Chapter Text
For Jesse McCree, regaining consciousness was always awkward as fuck. Bleary eyes. Cotton mouth. Phantom pains where the stump of his arm met with neurosensors. The possibility for blood and bone to be everywhere except inside his body. Or, for a bullet or knife to be lodged someplace where it definitely shouldn’t be. Still, the use of his five senses, however hazy they were, meant he was alive.
The pain that greeted him shortly thereafter was only a reassurance.
“Well…this could’a gone better…” McCree complained flatly as slurry of blood laced with dirt and sweat gushed down his chin. Just my fuckin’ luck. He groaned inwardly, adjusting his body against the restraints of his seat.
This was some fine mess he had gotten himself into.
The six-by-six, grungy-looking room reminded him much of the holding cell he was kept in when Reyes first dragged his sorry ass in from the desert. What he wouldn’t give to be back at HQ right about now. He was tied to the most uncomfortable chair his ass ever touched. Part of that was probably because his legs were bound together and his flesh arm was handcuffed to awkwardly to the side.
He attempted to flex the fingers of his prosthetic only to find it missing. In his stupor, he hadn’t even noticed it was gone. He had no idea where it was. Or Peacekeeper. Or his fucking hat.
His nose was probably broken, too, judging by the way his face pulsed with its own heartbeat of pain. Not to mention how the flow of blood refused to subside as it gushed over his lips, dribbled over the woolen fabric of his serape, soaked through to his button-up, pooled in his lap and stained the fabrics rusty red. It was harder to breathe, even more so if he if he looked down.
Swearing, he tried his best to seat himself in a more comfortable position. The chair teetered forward on two legs before McCree threw all his weight back to try and stop it. That earned him a one way ticket to the floor. Crashing downward, he hit the concrete with a dull thud. He groaned. If he didn’t have a concussion before, he sure as hell had one now.
The cowboy stewed. How could he have been this…this stupid and unprepared to end up captured in the basement of hell-only-knows where? Surrounded by and immeasurable amount of black-market thieves, no less. He huffed a wet, humorless laugh and turned his head to spit a mouthful of blood to the concrete.
A hearty dose of reality hit his gut like bad medicine andbubbled up the back of his throat like bile, “That sixty million dollar reward’s gonna look real good in someone’s bank account when they claim my ass at the bounty office.” Struggling against his fetters was fruitless. As he recalled the events that led him here, the harsh realization of his actions weighed heavily on his conscious. He closed his eyes and let his head droop back to the cold stone beneath it.
He never should have done this alone.
McCree had been on plenty of undercover missions. Too many to count, probably. And if you were to ask him about it, he would just smile and quip some phrase about how pretending to be someone else for a little while kept him in check. Made him smarter. Kept him observant. Stuff like that.
But now, sitting before Winston zoning out on the brief for his first clandestine mission since the fall of Overwatch, the gunslinger couldn’t help the wave of nervousness that pulsed through his body. He shifted in his seat, crossed his legs, chewed on the butt of his cigarillo, and tried his damnedest to focus.
“Are you still following me, Agent McCree?” the gorilla huffed as he adjusted his glasses.
He flashed a lopsided grin and lied through his teeth, “’Course. Do I look like a man who don’t pay attention?”
Grunting, the scientist resumed discourse. Supposedly, Winston had received several anonymous tips from prominent museum curators and art collectors alike. From what McCree picked up as the scientist’s explanation flowed in one ear and out the other, was that several rare, expensive, and irreplaceable pieces had been replicated and swapped out with the true ones. Nobody had any intel on possible suspects and they were constantly going after bigger and more expensive targets.
Cue Overwatch.
Winston pulled up a file via Athena, “This is where you come in.” he pinched a location on the map which caused the projection to zoom. “America’s premiere art showing is happening this Saturday at the LACMA.”
McCree blinked in confusion, “The uh…come again?”
“LACMA stands for Los Angeles County Museum of Art. Are you sure you were listening?” The scientist sighed and rubbed his temple, clearly frustrated.
