It starts with a couch.
The worst possible piece of furniture that Overwatch had to offer, out of all of the items at their disposal, and Jesse McCree had chosen that atrocity. Handpicked it, even. Looked Winston dead in the eyes, pointed to the world’s ugliest couch and said, “I want that one.” No doubt in an attempt to annoy the man currently eyeing the abomination.
Hanzo glowers at it, and with its bright affront of colors, he feels as if it almost glares right back.
The sofa is red, patterned with orange and yellow stripes to form a plaid pattern similar to the palette one with a punctured lung might hack up. A spectrum of warning colors, something primal inside of him urges, bright like poisonous frogs and toxic berries. It might as well have been a sign: he was a fool for letting himself be coerced into this mission.
Legs locked, the archer’s eyes narrowed in his staring contest with the inanimate object, he tries to pinpoint the moment he went wrong.
Perhaps it had been when he had first joined Overwatch six months ago, recruited after his untimely reunion with his brother. He had spent a decade hunting down the remaining members of the Shimada Clan, picking them off one by one. Satisfaction came with his vengeance, the very same elders that had attempted to warp him into a cruel leader fell to his own hands.
But afterwards, he only felt empty. It had not brought Genji back—Overwatch had done that. Dr. Ziegler had defeated death itself, and the rest of its members had housed his brother (due to his own dearth of hospitability). Falling in line with the very same organization would be the most honorable option, offering his aid in protecting the world. The archer felt important; he was making a difference.
Perhaps the fatal flaw had been allowing himself to get closer to his fellow soldiers. No, he corrected himself, it wasn’t his fault McCree had somehow wormed his way into the other’s life, tenaciously hanging around the archer, until they had settled into a routine.
Commenting and countering, advancing and repudiation. It was like a dance; another art mastered by the eldest Shimada. But for now, they had settled for walking the perimeter of the compound, drinking, reminiscing, talking of the other members, of cultural differences, and of the horrors of sweet tea.
The rest had followed: the always good-humored and approachable Reinhardt; Lena, though she was too touchy-feely for his liking, her heart was in the right place; Hana, who made it a point to tease him every step of the way, much in the way one would a sibling; they had all ruptured his carefully constructed defenses.
They were a team.
Or, perhaps it had been the dip in Winston’s voice as Hanzo had entered the meeting room. A slight stutter, eyes flicking to the archer’s form in the door. The scientist taps the screen on the table, ending his current conversation with Athena rather abruptly.
“Shimada, right on time! Take a seat. I just put out the call, the others should arrive shortly.”
The door creaks open its full diameter, Hanzo steps through the dimly lit space before travelling to his designated seat among the sea of empty chairs. He immediately senses that something is off; there’s a shift of unpleasantness in the air, the silence is not a comforting one. Winston refuses to meet his gaze.
Before his head can even concoct the phrasing to question the scientist, the door snaps open again and the rest of the team pours in. He hears Reinhardt before he sees him, but even then, the mass of a man towering over the room (like a dollhouse in comparison) draws his attention. Pharah and Mercy stand side-to-side, talking amongst themselves, hands brushing. Hana follows up afterward, indicating her entry with the loud pop of her gum.
The resident cowboy brings up the pack, straggling behind before shutting the door and corralling the group together. A true cattle drive. McCree flashes a grin and tips his hat as he takes his seat across the table; Hanzo offer a small nod and nothing more. This is not exactly the appropriate condition for a friendly conversation.
Winston straightens his glasses, shuffles papers, and clears his throat— stalling for time.
“Good morning everyone. I’m sure by now you all have noticed how,” a short cough, “short-staffed we are at the moment, especially after the incident in Gibraltar.” Hanzo snorted. Of course he knew, he’d have to be blind to overlook the condition his own brother had been left in, or the handful of others who were under a strict medical watch from Dr. Ziegler herself.
“Some people just can’t hold their TNT,” McCree jokes, voice low.
