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Falling in love with Jesse McCree is inconvenient.
If Hanzo is honest with himself, the feelings themselves are not unwelcome. He’s come to appreciate the unexpected warmth that blooms in his chest when McCree offhandedly compliments him on his marksmanship, the peace he finds when he sees the man fall asleep safe and sound on the transport after a mission, the desire thrumming through him when the sharpshooter joins him on the cliffs of Gibraltar afterwards for a smoke, sitting just a little too close and making him laugh despite their recent near-brushes with death.
All of it is new, nebulous and uncharted, and he hasn’t felt so alive in months, years, possibly his entire life.
The inconvenient part comes as he’s running along the tops of the ruins in Illios and sinking arrows into Talon agents as McCree calls out enemy positions, knowing that the man is relying on his cover fire to proceed. They’ve never done a training simulation alone before, but it was suggested (see: required) by Winston now they’re working together more frequently.
When Hanzo first arrived at Watchpoint, he had found Jesse McCree irritating at best, despite the man being nothing besides friendly, but cautious, towards him. He couldn’t blame him. He knew the story of what Hanzo had done to Genji, they all did. It’s taken the better part of a year to form what Hanzo would consider a friendship, a hard won peace and understanding (and so much more on Hanzo’s part), but that doesn’t mean Hanzo thinks he’s equipped to survive an afternoon alone with McCree.
“It’s equally important to work in unison with the team as a whole and with the individuals who make up that team,” Winston explained dismissively, tapping away at a datapad and completely ignoring Hanzo’s efforts to assure him that the exercise would be unnecessary. His weak protests went unacknowledged except by McCree, who just smiled at him with no small amount of charm and told him that it wouldn’t be so bad.
McCree’s voice, warm and whiskey-smooth even through an earpiece, alerts him to a group of Talon soldiers approaching from the right that immediately begin opening fire on the alcove McCree ducks into. Hanzo takes down four enemies before they can get too close, with more flooding right behind them.
“You need to move, McCree. There are more coming.”
“Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, darlin’.” His tone is teasing, words clipped at the end with a short laugh. The pet name throws Hanzo off for a second, some unnamed emotion seizing his chest, before he resumes taking down Talon bots.
Finish the mission, he thinks as he looses an arrow towards an enemy that’s trying to flank McCree’s position. There are more now than Hanzo can pick off alone, and they’ve noticed his new position. He hears the rapid gunfire from Peacekeeper below and leaps from one stone pillar to another nearby, trying to keep eyes on McCree. The dragons coil and shift impatiently beneath his skin as he knocks another arrow and releases it, their hunger and disquiet bleeding into his awareness. There is no sense in releasing them when there is no blood to shed; they will only be more restless for their trouble.
Hanzo loses sight of McCree as the man shoots two Talon soldiers and rolls into an old stone building. His arm aches terribly, and there seems to be no end to the waves of enemy reinforcements. “You’re surrounded and I’ve lost visual.”
“Get outta here and finish the mission. They’re all gunnin’ for me anyway.” There’s a pause as McCree unloads a clip of bullets into several enemies. “I can keep them busy for long enough.”
“You know I won’t do that.” Hanzo’s quiver is nearly empty, except for a few scatter arrows, and he aims one for the back of an enemy. It splits and takes down three bots, but two bolts embed into the ground. Hanzo curses under his breath and aims the next for a group that’s pushing into the building, loosing a scatter arrow that should at least clear the way for the gunslinger to finish the rest.
“Aw, fuck!” McCree shouts, sharp and pained through the earpiece. “Athena, goddamnit, pause simulation!”
“Pausing the simulation counts as a failure to complete,” Athena informs them mildly.
“I don’t care, do it!”
Hanzo watches as all of the Talon bots come to a standstill, curious what would be important enough to cause the man to stop the simulation altogether short of critical injury. He slings Stormbow across his back and descends quickly from the pillar, entering the stone building with McCree’s name as a question on his lips.
McCree is on his hands and knees, and the cause isn’t immediately apparent. One of the bots hitting him would cause some discomfort, but not nearly enough to take the man down like this.
“Are you hurt?”
“Nope, peachy,” McCree says through gritted teeth. “I just got hit is all.”
Hanzo raises an eyebrow and looks the man over, unable to see any part of his training gear that is lit up to suggest he was hit. He circles him, ignores McCree’s grumbled warning, “Don’t--”, and his eyes fall on the cause of the man’s current distress: a piece of scatter arrow that pierced straight through McCree’s pants and into his ass cheek.
“That’s--”
“Yeah, I know. Part of your scatter arrow hit me in the ass.” McCree laughs, and Hanzo can’t tell if he actually finds this funny or not. “Must’ve hit a nerve or somethin’, ‘cause my knees buckled like nothin’.”
“How deep is it?”
“No idea. Whenever I try to move it hurts like a son of a bitch, though.”
“Do you want me to pull it out?” Hanzo asks, unsure of what else to do.
Hanzo might be imagining it, but he thinks that McCree’s face flushes red at that. “Nope, I think I’m gonna limp off to Angela and get her expert opinion.”
“How are you going to walk?”
McCree looks like he hasn’t considered that technicality, or he has and he doesn’t want to talk about it. Hanzo thinks quickly about what he can do to help, which leads to one unfortunate conclusion. He hopes the man won’t hate him for the injury or what he’s about to do.
“McCree, you said once that you wanted to go on vacation somewhere nice. Where was that again?”
McCree quirks an eyebrow at him. “I don’t see how that’s relevant right now, Hanzo.”
“Humor me.”
“Crazy time to be askin’, but I guess I’ve always wanted to see--” McCree’s voice breaks into a howl as Hanzo grabs the end of the arrow and pulls. The shaft slides free with a slick sound, the sharp tip wet with blood. He tosses it onto the floor and rests his hand on McCree’s back in silent apology, broad shoulders shaking beneath his palm. The dragons rumble and purr, inexplicably pleased, preternatural warmth slithering lazy and serpentine up his forearm. Hanzo resists the urge to pull his hand away like it’s been burned.
Absently he wonders what it would feel like to touch McCree’s skin and feels the dragons stir excitedly at the mere thought, static prickling in his fingertips.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” McCree makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a pained groan, which he tries to cover with a cough. It doesn’t fool Hanzo at all. “Good news is I can feel my leg again.”
“Would you like some help getting to the infirmary?”
“Nope, I’ll be just fine. Just leave me here and I’ll get up eventually.”
“Why do you keep suggesting things that I am obviously not going to do?” Hanzo puts his arm around McCree’s waist with the intent to help him up, and the man goes rigid instantly.
“Darlin’, have mercy.”
It’s not the pet name that catches Hanzo completely off guard. It’s the soft, broken lilt of McCree’s voice, and his request for mercy. It’s easy to imagine it belonging to one of the figments of his past, to picture a sword in his hand and the sound of it separating head from shoulders. Quickly, they learned to stop asking for mercy from Hanzo and to die with honor. He never showed any.
Old guilt settles in the pit of his stomach, and he feels paranoid that his inner thoughts are somehow being broadcast for McCree to hear. In his mind’s eye he imagines a different world where he’s once again under his father’s thumb, choking under the weight of expectations and responsibility and contempt, and it’s the gunslinger waiting to be executed by his hand, on his knees with his head bowed as he awaits Hanzo’s blade.
Have mercy.
“Hanzo?” McCree asks gently, head tilted up. His hat fell off his head at some point, and his hair is a disheveled, sweaty mess that Hanzo wants to sink his fingers into to ground himself in the real world.
He doesn’t. Instead, he clenches his fists and swallows hard. “I’ll let Angela know where you are.”
“What? Hanzo, wait a sec!”
Hanzo ignores the man’s protests and curtly informs Athena to end the simulation so he can find the door. He doesn’t stop until he’s back in his room, except to inform Angela of the gunslinger’s whereabouts. She looks angry when she learns that Hanzo left him there, but the archer doesn’t explain and he doesn’t wait for her to say anything else.
As soon as the door slides shut, he slides down to the floor with his back against it, covering his face with his hand and taking a few deep breaths. His fingers smell of copper where they grasped the scatter bolt that he pulled from McCree, and he pulls them back to observe the blood on his fingertips.
You didn’t kill him. McCree is fine.
Hanzo doesn’t know how long it takes for him to calm down, but when he does, he has five missed messages on his comm: four from Genji that he received earlier and one recent one from McCree.
I don’t know what spooked you like that, but meet me after I get patched up and we can have a drink.
Hanzo sets the communicator on his thigh and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Inconvenient. Being in love with Jesse McCree is inconvenient. Not for Hanzo, but for McCree.
--
After the incident, Hanzo doesn’t talk to McCree for the better part of a week. He’s not actively trying to avoid the man, he just finds that it’s markedly easier to turn and head in the other direction when there’s the slightest possibility they’ll cross paths.
McCree doesn’t go out of his way to find Hanzo. At least, Hanzo would like to believe that his name isn’t on McCree’s lips whenever the archer enters a room and immediately leaves it, and he has several unread messages that he’d like to pretend don’t exist at all. If anything, he hopes that the man is going to come to the realization that Hanzo is unworthy of his friendship and the possibility of anything more.
The only problem with avoiding McCree is that Hanzo now has to keep very strange hours to get anything done, and even then, there is the distinct possibility that the gunslinger will stumble into the kitchen at 4 a.m. when Hanzo is making tea or decide that he wants to go to the practice range instead of eating lunch and find the archer there.
It hasn’t happened yet, which is why Hanzo is sitting in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea at 4:30 a.m., empty bowl sitting on the table in front of him. He’s staring into the cup when a distinctly metal hand squeezes his shoulder.
“Hello, Genji. Up early, aren’t you?”
Genji chuckles quietly, the first noise he’s made since he entered the room. “I’ve never been very good at sneaking up on you, brother.”
Hanzo regards his little brother as he takes a seat across the kitchen table. He doesn’t want to admit that it was a guess. Genji’s metal hand would have been indistinguishable from McCree’s with the clouded state of mind Hanzo was in, but he apparently couldn’t deal with even the possibility of the gunslinger’s touch. He can’t say if he would have heard a sound if there was one, as deep in his thoughts as he was.
“What could possibly have you scowling so early in the morning?” Genji asks.
