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Difficult Men

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Three spent cigarettes litter the pine needles beside Jesse McCree’s boots. He’s squinting hard at the ancient conifers of mountainous China and they’re staring right back. A silent draw at sunset, only - the trees don’t seem overly hostile. Entrancing, maybe, if Jesse was the type to use that kind of word. He’s been lost in thought for awhile now and there’s only those trees to blame. How deep do they go? How long has it been since they’ve seen a human face? Something that big and that old has got to have a soul of its own, like the desert that birthed him. There’s got to be a couple thousand spirits bouncing around behind every swaying bough at the very least.

It makes him queasy in a way he’d never admit. Like when he’d go on those long rides with the gang, always looking over his shoulder every quarter mile just to make sure nothing stepped out from behind the cactus and followed. Always keeping his bag in the empty passenger seat so no one decided to ride shotgun without permission.

Moments like this call for a drink. Jesse looks back at camp, the team gathered round all victorious and jovial. They’ve earned it; a re-formed Overwatch took its first big step, stopped a major criminal operation and got away just fine. Lena touched the ship down in the only clearing for a hundred miles – probably the bite of a forest fire, says the climatologist – and everyone set up together with satisfied spirits. Wasn’t twenty minutes before Reinhardt dug out a hidden “emergency” supply of pilsner from the cargo bay. 

Jesse mouths his cigarette and narrows his eyes at the little spots of brightness all around the bonfire. Lena’s constant smile. Angela’s glittering eyes. Winston’s awkward chuckle. Being around the old guard again feels like peering through your family’s living room window a few summers after running away from home – or, in this case, the nice suburban family who adopted you against their better judgment. The part of him that wants to drown in whiskey conflicts with the part of him that wants to fall back into the fold. To slap Torbjörn on the back and bicker with Reinhardt again. To tease Angela and goof off with Genji.

He isn’t sure which part needs leaving behind and for whose own good. But it’s still new. Too early to be looking for an exit. 

And things are different now. So different that Jesse hardly recognizes some of them. Genji most of all – green and fresh and sober as the omnic monk he shadows. Not only has he forgiven the family that had him killed, but he’s brought along the brother who dropped the sword. Jesse can see Hanzo now, arms folded over his old-fashioned clothing, speaking with Torbjörn over holographic schematics. Torbjörn, the only one who didn’t bat an eye at a fratricidal yakuza lord joining the new team. The old engineer always was one to care about the function of a thing over its pedigree, and Hanzo has certainly proved himself functional – with his eye for strategy and talent for stealth, they managed to strike a decisive blow against an aggressive terrorist cell today. Even Reinhardt, who’d made a joke about dragon-slaying when Hanzo joined up, shook the eldest Shimada’s hand after Tracer called Mission Accomplished. It looked like it hurt, but Jesse didn’t see Hanzo so much as blink.

The guy seems alright. And Genji seems much better off – new skin, new mentor, whole new outlook. Seems like the kind of situation where no one’s truly innocent and all the really guilty parties are fighting hard to make amends.

Doesn’t hurt that Hanzo’s hot enough to make Jesse want to fan himself with his hat every time the man enters a room. So elegant, so poised – so secretly wild. Jesse’s gotten good at picking out that type from a crowd. Disciplined boys and girls, trying hard for pride or honor or whatever else there is. All with a crazy streak as wide as Jesse’s own. He’s caught Hanzo’s eye a few times and held it for longer than he’d ever do so with someone he wasn’t interested in, and the archer never broke too soon. Just looked back with those wild brows, that steady, dark, naturally sultry gaze. The little curl of his lip, disdain and lust all mixed up in one.

Jesse licks his dry lips. Maybe his dick didn’t always lead him down good paths, but his head’s track record isn’t all that much better, so he’s ready to call it either way at this point.

But he’s not ready to make buddy-buddy with the whole team yet, so he takes himself to the cooler, grabs a beer, and leans back on a broad old cedar some ten yards away; close enough that he can’t be accused of being standoffish but not so close that someone wouldn’t have to raise their voice to talk to him. Slung into shadow. He knows it isn’t right, knows he’s being difficult, but he’d rather stick to what he knows rather than get their hopes up with false joviality. He doesn’t know how long he’d be able to keep up a conversation with any one of them before it turned down a road neither wants to go down. Better to keep a distance and, if anyone asks, say he’s keeping watch. Keep up the pretense of the vigilant, stoic gunslinger.

It’s not a total farce – who knows what could be holed up in the deep green mountain? Secluded feathery conifers, damp, untouched paths carved by animals too secretive to name. Sheltered green light by day, a foreboding mystery by night.

Jesse decides he likes it. Little spooky, little dangerous. Whenever one of his team members passes by the fire at a certain angle, he can see their mile-long shadow appear on the treeline beyond, more similar to the ghosts he’s been carrying around since way back when. Like that story he once read in the Bible about Moses asking to see God, God replying that he could only show him his back. He’s a little too grown up for picture-book religion but the imagery’s enough to get his mind drifting away from the too-vivid reality. The beer helps, too.



It’s not one second after he realizes that his bottle’s empty than a fresh one taps at his shoulder. Cold right through the serape.

Hanzo is looming, offering him a beer. Looking down at him in the dark with that face. Those eyes.

“Thanks,” Jesse grunts, flicking the cap off with his metal thumb. He swallows down a deep swig before he even notices that Hanzo has sat down beside him.

It’s a little startling, if he’s being honest. More startling still are the five additional bottles that Hanzo has brought with him, four of which he sets down against a raised root.

Jesse grins with an unexpected burst of amusement. “Plan on drinking that all yourself?”

Hanzo scoffs, also clearly amused, and opens his own. “That will depend on the conversation.”

And Jesse has to laugh, knowing Hanzo’s dead serious. Nothing Hanzo Shimada does smacks of pretense, even though, on the surface, he seems just about as pretentious as can be. But he doesn’t alter himself to appear a certain way; he just is that way, which – depending on who you ask – is just ‘better’ than everyone else around him. The man can’t cook an egg or handle laundry or hold a conversation without scaring someone within five minutes, but he’s certainly skilled as all hell and from a far greater life of privilege than any of them have ever known. Jesse might hate him a little bit if Hanzo hadn’t already proven that he’s not the type of rich bitch that considers himself above hard work. If anything, he puts in an effort that borders on the self-punishing. He’s thrown his back into every job Overwatch has asked of him thus far, and when he’s not working, he’s training himself and others in his insanely specific techniques, knowledge that probably hasn’t changed non-Shimada hands in many centuries. He’s lorded that skill over all their heads once or twice, but only ever to suit his own needs, which – for the moment at least – are aligned with that of Overwatch. And, despite his obvious turmoil, he’s nice to Genji. As nice as their upbringing lets them, anyhow. 