Hanzo gives them both the kindest of his withering looks, silently asking the scientist at the head of the table to cut to the chase.
Winston fidgets in his chair for a third time, more preoccupied with his paperwork than the agents before him. McCree shoots Hanzo a shared weary look; the cowboy could have read the scientist with his eyes closed.
Winston clears his throat again, eyes growing serious as he hits his stride, “Athena, if you will.”
The tabletop disappears, flipping over to display one large monitor. The room floods with blue light, faces lit by the grid before them.
“Thanks to a recent tip-off, we have discovered Vishkar may be in operation of a new base. Not a military base, mind you, but an information hub. Imagine it if you will: thousands upon thousands of files containing every secret Vishkar has ever swept away. Files on every soldier, other bases, new tech, future plans, you name it. If it’s top secret, it’s there.”
“So,” Hana starts, drawing out the vowel, “you want us to get in there and download everything off the servers to a drive and get out?”
Winston smiles, kind and humoring, “It’s a bit more complex than that.”
“Where is this place,” Reinhardt growls; Hanzo is convinced the man has no concept of an inside voice, “I will smash through their fortress in no time!” Mercy holds up a hand from across the table, worried more about the man’s blood pressure than the ruckus he is creating.
“Hold on, you can’t go barging in there. This needs to go smoothly. As for where it is,” Winston falters a bit as he slides a finger across the screen, the grid is replaced with a map, “we are still narrowing down the possibilities.” Hanzo recognizes the location, the outline of California, from all the tales McCree has recounted of travelling across the United States. It zooms in impossibly far until the edges disappear altogether and instead focuses on a single town. Then, as the scientist taps the screen once more, it focuses on a neighborhood.
“Bingo,” the cowboy sits up straighter, flicking the brim of his hat to look Winston in the eye. “You want us to scope the place out, find the hub, and have ourselves a little meet-and-greet?”
Winston sighs, long and drawn out. The scientist looks worn-out, fur ruffled in odd places, eyes lacking their usual cheerful glow. Hanzo wonders if Winston’s skipped his daily jar of peanut butter.
“McCree, this is not a guessing game.” A flick of his furred wrists and the map comes to life, images shifting into 3-D models until the town is painted before them clear as day. Rows of houses atop pedicured lawns, one indistinguishable from the others. White exterior, grey shutters, matching ashen roofs, two stories tall—all identical. Strictly cookie-cutter.
“But yes, it is a reconnaissance mission. It is of upmost importance that it is kept covert. Vishkar seems to be experimenting with structuring neighborhoods, think of it like one of their cities Lúcio has fought so hard to rally against, but more concise. They have not yet deployed their sonic technology, but when they do, it could control hundreds of noncombatants. We believe this neighborhood is unknowingly harboring the base.”
Pharah and McCree exchange a glance before she turns her sharp eyes to the scientist, her mouth a thin, dubious line. “How could something that big be hidden so discretely?”
“It could be concealed in a house’s cellar or it could spread underneath the entire span of the neighborhood; we don’t have enough information at the time.”
“I’ll get my shovel then,” McCree adds, leaning back in his chair. The comment helps displace the tension from the air.
“What we do know, however,” Winston continues as if the cowboy hadn’t spoken up, “is that one of these houses is harboring the entryway. And it is very likely, that one of these so called ‘unassuming homeowners’ is actually working undercover for Vishkar."
“You wish for us to play spies for you so Overwatch doesn’t make a fool of itself by harming innocent civilians," Hanzo finally speaks up.
“Blunt and to the point as always, Mr. Shimada,” Winston smiles a bit at his own comment. “You are to infiltrate the neighborhood and survey it. Be on the lookout for any suspicious activity. Once you are certain of who is the agent in the bunch, find the access point. It will have to be a quick operation, they most likely have soldiers stationed at the ready if anything suspicious occurs.”
