The Junkers had holed up in a crummy motel as far from the city centre as possible. The day had been spent finalising plans for the heist which had drawn them there, prepping their weapons and explosives; finally, all that had been left to do was get some shut-eye before it was time for shit to go down. The “luxury suite” - there was nothing even homely about it let alone luxurious - consisted of two single beds and a sofa, so Junkrat had left the beds for Roadhog to make the most of and sprawled out on the scratchy, mildewy cushions instead.
Junkrat was the type to sleep in short bursts, rarely able to put his head down for a full night. But he was good at filling the stretching hours between his own waking and Roadhog’s with tinkering, quiet enough that he didn’t disturb the other - too often. But his nightly restlessness was merely a precursor to a more intense issue.
At odds with his usual loud, chatty self, Junkrat was almost silent when the night terrors first took over his sleep. His fear manifested in the rough jerking of his limbs - whole and not - and his head tossed fitfully against the threadbare sofa. His struggling became more frantic and he grabbed at one of the cushions, fingers digging deep into the coarse fabric and foam and pulling it across him to land on the floor. It knocked his prosthetics to clatter against the end table they’d leant against, and he suddenly sat bolt upright, eyes open but unfocused and voice cracking as it raised to an incoherent but panicked yell.
