her is steady, unfaltering, but as soon as she moves, he readily frees her from his grasp so that they can both look at each other. Junkrat's face is flushed, eyes red and irritated - it's a good thing he's disguised, because he'd probably look like a horrid mess otherwise. Fareeha is actually the first to smile, and he returns with his own, looking none the less genuine despite the sad state of the rest of his face. He brings up his left hand and uses the back of his thumb to wipe up the moisture, first the right and then the left, never once abandoning their eye contact.

"Yeah," he agrees quietly.

With a wobbly little shove, Junkrat pushes himself upward from his crouched position, then holds out his hands for her to take if she needs the help to get back up.

"Maybe another drink too."

"You know .... I could do with a drink as well." It's not her usual coping habits, but these aren't exactly usual circumstances. She does take Junkrat's hand, letting him help her to stand since she's a little unsteady on her feet as well.

Once they're both on their feet, she's still for a moment before carefully threading her fingers with his. It's venturing out of her comfort zone, but it's also an admittance that the contact is something she could use - they could both use - right now. Having been so self reliant for so long, it's a huge step for her.

"Lead the way."

He's quite all right with the touch, a bit surprised that she'd be the one to initiate it but he rolls with it well enough, giving her a little squeeze. Junkrat starts off in a particular direction, taking a few steps before suddenly halting mid-step and changing directions.

Neither of them really need to be in the public eye right now. Instead, he'll lead her back to their room, where they can order in all the food and drinks they want within the relative security of a place designated as being exclusively theirs for the time being.

"Change of plans," is all he offers as explanation. Hopefully she catches on fast enough.

When they get back, he gets something that is basically this world's equivalent of a mango daiquiri and some kinda popcorn-like stuff. He assumes, perhaps errantly, that Fareeha is going to want to be alone, so he's quick to claim the pool for himself by stripping down to the buff - including both the ritual clothes and his holo-disguise - and sinking himself into hot, petal-littered water.

HIs elbows rest on the edge of the pool, back facing the center of it, as he nurses both the cold drink and his snack, occasionally holding the cold drink to his eyes and cheek. They're still sore from the crying.

It doesn't take her long to realize where he's taking them, and she's quite alright with it; neither of them are really fit for public viewing or the questions that might follow it, especially among those they know.

Once they're back, she orders herself a more substantial meal and a small bottle of spiced rum that she can nurse at for the rest of the stay. It might reinforce his ideas that she's looking for some space when she does't immediately join him, but once she's eaten and on her second rum and coke, she's heading to the pool herself.

She sees the pile of clothes and his bare shoulders and can infer the rest, and after a moment she sets down her drink and does the same; she'd learned early on in the military not to be shy about nakedness, and while there are some odd undertones with Junkrat that she's still trying to process, such inhibitions seem a little silly right now considering they were just in each other's heads.

"Feeling any better?" She settles herself down into the pool, leaning back against the edge.

He hears her come into the room unannounced, and he watches her come in with mild curiosity as his drink straw occupies his mouth.

Then she starts taking her clothes off.

Junkrat immediately turns away to face the direction he had been in earlier, immediately turning red--ugh, damn it, he just got the swelling down too--and shields his peripheral vision with his hand. He has absolutely no reservations about his own nudity, but someone else...

And now she's talking to him too. Should he turn around and make eye contact? What if her breasts are above the water? Can he trust himself to keep eye contact eye contact?

Oh, God.

She knows he's a virgin now too.

Better keep facing away.

"Not...really," he answers honestly. "Uh." He clears his throat. "How 'bout you?"

"I'm ... coping." Considering he was the first one to strip down ad hop in, she'd been under the impression nudity wasn't going to be an issue, but it's clear from his body language that somewhere along the line she got that entirely wrong. She's still and quiet for a moment, but she's not going to put him through this after everything they just experienced.