“Well, I wasn’t prepared for ya t’come off soundin’ like ya had a dairy allergy.” McCree snorted and rolled his cigarillo from one side of his mouth to the other with a swipe of his tongue.
Winston tried and failed to repress a chuckle, “Regardless, Overwatch has been requested by LAPD to attend the preview party showings this Thursday and Friday leading up to the night of the grand reveal for the new exhibit.” He swiped a jar of peanut butter that sat precariously perched near the corner of his computer desk. “The museum staff is frantic and wants to catch the assailant before they make off with any priceless works from the collections they will have displayed, what with the influx of people visiting for the showing.” He cracked open the jar, peeking over his glasses, “However, we don’t know who we can trust. There could be someone working for the thieves on the inside. We can’t give up your identity to anyone, not even the curator of the museum.”
McCree, finally realizing his cigarillo had long extinguished, pulled an old fashioned flint lighter from the breast pocket of the flannel he was wearing. With a “can I smoke here?” look to Winston and a wave of acknowledgement from the latter, despite the look of minor displeasure from the scientist, he ignited the tip. Taking a long drag, he let a puff of misty grey smoke tumble out of his mouth as he spoke, “So I take it that’s why ya want me on th’case then, yeah?”
A shrug accompanied Winston’s smug little grin as he passed the dossier across the table, “More or less.”
Opening the file and glancing through the mission details, McCree had to suppress his coughing fit as he sharply inhaled a lungful of smoke. Nervousness pooled in the pit of his stomach and rose steadily to settle in his chest.
It had nothing to do with the what; covert ops were his specialty, this mission would probably be a cakewalk compared to ones he had in the past. It had nothing to do with the where; apparently, Los Angeles was very pleasant this time of year. He could use a vacation. It had nothing to do with the when; supposedly, he was shipping out as soon as the away team returned and Lena could ready the Orca. It had nothing to do with the why; international criminals were not really a big concern to him, considering his bounty and status as a member of the lawless.
It did, however, have everything to do with the who.
On the front page of the dossier next to the line transcribed Team Members Assigned read two names. One he was very well-acquainted; it was his own after all. The other however, caused an unnecessary heat to skitter across his skin and find its way to the tips of his cheeks, ears, and even the digits of his damned prosthetic.
His partner, his only one for this mission, was none other than Hanzo Shimada.
McCree forced his mouth to move, “Hey uh, Winston…” the scientist’s face made him look like he had been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Or maybe the peanut butter jar, seeing as he was fighting to swallow the large spoonful he had recently deposited in his mouth, “If uh…if I’m goin’ on this mission with Hanzo, why ain’t he in th’ brief?”
Winston swallowed the peanut butter thickly, “Oh, well, I was able to speak to him, though only in passing, before he left for his patrol assignment.” With a few keystrokes, he brought up the time log, “He was stationed near outpost two, but he switched with Lúcio about ten minutes ago. He should be here any moment, actually.”
The gunslinger almost choked on his tongue, “Say what now?”
Before Winston could respond, however, the lab doors opened with a woosh accompanied with a gust of hot, humid, Gibraltar air.
Speak of the damned devil.
Hanzo’s lithe frame appeared in the entranceway to the lab, features unchanging despite the friendly “hello” he received from Winston. He stalked forward toward the duo, McCree noting the sheen of sweat that glistened off the detailed artwork along his left arm, the glint of sunlight that reflected off the silver piercing through the bridge of his nose, and how his skin looked more flushed than normal from the heat. The archer acknowledged the two of them with a small bow before taking the seat next to McCree.
For having a solid fifteen years in covert ops under his belt, avoiding the shitstorm that was Geneva, and spending over six years on the run from bounty hunters by becoming one, one would think McCree could keep his cool under the scrutinizing gaze of Hanzo Shimada. Anyone who put money on that would be shit outta luck, however.
Shortly after the recall, Genji had shown up on Gibraltar’s doorstep with his omnic master in tow claiming there would be one more recruit joining within the next week or so if everything went according to plan. The archer arrived within the next forty eight hours, much to the chagrin of the older agents who knew why Genji was 90% metal and wire. If McCree avoided him his entire first week on base, nobody said or did anything to stop him.