The scientist taps the folders he had been fidgeting with before against the table until they are a neat line, “You all will have to blend right in, of course, it is an undercover operation. We have already composed your fake identites, fitting in with the common denominator in the neighborhood. No one will be able to pick you apart from the crowd.” Winston passes the folders down the line until each is holding their labelled file.
There’s a pause. Information is still being withheld.
“Most common denominator?” McCree’s question slaps the grin of off Winston’s face. He does not meet their eyes as he mutters a singular word, rushed out in a stream of air as if he wishes to avoid the topic altogether.
The group lapses into silence as they open the manila folders and begin to inspect their documentation. Hanzo scans meticulously through the mass of words. His eyes settle on a faked birth certificate, moving down the lines until he finds the name, his new name: Henry Yoshida.
The archer almost laughs; he certainly does not look like a Henry.
Nimble fingers skim over the layers upon layers of paperwork: an insurance card, a passport, a driver’s license… He stops at that one. Hanzo blinks. His eyes narrow in confusion. Perhaps it’s a typo, maybe Winston had misplaced something along the lines.
The name does not match his forged birth certificate. More specifically, the surname.
Something about it seems familiar, but it doesn’t quite connect until his palms skirts over the next paper.
A marriage certificate.
“Ah!” Reinhardt’s excited shout nearly causes the archer to jump out of his skin, “Hana, you are posing as my granddaughter! My little Enkelin!”
“Don’t break a hip while you’re celebrating, Gramps.” She seems almost pleasantly surprised at the turn of events. Reinhardt would no doubt spoil her the entire mission. Of course, she’d have to stomach his odd cooking.
“Oh, it seems we are married, Fareeha,” Mercy announces lightly, but her grin is undeniable. Pharah, eyes hooded, says something under her breath that sends them both into a fit of hushed giggles.
Hanzo looks blankly at the paper once more. He and McCree lock eyes at the same moment. The room goes silent, the others becoming suddenly aware of the gunslinger’s uncharacteristic lapse in conversation.
Jesse McCree looks at him and the cowboy’s face lights up like the end of one of his god damned cigars.
In one swift motion, Hanzo stands, slamming his palms flat against the tabletop.
“This has to be a joke. You are yanking my leg.”
“It’s pullin’ my leg—” McCree starts to correct but is silenced half-way through when Hanzo hisses a sharp, “Shut up!”
Winston knew this was coming.
“I am being completely serious, Agent Shimada. We have had similar stealthy missions before, Angela once had to pose as Hana’s single mother for an entire month before they gained intel on Talon,” he glances to Mercy, the woman confirming his statement with a nod. “It is part of standard procedure.”
“Then have one of them do it,” the archer growls.
The others begin to put two and two together.
“Oh my god,” Hana starts slowly, wolfish grin spreading to an inhuman proportion, “did you two …?”
“Get hitched?” McCree glances across the table, “Why don’t you tell ‘em, darlin’?”
Chaos erupts. Hanzo looks about half ready to leap over the table and show the cowboy what he could really do with his bow. Pharah bursts into laughter, louder this time. She genially punches McCree in the shoulder, who, in turn, shoots her a sheepish grin. Hanzo turns his icy glower in her direction; Hana “Oooh”s at them, egging on the disorder.
Reinhardt hits his fist against the table. The room quakes.
“Now,” the knight says, unfazed smile still plastered against his face as the team becomes hushed once again, “I believe our good friend Winston was about to speak.”
Winston does not shirk from Hanzo’s angry words, instead he slowly pinches the bridge of his nose as he waits for the commotion to quiet down. “I have explained how short staffed we are, yes? Those of you who are here today are the only ones available. It’s lucky Lucio has been shadowing Ms. Ziegler for so long and can run the infirmary in her absence so she may be present to heal any of you should something go wrong. That being said, we have paired you all off not at random, but because of a complex algorithm that functions from your battle techniques.”
Said algorithm was Mercy threatening to cast out all of his favorite snacks as ‘a threat to his health’ and, with her own physician’s logic, have it all tossed into the garbage can. All he had to do was pair her up with Pharah and the rest could sort themselves out.
