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Hanzo sleeps like the dead. He didn’t used to, but now it’s all McCree can do just to get him out of bed at a decent hour. And while McCree is an early riser - out of military-rigid habit and occasional insomnia - and while he’s had three years to develop some kind of game plan for getting Hanzo and himself out of bed and presentable before they get yelled at, sometimes it just isn’t pressing enough for him to bother.
Like this morning. He’d been working for an hour or so to bring his husband into the waking world, with minimal success (if you count barely-audible threats of dismemberment as success, which he does), and at this point he thinks Hanzo is just being obstinate. And, yeah, it’s a Saturday, and nobody really needs to be awake before 0900 on a Saturday, but the tickets for a hypertrain to Palm Springs at 11 says that Hanzo and McCree most certainly do. So, faced with no other choice, McCree’s pulled out the big guns.
“My little croissant,” he croons, slotting himself against the back of the blanket-monster beside him. His good arm wraps limpetlike around Hanzo’s trim waist, his feet tangle with the sleep-warm metal of Hanzo’s prosthetics - and the spooning offers him a perfect opportunity to hook his chin over the bare, muscular plane of Hanzo’s shoulder, to get his mouth right up near his ear.
And the reaction is immediate: Hanzo groans quietly, either still waking up or just in physical pain from the nickname, and - bingo - in McCree’s periphery his eyes start to crack open.
“Must you?” He croaks, but doesn’t move away. Or at all. Hanzo runs cool, kind of like a lizard, and McCree knows he values the warmth of their down comforters and McCree’s own furnace of a body too much to attempt escape.
“Yup,” McCree replies easily, nosing against the messy, loose hair lying over Hanzo’s ears. “You gotta get up, sugarbean, we got business to attend to this morning.”
Hanzo snorts, but closes his eyes again with purpose. McCree tries again.
“C’mon, my little...baumkuchen.”
“Ugh,” Hanzo deadpans. His hand creeps up to weave with the one resting on his sternum. Progress.
“My sweet morning bun.” That one just gets a scoff. “Mister bear claw. My apple pie.”
“Every new one is worse than the last,” Hanzo grumbles, like this is new information. Like the blush that stains his high cheekbones is a trick of the light. McCree just crowds closer. Embarrassment, and coddling, always wakes Hanzo up easiest.
“C’mon, cheesecake,” McCree wheedles, grinning. “Can’t be late to brunch. That right there is a gay faux pas.”
Cheesecake is at least accurate, if McCree has any say in it, because look at the guy. He’d say Hanzo isn’t buying any of it, but he’s spent years acclimating to the front his husband puts up whenever he gets positive attention. His poker face isn’t nearly as good as he thinks it is.
“My little cream horn,” he rasps. That one sounded lewd. Hanzo seems to agree, as the tips of his ears go red.
“No.”
“My little…” For as many times as he’s woken Hanzo up like this, he still runs out of baked good names long before he feels like stopping. “...Pan de dulce. My little concha. My sweet, handsome oreja.”
“Stop,” Hanzo groans, but he’s cracking. He turns onto his back to fix McCree with a thousand-yard stare; the little upward twitch of his lips and his slowly-spreading blush betray him.
“
Vamonos,
my little brigadeiro!” McCree chuckles, pillowing his cheek on Hanzo’s bicep as it slides under his neck. Hanzo doesn’t look bleary anymore, just exasperated in a theatrical, deadpan kind of way. “You gon’ get out of this bed or what?”
Of course, as he says that, he lifts his leg up out from under the covers and slings it across Hanzo’s lap, matching the arm still draped across his chest. He’s trapped. Hanzo sinks into it, but doesn’t close his eyes again.
“Not with you strewn across me,” Hanzo sniffs. “You betray your true intentions.”
“See, my only intention was to wake you up, my little maple bar. My fluffy castella cake. And I done did that, so now we’re workin’ on step two.”
