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“Is that Journey?” Roadhog panted out.
“Wut!” Junkrat almost tripped on a pile of garbage as he and Roadhog tore through an alleyway on foot. The heist had been a bust and they were on the run again.
“There!” Roadhog pointed out the glow of an establishment across the street and the two of them made a mad dash to its entrance.
A few heads turned their way as they exploded inside gulping for air. Junkrat peered out the dingy window of the dive bar they had “slipped” into and viewed the flashing lights of a police vehicle speeding by. Just the local bluies, they weren’t as serious as the federal police or border force. He visibly relaxed a bit and reached to pat Roadhog’s form beside him. “Long as we sit tight, we should be fine. Just gotta blend in all subtle like, Hog. ...Hog?” His hand landed on empty air and he turned around to discover his partner was gone. Pretty impressive for a man of his stature and girth.
He glanced around until he spotted his bodyguard near the stage located across the room. Roadhog was thumbing through a binder with laminated pages. Goddamnit. The big oaf loved karaoke. Normally he’d be right up front cheering him on, but they were supposed to be keeping under the radar. He hobbled over and tapped Roadhog’s side. “Roadie, we gotta be subtle.”
Roadhog snorted and glanced at him, his dark lenses staring down at him in heavy judgment. “You’re one to talk.”
Junkrat’s face scrunched up in annoyance, before trying a different approach. “Ya can croon for me later tonight, instead? I’ll make it worth yer while.”
Junkrat used lecherous smirk. It’s not very effective...
“You’ll do that regardless,” Roadhog said dismissively and handed the binder back to the stage attendant. “Number five.”
“C’mon, mate! Yer always on me to shut me gob, but here ya are planning on serenading a room full of civies!”
“Jacks ain’t expecting us to be out having fun,” Roadhog reasoned and climbed up on stage.
Junkrat reached over to the closest table and swiped a bottle of beer that had been left alone on before chugging it and slamming it back down in frustration. His prosthetic hand was thankfully too finely calibrated to accidentally break it. He almost wished he had, but inconspicuous was the name of the game. With a high pitched noise of frustrated distress, he flopped onto the vacant chair at the table. Whoever was sitting there before would have to find somewhere else. If his big pig was singing, he wanted front row - didn’t need some tosser ogling his Hoggy. T’were his job.
Roadhog smiled at him. Well, Junkrat didn’t see the smile, but he could tell the man was pleased with him and that was the same as getting a smile from Roadie.
“Got three songs. I’ll save the last. Could do ‘Hakuna Matata’ together?” Roadhog offered.
Fucker knew he was a sucker for that song ever since he’d seen an animated clip featuring a wiry, smart-ass meerkat and his fat pig friend singing about being free of cares and responsibilities. “Bet yer ass we’re doing ‘Hakuna Matata!’” he sulked and raised another half-drunk bottle in cheers.
And so Junkrat cheered Roadhog on through his cover of Sinatra’s “I Did it My Way” and ABBA’s “Waterloo” which he was pretty sure was about the man giving in to his impressive charms. Halfway through “Hakuna Matata” though, the police had wandered in and stared in shock. It was a mad dash out the back door as Junkrat cackled gleefully along with Roadhog’s deep, hacking laughter.
In hindsight, bursting into a bar in an obvious attempt to hide as the police sped by outside, stealing drinks, and enthusiastically covering ABBA and Disney songs was a bad idea, but damn if it hadn’t been fun.