“There has to be someone else. This is ridiculous,” nowhere else to turn, Hanzo’s at the mercy of the cowboy. “McCree, tell him how idiotic this plan is.”
McCree sports an expression Hanzo has never seen: somewhere between holding his breath and grimacing, wide eyes focused on the wall behind Winston’s head. He’s deciding his fate. He could be speared by Hanzo’s arrows until he’s strung up like a modern-day Saint Sebastian, or he could face the wrath of an honest-to-God gorilla and possibly lose his job.
“How many lives do you reckon we’ll save with this job?”
“Countless. Not only those of the town, but everyone under their control. Vishkar is a global corporation, this information could wipe them off the grid.”
Reaching for a cigar, McCree waits for the levee to break.
“Alright, I’m in.”
The flood swallows him whole. Hanzo whipping his head around to turn his snarl in the cowboy’s direction is like a punch in the gut. He’s sure he would get much worse if the archer was armed.
“This—This is unbelievable. I am an assassin. I am not here to play pretend for your amusement.”
“You are a soldier, Shimada.” Winston swats away words that would have made weaker men tremble. The scientist has tried being kind, civil, but he’s at the end of his rope. “And this is an order. You have two days to pack and that’s final.”
The archer’s eyes narrow as he takes his hands off the table. He lifts his chin higher into the air, practically bristling.
“C’mon, honey, it ain’t gonna be that bad,” McCree is sure to enunciate the pet name. The teasing is untimely. He expects to get a grin, or at least the tiniest hint of the archer’s mood lightening. Instead he gets shouldered, hard.
Hanzo stomps out of the room without another word, leaving the cowboy’s head spinning.
Which brings him back to the couch, the one he’d been trying to bore a hole in with his eyes alone for the past five minutes. The stare could have emptied a whole room of people. Sadly, the affront of colors looks no less worse for wear.
“You’re thinkin’ mighty hard. You still upset about this whole secret agent business?”
Hanzo doesn’t offer a reply. The archer remains still, not even honoring McCree’s words by turning around. The cowboy sighs.
“We’re almost done movin’ in. You gonna help me grab the last few things or are you gonna keep givin’ me the silent treatment?”
Spinning on his heel, Hanzo finally meets the other’s eyes with his own fierce gaze. McCree takes a step back, but nonetheless stares back just as hard. It’s one of the things that puts the cowboy apart from the others—there is still the tinge of respect that comes with handling someone as commanding as Hanzo, conquering the dragon, but it doesn’t cow his own stubborn motives. It had gotten them in more than their own fair share of arguments.
McCree stands taller than him, five inches that make Hanzo begrudgingly look up at the man. He despises every last millimeter. Today, though, the man doesn’t seem so broad. Maybe it’s the lack of his chest plate, or the serape, or the hat Jesse McCree values more than his own life. Everything that made him McCree was gone, save for the lopsided grin and those big, brown eyes. Instead, he sports a t-shirt, the design riddled with some tacky phrase the archer cannot even muster the energy to care about. Then again, Hanzo hardly feels like himself in the button-up and slacks combo he had been forced to disguise himself in.
No, they were not their Overwatch selves. Here, they are Henry and Joey Eastwood (a name Winston had felt was ironic, and Hanzo had half a mind to smash the modem router in retribution). Henry runs his small business from home while Joey is, more or less, a trophy husband. They enjoy sports, grilling, and all things suburban.
If Hanzo had the opportunity to meet his own persona in real life, he would sink an arrow into his chest so far they would find him pinned to a tree the next country over.
The archer moves to sidestep him, to return to the truck. McCree’s hand clamps down on his shoulder.
“Look, I know you ain’t too fond of this situation, but think of it as a weird vacation. There’s no Winston or Morrison runnin’ you ragged, Angela is across the street instead of breathing down your neck to make sure you’re taking every vitamin humanly possible,” Hanzo actually snorts at that, McCree continues with more confidence, “no deadly missions, no nothin’. It don’t seem that bad at all.”
