Satya creeps back into the barracks with light steps and a watchful eye.

It is past midnight, and the entire watchpoint has been soused in darkness. The pale emergency lights bleed soft waterfalls into the common area, pathing across a black throw rug and the cream sofa tucked into the corner. Dimmed mellow nightlights dot the ceiling, artfully ensconced in small hollows, guiding Satya's way in as she slides her fingertips along the cool metal of mazelike walls. The winter chill has seeped into their surface despite the complex's central heating, and prickled gooseflesh ripples down her arms as she walks back to her bed.

Thankfully, the others are sound asleep. Tracer's alcove glows with the fierce blue burn of her chronal accelerator, secured upon its custom-made charger placed by her bedside. Mercy's is dark save for the green digital text of an alarm clock, and Mei's is lit with the faint light emitting from her charging weather drone. Ana's is entirely black, obscured by a hanging blanket she had pinned over the open wall, and Zarya's is bathed in a muted violet from her docked particle cannon.

Staggered clusters of empty alcoves separate her teammates' quarters from her own. She had initially chosen the isolated space toward the back of this half of the barracks to provide herself a better sense of privacy, but Satya has never truly been appreciative of all its benefits until this past month. The extra distance might be an inconvenience when returning from the washrooms, but it reduces noise by a great deal. Not only is she spared Zarya's snores and Tracer's nighttime chatter with Mercy, the others are also spared from her frequent guest.

Satya glides the hard-light door to the side, and she slips into her room before shutting it behind her. The lamp from her desk casts a warm, yellow ambiance across the length of the ceiling, and it saturates the lump in her sheets in pallid shadows. Her belongings remain just as she had left them: her purse resting on the chest at the foot of her bed, a single pair of her heeled shoes placed in front of the wardrobe, her Vishkar blouse hanging off the back of her chair, a set of blueprints she'd been too distracted to finish splayed across her desk. Two crimson grenade shells sit on her nightstand nearby, their smiles following her movements as she makes her way over to her bed. She sidesteps past a pair of discarded camouflage shorts left in a rumpled pile on the floor, and after a moment of pause, she backtracks and herds them out of her path with the side of her foot as she eyes the prosthetic leg of their owner stowed by the bottom end of the bedframe.

When she draws up to the mattress, Satya gives it a series of soft taps. Drowsily, her guest stirs at the sound and lifts his head from the rather impressive burrow he'd made of her blankets in her absence. Propped up on one elbow, he glances up at her with squinted eyes and a bleary haze of disorientation. His blond hair is a mussed haystack, the newer sections of growth a somewhat darker shade than the rest thanks to the intensity of Gibraltar's sunbleached summer. Scattered birthmarks and freckles are flecked across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, and if the blankets weren't brought up over his shoulders, Satya is certain the night's sky could be mapped over the remainder of his body. A faint degree of recognition crosses his countenance as he studies her, and as he fights off a particularly staggering yawn, Jamison sprawls out across the bed and reaches out for her with his metal hand.

"Is it time yet?" he asks, beckoning to her with a wave.

"No, not just yet. But it will be very soon." She laces her fingers through his. Crude as his prosthesis may be, she finds a certain charm in its rudimentary design, and she finds that it retains body heat very well. "I would advise you not to get too comfortable."

"Too late. Already comfortable. Looks like you'll have to haul me out." Jamison winks and gives her hand a light squeeze. "C'mon, love. S'too cold out there. Least let me warm up a little longer before sneaking back."

Satya knows from experience that indulging him tends to lead to other things, but it is late and she has no intent on being a poor host.

Shrugging out of her slippers, she tugs the blankets aside and climbs into bed. He doesn't wait for her to situate herself; he snakes up behind her and pulls her against him with his good arm cinched around her waist, the warmth of his chest flush against her back. One knobby knee nudges between her legs, and his ankle hooks around her own. No matter how many times he's found his way here during the night, she still marvels at how his body heat permeates the sheets.

"I don't think you need to warm up at all," she says, framing his forearm with the palm of her hand. "You're already a furnace."

"One man's cold is another lady's fire," he murmurs into her neck. "Warm's a good thing, innit? Didn't hear you complaining a little while ago. Seemed to like it, if I remember right. What was it again? Something like—"

"Shh." She turns halfway and presses the pad of her finger against his lips. "I do not think any of that bears repeating."

He kisses her fingerprint, his mouth assuming a sly smile. "You're the one who said it. Why can't I?"

"You tend to be loud," says Satya. "I would rather not wake any of the others, especially with something like that."

"Oi, I ain't that loud."

"I beg to differ."

"Differing weren't no part of it."