However, Genji requested to the team that Hanzo be treated with respect and, above all, kindness; the ninja had forgiven him after all and they were trying to make amends, albeit slowly. The cyborg had sought out McCree specifically, hoping he could convince his old teammate to befriend the wayward dragon. The cowboy refused, though relented after three days of nagging and a bottle of rather expansive booze as a bribe.
After the provisional “one month free trial” membership, as McCree often called it, accompanied by a slew of missions where Hanzo had proven not only his skills but the asset he was to the team, the archer was granted agent status. Though he actively avoided everyone unless on mission detail, McCree was one persistent sonovabitch. He studied the archer’s routine, mapped his routes across base, knew when he broke for tea, his morning run, breakfast, tea, afternoon strength training, lunch, afternoon team drills, more tea, dinner, archery practice, even more tea, and his evening “mediation” with his bottle of sake alone on the craggy cliffs overlooking the sea below.
And when McCree started randomly appearing in all the same places Hanzo just happened to be, well he couldn’t just throw off his entire day for one cowboy, right? Despite Hanzo’s sneering protests and McCree’s constant antagonistic attitude, it didn’t take the archer long at all to warm up to the cowboy, and the latter to the former.
Maybe it was the fact that the two of them meshed so well in battle, because the duo often found themselves drinking away their demons overlooking the cliffs at night after missions, out on base patrol together, requesting the same detail so they could place bets on their kill tally, or at the range running tactical drills with each other. If anything, he and Hanzo had more in common than most of the other agents.
Looking back on it, it wasn’t hard to see how McCree had become smitten with him over time. Though if anything could be determined by the way he shifted in his seat, pulled his hat lower to hide his wandering eyes, and began gnawing the butt of his cigar, one could also say he was a big chickenshit when it came to that kind of stuff. Hanzo, however, seemed just as oblivious as Winston.
McCree would thank God, if he were into that sort of thing.
Winston capped his jar of peanut butter and slid the mission details across the table, “Glad you could join us, Agent Hanzo.”
Stopping the papers with a swift tap of his fore and middle finger, Hanzo replied evenly as he slid them to his person, “Of course.”
Spinning in the swivel chair, Winston turned away from the two agents and faced his computer, “Since you both understand the basics of the mission details, I figured we would jump into the specifics.” He opened several windows on the web browser and let them load.
“Lay it on us, chief.” McCree jested with a smile.
Winston continued with fervor, “You,” his eyes fell on Hanzo as he spun back around, “will be posing as an up-and-coming artist that focuses on recreating traditional pieces with a modern flair.” Before them on the holovid projector was a faux webpage, created by the genius himself, “I took the liberty of making a few fan pages and creating a few articles. Hana enlisted the help from an artist a friend from back home to doctor a few photos with an editing program.” He proudly showcased his work on screen, “I rather like your work, Mr. Touma, if I do say so myself.” The scientist grinned cheekily.
The archer opened his file and flicked through the pages, finding the false credentials somewhere toward the middle. Picking up the passport and license, he mumbled as he pocketed them, “Touma Ryuji. I see.” he paused, “Should I consider reviewing popular artists and their styles?”
“That sounds like it would be beneficial.” The scientist affirmed with a nod, “The renderings I put together are mostly from the 1400’s to 1700’s, so try to focus on the Renaissance and Baroque artists like Michelangelo, Bellini, and Rembrandt.” His focus fell to McCree.
The gunman shrugged, “I go in n’play bodyguard while tryin’ t’gather info. The usual stuff.”
Winston shifted in his chair, “Well, uh…kind of.”
McCree’s eyes narrowed, “Whaddya mean, “kinda”?” Winston turned his attention to the web page to scroll while McCree paged through the report. He pulled the credentials from their respective pages, let his eyes wander over the name and-, “Mr. Joel Marricone–Touma.” The words fell from his mouth, train of thought completely derailed.
Oh.
Oh.