Hanzo moves slow, at a pace they can walk together, the closest thing McCree can get to an open invitation, “You only say that because you are not the one who will have to look after a John Wayne reject.”
McCree reaches for his hat before he remembers it isn’t on its usual perch atop his head. Instead, he places a hand over his heart in substitution.
“Babysittin’?! Is that why you think Winston tacked you onto this mission?”
They reach the rented moving van. All that remains inside of the spacious white interior is a coffee table, worn and stained from mugs and knives alike. McCree takes one end while Hanzo lifts the other. The weight is miniscule, certainly enough for the cowboy to lift with one hand. Hanzo doesn’t comment on it; perhaps it’s one of his odd American habits to prefer company.
“Why else if he did not feel you would be competent on your own?” He raises an eyebrow. The insult goes straight to Jesse’s heart.
“For your information,” the cowboy pauses as he takes a step backwards into the doorway, “I’m a wanted man. I got a bounty on my head bigger than Texas. How have I been able to escape all these bounty hunters for so long if I’m ‘incompetent’?”
“Luck.” The word comes with one of Hanzo rare smiles. That too, goes straight to Jesse’s heart.
He dodges the question altogether, knowing it holds a bit too much truth, “He paired us up because we go well together and you know it. We’re a team. I pick off all the guys on the ground with Peacekeeper and you take out the one guy who sneaks up behind me.”
“Winston chose us because we were the only soldiers available for this mission. Besides Junkrat.”
Hanzo deadpans, meeting the cowboy’s stare as the table connects with the living room carpet. For a moment they both ponder the consequences of having Junkrat assigned to an undercover mission. The archer could picture it perfectly: the neighborhood up in flames while Fawkes lounged in a pool, sipping something alcoholic in a fancy glass, utterly deaf to the destruction behind him.
They settle the table before the couch, the very same one Hanzo can still catch mocking him out of his peripherals.
“And I believe you are underestimating the numbers. The last time I checked the shooting range log I had more kills, and a better accuracy. Arrogance is not a good trait to possess, McCree.”
“I think it suits me just fine, Shimada,” the gunslinger fires back, echoing the other’s goading tone. McCree dusts off his hands, takes a gander at their newly furnished space, and whistles. “Mighty fine home we’ve got here,” he says, pushing back his imaginary hat as if it was blocking the view. “This won’t be too bad, s’long as we keep the fridge stocked.”
“And as long as we remain vigilant.” Hanzo’s voice drops its playful note, returning to the default coldness. McCree flops back on the couch with all the grace of a fish out of water. He ignores the serious comment, opting instead to spread his arms along the back of the couch and prop his boots up on the table.
Hanzo’s nose wrinkles in disgust as he swats the boots away. Another odd habit of westerners: why didn’t they just take off their shoes at the door?
He opens his mouth to chastise the man, to keep his filthy feet off the table, when the words die in his throat.
There is a silhouette in the door frame.
They had left the door wide open.
As much as Hanzo chides McCree for being unable to take a hint, the cowboy takes one look at the archer’s face and springs to his feet. Not that it will do much good—they were both instructed to arrive unarmed as to not frighten the locals. His bow was packed deep in the bottom of a suitcase, supposed to be gathering dust until they perform their final strike. Now he’s naked, out in the open without any means of protection.
He was going to die in the middle of suburbia, fake-married to an idiot with a cowboy fetish, and in front of that awful, awful couch.
For a moment the two stare at the intruder, frozen in place.
Then the silhouette steps forward into the light of the living room.
“Hello!” the woman squeaks the words out from behind her forced smile, one that is slowly waning from the hard stares given by the agents. They exchange a glance; she doesn’t seem like a threat, in fact she looks like every mother Hanzo has ever seen yell at their child from a sporting arena. Hair bobbed at the shoulders, a black sweater hanging from her small frame, she looks similar to some sort of exotic bird, only with bright red lipstick.
