Jamison wasn’t too keen on baths, showers... or self-care in general. That much was obvious by the ever-present layer of soot and grime clinging to his pale skin, his wild hair, and, of course, the smell.

To say he reeked would be an understatement, most agents were starting to avoid standing too close to him. You didn’t blame them. When he walked past, there was a distinct mix of burnt metal, sweat, and whatever questionable substances he had been handling that day.

Something had to be done.

But getting Junkrat into a bath? That was going to be like wrangling a rabid, explosives-loving bull with a penchant for chaos. You had mentally prepared yourself for the fight of a lifetime—bracing for tantrums, bribes, or maybe even an escape attempt.

And yet…

All it had taken was a few well-placed kisses and the promise of extra cuddles afterward, before he was stripping down and stepping into the bath with a grumble.

“Hmph.” He slumped into the tub, his arms resting on the sides as he glared at the water surrounding him like it was some sort of personal insult. “Don’t see the point in all this,” he muttered. “Ain’t like I’m gonna stay clean. Just gonna get all dirty again in an hour.”

“Yeah, but for at least one hour, you won’t smell like something that crawled out of a junkyard and died.”

He snorted, a grin twitching at the corner of his lips. “That’s a bit dramatic.” His laughter was cut short when you reached for the bottle of shampoo.

His wild hair was thick, coarse, tangled beyond belief, but you worked through it with patience, your nails gently scratching against his scalp as you lathered up the soap. He let out a breath—a soft, content sigh—and you had to bite back a smile at how quickly his protests had died.

You spoke up, voice teasing. “Doesn’t feel so bad now, does it?”

He huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “S’fine, I guess…”

To your surprise, he stayed still, letting you scrub away the layers of grime caked onto his skin. His eyes fluttered shut again, body relaxing under your touch.