He chanced a glance at Hanzo who was currently glaring, nostrils flared and fists clenched, toward their de facto operator. Winston obliviously forged on, “Don’t think that I didn’t see that article you sent to that paper when you stopped that robbery in Japan, McCree.” He adjusted his spectacles, “It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together, so that’s the identity you’ll be assuming; international traveler and freelancer extraordinaire. And the uh…husband to Mr. Touma.”
The gunslinger cleared his throat, “Well, yeah but…” how was he supposed to go about this? “What angle am I supposed t’work here?” He tried his best to not look sideways though he could feel Hanzo’s liquid black pupils bore into him like a drill press.
“After some careful deliberation,” Winston folded his hands over his hulking chest, “I figured this would be the best course of action.”
Hanzo asked through gritted teeth, “How so?”
“Let me put it to you this way.” Winston huffed, “If you, an artist that nobody has never heard of, showed up to an event like that with a bodyguard, would you be able to gain any footing in finding intel while being that inconspicuous?”
After a moment, McCree sighed, “Yeah, I guess we’d stick out like a sore dick at a wedding…”
Ignoring Hanzo’s huff if indignation, Winston agreed, “I thought so as well. Er—I mean, not in that sense, but—you know.” Flustered, he adjusted his glasses and dropped the subject.
Hanzo blurted out, “How long?”
The scientist blinked in confusion, “Uh well…the mission should only take you a few days tops, unless you manage to find out-”
Hanzo looked like he was desperately trying to keep it together. He inhaled once, held it, than exhaled before continuing, “No, I meant…” he trailed off before gesturing between himself and McCree, “This…”
Winston quirked a brow, failing to pick up the crumbs Hanzel had laid for him to follow. McCree, thankfully, caught on, “I think what Hanzo’s tryin’ t’ask is uh…how long have we been…together.”
The archer nodded, the barest hint of a blush creeping across his high cheekbones, “Indeed.”
Winston’s mouth formed an “o”, though he merely shrugged, “I only put on your websites that you have been together for 7 years.” He waved for Athena to drop the projection, “I thought it would be best for you both to come up with all of that on your own.” The frustrated growl from the archer seemed to go unnoticed by Winston, but not McCree. He continued regardless, “The dropship will be returning sometime later this evening. I suggest you both get ready to head out. Agents McCree and Hanzo, dismissed.” Winston saluted them before returning to his PC.
The two rose from their chairs and made their way to the bay doors. The rush of humid air smacked McCree in the face as they crossed the threshold. He forgot how hot summertime in Gibraltar was. He also forgot he was trailing Hanzo, and his longer stride accompanied with his wandering thoughts caused him to all but mow the archer down.
Grabbing the archer’s arm to steady him, McCree flubbed, “Shit, m’sorry Hanzo, I wasn’t payin’ attention.”
Hanzo righted himself with a huff, “Clearly.” He paused, took stock of McCree, then withdrew his arm from his grasp, “We should ready ourselves for the mission.” He mumbled, facing the walkway and putting several strides of distance between him and McCree.
The cowboy followed, “Right behind ya, sweetheart.”
Hanzo’s flinch was visible even from a distance, “Must you start already?”
Smirking, McCree caught up to him, “Just tryin’ to get in the swing a’things before we get to LA.” They round a corner as he continued, “We uh…we should prob’ly come up with some stuff on the flight, huh?”
Hanzo nodded once in affirmation, clearly not wanting to discuss this more than necessary.
McCree figured the best course of action was to let him be, “I’mma go pack. I’ll uh...I'll meet ya in the hangar.”
Another barely-noticeable nod from the archer was all he got as Hanzo stalked away.
McCree sighed. This mission was going to be harder than he thought.
------
McCree had put off his physical for as long as possible, but leaving for the states meant one final once-over from everyone's favorite combat medic. He hated the medical ward. Angela’s constant nagging, poking, and prodding he could deal with; it came with the job and that was just something he came to terms with long ago. But whenever he crossed the threshold to her domain, it reminded him of all the times he landed himself in one of the beds. Of the times he was forced off the roster because he thought he was invincible. Of how many times it had come close to proving just how much he wasn’t.
A short glance down to the dulling grey metal of his left arm only assured this.