“Nothing.” It’s not convincing, and sounds weak even to Hanzo’s own ears. He used to be a better liar.
“Really?”
Hanzo sighs and swipes his finger through the steam rising from his tea. “There was an incident with McCree.”
Genji tilts his head and clicks his tongue against his teeth. “Oh? What have you done now?”
“Why do you assume it’s something I’ve done?”
“Look at me, not into your cup of tea, and ask me that again with a straight face.”
To his complete irritation, he finds he can’t. As soon as he looks at Genji, the corners of his mouth lift unbidden into a smile and then he starts to laugh. It feels nice, if he’s honest, to see his younger brother’s scarred face light up in response. “Fine! I hit McCree with a scatter arrow during a training simulation.”
“That’s unlike you to not think ten steps ahead. Was he badly injured?” Genji joins him at the table, putting his elbow on the table and his chin in the palm of his hand. It startles Hanzo how easily he can picture young Genji doing the same. “More importantly, did you take care of him afterwards?”
Hanzo feels a sharp pang of guilt in his chest. He thinks of McCree calling after him and how he walked out of the simulation room without another word.
He doesn’t deserve to have these feelings for Jesse McCree.
“I left him there,” Hanzo admits after some time. Genji waits patiently for him to continue, his face otherwise unreadable. “Something he said reminded me of the past and I panicked.”
“You let Angela know where he was?”
“Of course.”
“And it wasn’t life threatening?”
Hanzo shakes his head.
“Then he was fine,” Genji says with a shrug and a small smile. “Have you spoken to him about it?” Hanzo looks at Genji with narrowed eyes and his brother laughs. “You know the proper thing to do after injuring someone you care about is to apologize, right? McCree would definitely forgive you.”
Hanzo immediately wants to insist that he doesn’t care for McCree, but he’s apparently a terrible liar in his current state, so he doesn’t. “How are you so sure?”
“I can imagine exactly what he’ll say. Ready? It wasn’t nothin’, darlin’. Angela fixed me up fine and proper.” Genji’s imitation of McCree’s accent is truly absurd, and Hanzo smiles despite himself. “Now let’s go for a drink and stop pretendin’ we’re not interested in each other.”
The brothers stare at each other, Hanzo’s eyes wide with panic and Genji’s expression irritatingly smug.
Of course. Hanzo should have guessed that Genji would have pieced together the truth of his crush on McCree, but he’s not going to let him have the satisfaction of knowing that he’s right. He picks up his cup of tea, which is decidedly lukewarm at this point, and sips at it longer than necessary. When he sets it down, Genji is watching him with a dopey smile on his face, looking very pleased with himself.
“What?” Hanzo asks.
“Your poker face is awful. And you should really talk to Jesse, he’s worried he did something to make you upset with him.”
It makes sense that Genji and McCree had spoken. Genji often refers to the man as his best friend, news that initially rubbed Hanzo entirely the wrong way when he had first joined Overwatch. Now, he’s grateful that his brother had someone to rely on all these years.
“When did you speak with him?”
“I happened to visit Angela when Jesse was face down on her examination table with his ass out.” Genji wiggles his eyebrows and leans back in the chair, folding his arms across his chest.
Hanzo feels his face flush through to his ears. “What did he say?”
“Just that he wouldn’t tell me what happened to his beautiful ass, not even on threat of death. And then he asked me if I had seen you anywhere, because he thought you might be mad at him.”
“Why would I… Nevermind.” Hanzo can’t even begin to understand why McCree would think something so absurd. He’s spent nearly a week trying to avoid thinking about the man, so the possibilities swirling around in his head make no sense. He drains the rest of his cup of tea and sets it on the table gently. “Beautiful ass?” he asks with a raised eyebrow, trying anything he can think of to change the subject. By the way Genji’s eyes light up, he knows he’s succeeded.
“I know you’re not going to try to lie to me again by telling me you haven’t noticed. You have eyes.” Genji levels an amused look at his brother. Hanzo has definitely noticed, and by the way his little brother grins, he knows his face is betraying exactly the nature of what he’s thinking without his permission.
Hanzo doesn’t answer the question, just frowns and picks up his empty cup and bowl as he stands up. There’s a strange thought creeping into his mind as he walks to the sink, one that he’s not sure he wants to know the answer to. He asks anyway, because it’s probably better if he knows now rather than finds out later.
“Have you and McCree…”
“Hanzo, are you jealous?”
Hanzo’s shoulders stiffen and he stares angrily at the bowl in his hand. He grows more irritated when Genji starts to laugh, and he spins around to look at his not-dead-yet brother. Before he can get a word out, Genji holds up his hand to quiet him.
“No, we haven’t,” Genji assures him with a soft, almost apologetic, smile, like he knows he’s struck a nerve. “Jesse is more of a hopeless romantic than he would like anyone to realize, and he’s my best friend. We agreed a very long time ago that while we would undoubtedly have spectacular sex, it’s not worth changing our friendship.”
It makes sense. Genji and McCree have a long history together that isn’t stained by betrayal and misunderstanding. For the first time in a long time, Hanzo feels the reality of it like a black pit of despair in his chest. Jesse McCree was there for Genji while Hanzo believed that his little brother was dead. Is he jealous? Of course.
He’s also extremely grateful.
“Promise me something.”
Hanzo snaps out of his bleak thoughts and tilts his head up to look into Genji’s eyes. “What?”
“Promise me you’ll talk to him and try your very best to explain why you ran away.”
It’s not a bad idea, by any means. He had just been starting to really appreciate the easy companionship forming between them, and avoiding McCree hasn’t changed the fact that Hanzo is in love with him.
He made a mistake, he needs to at least apologize. It’s the adult thing to do.
“I promise I will try.”
“Good.” Genji nods, seemingly satisfied with this, and rises from his seat. He knows better than anyone how difficult it is for Hanzo to open up. “One other thing.” Hanzo tilts his head in question, feeling incredibly uneasy about the glint of mischief in Genji’s eyes. “The dorm rooms are, for the most part, soundproof,” he says as he walks out of the kitchen, waving at Hanzo over his shoulder. “I don’t want to know.”
“Want to know what--”
“Exactly.”
--
Hanzo’s opportunity to talk to McCree comes much sooner than expected. He finds the man just after 2 am taking down target bots on the practice range, stopping only to take swigs from a bottle of what Hanzo assumes is whiskey. He’s never seen the gunslinger drink anything else.
“I must advise against consuming alcohol while handling a loaded firearm,” Athena cautions him, sounding exasperated, “for the third time.”
McCree reloads Peacekeeper and takes pause in his apparent vendetta against all of Torbjorn’s basic training bots. “My aim doesn’t start gettin’ sloppy until I’m fallin’ down, so save the good advice.”
If AI could sigh, Hanzo imagines Athena would. “Of course, Agent McCree.”
Hanzo wonders what the cause of the man’s obviously irritable mood could be. Whatever the reason for his late night drinking and sharpshooting, he hasn’t noticed Hanzo yet. McCree’s body is one tense line as he inserts a speedloader into Peacekeeper and goes again, taking out six bots with perfect accuracy despite his clear agitation.
Hanzo clears his throat to announce himself as he gets closer. He doesn’t feel like dodging a literal bullet at 2 o’clock in the morning.
When McCree turns his head to look, the expression on his face is tired and openly fond. He wonders if McCree always looks at him like this and he just hasn’t noticed, or if this is a new development.
“Fancy seein’ you here,” McCree says, his tone surprised and a little reverent.
“I could not sleep.” It’s not entirely the truth, but he’s apparently a better liar when the subject is drunk, because McCree’s expression softens in understanding and he nods. Every member of Overwatch can speak of sleeplessness and nightmares in some capacity.
“You want to join me?” Hanzo must take just shy of too long to answer, because McCree frowns and scratches at the back of his neck. “Ah, nevermind. I’ll get out of your hair.”
Hanzo shakes his head and gestures towards the range. “Please, stay. It’s too early for breakfast, so I thought I would take a walk. I left Stormbow in my room.”
“Suit yourself then.”
McCree takes a swig from the bottle and reloads Peacekeeper, holding it up with the obvious intention to start firing again. Once he does, a troublesome thought invades Hanzo’s mind, one that insists if the gunslinger goes back to it, then he won’t be able to say what he needs to. This is his chance to apologize, before he loses his window of opportunity or his nerve.
“I’m sorry,” Hanzo blurts out, unsure of any other way to begin.
McCree lowers the gun and looks at Hanzo with a lopsided smile. “For what, darlin’?”
“For injuring you. I should have been more careful.”
“It’s alright. Angela fixed me up. She said there might be a small scar, so I reckon I won’t be winning any future awards for Nicest Ass in Overwatch. My glory days are over.”
Hanzo smiles despite his anxiety, finding McCree’s own smile as infectious as always. “I think you would still receive honorable mention.”
McCree laughs at that, but it’s reserved, even a little pained, and Hanzo isn’t sure what he’s done wrong this time. Maybe McCree noticed his attempt at flirting and he’s not interested. The gunslinger checks the rounds in Peacekeeper a second time and flicks it closed, turning back towards the range. He hesitates like there’s something he wants to say, but a sigh and a frustrated tilt of his head let Hanzo know that he’s not going to say whatever it was.
“Gimme some close range targets, Athena.”
Hanzo watches as the bots move forward until they’re within close range. McCree looks at him questioningly once they’re set up. “You wanna shoot her?” he asks, holding Peacekeeper in offering so there’s no mistaking what he means.
“I thought nobody was allowed to shoot Peacekeeper except you.”
“I’m making a special exception. Consider it my way of sayin’ I forgive you for hittin’ me in the ass.” McCree grins openly, and Hanzo knows without a doubt that it’s genuine.
Hanzo comes closer and takes Peacekeeper from McCree gently, treating it with as much care as he would Stormbow. The dragons, quiet until this point, begin to purr with lazy interest. “Perhaps you can teach me to…” Hanzo’s brow furrows as he tries to remember the words McCree used to describe it to him once. “Fan the hammer?”
McCree raises his eyebrows and lets out a low whistle. “First time you get your hands on her and you already want to learn the tricky stuff?”
“I’m no beginner,” Hanzo points out.
“You’re definitely not,” McCree agrees, giving the archer an appraising look from head to toe. They’re close enough that Hanzo can smell the whiskey on his breath, and he finds he doesn’t mind. “Why don’t you go through some ammo first to get a feel for it?”
