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Winston was undoubtedly reaping all he could from Hanzo’s immeasurable debt to the metal-plated cyborg housing his brother’s consciousness. Ever since Hanzo had arrived at the decrepit mimicry of a watchpoint, Gibraltar, the Gorilla - well, Scientist, as he insisted to be referred to - had forced him into a variety of dull, menial tasks, most of which revolved around repairing the rundown base. He claimed, with a proud puff of his chest, that the tasks, or “training exercises,” were designed to increase morale and team cooperation, but Hanzo was unsure if that was necessary for the recalled Overwatch team. Hanzo was almost certain that Winston was just trying to keep them busy until he had real missions to give them.

With the exception of himself, the reconvened agents got along remarkably well, on and off the field, considering the length of time spent apart during which the Petras Act banned Overwatch activity. Most of them effortlessly slid back into their positions with a healthy dose of caution but overall good spirits. They had all proven to be… good people, foolish and bafflingly carefree, but good. It was no surprise to him how well Genji fit in with them. Hanzo felt like a drop of oil in a basin of clean water.

Perhaps most atrocious of all of the Overwatch members turned out to be Genji’s former best friend - again, no real surprise there - a gunslinging cowboy who appeared to be completely unaware of mirrors who had, upon meeting Hanzo, dosed him with so much charisma Hanzo was surprised he had not fallen into a diabetic coma. The archer had managed to pull the thin cord still, miraculously, resting within him that brought forth his manners and introduced himself, only to watch McCree blink slowly, frown menacingly, and punch him so hard in the nose, Hanzo was almost certain the cartilage would never return to how it had been.

After that display, Winston had demanded they work things out - “can’t have agents at each other’s throats in the field, now can we?” - and paired them on every single assignment thereforward.

It had been much to Hanzo’s surprise, and chagrin, when McCree had taken him aside on their first mission together with nothing but the intent to apologize, offering him a sheepish, lopsided smile and a smoke. Of course, “mission” was a strong word - Winston had sent them into the small seaside town a ways down the mountain from Gibraltar to get groceries for the team. Hanzo, after a moment of stunned silence, had shrugged off the apology and denied the cigar, expecting his rudeness to drive the obnoxious Westerner away, but it had only served to increase McCree’s interest in him. He had whined something about Genji getting upset with him for “assaulting” Hanzo - Hanzo snorted at the implication that he was a soft, defenseless creature - and had not stopped chattering all the way back to the base, strong arms stacked tall with boxes of groceries.

Upon their arrival, Hanzo had delicately deposited his bags at the vaulted entrance to the base and scurried up a wall to escape, smirking lightly to himself at the astonished chortle and series of deep chuckles that followed him all the way up to the roof.

McCree, admittedly, was not the worst, as far as companions go. Hanzo did not have much - if any - experience with friendship, or kind relationships of any kind,


so sometimes their conversations would end up stilted on his side, when he could not come up with something to say or unintentionally offended the cowboy somehow - when this happened, McCree would glance away from him, the back of his neck flushing red with anger - but McCree always ended up turning the situation around with a carefree, jovial joke or exaggerated story of some kind.

Somewhere along the way, Hanzo found himself spending time with McCree outside of missions. If he was being particularly transparent with himself, he might admit that he sought out the man’s company. They would train together often, evenly matched in the field and constantly handing off the persistent tie of who could down the most bots in the selected timeframe, eat together - McCree often hounded him about trying new things, the most recent absurdity that Hanzo had given into was dipping french fries into a strawberry milkshake, which, he… did not hate, not that McCree could ever know that - watch old movies that McCree insisted he needed to see, if only to educate him on his ridiculous choice of clothing, and repair the base - although that was not based on choice.

McCree, about three weeks into Hanzo’s stay at the watchpoint, found his perch. The cowboy claimed that he had found his “hiding spot” and refused to call it anything else, even at the insistence of an arrow at his throat, and joined him there whenever Hanzo would allow it. Genji, while meditating with Zenyatta on the rooftop during sunrise one morning, had caught McCree and Hanzo sitting shoulder to shoulder, wrapped in the taller man’s signature red and gold serape after a long, cold night of drinking and bad jokes, and had not let Hanzo live it down for… well… he still had not lived it down.