Jesse takes another swig and looks towards the fire. “Torbjörn got you working for him?”

Hanzo scoffs as if the idea of him working for anyone else is so obviously ridiculous that Jesse’s words could only be interpreted as a joke. “An amicable disagreement. He is stuck in his ways.”

Jesse eyes the half-slung kimono over Hanzo’s torso. “Happens to the best of us.”

Hn.” Hanzo looks away and idly touches the metal piercing through his nasal bridge. “Indeed.”

Then he lifts his bottle to drink and Jesse lets his gaze linger, uses the moment to really look at those piercings, that strong throat. The peaks of his chest and shoulders where the firelight hits the curviest parts. His eyes drift deliberately all the way down to the dark shadow where his obi pinches the clothes just below his hips, where he could reach a hand in no problem. For a second, he imagines trying to mug Hanzo and smirks to himself. Wonders how many men no longer walk the world because they mistook Hanzo for an easy mark.

Hanzo doesn’t seem to mind the staring. Most likely used to it. The eyes that stare back at Jesse are cool and confident. Always analyzing, but in a calm, blank kind of way. Another man – definitely another American – might mistake it for vagueness, but Jesse’s spent enough time around people like Hanzo to know the ‘empty’ look of a ready mind. Like he could do anything at any second.

When he talks, Jesse notices the subtly sharp points of Hanzo’s canine teeth. “Genji told me of your days working together. Your Blackwatch.”

Now Jesse looks back to his bottle. “He did, huh?”

“Interesting stories.” Hanzo drinks again. “I particularly enjoyed hearing about the incident at the dance hall in Rio.”

Samba drums and roaring nightlife instantly rocket back through the gunslinger’s memory and he lets out a sudden bark of laughter. “Ho-lee shit! Haha! I’d forgotten about that one.”

Hanzo has turned towards him now and Jesse thinks he can see the faintest suggestion of playfulness. A quality in high supply but withheld, for now – like any lord, Hanzo must be stingy with vast resources.

“You were both twenty-five, yes?”

“I was twenty-six,” sighs Jesse, looking out at nothing, tapping the beer bottle against the hard shell of his boot heel. “Never been outside the continental US. Hell, never been south of Mexico City." He takes a swig. "Don’t know what my CO expected. You send a young gangster with a liquor problem and an itchy trigger-finger to a place that reminds him too much of the French Quarter, only with cheaper beer and prettier locals? Well,” Jesse chuckles again, lets the beer bottle graze his lips, “We’re lucky we got out with just the one count of public indecency.”

There’s amusement in Hanzo’s rich, raspy tone, and somehow that’s even better than if he’d outright laughed. Is he hiding how much he’s enjoying this? Is it coyness, politeness, or distrust? Is he making fun?

“I did not expect Genji to be the voice of reason in that tale.”

Jesse shrugs. “It was just his turn. I’ve pulled him out of messier situations before and after Rio. Guessing you have, too.”

“When I could not delegate such, yes,” Hanzo mutters. He looks down at his pilsner and swirls it slow, as if it’s a glass of top shelf sherry and not just the old bottom shelf draft that Reinhardt found in the back of the ship’s cargo. Then he takes a drink and assumes a different tone. “You have no siblings.”

“That’s right.”

“You have the bearing of an orphan.”

“Right again.”

“Raised by the gang and the work.”

Jesse gestures to Hanzo’s half-open kimono with his bottle. “You got my resume somewhere in that get-up?”

Hanzo grunts. “I know your type, gunslinger.”

Something about that feels like both threat and flirtation and damn it if that doesn’t just make Jesse hotter than if Hanzo had just asked him for his number. He pitches his own voice low, “That a fact.”

Hanzo's eyes seem to flicker. “You are not so difficult to read.”

“Could say the same about you, prince Shimada.”

“King,” he corrects, tilting the bottle again. Jesse watches him pause with the beer to his lips, catches a micro-grin just before it disappears with the tilt of the bottle. “My father is dead.”

Jesse snorts, not sure how to respond. There’s an intensity to Hanzo, especially his eyes, that Jesse has seen for months – across a room, in the drop ship, after a team meal. Common in kids raised during Crisis-time, common in lifelong gangsters. Like he’s always got one foot in the shadow; living with his hand on his sword. 

All of that coupled with the basest reality of the man – alone in the world, no domestic skills to speak of, abrasive personality and a fashion sense that broadcasts the tale of a middle-aged man just now exploring his own individuality – is somehow deeply endearing. Jesse finds himself facing him a little more. At least enough to look at him without craning his neck.

“You must have little need for their approval,” Hanzo mutters, gesturing to the rest of the team with a toss of his head.

“Well… didn’t leave ‘em in the best of ways.” Jesse rubs at his neck again, find it has indeed grown warmer despite the forest chill. “It’s, uhh… it’s complicated.”

“I meant sitting with me.”

“Ah. Well…” Jesse leans back, lets his belly have more room, spreads his legs and juts the heel of one boot against a raised root for support. “Ain’t so quick to judge as you might think. Genji seems alright with you. That’s enough for most of 'em.”

“And for you?”

Hanzo isn’t looking at him, doesn’t look like he cares about Jesse’s answer either way, but Jesse feels like he might be testing the waters. In search of reassurance or rejection – to know for sure, either way.

It makes an old, painful chord strum through Jesse’s guts. Something low and familiar that he never learned to unlearn. A strange sort of gratitude floats up like a soft mist from the forest itself, slow and natural and soothing.

Jesse licks his teeth, pretends to consider. Then he grins and winks at Hanzo. “Haven’t made up my mind just yet.”

Hanzo scoffs, tilts his jaw up. Makes a stunning picture with the light of the fire against his profile and that sharp jaw casting shadow across his powerful throat. Pretending not to smile. 

“And I figure… if you’re here, working your ass off so we can save a couple million strangers and then hide out in the middle of nowhere for days after, with no cash nor glory nor luxury of any kind, then you might be alright. Or,” Jesse tilts his bottle in a shrugging gesture, “At least you might be trying to be.”

Hanzo is looking down, his face set in that way that Jesse’s old superiors used to do when he’d say something nice about them to their faces; hard old bastards who couldn’t take a compliment if it shook its ass in their lap. But damn it if he doesn’t look handsome as fuck, trying to hide how much Jesse’s words affect him. 

“Genji has not told you many stories of me.”

