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McCree gets up to brew coffee at three in the morning. It's nearly clockwork — nearly, because it isn't always at the same time and it isn't always coffee and it isn't every single night, but he drags himself to the base's kitchen often enough before the sun comes up that it's turned into something close to a ritual.
He pats down the pockets of his sweatpants while he waits for the coffee to finish brewing and swears quietly when his hands come up empty. He'd stumbled out of bed half-awake and already restless enough not to think ahead. All he'd grabbed was a shirt; his cigars still sit on the nightstand next to the bed.
The edge of the counter digs into his spine as he slumps against it in weary defeat, leaning his head back until it thumps dully against the pantry above. The coffeemaker offers him a rumbling, bubbling noise of understanding as it brews.
A migraine blooms above his left temple. He shuts his eyes to ward it away for at least a little while.
Time ticks by, closer to dawn and further from sleep. McCree doesn’t know how much time has passed when he hears light, familiar footsteps, but he knows that the fact that he hears them at all is a courtesy. His lips almost twitch higher when the rhythmic taps against the kitchen floor stop, and he lolls his head to the side to crack an eye open, taking in Genji standing a few feet away.
We gotta stop meeting like this, McCree thinks. His tongue's too heavy to get the words out; he lifts a hand and throws a lazy finger-gun Genji's way instead.
"Good morning," Genji says, the greeting lilting as he shifts his weight and closes most of the space between them.
The finger-gun turns into a thumbs up and McCree pushes off of the counter heavily, exhaling as he does. "Coffee?" he asks, already pulling out a mug for himself.
"If you made enough."
McCree eyes the very full pot of coffee off to the side, the light blinking to signal that it's done and it's been done for quite a while. There's probably a solid five or so cups there. He shrugs. "Depends on how long you're planning on sticking around."
Genji slides his fingers along the edge of the countertop, away and back. "That depends on how long you entertain me."
McCree gives what barely passes as a laugh under his breath. He pours two mugs and slides one towards Genji; Genji can do what he wants with it, but McCree pops two cubes of ice into his and drains it like water. He pours another cup for himself and afterwards steals a stealthy glance at Genji, who holds his mug loosely in his hands as he blinks down at one of the news stories left on the countertop by another agent.
TALON CONNECTIONS IN BUSINESS FOUND THANKS TO RECENT ARRESTS, the headline reads. McCree thinks of a teal sports car and the steady pulse of street lamps overhead and luck pressed to the barrel of his gun.
"Why're you up?" McCree says to distract himself in the same way someone might ask what're you in for? He raises his mug to take a searing sip, this one without any ice to ease the heat, the bitter flavor left behind a welcome respite.
Genji looks back at him. "Why are you?"
"Asked you first." McCree thumbs over his lip to get rid of the sting. "And I shared my coffee. You owe me."
"Here I thought you were simply being generous," Genji says with a soft laugh that McCree can't not pay attention to. Genji takes a long sip of his own mug before setting it gently down onto the counter. "Some nights I cannot sleep, so I wander and stay busy to tire myself. Some nights I find you instead."
"Not every night," says McCree, looking into his coffee.
There's a curious pause before Genji agrees. "No. Not every night."
But often enough goes unsaid.
McCree takes another sip and savors the burn.
Genji's without both visor and faceplate, but somehow it makes him feel like the vulnerable one. It's easier when they stumble into each other in the training area, easier when they can spar and Genji gets him breathless and unthinking, all instinct. There's trust to be found there, wire-thin like a rope to walk. That trust is a funny thing. McCree thought he'd run out of it a long time ago.
"Reckon I just get antsy in the quiet," McCree says finally, scuffing a bare heel along the floor. His hip presses against the counter's edge uncomfortably, all angled towards Genji like he is, but he doesn't put any effort into turning away.
Genji hums his thoughtful acknowledgment. McCree glances from his coffee, nape of his neck prickling, to see Genji watching him. It makes his skin bloom with warmth, so he drinks the rest of his coffee to gather himself.
