They're driving through the middle of nowhere when the storm front crosses their path.
The highway's one of the loneliest McCree's ever seen, and it cuts a straight line through a mostly flat stretch of absolutely nothing at all. The clouds roll across the plains deceptively slow; one moment they're just a dark line across the horizon, the next the menacing, roiling wall of grey-yellow-brown is almost upon them, and the first gusts of wind blow tumbleweeds and debris across the road.
"Might wanna pull over," says McCree, watching the way lightning snakes through the clouds. It's rapidly getting dark. "It ain't lookin' good."
Hanzo doesn't say a word, just exhales loudly and slows down. The car rolls onto the shoulder of the road and stops; Hanzo flicks on the hazards, and McCree reaches for the window controls just in time to avoid another, stronger gust of wind that sprays the car with sand.
The storm has eaten most of the sky at this point; looks like they'll be stuck here for a while. McCree unbuckles the seatbelt, pushes the seat back as far as it'll go, adjusts the backrest and gets himself comfortable. "Ain't you glad we got a good old-fashioned truck, not one of them fancy convertibles I saw you eyeing," he says and pats the roof of the car fondly, watching the first, fat drops of rain spatter on the window. He's not a huge fan of thunderstorms, or any blind, destructive force he can't dodge or outsmart or shoot, but at least they've got a proper Faraday cage around them and they're not in a hurry, and he supposes watching fireworks with Hanzo is not the worst way to pass the time.
Speaking of: Hanzo hasn't said a word since they parked, but through the rumble of the incoming thunder McCree hears another, strangely shaky exhale.
"You okay?" He turns his head to the other side, and Hanzo… Hanzo doesn't look okay at all. He's leaning forward slightly, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the steering wheel like they're in the middle of a race and not parked at the side of the road. McCree can't see his face from this angle, and he's still silent as a grave, but the body language is louder than a shout.
He reaches out before he can think about it and touches Hanzo's shoulder with a hesitant hand just as another, closer thunder rolls through the clouds. Hanzo jerks like he's been electrocuted; McCree withdraws the hand immediately and sits up straight in his chair, now genuinely worried.
"Hey. You scared of storms?" he asks quietly, trying not to upset Hanzo further, and for a moment he's afraid he did just that, because Hanzo lets go of the steering wheel, covers his face with a hand, still hunched, and his shoulders start shaking.
A wave of rain hits the windows and there's another thunder, real close now and loud, and it takes McCree longer than he'd like to admit to realize that Hanzo is laughing. It's near-silent, and he only hears it because the wind changes direction for a moment and there's half a second of relative silence — but yes, it's laughter, low and breathy, like nothing McCree's ever heard from him before. Hearing Hanzo laugh has always made his knees go a little weak, his stomach a little tight, but now the inevitable reaction's kinda pushed back by a genuine worry that Hanzo might be losing it.
Hanzo's always struck him as the type to lose it in a spectacular way when he finally does snap. McCree's not sure he's equipped to handle it in a car, in a storm, in the middle of nowhere.
It's really dark now, a yellow-tinged, unhealthy twilight of a thunderstorm, and Hanzo's face is barely visible when he finally turns. McCree automatically reaches for the light switch, but Hanzo moves fast as a striking snake, intercepting McCree's hand and gripping his wrist in an iron hold.
"No. I'm not afraid of storms," he says. He's not laughing anymore.
McCree's too surprised and maybe a little turned on to pull his hand out of the grip. "Alright," he manages. Rain crashes against the side of the car, drums a wild rhythm on the roof. "Wanna clue me in, then? You weren't lookin' too good just there."
Lightning flashes somewhere close and McCree's breath stops short when a split second later, Hanzo's eyes briefly glow: just a second of faint, electric blue that quickly fades back into darkness.
He swallows, suddenly too warm. He's opening his mouth to say something, although he has no idea what yet, when there's another strike of lightning, Hanzo's eyes glow again, brighter and longer, and this time the arm that's still holding McCree's hand lights up as well. Hanzo blinks, as if he's only now noticed he's been squeezing McCree's wrist, and abruptly lets go. McCree stares at the fading lines of his tattoo.
"I'm sorry. I have a… particular reaction to storms." Hanzo turns away again and leans back in his chair, head tipped against the headrest, eyes closed.
McCree flexes his fingers, holds his breath and waits. Another lightning, and this time the thunder comes almost right after: the storm is nearly above them. Hanzo's tattoo lights up again, brilliant and electric, and McCree abruptly realizes that the car is filling with the smell of ozone, even though the windows are shut.
"The dragons?" he asks, for some reason nearly whispering. He's surprised Hanzo's can hear him at all through the rain.
After the next lightning, Hanzo hisses through his teeth, and his arm takes a good ten seconds to fade.
"Does it hurt?"
Hanzo shakes his head against the headrest. His hands are balled into fists on his thighs.
McCree wants to reach out and touch that tattoo, see if the glow is cold or hot, if it would burn his hand. He wants Hanzo to stop looking like he's in pain, even if he claims he's not. The storm rages outside, wind and rain and lightning, they're locked in a car that was spacious just an hour before but now feels suffocatingly small and too hot, and McCree wants — needs — to do something.
"Can I help you somehow? Do you need anything?" he asks, weirdly frustrated, runs a hand through his hair.
Hanzo turns his head to look at him, eyes still faintly glowing, and opens his mouth — and at that moment the lightning strikes real close, so close that the crackle of electricity is nearly as loud as the thunder. Hanzo's eyes flash violently and he gasps, squeezes them shut, curls in on himself a bit.