McCree, while outwardly chatty and charismatic to the point of coming off as a bumbling, clumsy idiot, was ruthlessly skilled both in the field and with his ability to read people, which was proving to be a real problem for Hanzo. The archer spent most of his days actively avoiding everyone else at the base, even if it meant abstaining from food or dodging behind corners like a child hiding from an instructor. First and foremost on the “to avoid” list was Genji, and McCree had picked up on that far too quickly for Hanzo’s taste. The man had a surprising level of tact and patience, and had kept his quiet about it for days, until, it seemed, he could corner Hanzo whilst they were alone to interrogate him.

“So, Hanzo,” McCree huffed, heaving a pile of heft fence posts over one shoulder, “I’ve been meaning to ask you something for awhile now.”

Hanzo narrowed his eyes at the taller man. His hat was missing, chestnut hair tousled by salty wind gently whipping across the tanned skin of his face. Judging by his tone, even but inquisitive, Hanzo could tell he was about to begin prodding him for something, albeit the easygoing smile on his lips suggesting otherwise. Hanzo plucked one of the posts from his hold and dutifully lined the bottom of it up with the chalk markings they had previously made on the dusty cliff face with a low grunt of acknowledgement.

McCree tilted his head and shifted his weight onto his other hip, scuffing one of his boots against the ground - kicking up a flurry of dust - and wiping a bead of sweat from his jaw. “From what I can tell, you came here to make amends with Genji, but avoid him every chance you get. Mind if I ask why?”

Hanzo glanced at him sideways. McCree was always relaxed when they were off the field, his posture lax and gentle. The archer plunged the post in his hands into the baked orange dirt. “I am here because he asked me to be.”

McCree hummed patiently, handing him the next plank of wood with his flesh hand, calloused fingers brushing down the inside of Hanzo’s wrist. Hanzo blinked and snatched his hand away, turning back to their task in hopes of denying the flicker of warmth in his chest. It was hot out, and he was doing physical labor, that was all. His eyebrow twitched restlessly. In direct opposition to McCree’s laid back demeanor, Hanzo was wound tight and constantly on edge, agitated about everything that transpired around him. He knew McCree was waiting on him to say something else.

He drove the next post into the ground, nearly tipping himself over from the force he put behind it. It sunk too low into the earth, and he had to pull it back up, shove some loose dirt in the deep rut with his sandal, and gently settle the post back in for it to line up at the same height as the others.

It is a pointless perimeter fence, stop obsessing.

“I do not know exactly what he wishes of me. I am a highly trained fighter, and Overwatch is low on agents; I assume that is why he asked me to come. I do not pretend to think I have a chance to redeem myself for my actions against him,” Hanzo supplied, tone clipped and sharp as tension straightened his shoulders.

Hanzo hurriedly reached for the last post McCree was holding, only to find the space where it had been empty. McCree had sidestepped him and was now leaning against the one Hanzo had just planted, tipping it slightly to the side. Hanzo frowned sternly and opened his mouth-

“C’mon now, you can’t honestly believe Genji only asked you here to fight for Overwatch,” McCree drawled, tilting his head a little as if Hanzo was a particularly challenging puzzle he was trying to piece together. The sun shone brightly on the golden skin curving up his neck. Hanzo could see a strong heartbeat thrumming through his veins. “You aren’t a weapon Hanzo.”

Hanzo found it interesting how McCree’s accent could drop with no warning. It often happened when he was being serious, and it had a habit of throwing Hanzo off guard. McCree scrutinized his reaction, eyes darkening as they met Hanzo’s.

“I am quite sure you do not need the reminder of a blade to your jugular to be assured that I am, indeed, a weapon,” Hanzo countered, voice steeled but smooth, forced to keep from betraying the fuzzy edges of panic seeping into his skin.

McCree just laughed, deep from his wide chest, and the post he was leaning on skewed further out of place. Hanzo’s fingers curled and he itched to right it, but he forced himself to keep still. He did not need to give McCree more things to ask questions about. The cowboy ran his empty hand through his hair, tugging a little at the ends of it, and leveled his gaze at Hanzo. “Oh, I have no doubt you could gut me where I stand if you truly wanted to.” His hand dropped, his tone loosing its joking edge, “but there’s much more to you than that, and I’m sure Genji knows that too.”

Hanzo huffed in disbelief. More than a weapon? The cowboy was a foolish man, indeed.

“This is what you were born to do, Hanzo.”

The blood itched, drying in patches on round cheeks and clumping, clotting in his eyelashes. He’d be washing it from under his nails for weeks. His heart thundered.