The layout of the floor was still the same as it had always been. Angela had stuck Jesse in the first room, the one with the window that overlooked the ocean and had a view of the lighthouse, the room with the lone, oddball black tile amongst a sea of speckled white taken from the set used to floor the kitchen, the room with spattered stains on the ceiling that may or may not have been blood. It was also the room the good doctor could keep an eye on patients with a flight risk in her peripheral vision Back before the fall of Geneva, this room was always considered, in her words, Jesse’s Personal Quarters, mostly because when he crash landed himself in the med bay, nine-out-of-ten times it was a guarantee two day recovery stint. One that McCree would, all nine out of those ten times, try to escape.
As McCree shifted on the exam table and stared at the staunch white walls, his eyes wandered to the larger area beyond the threshold of the door. Not much had changed. Winston had kept the place pretty clean even though Angela had been gone since the disaster in Switzerland. Little bottles of pills and liquids lined the metal shelving above a cluttered desk with several mugs of what McCree presumed to be tea, probably old and left forgotten from late nights in the lab.
The picture frames on the wall behind her desk were the only real color in the otherwise whitewashed room, aside from McCree’s vibrant serape that lay on the table behind him. He was in a handful of them, the team much younger and happier with a more positive outlook on the world. He wondered when that all fell apart.
The soft click-clack of heels tore his attention away.
Dr. Zeigler was, in his opinion, one of the most wonderful people on this entire plant. She was intelligent, kind, worldly, and compassionate. She was opinionated and never afraid to speak her mind or stand up for what was right. And for a woman the same age as McCree, she was pretty damn good looking. A literal angel, if anyone ever asked him. Not to mention, she tolerated McCree’s shameless flirting, even if he meant nothing by it. Damn did he miss torturing Genji by hitting on Angie. It brought a smile to his lips.
He chuckled as she grabbed a clipboard from the corner of her desk.
“Hmm?” the good doctor quirked a brow as her eyes glossed over the chart, “And what, may I ask, is so funny?”
McCree shrugged, his smile fond, “Just thinking ‘bout the ol’ days, that’s all.”
Angela blinked and took a second to process the information as she gently set the clipboard back down, “What brought about all of this?” She gestured to her front, a little motion that said “shirt off, please.”
McCree complied in silence, plucking the button of his well-worn flannel open one by one, “It’s just…” he trailed off, eyes flittering around before finding hers again, “I can’t believe we’re back here is all. S’almost like we never left.”
Angela regarded him momentarily before stepping forward, eyes cast downward, “A lot of ghosts walk these hallways.” She mumbled.
The cowboy agreed, “Yeah.” He huffed solemnly, “Some couldn’t even bother t’stay dead.”
The brief silence that fell between the two of them was cut short by Mercy’s long sigh. “Well, you know what they say,” She pulled her stethoscope from its place around her neck, tucking the rubber tips inside her ears, “Ghosts that have not passed on are souls with unfinished business.” She pressed the icy cold metal to McCree’s chest
He almost jumped off the table, “God dammit woman, give a man some warnin’!” he shivered as goosebumps rolled across his skin. “Are ya tryin’ t’give me a heart attack?”
She ignored him, slid the device across his chest, and tutted as she withdrew, “You will not have to worry about me doing it. If you continue smoking, I am sure that will put at least one of your feet in the grave.” She stated rather grimly.
His grin was wicked, “Aw, still worried about me, doc?”
She rolled her eyes, “My medicine cannot fix everything, Jesse. You know this.”
“Well, when it’s my time I can’t change that. I can only cheat death so long, y’know?” he shrugged.
Angela pursed her lips, unamused, “Yes, well, I will do my best to stall that for as long as possible.”
“I like the sound’a that.” The cowboy chuckled.
The doctor went through the short routine of the physical exam; Angela checked his pulse, temperature, and blood pressure first and foremost. She measured his reflexes, and shone the brightest light he ever saw in his eyes, mouth and ears. She made him follow her finger with his eyes, touch his finger to his nose, and wiggle his digits. Everything minor seemed to check out, and he was grateful the doctor didn’t make him run on the treadmill or stretch while hooked up to anything. He didn’t need that kind of embarrassment today.
