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Hanzo is—well.
Hanzo is a lot of things.
He came to the Gibraltar outpost two weeks into the recall, claiming to be Genji’s brother and demanding to know the cyborg’s location. He stayed on afterward for reasons that were never quite clear. Personally, McCree just thinks the man has nowhere else to go, but he isn’t about to go prod Hanzo about it lest he end up with an arrow in his face. Still, even though Hanzo expressed disdain anytime someone mentioned joining Overwatch proper, he was granted a room and treated as one of their own. He’s a decent tactician and an excellent sniper, and Genji had had words with Winston, so the transition was fairly seamless.
And Hanzo is so many things, the first of which is angry .
McCree tries to be friendly for the first few days, but it becomes clear that Hanzo isn’t interested in small talk. Or conversation. Or, really, anything that isn’t his brother. He is either seen with Genji—or heard, with arguments that carry down the halls—or rarely seen at all. He is curt with most of the team, doesn’t sit with them for meals, and hasn’t smiled since he arrived a week ago.
McCree thinks that a man that unapproachable has no right being so goddamn handsome.
That’s the second thing.
--
“Mornin’,” McCree says over a cup of coffee one morning, early into Hanzo’s stay.
Hanzo glances in his direction, but says nothing. McCree thinks he sees him nod, but it’s so slight that it could have been anything.
It’s 6:02 AM but Hanzo manages to look as put-together as always: hair recently washed and tied back, his usual outfit traded for a similar, simpler version in a dark gray. He keeps the left sleeve pulled up this morning, and only a hint of his tattoo is visible under the V-shaped collar. McCree’s awake because a nightmare left him too restless to go back to sleep, but he suspects Hanzo’s awake because of discipline .
McCree watches with interest as Hanzo goes through the motions of making breakfast—cracking an egg over a bowl of quick-cooking rice, steeping a cup of green tea. “Y’know, most mornin’s we eat together,” he says mildly. “Reinhardt likes to feed an army when he can, and he ain’t half-bad at it.”
Hanzo regards him with narrowed eyes. “I can handle my own meals,” he says coolly, as though the invite to dine in the mornings is a personal affront.
McCree shrugs and sips his coffee. “Have it your way,” he says.
Hanzo looks at him a moment longer, then leaves with his plain meal in tow. Later, when McCree passes through again, he spies a single white ceramic bowl and a pair of steel chopsticks drying on a towel by the sink.
--
Nobody really sees Hanzo unless they happen to catch him in little moments like those. McCree usually crosses paths with him at least once a day in the kitchen (he keeps irregular hours, and apparently Hanzo has not yet figured out how to avoid him). Reinhardt says he ran into Hanzo once in one of the practice ranges. Angela saw him waiting outside the medbay for Genji while she was checking his vitals. Lena catches him on her evening jogs around the base, in any number of solitary, out-of-the-way places. Oftentimes, he is with Genji; every time McCree sees them together, they are either talking heatedly or completely silent.
McCree makes it a point to greet him every time they cross paths. Sometimes, Hanzo will hum a response or give a low “hello.” Other times, he pointedly ignores all attempts to converse. He is not outwardly rude, but neither is he even remotely friendly.
It’s a bit annoying, making an effort, but McCree likes the sound of the man’s deep, gravelly voice enough to keep it up.
“Bit of a loner, isn’t he?” Lena remarks to McCree after Hanzo passes them in the hall, barely glancing in their direction.
“Somethin’ like that,” McCree replies.
“Sometimes I see him with Genji, but . . . Ah, well. He’s probably just overwhelmed. Bunch of new people, huge base to get around, plus the whole thing with Genji . . . I’m sure he’ll get better.” As always, Lena’s optimism is unmatched and unwavering. McCree snorts.
“Yeah, well, I sure hope it’s soon. It’s like working around an angry ghost.” Lena giggles, and McCree feels justified in knowing that at least he’s not the only one thinking it.
--
McCree is normally the only one who visits the practice range at 1:30 AM, but when he taps in his PIN and the door whooshes open, he spots Hanzo across the room. The man is deep in concentration, his gaze locked on a target mannequin at the far end of the range. McCree waits, not wanting to interrupt; Hanzo unleashes one, two, three arrows in quick succession, his firing arm a blur. All three hit their mark on the dummy in three locations: head, chest, belly.
McCree whistles appreciatively, and this is what causes Hanzo to glare over at him. “What,” he growls, lowering his bow.
“What?”
“Why are you here?”
“Could ask you the same thing.” McCree shrugs, reaches for Peacekeeper holstered at his hip. “Sometimes when I can’t sleep, I come shoot. Usually nobody here, but tonight seems to be the exception.”
Hanzo turns his gaze back to the range. He taps at the control panel, resetting the range with several fresh, unpunctured dummies. “I cannot make you leave,” he says dryly, as though he desperately wishes he could. “But your gun is loud and unnecessary.”
McCree feels a twinge of frustration. Of course his gun is going to seem loud compared to a bow. “Well, then plug your ears,” he retorts, yanking open a drawer under the control panel to reveal a box of rubber ear plugs. “Ain’t my problem. Seems like you should be able to concentrate around gunfire, if you’re such a good shot.”
Hanzo’s nose wrinkles, which is such an odd mix of disdainful and completely un-regal that McCree almost laughs. Hanzo turns away, nocking another arrow. McCree has the sense that he has been effectively dismissed.
He goes about setting up his own targets and starts his shooting off easy: two targets, firing off four shots,one after the other. Each target gets one bullet to the foam head and one in the chest with ease. He pauses to reload, and catches Hanzo watching him from the corner of his eye. The man looks away as soon as he’s been noticed, and McCree returns to his shooting, uncertain if he should be pleased or concerned.
It’s another ten minutes before Hanzo pays him any mind. McCree sets up four targets, fires rapidly in a line, hits all four in the chest. Then, feeling a bit playful, he does a spin and sinks the last two bullets into the dummies nearest him with his arm hooked behind his back.
Hanzo is openly staring at this point. McCree gives his best charming smile. “Somethin’ you like?” he asks.
“That was ridiculous,” Hanzo says. “Do it again.”
McCree shrugs; this is probably the closest to praise he’s going to get from the irate sniper. He reloads his pistol, spins the chamber, and repeats the feat, this time with four bullets finding their way into the now-ragged training dummies. Hanzo appraises the end result with narrowed eyes, then turns back to his own targets, set up significantly farther down the range. “Impressive,” he admits grudgingly. “Useless in an actual fight, but impressive.”
“You’d be surprised,” McCree says mildly. He watches Hanzo put an arrow in the dummy right between where a human’s eyes would be, and thinks that he probably shouldn’t be attracted to that.
--
They meet again at the range at an unreasonable hour a few nights later.
“Fancy meetin’ you here,” McCree drawls in his best flirtatious voice. Hanzo sinks an arrow into a distant target before raising a brow.
“Do you do nothing else?”
“I could ask you the same thing, Legolas.” McCree grins as he watches Hanzo repeat the nickname with a quizzical look, silently mouthing the syllables: Leh-go-luhs. “I only ever see you training or sulking.”
“I do not sulk. ”
“Darlin’, if there were a competition for sulking around, you’d take it straight to the nationals.”
The way Hanzo’s lip curls in disdain, baring a surprisingly sharp canine, reminds McCree of startlingly of a wild animal: a wolf, watching an intruder test their limits. “I am also not your darling, ” he says, and shoots another arrow into the neck of the target.
“Alright, alright,” McCree says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. Hanzo doesn’t look placated, but his tense shoulders slacken a little.
McCree goes about setting up his own lane on the range. As he loads up Peacekeeper, one bullet at a time, he says, “We oughta have a bet.”
“What.”
“Rumor has it you’re a good shot, and by what I’ve seen, you live up to it,” McCree continues mildly. He snaps the chamber of his pistol into place. “But there’s a reason I’m the fastest hand in the West. Everyone else here’s good, but they ain’t that good.”
Hanzo has lowered his bow, listening. To McCree’s surprise, he smirks; it’s the closest thing to a smile McCree has ever seen on his face.
“As you wish,” Hanzo says. He taps at the holographic panel, resetting the range with several targets at varying distances. “Although where I am from, it’s considered foolish to make a bet you have no chance of winning.”
It’s lucky that neither of them put down a real bet, because the score comes out at a perfect draw. Hanzo excels at long-distance shooting, but McCree sweeps in close-quarters shots. Athena calculates their scores as they go and declares a tie after an hour. Hanzo looks displeased at the end and is muttering in Japanese under his breath, but McCree knows better.