“Right again.” Jesse downs the last of his beer, makes it a point to tilt his neck back and mouth the bottle good, then pointedly leans across Hanzo to pluck up another. He can feel the huff of hot breath when he presses against the other man, but he leans back just as quick, like it was nothing. “But I bet you got some good ones.”

Hanzo’s voice has lowered half an octave. A hair more raspy. “Perhaps.”

Jesse gives him a coyote’s grin. “Go on, then.”

Hanzo scoffs, lifts his chin towards the bonfire. He doesn’t need Jesse’s attention, but Jesse can see that he enjoys it. “Perhaps I wish to enjoy my beer in peace.”

“Come on, now. Bet you were a spitfire in a million-dollar suit. Tell me a story that ends with you getting one hair out of place.”

“I will endeavor to think of one.”

And he does, and most of them involve intrigue the likes of which Jesse has never known, even in the last days of Deadlock, even as a lieutenant in the greatest black ops force the world has ever known. Details of the yakuza leaders, though dryly delivered, make him lean in with a steady gaze. Hanzo is interesting even with his self-incrimination – his cunning, his dedication to honor alongside conditioned brutality. Jesse finds himself drinking more rarely, pulled in by the details of that mysterious life, the rules and rituals of a culture so different from his own. His heart catches on whatever Hanzo chooses to linger over – bombastic spring festivals featuring displays of masculine prowess, crude exchanges with other sword-wielding delinquents in expensive restaurants, the devastating beauty of falling pink petals that only comes from when you know that, in a couple hours, it’ll all be over until next year, and you might not be alive to see them then.

Jesse listens, and responds, and doesn’t even realize that he’s spilling his own guts, telling stories he hasn’t told to anyone in years, until he notices that there’s no more beer and his mouth is dry. Somewhere along the way, his first one had run out, and Hanzo handed him another. Now that one is empty.

He taps the bottle against his boot heel again. Looks at it.

And that's when he sees it: the two of them, isolated in the forest clearing while the rest of the team tightly circles the bonfire around the bonfire. Hanzo, much closer now, his hand on the dirt somewhere behind Jesse’s left buttock, leaning in to create their own kind of warm circle. The fire crackles. Hanzo's low, warm chuckle. He is framing Jesse; yang to yin. When Jesse turns to look at him, he finds their faces are twice as close as they were before. While it’s not a closeness that could yet be called intimate, for someone who, up until tonight, didn’t stand within five feet of a person if he didn’t have to, Hanzo is well on his way to having intentions.

He’s so close that Jesse can breathe in the salt of him. It induces something hard and sudden, like an old addiction threatening to seize, and he reacts like any good recovering addict – he hits abort.

“Think I should turn in,” he grunts.

Hanzo goes still, but doesn't seem too surprised. “Ah.”

“Been a long day." Jesse feigns a stretch. "Need’a rest up.”

“Yes," Hanzo murmurs, almost to himself, "I know what you do for ‘rest.’”

Then Jesse gives him a look which he hopes is both the question and the warning that he intends, but Hanzo looks like the one waiting for an answer. He might even be smirking.

Then Jesse smirks back, mutters, “You mean…?” and then mimes jerking off.

Hanzo chuckles with a raunchy little tone, blinks slowly as he looks Jesse up and down, and Jesse's heart rolls down his sleeve, across the grass and onto Hanzo’s lap.

Hanzo keeps looking at him as his hand dips underneath Jesse’s serape. Briefly, Jesse wrestles with the absurd fear that somehow Hanzo knows about the mugging joke he thought of earlier.

His voice is cavernous as he whispers, “Easy now.”

Hanzo only grins wider. He reaches to the edge of Jesse’s breastplate and hooks his strong fingers underneath. A breath stops in Jesse's throat; his chest puffs. He's fully prepared to let Hanzo grope him in front of God and the entire team until he sees what Hanzo pulls out: a slim leather wallet with the trailing scent of marijuana. 

“Well,” Jesse sighs, trying to move on from his own perilously ardent reaction, “Can’t fault a man for needing a little help relaxing.”

“I cannot.” Then Hanzo slips the leather case under his nose while never unlocking their eyes, deadly and almost coquettish, though Jesse thinks he should have a better word for it. “Not when I have a... similar need.”

Jesse’s become very aware of the inside of his jeans over the past few minutes and only gets some relief when Hanzo finally moves his eyes to the wallet. He turns it over like a lord inspecting his spoils and Jesse wonders if Hanzo’s ever looked at anything like he didn’t already own it. He wouldn’t mind if Hanzo looked at him like that, even if it does piss him off some.

Buy a man a drink first.

“Adequate product,” Hanzo mutters before handing it back over. Eyes now politely averted. “I would be honored to share it with you.” 

Eh, good enough.

“Honor’s all mine,” Jesse grunts. He drags his eyes one last time up and down Hanzo’s body, lets him see that he’s doing it, and then gestures with his beer bottle. “After you.”

They stand together, neither shaky, both well aware of the need for nonchalance. Hanzo goes first, but actually stops by the fire to sit beside Genji.

Jesse almost stops, too, but Hanzo throws him a meaningful look and the cowboy takes the hint. Wouldn’t do for a proper fella to be seen heading into another man’s tent. 

As he tries to manage the amount of swagger in his step as he passes by the bonfire, Lena calls out after him. “Oy! You off to bed already, cowboy?”

“Ain’t as young as I used to be, Miss Oxton,” drawls Jesse, trying way too hard to sound innocent, tossing up a hand in farewell. “Sweet dreams, y’all.”

If anyone side-eyes him for being anti-social, he doesn’t notice. That old forgotten muscle in his chest is pattering too excitedly at the unexpected turn his evening has taken.

I’m about to smoke weed with Hanzo Shimada. Jesse doesn’t know whether to shake his head or grin until his ears hurt, so he does both.



It’s fifteen long minutes before Hanzo unzips Jesse’s tent and slips inside. Jesse, posed seductively on his serape, sits up like he might offer to take Hanzo’s coat for him. He left his boots and chaps and breastplate outside to save space and lit one of the orange-tinted emergency lanterns in one of the corners so that they could at least make out each others’ faces. His sleeping bag has a hole in it but at least the bottom of the tent covers the grassy forest floor. He’s never felt self-conscious about his space with a potential lay before, but Hanzo seems like the kind of guy who’d leave if something weren’t exactly up to his standards, and Jesse's just tipsy enough to get something wrong.

Kind of reminds him of Ashe, only, there’s something different about Hanzo’s brand of rich-brat-ness. Maybe it was the ten years of hard living. Maybe it’s the asceticism of his new lifestyle, his training.