Once upon a time, Hanzo had been just as skilled with a gun as he is with a bow, but he’d never really had the opportunity to shoot a revolver. Yakuza tastes ran more towards assault rifles and semi-automatic handguns -- generally the types of weapons that they sold. Peacekeeper kicks with more force than he’s used to, but he manages to land six headshots on the close range targets without any trouble.
“Hardly challenging,” Hanzo says, arching an eyebrow and looking at McCree expectantly. “May I graduate now?”
McCree grins at him and takes Peacekeeper back, loading it with another six rounds of ammo. He thumbs the hammer and says, “So you’re basically holdin’ one hand ready to pull the hammer back quick as you fire each round. The idea is to do it real quick, but it’s not easy. Watch.”
Hanzo watches him closely, but it happens fast enough that he barely sees the motion as more than a blur. Six bullets pierce the target in front of him, six holes that start from what would be a person’s chest and end at the head. It looks almost perfect. This is something McCree has obviously practiced quite a bit, to be able to do it with such ease.
His competence really is stupidly attractive.
“May I?” Hanzo asks.
“Always.” McCree hands him Peacekeeper and hovers nearby, showing him how to position his hand over the hammer. Their fingers brush just briefly, sending a sharp tingle up his arm as the dragons move excitedly beneath his skin. If the man notices Hanzo tense up, he doesn’t mention it. All he can think as he listens to McCree give him instruction is that this crush of his is going to kill him.
They spend half an hour practicing, and Hanzo has to admit that McCree is an excellent teacher. For having very little experience handling a revolver, the archer picks up fanning the hammer quickly. He could lie and say that it’s not the gunslinger’s praise that’s making him put forth this amount of effort, but he doesn’t feel like lying to himself about this. Just this once.
He’s almost sad when McCree jokingly informs him that he didn’t bring enough ammo for him to single-handedly decimate Torbjorn’s entire fleet of bots.
“I’m fresh out and I don’t know that Athena is gonna give me access to the armory for more at 3 in the morning no matter how nice I ask.”
Hanzo looks up at McCree and holds Peacekeeper out in offering. There are a few scant inches between them, and he doesn’t know when exactly they moved so close to each other.
McCree grabs Peacekeeper and puts it into the holster, nodding softly at Hanzo. “You’re a mighty fine shot there, Shimada.”
“As I said, I’m no beginner.”
“No, you’re definitely not.” McCree’s eyes flick down Hanzo’s face, and whatever they fixate on makes the man frown like he’s in pain.
If Hanzo wasn’t imagining things, he’d say that McCree’s eyes are on his lips.
“You should get some sleep.”
“I don’t know that I can.”
“Nightmares?” Hanzo asks, all too familiar with such nights himself.
“Night somethin’s,” McCree answers cryptically with a small, tense shrug of his shoulders. “But yeah, you’re right. I’m gonna try to get some shut eye. You do the same, alright?”
Whatever this strangely charged moment was between them, it ends abruptly as McCree steps away. He walks away with a polite nod and a quiet, “Goodnight, Hanzo.”
Hanzo stands still for a few long moments, feeling disoriented. He doesn’t want McCree to go and neither do the dragons, if their petulant writhing can be interpreted, but he lets the man walk away because he fears he’ll say something wildly inappropriate if he opens his mouth.
He stands there for a few minutes, mystified at the entire encounter, and then grabs the half-drunk bottle of whiskey and carries it to his room. It still tastes as sharp and awful as he remembers, but he swallows two mouthfuls before he climbs back into bed, hoping it will help him sleep.
--
As if the universe is punishing him, the next night Hanzo truly can’t sleep. His body is restless, his mind unable to be quieted, and the dragons are curling restlessly beneath his skin. It’s been almost two weeks since their last mission and he fears he’s going to go crazy with so much free time to think about McCree. He climbs out of bed with an irritated grunt, sweeping his fingers up through his hair so he can tie it back before he gets up.
A quick glance at his communicator tells him it’s just past 1 am, which means he can either go for a walk and hope he doesn’t run into McCree, make some tea in the kitchen and hope he doesn’t run into McCree, or head to the shooting range and hope he doesn’t run into McCree. With his luck, he’s going to run into the man no matter what he decides to do.
There are worse things, his traitorous mind informs him.
As he pulls on a t-shirt and sweatpants, he decides that the best option is the shooting range. The sound doesn’t carry, so he won’t risk waking anyone, and he might be able to expel some of this nervous energy plaguing him.
He grabs Stormbow on his way out the door and slings his quiver over his back, poking his head out of the door to his room so he can look each way down the hallway. Not a soul in sight. He puts his feet into some slip-ons and makes his way towards the shooting range, which is blessedly empty and eerily quiet. Hopefully McCree found it easier to sleep tonight.
“Athena, please set up long and medium range targets,” Hanzo says, flexing his fingers to warm them up.
“Good evening to you too, Agent Hanzo. Couldn’t sleep?”
“Yes.” He’s never going to get used to how incredibly easy it is to forget that Athena isn’t a person, but a program.
“Long and medium range targets being deployed.”
As promised, Torbjorn’s bots take their places at various distances. Hanzo pulls on Stormbow’s string a few times, testing the tension. Once he’s satisfied, he pulls an arrow from his quiver, knocks it, and looses it towards the farthest target.
“Headshot.”
Unsurprising. Hanzo didn’t expect anything here to be exactly challenging for him to hit. He’s just here to release some energy, or “blow off some steam” as Genji would say.
He works his way through the stationary targets with ease and asks Athena to introduce moving targets. Hanzo takes them down faster than they can be replaced. To his irritation, the nervous energy thrumming through him doesn’t seem to lessen. If anything, the dragons are more restless than before and Hanzo’s arm is starting to ache.
He considers practicing again with his scatter arrows, but he knows that it wasn’t lack of skill on his part that led to part of his arrow hitting McCree -- it was panic. For one brief moment, he imagined that it was actual Talon soldiers swarming on McCree’s position and in his haste to make it a fair fight, to give McCree a chance, he had forgotten to account for where the man might be standing.
Maybe it’s time to retire the scatter arrows and try something new, he thinks. What he could possibly replace them with, he’s not sure, but he knows he’s ready to learn something new, as he had done when McCree taught him to fan the hammer.
An idea forms unbidden in the back of Hanzo’s mind and he doesn’t absolutely hate it. It’s worth trying.
“Athena, please set up six targets side by side in a straight line.”
“Of course, Agent Hanzo.”
Hanzo watches as six bots fall into line, side by side. He knows that truly rapid fire shots aren’t usually associated with a bow, but he wonders for curiosity’s sake how fast he can shoot six arrows towards the targets. There’s no harm in trying, and not a soul around to laugh at him for clearly imitating McCree’s signature move.
“Please record the time it takes to eliminate all 6 enemies, starting with the first and ending with the last.”
“Recording.”
Hanzo inhales deeply through his nose and reaches back for an arrow, nocking it and letting it fly. Before it even hits the first bot, he has another out of the quiver. He nocks it just as fast and shoots it towards the second bot’s head, followed by a third, fourth, fifth, and sixth into the respective targets. He’s shot thousands of arrows in his life, so the motion is like second nature to him.
“8.2 seconds, Agent Hanzo.”
It’s not as bad as he expected, but it’s nowhere near the second that fanning the hammer takes. He could go faster if he doesn’t pull back completely, but he knows the travel and impact will be greatly reduced and may result in injured enemies instead of dead ones. The only thing he really has going for him is accuracy. It’s not realistic to expect to hit all six targets with a revolver when fanning the hammer, unless you’re Jesse McCree and made a deal with some kind of devil. Hanzo’s arrows have the advantage in that regard, but only because they take longer to load and shoot.
It’s not good enough. Hanzo tries again, and Athena informs him his time is 6.9 seconds. Three more attempts leave him hovering around the same time and on his way to being out of arrows except for scatter. Logically he knows his limitations, but it’s still frustrating to come up short of his own expectations for himself.
There’s no reason for Hanzo to want to try adapting one of McCree’s signature moves for his bow, other than admiration for the man and his skills. That’s what he tells himself anyway, as he whittles his time down to just 6.5 seconds to fire all six arrows, one into each target. His arms burn from the effort, and it still feels imperfect somehow. It’s a pale imitation of the move McCree taught him and he’s not satisfied with it at all.
He hears McCree before he sees him. The man isn’t wearing his spurs, but he still walks with heavy steps that alert Hanzo to his presence. Hanzo pretends not to notice, wondering if McCree will turn around to go back the way he came or if he’ll invite himself to stay. He doesn’t know which he would prefer.
“Your arm must be mighty sore.”
Hanzo lowers Stormbow and turns to look at McCree. The man is wearing a pair of dark sleep pants and a t-shirt that looks like it shrunk while still on his body. A warm feeling settles in his lower belly, aching like a bruise, and Hanzo hopes his face is impassive, because his thoughts certainly aren’t.
“You saw, then?” Hanzo asks, suddenly feeling the ache in his arms more pointedly. It hadn’t been so bad when he was constantly in motion, but now that he’s stopped he regrets working himself so hard.
“I may have watched from the doorway for a bit.” McCree shrugs and comes closer, carrying a datapad in one hand and a bottle of amber liquid in the other. His holster, and subsequently Peacekeeper, are nowhere to be found. “You know they say imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”
Hanzo feels his face grow hot. The dragons stir with delight, as they usually and alarmingly do when McCree is in close proximity. “I wasn’t imitating you.”
McCree raises an eyebrow, looking like he believes that as little as Hanzo does. “Whatever you say. I’ll be over here...” He ends the sentence with a shake of the bottle in his hand and walks over to one of the benches, taking a seat.
From where he’s sitting, he can see Hanzo perfectly if he wants to.
Hanzo’s arm throbs in protest when he even considers nocking another arrow, and with a long sigh he rests Stormbow up against the wall, along with his quiver. He won’t be needing them to drink with McCree.
“What are you writing?” Hanzo asks as he takes the seat next to the gunslinger, keeping a comfortable amount of distance between them.
