Chapter Text
There was a ceremony because of fucking course there was. McCree had expected it knowing just who he was taking away, but that didn’t mean that he had to enjoy it.
Still, he was fascinated by it all. Humans didn’t celebrate things the way that Hanamurans did, after all.
Hanzo visited him before the ceremony with a small army of servants. “Our father did not think to discuss this with you,” he said in Standard, using the formal “our” in the presence of the servants who laid out brushes, hair decorations, and a pile of fine clothes made in Hanamuran silk.
The silk alone was likely enough to buy a new ship, never mind the fine embroidery that had to be present (because though embroidery wasn’t quite considered an art, it was still an honored “pastime” and a sign of status). In Standard payment, one article of Hanamuran silk clothing was worth more than what he was being paid to escort these young princes; with embroideries, which were never mass-produced and contained symbols tied specifically to the wearer and their Clan, and which was only made or worn for very special events, it was worth at least double.
Just seeing the folded cloth made McCree’s head spin.
Hanzo nodded his head and the servants bowed—once to Hanzo, then once to McCree—and left. The decorative doors in the Shimada pavilion slid silently shut. Hanzo turned to McCree and smiled in the Hanamuran way. “Are you well?” his tail curled and arched to show his concern.
“I am,” he admitted faintly. “It’s just…” he cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, but it’s a lot to take in.”
As much as he could “read” Hanamuran expressions, McCree thought that Hanzo looked sympathetic—or something similar. “I understand,” he agreed, switching to Hanamuran as he gently lifted the pile of clothing that the servants had brought. In Standard, he said, “everything is moving so quickly.” He gently laid out the clothes so that McCree could see the rest of it. “Are you familiar with our embroidery?”
McCree cleared his throat. “To some extent,” he admitted. “But not a lot. I know it’s personal, and I had the honor of learning about the symbols. I was also honored by being taught briefly by Ueoka Umeko, but he…” he cleared his throat as Hanzo smiled kindly at him. “He deemed me unteachable. I still have scars from the needles.”
Then Hanzo made a sound that McCree had never heard a Hanamuran make. It reminded him of the low purr of a felid and he wondered if this was a less formal expression that he had simply not been privy to. He guessed that it might be a laugh, because Hanzo also gestured that he was laughing in the way that McCree was used to.
“Genji is better at embroidery than I am,” Hanzo admitted. “If only he could sit still enough to sew!”
He caught a hint of nervousness in Hanzo’s voice and smiled at him in the Hanamuran way. “I could use the practice,” he said. “If you are more comfortable speaking in your language.”
To his surprise, Hanzo seemed relieved. “I should practice Standard,” he said in Hanamuran. “But I admit that I am… exhausted by it.”
“I understand,” McCree assured him as he moved at Hanzo’s gesture to look at the clothing. “Oh, stars.”
Hanamuran embroidery was an entire language of its own. Even those that specialized in xeno-symbology were often perplexed by it, and McCree had always guessed that it was a “language” that was only obvious to those that “spoke” it. But there were things that he could very easily read in it.
First, he saw the Santa Fe, reproduced in remarkable detail on the left shoulder. In fact, the only “complaints” that he could give for its reproduction in metallic thread were details that would not be able to be properly rendered in thread. Given the honor of the left side in Hanamuran culture—all gestures and expressions of respect were done with the left—he was staggered. The entire left-hand side was rendered with silver stars and while McCree wasn’t certain of the position of the stars, he’d guess that they were relevant to either Hanamura (specifically the position of stars of the day that the Santa Fe arrived) or the stars around the Overwatch station.
Still, he knew that if he were to take a measurement to it, their positions would be accurate to a ridiculous degree—that’s just how Hanamuran art was.
The stars moved over the sleeve, moving from silver—a color of honor, as it was the metal with the highest electrical conductivity and thus the color that the Clan heads wore on their horns—to gold, the color of Sojiro’s sons that would travel with the Santa Fe to the Overwatch. Now that he noticed it, he looked back at the embroidered version of the Santa Fe and saw that it had been outlined in gold, a symbol of his “adoption”.
The collar was decorated with the symbols and knotwork of a Son of the Shimada Clan; the edge of the right sleeve showed that the coat was for a human who had honored the Clan. There were other symbols embroidered into the hems that McCree didn’t recognize and whose meaning eluded him—he had only seen such decorations on very rare occasions. One had been a wedding, where the entire wedding party (or a similar equivalent) had such embroideries; the other had been a funeral.
He was pretty sure that this ceremony was neither.
“Do you like it?” Hanzo asked, looking as nervous as McCree had ever seen a Hanamuran—and he’d seen younglings frantically cramming for their first aptitude tests. He ran a hand over the silk as if unable to help himself. “I worked on it myself.”