"I understand," Genji says while McCree has his nose in his mug. "Before I left, the quiet was difficult to bear, though I never really spoke of it."
It's still odd to him that Genji can speak so easily of before. McCree still can't say some things, some people's names, without wanting to choke up or get mad or bite his tongue and bleed — but he can't help but picture the Genji he never really knew compared to the Genji he's getting to know. Before, after. Then, now; now then. Back and forth, like a flipbook, scribbles all over one side of a paper, and something neat and made clean on the other.
He's tired enough to be a little jealous, a little bitter, but he's not tired enough to be an asshole over it. Not when Genji's just trying to keep him company and say a few nice words. The high octane banter and light flirting between punches doesn't match up with this though, and it's throwing him for one hell of a loop.
"Don't think you had to say nothing of it for me to catch on," McCree says, pressing the heel of his palm to his left eye, chasing the migraine back into his skull.
They take their time in the quiet. This quiet with Genji feels less like the nothing that itches at the top of his spine between his shoulderblades and more like a something that smoothes it all over. Enough to ease up the agitation in his chest. Enough to make him want, sometimes, but it's been awhile since McCree's wants have ventured further than being able to see the sunrise one more time.
Genji keeps looking at him. McCree likes to think he's used to the weight of those eyes by now. Familiarity's something foreign to him these days.
"Come with me?" Genji asks.
He doesn't have to think before he nods.
They clean up, McCree's mug empty and Genji's nearly full, though neither of them mention it. McCree ends up making the journey back to his room after all when Genji asks him to grab Peacekeeper. He deliberates about whether or not to gear up, but Genji hasn't said a thing about sparring this time around, so McCree just takes his gun and follows.
Finding Genji outside of his room when he comes out, he spins Peacekeeper around a finger in a practiced, easy motion. Showing off, sure, but Genji gives him a head-tilt and a smirk and it lights up something in McCree's chest when he hums appraisingly.
They head up and up more, higher and higher still in the base, until Genji's opening the door that leads to the flat rooftop overlooking the cliffs. McCree gives him a dubious glance.
"You said you trusted me," Genji reminds him, a touch of smugness to the words.
And McCree does, so he smothers his skepticism and goes through the door.
"Why the rooftop?" he says, turns his head, casts a raised eyebrow back behind him.
"It's not that complicated." Genji moves up next to him, brushing his elbow against McCree's, and suddenly he feels all off-balance. "Look around."
Looking around shows a whole lot of wide open sky and ocean and stars flickering in the water, moonlight bearing down on them. The crash of waves into rocks reaches his ears. The heat can get wild here so close to the water, nothing like the dry sun McCree is comfortable with. If it was daytime, without any shade here on the rooftop, he would already be sweating through his clothes. The sky's never felt closer than it does right now, caught between rocks and sea and stars.
"A room with a view," McCree says. His gaze follows Genji, who lowers himself to sit.
"Not so bad, is it?" Genji says, pleased, gesturing at him to join him.
"Nah. Ain't bad at all." McCree drops down next to him, knees wide and posture lazy. He fiddles with his revolver. "But I don't need my gun with me to look around."
"Take it apart."
In McCree's exhaustion, he first thinks that Genji's talking about the sky, and he laughs, light and baffled. It's only when Genji's fingers reach for Peacekeeper and he begins the dismantling process that McCree registers what he means, and he drops his still-hovering hands to his lap to watch.
"I don't have a," McCree starts, stops when Genji procures a screwdriver from one of the compartments in his wrist, finishes with, "Never you mind, then."
He catches the smirk on Genji's face enough for his own cheeks to burn in silent reply. He isn't awake enough for this game of theirs. Genji hands over Peacekeeper once the grip's off.
"If you're too tired to take your gun apart, you are too tired to be doing anything else," Genji says, and McCree feels both a little like he's being laughed at and a little like he's being hushed.