“Make sure you do it right.”

Hanzo grit his back teeth and snatched the last post from McCree’s shoulder, dragging it out of his loose grip. The movement elicited a sharp “yeow!” from the taller man, who grimaced and brought his thumb up to his lips, sucking on the digit. Hanzo stood, dumbly, watching the part of McCree’s mouth for a moment longer than he meant to, and McCree pulled his thumb away to inspect it.

“Well that’s a nasty splinter alright,” he groused with a crooked grin, “looks like I gotta go roundup some tweezers.”

He stuck his thumb out at Hanzo and pouted dramatically, even going as far as to jut one hip out to the side. Hanzo sighed. “I have watched you take a bullet to the leg and stubbornly limp all the way back to the helicarrier. Now you are telling me you have been bested by a tiny shard of wood?”

McCree slapped his other palm to his chest and gasped in exaggerated horror, “such cruelty!” he bellowed, and took another deep breath, a wicked glint in tawny irises-

“Alright!” Hanzo snapped, effectively cutting off his theatrics, “let me see it.”

McCree fixed him with a beaming grin as Hanzo set the post down on the ground and gingerly took hold of the man’s hand, purposefully not thinking about how large it was in comparison to his own. A crooked, raised scar curved from the edge of his palm around to his first knuckle. Hanzo wondered how it got there, but decided not to ask. They were all rife with scar tissue, and he knew from personal experience that some things were best left unsaid. He carefully needled the splinter out of the top layer of McCree’s browned skin, flicking it onto the ground when he’d fully pulled it free. His mouth twisted as he watched a drop of blood bead at the puncture point. He felt a little guilty.

“Thank ya kindly, darlin’.”

“I am not your darling,” Hanzo grumbled, the repeated protest having grown weak over time, and picked up the discarded post to continue their task.

McCree stayed uncharacteristically silent as they went through the motions. Hanzo wondered if he’d done something to upset him.

Once the fence posts were all in place, and Hanzo had made sure they were all standing properly upright, they both donned thick worker’s gloves and hefted a tangled pile of barbed wire over to the cliff side. Hanzo made quick work of attaching the end of the barbed wire to the first fence post as McCree worked at untangling the nasty mesh of cable. The heavy silence persisted between them, the jovial nature of McCree’s minor injury not quite making up for the gravity of what they had been discussing previously. Hanzo didn’t mind the quiet. He had nothing more to say for himself, and every time his thoughts wandered to his brother, he found himself subconsciously drifting towards the nearest drop. In this case, it was a hundred meter fall down to a rolling ocean rife with jagged boulders.

McCree shook him from his downward spiral with a sharp clap of his hands. Flesh striking metal made for an odd reverberating sound that Hanzo couldn’t help but be aware of. McCree whistled at their handiwork, and stretched his arms over his head with an enormous yawn. “Well, I reckon that’s about as good as it’s gonna get. Should we head inside and see what’s in the kitchen? I’m mighty hungry.” His flannel rode up far enough for a sliver of toned skin to show, and Hanzo was all too aware of it.

Hanzo considered the proposition, eyes flitting to judge the location of the sun, which was hovering just above the horizon. The busiest time of the day for the kitchen and communal area. “I will pass,” he murmured, lowering himself into Seiza on the pebbled ground.

McCree watched him curiously before nodding slowly and striding away, leaving Hanzo to study their mediocre fence-building technique. The cowboy returned about ten minutes later with a sandwich in each hand, and Hanzo found himself simultaneously frustrated at McCree’s utter lack of ability to leave anything well enough alone and relieved for the delicious-smelling food he’d brought for him. McCree waved it in front of his face teasingly before laughing lightly at Hanzo’s exasperation and plopping the sandwich in his lap. He begrudgingly began to unwrap it as McCree sat down beside him, gracelessly, as one would expect.

“Thought so,” McCree mused as he watched Hanzo take a borderline-feverish bit out of the meal.

Hanzo swallowed prematurely, grimacing as the food wrenched down his throat wrong, and glowered at McCree. “Knew what.”

The taller man took a moment to consider him, tawny brown eyes lit a soft golden hue by setting sun. “You were hungry, but you avoided the kitchen because it’s dinner time and you knew there would be a lot of people in there.”

Hanzo’s frown intensified.

“Y’know,” McCree started, an unusual lilt to his tone, and pointed at the bridge of Hanzo’s nose, “whenever you scrunch your face up when you’re mad about me being right about something, your nose wrinkles up all cute-like.”

