Chapter Text
A little fire and shards of glass are hardly sufficient reason for his heart to be pounding like it’s trying to escape. Hanzo leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. He tries taking a steadying breath, but chokes on the lingering smoke drifting out of the studio. His palms feel raw and he’s not sure why his hands are still shaking as he covers his coughs and drags himself over to the nearest window, greedily gulping in the fresh air.
Concern, Hanzo tells himself, has nothing to do with him staying and waiting for the police to arrive.
It’s spite - for McCree, for whoever was trying to set the ballroom on fire, and for his parents who thought they were helping him by placing him here in this miserable patch of desert where people think snakeskin boot-sandals were the height of fashion.
When he tells his parents what happened, that will be that. They won’t be able to hold the prelims against him. He and Genji and Satya will go home and he’ll never have to think about that big, stupid, confoundingly handsome cowboy ever again. Everything will go back to the way it should be.
“Oh… yer bleeding.”
Hanzo bristles at the concern he hears in McCree’s voice. “It’s nothing,” he mutters, cradling his hand close to his chest, hidden from prying eyes. He ignores the sting of pain the motion lances through his nerves. The last thing he needs on top of everything else is the man’s pity.
“When will the police be here?” Hanzo asks.
McCree seems to have little concept of personal space. Ignoring his question, the man crowds close to Hanzo and doesn’t take the hint when he backs away. Despite the noise of protest that rises up in Hanzo’s throat, McCree vaults straight over the warning and gingerly takes a hold of his wrist the same moment his back collides with a wall. The man's touch is gentle but firm in a way that cautions against yanking his hand back, but Hanzo is the posterboy of stubborn. He tries and continues resisting even when his attempts prove futile.
“What are you doing?” Hanzo grits out through the pain.
“Checkin’ your hand. These shards of glass sure don’t look like nothing to me.”
Face falling slack, Hanzo detachedly looks down at his hand. He hadn’t noticed the tiny splinters of glass. The little rivulets of blood covering his palm. But while he’s noticing things, Hanzo also notices that McCree’s hold is loose. He could pull away, but he’s finding it harder to muster the fight in him when he’s pinned under a soft brown gaze full of worry. Hanzo inwardly curses.
“If I was in pain, you’d know it. It looks worse than it is.”
“Regardless... I owe you an apology.”
Hanzo’s head snaps up. Between the contrite frown and furrowed brow, it’s hard to doubt the sincerity, but it’s also easy to see that it’s a struggle for McCree. The man lets go of his hand as he continues.
“I’m sorry for the way I snapped at you back there. You didn’t deserve that. I was upset and I can’t rightly let you walk away with your hand like this.”
Dozens of retorts spring to mind, but Hanzo swallows the first few.
“If you’re so concerned, get a first-aid kit.”
McCree’s expression is stormy, veering between anger and amusement, but the haughty look on Hanzo’s face fades when the man actually walks off and comes back with one. He wasn't expecting McCree to listen.
“Let's go into my office,” McCree says, and before Hanzo can move, a gentle hand lands on his lower back, steering him forward. “Might take a while to get all this damn glass outta ya.”
McCree's office is not what he expected. It's small but tidy, cozy instead of cramped. There are succulents of all types and sizes covering the window sill and his desk. Each one looks healthy, well kept.
Neither of them say more than a few words while Hanzo holds his hand out and McCree hunches over, face scrunched in concentration. One by one, McCree plucks out the shards of glass. McCree’s honey brown eyes flicker up every now and then, but Hanzo resolutely doesn't meet his gaze. He’s conflicted enough, having his hand cradled so gently in McCree's palm. There’s no need to lay it on thick with the worry in McCree’s eyes.
Every now and then there’s a sting, but the man is gentle as can be. Hanzo’s hand doesn’t hurt again until McCree pours a hydrogen peroxide over the knicks and even then, he’s careful to talk Hanzo through every step, letting him know exactly what he’s doing and when, from drying his palm to wrapping a bandage around his hand.
“Not bad,” Hanzo says, admiring the bandaging when McCree’s finished and the first-aid kit is put away. “Thank you for - that.”
“Least I could do.”
Hazarding a glance up, Hanzo decides a different approach to addressing his concern may be in order. He owes McCree an apology.
It feels like there are balls of cotton wedged in his throat, but Hanzo swallows past the guilt and pride and says, “I’m sorry for the accusation I made earlier. This… it doesn’t usually happen, right?”
“No, but it ain’t exactly surprising,” McCree sighs, carding a hand through his hair.
“Why not?”
McCree hesitates.
“You’re not going to leave if I actually tell you, are you?”
Hanzo is dumbstruck by the question. Even if they had reached a level of peace, didn’t McCree want him gone?
“I can’t make any promises. I have to base that decision off what’s best for Satya, Genji, and my career.”
“Interestin’ way of putting it.” McCree smiles mirthlessly. “Well… I think you’re safer off knowing, rather than being in the dark.”
His mouth is curved, but Hanzo can see McCree is serious as he pools his thoughts together.
“People’re after this real estate. Maybe you don’t see it, but Santa Fe’s been getting bigger. This ballroom is in a prime location and the developers don’t care if the building’s historic. All they see is profits and this place doesn’t bring in a lot when we’re not hosting professional ballroom dancers. Y’know… my dads, they were starting to entertain some of the offers. We were that deep in the hole.” There’s definitely bitterness laced in his voice, but at least now Hanzo has some context.
“Now that we’ve turned them all down, they probably want to scare us off,” McCree concludes, which is exactly the same conclusion Hanzo arrives at as he listens.
“Despicable,” Hanzo mutters, bristling at the poor business conduct. “Can you press charges against them for this?”
“Based off what happened tonight? Pretty doubtful, darlin’,” McCree sighs, shaking his head. “There’s not much we can use to prove it, and like I said, there’s been more than one developer after this property. We wouldn’t even know who to point the finger at. Could be any one of them.”
McCree gives his knee a quick pat before seeming to remember himself and quickly springing to his feet. “You sit tight - pretty sure Fareeha is here,” McCree says in a rushed voice, leaving Hanzo there while he practically runs out of the room.
Hanzo sits there for a moment. He has no phone to tell Genji or Satya what happened. No way of getting home.
All he has is a myriad of conflicting thoughts about Jesse McCree and the Castillo Ballroom.