The medic grabbed the chart again and flipped through the pages. Stopping halfway through, she looked up to address McCree, “The diagnostics on your bloodwork showed no signs of abnormality.” Her eyes flitted back to the clipboard, “Even after all these years, almost ninety-eight percent of the nanites that synch with my Caduceus technology are still active in your blood stream.” She flipped the pages again, this time to the very back. “Any issues with this?” her free hand slipped to the wrist of his prosthetic and she lifted it.
He shrugged, “Nothin’ outta t’usual doc. Still get phantom pains every now n’ again, but it’s held up pretty damn good all these years, considerin’.” He brought his hand eye-level and wiggled his fingers, Angela jotting down a few notes on her chart.
She clicked her tongue, “How long has it been since it has gotten proper maintenance?”
McCree chewed his lip for a second, “Honestly, I can’t remember. Least six years, I reckon.”
“As I expected.” Leveling him with a hard gaze, she dropped her hands from his arm, “I know you are not going to like this, but I want to take it off and make sure everything is working properly. If anything needs done, we can have Tӧrbjorn look at it when you return.” She waltzed over to the desk and dropped the clipboard, turning her attention to finding some tools.
“Alright.” The cowboy agreed though his stomach flopped.
It had been years since the accident that caused the loss of his left limb. To be honest, it was more of a blur than anything at this point; loosing that much blood in an active war-zone and living to tell the tale was a feat in itself. Trying to remember every last detail was asking a bit too much. A gently pressure on his bicep brought him out of his thoughts.
Mercy had gloved fingers affixed to the clasps on the ring where metal met flesh. She smiled gently, “May I?”
He huffed a laugh, “Be m’guest, doc.”
If McCree could explain the feeling of having that damned prosthetic detached, he wouldn’t describe it as a “feeling” at all. The best example he could give, however, was like the time he and Genji ended up dicking around in a zero gravity simulator back in his Blackwatch days after setting the G-force calibration too high. Trying to force blood back into an otherwise numb, lifeless limb was the only thing, he thought, seamed akin to neurosensors detaching from nerves. It really didn’t feel like anything was there, because in all actuality, it wasn’t.
The prosthetic looked awkward when not attached to his bicep. He couldn’t help but snort; it was obnoxious as hell and something totally McCree. Had he ever thanked Tӧrbjorn and Angela properly for that thing all those years ago? Mercy didn’t even seem to notice him as she laid the arm on a bulky-looking machine from the corner of the room. She hooked up a few of the sensors to connection points and pressed a few buttons. The machine whirred to life.
Angela watched as numbers ticked across the screen. She jotted a few down, making small talk in the process, “So Winston is sending you to LA, ja?”
Seeing the opportunity, he seized it, “What’sa matter doc? Need a vacation?”
In a very matter-of-fact tone, she shot him a soft smile, “I will take a vacation when I’m dead, Jesse.”
The short silence that followed was broken by McCree’s obnoxious laughter. Angela chased it, covering her mouth with her hand, “Damn Angie, you’ve been hanging around Gengi too much.”
Turning her attention back to the machine, she snorted, “Actually, if you can believe it, that one came from a certain Helix Security Chief.”
Excitedly, McCree leaned forward on his seat, “You heard from Fareeha? How’s my girl doin’?”
Mercy shrugged, punched a few buttons on the screen, let the printer below the clunky machine begin to spit paper, “Truthfully, I am not very sure. We could not speak very long, but she said the soldiers under her command would help Overwatch in any way they could, so long as innocent lives were not put in danger.”
“That’s my girl.” The cowboy beamed.
“Do you…” Angela paused for a second, held his gaze, let it fall to the side, “Do you believe what we are doing is just? That the recall will help people?” she searched his face as the printer churned out the last of the paper.
“Wouldn’t be here if I thought otherwise.” The gunslinger smiled, “Justice ain’t gonna dispense itself, yanno.”
Mercy nodded, the ghost of a smile on her lips, “I see…” she glossed over the length of printed diagnostics, folding them up as she went along, “Well, it seems to be in working order, though maybe I can have Tӧrbjorn take a look at this when he has a moment.” She circled several spots along the chart in red ink, “It looks like there is very minute delay between brain impulse and movement. We may be able to put in an order for an upgrade.”