"I'll be right back." Her own cheeks are flushed with embarrassment for having put him in this predicament as she gets up and heads back to her luggage, digging around for the simple one-piece suit she'd brought along.

Edited 2017-05-10 08:06 (UTC)

To be fair: he thought he was going to be alone.

He finally whips around to look at her when he hears the water slosh, indicating to him that she's getting out.

"Wait!"

Don't look at the butt. Don't look at the butt. Okay, he looks a little bit, but at least he doesn't stare.

"Ya don't gotta get dressed," he offers. He's beet red, with a lopsided, awkward grin with his hands held up in a placating gesture. "Can't be the only one skinny dippin' in the waterin' hole. That's messed."

The truth is that he can't stand the thought of being the reason that she has to get out and get dressed in a bathing suit when he's still sitting here naked. Because he can't control himself. That's his responsibility, not hers.

"Just..."

He places a hand on his cheek and tilts his head to the side. He's on fire, and it's not just his hair.

"...only naked bodies I've seen are corpses, so..."

Not that this is news to her at this point. His shoulders pitch upwards in a shrug, and his brows steeple together in an apologetic smile. Don't look at the butt.

"You'll...forgive me if I screw up...yeah?"

She pauses and listens, considers for a moment. Then, she relents and settles back down in the tub. She really didn't want to add any reason for him to be upset, whether it's changing or not changing. In the end, she just wants to relax and maybe talk a little about what they'd seen.

"If you can forgive me as well. I saw a lot of naked bodies in the military; you learn then not to make it a big deal because there are other, greater things going on." Like, making sure they don't become naked corpses.

"You're sure you'll be alright? I don't mind changing."

There's a slow pause. He gets it, kind of, like--a medical doctor that's seen enough naked bodies to not think of them as anything other than the norm.

Which means... "Not sure what I'd be forgivin' ya for. Not staring?"

He crouches so that he can sink into the water as she gets back in, letting the water level come up to his chin.

"Reckon I'll get over it," he answers honestly. He's not exactly brimming with confidence, but he does mean to try his best.

In turn she's making sure she's submerged up to her shoulders - a small compromise.

"Apologizing for making things uncomfortable. I assumed it would be alright, and I should have asked." Maybe he's the one that needed space this time, like she had after dancing. "As you saw earlier, I'm ... not exactly the best with people."

She's spent more time pushing them out than letting them in; it stands to reason she'd mess something up in her endeavors to change her own routine.

Junkrat arches a brow at Fareeha. She is awfully prone to taking responsibility, huh?

"It's not yer fault that I'm not used ta ... this kinda thing."

She wouldn't know, even after being in his head. He never spent any time dwelling on it. There were always far more pressing concerns. He huffs a chortle out at her "best with people" line.

"And people ain't the best with me neither, so we're made fer each other."

He means it just as a joke, but...

"Speakin' of. I know the two of us get along like a house on fire, but I want to lay somethin' out. Full disclosure." He holds up his hands again, but only a few fingertips actually breach the surface of the water. "If ya tell anyone about the treasure, I will kill you."

It's not a threat. He's not even angry. The fact that he says it so casually makes it sound all the more committed.

"Nothin' personal, but I bet ya figured that out. Shiela with yer background, I'm sure ya know what ya saw, and why I can't let anyone know about it."

House on fire. She can't help but smile a little at that particular phrasing. He goes on, though, and starts talking about the treasure and her expression goes a little more somber. She's not upset, does't seem angry or scared at his proclamation. Still, she has to give it some thought. If they were back at home - if she were still running with Helix - she'd have carted his ass in long ago and she certainly wouldn't be keeping information like this to herself.

But the fact of the matter - one of the main reasons she was able to sit here with him, in a tub, naked, pretending to be an intimate couple - was that this expressly wasn't their world. The treasure, still in the ruins of the Australian Omnium, had little pull or interest here.

Eventually, she shrugs. "I don't think it much matters out here. Your secret is safe with me."

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