McCree rushes forward, practically leaping over the couch to greet her—Southern hospitality.
“Howdy,” he reaches to shake her hand, but finds them preoccupied, clutching a tin-foil covered dish. Without missing a beat, McCree offers a wave and a grin, “Name’s Joey. Don’t suppose you’re our new neighbor, are you?”
“Oh, yes!” She chirps excitedly, her eyes suddenly becoming much more amiable. Her blonde hair, not a strand out of place and curled up ever so slightly at the ends, bounces with every word. “My husband and I live just a few houses down, and I thought I would be the first to welcome you to the neighborhood!” She gestures to the pan; McCree is quick to take it from her.
“Smell’s great! I’ll go put this up and be back in jiffy. Sweetheart,” the man doesn’t miss an opportunity to call Hanzo pet names, “why don’t you come greet our guest?”
And then McCree is gone. Hanzo lingers for a moment, still across the living room. The woman, Grace, turns her smile on him. She does not appear to be an assassin, but the archer refuses to let his guard down. He crosses the room in confident strides, sure in everything he does, right down to his movements.
“Hi,” she offers, a little more wary. He can’t blame her too much; McCree always brings color and action into whatever he does. It’s as if the world spins much slower on its axis once he vanishes. Hanzo knows the feeling a little too well. The archer bows, schooling a smile across his face.
“I’m Grace,” she says, holding out a hand.
“Henry,” he answers, returning the handshake. Grace gives him a surprised look at the title; he certainly doesn’t look like a Henry. At least it possessed a similar ‘H’ sound, something he could still mindlessly answer to but wouldn’t give away his identity. “Joey and I were just discussing whether the neighbors would be friendly or not.”
“Well, I certainly hope I come off that way!” She touches his arm; Hanzo flashes his teeth to keep the grimace at bay as she continues to speak, “I hope we aren’t too out of the ordinary for you. However, Derek, he lives across from me, is a bit of a thrill seeker. Once, he took a dip in his pool with his designer shoes on! Can you imagine?”
“How dangerous.” Hanzo says flatly. It takes all of his concentration not to roll his eyes.
McCree comes to his rescue, hands on his hips as he saunters towards them, “Was that apple pie I smelled? Didn’t get a real good look at it, what with the tinfoil and all.”
“Of course,” Grace answers, her shrill voice reaching new octaves. “It’s the best way I could think of saying welcome!”
“Well, aren’t you just a peach. Thanks for givin’ us a warm welcome.” His eyes turn towards the archer, McCree’s hand coming to hook around his hip and pull them shoulder to shoulder. “That pie looks almost sweeter than you, dear.”
“Joey…” it’s a warning, hissed from behind clenched teeth, masquerading as a fond retort to any onlooker. Hanzo adorns his best practiced grin, but his eyes spell out the cowboy’s doom. And yet, still, Hanzo doesn’t flinch away from his grasp.
“Aw, aren’t you two just the cutest,” Grace says as she clasps her hands together, eyes bouncing between the both of them. “How long have you two been together?”
“Got married in May. Tiny ceremony, wasn’t much more than signin’ some legal papers. But hey, we made it work. All the right people were there and all the right things were said. Figured there’s no time like the present, right Henry?”
Hanzo finds himself unable to form coherent speech. Every ounce of his perception is focused on the hand gently cupping his hip, and the paradoxical, insurmountable weight it has to it. Instead he just nods numbly.
Grace has no problem steamrolling her way over the conversation in his absence, “You picked the right neighborhood to settle down; it’s practically a paradise for young couples. It’s the perfect place to settle down and start a life for yourself, start a family.”
McCree sputters at that one.
The archer is caught between shooting an arrow through the idiotic man’s palm and standing perfectly still. He zones out of the conversation, mostly because everything that came out of the woman’s mouth was abhorrently monotonous, or at least that’s what he tells himself. Hanzo couldn’t care less about Grace’s husband’s golf swing, or their battle with termites, or that McCree’s thumb has moved a quarter of an inch upwards to ghost over his hip bone—
He pulls away altogether with a sharp intake of breath through his nose. Two pairs of eyes focus his way.