“Nothing important,” McCree says cryptically, tilting his datapad away from Hanzo’s line of sight. He taps a few more times on the screen and puts it to sleep, then takes a swig from the bottle in his hand and offers it to the archer. “Sometimes I just like to get all the stuff rattlin’ around in my head out by writin’ it down. It’s therapeutic.”
Hanzo never expected McCree of all people to keep a diary, but he’s not going to call the man out for having his own methods of catharsis. He has no right to judge, after the extremely poor ways he handled being alone with his guilt after murdering his brother, or the equally questionable methods he used to cope with finding out his brother was alive.
Feeling melancholy and sore, Hanzo reaches to take the bottle from McCree’s hand. He sniffs at it first, confirms that it is definitely whiskey, and swallows a mouthful. It burns going down and warms him from the inside as it settles in his belly. Sake will always be preferable, but he’s grown to tolerate whiskey after drinking it so often with McCree.
They drink in companionable silence for a while, watching the night sky over Gibraltar, until McCree clears his throat. Hanzo looks at him questioningly.
“I’ve wanted to apologize to you for a while now.”
Hanzo blinks slowly, his thoughts syrupy and unclear thanks to the whiskey. “Apologize for what exactly?”
“When you came here to join Overwatch, I didn’t trust you much for a long time, even if I tried to be friendly. It’s been weighin’ on my mind for a while.” McCree pauses and licks his lips, looking uncharacteristically reserved, and if Hanzo could trust his eyesight right now, he’d say the man is blushing.
Hanzo leans just a little closer, shoulder bumping into McCree’s in silent acceptance of the man’s apology. “What was your impression of me when you first saw me?” he asks, hoping to draw the both of them out of melancholy before it sets in.
“I thought you were somehow the prettiest and meanest looking thing I’ve ever seen.” Jesse chuckles and takes a swig from the bottle. Hanzo’s face flushes at being called pretty, but he really can’t argue with mean. He’s at peace with the fact that he never has been and never will be a particularly agreeable person. “What did you think of me?”
Hanzo sees no reason to be dishonest. “I thought you were loud.”
Jesse tilts his head back and laughs, a rich, warm sound that wraps around Hanzo’s heart like a fist and squeezes. “You thought I was loud just from lookin’ at me?”
“I heard you before I saw you,” Hanzo explains, noticing that he’s still leaning against McCree’s shoulder. He doesn’t want or care to move. “After that, I thought you were more handsome and charming than you had any right to be, for a cowboy.”
Hanzo knows distantly that he’s said something wrong by the way McCree coughs and sputters on a mouthful of whiskey. He watches the man cough against the back of his hand, wondering if he should offer to do something to help, trying not to remember the last time he should have helped McCree.
It takes a minute or two, but eventually McCree gets himself under control. He looks at the bottle of whiskey like it personally betrayed him and sets it down on the bench. “Thought I was a goner,” he sighs, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Hanzo watches intently, only aware that he’s been caught staring at McCree’s mouth when the man snaps his fingers in front of the archer’s face. “You really this bad at holdin’ your liquor, Shimada?”
McCree’s face is close, too close really, and Hanzo is more inebriated than he initially thought, but it’s manageable.
“I’m exactly as drunk as I intend to be.”
McCree pushes the bottle of whiskey farther away, looking every bit like he doesn’t believe Hanzo for a second. He produces a cigarillo and a lighter from somewhere, puts the cigarillo between his lips, and lights the end. “I wasn’t wrong though, was I? You’re trying out new moves?” he asks once he has the cigarillo burning steady.
“I’ve used scatter arrows for some time,” Hanzo agrees, leaning back against the wall and tilting his head towards the ceiling. He doesn’t particularly enjoy the smell of smoke, but it’s something he will tolerate to be so close to McCree. “It seems as good a time as any for a change.”
“There’s probably a way to rapid fire with your bow that doesn’t involve you pulling something.”
Hanzo gives McCree a sidelong glance and his heart leaps in his chest when he finds the man smiling at him like they’re sharing an inside joke. There probably is a way to adapt fanning the hammer to his bow, he’s just too drunk and tired at this point to even begin to brainstorm. Pulling arrows and shooting them as fast as he can is fine, but it’s not good enough.
“If you think of any ideas, let me know.”
“I’d never hold out on you.”
“You had better not,” Hanzo teases goodnaturedly.
Seemingly satisfied, McCree is silent as he smokes his cigarillo. It’s one of the man’s better traits, really -- he always seems to know when Hanzo would appreciate peace and quiet, never asking more of him than he’s willing to give.
The rhythm of each inhale and exhale of smoke lulls Hanzo until he can barely keep his eyes open, his body leaning to the left as his eyelids droop, and he dozes off with his head on the gunslinger’s shoulder.
--
Hanzo wakes in the early morning to someone shaking him. It turns out to be Agent Tracer, who appears very concerned (rightfully so, Hanzo supposes) that the archer is sleeping on a bench in the shooting range. He blinks several times to clear his vision, feeling the distant throbbing of a headache behind his eyes.
“You alright there, Hanzo?” she asks, her smile open and friendly. It wasn’t always that way, but she’s warmed up to him enough over the past year. Hanzo finds her genuine good humor is the only thing keeping him from being a complete asshole, as is the norm after he has just woken up.
“I’m fine, I just drank a bit too much,” Hanzo explains, slowly sitting up and regretting his poor decisions already. He’s sore everywhere from sleeping in such a strange place, and his head starts to ache more the longer he’s awake. “And I apparently decided that sleeping here was preferable to going back to my room.”
“Happens to the best of us. You need anything?”
Hanzo smiles grimly and shakes his head. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”
She seems satisfied with that, because she gives him a nod and a bright smile and zips off to the other side of the range. Hanzo inhales deeply and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to center himself. He desperately needs a hot shower to soothe the aches in his limbs, and an enormous cup of coffee to combat his headache.
As he starts to stand up, the blanket that was covering him slides off. He stares at it’s bright red design for a moment, the distinctly Southwestern pattern betraying it as McCree’s, and tries to remember the series of events that led to this. His memory is fuzzy, and while he remembers his conversation with McCree for the most part, he doesn’t recall falling asleep.
“Stupid,” Hanzo mumbles as he stands up, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. It smells only faintly of smoke and detergent, which is mildly disappointing, and even though he probably looks like a vagrant wandering the halls with it wrapped tight around him, he doesn’t release McCree’s blanket until he’s back in his room.
Some small, bitter part of him wonders why McCree left him there, and another eminently reasonable part of him says he probably deserved it.
--
Fate seems determined to have him run into McCree now at every opportunity, as though he’s being punished for avoiding him. He encounters the gunslinger in the kitchen, the hallway, and in the gym. Each time he’s greeted with a polite “howdy” before McCree moves along with what he’s doing.
Their brief interactions feel so vastly different from the night prior that Hanzo isn’t sure what to do besides ignore it. If he said something that he doesn’t remember and somehow offended the man, he’ll find out at some point, even if he has to enlist Genji’s help.
Hanzo is so wrapped up in his thoughts that he simply stares at Hana when she reminds him after dinner that it’s movie night.
“You better come!” she teases, shoving him once playfully while he washes dishes. “We need all the help we can get to outvote the old people. I don’t want to watch anymore ‘oldies but goodies’.” She says the last bit in her best impression of Reinhardt’s accent and makes air quotes with her fingers. Hanzo wonders why he’s not being considered one of the old people, since he has 20 years on her, but he’s not going to complain about it.
“The oldies but goodies outnumber you still,” he points out as he washes his hands.
“Nuh uh! We’ve got me, you, Lucio, Lena,” Hana ticks off each name on the fingers of one hand, “and Jesse.”
“I don’t believe McCree counts. He always votes for old westerns, even if there isn’t one up for vote.”
Hana puts her hands on her hips and raises an eyebrow at him. “The last two times he voted with us, so he counts. He’s our secret weapon.”
Hanzo has to admire her youthful enthusiasm, really. He does remember the last two movie nights and the man chimed in both times after Hanzo placed his vote, settling the tie breaker. Maybe they can rely on him to rescue them from the classics.
He finishes washing dishes while Hana throws a bag of popcorn into the microwave. Once that one is done, she makes another, which is an excellent idea because they’re definitely going to need it.
“I’ll come to movie night,” he concedes, making sure his clean dishes are put away before he grabs the bowl of popcorn and follows Hana from the room. There are already plenty of people gathered in the rec room, sprawled out in their favorite spots as they laugh and chat amongst themselves.
There are two options after Hana drops into the beanbag chair next to Lucio -- one being a plastic chair that looks like it will be torture on his back or the very comfortable couch that McCree is currently occupying. The man is tapping away on a datapad, the bottle from last night half-empty where it’s balanced against his hip. He doesn’t look up as Hanzo takes a seat on the opposite end.
It takes McCree all of two minutes to say something. Hanzo doesn’t know if he’s relieved or annoyed. Probably both.
“How are you feelin’?”
“Fine.”
“You sure? You look like your shoulders are botherin’ you, darlin’.”
Hanzo doesn’t know what the man expects, but he can’t help but make a petty dig at that. “I didn’t exactly sleep in a comfortable place last night, as you’re aware.”
McCree is silent for several long moments, and Hanzo gets the distinct feeling that the gunslinger is watching him. He dares to glance over at the man, feeling just a little distressed when he sees the apologetic frown on McCree’s face. “M’sorry, Your Highness. You were out like a light. I tried wakin’ you up, but you mumbled somethin’ in Japanese that sounded threatenin’ and wouldn’t move. I don’t have a death wish, y’know?”
Regretfully, that does sound like something he would do. The tension in Hanzo’s shoulders eases just slightly, but he’s still sore from sleeping wrong and he imagines sitting still for two hours isn’t going to do him much good. “I suppose that’s an acceptable reason,” he concedes, reaching out to pluck McCree’s bottle of whiskey from his side. “Next time I expect to be carried to a more comfortable surface.”
McCree laughs, warm and rich and genuine, and Hanzo turns his attention to Hana when she presents the top movie choices. They end up watching a newer action film that wins with most of the votes, even from the “old people”, as Hana so gracefully put it. As Lena turns off the lights and the room is plunged into darkness save for the TV screen, Hanzo twists the cap off of the bottle in his hand and takes a swig, hoping that it will help loosen up his muscles and lessen the ever present headache throbbing in his temples.