She sighs and lies back into the pillow, a tired smile edging its way in. "That is not what I was referring to."

"Nah, but I was."

He coaxes the neckline of her pajama shirt aside with his nose and gently sinks his teeth into the muscle of her shoulder. The wet heat of his mouth strings a shiver down her spine, and her toes curl at the motions of his tongue. Before, he'd lathed a hot path down her neck and over her breasts, teasing and kissing and leaving small marks in his wake before dipping down between her legs. Perhaps it is because it has been so long since she has had another partner, but she finds that he brings an achingly good satisfaction that surpasses anything she could hope to bring herself.

"Differing or not, you always sound good," he says, dropping kisses from her shoulder and up to her neck. "Dunno why you think it don't need saying. Making lovely sounds like that? It's nice to see you get into it. And you call me loud."

"I am not loud," she says, and with sternness. "In fact, I am very conscious of volume. Our living situation requires it. I refuse to be rude to the others. They do not deserve that."

"Mmn. If you say so. Always sounds like fireworks to me."

Jamison's hand climbs under the hem of her shirt and circles soft patterns across her breasts and down her belly. The old calluses on his fingertips have worked into something smoother over the past few months, as Gibraltar's environment has been kinder to him than the rugged lifestyle in Junkertown had ever been, and they summon a tantalizing kind of spark under their touch. Electricity lingers in the wake of tender twists and spiraling swirls, and he brings her closer against him with a palm beneath her ribs. The warmth of his naked body seeps through her nightshirt, and the longer she lies there, the drowsier she becomes. She supposes she should consider succumbing soon, as there is sure to be another meeting headed by Winston and Jack Morrison in the morning, but she does not want to sleep just yet.

Her muscles are pleasantly sex sore from their previous session, and even though his touches are chaste and his mouth traces sweet and affectionate kisses by her neck, a hot drop of want aches between her legs. A familiar hardness starts to press against her backside, and she smiles wryly into the pillow at the thought. A part of her yearns to climb on top of him and persuade him to partake in another round; Jamison is not a particularly difficult person to convince, especially if she nibbles at his earlobes and whispers his name, but she knows that would extend his stay for at least another half hour. It must be encroaching upon two o'clock by now, or so she estimates, and if she plans on being awake on time, it would be best to retire sometime soon.

Still, it doesn't make the desire for contact any less.

Before she can cobble the thought into coherent words, Jamison slides his leg away. The mattress depresses at her back as he sets up on his elbow and begins to clamber over her. With heavy lids, she guides a soft pressure by his hip to help sidle him across. A feathery kiss graces the tip of her nose before he scoots off of her. His weight sinks into the edge of the bed as he scoops up his shorts from the floor, and Satya cracks an eye open to watch the muscled plane of his back work as he dips down and pulls them up his good leg.

"Jamison," she says.

"Satya," he replies, tugging them up by the belt loops.

"Are you going to leave now?"

"Yeah. Reckon it's late enough. I'm rooted. Said yourself it's near time anyway, so might as well start making my way back."

Jamison pulls up the zipper, fastens the end of his belt, and cinches it tight. His partial erection seems to make the endeavor more difficult, but he pays it no mind. Tucking his tongue between his teeth, he then rolls up the right leg of his ratty camos and all its smiling patches to about mid-thigh and leans down to fetch his prosthetic leg from the floor.

Satya draws in a steeling breath. The blankets are still warm from his residual heat, and even though they smell strongly of him, of stone and musk and disheveled earth over an astringent twinge, they are nowhere as comforting. With a subtle ache earthed in the hollow of her chest, Satya attempts to collect her thoughts and pats two fingers at the lower contour of his back.

He pauses and cranes his neck to offer a questioning look over his shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Don't," she says, steeped in a firm and decided tone—and no matter how her desires coalesce into more eloquent phrases in her mind, a rigid don't is all that drops from her tongue.

"Don't? Don't what? Put me leg on?" The gold in his mouth gleams as he grins at her, the yellow glow from the desk lamp threading through his mess of tousled hair. "I mean, I could probably one leg it to the other rooms if you really wanted, but it might take a little longer. Bit noisier. Don't sound like no snoring, and the pommy's a light sleeper. She gets yappy when she's knackered."

Satya reaches out with one hand and hooks it around the crook of his elbow. The fiery skull inked on his bicep stares at her with hollow eyes, the leather straps of his prosthesis pleasantly warm against her palm. The rest of his skin seems to harbor fire beneath its surface, as if living flames composed his entirety with pairs of cindering coals buried in the depths of his lungs, and she's certain his kisses have filled her with laving fire because everything always seems to burn when he's gone.