"You gonna tuck me in if I fuck up?" McCree asks him wryly. He's already getting the next part off, watching Genji in his peripheral, until there's no reply for a little too long, and then he looks over.
Moonlight edges each curve of Genji's face, makes his eyes brighter as his lips turn upwards. "Are you asking me to take you to bed?"
That wakes him up. McCree drops the screwdriver with a spectacular fumble, slapping his hand down on the plastic part before it can roll any further across the roof. His head spins, too tired to function through what he wants to say and what he wants to keep under his tongue. He puts his free hand over his face to give himself a fighting chance at not looking anymore a fool than he already is.
"Are you sure you are not too tired?" Genji adds slyly after a pause, in which McCree is busy trying to choke his heart back down where it belongs. He doesn't need to look to know that Genji's wearing a grin.
"For this? No." He jerks his chin down at Peacekeeper. "For you?" And then he makes an eh sort of noise.
McCree picks up the screwdriver again with a snatching motion while Genji laughs. If this is all a plot to convince McCree that he needs to sleep sooner than later, it's working.
He dismantles Peacekeeper, slowly but surely. It isn't terribly difficult. Most of the challenge lies in his motor control, because the steps are ingrained in his head at this point in his life. He remembers back to a time when he'd be timed on this, a stopwatch going and a commander watching.
He'd gotten good at it, back then. Ever since it's been nothing but reflex. Custom or not, he knows Peacekeeper better than he knows his left hand — it's a matter of priority, he thinks. Lose his gun, he's shit out of luck. Lose his left hand, he's got another one to shoot with.
Genji watches, taking the smaller pieces that McCree removes in hand so that they don't lose them. Each time he drops another part or screw or metal plate into Genji's hand, his fingertips hover against his palm, the barest sort of contact that lasts only a couple of seconds extra, before going back to his work. It's repetitive and it's somehow warm and it calms something riotous and loud in McCree's spirit.
"You don't like coffee," he says to make conversation, prying off another piece.
Genji blinks at him — and then he smiles, unwavering, like McCree hasn't seen right through him. "I prefer tea."
"Huh."
For a few moments, that's all there is. He puts the next part into Genji's hand. He lets his touch linger. He considers the weight of Genji joining him for coffee without even liking coffee; he also considers trying tea sometime.
"Coulda turned it down," McCree goes on. "Wouldn't've wasted a whole cup then."
"I wasn't going to let you drink that much by yourself," Genji says, lax and unruffled. "You had two cups by the time I had sipped mine once."
The fact that he has a point just makes McCree frown. That he's trying to look after him makes McCree wonder about things he's got no business wondering about while tired enough to be —
To be…
He stares down at the pieces of Peacekeeper he's taken apart, and then he stares at the screw he's been trying to get to for the last few minutes. It takes him three tries to get the screwdriver fitted in while studying it with great focus, and five more attempts every time his hand slips.
"I could do this in my sleep," he claims, offended at himself.
"But you are not asleep." Genji starts to take the gun and tool alike from him, putting Peacekeeper back together before McCree can argue. He looks some kind of satisfied with himself. "Which is the whole problem."
He watches Genji work, futilely blinking the mess of fatigue away from his mind. His headache still threatens at the edge of his vision, but it doesn't quite manage to stop him from admiring the quick, deft hands that put his gun back together again as if it's as familiar to Genji as it is to McCree. Something warm stirs in him.
"Ain't it just," McCree mumbles, half for his own benefit and half for Genji's.
(Genji helps him to bed. As his door opens, as he drags his feet across the floor, Genji has his arm around his waist. McCree doesn't move away from it, hungry for the touch even if he won't say so. He knows he's being obvious. The exhaustion keeps him from embarrassment, at least until the sun comes up.
It's when Genji pulls his arm away and McCree drops into the sheets that he's gripped for a ridiculously short second by a ridiculously profound desire — to ask him to stay.)