He hands the bottle blindly back to McCree, releasing it when he feels the man take hold. Hanzo knows he’s sitting strangely, with his body turned and his back almost entirely to McCree, and as the movie continues and they keep sharing liquor between them, his back starts to ache. He can’t help but shift in his seat and try to find a more comfortable position, hoping that McCree doesn’t notice.
McCree’s weight shifts behind him, like the man is also trying to get comfortable, except he leans forward and Hanzo shivers at the warm breath that ghosts across the back of his neck.
“Need a hand?” McCree whispers, resting his hands tentatively on Hanzo’s shoulders, voice low and warm against his ear.
Hanzo’s entire body goes tense and relaxes in the same second, and the dragons purr so vigorously that he wonders if McCree can feel him vibrating where they’re touching. He doesn’t say anything and apparently doesn’t need to, because the gunslinger reads his thoughts and says, “It’s dark and they’re all watchin’ the movie.”
This is a monumentally bad idea, Hanzo thinks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. He rolls his shoulders briefly beneath McCree’s warm hands and winces at the ache there. Indeed, nobody seems to be paying them any mind, their couch sitting further back than most of the chairs. The chance of someone looking back and seeing them is unlikely.
Hanzo turns his head slightly and nods. A shiver passes through his arms up to his neck, and McCree doesn’t move at all for several long moments, leaving the archer to wonder if the man is reconsidering his offer.
“Alright then.”
When McCree’s thumbs dig into his shoulders, Hanzo has to bite his lip to stifle a moan. It feels incredible, the give of his sore muscles beneath the gunslinger’s hands as he slowly kneads them in small circles. If they were alone now, he wonders what McCree would think of him if Hanzo let slip one of the sounds held captive in his throat, and that thought alone makes his face grow hot.
Letting McCree rub his shoulders is simultaneously one of his best and worst ideas Hanzo has ever had, especially when the man starts to work on his right arm in particular. It’s targeted and thorough, massaging the ache from the arm he overworked the day prior, digging into the muscle and releasing tension with strong hands.
A noise does escape him when McCree finds a knot that Hanzo hadn’t even known existed, and he’s incredibly grateful that there’s a car chase happening on screen, drowning out any other sounds in the room. It didn’t go entirely unnoticed, he realizes, as the gunslinger smooths his hand over the area in silent apology and maybe poses the silent question of whether he should continue or not.
Hanzo swipes his tongue over his bottom lip and nods his consent for McCree to continue. The man offers the bottle of whiskey to him and he accepts it, bringing it to his lips so he can take a drink. The taste is only bearable, as always. Next time he won’t forget to bring sake—
Ow. It’s the only thought he has and it’s accompanied by a full body shiver born from both pain and relief, as McCree works at the knot. One hand tightens around the neck of the bottle and the other digs into his thigh, entire body burning hot, especially where McCree is touching him. This was a bad idea, no matter how good it feels. He should have just suffered instead of giving the man the go-ahead to take him to pieces like this.
When the knot finally releases, Hanzo’s shoulders slump and he exhales shakily. He shakes his head, hoping that McCree will notice and stop without him having to turn around or say anything. Thankfully he does and removes his hands from the archer’s back entirely. To his complete horror, Hanzo realizes he’s fully hard in his sweatpants.
“Better?” McCree asks, the tone of his voice warm and dulcet, and every hair on the back of Hanzo’s neck stands up.
He doesn’t respond, just swallows another large mouthful of whiskey and offers the bottle back to McCree. Nobody in the room seems to have noticed them at all, every eye in the room glued to the screen. Hanzo couldn’t tell anyone what happened in the last fifteen minutes on screen if his life depended on it.
It takes an undetermined amount of time for Hanzo to calm down, and even then he doesn’t trust that his face isn’t suspiciously red still. The alcohol probably isn’t helping. He settles again into a rhythm with McCree of passing the bottle back and forth, eventually unable to do so safely without craning his neck to look at it, for fear of dropping it. There’s a distant, nagging thought in the back of his mind, warning him to stop drinking his damned feelings, and it sounds unsurprisingly like Genji.
He ignores it. At least if he passes out here, he’ll be somewhat comfortable, which is looking like it may be a genuine possibility with how warm and loose Hanzo feels now. The next time McCree takes the bottle from him, he nearly drops it before the gunslinger has a chance to fully grasp it.
“I’m cuttin’ you off, darlin’.”
Hanzo frowns petulantly and wants to argue, but he doesn’t, because they’re not the only people in the room and he can’t really trust the volume of his voice when he’s drunk.
Hanzo realizes after some time that just because McCree took the bottle away doesn’t mean he’s any less inebriated. His vision is swimming and he feels distantly nauseous, and more importantly he’s tired. The archer sinks further into the couch, leaning heavily against the back of it, pillows his head on his arm and dozes off.
When he wakes, it’s to the sounds of his teammates talking around him.
“That was pretty good!” Reinhardt declares, his inside voice booming as always.
“Yeah not bad at all. I really enjoyed it.”
“I expected it to be kinda corny and lame, but it was full of explosions and there was no dumb romantic subplot!”
Hanzo frowns and hides his face in his arm as the lights come back on. His deepest desire is for everyone to forget about him and leave so he can go back to sleep, but the likelihood of that happening turns out to be absolutely zero. They’re talking about him, he realizes, obviously still thinking he’s asleep, and that’s good, because maybe they’ll leave him be.
“Jesse why’d you let him drink so much? He’s totally knocked out!”
“He’s a grown man, he can decide just fine how much he wants to drink.”
Hanzo sighs and pushes his face against his forearm. It’s his fault for drinking so much and for allowing McCree’s presence to affect him this way. He should be left to lie with his mistakes. Please go away.
“Did Reinhardt already leave?”
“Does anyone know where he went?”
“He left right after the movie, he’s an early to bed, early to rise kinda guy, you know this.”
“Can anyone find him? I don’t want to just leave Hanzo here and I don’t think any of us can carry him,” Lena says, sounding more concerned than anyone else, probably because she found him sleeping on a bench just this morning.
Hanzo feels the couch shift as McCree moves. Part of him expects the man to excuse himself from the situation. No part of him expects the arms surrounding him or the warm chest just a breath away from his face as McCree picks him up. Every muscle goes tense, but he wraps his arms around the man’s neck and doesn’t make a scene. There are too many eyes watching him and falling down drunk is even more shameful than allowing McCree to carry him to bed. A lot less pleasant, as well.
“What are you doing?” Hanzo whispers against McCree’s neck.
“Carryin’ you to a more comfortable surface, Your Majesty,” McCree replies quietly. “I got him,” he says louder, addressing their teammates that still in the room.
“Jesse, are you sure?” Lena asks, sounding incredibly confused.
“Sure am. S’just like carryin’ an angry sack of potatoes that could kill me. I’ll get him back to his room.”
Hanzo frowns and allows McCree to carry him from the room, fully intending on walking once they get into the hallway. But really, the gunslinger is solid and warm and it’s stupidly attractive that he can carry Hanzo with so little effort. The archer settles against him, feeling the weight of impending sleep in his limbs and eyes and everywhere else.
“What’s your door code, sweet pea?”
Somewhere in the haze of his mind, Hanzo realizes that they’ve reached the door to his room and McCree is asking him an important question. He turns his head and presses his mouth to the man’s shoulder, feels the way the solid muscle there tenses beneath his lips, mumbles, “Jesse.”
There’s a long moment of silence before he answers. “Yeah?”
“That’s the door code,” Hanzo says with a frown, unsure as to why the gunslinger doesn’t understand.
“You’re gonna have to give me more to go on than that.”
Hanzo really doesn’t want to explain anything when he’s drunk and tired, so he tells him the numbers, “53773,” followed by a grumbled, “stupid cowboy,” into the warm crook of McCree’s neck.
“Gotcha.” Five consecutive beeps on the keypad and the door slides open. McCree carries Hanzo over the threshold and deposits him on the bed about as ungracefully as possible. “Shit, sorry. Here.”
McCree’s hand cradles the back of Hanzo’s head as he slides a pillow underneath. The fabric is cold and Hanzo buries his face into it, unconcerned with anything else, even as the gunslinger touches one of his prosthetic legs with his hand.
“You want these off, I’m assumin’?”
Hanzo makes a noise that even to his ears doesn’t sound like a nonverbal yes or no, but he lifts his legs cooperatively as McCree detaches them with surprisingly tender care. Once the man is done, he sets the prosthetics down near the bed, lays a thin blanket over Hanzo and says, “Sleep tight, darlin’.”
Some part of him wonders what McCree would do if Hanzo asked him to stay, but he doesn’t get the chance to find out. The man’s quick, heavy footsteps and the sound of the door sliding shut let him know that he’s alone once again.
--
When Genji returns from his evening meditation and happens to see Jesse carrying his brother down the hallway, his first instinct is to tease the both of them, or perhaps to shut his eyes and scrub the image directly from his memory. He isn’t sure, but he supposes he has ample time as he follows them to make up his mind. He dims the lights on his armor until they’re just barely noticeable, and follows silently from a safe distance through the hallways until they reach Hanzo’s room.
He hears the brief conversation at the door, immediately wanting to shout at Jesse for being so incredibly dimwitted at this particular moment and in general. Such a clever man has to have some idea that the corresponding numbers to Jesse are 53773 and there’s no reason Hanzo would use the man’s name as the code to get into his room unless he’s got a serious case of feelings.
Hanzo ends up telling Jesse the code and the cowboy hardly seems phased by this very important development. Honestly, these two are so bad at this that Genji feels like he has to intervene. But there’s no reason to alert the both of them to his presence. Not before he snaps a photo of Hanzo with his head pillowed on Jesse’s shoulder as the man carries him into the room. Genji has no idea when he’ll get blackmail material like this again.
The door to Hanzo’s room stays open for just shy of too long and Genji fears that maybe they fell into bed together without remembering to shut the door. He’s considering closing it for them when Jesse emerges and shuts it behind him.
Genji watches from his corner in the shadows as Jesse leans back against the door, scrubbing his hand over his face and up through his hair. “Why am I such a goddamn fool?”
I could make you a list of reasons. The cyborg holds his comment, curious to see what the man will do. He’s been away on a mission for the past few days, so any developments since Hanzo injured the gunslinger are a mystery to him. He watches as Jesse turns his head to cast one sad, longing glance at the door, almost misses his mumbled, “He’d probably hit me if I said anything anyways. Kill me. Sick his dragons on me. Fuck.”