Hanzo may not have smiled, but there was a lift in the corner of his mouth sometimes when his arrows hit dead-center, or when McCree pulled off a silly trick shot. It was quite possibly the most relaxed Hanzo had been since he arrived in Gibraltar, and somehow, that makes a little ember of pride glow in McCree’s chest.
--
“So you’re really okay with this?”
Genji looks over with a tilt of his head that McCree has learned to interpret as a questioning look. “With what?” he asks.
McCree gestures vaguely across the room towards the door. “Your brother. Bein’ here. You’re okay with it?”
He and Genji had been involved in a long game of cards (poker was way more interesting with a man who didn’t have visible facial expressions, McCree had learned) until Hanzo had come by looking for his brother. The two had exchanged only a few words, Hanzo sounding terse and frustrated, before Hanzo had left just as abruptly as he had come. Genji had insisted that the card game continue, but his heart clearly hadn’t been in it after that.
Genji makes a humming noise, one part human voice with a dash of comm static. “I am,” he says after a moment. “It is difficult, given our past, but I am glad he is here.”
McCree must have made a face, because Genji chuckled and continued, “I understand why you ask. It must seem strange that he is here at all given what happened. And it’s true, he dislikes what I am now, and I dislike what he has let himself become. But I would rather we have the chance to change things now than send him away.”
McCree fidgets with a card between his fingers. “I mean, I won’t give him a hard time since you’ve obviously forgiven him for the whole . . . attempted-murder thing. We all got our pasts here. But I’d figure you to be more weird about it than the rest of us.”
“There was a time when I would have been,” Genji agrees with a short nod. “When I was younger, before I met my master, I probably would have wanted nothing but revenge. But I am a different man, and I can see now why Hanzo acted as he did.”
“Mind if I ask why that was?”
Genji sighs, which is an odd sound to come from a man who, for all intents and purposes, looks like an omnic. “It is a long story. But his hand was forced by our elders. When our father died, Hanzo was meant to take over the clan and I was meant to help him. I chose not to, and Hanzo was forced to make a different choice.”
He taps metal fingers against the tabletop. “It was perhaps not the right choice, but I am not certain there was a right choice.”
A silence stretches between them. McCree is thinking of putting away the cards and hunting down a nice bottle of whiskey when Genji says, “He’s mentioned you a couple of times.”
McCree surprises himself with the sharp bark of laughter that bursts forth. “I’ll bet. He doesn’t like me much.”
“No, but neither does he dislike you, I think. He does call you an idiot with some frequency.”
“He’s just mad that I’m good at shooting.”
Genji laughs too, shaking his head as though fond. “I think so, too. But I am glad that someone else is trying. My brother needs a friend, another reason to stay here besides his guilt.”
McCree tosses down his card--an ace of hearts. “I dunno,” he says. “He’s prickly, but he’s alright.”
There’s another pause from Genji, another thoughtful tilt of the head. “My brother is filled with anger, that is true,” he says. “But moreso than that, I think he is incredibly lonely.”
--
After a month, McCree wouldn’t say they’re the best of friends, but he’s fairly sure Hanzo likes him more than anyone else.
Their practice sessions are a regular thing now--three times per week, usually earlier in the evenings than they have been. Hanzo slowly allows other topics of conversation to creep into their discussions: their teammates, past experiences, preferences in weapons and fighting, and once, surprisingly, what makes for a genuinely good beer.
Although Hanzo still isn’t part of Overwatch proper, Winston invites him to take part in tactical drills and offer an outsider’s advice. It’s during these that Hanzo is at his most interactive: frequently giving critique, pointing out flaws in their formations and strategies, and, very rarely, giving out praise. He is asked several times to act as an antagonist during smaller drills, and seems to absolutely delight in shooting down teams with rubber-capped arrows. He shoots off McCree’s hat more than once, which Lena claims absolutely has to be some form of flirting. The next time it happens, he makes a pun about Cupid’s arrows missing the mark. This is immediately followed by an arrow striking him in the forehead and Athena announcing his “death.”
As he leaves, he sees Hanzo smirking, eyes glittering with mirth.
With Hanzo’s help, Winston and Athena come up with two more strategies for dealing with a sniper in the field. But when Winston says, “We could really use you in Overwatch,” Hanzo tenses up, gathers his equipment, and leaves the training hall without another word.
Winston looks over at McCree, as though he should know everything. “Did I say something wrong?” he asks.
McCree shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry about it, big guy. I think it’s just him.”
--
McCree goes out to the practice range later that evening, feeling restless with the dearth of missions. When he gets there, he sees the familiar silhouette of Hanzo sitting atop the roof of the building, his legs dangling over the edge.
Hanzo has a bottle at his side and a single glass half-filled with clear liquid; the scent is sharp and sweet and hits McCree’s nose as soon as he opens the door to the roof. Hanzo glances up at the sound of McCree’s footsteps, then returns his gaze to the dark horizon.
“How long have you been up here?” McCree asks, stopping next to the man. Hanzo doesn’t answer and continues drinking.
McCree’s feeling just maudlin enough to join in.
They sit together and drink for the better part of an hour, silent but for the occasional clink of a glass. McCree sips from his steel flask; Hanzo declines his offer to share the cheap whiskey. Once the alcohol is finally settling in, loosening up his limbs and eventually, his tongue, McCree says, “Somethin’ set this off, partner? You never struck me as the ‘drinkin’ alone ‘til I pass out’ type.”
“No,” Hanzo says, then frowns. “Yes.” He looks conflicted. McCree takes out a cigarillo, lights it up, and waits.
A few minutes pass before Hanzo speaks again. “I am not accustomed to this,” he says.
McCree exhales a mouthful of smoke. “To what?”
“This . . . Overwatch. This team.” Hanzo gestures outward toward the entire compound. “Having companions. It has been a long time since I . . . allowed this.”
“You don’t gotta allow friends, Robin Hood. They just happen.”
Hanzo shakes his head once. “No. I have spent a long time alone, for many reasons. I did not allow it because I could not. I still should not. It is worse with Genji here, acting as though what I did doesn’t matter. I am beyond redemption, I don’t--“ He cuts off, biting back whatever words were about to slip free, and replaces them with his drink.
McCree lets the silence stretch on again, rolling his cigarillo between his fingers. After a while, he says, “I ever tell you about the Deadlocks?”
Hanzo looks at him from the corner of his eye. McCree continues, “It’s a long story, and I won’t bore you with the details. They were a gang, a big one, and I was one of the best they had for a long time. And I woulda kept being their best if Overwatch hadn’t come along, killed most of ‘em, and dragged me out on my ass.”
He taps a bit of ash over the edge. Hanzo is looking at him properly now, uncertain but attentive. “That’s how I joined. Blackwatch, specifically, but same thing. They took me and told me I could either go to prison, or I could turn around and use my skills for the greater good.
“The point is,” he continues, “that I did things I wouldn’t do now. I’m a different man than I was all those years ago--shit, I was basically a kid, but I’m doin’ work I can be proud of again. I’ve done this bit before—the runnin’ from my past, the tryin’ to atone, the whole schtick. And partner?” He meets Hanzo’s gaze for the first time during their conversation. Hanzo’s eyes are coal-dark, bright with the shine from a single lamp nearby, and McCree nearly forgets to finish speaking. “That ain’t no way to live your whole life.”
Hanzo bristles, ready to retort, then stops himself unexpectedly. His anger seems to leave him in a rush as he exhales heavily, shoulders slumping. When he remains silent, McCree senses that he won’t be getting any further conversation tonight and gets to his feet. Better get off the roof before he’s too drunk to manage it in one piece. Or before he does something stupid.
He pauses, considers, and turns back to Hanzo. He claps his non-metal hand on the man’s bare shoulder and squeezes, just once. Hanzo stiffens at the unexpected touch but does not pull away, although he does sway a bit when McCree takes his hand away.
“Are you gonna be able to get down from here?” he asks.
“I am fine.”
“You’re drunk and about fifty feet off the ground.”
“Unlike you, I can still function after drinking.” The retort is delivered without heat, only a bone-deep weariness and sense of bemusement that almost sound fond, coming from him.