“Thank you, Grace, for the pie. I am sure we will enjoy it thoroughly. If you’ll excuse us though, we still have a lot to unpack.”
Sharp and to the point, like the arrows he carries. It was Hanzo’s polite version of ‘get out, your voice is giving me a headache’.
“Oh!” she seems almost taken aback, but after a moment Grace recovers. “Of course! Oh dear, the sun’s already set. I’ll be on my way then. But you two should definitely stop by for the monthly barbeque. And I’ll be sure to put in a good word for you with the others.”
The woman backs out of the door.
“Goodnight,” Hanzo finally cuts her off as she pauses to take a gulp of air. The door shuts before Grace can get out another word.
They do not speak until both can hear the sharp clicking of heels on pavement.
“Well, that could’ve ended on a better note,” McCree sighs. "Though, for a second there I thought I might go crazy if she said 'golf is the most interesting sport' again, bless her heart." His train of thought is derailed as the archer shoves him out of his path. Hanzo charges through the living room, prosthetic feet stomping against the hardwood flooring and into the kitchen. The cowboy bites back a curse, drags his gloved hand through his hair, where he so badly wishes his hat would be, and tails after the archer.
“What’s got you’re feathers ruffled now? I swear, you’re pricklier than a cactus.”
The word is hissed at him; Hanzo doesn’t look up from the tea he’s furiously stirring. If the man wasn’t so dangerous with scalding water, it would have been comedic. They had had time to set up one thing in the house, and the archer had gone straight for the kettle. Figures. Jesse lingers at the threshold, afraid that hot tea might come splashing his way.
“Me? What have I done now? I was just bein’ a hospitable guest. We need to be kind if we’re gonna infiltrate these people’s lives.”
“No, not that you stupid cowboy.”
Hanzo marches over to the doorway until he is face to face with the gunslinger. One hand holding a mug, the other jams a finger against Jesse’s chest. For being a good five inches shorter, chin tipped up, eyes feral, Hanzo almost manages to daunt McCree.
“You were touching me.”
McCree’s brow furrows, a twisted smile on his face like he should laugh, but the sound that comes out is bitter.
“Our mission is to act all lovey-dovey to fool Vishkar. Now, how do you suppose I go about doin’ that without layin’ a finger on you?”
“Do not fondle me like that again.”
The archer pushes past him, leaving the other sputtering in the doorway. For not the last time that night, the cowboy wishes he had his hat, simply so he could throw it down in anger.
“Fondle? Sweetheart, I’ll show you fondling—!”
“That won’t be necessary.” There is no emotion behind the words, just a coldness that settles into the atmosphere, seeps into McCree’s chest. Hanzo shoots him one last look over his shoulder, and heads upstairs, towards the bedroom.
“Wait,” the gunslinger calls after; the archer pauses. “There’s still a lot to unpack, you can’t leave this job to a single man.”
“I’m sure you will manage,” and there’s that smile—too toothy and smug. It sets his stomach in knots, gives off the same feeling he gets when Lena pulls an especially risky move while flying the transporters, as if his gut is going into free fall. “Goodnight Mister McCree.” Hanzo finalizes his words to the frozen cowboy by shutting and locking the bedroom door behind him.
“God damn,” Jesse swears under his breath once the dust has settled. His feet are still caught in the kitchen doorway. All at once, a mixture of vexation and embarrassment come crashing down on him. He doesn’t know whether to put his head in his hands or punch something.
McCree settles for the latter.
He swears, louder this time, and kicks a box when he realizes Hanzo has silently claimed the single bedroom without so much as an argument over it. God damn him. He doesn’t even know where to begin looking for blankets in the tower of boxes. McCree lights a cigar. To hell with the no smoking policy.
He’ll be sleeping on the couch tonight.