Shocked, McCree looked up at him. “You did? This is wonderful!" When the fuck he had time for this, McCree wouldn’t know. He had only been on Hanamura for two days and the amount of work that had to have gone into this must surely have exceeded that.
But then, Hanamuran males were known for this art, so Hanzo would be very good at it. Still, this was…a remarkable amount of work.
Hanzo ducked his head. “I am not as good as my brother,” he demurred.
Shaking his head, McCree ran his hands over the embroidery. “This is finer than anything I’ve seen before,” he said honestly. “And I don’t think that I’ll ever see anything finer.”
“It is a gift that I had always dreamt about making for my—” there was that strange word again, the one that the translator had translated as “soulmate”.
He opened his mouth to ask but Genji poked his head in, scraping the delicate gold leaf coating his horns on the edges of the doorway. “Hurry up!” he hissed in Hanamuran. “You will be late!” Just as quickly he disappeared, the assorted charms on his horns jingling.
“He’s right,” Hanzo said briskly. “You must get dressed.” He hesitated. “Do…you know how to wear these?”
McCree’s face went red. “Um…not really.”
To his surprise, Hanzo wrung his hands in an almost human gesture of nervousness. “May I assist you? As a Son of the Shimada…”
McCree made a face. “I forgot about that,” he admitted. “Alright, let’s do this.”
He had planned on wearing his dress uniform, but obviously that was not good enough. Hanzo nodded and looked away as McCree pulled off his shirt and undershirt as if it was indecent. McCree didn’t say anything as he shrugged into the coat. It was lighter than he had expected, especially given the embroideries, and it sighed as it fell into place.
Hanzo’s ear flicked and he turned around, tugging the garment shut. It fell to his ankles with a short train that dragged behind him, and the sleeves fit him perfectly so that they rested at his wrists.
“There are usually more layers,” Hanzo explained as he tugged it into place, folded the ends over each other, and reached for the sash and its decorative rope tie from which a small charm hung. “But it took too long to have all of them made. I will be sure to have more completed so that you have a full suit.”
McCree sputtered. More of this ridiculously expensive silk? That when worked, was considered some of the most expensive material in the galaxy? “You don’t—”
“You, as a Son of Shimada, need a full suit,” Hanzo said firmly and that was that.
It was fair, though. Hanamurans showed status by the wrapping on their horns and, during special occasions, the elaborate embroidery that they wore on their formal robes. The embroidery on the coats were done by someone close—fathers for their newborns, husbands for new wives—while close friends or siblings might offer something smaller. When last McCree delved into Hanamuran fashion, albeit a few Standard years ago when he served as a guard, it had been fashionable for young Hanamurans to exchange small embroideries as gifts between good friends. The stronger the friendship, the more elaborate the embroidery.
So, given that Sojiro had named him a son and gave him the honor of calling him by name instead of his title, McCree knew that he needed to have a full suit. He just didn’t have to like it.
Hanzo fussed over the fine silk and then directed McCree to sit down. “I do not have the skill to arrange your hair as it should,” Hanzo said distractedly. “And I am not familiar with human hairstyles.”
“Let me help,” McCree suggested. “I don’t think that I have the hair to do anything too elaborate, though.”
“We don’t have the time for that,” Hanzo assured him. “And hair is not a large factor in Hanamuran dress. We are gaudy enough with our horns and tails and embroideries.”
It seemed that Hanzo liked dressing up about as much as McCree did and he was unable to help his smile. That would certainly explain the way his horns hung bare where the current fashion was to have hanging charms to show how well-traveled and well-loved a Hanamuran was. That would explain why his tail was extremely plain compared to the tail-harps of others that McCree had seen around the Shimada estate.
As a high-ranking Shimada, Hanzo would have received many of those horn-charms. He would have traveled to other clans, other planets in the system with which the Shimada did business. If he had any close friends, they would find a charm for him from the places they visited. These were typically made of carved and enameled wood to show that it had been a gift and that it wasn’t necessarily a given that the wearer of such a gift had been to the location. It was a message, he had once read in an article about Hanamuran horn-gifts, that said, “I see this beautiful area but all I can think of is you.”
It was sweet, McCree remembered thinking.
A common business-gift would be a charm for the horns, it had once been explained to him. An intelligent negotiator would give such a charm—made of glass or thin metal and tied in a soft material—that described the area that the negotiation took place but not a symbol that was specific to either party. Giving a horn-charm with a symbol of the negotiating company was considered to be in poor taste, or an insulting amount of hubris—such a symbol given at the beginning of the negotiations implied that the giver took it as a given that the receiver would agree with them and whatever terms they proposed.