McCree rolls his eyes skyward. “Nah, c’mon,” he says, “I don’t feel like getting up tomorrow and havin’ to scrape you up off the dirt.” He hooks an arm under Hanzo’s and heaves him upward. Hanzo grunts in surprise and stumbles as he’s dragged along, his full weight colliding with McCree’s chest. McCree has a brief, heady moment of holding Hanzo in his arms before the archer shifts, stabilizing himself on both feet.
The walk back to the dorms is silent, but just before McCree can peel off to go to his own room, Hanzo stops him with a hand on his shoulder. McCree turns back in the doorway, waiting while Hanzo appears to wrestle with whatever he’s about to say.
“Thank you,” Hanzo finally says, squeezing his shoulder, mirroring what McCree did not ten minutes prior.
McCree tries not to look too surprised. He fixes a lazy smile on his face and tips his hat. “Anytime,” he says. Hanzo nods once before turning away for his own room. McCree goes to bed, head buzzing and chest light with something more than the alcohol.
--
Hanzo sits with them the next morning at breakfast. There’s a hint of uncertainty etched in his face, belying his otherwise cool composure as he steps into the room. Reinhardt has his back to the table, busy filling plates with food enough to feed the multitudes. Angela is helping with the cooking, undoubtedly trying to fit something more nutritious than a platter of bacon into the meal. Mei and Lena chat animatedly about the old Overwatch while Genji sits at the end of the table, content as always to listen. McCree sits with a cup of coffee, raised to his lips but untouched, soaking in the easy camaraderie of the team. When he catches sight of Hanzo lingering in the doorway, he grins and kicks out a seat with the back of his shoe. After a moment, Hanzo sits.
“Not too hungover, I hope,” McCree drawls.
Hanzo scoffs. “Hardly,” he replies, but the retort is just weak enough that McCree doesn’t completely believe him.
He pushes his untouched coffee toward the archer. “Here. I’ll get another,” he says. “Better than the shit I used to drink in New Mexico, I’ll tell you that.” Surprisingly, Hanzo does not object, wrapping his hands around the warm mug.
Lena catches sight of Hanzo at the tablet and breaks conversation just long enough to give a wave and a grin. Mei, following her gaze, gives a round-cheeked smile. Reinhardt booms a “Welcome, friend!” and insists on making sure Hanzo eats first “to welcome him properly,” but tells McCree to get his own coffee.
Hanzo takes breakfast with them every morning thereafter.
--
It’s as though a switch has been flipped. Overnight, it seems like Hanzo has warmed to the Overwatch team. He smiles when he’s greeted, responds to small talk, and sticks around for group gatherings to at least observe, if not participate. He is frequently found around the base now: the practice ranges, the kitchen, the common spaces. He is still introverted and a bit awkward with the team, but it’s clear that this is a facet of his personality, no longer an act of aggression. He alarms them all one night with a heated conversation over dinner with Genji, which sounds like a fight at first--until it becomes apparent that they’re rehashing a childhood argument about what makes better ramen.
His behavior towards McCree is particularly changed. Now, he actively seeks McCree out for conversation or shooting. Rather than enduring conversation, he banters, and McCree is delighted by Hanzo’s dry sense of humor. They bet goodnaturedly and frequently, competing in training scores and simulation times, and repay each other in whiskey and boxes of expensive green tea. McCree learns about Hanamura, Hanzo’s favorite foods ( taiyaki for sweets and, weirdly, natto on toast otherwise), a bit about what it was like growing up as the oldest son of a prominent crime lord.
In turn, McCree shares stories from his childhood, what it was like growing up in a half-Mexican family, and how to find proper tacos north of Texas. They try to swap words in Spanish and Japanese; McCree quickly learns that he has absolutely no talent for Japanese, but Hanzo can pick up languages like a fish can swim--and that the sound of Spanish spoken in Hanzo’s softly-accented voice is nothing short of divine.
Hanzo is still not a seamless member of the team, but he’s a trusted ally and, more importantly, a friend.
But, one day, Hanzo approaches McCree and fumbles in the pocket of his hakama . He produces a small, flat object and holds it out for McCree’s inspection: a cloth Overwatch patch.
McCree stares at the item for a minute, then looks up. “Official?” he asks, brows raised almost to his hat.
“As of this morning, yes.”
“You joined Overwatch.”
“Yes.”
“Like, actually joined.”
Hanzo’s brow crinkles with a mix of agitation and amusement. “Yes, McCree. I have officially joined Overwatch. Winston plans to involve me with missions beginning next week.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.” McCree tilts up his hat. “I never thought I’d see the day there, Hawkeye. Kinda thought you hated us all, to be honest.”
Hanzo smiles at this. He rubs his thumb over the top of the patch thoughtfully. “No,” he says after a moment. “No, I don’t think I ever truly did.”
--
McCree wakes himself up shouting.
When he opens his eyes and recognizes the plain, dark ceiling of the Watchpoint dorm, he heaves a weary sigh. At this point, the nightmares are less a horrible, plaguing visualization of his tortured unconscious, and more of an annoyance. Still, they are no more enjoyable for it.
He rubs his eyes with a trembling hand and the skin comes back wet. He sighs again and thumps his head back against the pillow.
After a minute of staring at the wall and trying to will away the images in his mind, he hears the gentle pad of footsteps in the hall. They stop in front of his door, hesitating. McCree is wondering if he had imagined it when there’s a knock on his door. Confused, he glances at his clock: 2:01 AM. Probably just someone telling him to keep it down with the screaming about Blackwatch. Reluctantly, he hauls himself out of bed, halfheartedly straightens his clothes, and goes to the door.
To his surprise, Hanzo is the one standing on the other side. McCree blinks. In a soft black t-shirt and matching bottoms, hair tied low for sleep, Hanzo is nearly unrecognizable. He almost doesn’t hear when Hanzo begins speaking.
“--you all right? I heard shouting.”
McCree blinks, shakes his head. “Fine,” he says. He leans one arm against the doorway in an affected casual pose. “That’ll, uh, happen sometimes. Nightmares. Haven’t really had ‘em since I got back to Overwatch, but . . .” He trails off, rubbing absently at his beard. “Sorry to wake you, if I did. It’s fine.”
Hanzo’s expression is inscrutable. After a long, considering moment, he says, “I was about to get a cup of tea. Join me.”
Ten minutes later, McCree’s perched at the table with a cup of mysterious herbal tea in front of him. Hanzo sits beside him, both hands wrapped delicately around the mug, unaffected by the boiling heat bleeding through the ceramic. Neither of them have spoken, not quite yet. McCree feels off-kilter, almost wondering if he’s still dreaming.
Hanzo takes a sip of his tea--different from McCree’s, something sharp and minty--and sets his cup down purposefully. “You have nightmares,” he states, too confident for a question.
“Well, uh, yeah. Have done for awhile.” McCree shrugs. He tastes his tea and fights not to make a face. Hanzo doesn’t believe in sugar in tea and this tea, like most others when not sweetened, tastes like bitter hot water. “Didn’t have ‘em much for awhile there, but I guess they ain’t gone.”
Hanzo nods, his gaze on his tea. “You never struck me as someone haunted by their past in such a way.”
“Well, I can’t exactly help it. Nightmares don’t give a shit.”
The remark comes out more biting than he means, but Hanzo just says, “No, they do not.” He takes another thoughtful drink of his tea, then asks, “May I ask what they are about?”
“The predictable stuff, really. Deadlocks. Sometimes Blackwatch, but I was younger when I was with the Deadlocks and they were more fucked-up.” McCree watches the sinuous curls of steam rise from his tea, dissipating into the air. The sight is relaxing, somehow. “Deadlocks didn’t care that they had a fifteen-year-old kid, they expected me to shoot to kill just like the rest of ‘em.”
“So young,” Hanzo says. Understanding, not surprised. Of course not, McCree thinks; Hanzo had been groomed practically since birth for much of the same.
“Yeah, well, my parents couldn’t raise three teenagers very easily at the time, and I stupidly thought I’d have a better chance at life if I fucked off with some gang. Almost worked until Reyes got hold of me, and, well--a lot of the rumors about Blackwatch were true, and Reyes liked some of that shit a bit too much. Maybe not as bad as the Deadlocks, but it sure as hell wasn’t good. I almost didn’t mind it by the end when Overwatch got disbanded and they let me go.” McCree is surprised at how easily he can speak about this. His past is no secret, but he rarely goes about blathering it to whoever will listen. He swallows a large mouthful of tea just to shut himself up.
Hanzo says nothing for a long moment. His tea is almost empty when he says, “Mine used to be about Genji.”