Either way, Hanzo doesn’t look disappointed when he enters. He just smirks at Jesse like they’re both up to no good. 

“Not much of a set-up for a...” Jesse grins, “Visiting monarch.”

Hanzo snorts, knocks his knuckles good-naturedly against Jesse to make him move, and makes double-sure the tent entrance is properly secured. Then he stretches up to open the flaps at the top, his chest close to Jesse’s face.

“For fresh air,” he explains.

Jesse clears his throat, his eyes not moving from the opening of Hanzo’s kimono. “Don’t wanna hotbox it?”

“Not this time.” And isn’t that a thing to say.

The leather packet sits ready in Jesse’s shirt pocket and he plucks it out with only a little jumpiness in his fingers. It flops open, revealing five neatly-wrapped joints alongside a baggie of dark green buds. He opens that bag and hands it to Hanzo before patting his sides for a lighter. “Hindu Kush.”

Hanzo puts his nose right in the bag and sniffs, then deeply inhales, humming with satisfaction. Jesse feels himself glow, feels himself beam. If he can just keep on satisfying Hanzo, he can keep that feeling going.

Hanzo hands it back. “Pungent.”

“Little sweet, little sour. Joint or blunt?”

“Joint. I have had enough tobacco tonight.”


Jesse selects the fattest of the joints and holds his Elvis zippo up to the end, puffs once, twice, then sucks in his own generous drag. The tip crackles audibly, even with the drone of wind and muted conversation from the distant bonfire – for an old Overwatch tent, it insulates nicely.

He’s still holding his breath when he passes to Hanzo, who takes it with the same grace he seems to carry around out of principle. A deep drag, not a hint of cough – a natural. Jesse watches the smoke rise from his mouth and slip into his nostrils.

A French inhale; what a douchebag. Jesse grins a mile wide, lets his own smoke out with a long, slow exhale.

“Didn’t peg you for a real smoker, Mr. Shimada,” he drawls, taking back the joint. He mimics the same inhale, hopes Hanzo takes it for what it is – rusty flirtations from a man out of practice.

“I have not found many opportunities to relax,” Hanzo says, still holding a bit of smoke inside, “But when I do, I –” Then a dry, raucous cough swallows his next word.

“There it is,” snickers Jesse.

“Fuck off,” Hanzo croaks.

“Hey, if you don’t cough you don’t get off. S’that how it goes?”

Hanzo clears his throat behind his fist, smiling like a Cheshire cat – fangs and all. “I have not heard that before.”

“Old stoner saying.”

After years of both joints and cigars, Jesse is used to rolling around the fumes in his mouth, playing the flavors. Never in a hurry. Always keen to enjoy each and every stage as it comes. Hanzo, despite his royal bearing, is obviously not as experienced, and appears to know it. He smokes even slower, staring soft at the smoking end like he enjoys watching it burn. Jesse feels like he ought to match his speed; it's only polite.

Plus, he isn’t ashamed to admit that he doesn’t fully trust Hanzo. Nothing personal. Hanzo likely feels the same.

Or maybe, if he were being a bit more honest, Jesse would say that he doesn’t trust himself around Hanzo. Less and less by the minute, to be even more honest. The way those thick lashes dwindle in the warm, dim light. Those cheekbones framed so starkly in shadow, those frowning brows that make a mask of darkness until Hanzo lifts his chin and lets the lamp’s soft orange glow touch his dark brown eyes. Tiny pinpricks of light in the centers, like embers on wood. Jesse’s never had great self-control and weed is a great way to blow up his reserves.

Then Hanzo taps the ash onto Jesse’s tourist shot glass, the one with an alien on it, and eyes him from belt buckle to brow. “Do you have music?” 

Not for the first time tonight, Jesse feels like a teenager on his first date. Grunting with frustration, he digs through his over-crowded satchel, ignoring Hanzo’s chuckles until he finally locates his phone and sets it against the tent’s edge. He selects American instrumentals – electric guitar and bass and drums, a little plucked harp and a distant wind chime – something soft and country but also atmospheric and interesting and maybe a little sensual. More than conducive to a smooth smoking experience between strangers. Hopefully good enough to meet Hanzo’s tastes.

Then Hanzo smiles like a cat again, mutters, “I like a plucked guitar,” and Jesse feels his heart get a little worked up. Revs like a cheap bike still shuddering on after thousands of miles. Who knew pleasing this arrogant man would give him such a thrill? 

“Ain’t had a night like this in a long time,” Jesse sighs, unsure of what he even means, but guessing it has something to do with the cool breeze, the light from the bonfire just barely leaking through the tent’s openings, the patch of forest canopy and hint of stars overhead, and the beautiful man looking at him with that mix of heat and danger he likes so much. “Long time.”

And Hanzo hums like he knows exactly what he means. “When was the last time you shared a smoke with someone?”

Jesse scratches his beard. “About three years ago? Old timer out west. Didn’t say much, but he could roll better’n anyone I ever met.”

“Hn.” Hanzo rests his arm atop his knee as they pass the joint back and forth. “And did you roll these yourself?”

“Sure did.”

“Very fine.”

“Well, ain’t you sweet,” the gunslinger grins. “That guy turned out to be an ex-cop after my bounty, actually. But he had good grass.”

A low chuckle. “You got high with a stranger then? You give little thought to your own safety.”

“He was the one should’ve been worried.”

Hanzo scans Jesse. “Foolhardy.”

Jesse just shrugs, relaxes back on his elbows as he refuses his next turn at the joint. “I’m good where I’m at.”

“Far too generous,” Hanzo mutters, twirling the paper in-between his fingers. “Or perhaps you mean to make an easier target of me?”

“As I recall, was your idea to smoke up with me.”

“Ah.” Hanzo takes another drag. “Perhaps I am the foolhardy one.”

“Or some kinda brave,” Jesse says, still grinning. Nudging Hanzo’s arm with his knee. “Bet you could give me a run for my money even three sheets to the wind.”

Hanzo tilts his head, those eagle brows crunched into an even deeper frown. Still amused. “I understand all of those words separately.”

Jesse laughs, has to put a hand over his mouth to stop from alerting the rest of camp. It’s then that he sees Hanzo’s decidedly more relaxed face split into a grin: just a little crooked, with a hint of pointed canine. Warm, even playful as he growls, “Do not laugh at me, cowboy.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I saw what you did to that guy on the turret.” Jesse shakes his head at the memory. “Had to use my left arm to pull out the arrow that stuck ‘im to the wall.”