"I would… appreciate it very much if you stayed," she says at last.

Jamison's expression melds into something very puzzled, as if she had spoken in Telugu or one of her other familiar languages instead of English and it were up to him alone to provide a translation. His brow furrows in deep thought, and his eyes dart down to the placement of her hand upon his arm before flicking back to meet her gaze.

"Right, right, okay. Hold up. Lemme understand. You just said you want me to stay. But that ain't what the deal was. The deal was I always leave." He twists himself halfway around to face her, adjusting his right thigh so it rests fully upon the mattress. The yellow lamplight shapes warm shadows down his jaws, curling soft and dark fingerprints beneath his eyes. "S'what you said to do before, innit? Well, at the start of this. Said I weren't spending nights here. Part of the routine, right. Come in, have a bit of fun, then back off to me own bed before morning. That's how it's been."

"Yes, that is correct," she admits. "That is what we agreed upon. That's how it's been."

"Right. Yeah. That's how it's been. For a month now. A month of coming in here then going back. Don't mind it none, right, but suddenly that's not what you want? Seems dodgy if you ask me." He arches one eyebrow, as if suspicious. "What happened? What'd I do? I do something better than usual?"

A grin threatens at his remark. "That isn't a fair question. You know you always do well."

"Right, so what's this about, then?"

Satya bites at the inside of her cheek. Her hand slides from the bend of his arm to the cut line of his hip, and then further down to frame the hard muscle of his right thigh. Dense scar tissue knots at its end, just before where his knee would have been, wrought with whitened marks of cracked lightning and dark thunderheads streaked by the end. She sketches her fingers across his skin, the amethyst polish of her nails grazing tender lines down to the jagged scars, and she takes pleasure in the heat dispersed among the disparate textures that shape his the remainder of his leg.

"It isn't about anything," says Satya, perhaps a bit too soft. "I simply wish to have you here."

A moment or two passes where Jamison seems unsure of how to react. He sits at the edge of the mattress, metal fingers gripped into the sheets, forehead creased, wildfire hair alight. His left hand lifts from the knob of his knee and smooths over her knuckles. A slow kneading starts by her wrist bone and works down to her fingers, warm shocks of frisson webbing from the flat of his palm. The motions are gentle, rhythmic, and reminiscent of the moving tics she notices when he waits to snap down a detonator's switch.

"I don't mind going back or anything, y'know. I'm fine with this." His voice is low, soft, uncertain. He studies her intently, and the amber of his eyes hollows her out, fire carving through her body and aching in cool cinders. "You said you don't want me staying. Staying makes things complicated. Weird to explain, right, and I get too warm. And that's all right. I ain't got no problems with leaving. Don't wanna barbecue you in your own bed."

"You will not barbecue me in my own bed. You do get very warm, yes, but it's winter. The night is cold, as you said." The heat from his body seeps into crooked heartlines and the winding prints of her fingers, and she gives his scarred thigh a squeeze. "And with as cold as it is… I would care to have a furnace."

An affectionate smile works at the side of his mouth. "It's gonna be a real early morning with the monkey's gettogethers. What about the girls?"

"I am fairly certain most of them are aware by now," she says, sighing against her pillowcase. "Something confirming their suspicions would not be a surprise to any of them. Lena especially seems to enjoy those kinds of rumors, and I have no doubt that they've talked about this before. Our recent carelessness didn't help."

"I thought I did a decent job of keeping things hushed," he says.

She eyes him with amusement. "I will give credit where credit is due: your tries were admirable. Regardless, you are very bad at lying."

Jamison's nose scrunches in offense. "Oi, I'm a good liar. You're selling me short."

"Stuttering and forgetting words when confronted about the nature of our relationship are not the traits of a good liar. The best liars disengage and deflect. 'I haven't the faintest idea what you are referring to, but I have noticed you have been very friendly with Mei lately.'" Satya taps the side of her nose. "You must observe others and use what you know. Disengage and deflect."

"You do that with me?" he asks, cocking his head.

"I do not need to lie with you." Satya slides her hand out from beneath his and gestures for him to come closer. "Well, at least when it comes to most things. I will not say I haven't lied about gifts or similar occasions. I consider those fair game. And so was how I felt about you—for a while."

Jamison's eyes widen. Stark realization flushes through his face and pinks the tips of his ears. He holds up a metal finger and opens his mouth to manage a reply, but he doesn't seem capable of making much more than what Satya admits is a very generous vocal range of strangled noises. After several moments of failed attempts, he reconsiders his response with a bowed head and opts to sit there in bashful silence.

Satya smiles against the pillow. "So, will you stay? Unless you do want to go back. I wouldn't fault you for doing so. I suppose I should say goodnight if that is the case."