“If you truly wanted me out of bed, you would get this - ” he gives McCree’s encroaching knee a little poke (less severe than a jab, which means he’s fucking around) “- off of me and back underneath the covers. You’re letting in a draft.”
McCree sighs, put-upon, and only shifts closer. “See, we wouldn’t even have a draft if some handsome an’ talented little profiterole could sleep without the thermostat bein’ in the negative…”
Hanzo gags - a fake noise if McCree’s ever heard one - then cranes his neck a little to peer out the window to the left of their bed. He grimaces at the bright, clear blue sky above a desert town already well on its way to breaking 100 degrees, even hours before high noon. “It is July. In New Mexico . Of course the air conditioner is on.”
“Might do you a little good to appreciate the bounties of Mother Nature’s diversity, my little Haribo Gold bear. My sweet Snickers bar,” McCree responds, crowding against Hanzo, pressing a kiss to his neck. Hanzo melts into the attention, as much as Hanzo melts into anything - which is to say he tilts his head a little and sighs.
“Not when it entails ‘appreciating’ 43 degrees of desert heat. Madman.”
Here’s the thing: McCree gets this gripe almost every day, but it’s been a year of retirement and they’re still in the same little house in Albuquerque. Hanzo doesn’t seem to actually mind the heat, beyond grumbling about it, unless he’s trying to sleep. And he’d been completely on-board for moving to the desert in the first place; he doesn’t say it, but McCree thinks maybe his own love for the American Southwest has actually managed to rub off on Hanzo a little.
“Suit yourself, my little Milky Way.” McCree rubs his cheek against Hanzo’s, obnoxiously enough that Hanzo blusters at him for it while attempting to stem another snort of laughter.
“You are a beast,” he grouses. “Why candy, suddenly?”
“Well, Snickers is on account of how much you like to laugh.” He reaches up to squish Hanzo’s cheeks against his pointedly-unsmiling mouth, urging the corners of his lips into an absurd, chubby smile. “Just lookit that. And Milky Way is ‘cause you’re all the stars in my sky.”
Hanzo just lets McCree’s hand deform his face. He glares, and he goes even redder, but he lets it happen. McCree doesn’t remove his hand until he’s pressed a kiss to Hanzo’s pushed-out lips.
His husband looks away, bashful and glassy-eyed. Still flustered by sincerity - or maybe McCree’s just still got it. Maybe both. “Awful,” he complains; if his voice wobbles, McCree doesn’t mention it, just presses his mouth to the side of Hanzo’s neck again as his now-free hand traces patterns across Hanzo’s smooth chest. He brightens.
“Just came up with a good one,” he says, and Hanzo glances his way with a dread borne from countless other instances of McCree’s petname brainstorms. McCree cups Hanzo’s tattooed pec, squeezes just to feel the sweet give of the muscle. “Oughta call you Mounds.”
As quickly as anything, Hanzo is turning away from him. “I’m leaving,” he says, flat, moving to kick the sheets off of him but not actually following through. His arm is still trapped beneath McCree’s head, after all. McCree bursts into laughter, reaching mock-feebly for Hanzo’s waist.
“Easy now, my sweet little dango ball!” That one gets a glare from over the shoulder, but Hanzo can’t keep it mean-looking for too long before he starts to crack. “You gonna throw five years away just like that?”
Hanzo rolls his eyes, gives McCree his most dramatic put-upon sigh, and then rolls back over, sliding his other arm over McCree’s shoulders. This close, his eyes are clear and soft, warmed by laughter and affection. He can’t keep the chuckle out of his voice - a cold-blooded ex-killer plied by some sweet, stupid words by another of his kind. “I suppose I will wait a while longer, for greater impact. Perhaps in fifty years, when you remind me of the single failed instance in which you tried to call me - Mounds .”
“Funny that you think we’ll
live
to ninety, but...fifty more years of torture and embarrassment, comin’ your way,” McCree agrees readily, and when the gentle smile widens on Hanzo’s face, he knows he’s said just the right thing.