Hanzo startled lightly, dropping his expression and staring wide-eyed at the man sitting beside him. McCree studied his reaction, and took another bite from his sandwich, watching him sideways.

Cute? Did he just call me, a former Yakuza head and mercenary who committed fratricide on someone he considers his best friend, cute?!

Hanzo sputtered unintelligibly, and he felt a soft blush creeping up his neck and into the apples of his cheeks.

“Dang, one complement and you’re lighting up like a Christmas tree,” McCree teased lightheartedly, dropping his accusing finger and grinning, white teeth glistening.


“You are making fun of me.” Hanzo realized out loud, the flush in his face immediately cooling into bitter anger, embarrassment flooding his chest.

“Aww, look… he’s blushing. I told you he was a-”

McCree’s smile dropped completely and he leaned forward gently, placing a warm palm on Hanzo’s folded knee. “Hey now,” he murmured softly, unthreatening, “didn’t mean anything bad by it.”

Hanzo scoffed, the pain in his chest tightening, and he pulled away, sloppily wrapping the sandwich back up in its tin foil casing. He wasn’t hungry anymore, his stomach lurching uncomfortably. He moved to stand.

“Hanzo, wait.” McCree moved closer, leaning his weight on Hanzo’s leg, and palmed the archer’s cheek with his mechanical hand. It was smoother than Hanzo would have thought, cold and comforting against his heated skin.

Hanzo froze mid-movement, blinking into McCree’s steady gaze, heart thrumming impatiently against his ribcage. “What is it,” he breathed quietly, watching the wind pull at McCree’s silky brown hair, trying not to think about the touch on his leg.

McCree came closer, nudging his sunkissed, freckled nose against Hanzo’s, and his breath ghosted over Hanzo’s lips. Before he could formulate a thought, McCree’s mouth was pressed against his own, soft and warm, but fleeting. Hanzo jolted in surprise, barely registering the gentle, hesitant kiss before it was over. McCree quickly pulled away, an unmistakable flash of disappointment flickering in his eyes that made Hanzo’s chest ache. He could not help himself but to want to fix it.

McCree made a movement to tip his hat over his eyes, but it wasn’t there, so the movement was aborted halfway. Instead, his hand came to cover his mouth, like he was ashamed, and he spoke softly, muffled, “Sorry about that. Just…”

Hanzo shyly settled his palm on McCree’s chest, the soft, worn fabric of his flannel under his touch, and looked up through his lashes, catching McCree’s gaze. His heart was beating feverishly, and Hanzo wondered for a moment if he was experiencing cardiac arrest, his thumb brushing below one of the black buttons on McCree’s shirt. His breath hitched and shuddered, anxiety thrumming through his body; the hand not touching McCree was wrought with tremors. His mind was blissfully blank, and he knew that was dangerous, but he could not bring himself to care.

He shifted closer to McCree’s face, observing the curving laugh lines etched into his skin along with small scars and sunspots, hovering just a breath above his mouth. McCree, in turn, inched forward, gently placing his lips against Hanzo’s, and the archer sucked in a breath, utterly still. He took the opportunity to feel them this time, realizing belatedly that he should be moving, reacting. He awkwardly pressed back, McCree’s hands coming up to cup his jaw posessively. Hanzo fumbled with the act, not quite sure how to move his mouth, and clasped his hands to McCree’s forearms just to have something to steady himself as their lips moved together. One palm connected with smooth, scarred skin, and the other with cool metal plating.

McCree pressed forward lightly, shifting his weight until he was hovering over Hanzo, their kiss still unbroken, and Hanzo allowed himself to be pressed to the earth. His skin sparked and tingled wherever McCree touched, large palms sliding down the curve of his neck, tracing his collarbone, palming his chest and caressing his waist. McCree’s chest pressed between Hanzo’s spread legs as he leaned over him, mouthing at Hanzo’s lips sweetly. He tasted like spiced cigars, smelled like dust and sandalwood.

Hanzo did his best to keep up, grasping at McCree’s broad back and pulling his boot-clad ankles over the backs of McCree’s thighs, but it was painfully obvious, at least to him, how little skill he had at kissing. McCree did not seem to mind, fortunately, capturing Hanzo’s lips over and over until his tongue was slipping into Hanzo’s mouth and he was gently running his hands up the back of Hanzo’s thighs, making Hanzo arch up into his chest in response.