McCree raises both brows. Hanzo continues, “Not for long. My dreams did not linger for more than the first few years after Genji’s . . . what I thought was Genji’s death. But as if it were not enough to remember it during every waking moment, it would haunt me at night as well.”
For the first time since sitting down, he looks at McCree. His face is calm and serious as he continues, “They faded, with time. Perhaps because the incident was my own doing, not the fault of others or circumstance. I cannot imagine what it must be like to continue having them for so long, but it takes a strong man to withstand them.”
It takes several long seconds for McCree to process the compliment. When it finally gets through, he is at a loss to respond. He reaches up to tip the hat he isn’t wearing, fumbles, and clears his throat. “Well. Thank you kindly for that,” he says. A tiny smile graces Hanzo’s face, a silent you are welcome .
They sit together and finish their tea, finally bidding each other goodnight a half-hour later. This time, McCree dreams of dragon tattoos rippling over toned muscle, flashes of gold ribbon twisted through dark hair, and understanding, warm smiles pressed against his lips.
--
A series of missions crop up across the States that only require two agents apiece, but are spread out enough to warrant sending the entire team. They go out in pairs: Mei and Tracer, Reinhardt and Genji, Winston and Hanzo, and McCree is paired up with a recent recruit by the name of Lúcio. Lúcio is an enthusiastic character and a self-described hero of the people. He tells stories during the flight to Washington state about what brought him to Overwatch: the revolutions in Brazil, the technology he stole from Vishkar and modified with his own music, his home and the sheer anger and pain he felt watching it being taken over by corporate greed.
McCree likes him.
“What about you, man?” Lúcio says, tapping McCree’s shoulder with the back of a gloved hand. “What’d you do before you got here? You look like the kind of guy that’s got loads of stories.”
McCree chuckles. He taps his fingers against his leg, feeling fidgety; he wants a smoke, but if he so much as takes a cigarillo out of the box while on the shuttle, Athena will warn him off. “I wasn’t such a big hero for a while there,” he says. “Actually, I’m kinda surprised they’re sendin’ me out here, considering the bounty I’ve got on my head.”
“For real, an honest-to-God bounty? No way. What did you do? ”
McCree doesn’t feel like getting into his stories about the Deadlocks and Blackwatch--the kid’s far too bright and idealistic for all that yet--so he just shakes his head. “It’s a lot of long stories,” he says, “but I bet they raised it after the train.”
Lúcio is suitably distracted by that story for a time, and then the conversation veers into tales of Overwatch. McCree has more to tell than Lúcio, who has only met Winston, Lena, and “the literal angel.” As he’s finishing a training story involving an agitated Hanzo, a rubber-tipped arrow, and his own lovely ass, he sees Lúcio’s face take on something of a thoughtful expression.
“Man, what’s the deal with you two?” he asks. At McCree’s confused silence, he elaborates, “You and Hanzo. Are you two, like…” He raises an eyebrow, and the innuendo hits McCree all at once.
“No, ain’t nothin’ like that,” he says, laughing, because a bit of base attraction (on his end, at least) doesn’t add up to much of anything.
Damn, he wants that cigarillo now.
Lúcio hums, sounding unconvinced. He sprawls back in his seat, arms draped across the back. “I don’t mean to pry or nothin’. Just, I heard Winston and Lena talking about him when I signed up. He doesn’t seem like a guy who makes friends too easily, plus I mean--Shimada? The Shimada? But you seem to get on with him really well. Like, really well.”
McCree gives another shake of his head and reclines in his seat, bringing the brim of his hat down over his eyes. “I work with a lot of people who I gotta trust with my life,” he says, ignoring an odd, faint pang somewhere in the vicinity of his ribs. “You have to get along with people like that.”
--
The mission is boring: a week of staking out in a scrubby desert of a grassland (“‘The Evergreen State’ my ass,” McCree had grumbled upon touching down) yields nothing, and they’re flown back out again. They’re both tired and feeling grimy from the poor excuse for a shower that existed in their safehouse; even Lúcio’s regular enthusiasm is notably dampened. They spend the flight back dozing on opposite benches, reminiscing about good food and better beds.
The two of them are the first to get back, but the rest of the teams are due that night or tomorrow morning, all reporting varying levels of success. McCree drags himself through the shower first, dons his comfiest pair of sweatpants, and makes his way to the kitchen for a strong cup of coffee and whatever food he can find.
He’s just settling down with the coffee and a bowl of terrible instant noodles when he hears the clatter of the main door, followed by a single pair of footsteps. He looks up in time to see Hanzo enter the kitchen through the opposite door, apparently oblivious to his presence. He waits, slightly amused, before saying, “Howdy, Hanzo.”
Of course, Hanzo is not surprised and doesn’t so much as flinch. If you were even a fraction more aware of your surroundings, McCree recalls from a lecture a few weeks back. Hanzo turns to look at him, and McCree almost drops his fork.
Hanzo’s hair is down; the long tie he wears is currently looped around his hands. His shoulders are slouched with exhaustion, his clothes just a bit off-set. He’s disheveled, tired, and softer than McCree has ever seen him, and it’s only been a week since they last talked but Hanzo is the prettiest goddamn picture McCree has ever seen.
Hanzo says something with a faint, tired smile. McCree doesn’t hear him, because something warm and affectionate is swelling in his chest. All he can hear is his own words from a week before, echoing in his own head.
Ain’t nothin’ like that.
Apparently, he spoke too soon.
--
Jesse McCree is 38 years old. He has traveled thousands of miles and had lovers of multiple genders. He is an experienced adult. He can handle a crush.
Normally, it’s even a bit pleasant: nursing the warm feeling of seeing the object of his affections throughout the day, flirting casually, going to bed with pleasant thoughts and dreams of what could play out. It doesn’t have to be hell.
Except Hanzo is a bizarre entity all on his own.
It’s made all the worse by Hanzo’s recent foray into friendliness with the Overwatch team. It seems like he’s everywhere nowadays. He is, of course, no more present than anyone else, but McCree is hyper-aware of his presence and it’s about to drive him around the bend.
Hanzo sometimes seeks him out for target practice or to run drills. Other times, they meet to drink and talk, evenings that McCree secretly treasures. Sometimes they’re just two parts of a group gathered around the wide kitchen table, but Hanzo still seems to prefer sitting at his right, even as they both hold different conversations.
McCree sees Lena and Lúcio both shoot them knowing glances from time to time, sometimes amused, sometimes pitying. Reinhardt winks at them once, as though there is a secret relationship that only he is privy to. Genji has never had a word to say on the matter, but McCree wants to shake him by the shoulders and yell This is your fault, you brought him here, goddammit Genji.
One night he and Hanzo are sitting outside in the sparse Watchpoint garden, splitting a pack of strong German beers (courtesy of Reinhardt) between them. Hanzo is telling a story from when he was younger, describing one of the business trips he and Genji took with their father to America. Genji had managed to get himself in trouble immediately regarding a local woman and her very large, angry boyfriend in a bar. He gestures as he talks, sloshing the beer in the bottle.
“--and he is so stunned that he just lets the man shove him across the bar,” he laughs, shaking his head. “Both of us trained since we were children to be masters in combat, and he gets thrown over the counter by a useless American man without a fight. And he knocked over several drinks that the bartender was finishing, so he reeked of cheap vodka for the rest of the day.”
McCree chuckles too, trying to fit the image of the cyborg he knows with the lackadaisy, often irresponsible boy Hanzo is describing. But his attention is on Hanzo, not the story.
Hanzo is happy . He’s smiling wide, expression relaxed, loose-limbed from alcohol and good cheer. The lights around the base are positioned just so to highlight the handsome contours of his face and soften his usually severe countenance.
He’s gorgeous. McCree wants to lean over and kiss him, to steal the taste of strong beer and laughter from his lips.
Hanzo catches him staring. Rather than snapping, he laughs softly and asks, “What are you staring at?”
“Nothin’,” McCree says, thinking I am well and truly fucked . He finishes his beer quickly, trying to drown the warm, soft feeling welling in his chest.
Then he sees Hanzo’s smile fall, giving way to a distant look. His gaze focuses somewhere past the garden, across the way on the horizon. It sobers McCree immediately.
“Partner?”
Hanzo sighs softly. His thumbnail scrapes at the label on his beer.