Genji suspected that Jesse might have some feelings for his brother, but hearing it straight from the cowboy’s mouth changes things. He almost feels sorry for his best friend. Falling for Shimada Hanzo, Prince of Icy Stares and Angsty Brooding, is undoubtedly unfortunate, especially when said prince is emotionally handicapped and won’t in a million years make the first move.
These two, Genji thinks sourly. Am I going to have to do something or can they figure it out on their own?
He already knows the answer to that question, but he doesn’t have to like it.
“I think you’re just swell and I think I love you, please don’t murder me,” Jesse says, voice quiet and slightly hysterical, walking away with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. His shoulders are slumped with the weight of imagined defeat.
Genji watches him go, casts one glance at the door to his brother’s room, and starts to walk back to his own. He doesn’t really need sleep, one of the benefits of being a cyborg, but he does need to plan.
He’s not going to let his best friend and his brother be miserable and dance around their feelings if he can help it, for their sakes and everyone else’s.
--
Spending the day hungover at the shooting range seems like one of Hanzo’s worse ideas, but he’s determined to work out his shame and frustration over the events from the night before. It took some time for after he woke up for him to recall what exactly happened, but each new detail he remembered seemed more embarrassing than the last.
“Stupid,” Hanzo grumbles in frustration as an arrow misses its mark entirely. He hasn’t seen McCree yet today, but he imagines that the man has caught on by now and is avoiding the archer and the impending awkward conversation. He can imagine it now:
“So Hanzo, why is your room code literally my first name? ”
“Because I’m in love with you.”
“Oh.”
Hanzo’s face heats with shame and he lowers Stormbow, feeling the familiar soreness in his shoulder from not resting it properly. It brings back the unbidden memories of McCree massaging the ache from it and Hanzo inhales deeply, trying to bring himself back to the present. There is a time and place to remember how the gunslinger’s hands felt on his body and this is neither.
He’s perfectly alone for an undetermined amount of time before he hears the unmistakable sounds of footsteps and spurs. It seems that he couldn’t avoid McCree these days even if he wanted to.
“Hey, Hanzo,” McCree greets him cheerfully. “Sorry I’m late. It was my turn to make a grocery run.”
Hanzo bristles at that, turning his head to look at McCree. The man looks good, dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a red flannel, the ridiculous cowboy aesthetic complemented perfectly by his boots and hat. “Why would you think you are late?” he asks, watching the gunslinger’s face twist up with obvious confusion.
“Well, your message said to meet you here as soon as possible. I just assumed you’d think I was late since it took me a few hours to make it.”
Hanzo blinks slowly, once, twice, and asks, “My message?”
“Yeah, your message,” McCree agrees, holding out his communicator for Hanzo to see.
Hey, cowboy. Hanzo’s stomach immediately twists up into terrible knots. Meet me at the shooting range as soon as you are able to this afternoon. I would like your help with something.
“I didn’t send that.”
McCree looks both disappointed and embarrassed. “You sure? Who woulda sent it from your comm?”
They share a look and Hanzo can see in McCree’s whiskey-colored eyes that he’s considering the same culprit: Genji.
“Well, since you don’t need me here after all,” McCree tips his hat to Hanzo, shuffling his feet awkwardly, “I guess I’ll be goin’.”
“You don’t have to go.”
Hanzo has no idea where that came from, but it’s far too late to take it back now. McCree smiles like a sunrise, slowly, getting brighter and wider with each moment until he’s grinning fully. “Alright then. You still tryin’ to adapt fannin' the hammer to Stormbow?”
“Yes, but so far it seems like a fruitless endeavor.”
Jesse steps closer to him and nods at Stormbow. “Maybe you’re not lookin’ at this from the right perspective.”
“How do you mean?”
“If I had to load each bullet separately, it would probably take me a good chunk of time to fire off six shots. Bows just ain’t made to hold six arrows at once.”
Hanzo has to admit that McCree makes a solid point. As he listens to McCree explain the different ways to possibly hold six arrows at once, he drifts just slightly closer, drawn in by the man’s enthusiasm for talking about weapons. The dragons rumble so fiercely that Hanzo wonders how it’s possible that McCree doesn’t hear them through his skin for as loud as they are in his own head.
There is no harm in this, Hanzo thinks, licking his lips. Pull yourself together. You won’t say anything stupid, as long as there is no alcohol involved.
“So, you might be able to hold what, three arrows at one time between your fingers?” McCree asks with an adorable tilt of his head, and Hanzo feels his face flush hot at the thought that anything about Jesse McCree is adorable. For fuck’s sake. “Try to hold two at first. See if you can make it comfortable.”
Hanzo nods and draws two arrows from his quiver, studying his hands for the easiest way to hold both in a way that would be conducive to firing them rapidly. He eventually manages to work out a position where he can easily nock one arrow, fire it, and quickly nock the second. It’s not six by any means, but it’s progress.
Three arrows turns out to be much more difficult. Hanzo is proud of his body, every part of it a carefully honed tool that behaves as he expects it to, but there is no amount of finesse that will allow him to hold three arrows in one hand. He becomes frustrated quickly, especially with McCree’s patient stare on him, and resigns himself to giving up for the moment.
“Not givin’ up, are ya?” McCree asks, standing so close now on Hanzo’s right side that the archer swears he can feel his body heat. If the dragons were able, they would undoubtedly burst free from his arm with how riled up there are now by McCree’s presence.
“I’m simply putting this on hold until another time,” Hanzo replies, pulling a single arrow from the quiver and loosing it towards a training bot. It hits the bot directly in the head, which is surprisingly satisfying for being so easy, so he does it again.
“I mean we could look at devices to feed arrows into your-- uh.”
Hanzo hums and looses another arrow, felling another mechanical target. He’s vaguely curious why McCree stopped talking entirely, but decides the silence is acceptable. The dragons seem pleased, for whatever inexplicable reason. He’s stopped trying to fully understand the several thousand year old dragon spirits currently inhabiting his body, including their questionable taste in company.
“Hanzo.”
“Yes?” The archer nocks another arrow.
“You got another glowy blue arm where your regular arm is,” McCree explains, voice torn between bewildered and concerned.
Hanzo looks at the gunslinger, taking in the serious look on his face (which is lit up with blue light), and looks down at his right arm. Indeed, there is another arm, ethereal blue just as his dragons are when released, and the space between them crackles with static and smells of ozone. “Oh,” he agrees dumbly, unsure of what else to say.
The dragons purr violently, as if trying to explain, but all Hanzo can catch is the image of himself nocking an arrow and shooting it, so he does. Except he never gets to shoot. Blue light flares around him and six ethereal arrows sink one after the other into the target he’s aiming at. At the end, he looses the arrow he’d been holding, and it strikes the unfortunate bot directly between the eyes.
“Hot damn.” McCree whistles, low and appreciative. “Didn’t know you could use your dragons like that. That’s mighty impressive.”
The dragons twist and writhe happily at the compliment, and Hanzo gets the impression that they were both eager to impress McCree and tired of watching him struggle. “I don’t use them, as you so crudely put it. They have a mind entirely of their own and we have an understanding.”
“No need to get hostile. That was great shooting.” McCree tilts his head and inspects Hanzo’s arm with his eyes, with maybe just a little apprehension. He’s seen Hanzo release the dragons maybe a handful of times before, and his reaction is almost always the same as it is now: reverent and wary. “Can you do it again?”
It’s a fair question. He’s not sure if the dragons were just bored and wanted to make a point of Hanzo’s failure or if they were offering to assist him in this way. When he summons them in their full ethereal forms, there are no qualms, only mutual understanding because they’re being fed on the flesh and blood of Hanzo’s enemies. He doesn’t know what they could possibly get out of this.
He’s interested to find out, so he draws an arrow and nocks it, focusing on the tingle of static and the incessant purring of his spirit dragons, silently requesting their assistance. Just as before, blue energy crackles around him and six arrows release from his bow, which feels entirely strange when he’s holding still. He can feel each draw and release as if he’s the one doing it, and at the end, he looses the arrow he’s been holding, sinking it into the target amidst the other six.
“Athena, record the time it takes for six arrows to hit the target from start to finish,” McCree says, his warm gaze still fixed entirely on Hanzo.
“Of course, Agent McCree.”
Hanzo does it again and is pleased to hear Athena’s mild announcement of 1.7 seconds.
He does it a few more times, growing used to the feeling and unwilling to let McCree’s attention wander from him. He hardly needs to worry. McCree has shifted so close that Hanzo can smell smoke and cologne, and if he closes his eyes, he imagines he can feel the gunslinger’s warm breath on his cheek.
The hard part turns out to be getting the dragons to stop showing off. Every time Hanzo pulls back, the ethereal arm appears, ready to fire six arrows (the reason for that particular number isn’t lost on him) rapidly. He feels like the dragons are laughing at him and delighting in his frustration. They may be thousands of years old, but they can be as childish as Genji was once upon a time.
“Hanzo.”
The archer lowers Stormbow and looks at McCree expectantly, only to find a glimmer of something like hope and desire in the man’s eyes. Hanzo doesn’t know what to think of that, so he sets Stormbow down and gives the gunslinger his full attention.
McCree parts his lips, expression suddenly close off. “How likely are you to kill me right now if I do somethin’ to upset you?”
“Highly unlikely.” Hanzo is irritated, but only at the ancient dragon spirits inhabiting his body, not necessarily at McCree. He meets the man’s gaze and the determination he sees there makes his breath catch. “If you’re so worried about me killing you, then why do it?” he asks, not entirely recognizing his own voice.
“Because this is worth the risk of bodily harm.” There’s a pregnant pause as McCree lowers his gaze, and this time Hanzo is sure the gunslinger is fixated on his lips. There are mere inches separating them. Surely he won’t--
McCree lifts his hands to cup the archer’s face, thumbing at his bottom lip just before he presses their mouths together in a warm, wet kiss that tastes of tobacco and the mint gum McCree must have chewed to try to cover it up.
Oh.