Do not sicken yourself with such thoughts, Hanzo.

Hanzo could not stop the flinch, freezing up under McCree’s hands. He opened his eyes, staring up at McCree as his tongue darted over his lips and he reeled backwards, pulling his hands away as if Hanzo had burned him with his flesh. He was still leaning over him, flushed, lips plump and pressed together, jaw tight. Hanzo’s chest heaved as he sucked in thin breath after thin breath, willing the constriction around his throat to dissipate. McCree was saying something, hands flittering nervously above Hanzo like Hanzo was a fire he did not know how to maintain.

“Get off,” Hanzo wheezed, pushing a palm against McCree’s chest. He could feel the rapid, strong heartbeat for a moment before McCree leaned out of his reach. It still wasn’t enough space.

McCree sat back, leaving Hanzo’s line of sight. Hanzo was fairly certain McCree was apologizing, but all he could hear was the blood rushing through his head, the faint, hazy voice of his father reminding him of his duty. He stared blankly at the darkening sky, concentrating on counting the stars blinking between thin, wispy clouds. McCree quieted after a few moments, the buzz of his drawl fading, and eventually Hanzo’s breath evened out, and he pushed himself up. McCree looked like he was on the brink of tears, eyes darting everywhere but Hanzo.

His chest ached.

McCree bit his lip as Hanzo fixed his mussed clothing, the cowboy’s hands clenched atop folded knees. “I’m sorry, Hanzo, I…” he swallowed audibly, cringing. “I thought you wanted…”

“No need,” Hanzo replied, “It was merely a moment of weakness on my part.” He brushed a small clump of russet dirt off of his knee.

McCree cocked his head curiously at that, expression shifting slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked quietly, eyes finally meeting Hanzo’s, albeit tentatively.

Hanzo cleared his throat, slightly annoyed that he was being forced to explain something so simple. “We are both men,” he stated firmly.

McCree blinked, stunned. Opened his mouth. Closed it with a click . Opened it again. “What’s that have to do with anything?”

There was an edge to his voice, his accent mostly dropped, that Hanzo associated with the way McCree talked about Talon, about what had happened to his former Commander. He did not understand. Hanzo swallowed uncomfortably; McCree was angry with him.

“I…” he trailed off, unsure of himself and what he wanted to say. Perhaps Americans - perhaps even those in Japan not raised in Yakuza families - did not have such strict rules on relations with others.

“Are you telling me you’re homophobic?” McCree asked, his tone brittle and annoyed, “I’ve never seen you react poorly to the same-sex couples on base, at least, no differently than you react to…” he cut himself off with a shake of his head. He looked sad, disappointed, even. “It sure seemed like you were enjoying kissing me, at least for a moment there.”

Hanzo fidgeted, his eyebrows drawing together. “I do not know what ‘homophobic’ means,” he did not like the taste of the word in his mouth, “and I…” he swallowed, looked away, “... it does not matter.”

McCree softened slightly at his response, tilting his head curiously as he did when he was observing something he thought he needed to address. Hanzo was wary of that look. “What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”

Hanzo shrugged - like a petulant child, he scolded himself - and turned his face away.

You know your duty, son. The Shimada line will not end with you.

McCree whistled out a breath, his posture relaxing slightly, and he looked over to the glittering ocean for a moment before settling his gaze on Hanzo again. “C’mon Hanzo, I know I can’t be the only one who feels something here,” he murmured softly. He leaned back into Hanzo’s personal space, bringing his flesh hand up to Hanzo’s chest and gently pressing it over his heart. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong,” he whispered, expression open and vulnerable, eyes searching Hanzo’s face.

Hanzo’s skin pulsed in response to McCree’s touch. His chest grew so warm, it was almost suffocating. A cold breeze swept up his back. “It does not matter,” he grit out, clenching his jaw. He was not permitted this kind of touch, this kind of bond.

“Don’t lie,” McCree sighed, breath ghosting over Hanzo’s cheek. His thumb slowly rubbed against Hanzo’s sternum.

“Stop this,” Hanzo snapped, pushing McCree’s hand off of his chest.

McCree frowned lightly, but didn’t pull back. His hand landed on Hanzo’s lap, which was equally, if not more, confusing. “Why? Hanzo, talk to me, explain yourself. No one will ever understand you if you don’t talk to them.”

“I am not meant to be understood,” Hanzo replied, shoulders tensing as he leaned back slightly.