“We were close,” he says after a long minute. “Genji and I. Our parents, our elders, most of them were cold and distant, focused on the future of the clan, but Genji and I had each other.” He pauses, scraping a piece of the bottle label off with his nail. “I . . . often forget those times. I only ever recall the years after our father’s passing.”
And the day I killed him is unspoken, but McCree can extrapolate well enough for himself.
Hanzo drains his beer and sets aside the empty bottle. He says nothing else, but the pain is evident in his features. McCree wishes he could sweep the man up in his arms, kiss away the distress crinkling around his eyes and the downturned corners of his mouth.
Instead, he grabs two more beers, pops the caps off with a metal thumb, and offers one to Hanzo. “You’ll get there,” he says. “Just takes a bit of time, is all.”
Hanzo looks doubtful, but he murmurs a “thank you” and takes the beer nonetheless. They drink together in silence, and by the end of the night, McCree catches Hanzo smiling again. It’s not quite the same as sweeping him off his feet and kissing away the sadness like in some terrible film, but it’ll do for now.
--
There is a mission in London, and it goes belly-up in under two hours.
They had started with a team of four, but Tracer and Lúcio are god-knows-where and the Talon army is closing in fast. McCree and Hanzo are left alone, Hanzo firing arrows in all directions from his perch on a rooftop while McCree darts here and there, serving as flank and distraction both. He’s running low on ammo and knows Hanzo’s almost out of arrows. The payload is long gone at this point, and McCree’s only concern is getting out of there alive.
“Winston, what’s the ETA on that damn evac?” he shouts into his comm.
“One minute. Just hold out until then.” Winston’s typically steady voice wavers at the edges. “We’ll get you out of there.”
McCree growls in lieu of an answer. They may not have a minute. He draws his hat down over his eyes and hurls his last flashbang at a pair of agents rounding a corner. Two quick shots take them down, but as he lifts his head, he sees his error: a figure on the balcony, sniper rifle up to their eye, finger on the trigger.
In desperation, he reaches for his gun, but his hand only gets halfway there before a heavy weight slams into his side and throws him to the pavement. A loud gunshot sounds. The breath is knocked from McCree’s lungs as he hits the ground with the bulk of someone else landing on his chest.
“Idiot!” the someone else barks, and through his winded daze, McCree recognizes the voice as Hanzo’s.
In the comm, Tracer’s voice chirps out a cheerful, “Gotcha covered, luvs!” followed by the rapid fire of her pistols. “Sniper down! You’re all clear.”
Hanzo pushes himself up onto his knees, only to grab McCree by the front of his serape . “That sniper would have killed you,” he snarls. “How are you still alive while being so unobservant?”
McCree swallows thickly, trying to draw air into his lungs while his diaphragm continues to spasm. “Well,” he coughs, “that’s what I keep you ‘round for.” Deliriously, he becomes aware of Hanzo’s thighs, strong and warm on either side of his hips. Hanzo’s face is inches from his own, viciously angry but nonetheless angelic.
“I should not have to protect you from your own ignorance!”
Have his eyes always been that shade of brown? So dark they nearly surpass brown entirely, like black coffee or bittersweet chocolate. McCree smiles lazily. “This your way of sayin’ you’d miss me if I was gone?” he asks.
Hanzo’s lips press into a firm line. “This is my way of saying you need to watch out for yourself unless you want a bullet in the head,” he replies frostily. “I am not always going to be around to make sure that someone doesn’t murder you while you’re distracted by nothing.”
McCree feels like he should be offended, but perhaps it’s the adrenaline, or the fact that he currently has a handsome man in his lap, that stops him from being anything but amused. He pats his flesh hand on the top of Hanzo’s thigh. “Don’t worry, buttercup. I’m not goin’ anywhere anytime soon,” he assures. “Although if it gets you to throw yourself in my arms, I might have a few more close calls from here on out.”
Hanzo makes a disgusted noise and throws down his handful of serape . He stands, towering over McCree and looking like he’s about to kick him in the ribs. Then his expression softens, and he extends a hand to help McCree to his feet.
“Yes,” he says, “I would miss you if you died. So make an effort to stay alive.” He pauses, then adds, “And if I catch you intentionally risking yourself, as you say, I’ll put an arrow in you myself.”
There’s a chance that Hanzo’s being completely serious, but it doesn’t stop McCree from grinning about it through the entire shuttle ride back to base.
--
It happens, as many things do with Hanzo, suddenly.
One moment, they’re standing on the walkway that overlooks the main road through the hideout. Hanzo has been silent for the last half-hour, his expression one of deep, frustrated contemplation. McCree has grown accustomed to the long bouts of quiet, and finds that he doesn’t mind. Sometimes, it gives him a few uninterrupted minutes just to look.
There’s a cool breeze tonight, felt more sharply from their perch on the walkway. It catches the silk tails of Hanzo’s scarf and sends them dancing, flashes of gold and white against the rapidly-darkening sky. The way he stands—tall, straight, his arms crossed sternly over his chest—turns the man into a tempting, angular silhouette. McCree can’t help damning the man for the outfit he wears. From this side, he gets a perfect view of a lean, muscular chest, every curve highlighted by golden sunlight, and of the sinuous dragon tattoo that winds around Hanzo’s arm and shoulder. He thinks idly of what it might be like to put his mouth along all that exposed skin.
“Jesse,” Hanzo says, and McCree blinks out of his thoughts.
The next moment: lightning-quick movement, a hand gripping his serape, lips crushed against his.
Hanzo kisses like he fights—strong, fierce, every move fluid and calculated. The kiss is biting, his teeth a bruising wall behind the softness of his lips. He is dominating--the movements of his lips and the flash of his tongue dictate everything, leaving McCree helpless to do anything but ride the wave and take, not unwillingly, everything he can get. The flick of Hanzo’s tongue against the seam of his lips alone nearly buckles his knees.
It’s over as quickly as it began, before McCree can even think of responding properly. Hanzo backs away abruptly, his hands still fisted in McCree’s serape . His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and he looks almost as surprised as McCree feels. All at once, he seems to come to himself. He drops his hands and turns away.
“Apologies,” he mutters, moving quickly toward the door. McCree is still for a second before he manages to blink out of his shock and make a move to follow.
“Now hold on there,” he says, reaching to grab Hanzo’s shoulder to stop him. Hanzo shrugs out of his grip and increases his pace. He is through the door before McCree can react. By the time he gets into the building himself, Hanzo is long gone. McCree knows from experience there will be no finding the man unless he wants to be found.
He sighs heavily and digs into his pockets for a cigarillo and his lighter. Turning to go back outside, he lights the cigarillo between his teeth and leans back against the polished steel wall. The taste is familiar, but not the comforting distraction that it usually is. It does not wash away the taste of another mouth on his, or the slight, bruising ache lingering in his lips.
“Aw, hell,” he sighs around a mouthful of smoke, resting his head back against the wall. He can’t shake the sensations of that kiss, of Hanzo’s hands tight in his clothing to keep him close.
It’s unlikely that it’ll happen, but god damn does he want to do it again.
--
That kiss opens a floodgate of thoughts McCree thought he’d had under control. His dreams that night are nothing short of erotic; he wakes in the middle of the night, his heart racing as the images replay in front of his eyes like a film projector. Shot after shot of Hanzo’s lean body pressed up against his, gasping, interspersed with passionate and desperate kisses like the one they shared not six hours before.
He tries to roll over and fall back asleep, ignoring his aching arousal, but eventually is forced to give in just to get some shut-eye. It feels wrong, in a way, jerking off to the thought of the uptight criminal heir unwound and uncontrolled, but the thought slips away before he can examine it too thoroughly.
--
“So are we gonna talk about that, or are we just gonna pretend it didn’t happen?”
Hanzo stops short on his way across the courtyard. He’s five feet away from the door to the training room. McCree hurries to catch up with him, afraid that Hanzo will disappear again if he hesitates for even a moment.
The entire day so far has involved them mutually avoiding one another, and McCree has had enough. He’s spent all day turning the memory of that kiss over in his mind, wearing it smooth like a rubbing stone between fingers. Hanzo’s motives are confusing at the best of times, downright inscrutable at the worst, but as little as he knows about the incident as a whole, McCree does know one thing: he wants it to happen again.
“Talk about what?” Hanzo asks lightly as McCree comes to a stop.
“Oh, don’t give me the innocent act, you know damn well what I mean.” McCree crosses his arms. “You kissin’ me last night and then runnin’ off.”
Hanzo grimaces. “It was a mistake,” he says. “It will not happen again.”