He doesn’t have to think twice about parting his lips for the gunslinger’s tongue, every nerve in his body alight as McCree licks at the seam of the archer’s lips and then plunges his tongue inside. He should have guessed that McCree would be unexpectedly skilled at kissing, as he is with most things. That talented tongue slides slick against his teeth, his palette, curls and pushes against Hanzo’s own, and McCree swallows a needy sound that the archer is embarrassed to ever admit came from him. McCree’s metal hand settles on Hanzo’s lower back, pulling him as close as possible, and he slides his other hand along the archer’s jaw.
Eventually they both have to pull back for breath, chests heaving in the scant space between them. The dragons, damn them, are ecstatic and determined to purr so violently that there’s no way Hanzo can hope to ignore them.
“Been wantin’ to do that for a long time,” McCree admits breathlessly, grinning like he just got away with something.
“Why…” Hanzo exhales a shaky breath, trying to catch his scattered thoughts and pose a coherent question. He twists his hands up into the hair at the back of McCree’s neck and pushes his fingers beneath that stupid hat until it falls from the cowboy’s head, unable to keep himself from touching now that he’s allowed. “Why did you not tell me how you felt sooner?” The words roll off Hanzo’s tongue and onto the gunslinger’s lips, and he expects between one wet, shuddering breath and the next that one of them is going to initiate another kiss. It feels inevitable.
McCree presses their foreheads together. “Because it’s burnin’ me alive from the inside and I didn’t think my heart would survive the rejection or that cold stare.” The man shivers noticeably. “God, you’re mean-looking.”
“That’s not a compliment,” Hanzo points out without any real malice, trying and failing to calm the thunderous beating of his heart.
“Mean-looking, but twice as beautiful as anyone I’ve ever laid eyes on,” McCree amends with a lopsided grin, rubbing his thumb over Hanzo’s cheek. “I’m still waitin’ for the other shoe to drop, by the way.”
“It won’t drop,” Hanzo assures him as he fists a handful of McCree’s hair and pulls the man down for another kiss, breath mingling warm and wet between their lips before they meet. The gunslinger surges forward to close the space between them, both hands sliding down Hanzo’s chest and to his waist.
Heat spreads across Hanzo’s cheeks as McCree palms his ass through his sweatpants, and before he even realizes what he’s doing, he tightens his grip and pulls on the man’s hair. They break apart almost immediately, McCree’s neck curved and his hair held in an iron-like grip, lips swollen and wet, eyes dark with his desire.
“Not here,” Hanzo says, his voice low and stern. A pang of desire shoots through him as he observes the shiver that runs through the man and watches the way the gunslinger’s pupils dilate. He believes he just discovered something very important about Jesse McCree, but this is definitely not the appropriate place to further explore it.
“Need more privacy, don’t we sugar?”
Hanzo wonders if McCree pushes his hips forward on purpose or not. Regardless, he can feel the definite bulge through the gunslinger’s jeans, rubbing against his lower belly, and he’s certain that he’s never wanted someone naked so badly in his entire life.
“Your room is closer,” Hanzo points out, releasing his iron grip on McCree’s hair. He’s surprised to see the flash of disappointment in his amber eyes, and soothes his hand over the spot he’d pulled in silent apology and promise.
“Don’t gotta tell me twice.” McCree grins, grabbing Hanzo’s hand and leading the way.
--
Genji may or may not be close to gagging loudly and alerting the two of them to his presence on the catwalk above, but he’s happy for them, really.
It wasn’t difficult to sneak into Hanzo’s room this morning and snag his communicator long enough to send a message. His brother had been out cold, dead to the world as alcohol generally makes him, and he knew that McCree wouldn’t say no to a direct request like that. The cowboy almost ruined it entirely by not showing up right away, but Hanzo apparently had a lot on his mind, because he was still in the shooting range when McCree arrived. Whether the meeting would lead to them admitting their feelings for each other, he wasn’t sure, but he was willing to interfere more if this went poorly.
But it didn’t, if the gasping breaths and breathless words and inseparable mouths are anything to judge by. Gross.
He averts his eyes as soon as the groping starts and silently leaves the shooting range, congratulating himself on helping his idiot best friend and self-sacrificing big brother realize that they don’t have to be alone. They can be self-sacrificing idiots together.
Mission accomplished.
--
There are long moments after the door to McCree’s room shuts that give Hanzo time to panic. It doesn’t help that his dragons are enthusiastically rumbling beneath his skin, that McCree’s warm, tobacco-and-mint scented breath is ghosting across his cheek and his lips and his nose, or that he’s more aroused than he can remember being in his entire life. It all feels perfect, like he’s drowning in too much this good thing he never thought he would have, and without warning his anxiety constricts like a hand around his heart.
Not good enough. Jesse doesn’t know what a huge mistake he’s making.
He’s not fully aware of the shallow breaths he’s taking until McCree shushes him and presses chaste kisses to his cheek, his brow, his chin, with such care and for so long that Hanzo feels his pulse begin to slow into something slightly less manic.
“I can pretty much hear you overthinkin’ this,” McCree says gently, cupping the archer’s face in his hands and smoothing his thumbs over the high points of his cheeks, his right palm and fingertips warm and callused, his left palm cold and smooth. “And it’s loud, darlin’.”
Hanzo takes a few quiet moments to gather himself, finding that there is no place he can immediately think of that he’d rather be than pressed warm between Jesse McCree and the door. “Are you certain that this-- that I am what you want?”
Jesse’s eyes widen, the surprise evident on his handsome face. “Isn’t that supposed to be my line?” he asks with a crooked smile. “I’m real bad news, you know. Killed a lot of people, did a lot of shady shit, pretty much the worst of the worst. You certain that I’m what you want?”
“I suppose that’s true, but I don’t believe you’ve ever beheaded anyone.” Hanzo puts his arms around McCree’s neck, twisting his fingers into hair that is much softer than expected. Despite their refrain and his ill-timed panic, he’s still painfully hard and doesn’t want to give the man room to pull away.
Jesse makes a low sound of agreement, deep in his chest. “No, I s’pose I haven’t. But I do have a bounty on my head for a cool sixty million.”
“Sixty million?” Hanzo asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Yeah, reckon whoever gets to collect would live fat and happy the rest of their life,” McCree says, his grin sharp and handsome. “You convinced we’re a match made for each other yet?”
Hanzo doesn’t know that they are, even now, but nothing has felt even a fraction as right as this in the past decade, and that’s enough. McCree’s constant charm and competence, his appreciative amber gaze, his warm, tanned skin, the bow of his mouth and the pleasant curve of it when he smiles -- it’s more than enough. More than Hanzo deserves.
“You’re thinkin’ again, sweetheart.” McCree sighs, breath ghosting over the archer’s lips. One hand cups the back of Hanzo’s neck as he closes the space between them. “Stop that right now.”
Unlike their first, this kiss begins slow, languid and unhurried, and somehow the air is still crushed from Hanzo’s chest by the intensity of it. McCree’s metal hand squeezes the archer’s hip and pushes beneath his t-shirt, the shock of the cold prosthetic making the muscles in Hanzo’s stomach clench. They don’t break apart until it becomes apparent that being connected at the mouth is stopping McCree from getting Hanzo out of his shirt, and the gunslinger grunts as he pulls back, pushing the offending garment up as Hanzo lifts his arm to assist in its removal.
The unabashed desire in Jesse McCree’s eyes as he drags his gaze slowly up and down Hanzo’s naked torso, like he’s trying to both memorize and devour every curve and plane, makes all of those anxious, unwanted thoughts seem quiet and far away.
“Are you going to spend all night just looking?” Hanzo asks, chest tight with anticipation.
“I have a whole laundry list of things I wanna do to you, darlin’.” McCree laughs, and Hanzo wonders if he could be any more turned on by the deep, intimate timbre of it. “Lookin’ is just one of many.”
“I want to look as well,” Hanzo huffs as he hooks his fingers underneath the hem of McCree’s flannel, frustrated when he realizes the real issue at hand. “Why did you have to wear something with buttons? ”
“Sorry, sweetheart. Didn’t have any idea this might be happening when I got dressed this morning.”
McCree sets his lips on Hanzo’s neck and mouths at it. The archer can feel his grin against his skin, can feel the rumble of his voice in his throat, and his legs shake as McCree lowers his mouth to Hanzo’s chest, beard scratching against him as the gunslinger takes one nipple between his teeth and tugs. McCree’s metal hand settles on Hanzo’s ass, and his other hand cups the other side of the archer’s chest, swapping between kneading it and rolling his thumb over the nipple that isn’t currently receiving attention from his sinful mouth.
Hanzo arches into him, his grips tightening on McCree’s hair when the man bites him and then soothes over his sore nipple with his tongue. The whole thing feels unfair, being the only one shirtless and open to torture, but the logistics of managing to unbutton McCree’s shirt when Hanzo is trembling and can barely stand seem pretty impossible. Almost as impossible as getting the tight, offending flannel over McCree’s head without unbuttoning it.
“McCree.”
The man makes a low hum, but doesn’t look up, apparently intent on switching to the other nipple now that one is swollen and aching.
“Jesse,” Hanzo whispers, pulling the gunslinger’s hair to get his attention.
McCree looks up, eyes wide and startled at Hanzo’s use of his first name. He looks even more startled when Hanzo hooks his fingers through the open slots between the buttons on his flannel and pulls, popping the buttons clean off of the shirt one by one. Once all seven buttons are scattered somewhere in the vicinity, Hanzo pushes his hands beneath the shirt and slides them along the warm skin there, helping McCree slip out of his now-buttonless flannel.
“Hey now, I liked that shirt.”
Hanzo fixes McCree with a look, one that he hopes conveys how little he cares for the flannel and how much he wants the man in front of him, and he tangles his fingers in McCree’s hair again, heat coiling in his belly when he sees how the man’s pupils dilate when Hanzo pulls hard on the strands.
“I’ll buy you another,” Hanzo promises. “Now lay me on that bed and fuck me.”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. As you wish,” McCree pants, grinning as he puts his hands under Hanzo’s thighs and lifts him up in one smooth motion. He carries Hanzo to bed, kissing him for the entirety of the brief trip, and lays him out on the sheets like an offering. Before Hanzo can even sink into the mattress, McCree is on him, pressing his warm mouth and sharp teeth and wet tongue against every inch of skin he can reach, making his heart skip several beats and causing sounds to escape him that he’ll deny making to his dying breath.