"You think I'm about to leave just so I can have a lie down in a bed that's bloody freezing?" He jolts up from the mattress. "Not a chance."

"Then where are you going?"

"Where's it look like?" Jamison takes a testing hop over to the desk across from her bed. Stretching his arms out, he clasps his hands on the edge, pulls himself close, and then reaches for the lamp. "Dunno 'bout you, but I find getting a lick of shut eye's a hell of a lot easier when it's dark."

It takes a while for Satya's eyes to adjust to the lack of light. His lanky silhouette is blinding white and pressed beneath her eyelids, bleeding in and out with her heartbeat, and even though she hears the thump of his foot against the cool floor and feels the weight of his hands settling at the edge of the bed, the blinking sharp shapes of her room still impose over the darkness, and his image nothing but a smoking ghost.

The metal of his hand is hot with body heat, and it paves a path over her belly as he brings it around her. His leg nudges into the covers and entwines between her own, and his good arm crawls underneath the pillow to let him scoot closer. The pillow sinks beneath his weight beside her, and she welcomes the touch of his nose as he presses his forehead against hers.

"I think you forgot something." She slides her hand down his belly, tracing along the thin trail of blond, and tugs at the waistline of his shorts. The fabric still strains around the stiffness between his legs, and the pressure is flush with her thigh. "You would be more comfortable without these, would you not?"

"Yeah. Probably. I'll get 'em in a minute."

Jamison's prosthetic fingers tap a small tempo down her spine. It isn't the slow drumming he curves along her back after sex or the methodical tic he uses to keep himself focused; it's flighty, fast, and if it were under any other circumstances, she might dare to assume habit, but Satya has been around him long enough to recognize it for what it truly is: nervousness.

"You sure you don't want me outta here? Won't hurt my feelings or nothing if you say no." He curls around her, his metal arm cinching tight as he cranes his chin to rest over top of her head. Although he is close, it is clear he is conscious in giving her space to breathe: his hips are not too near, his chest is far enough to allow a few inches of room, and he chooses to rest the scarred stump of his thigh elsewhere instead of over her own. "Don't wanna make you feel like you gotta do something different. Deal's what you made it. I got no problems with following it. If you don't want me here, I don't mind hoofing it back 'cross the rooms."

Satya can't see him in the dark, but she can feel the hard swallow that dips his adam's apple, hear the heaviness of his breaths, and as she presses her hand down into the muscle beneath his collarbone, his pulse is a subtle drum against the underside of her palm. Slowly, she brings her lips to his throat, places a kiss against his skin, feathery and soft like wings, and says, "I would not have told you to stay if I weren't certain."

"Nah. Really? You positive?" His fingers still patter on the curve of her spine, but he masks their jarring rhythm with a laugh. "Last chance, 'cause once these come off, I'm not going anywhere."

Satya frames his jaw with her hand and guides his mouth to hers. "I do not want you to go anywhere."

Resistance cords through his neck. He hangs back, decidedly against the direction of her fingertips, as if kissing her would somehow inflict harm.

"You sure?" It's low, quiet, not quite whispered, wedged out of him with effort.

She gives his cheek an admonishing tap. "I am very sure. Would you like it in writing? If you wish, I could formally revise our deal, as you called it. I am quite familiar with paperwork, and drafting something wouldn't take too long."

"No, no, no, all right, look, you know I don't need nothing like that. Don't need a stack of papers or some contract or anything. Hearing it's fine. Really. Cross me heart. Just…" The pressure on her back increases as Jamison coaxes her closer. "Never really heard it before, I guess."

A thread of bewilderment sews under her thoughts. "Heard what before?"

"Asking to stay."

It's almost… distant, she thinks, like it's scraping on the scab of a bad memory he'd rather have left buried, like something is digging into one of his scars and twisting with a punishing force, and it curls down from the heel of his palm and into the braid of her backbone and flourishes through nets of nerves down to the cinders he'd left sunken in her lungs.

Satya breathes, pulling fuel to the smouldering nests behind her ribs, and she leads him into a kiss. Darkness encroaches around her, capturing old demons and the dregs of her home city and Sanjay's thin smile in its voidlike cloak. She closes her eyes and presses out a darkness of her own, lit by the living fire breathing a hot star down her throat. Constellations burst from his shoulders and young universes recline in the trails of the molten sun climbing through his hair. The grooves in her palms line with golden stardust, trickling down her wrists and pathing down her belly in glittering waterfalls.

"If no one has asked," she says against his mouth, "then I will gladly be the first."

Satya kisses him again, with fondness and affection and utter certainty, and Jamison does not protest.