McCree’s eyes darted over his face. The shadows were darkening now, the sunlight nearly gone, just peeking over the horizon. He gingerly pressed his forehead to Hanzo’s. “I’d like to try,” he said gently, his voice smoothing over Hanzo’s nerves, “won’t you let me?”

Hanzo shifted in place, thumbs circling each other anxiously on his lap. McCree’s hand moved to his forearm, a gentle, grounding touch. Hanzo sighed, letting out all of his air in a rush of breath, lingering nervousness twisting through him. He stared down at the ground between their brushing knees. “I was made to kill and to breed, not to love.”

McCree inhaled sharply, his other hand threading through one of Hanzo’s. “Breed,” he repeated quietly, like a question, short of breath like he was choking on the word, his grip tightening.

Hanzo shrugged away the feeling of wrong that surfaced from the way he said it. “Only the Shimada can control the dragons. My father, as well as the Elders, were very adamant that the Shimada line not end with me.”

McCree’s breath shuddered minutely. Hanzo did not look at him. “Did they know you were attracted to men?”

Hanzo nodded slowly, jostling McCree slightly. He had almost forgotten the touch. “I did not tell them. They tested me for it when I protested the betrothal.”

McCree cursed under his breath, palming Hanzo’s cheek and pulling away so they could look at each other. There was a deep, roiling pain in his eyes that Hanzo did not understand, did not like seeing there. “Listen to me, Hanzo. You don’t have to be with me, I’d never force that on you regardless of my own feelings, but you have to understand that whatever bullshit they told you is wrong. You are allowed to love whoever you want.”

Love is weakness, Hanzo.

“Those people… they were the ones who forced me to strike down Genji. He is the only person I have ever loved; they must have known that. I do not know why I still think they way they told me to think.” Hanzo slowly shook his head, leftover, jagged cracks fueled by duty and betrayal open and waiting to be mended with gold.

McCree pulled Hanzo into his chest, wrapping strong arms around his frame and cradling him close, pressing his cheek to Hanzo’s hair. “You’re free from them now,” he murmured, “do what makes you happy.”

Hanzo gently pressed his face into McCree’s neck, hiding the tears slipping down his cheeks. It was a relief, hearing that, knowing that someone wanted him to live, to be happy, after all the pain he had caused. He did not deserve it, he knew that, but for one moment, he let go of the grief he repeatedly found himself drowning in. McCree slowly stroked a hand down his back, his touch comforting and kind, quietly humming a soothing tune Hanzo didn’t recognize. McCree accepted him for who he was. He did not ask him to change.

Hanzo’s hands curled in McCree’s worn flannel as he shook with silent sobs, afraid - terrified - of choosing to be his own man, of straying from the path so neatly lined out before him. McCree’s chest rumbled against his as he hummed, warmth radiating gently from his skin. Hanzo had never felt more safe than in McCree’s arms. He thought back to the days spent together with the cowboy, easy-going and light; he thought of the way his lips had felt, soft and gentle and warm, his careful touch, and he realized that McCree was something he never could have imagined having. Someone Hanzo could love.

Hanzo blushed fiercely at the thought, quietly sniffling, and mumbled his admission into McCree’s shoulder, “you make me happy, Jesse.” He paused, hiccuped in shock at his slip-up, and blushed harder, awkwardly stuttering out, “m-may I call you Jesse?”

The man threw his head back and laughed joyously, gently coaxing Hanzo away from his chest and thumbing over his cheek with his flesh hand. “I’d love that, darlin’.”

Hanzo was fairly certain his face was going to be set alight. He nodded, blinked up at Jesse, and darted up to plant a kiss on his lips before driving his face back into his shoulder. Jesse just laughed harder, chuckling heartily, and gave Hanzo a light squeeze. They settled into relative silence after a few minutes, McCree softly humming songs Hanzo didn’t know, and McCree reached behind him for his serape, which Hanzo hadn’t noticed was around.

Jesse wrapped the worn, sun-bleached material around their shoulders and they sat, curled around each other atop the cliff, for far too long. They watched the ocean undulate, crashing head first against the rocks before receding into darkness. Hanzo wished he knew constellations on this side of the world so he could point them out to Jesse, but even if he had, he was unsure if he wanted to interrupt the sweet humming, the gentle breaths against his neck. Hanzo would not have it any other way, his head leaned back against Jesse’s chest, safe and warm in his arms.