“And what if I want it to?”
Hanzo looks stunned, as though the idea had never crossed his mind. Emboldened, McCree barrels on. “I mean, obviously you wanted it or you wouldn’t have done it, and I’ve been flirtin’ with you since the day you got here, so I’m not sure what the problem here is.”
Hanzo doesn’t seem to have an answer for that. McCree insinuates himself into Hanzo’s space, reaching out to catch his wrists in a loose grip. “Well?” he prompts.
“Flirting does not necessarily indicate an interest in anything else,” Hanzo responds, his composure visibly faltering. “Nor does it mean that this is a good idea.”
“Can’t see how it’s a bad one.”
“That is because you are astoundingly short-sighted.”
“Well, sweetheart, you have to like somethin’ about me or you wouldn’t have done it in the first place.” McCree dips his head down, ghosting his lips over Hanzo’s. Hanzo lets him. “And let me tell you, I like a lot about you, too, and I wouldn’t mind tryin’ it again.”
Hanzo tips his head up, and that’s all the invitation McCree needs. He kisses Hanzo once, testing, then again with more certainty. Hanzo’s lips are soft and yielding beneath his, a complete turn-around from the kiss last night. McCree presses in, flicking the tip of his tongue along the swell of Hanzo’s full bottom lip, trying to urge Hanzo into even a fraction of the energy he had shown before. He almost thinks it’s a lost cause when finally, Hanzo surges upward, kissing back with a sudden intensity that leaves McCree breathless. He gets his hands on Hanzo’s hips and tugs him forward, and makes a surprised noise at the hot advance of Hanzo’s tongue darting past his parted lips.
McCree lets himself get swept up for another few seconds before he breaks away, panting. It nearly kills him to do so, but he has to ask. “Yes?” he asks. “Actually yes? Because if you run off after this again--”
“Yes,” Hanzo breathes.
That’s all the answer McCree needs, and he grins as he dips his head for another heated kiss. This time, he manages to back Hanzo against a nearby wall, pressing their bodies flush together and forcing Hanzo to wrap both arms around his shoulders. Their movements turn subtly more demanding, hands roaming over clothes and mouths pressing deeper, seeking more. A muscled thigh has made its way between McCree’s, and he’s just found the spot under Hanzo’s ear that makes him gasp aloud when someone clears their throat behind them.
Hanzo freezes. McCree barely manages to school his expression into something neutral before looking over his shoulder at Lena, who is standing with her hands on her hips and obviously trying not to laugh.
“Sorry, lads, I didn’t think I’d find you busy,” she says. A giggle escapes, and she clears her throat before continuing, still grinning, “Winston wanted a meeting before dinner. I’ll tell him you’ll be down in a few, yeah?” Without waiting for an answer, she blinks out of sight, reappearing briefly in the doorway before she’s gone entirely. Her joyful laughter rings from the hall.
Hanzo groans in frustration, his head pitching forward until his brow hits McCree’s sternum. McCree can’t help a chuckle of his own, which ends in a wistful sigh as he smooths a hand down Hanzo’s flank. “Pick this up tonight?” he suggests.
Hanzo looks up and meets his gaze. He seems to consider the offer for a long moment, long enough that McCree wonders if he’s made a mistake, before a crooked smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Yes,” he says. “Tonight.”
McCree grins. It’s a ridiculous expression but he can’t help it. He steals one more quick kiss before forcing himself to let go entirely.
The walk to the comm room feels charged with meaning, even as they force themselves to stay apart for the sake of their already-damaged dignity. They are the last to arrive and nobody seems the wiser—except for Lena, who shoots them a wink as Winston begins to speak.
--
McCree is stalling.
It’s been half an hour since dinner ended, when he and Hanzo split off from the dining room and went to their own dorms. The promise was still there, unspoken, to finish what they had started that afternoon, and McCree keeps finding reasons to turn away from his bedroom door.
He’s combed his hair, then ruffled it back out with his fingers. He’s changed his shirt, realized that Hanzo will definitely notice and think it ridiculous, and changed back. He’s washed his face and trimmed his beard for the second time today. He’s tidied his room , or at least put all the trash in one bag and kicked his clothes into the corner.
Finally, he groans, rubbing his hands down his face. “That is enough , you sorry bastard” he mutters into his palms. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and checks his reflection one last time in the bathroom mirror. He grits his teeth and opens the door--only to find Hanzo on the other side, one fist lifted with his knuckles toward the door as if to knock. Hanzo blinks as McCree swears in surprise.
“Good lord, darlin’, you oughta wear a bell,” he says, laughing as he tries to settle his racing heart.
Hanzo smirks. “It is not my fault that you are unobservant, or that you waited so long.”
“Not like I saw you runnin’ after me, either.”
Hanzo ignores the retort, insinuating himself easily into McCree’s space. “You promised we would finish this ‘later,’” he says, his voice dropping impossibly lower. He slips a hand between them, tugging McCree’s belt buckle with the tips of two fingers. “So I intend to take what I was promised.”
McCree swallows hard. “Sure thing,” he manages, strangled, and he almost trips over himself in his haste to get them both in the room and shove the door shut.
--
Any ideas McCree had for easing in go straight out the window. They collapse into the bed almost immediately, with Hanzo straddling McCree’s hips on the thin mattress. He grinds down, and McCree can’t help a groan.
“You’re gonna kill me before we start, darlin’,” he says. The grin Hanzo gives in return is absolutely the most playful, hungry look McCree has ever seen on the man’s face, causing him to groan and drop his head back on the pillow. Hanzo’s dextrous fingers make quick work of McCree’s shirt buttons, and it takes mere seconds before McCree’s sitting up to shrug the garment off. He slides his hands over Hanzo’s ribs, feeling silky cloth under one hand and warm skin under the other.
“This outfit of yours drives me up the wall,” he murmurs, getting his hand under the collar of Hanzo’s kyodo-gi and sliding it down to bare both shoulders.
“It’s intended for mobility,” says Hanzo, shrugging out of the top.
“I don’t care what it’s intended for, you run around all day with all that showin’ and all I see is a nice view.” McCree gives in to the urge he’s had to suppress since day one and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the side of Hanzo’s neck. Hanzo lets out a soft noise that sounds an awful lot like a pleased sigh, making McCree wish he could see the expression on his face at the same time.
He starts to continue up, wanting to find that sensitive spot behind Hanzo’s ear again, but is sidetracked when he feels both of Hanzo’s hands reaching for his belt buckle. “Ridiculous accessory,” Hanzo mutters, deftly undoing the belt while McCree is still trying to reach Hanzo’s obi . A retort sits on McCree’s tongue, but he forgets it immediately as Hanzo works his hand under the band of his boxers. Callused fingers are immediately on him, giving a firm stroke, and McCree drops his head against Hanzo’s shoulder with a groan.
“Go easy on me, sweetheart,” he breathes, opening one eye to get a glimpse at his lap. He finally manages to undo Hanzo’s obi and sends it--and the accessories hanging from it--to the floor before rubbing his hands up the length of Hanzo’s muscled torso. “Jesus, but I’ve hoped to get you here for ages, there ain’t no rush.”
“Ages?” Hanzo, to McCree’s relief and regret, takes away his hand and leans back.
“Since you got here.” McCree abandons his exploration to tug at the waistband of Hanzo’s hakama . “I ain’t one for pinin’, but I’d be lying if I hadn’t given this a lot of thought.”
Hanzo starts to say something, then stops. His expression is abruptly intense, his eyes locked on McCree’s as though trying to divine something from his features. It gives McCree pause, as eager as he is to get on with proceedings, and he waits with a hold on Hanzo’s hips.
Without warning, Hanzo surges forward, catching McCree’s mouth in a hungry kiss, pushing back on his shoulders until they hit the bed. Together, they clumsily reach for each other’s remaining clothes, hands clashing as they move pants and undergarments just low enough to work with. McCree feels half-drunk, too inept to help as Hanzo shifts and gets a hand between them to bring them together. He ends up just holding on, digging metal fingers into the dragon tattoo, planting his feet on the bed for leverage as Hanzo’s hips roll against his.
They aren’t even fully undressed, and McCree’s jeans keep pulling tight across his thighs when he moves. Hanzo has full control, breathing heavily but otherwise silent while he drags embarrassingly loud noises out of McCree. It is, without a doubt, ten times better than anything McCree could have expected.