McCree pouted, “Aw, c’mon Angie, I finally broke that one in and you want me to get rid of it?”
Mercy rolled her eyes, “It will look and feel exactly the same, Jesse.”
“Well in that case,” he jested good-naturedly, “Sound like a plan, doc.” He slid off the table and grabbed the analysis, “I’m sure y’all can do…whatever it is you’ll do with this.” He chuckled and turned it upside-down mockingly.
She snatched it back, “You are the worst patient, Jesse McCree.”
“Did I finally beat Genji?” he goaded.
Angela powered the machine down and slipped the papers into the clipboard for future reference, “You are both equally terrible at listening to my advice and trying my patience,” McCree snorted at that, “But I still love you both dearly.” Her grin was gentle and easy.
Snatching his hat from his head, he placed it over his heart, “I’m flattered, darlin’.” He leaned closer, slightly off balance without his left arm, “Why, would ya mind accompanying me to the—”
She snatched his hat, placed it on his head, and shoved him playfully away with the same gentle smile, “No.”
He barked a single laugh, “Ya didn’t even let me ask, Ang!”
“Hmm…” she tapped her pointer finger on her chin in mock thought, “If you let me reattach your prosthetic, maybe I will consider…whatever it is. How does that sound?”
“Ya drive a hard bargain, but I suppose I’ll have’ta accept it.” McCree tutted.
The doctor beckoned him over to a chair that sat level with the desk. Where detaching the prosthetic felt a lot like nothing, reattaching it was a whole lot of something. It was more than just pain, at least it was to McCree. It felt like his arm, the ghost of it, was being boiled, frozen, electrocuted, crushed, and severed all in one. But nothing was really there to feel. It made no fucking sense, but it hurt like a bitch.
Mercy settled the prosthetic level with the connective sides of McCree’s flesh arm. She gazed up at him, “Ready?”
He released the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, “As I’ll ever be, doc.”
He forced his eyes anywhere but down as she clicked the interlocking pieces into place. The patterns on the ceiling were a good distraction as any as she connected the final sensor, and the full body shock jolted through McCree like he touched a livewire. He barely even registered her apologies. It would take a little while.
It always did.
------
Four hours, three suitcases, two concealed weapons, and one guarantee of jetlag later, McCree and Hanzo were cruising a comfortable 7 miles above sea level. Air travel was, mostly, not one of McCree’s favorite past times, especially considering the fact he had to pack away his usual attire for a pair of fitted khakis and a casual flannel shirt. Winston wouldn’t even let him wear his hat, but he would be damned if the man tried to take his boots away, even if they didn’t have the spurs. He ran two fingers along the collar of his shirt. The clothing wasn’t the only reason he was restless.
In the seat next to him, Hanzo was staring down at his data pad with his chin resting lazily in his palm. Probably researchin’ notable pieces, if McCree could venture a guess. He had to force himself to look away. He was wont to admit he often stole glances at Hanzo I-always-have-my-chest-out Shimada when training or on op duty, but this was torture. He had never really saw the man in casual clothes, but if the fitted black jeans and tight maroon V-neck had anything to say about Hanzo’s physique, it was that McCree needed to hit the gym more.
McCree cleared his throat, “So…” his partner side eyed him in acknowledgement, “Reckon we should come up with our backstory?”
Hanzo turned, paused, regarded him for a moment, “It is pertinent to the mission, I suppose.” He pulled up the notepad app and placed it gently on his lap.
“Yeah, I guess.” The gunslinger huffed nervously.
The mere seconds of silence that followed had been deafening. So much so, McCree missed most of Hanzo’s question when he finally broke it, “—to know each other?
“M’sorry, what?” he wheezed out a little too fast for his own liking.
The archer’s eyes narrowed, “If you want to discuss this so badly, could you at least attempt to pay attention?”
McCree, in an attempt to feign fatigue for nervousness, stretched his arms over his head and tried to pull his non-existent hat over his eyes, “Sorry darlin’, m’just tired is all.”