Hanzo scoffs, and Jesse is unsure whether he is brushing aside the praise or chiding Jesse for describing the violent act. But then he mutters, like compliments don’t come natural, “You were not so bad yourself,” and takes a hit that burns the joint down to his fingertips.

Jesse shifts on his elbows. Grins cocky. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” Hanzo echoes.

Jesse chuckles and lowers his face, feigning shyness.

And something about that seems to work for Hanzo. “You are clever.” The archer edges closer. “Clever, and fast.” He stops when the side of his hip touches Jesse’s hip. Then he leans over him and plants his hand on Jesse’s other side, virtually trapping him. Leans like there is nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. Takes another drag like he’s right at home. “It was a pleasure to watch you.”

A piece of Jesse wriggles up and into the night along with the smoke, singes all his ends. He stays on his elbows and looks up at Hanzo through his lashes. Voice a whole decibel lower to disguise the nerves. Wishing to God that he at least had his hat – grass does make him more jumpy than usual, even the indica. He doesn’t want to pull the trigger before it’s time. “S’that right?”

“I am always right.”

Jesse chuckles again, rolls his eyes. He sees the way Hanzo coils his shoulders a little, as if the giddy vibration of Jesse’s laughter ran through him as well. 

Those eyes are so soft now. Or, deceptively tranquil, like the forest outside. Heavy lids and wrinkled corners. They must be about the same age. Probably seen just as much shit. Probably had each and every one of those lines carved by the kinds of terrible things most people never have the imagination to conceptualize. The urge to smooth out those hard edges runs through Jesse like the best of impulses, but he only lifts his right hand to grip Hanzo’s shoulder. He strokes his thumb over the shiny fabric of his kimono and stares at the way it glows in the lamplight. Like the feel of Hanzo’s muscle beneath silk is unlike anything he’s ever touched before.

“Too fast,” Hanzo murmurs, toying with the buttons of Jesse’s shirt with a similar brand of hazy interest, “And you may become reckless.” 

Jesse registers that his own face has gone soft and slack, but it’s somewhere in the greater distance of mind. “Didn’t ever get a lot of opportunities to go slow.”

“Yet you smoke cigars.” Hanzo leans even further against Jesse’s side. “A rich man’s pleasure. A slow pleasure.”

“Well,” Jesse smirks, fingers the silk to enjoy its texture before smoothing it out against Hanzo’s shoulder. “Ain’t nothin’ certain. Gotta take what I can, when I can.”

It feels a little corny, but right. He can’t say he’s never been the most corny guy in the room. But Hanzo seems to appreciate it; he lifts the joint, but doesn’t take a hit, just lets it smolder while he looks at Jesse with a small-bud smile.

“I wonder if anyone has ever taken their time with you.”

Jesse’s wolfish grin fades in lieu of a ferris-wheel-like sensation in his gut. He coughs, and it’s clearly not because of the smoke. “You’re, uhh…” He licks his lips and his gut swoops again when he sees Hanzo’s eyes dart towards the movement. “That joint’s gonna get those nice fingers, there.”

Hanzo looks down at the now-tiny joint about to burn up against his fingertips as if appraising a fly that just landed on his hand. Then his eyes flicker back up to Jesse – still heavy-lidded, still so intense. 

It strikes Jesse that just a little while ago, he was ready to spend the rest of this night alone and staring at the mysterious darkness in-between the trees. Maybe he’s still out there. Maybe this is just a spirit playing with him, and he’ll wake up in his tent like always: hungover and with morning wood.

Hanzo whispers, “Then we will share the last.”

Jesse will never forgive himself for the dopey look he knows he’s making at this very moment. “Huh?”

He gets one last sultry smile before Hanzo puts the burning stump to his lips and drags hard enough to make the cherry show up as twin flames in his eyes. Bright enough to show the dilation of his pupils. Bright enough to show off each fleck of silver in his goatee.

Then Hanzo extinguishes the burning end with his own fingers, tosses it aside, and leans down, gracefully down, until that strip of hair that perpetually escapes his top knot brushes against Jesse’s forehead. Until their oft-broken noses nearly touch.

Jesse’s buck-shot mind snaps in twain but he still manages to part his lips and suck.

Their lips brush just as smoke expels from Hanzo’s mouth like liquid nitrogen and funnels into Jesse’s breath. Little jolts singe the bones in Jesse’s hips, make him want to buck, tear at his nerves. His eyes should close but he can’t stop looking at Hanzo’s lashes; not quite shut, lowered as if looking to Jesse’s mouth.

Then it’s over, and Jesse’s still looking at Hanzo, and Hanzo’s just hovering there, still so close, taking up so much space. The smoke burns Jesse’s throat and flows out through his nostrils with a breath meant to steady him, mixes in their shared air. Hanzo makes a low, humming note of pleasure and Jesse feels himself move in his jeans.

Fuck, weed always gets him so horny. Did Hanzo’s skin always look like that? Smooth and tanned in the light, tiny scars and firm muscle. Hanzo pushes Jesse’s hair behind his ear just as Jesse reaches up to Hanzo’s shoulder again, pushing that kimono until it slips all the way to Hanzo’s forearm. The air still thick and syrupy between them, Jesse strokes the scales of the dragon with just the tips of his fingers.

Then he looks back up to see Hanzo with just a hint of color in his cheeks that wasn’t there before. Eyes blown black, like a predator’s.

The gunslinger grins, undaunted. He whispers, “Generous man.”

Hanzo scoffs through his nose. His look turns to one of lazy fascination. Like he either might either crawl on top of him and go to sleep, kiss him real good, or kill him for sport.

“Quite the opposite.”

When he finally leans down and presses his lips over Jesse’s, it does kind of feel like an assassination attempt.

The whole night – every second since Hanzo offered him a beer and sat by his side on the grass – has led up to this moment. But Jesse still sucks in air through his nostrils like some part of him touched fire. Hanzo seems to use the opportunity to press in with his tongue, but stays slow, soft. He keeps his movements controlled; or maybe he’s just too high to go fast. Jesse can’t complain. Electricity buzzes throughout his body under a deeper blanket of slippery, syrupy pleasure, and he hums low. Hanzo is kissing him like they’re in church, like a wedding kiss you don’t want to startle your mama with, yet Jesse pulses like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever done.

It makes him unafraid to be a little sloppy; he plays with Hanzo’s tongue outside of his mouth, shifting his groin, holding that shoulder like a lifeline. Sliding his wet lips against Hanzo’s like he can’t get enough of the texture.

When Hanzo lifts his hand and holds Jesse’s cheek, feels him with his thumb pad, Jesse sighs into his mouth and Hanzo uses the opportunity to lick even deeper.

