Zenyatta has to admit that, for once, the feeling is entirely mutual; of all the hundreds of possible outcomes he'd dreamed up, this was not one of them. It hardly seems to be his own body that swells forward with the slow, gliding movement of the tide against the shore; the hand that reaches out for Junkrat's cheek, softened into a cup, seems to belong to someone else.

But he does not withdraw it.

"Very well. If you should change your mind, however," he says, evenly, without so much as a trace of his concern, "you need only say the word."

His palm finds Junkrat's jaw, smudged with grease and gunpowder; automatically he shifts his thumb to that sneering mouth in a light, curious stroke. Kisses are beyond him, of course, but this he can do. The junker's body language is all vulgar implication, but if they are going to do this they will do it at a pace that suits him as well.