"Okay, come on now," protests McCree, just to see Hanzo abruptly reach for the door handle, and he doesn't think, he lunges across Hanzo's lap to keep the door closed, and gets thrown back so hard that his head hits the doorframe with a thud.
"Fuck," hisses Hanzo. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have — I need to get out."
"Hanzo. Stop," McCree growls, rubbing the back of his head. "What the hell are you doin'? We're safest in here. You'll be soaked in a second if you go out, and it's actually real fucking dangerous to be out in a storm like this."
"I can't." Hanzo turns towards him again, eyes and the tattoo burning an unearthly blue. "If I stay here —"
Lightning. Thunder. Hanzo jerks in his chair and breaks off, closing his eyes again, and the sound he makes through gritted teeth actually sounds like a keen. Wind blasts another wave of rain against the windshield, and whatever the fuck is happening to him, there's no way McCree's letting him out of the car in this state and into that weather; he reaches out, prepared to dodge this time, and catches Hanzo's wrists in a loose grasp.
The tattoo doesn't burn. It's just skin, warm over hard muscle and bathed in a rippling electric glow, and Hanzo doesn't lash out, but he inhales raggedly and freezes; McCree can feel the little tremors running through his arms.
"Whatever's happenin', let me help," he says as gently as he can. "You can't go out there. D'you need me to knock you out? 'Cause I will if that's what it takes to stop you from gettin' yourself killed."
Hanzo opens his eyes and glares, narrow slits of burning blue. The smell of ozone is nearly overpowering. "If you don't let go, I take no responsibility for what happens," he says, suddenly surprisingly calm.
McCree raises an eyebrow. "And what's gonna happen, exactly?"
For a brief moment, McCree thinks Hanzo's finally calmed down, and then the lightning flashes so bright that he nearly gets blinded by it, Hanzo rips his wrists out of McCree's grasp, grabs him by the neck, roughly pulls him forward and kisses him like he's trying to bite him.
McCree's not proud of the gasp he lets out when Hanzo pushes him away again a second later, before he's even had a chance to get his bearings.
"That's what's going to happen," Hanzo bites out. "I'm leaving the car."
McCree can be fast, too, when he's sufficiently motivated. He's got Hanzo by the bicep before he even finishes the sentence. "You're not goin' anywhere," he growls. "I can't see how makin' out in a car is worse than getting soaked or fried alive."
Hanzo tries to roll his eyes, but another lightning spoils his effort, turning it into a shudder. "Assaulting a coworker in a car is worse," he says, glaring.
McCree laughs incredulously. "Are you kiddin' me? It ain't assault when I've been jerking off to you for goddamned months. Please do that again."
Hanzo's glowing eyes widen and his mouth falls open in surprise that would be comical, if McCree wasn't suddenly really fucking turned on.
"Come here," he says, letting go of Hanzo's bicep and opening his arms. "We wasted at least five minutes we could've spent makin' out instead." Hanzo doesn't move except for a flinch when another lightning strikes, and his incredulous stare finally cuts through McCree's arousal-induced boldness, makes him self-conscious. "Unless you don't actually want to and it's just the storm's doing, in which case I might just go out there and get fried myself—"
He doesn't get to finish the sentence, because Hanzo nearly teleports into his lap, climbing out of his seat and over to McCree's with the speed and agility of an actual ninja, and McCree breathes an oath of gratitude right into his mouth.
The storm rages directly above them, now, and with each stroke of lightning Hanzo shakes and tries to push closer; McCree can feel him rock hard where their hips grind together and he's nearly just as hard himself already, with Hanzo's hands in his hair and Hanzo's tongue in his mouth, and when he slides both palms under Hanzo's t-shirt, Hanzo outright moans, loud and unashamed.
"Sensitive," he gasps into McCree's mouth.
Experimentally, McCree drags his right hand up slowly, barely touching skin, and Hanzo inhales raggedly, tightening the grip on McCree's hair and grinding down. It's breathtaking and hotter than the sun, and McCree immediately resolves to explore this, to find out just how sensitive Hanzo really is. With some difficulty, he coaxes Hanzo into letting go for long enough to get rid of both their t-shirts and strokes his fingertips down the back of Hanzo's neck; he's rewarded with another shaky gasp.
"Damn," he breathes in wonder and keeps touching, barely-there brushes against the sides of Hanzo's neck, across his shoulders, along his spine and down his sides; Hanzo nearly writhes under his hands, gasping under each touch and each time the lightning strikes, loud and eager and gorgeous, half-wrapped in an ethereal blue glow that doesn't fade anymore. When McCree bows to carefully lick across a nipple, Hanzo half growls, half sobs, sharply pulls his head up, bites his neck and reaches for his belt, and from there it's all rough pulling and tugging and it's as awkward as it can be with two grown men in a cramped space, but with the howl of the storm around them, the smell of ozone in his nostrils and the living flame in his lap, McCree doesn't give a fuck. He gets a hand around Hanzo in the end, holds him steady with the metal arm around his shoulders, and it takes maybe a dozen pulls before Hanzo shouts, arches and comes, and with Hanzo slumped in his lap, panting, it takes even less than that for McCree to get himself off as well.
The heart of the storm is moving away, thunder rumbling in the lengthening distance. McCree watches Hanzo's tattoo slowly fade and thinks thunderstorms aren't that bad after all.
"I might just quit this job and become a storm chaser," he mutters.
Hanzo exhales a silent laugh against his neck. "Let me take you to dinner first before you commit yourself."
"Deal. And you owe me two dinners. One for this, and one for all the boners I'll be poppin' in the future every time I hear a thunder."
This time Hanzo laughs for real, the low chuckle that's always made McCree mouth dry, and McCree decides he really loves thunderstorms.
Fanart by cynicaln!