This is a very good high. Jesse’s body is a heavy, easy mass. Even his white-hot need feels like a slow boil. Like he could play with Hanzo’s lips all night. The taste of Hanzo's hot, slick, slow, spongy tongue against his own is like an extra-sensory experience – like he's somehow grown the ability to distinguish new flavors, see more colors, hear things like the rush of his own blood or the stretching creak of Hanzo's muscles. 

They kiss until their saliva tastes the same and Jesse sighs, “Honey,” Jesse sighs, and his elbows finally give out. Hanzo reaches out and helps ease Jesse's head onto the folded-up serape, his other hand still on Jesse's face, kissing his jaw, his neck. Exploring, slow and soft as growing moss. Jesse sighs again, “You really know how to take a man’s breath away, darlin’.” Hanzo licks at his jugular and presses his weight down. “Thought I’d only ever get to stare into those eyes.” Hanzo holds Jesse’s face to the side to have better access to his neck and Jesse reaches up to pet the soft buzzed hairs on Hanzo’s scalp. “Ain’t never seen eyes like yours.” Every sensation stokes and strikes his already churning fire until he feels like he’s melting. “Be thinkin’ about ‘em for the rest of my life.” 

It’s not until Hanzo takes back his mouth and actually shushes him that Jesse realizes he’s been talking out loud.

“Sorry, darlin’,” Jesse chuckles, low and husky, and he feels Hanzo squirm against him. Jesse grins wider – he wouldn’t be the first to like Jesse’s voice. “Just feels real nice.”

“You will alert someone,” Hanzo whispers, his own voice fathomless deep and enough to make Jesse twitch in his jeans. Playfully, he flicks his tongue against Jesse's bottom lip. “Unless that is your intention.”

“My only intention’s to make sure this lasts,” Jesse sighs.

Hanzo smiles. It’s warmer than any of his other smiles, appreciative even. Relieved?

Jesse doesn’t like that thought. The painful chord strikes again. He tugs and Hanzo swings a leg over to straddle him. Settles in just like a cat.

“Don’t know if I can keep quiet like this, to tell you the truth,” Jesse mutters. His fingers find that loose piece of hair on Hanzo’s cheek, strokes it between two fingers. “But I’ll be real good,” Jesse gently licks Hanzo’s plump lower lip, “If you’d like me like that.”

Hanzo’s smile turns into another kiss and Jesse pulls him in as close as he can. Squeezing, grasping, he finally gets that kimono off. Hanzo’s back is warm and soft and laden with muscle, the kind that you only get from making hard labor your friend. They grind together, slow and savoring, both relishing their mutual hardness, and the still-lucid part of Jesse’s mind notes just how beautifully shameless it feels, how perfectly non-performative. Never in a million years would he have expected Hanzo Shimada to be such a smooth smoker, such an indulgent and uninhibited lover. There is a determined slowness to it, but it just builds the intensity all the more, until the very air looks hot and thick in the slim strip of bonfire light. Jesse thinks he could come like this, too, just grinding and kissing Hanzo in the orange haze. 

Then Hanzo bites Jesse’s bottom lip and brings a hand up. For a moment, Jesse thinks he’s going for his throat. Bears it in preparation. But Hanzo only goes for his buttons, slipping them open one by one.

Jesse sees the hair on his own chest pop free from his shirt with the anticipatory swelling of his lungs. “Woah now.”

Hanzo looks up at him, pauses. Jesse’s throat bobs as he swallows. The moment stretches, then Hanzo smirks and kisses him again – this time, he kisses hungry. Borderline obscene, what with the way Jesse’s jaw strains, the way their facial hair grinds together, the way Hanzo keeps his mouth open and plays with Jesse’s tongue like he owns it, doesn’t let him close off the kiss until Jesse feels like he’s been mouth-fucked good.

The unbuttoning continues until Jesse feels cool air on his belly, the tails of his plaid pulled out from his jeans and spread open.

Now it’s Hanzo’s turn to groan, a short, soft thing, and all from a drag of his hand up Jesse’s happy trail. Jesse burns while his midsection is explored, rubbed, grasped. It almost makes him self-conscious, especially when Hanzo slides that firm, calloused hand down to his side and squeezes; pulling Jesse even closer, like he’s fixing to mount up.

Woah now,” Jesse repeats, breathless.

Then Hanzo removes Jesse’s shirt entirely, bunching it up alongside the serape behind his head. Like he wants Jesse to be comfortable.

“Gonna kill me,” he whispers as Hanzo shamelessly gropes his pectorals.

“If you like,” Hanzo whispers back. “But not before I am done with you.”


“How do you like it, cowboy?”


Hmm,” Hanzo hums open-mouthed into the skin just above Jesse’s collarbone. Trails his wet lips to the hairiest part of Jesse’s cleavage. “That is not an answer.”

“I like this,” Jesse rumbles. Now both of his hands are in Hanzo’s knot, threatening to pull it free. “Like it slow like this.”

“I thought you might.” Hanzo removes Jesse’s hand from his hair. “Leave it up. I want it out of my face.” 

Then he leans in and licks the swollen bottom edge of Jesse’s pectoral muscle. He bites as if to test the density of him, hands still skating, groping. Jesse’s own hands migrate from Hanzo’s head to whatever he can reach, though the archer is so intent on his own pursuits that he makes it hard to reach anything; when Hanzo licks up towards Jesse’s armpit, breathing in his smell and licking the delicate spots around, Jesse moans and reaches that arm up even higher to give him more access. Hanzo runs his tongue up Jesse’s sensitive creases, inhales deep. He gropes and nuzzles and mouths him like he just doesn’t have enough senses through which to enjoy him and Jesse aches at the thought. 

It makes his head swell, he can’t lie. And it makes him want to grab his own cock something fierce. Jesse reaches both hands behind his head, gives Hanzo access to whatever he needs and growls, “You like that, honey?”

“Yes,” Hanzo growls back, unexpectedly fast and unabashed. “I like how you smell,” he whispers against Jesse’s pectoral, flicking his tongue against his nipple. “And how you taste.”

Jesse groans like Hanzo has just spilled out the most lewd description possible and gets his hands back on him in an instant, strokes his neck and shoulders as Hanzo closes his mouth over a nipple and sucks. Hanzo squeezes and twists with one hand, devours with the other, bites into the meatiest part of Jesse’s right pec until his hips jump. He clutches Jesse’s sparse love handles and moves to the other nipple with a low moan; he licks and looks up at Jesse and Jesse feels his cock move like it’s about to learn how to yank down a zipper on its own.