It turns out that McCree likes to take his time. Once they’re both undressed, he pushes Hanzo’s legs apart and rubs his thumb over his twitching hole, whispers reverently, “Jesus, you’re pretty here too.” He admires Hanzo like this for a while, until he’s about to open his mouth and demand that McCree do something, but he doesn’t get the chance. His entire body jumps like it’s been shocked as McCree wraps his arms around Hanzo’s thighs, pulls his lower half up, and buries his face between his ass cheeks, wet tongue pushing bluntly against his hole.
“Oh,” Hanzo moans, biting into the heel of his hand to stifle the startled sounds wanting to escape.
McCree opens him up with his tongue until Hanzo is a quivering mess, his abs sticky with the precome leaking from his cock and his hole more than wet and sloppy enough to take one finger inside with no resistance. For whatever reason, the gunslinger chooses then to bring things to a halt. “I don’t have rubbers,” McCree says with a soft, apologetic smile, and presses a kiss to the inside of Hanzo’s thigh. “Haven’t needed them for a while. I can still finish you off like this, though. Make it real good for you.”
Hanzo wonders briefly what circumstances would make McCree go without penetrative sex for years, then remembers the type of organization they work for and what his brother said about McCree being a hopeless romantic. He makes a sour face at thinking of Genji in the current situation, which seems to make the gunslinger apprehensive, and Hanzo holds up a hand to stop him from getting the wrong idea.
“I have not been with anyone in over two years and Angela made sure I did the full physical when I joined Overwatch,” Hanzo explains, watching the way Jesse’s eyes widen in understanding. “If you have not been with anyone…”
“Got my last physical done a year ago. Ain’t been with a soul since,” McCree says. He jerks his chin towards the bedside table. “Lube’s in that drawer. Think you can grab it for me?”
Hanzo tamps down his unnecessary jealousy at the thought of McCree having been with someone before that, wonders if it’s someone on the team, and dismisses the thought as quickly as it comes. He had no claim on McCree and had no desire at the time to interact with him, so there’s no legitimate reason to feel jealous when they’re here now. He reaches out and opens the drawer, fishing around in it and hoping he’ll find the bottle by touch alone. Surprisingly, he does -- where he expects a junk drawer and having to sift through innumerable random objects, he finds what he believes is the bottle right away and retrieves it.
“Cherry flavored?” Hanzo asks, reading the label before handing it to McCree.
McCree doesn’t answer, just winks and uncaps the bottle, squirting a healthy amount onto his fingers. The first two go easier than Hanzo expects, his body pliant in McCree’s expert hands. The third stretches him enough that he aches for it, but he’s enamored by the look of clear adoration on the cowboy’s face and he stays patient, clenches around McCree’s fingers as he fucks them into him and keens when those thick fingers curl and find his prostate.
“There’s that gorgeous voice,” McCree whispers, slowing the thrusting of his fingers and then pulling them out entirely. “You ready, sweetheart?”
Hanzo only nods, not trusting his voice to refrain from betraying him further. Normally he’d be more prepared to control the flow of an encounter like this one, but this is McCree and the man has reduced him to a trembling, needy thing, and he doesn’t trust himself to not do something entirely shameful like beg for it.
McCree lubes up his cock and lines himself up, his cockhead pressing blunt against Hanzo’s lube-slick hole, runs the palm of his metal hand up the trembling line of Hanzo’s body and pushes inside.
“So tight, Jesus,” McCree hisses, burying himself to the base with a few thrusts of his hips. Despite the careful preparation, the stretch is more intense than Hanzo expected, and he throws an arm over his eyes to hide the tears pricking at the corners, breathing heavily in the silence as he tries to adjust. McCree is hot and hard inside him, panting and trembling as he tries to hold still for Hanzo’s sake.
He startles when McCree leans forward and grabs Hanzo’s hand, the one laying at his side, and laces their fingers together as he starts to slowly thrust. “Would love to see your gorgeous face,” McCree breathes, squeezing the archer’s hand just shy of too hard. “But only if you want me to.”
Hanzo is grateful for McCree’s metal hand clutching his, because it grounds him as the gunslinger’s fucks him, allows him to squeeze as hard as he needs to when the sensation becomes too much. Every nerve in his body is alight, his skin hot and slick with sweat, and there’s a heat building in his lower belly with every thrust of McCree’s cock inside him. He does end up dropping the arm that covers his eyes, lashes wet as he blinks up at the man above him.
McCree looks like he’s no better off, breath coming ragged between his parted lips, but the look in his eyes, the intense fondness Hanzo finds there, is enough to make his heart skip in his chest. The man grins at him and leans down, bracing his other arm on the side of Hanzo’s head and kissing him as he starts to thrust in earnest.
“You feel so good, darlin’, so hot inside,” McCree whispers into his ear when they break apart, followed by a string of praise and filth as Hanzo wraps both arms around McCree and drags his nails down the man’s back. He can feel his orgasm building low in his gut, the impending release just out of reach, and he reaches between them to fist his cock in time with McCree’s thrusts, too strung out to care anymore about those needy sounds escaping him.
When he comes, his back arches and his voice breaks on a moan, stripes of come landing wet and sticky between them. “Beautiful,” McCree whispers, fucking him through his orgasm, through the tight clench of his hole and shuddering spasms that wrack his body. “Can I…” His voice trails off, but Hanzo understands and manages to nod, squeezing the metal hand in his, and with a few last abortive thrusts of his hips McCree follows, fisting a hand in Hanzo’s hair and burying his face in the archer’s neck as he comes.
They stay like that, sweaty and breathing hard together, until McCree softens and slips out. The man doesn’t collapse on him or roll over like Hanzo expects, but instead gives the archer one last lingering, appreciative look and gets out of bed. He walks naked to the bathroom and comes back with a wet washcloth, which he uses to clean off the mess on Hanzo’s stomach and his own. He even cleans between Hanzo’s ass cheeks, which feels unbearably tender and intimate. It makes him want to hide his face again, but he doesn’t.
“I think you’ve ruined me,” McCree says after he disposes of the washcloth and crawls back into bed. Once he’s settled, he presses a kiss to Hanzo’s forehead as he wraps an arm around him and pulls him close.
Hanzo forms himself against McCree’s side, finding he’s very comfortable with his head pillowed on the cowboy’s chest. He could definitely get used to falling asleep like this. They don’t seem to need any words to confirm that Hanzo plans on staying and McCree wants him to -- McCree just makes a questioning noise as he pulls up the blankets and Hanzo hums in response.
As he dozes off, he thinks he doesn’t know what he did to deserve this, probably nothing if he’s honest, but he hopes to selfishly hold onto this moment and any that follow for as long as possible.
--
When Hanzo wakes from his dreamless sleep, the first thing he sees is McCree sitting up in bed next to him with a datapad propped against his knee. It looks like he’s been up for a while, or long enough to shower at least, judging from the slightly-tamed but wet state of his hair and the lingering damp from steam filling the room. His eyes catch the time on the datapad, 4:37 am, and he reaches out for the man and touches his hip gently to get his attention.
“You couldn’t sleep?” Hanzo asks, voice hoarse with early-morning disuse. Their activities the night before probably didn’t help either, but he won’t even begin to regret it. “You’re never up so early, as far as I know, unless you can’t sleep.”
McCree looks at Hanzo and shrugs one bare shoulder. “I slept better than I have in a long time, actually. What about you?”
Hanzo blinks up at the gunslinger, taking his time in shamelessly enjoying the sight of a half-clothed Jesse McCree. Then he smiles and stretches his entire body, languid and slow, pleased to see that he has the man’s full attention as well. “The same. I don’t remember the last time I had a restful night of sleep.”
“Well it really suits you.”
“Flatterer.”
McCree chuckles, but it’s not entirely genuine and Hanzo notices right away. He rubs his thumb over the gunslinger’s hip in firm, comforting circles, waiting for whatever immediate worry has darkened McCree’s thoughts to make itself known so he can assuage it.
He doesn’t have to wait long. “So, I guess, uh, well… you can use the shower, if you want. Should be plenty of hot water.” A heavy swallow and a pause. “I could make us breakfast, but I’m real bad at makin’ tea. Genji used to give me shit for oversteepin’ it. Or we could do whatever you want, really, stay in bed for a while, do more trainin’, go for a run like you do sometimes--”
“Are you really offering to go running with me?” Hanzo asks, gradually starting to understand what McCree is worried about. How does this ridiculous, wonderful man even exist? “I run at least three miles, sometimes more.”
“Not sayin’ it’s my favorite thing to do, but I’d do it if it’s with you. Though I like watching you run more than I actually like runnin’.” McCree suddenly looks sheepish, like he thinks he’s said too much, and he looks away towards the opposite side of the room. Hanzo is having none of that. He pinches the delicate skin on the gunslinger’s hip to redirect his attention. When he has it, he measures his words carefully.
“I want to spend time with you, too.”
“Yeah?” Jesse asks. “Even when there’s no sex involved?”
“Yes.”
“Well, damn.” Jesse smiles at him, surprisingly shy and maybe a little hopeful.
After Hanzo showers and brushes his teeth with a borrowed toothbrush, he rejoins McCree in bed and kisses him soundly on the mouth. They end up curling against each other again, deciding to enjoy a lazy morning in bed for just a little longer.
“Why were you so kind to me when I first came to the Watchpoint?” Hanzo asks after some time. It’s a question he’s always been curious about the answer to, but he’d never had quite the right moment to ask McCree before now.
McCree sighs, voice low and soft. “God, I don’t know, sugar. Back in the day, Reyes saw somethin’ in me worth redeemin’ and I don’t think I’d be alive today without him. And I wanted to do the same for you. Wanted to give you a chance, even if it was hard at first.”
“You said that Reyes was like a father to you.”
“Well, yeah,” McCree agrees easily, grinning against the back of Hanzo’s neck, “but I ain’t tryin’ to be your daddy, unless that’s what you’re into.”
Hanzo’s cheeks burn and he hides his face in the pillow. “We will have plenty of time to discuss sexual fantasies later.”
“Is that a promise?”
Hanzo understands what McCree is getting at immediately, hears the tentative hope in the deep timbre of his voice, and his chest feels tight with the weight of his answer. “Yes, Jesse. Plenty of time.”