“I see…” Hanzo’s eyes raked over him once, “I merely asked if you had any input on how we met.”
McCree shrugged, “Mmm…coffee shop?”
“That is…much too cliché.” His partner grumbled.
The gunslinger smiled lazily, “What, is sayin’ we fell in love over lattes too much?” he chuckled, “I feel like hangin’ out in cafés is something artists and writers like to do, is all.”
Hanzo rolled his eyes, head tilting away to hide the fine dusting of rose on his cheeks from the gunslinger. “Fine.” He typed the information in the document, “Where did we meet?”
McCree blinked, “Uh…the café?”
“Yes, but where was the café, as in what city and country? What were we doing there?” Hanzo griped in exasperation.
“Oh, uh…” McCree swallowed. He could have given Hanzo a complete detailed story of how they met. He had only dreamed about meeting him another life several hundred times already. In a café. Or the park. Looking for pets in a pet store. Buying sweets in a bakery. Getting something for a coworker in a flower shop. Browsing books in a library. Literally everything.
Any other life, any other hand aside from those they had been dealt; one man weighed down with the betrayal and near death of his family, the other born with a gun in his hand and enough blood on his conscious to drown him. McCree often wondered what it would have been like to romance someone, go on dates with someone, fall in love with someone, as opposed to one night stands where he would rob his partner blind after they passed out and be miles away before they woke up.
He wasn’t sure how long he spaced out, still wondering.
But before he could suggest anything, however, the overhead comm pinged. Athena’s logo appeared on the dropdown holovid screen, signaling an incoming call from base. Saved by the bell. Literally.
McCree shot up to press the “accept” button, “I got it.”
Before them, Genji’s sleek frame came into view, “Hello brother, McCree.” He flashed two metallic fingers up for peace, “How is your flight?”
McCree shrugged, “Borin’, as usual. How was Greece? Y’all get any leads for us?”
If the cowboy knew any better, Genji was smirking behind that mask, “That is exactly why I called.” The low ding from Hanzo’s tablet signaled incoming mail, “I just sent you some photographs of the assailant from security footage Hana and I have been going through.”
Hanzo pulled up the file, “These are…they look…” He squinted at the grainy photos.
“Bad, I know.” The ninja waved him off, “It is the best we could do for now, we still have at least four days’ worth of material to watch.” He angled the camera differently revealing a tired, yet smiling Hana behind him, “We will send more as-”
The camera shook violently and Genji cursed. Hana’s face came into focus shortly thereafter, “You guys better catch these douchebags out there or I’m flying to LA to look for them myself!” she screeched, “I had to cancel a stream to do this. Do you know how upset my fans are?!”
McCree saluted her with a laugh, “Yes ma’am! Ol’ Joel and Ryuji got ya covered!”
“Don’t you mean Mr. and Mr. Marricone–Touma?” she smirked.
The brief lapse in conversation that followed was broken by Genji’s flabbergasted, albeit amused, “What?”
Hanzo desperately tried to cut the conversation short, “We will await further evidence from your end, we must-”
The projection wobbled again as Genji gained control of the camera, “I cannot believe Winston actually went through with that idea!”
The elder Shimada narrowed his eyes, “And who, may I ask, suggested this idea to Winston?”
Hana’s cackles were drowned out by Genji’s word vomit, “Oh would you look at the time, Hana and I still have much to do! We will speak soon, brother!” he waved to the cowboy, “Later, McCree!”
Before Hanzo could form a reply, the screen cut to blue to reveal Athena’s spinning logo.
The cowboy muttered, “Leave it to the gremlin and green devil to pitch this t’Winston.”
Hanzo scoffed, “Leave it to Winston to actually entertain the idea.”
McCree reclined his seat, closed his eyes, and sighed, “Nothin’ we can do about it now.” He cracked one open to gaze up at Hanzo, “Now, you were sayin’ somethin’ about where we met?”
If McCree wasn’t so tired, he would have thought Hanzo was blushing, “Yes, if you are open to some suggestions…”
The gunslinger smiled, “Darlin’, I’m all ears.”