Then Hanzo catches his teeth on the edge of Jesse’s now-sore nipple and Jesse yanks him back by the hair, is treated to Hanzo’s wet mouth gaping like an animal pulled from its meal. “Watch it now.”

Hanzo tongues one of his gently pointed canines, smirks with a hint of disdain that shouldn’t make Jesse so hot all over. “Don’t like it rough, then?”

“I didn’t say that,” Jesse growls, pokes his metal hand tentatively, affectionately, at Hanzo’s reddened lips. “Just don’t wanna be bleeding through my shirt tomorrow, is all.”

Hanzo hums, licks Jesse’s fingers into his mouth. Jesse drops his jaw and pushes them over Hanzo’s tongue until the man’s lips are pursed over the small metal flecks on his knuckles. 


Jesse’s gun hand moves to his belt buckle like it’s possessed, but Hanzo takes over. In the pause, Jesse really gets to look at Hanzo, marveling at all the lines and curves of his bare torso. He’s big – bigger than Jesse expected, somehow, though he’s spent many months cultivating a few fantasies that relied chiefly on Hanzo’s relative shortness. It isn’t often he sees a shorter guy who still looks as stacked as Jesse likes – is it his fault if all he could think about was picking Hanzo up and railing him against a wall?

But now, with Hanzo hovering over him like this, manhandling his jeans like this, Jesse thinks maybe he’s the one who should get tossed around.

Only when Hanzo chuckles does Jesse come back to the present; he’s found Jesse’s boxer-briefs: bright red, with a row of running and bucking horses along the waistband.

“Cute,” he mutters, and Jesse is surprised at the bashfulness that balloons up his chest.

Then Hanzo lowers his head and rubs his face up the hard outline of Jesse’s cock. Jesse leans up on his elbows just to watch Hanzo feel out the texture of the cloth with his cheek, that same half-smug, half-pleasured look on his face, like this is just another morsel of his own personal feast. Jesse spreads his legs and he feels Hanzo inhale – he really does like how I smell – then he watches his mouth open and spread around his length. Indulgent, greedy. Taking exactly what he wants in his own time.

Jesse stares dumbly at the peaks of Hanzo’s ass before he figures out just what it is that he wants.

“Fuck, Han – wait.”

Hanzo looks up at him lazily, only partially pausing his own goal. “What do you want, cowboy?”

“Fuck, I…” Jesse reaches for words, but his mouth’s too full of cotton and his brain’s not doing much better. “Water.”

Hanzo scoff-laughs. “Water?”

“Wanna eat you out and I ain’t gonna do it with a dry mouth.”

Jesse sees Hanzo’s eyes narrow, his slow rise. He watches his back shifts, like a jaguar coiling. Then he watches him reach for the small pack tucked in the corner with none of that careful slowness from before.

Jesse smirks, and prompts, “Outer pocket.”

Hanzo gives him the glass bottle and Jesse chugs down half; the rest he offers to Hanzo, who also chugs.

The carelessness with which Hanzo tosses the bottle away again turns Jesse on in a really weird way. “Help me.”

Hanzo comes up to Jesse’s side and starts wriggling out of his pants. Jesse reaches, tugs them down, sliding his fingers along Hanzo’s skin as much as he can, burning when he realizes that he isn’t wearing any underwear. Swearing out loud when he sees that Hanzo has a whole other tattoo down his right leg. Legs with thick muscle and strangely delicate ankles, ankles that make Jesse think about holding them tight while he rails Hanzo to within an inch of his life.

And his cock: thick and handsome, and pretty. It’s probably weird to be so stricken by the look of a man’s dick, but Jesse just chalks it up to the weed, decides to stop questioning the things he does or does not appreciate – all of it’s glorious, all of it’s perfect. Hanzo’s perfect cock twitches like it’s demanding attention and Jesse gives it; he wraps a hand around it the second he is able. Strokes a thumb over the shiny head, groans at the heat and fullness of him. Jerks a few times before Hanzo pushes his thieving hand away.

“Hey now.”

“I have my own needs, cowboy.”

“Like when you call me cowboy,” Jesse grins. “But I prefer ‘Jesse.’”

Hanzo gets closer, kisses him soft and wet. “Jesse.” He pushes Jesse down and sticks a thumb in Jesse’s mouth. Narrows his eyes as Jesse licks around his finger, pulls down on his bottom lip before leaning back.

Then he turns around. He swings a leg, he edges his hips back, and before his brain is able to catch up, Jesse’s hands are slowly spreading Hanzo’s cheeks open to breathe against his tight pink hole. The world spins so fast that a dull ache swims in-between his ears; a faraway, nothing concern. The lust concentrated in his groin emanates like radiation, sends sharpness to his hands; he grabs at Hanzo, spreads him open as far as he can and squeezes the full cheeks hard enough to make the man grunt.

The urge to take it slow is waning; Hanzo pulls out Jesse’s cock from the flap in his underwear and licks up the length of him with a broad tongue, suckles at the head like it’s a prize. Jesse caws, digs his heels into the ground, moans again when Hanzo also pulls out his balls and laves them with his entire mouth. Deliriously fervent; when he licks back up Jesse’s cock, he purses his lips on the head and swirls his tongue just so against the slit, his hand holding up the shaft by the base with a tight grip. Licking under the foreskin, tugging it with his lips. Sucking off the tip with a lewd pop before sinking his entire mouth down and groaning around him.

Jesse’s hips squirm until Hanzo holds them still. It’s overwhelming; Hanzo is sucking him like it’s both the first time he’s ever had cock on his tongue and the last time he’ll ever get the opportunity. It’s almost enough to distract him from Hanzo’s ass, but that doesn’t last long. Those strong thighs are spread so good, his lower back curved. His hole twitching every time Jesse so much as breathes against it, flexing in time with Hanzo’s own greedy services.

So Jesse spits, rubs the rim, then presses into him with his tongue. The moan that rips from the pit of Hanzo’s serrated voice etches itself into Jesse’s mind like a soldering iron. He wants to make sounds come out of that taciturn man that’ll haunt him for the rest of his life, so he presses and rubs in one moment, then licks inside the next, lapping with deep, rumbling moans and then mouthing as voraciously as he can. He makes sure Hanzo doesn’t see what’s coming next, tries to catch him off guard at every turn.