He cracks open his eyes again to look up, and the sight of Hanzo’s face above him--a thin sheen of sweat on his brow, hair falling in his eyes, features torn between concentration and pleasure--sends him over the edge far too soon.
He’s still trying to catch his breath as he reaches down for Hanzo, wrapping his hand around the archer’s own and urging him on. It’s awkward and cramped and his wrist definitely wasn’t meant to bend this way, but it’s worth it for the moment when Hanzo buries his face in the side of his neck to stifle a groan not a minute later.
The bed is barely large enough for one, so when Hanzo pulls himself together enough to roll over to the side, he’s still half-laying across McCree’s shoulder and chest. McCree works his arm around Hanzo’s shoulders, thinking it’s a safe gesture--not too clingy, not neglectful to the man currently sharing his bed. When it seems they’ve both recovered sufficiently enough to speak, he clears his throat and begins with an eloquent, “So.”
“So,” Hanzo replies.
McCree stares up at the ceiling. “So here we are.” He reaches over the edge of the bed for anything to wipe off the stickiness slowly congealing on his belly and comes up with Hanzo’s kyudo-gi .
“Don’t you dare,” Hanzo mutters, and McCree finds his own shirt instead and swipes at the mess.
They lay there in comfortable silence for a few minutes. When Hanzo finally makes a move as though to get up, McCree tightens his arm around his shoulders.
“Stay?” he asks, looking up with his best puppy-dog eyes.
Hanzo looks at him, then laughs softly. “You are impossible,” he says, and settles back down.
“Nah, I just like it when they stay. I’m a romantic. Like a good ol’ fashioned lover boy.”
Hanzo snorts against McCree’s chest. “You’ve been listening to Reinhardt’s ridiculous music again.”
“That don’t stop it from bein’ true.”
Hanzo laughs.
--
McCree wakes again at three-something in the morning to a mouthful of dark hair and a dead right arm.
He suppresses a groan, afraid to wake his bedmate, and takes stock. Arm: asleep, pinned under 170 pounds of lean muscle. Bladder: empty, thank god. Hanzo: sprawled somehow further over his chest, complete with arm draped over his stomach, sleeping soundly with heavy, quiet breaths.
McCree can’t find a way to work his arm completely free without inevitably waking Hanzo, so he settled for bending it at the elbow and flexing a fist. The numbness is replaced by tingling almost immediately from elbow to fingertip, and he sighs heavily in lieu of swearing.
He cranes his neck to look down at Hanzo, whose head is pillowed against his collarbone. It’s an awkward angle, but McCree can take in Hanzo’s sleeping profile, relaxed in the comfort of slumber. He looks younger this way, unburdened by his waking thoughts.
The ribbon in his hair has started to come loose and is tangled underneath their bodies. McCree hesitates--he’s not sure how affectionate he’s allowed to be. Then he decides he’ll never get another chance and carefully tugs the ribbon free, letting it fall completely to the bed. Hanzo’s hair spills down his neck and over his shoulder, dark and smooth as coffee, shot through with silver like streaks of cream. Undisturbed, Hanzo slumbers on. McCree tenderly combs his still-tingling fingers through, brushing strands away from Hanzo’s brow and stroking his neck, and sighs up at the ceiling.
What is this, exactly? He knows exactly what he wants out of this. Unfortunately, Hanzo has given no indication that this is anything but a short fling--maybe a few encounters, driven by a mutual affection but with no plans to push it further. There’s something between them, something that has blurred the borders of friendship for some time, but that doesn’t mean Hanzo feels even a fraction of what McCree does. This moment itself feels stolen: precious but not meant to last.
“Jesse, you stupid, stupid man,” he murmurs to the dark room.
Hanzo shifts in his sleep, nudging his nose into the side of McCree’s neck and resettling with a contented noise. McCree doesn’t think he can fall back asleep, but eventually he dozes off again with his fingers still laced through Hanzo’s hair.
--
When McCree wakes up again at closer to eight, he is alone. The bed is cool beside him, the blanket has been draped over his body, and nothing remains to suggest that anyone else had been in the room.
--
McCree goes the entire day without glimpsing Hanzo once.
He sits at breakfast with a cup of coffee that he barely tastes, trying not to be aware of the empty chair beside his.
“Hey man, where’s Legolas this morning?” Lúcio asks, flipping eggs at the stove in a way that implies at least one of them will end up on the floor. “Thought he was done with the whole ‘mysterious angsty assassin’ thing.”
“Dunno,” McCree shrugs, and scalds his tongue on his coffee to avoid answering.
The afternoon is no better. McCree won’t admit it, but he spends a large part of his morning wandering through Hanzo’s frequent haunts, hoping to come across him. Every time, he comes up empty and the knot in his gut tightens further. He asks Reinhardt and Torbjörn and even Angela, but everyone says the same thing: they haven’t seen Hanzo all day.
“Did you need him for something?” Angela asks, all innocence.
“Nah, not really,” McCree lies, and pretends not to see the knowing, pitying look on Angela’s face.
--
He finally gives up after sitting through dinner alone. Resigned, he takes the long route through the base to reach the sky bridge, chewing on the end of a cigarillo. When he gets outside, he lights up, inhales, looks up, and sees Hanzo on the bridge, sitting with his legs dangling over the edge.
Suddenly, McCree’s at a loss. He’s spent the whole day going through the conversation in his head--
Would’ve been nice to wake up with you--
You know, it’s usually sort of rude to--
I thought we could--
-- and now he has no idea at all how to begin, or if he even should.
Hanzo looks over at him and McCree is pinned in place, cigarillo still smouldering between his fingers. It takes what feels like a lifetime just to lift his feet and carefully, as though Hanzo might skitter away like a semi-feral cat, move to take a seat beside him.
Neither of them speak for a long moment. McCree takes another puff of his cigarillo, watching the embers flare to life at the end, and sighs. “Haven’t seen you all day,” he remarks with a forced casual air.
Hanzo grimaces and looks away. “I have been a coward,” he says.
This is not what McCree had been expecting. He waits while Hanzo grits his teeth, apparently struggling for the words.
“I have . . .” Hanzo pauses. He picks at a loose fold in his hakama . “I have not done this in a very long time. Since well before what I did to my brother.”
“Seemed to do okay last night,” McCree remarks with a smirk. Hanzo glares until McCree clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well. I thought it was going well until the point where you left a fella alone the morning after.”
“I am sorry. I was . . . afraid. And so I acted like a coward and left.” Hanzo drops his gaze to his lap, gripping his pants tightly in his fists. “I do not know what you expect from this, but I do not know that I can give it.”
There’s a thin, shining thread of hope in the complicated tangle between them. McCree grasps at it with both hands, determined to follow that thread to the end. “I ain’t askin’ for anything you aren’t willin’ to give,” he says. He stubs out his cigarillo on the bridge beside him and tucks away the unfinished length. “But if there’s something there--and I think there is, and I know there is for me--then why not give it a try?”
“Because I am not--”
“I thought we were done with this,” McCree interrupts, unable to stop sudden well of anger. He turns to face Hanzo fully, leaning intently in as he continues, “The sins don’t make the man, Hanzo. You are not your mistakes. You’ve spent the last, what, three months here workin’ all that off, and years before that? You’ve been payin’ penance all this time and you still don’t think you’re worthy of reward?”
Hanzo looks stunned by the outburst, which is good. It means he’s listening. McCree barrels on, wrapping that thread of hope around his hands and yanking. “And even if you ain’t over it yet, which believe me, I get, you don’t have to do it alone . And you definitely don’t get to sit here and tell me what’s good for me and what ain’t. I know what I’m about.
“Now,” he says, letting some of his frustration out on a heavy breath, “if you can look me in the eye and tell me you wanna stay friends, that last night was a one-off because that’s what you want, then fine. I can respect that. But if you’re gonna tell me that it’s just because you don’t ‘deserve’ this or because of some other bullshit, I ain’t buyin’ it.” Cards on the table , he thinks, and forces himself to meet Hanzo’s gaze straight-on. “Because I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a long time, Hanzo. I like you an awful lot, and I ain’t one to let go of something I want without a fight.”
Hanzo stares, his expression one of incredulity and uncertainty. McCree swallows down a slowly growing sense of anxiety as he waits for an answer. Then Hanzo breaks eye contact, and McCree’s stomach sinks until he hears a quiet, “So do I.”
“Pardon?”
“I want this as well.”