All of it made his head spin even now. There was a reason that Hanamuran symbology was an incredibly specialized field—and why nobody devoted themselves to more than a very specific type of symbology. He knew some people that pursued Hanamuran tail charms as a hobby—a relatively common field of study—and from them, knew that there was an hierarchy in their fields dictated by the difficulty of the symbology, with embroidery considered to be the most difficult for non-Hanamurans to understand.
Hanzo interrupted his distracted musings, picking up the brush that the servants had left behind and running it through McCree’s hair. “Are you mated?”
“I am not,” McCree replied. Then he laughed slightly. “Some might say that I’m married to the Santa Fe, though. I just haven’t found anyone as in love with the stars as I am.”
Hanzo hummed and seemed to process that information. “I can understand that,” he agreed quietly. “It makes me a poor negotiator.” Again, he made that strange purring sound. With his hands occupied and no way for McCree to look at him, it reinforced his theory that it was a kind of laugh, given the context of the conversation. “A lot of things make me a poor negotiator.”
“Not if you’re considered the best,” McCree pointed out quietly.
“By virtue of being my father’s son,” Hanzo said dismissively.
McCree had no words for that. To argue too much would be considered rude; even more so for him, since he had only known Hanzo for two Hanamuran days. Instead he said, “I hope to one day see you in action,” he said.
“I would rather see the stars,” Hanzo muttered, much to McCree’s surprise. “But if negotiating for the Overwatch means that I can see more than the stars in this system, then it’s a small sacrifice to pay.”
They fell silent. Hanzo was gentle as he brushed McCree’s hair and the bristles were soft against his scalp, lulling him into a much more relaxed state.
“I cannot do much with your hair,” Hanzo said. “But I do have decorations that should be added, since you do not have horns to decorate.”
There were fine clasps in gold and McCree made a face before he could hide it. Hanzo laughed in the Hanamuran way and with that strange little purr and McCree found himself smiling as well.
“Alright,” he said. “Let’s figure this out.”
He didn’t look quite as impressive as the other Shimada did as they began their procession, but he at least didn’t stand out more than he already did. The Hanamurans towered over him and he had to be careful not to step on their long robes or their long tails dripping in charms, but it was easy enough when he realized that he would be walking beside Hanzo.
Strange that he was beside Hanzo, and not in a line with the rest, but the last thing he wanted to do was argue and have it drawn out any longer.
He received the dubious honor of meeting the Elders, though, so that was interesting. Their faces were decorated in such a way that, combined with the copper wrapping on their horns, they appeared as if they were trees that had come to life.
They didn’t seem to like him, speaking above and around him as if he was an inanimate object. That suited him just fine as he stood still while they discussed amongst themselves whether he was worthy or not.
He was not theirs to weigh.
It seemed that Hanzo had reached a similar consensus and ordered them away. The Elders bowed to him—but not McCree—and walked away in an austere line.
When they walked into the meeting area, McCree was given a branch of those pink flowers to hold—metal, he was relieved to feel, but they were so light and delicate that it felt like he was carrying the natural flowers—and placed back in line with Hanzo.
There were a few guests present—despite having a ceremony for every possible occasion, Hanamurans didn’t typically enjoy attending ceremonies in person—that were as decorated as Hanzo and Genji were.
He noted that Hanzo’s elaborate embroidery included the Santa Fe, and a symbol that he recognized as the Overwatch symbol “translated” into the language of Hanamuran embroidery. Genji’s also had this Overwatch symbol, but he was missing the Santa Fe.
Curious.
Now that he knew what to look for after their conversation in his room, McCree noticed that Hanzo’s embroidery had stars featuring heavily in the designs. He hoped that Hanzo would get his wish to see everything he wanted to; he wished that he could take Hanzo with him on his adventures, and was surprised by the desire.
Sojiro and his mate—a surprisingly tiny Hanamuran by their standards—called the group to order. They had offered a translating device to McCree earlier but he had politely turned it down—as he was allowed to do now, without it being considered rude.
It was as boring as all other ceremonies went, and he was glad that Hanzo had very briefly described what was going to happen as they struggled with his hair and the shining golden beads that Hanzo insisted he wear.
Sojiro called the group to attention and explained—though nobody was surprised—that Hanzo and Genji would be leaving with McCree to go to the Overwatch. His mate spoke of sharing technology, knowledge, and kindred with the Overwatch, since McCree was now their son. (Hanzo wouldn’t elaborate on this and McCree was ready to give up asking why.)
The Elders were called to speak and—unsurprisingly to McCree—they cautioned against releasing their two brightest stars.
To McCree’s surprise, the female leader of the Shimada interrupted them. She used that strange “soulmate” word and the Elders seemed aghast; the audience looked at each other as if this news was completely unprecedented.