Then Hanzo sinks his entire mouth down and Jesse growls and swears and praises the man with whatever wanton diatribe his mind conjures up through the haze of his unbelievable high. Hanzo lets the head push up against the back of his throat, lets his lips kiss off the top with another popping sound followed by a low, satisfied hum. He does it again, and again, and Jesse is struck clear through the brain by just how obviously Hanzo loves it, how much pleasure he’s taking from having Jesse in his mouth. It gives Jesse the freedom to dive into his own pleasure, to fuck his tongue up as deep as he can. To push his fingers inside and feel around and then return with his tongue to stretch his rim.

Jesse feels Hanzo shiver all over and hums again, smiles. Licks his lips. Spreads Hanzo out wide and just stares, and lets Hanzo know that he’s staring. Thumbs his hole, toys with him. “Fuck, honey… taste so fucking good. Want me to eat you out all night, baby?” Jesse licks a wide stripe, slow and teasing, leaves with a kiss. “Want me to lick this hole open? Wanna come on my tongue?”

“Fuck,” Hanzo growls, abandoning Jesse’s cock just to pant. “Yes – deeper. Fuck me.”

Jesse obeys almost before Hanzo has finished the sentence; he leans into Hanzo’s ass as far as he can, pulls apart his cheeks and gets as deep as he can go, tongue-fucks him with rolling moans, eager and tireless. Hanzo rewards him by returning his mouth to Jesse’s cock, sucking him with the kind of sloppy, groaning thoroughness that speaks of a man with no more thoughts as to the world outside that tent.

It’s not until Jesse gets his entire metal pointer finger inside Hanzo and starts tapping his prostate that Hanzo groans, pushes back against him, and starts swallowing Jesse to the choking point. Then Jesse stifles a shout, swears under his breath, and keeps swearing as he adds more spit and jabs that finger past all tightness. The metal is warmed to his body temperature so there’s no hesitance, no catching, and Jesse’s jaw drops with how eagerly Hanzo accepts him.

“Yeah, there you go,” Jesse mutters, almost to himself, “Opening up real good for me, sweetheart. Suckin’ me in like a dream.”

Hanzo groans his deepest vibration yet and the cowboy’s hips jump again. He props up on one hand so he can use the other to tug at Jesse, to hold him at the root while his lips and tongue work around the head and all the while Jesse can’t stop babbling about how hard he is for Hanzo, how beautiful Hanzo looks, how much Hanzo loves sucking his cock.

Jesse sees and feels Hanzo’s muscles work around his fingers as his orgasm approaches; his cock lodges into Hanzo’s moaning throat as the man comes a weak stream, milked from Jesse’s pounding fingers, dripping on Jesse’s belly in hard pulses. Jesse’s jaw drops as Hanzo stays sucking him, holding his shaft and bobbing up and down, and the sight of Hanzo’s dripping, still-hard cock sends him over. He loses control, bucks into Hanzo’s mouth; cries out into the smoke and winds up panting it all back in.

Hanzo slows his sucking as he sees fit; licks him clean like this, too, is his pleasure. Then he turns around and straddles him the other way. He strokes himself, a dark, determined edge to his fucked-out haze, and Jesse stares for a few unbelieving seconds before swiping up the come on his belly and using it to take over, rubbing Hanzo’s cock with the kind of low, soothing, encouraging tone he used to use for his horses. Hanzo reaches back to grip Jesse’s knees and comes all the way up to Jesse’s throat, his chest, his belly. Churning his hips until Jesse’s sure he’s past over-sensitive.

Then he leans over and swipes up his come and presses it into Jesse’s mouth before he kisses him and Jesse thinks about how he just might be in love, or something that will at least definitely make it very, very difficult for him to pay attention to anything else for Christ knows how long.



Morning comes with dry mouth and a deep, pleasant-sounding sigh from the chest Jesse rests against. Hanzo is beautiful asleep. That imperious tilt to his eyebrows gone soft; just a man after all. A man Jesse can’t help but crown with a gentle kiss before he yanks up the jeans around his ankles and looks around for another water bottle.

The second he finds one, Hanzo’s tired yawn and reaching hand lull him back onto the sleeping bag. “Stay.”

“Ain’t nowhere else to go,” Jesse whispers, uncapping and drinking. “Think the whole camp’s up by now.”

Hanzo rolls onto his back, stretching indulgently. “I can exit through the back of the tent,” he grunts, lacing his fingers behind his head. Faux casualness like Jesse has never seen, but poorly acted. “If you are concerned.”

That painful chord hits hard this round. Jesse wonders how many times he’ll have to reassure Hanzo that, yes, he does want him around and no, he isn’t ashamed of it, but for now it’s kind of flattering for a man like Hanzo to be so keen on Jesse’s approval; Jesse, a man whose glory days weren’t even all that glorified to begin with and whose spare tire is growing beyond the bicycle range with every passing year. Jesse, a lousy gambler who still wouldn’t bet on his good qualities over his bad and would’ve spent the entire night silently drinking and thinking about forest beasties if he hadn’t been roped in so thoroughly.

What a pair they make. Jesse smirks, chuckles a little, and eases down to lay on his side. “Up to you.” He traces the outline of Hanzo’s considerable pectoral muscle. “‘Course, if you’ll let me, I’ll be tellin’ every damn person I meet from here to Gibraltar just who I got to shack up with last night.”

Hanzo laughs as if surprised to be laughing. “That’s a good way to get killed.”

“I’m pretty difficult to kill.” He sighs, rests his head on Hanzo’s chest and nuzzles up close in a way that makes Hanzo chuckle again. Then he adds, “Though you just about managed last night.”

“How sad. I was hoping to have you again before breakfast.”

“Well, shit,” Jesse sits up, “Suddenly the life has returned to my body. Praise Almighty God.” Then he crawls down to nose in Hanzo’s lap, Hanzo's hand already gathering up his hair in his fist.



When they exit, breakfast has already been eaten, but Jesse still manages to swipe the bacon from Lena’s shell-shocked hand and throw the entire rest of the package onto the skillet. Genji, who’d made one loud note of disgust and walked towards the ship, makes another noise some hundred yards away as Hanzo busies himself with making tea, a small smile on his face that Jesse keeps grinning back at.

Aside from that, everyone seems fine. Unsurprised, even, which makes Jesse wonder if they all saw something that he couldn’t. Hanzo is already discussing new business with Winston. Jesse clicks his mug of coffee against Reinhardt’s and sits next to Angela, who just rolls her eyes and bats away his joke about needing to obtain some ‘health supplies’ as soon as they get back to base.

Then Zenyatta hovers near, leans in close to Jesse, leans back and chirpily drones, "Hindu kush?" and Jesse can't seem to stop laughing until they're all up in the air and Hanzo shushes him so that he can catch some extra rest against Jesse's shoulder.