This is all McCree needs to hear. He leans in swiftly, grasping Hanzo’s face between both hands and kissing him sweetly. He feels more than hears Hanzo make a noise of surprise, but he does not pull away. McCree changes the angle, kisses again, brushes his thumb along the crest of a sharp cheekbone. The sun has finally set and the chill of the night air is creeping through his clothes, but he’s drawn to the warmth of Hanzo’s body and the heat of their shared breath between them.
“Then let’s give this a try,” he murmurs as he breaks away. Hanzo opens his eyes half-way, looking up through dark lashes. “Please, Hanzo.” He brushes his nose along the strong, aristocratic line of Hanzo’s, then presses another kiss the the corner of his mouth. “Quit punishin’ yourself, and me.”
Hanzo abruptly tilts his head upward, stealing another kiss. The press of his lips is harder, more intense, but no less sweet. The relief that washes over McCree is so great that he feels light-headed. He sinks into the kiss, stroking his hands down the sides of Hanzo’s neck but never losing contact. He’s almost afraid that if he lets go Hanzo will disappear, slipping through his fingers like the smoke from a cigarillo. Suddenly, he has to know.
He pulls back quickly. Hanzo tries to follow, eyes still closed, and looks up after a confused second.
“Yes?” McCree breathes. “Just--for the sake of my old heart. Is that a yes?”
Hanzo smiles, slow and sure. “Yes,” he says.
--
They fall back into bed again that night, and McCree makes sure they take their time. He slowly peels away Hanzo’s clothing like opening a present, peppering kisses on every bit of exposed skin he can reach. Hanzo is more selective, but his hands are firm and certain, his touches leaving tingling warmth on McCree’s hips, his thighs, his neck and shoulders.
“I’m gonna be so good to you,” McCree breathes against Hanzo’s belly. He nips the skin there and soothes it with a lap of his tongue. “Jesus, sweetheart, you just say the word. Anything.” He’s babbling, he knows he is, but he can’t help it. Hanzo grabs him by the back of the neck and hauls him up for a messy kiss; McCree thinks he’s annoyed Hanzo until he sees the embarrassed smile on the other man’s face.
It’s not until McCree presses a condom and a bottle of lubricant into Hanzo’s hands that the pace picks up, moving from languid and easy to something more urgent. When he finally, finally sinks down into Hanzo’s lap, moving achingly slowly as they both adjust, he has to take a moment just to breathe.
“Goddamn,” he groans. He lowers his head, pressing his damp brow against Hanzo’s. “Goddamn , darlin’.”
“Am I meant to take that as a compliment?” Hanzo has barely spoken the entire time, but he is just as breathless. His composure is cracking along the edges, giving way to pleasure. His hands settle on McCree’s hips; his gaze is unfocused as he tries to meet McCree’s.
“Wouldn’t dream of saying anything else.” McCree wraps his arms around Hanzo’s as much for support as closeness. He rocks once experimentally, and the movement draws breathless moans from them both.
Conversation is lost again as they settle into a rhythm. McCree can’t help babbling, pet names and groans and “ oh sweet Jesus, you’re so good ” on a stuttering loop. Hanzo’s hands are tight on his hips, dragging him down into his own thrusts. It’s only when Hanzo’s breaths give way to moans that McCree even realizes that he’s close; McCree all but bends in half to steal a feverish kiss and murmur encouragements in the space between their mouths. Hanzo’s nails dig into McCree’s hips and he gasps out “ Jesse” as he peaks all at once. McCree gets his hand on himself, then Hanzo’s fingers tangle with his, and it’s not twenty seconds later that he’s following Hanzo over the edge.
As they both come down, McCree nudges his nose against Hanzo’s, breathing too heavily for a kiss. “God, you’re amazin’,” he murmurs. “Absolutely incredible. Total perfection, darlin’.” He grins as Hanzo’s face flushes red.
“You are ridiculous,” Hanzo mutters.
“Is that what you say to the guy who just rode you to heaven and back? Rude.”
Hanzo makes a noise of disgust, but he’s smiling.
McCree disengages himself and they both clean up, limbs heavy with satiation. When McCree settles himself back into the bed beside Hanzo, he wastes no time in gathering Hanzo up in his arms, plastering himself against the man’s back with more enthusiasm than is strictly necessary.
“ Ugh, Jesse, must you--”
“Yep,” McCree replies, popping the P cheerfully. He buries his face into the back of Hanzo’s neck, pressing a kiss to the top of his spine. “Absolutely. Now that I know you’re mine, I ain’t lettin’ you go anywhere.”
Hanzo doesn’t respond to this, which has McCree worried until he feels Hanzo’s hand slide over his. Their fingers tangle together against Hanzo’s belly. McCree smiles until he drifts into the deep sleep of the well-exerted and well-loved.
--
The next morning, he wakes yet again to an empty bed. He nearly panics, but then he hears the sound of the shower running in the tiny en-suite bathroom, and sees Hanzo’s clothing still in a pile on the floor beside the bed.
The holographic clock reads 6:48 AM--nearly time for team breakfast. After last night’s activities, his stomach all but woke him up growling for sustenance. He rolls out of the bed, pulls on a clean t-shirt and flannel pants, then hesitates outside the bathroom door. Hanzo is notoriously fastidious about his showers and as much as McCree would like to join, he’d probably just end up getting pushed out on his ass. Instead, he lets Hanzo finish and makes his own way down to the dining room.
Most of the team is already there. Lena appears to have taken over breakfast today; she zips between the table and the kitchen in flashes of blue light, depositing plates and food at inhuman speeds. McCree helps himself to a cup of coffee, then digs around in the cabinets until he finds a box of expensive green tea. He steals some hot water from Lena’s electric kettle, steeps a bag of tea in a separate mug, and brings it and his own coffee back to the table.
He’s just digging into a stack of pancakes when he sees Hanzo enter the room. He sets aside his coffee, holds out the cup of tea, and drawls, “Mornin’, sweetheart.”
Hanzo pauses before he can run into McCree’s outstretched arm. He smiles faintly, takes the tea, and nods his greeting before continuing on.
McCree feels oddly gutted. Of course he didn’t expect Hanzo to be the most demonstrative of partners, but given the previous night, he had hoped for something a little more satisfying. He says nothing and turns back to his breakfast, determined not to make a spectacle.
Hanzo only gets a few steps away before he stops. He looks back at McCree and a strange look flickers across his face. Then he smiles again and doubles back. In one swift movement, he cups McCree’s face in his free hand, bends down, and sweetly kisses the opposite corner of his mouth.
“Good morning, Jesse,” he murmurs.
Then he backs away and makes his way to the kitchen, a faint smile just barely evident in the upturned curve of his cheek.
It’s far from the first time they’ve kissed at this point, but McCree can’t help touching the tips of his fingers to the tingling spot on his cheek. Despite being a grown man, he knows he’s blushing. Across the table, Lúcio and Lena are staring--Lena with an expression of absolute delight, Lúcio with an open mouth full of pancake.
McCree raises his coffee to them in a silent salute.
--
“So,” McCree says, gracelessly plopping down beside Hanzo on the bench, “Four months with Overwatch.” He offers Hanzo a glass of whiskey on the rocks and takes a generous sip of his own. As he swallows, he closes his eyes and revels in the mild burn and smoky taste of a liquor that, for once, did not come from the bar’s well selection. “How’s it treatin’ you?”
Hanzo doesn’t immediately answer. He studies his drink; McCree turns his attention to the Ilios sunset. A mission had brought them to the sunny Mediterranean island, but left them with more leisure time than they knew what to do with. McCree suspects it might have been intentional on Winston’s part. Still, he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He stretches his free arm across the bench, an open invitation for Hanzo to slide closer. After a minute, Hanzo does, scooting across the bench until he can lean his side into McCree’s.
“It has treated me well,” he eventually answers. McCree wraps his arm around Hanzo’s shoulders, still watching the horizon as he listens. “It has been one of the few good decisions I have made in my life.”
“I know how that feels.” McCree squeezes Hanzo’s arm lovingly. “Having something real to fight for, doin’ some actual good in the world after fucking it up . . . it’s a good feelin’.”
Hanzo nods. “It is.”
“And these people . . . well, they’ll be your family, if you let ‘em.”
Hanzo gives a playful smirk. “Then what does that make you?”
“A lucky, lucky man.” McCree delivers his line with a seriousness that causes Hanzo to look up at him in surprise. McCree just smiles and drinks his whiskey, listening to the ice clink merrily against the glass as it tumbles, catching the golden light of the setting sun.