Looking as if they had sucked on something sour, the Elders conceded.
The farewell ceremony was refreshingly brisk and McCree had to kneel and bow so many times that he could feel his knees and hips and back protesting. But to fail in this would be to lose face so he sucked it up and prayed that it would be over soon.
Sojiro asked him to care for their sons (using the plural form to refer both to the sons of his mate but also to reference sons of the entire Clan) and he agreed in his best Hanamuran. (Fortunately, “I will” in Hanamuran was among the easier things to properly pronounce.)
He’d attended such Farewell ceremonies before—the Ueoka Clan had also honored him with a small version of it when he had left their service—but the length and detail involved in such a ceremony was correlated to the status of those leaving.
So it was many Hanamuran hours before he was able to return to the Santa Fe for a good rest.
Morrison stopped him in the airlock with garment bags and hangers. “You will not toss that in your locker,” she hissed. “That is Hanamuran silk and you will not ruin that. Sir.”
Sighing, McCree scrubbed a hand down his face. “I need help out of it anyway,” he admitted.
“Captain,” Nox said from the nearest panel. “Shimada Hanzo is approaching the ship.” This wouldn’t be the first time that Hanzo had boarded the ship, but every time he heard Nox announce his arrival, McCree felt nervous.
McCree groaned and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Let him in, Nox.” He looked meaningfully at Morrison and she scrambled away without prompting, slapping the button in the hall to close off the area in an effort to give them privacy.
A moment later, the doors hissed open and Hanzo appeared in the doorway. His ears swiveled and his eyes blinked as he seemed to slowly acclimate to the interior of the ship.
“Greetings,” he said in Standard. “May I come aboard, captain?”
McCree gestured. “You may,” he agreed in the same language. “How may I help you?”
“I realized that you may have difficulty undressing,” Hanzo said and his tail swung to show his uncertainty. “I apologize if I am… causing you distress.”
“Imposing,” McCree told him and watched Hanzo’s ears swivel and his eyes blink as he processed the word. “It means that your presence is causing me trouble. You do not want to impose; and I tell you that you are not imposing.”
Hanzo hummed as he processed that information. “I see,” he said. “I apologize if I am imposing.”
McCree smiled. “You are not imposing, I promise. Did you need something?”
“I wasn’t sure if you needed help… undressing,” Hanzo said. “But that is very forward of me to ask my—” again, that soulmate word.
“What is that word?” McCree asked before he could stop himself and Hanzo froze. He cleared his throat and tried to repeat the word back, but was pretty sure he fucked it up pretty bad. “The translator said that it was ‘soulmate’ but it didn’t seem…quite right.”
A peculiar expression crossed Hanzo’s face. He cleared his throat. “Will you…come with me?” he asked haltingly in Standard. “I…will be happy to answer all of your questions.” He cleared his throat and McCree realized that he was already dressed down, in his unadorned robes, the ones without the embroideries. “If you would like to change first, I can wait.”
McCree swallowed, but remembered that he still had his uniform on beneath the robes so he wouldn’t be naked. “Would you like to help?” he asked, trying to gauge Hanzo’s reaction. He had offered, this was true, but McCree wasn’t sure how he’d react to being asked.
Another strange expression crossed Hanzo’s face. “If…you do not mind,” he said almost bashfully. “Unless there is someone else you would rather…?”
McCree shook his head quickly. “No, this is fine,” he said quickly. “I’d hate to ruin it. So what do I need to do?”
Fifteen minutes later, much cursing, and with Morrison being summoned to help hang the garments, McCree was freed from the heavy robes. “How is it harder to get out of these clothes than it is to get in them?” he asked and Hanzo made that peculiar purr-laugh as Morrison ducked her head to hide her smile. “Thank you, Morrison.”
“With your permission, captain, I will hang this in your quarters.” Morrison said, half saluting and half bowing in the Hanamuran style. At his nod, she walked away, the garments held in both arms to keep them from dragging on the ground.
McCree turned to Hanzo whose ears were twisted back. “Come,” Hanzo said in Standard. Then in Hanamuran, he said, “There is a lovely tree outside, and the weather is fair.” It was something said before a negotiation and McCree’s stomach twisted nervously. Then, to McCree’s surprise, Hanzo offered his hand to McCree.
It was a rare gesture among Hanamurans. They did not tend to touch, except mated pairs. Still, McCree rested his hand on Hanzo’s and allowed himself to be led outside. There was indeed a tree nearby and they cleared a spot to sit down and speak.
“So,” McCree said into the awkward silence. The trees whistled and the leaves whispered as pale pink petals fell around them. “This word.”
Hanzo bowed his head in acknowledgement. “Yes,” he agreed. “There is much to discuss.”