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It's a simple enough mission: defend omnic monks in Nepal against Talon lackeys trying to repurpose the peaceful location into something more sinister. There was no question that Zenyatta would be present. Upon finding out the gist of it, Genji doubled down on his insistence that he would also be there, and McCree, itching to get out of Gibraltar, was quick to join them. The restlessness was ever growing under his skin. He wanted a change of scenery.
So it's simple — at first. Until Winston, with his ever abounding optimism, proudly says, "This'll be a walk in the park, according to all our information," which McCree is certain dooms them from the start.
In fact, they're nearly winding down when Talon’s cyborg comes out.
Decked out in matte black and shining silvers, the massive Talon agent drops out of the Talon carrier above them. He's absolutely silent in his slow strides, and he doesn't even bother to survey his downed allies. Winston seems nervous all of a sudden, and damn well he should, McCree thinks — the cyborg's metal shoulders gleam, and his armor is thick as all get-out. An expressionless helmet covers his face, but there's one strip of glowing, purple light adorning the front of the mask.
McCree looks over at Genji, then frowns at the silent disdain he gets. "Don't tell me you don't see the resemblance," he says, defensive.
Genji scoffs. "Please."
"They've gone and jacked your style, partner." McCree shakes his head.
He makes an exasperated noise, only playing along. "Don't insult me."
In an instant, Genji dashes forward, sword in hand — only to come flying back towards the rest of the team thanks to the other cyborg rocketing him into the pillar next to McCree, who narrowly avoids the blade that spins through the air at him. All he can do is watch as Genji dazedly slides to the ground, so much space between them, but it doesn't seem like the impact's done any lasting damage as he attempts to struggle to his feet again.
Relieved, McCree turns his attention to Winston. "Well," he says, holding Peacekeeper loosely. "How's that walk in the park coming along?"
A great smash comes from the cyborg, who now wields a chunk of stone reappropriated from the nearby wall. He launches it at them with a visceral grunt, the very first sound they've heard from him, and McCree dives out of the way with Winston at his side, a shield at the ready.
"May wanna get better information next time, big guy," McCree suggests, using his serape to shield his face from the dust and debris that rains down.
"I'll get right on that." Winston sighs and hefts up his Tesla Cannon. "As soon as we handle this."
The two of them play distraction while Zenyatta hovers close to Genji, tending to what he can. McCree's assumption proves right — Genji's recovered enough to leap into the fray alongside them in no time. Whatever Talon had pumped into the cyborg keeps him going strong even throughout their onslaught. McCree's bullets do little to his reinforced armor, Genji's sword hardly making a dent. Zenyatta keeps the few conscious Talon agents out of the way, aiding from a safe distance. Winston's the most effective at routing him, but still — it's a long fight ahead of them.
McCree's just about to say so, when he's gripped around the waist mid-dodge.
He grabs for a flashbang and comes up empty. His gaze flicks upwards from under his hat to see only a vicious purple slash in front of him, and he raises Peacekeeper, but there's nothing but air whistling past him —
The world goes white, and then it's black, and nothing hurts until everything does all at once. He works to figure out how to breathe again, lungs rattling something awful with each shivery inhale and every shaking exhale. He can't remember how to move, at first. It scares him enough that he opens his eyes.
Dizziness crawls through his head like honey, syrup-slow and sluggish, but he sees enough to recognize the fist about to drop down on him. McCree has enough time to think well, this isn't how I wanted to go out, before there's the unholy screech of metal parts grinding together — the Talon cyborg's arm comes to a halt all of a sudden, shurikens lodged in the tiny spaces between his steel joints. He fumbles at the small, sharp weapons, hand too big to pry them out properly.
McCree tries to shimmy out of danger close when he's yanked up, left tripping over his own feet despite not resisting the pull at all. He slams without grace into Genji's very uncomfortable, very hard shoulder, heaving at the force of it. His vision swims as he blearily catches a flash of an enraged Winston leaping at the furious Talon cyborg.
Genji manhandles him behind the nearby, low wall of cover, and only then does McCree realize how off-balance he really is, bracing himself against him.
"Guh," McCree tells him.
"Sorry," Genji says once they've come to a stop, entirely unapologetic, his arm wrapped around McCree's back to hold him steady.
"Don't sound it in th'least," he slurs. Then he blinks a few times, rubs his eyes, and ends up with blood all over his glove. "Oh, hell," he adds, somehow surprised. Now that he's noticed it, the steady trickle oozing from his head is impossible to ignore.
"Oh, hell," agrees Genji. He digs around in McCree's bag around his waist and comes up with gauze. "You owe me two dinners now," he adds, visor lit up before dimming again. It seems like a lighthearted enough reply, but it doesn't fool McCree, concussed or not.
He lowers himself to sit on the cold ground behind the wall, stone propping up his back. They've been somewhere like this before, with Genji cleaning blood off his face. This time there's no pretty car that they borrowed, but McCree's far more dependent on Genji's help this time than he was then. He's cleaned his own bullet wounds aplenty, that was hardly anything special.
But this time is different, because he's woozy and nauseous and there's a fight going on behind them, just a few feet away. Any second, Winston might lose the cyborg's attention, and the wall might bust open, and he could just finish McCree off like nothing.
And maybe it's that brand of different that makes it too simple to open his mouth now. Or maybe McCree is just an idiot when he's been slammed in the head this hard.
"Could just kiss you," McCree says in that infinite, impulsive wisdom that he gets when he and Genji are alone. "Instead, I mean. Don't know if you'd like my cooking much, after all."
To his credit, Genji doesn't stop what he's doing, picking through wound-wet, blood-sticky bits of McCree's hair. McCree's pretty sure he's going to pass out. If he does, at least he can blame the concussion he's absolutely dealing with and not the bafflingly forward suggestion that still hangs in the air between them.
"What's wrong with your cooking?" Genji asks, finally. It's not the question McCree is expecting. He has to think about it.
The series of clanging noises from the fight on the other side of the wall makes them both pause, and McCree winces at the distinct shriek of metal being torn apart that follows. He tunes it all out as best he can, blinking the blurry red out of his vision so he can focus on the familiar green in front of him.
"Just… ain't very familiar with your tastes, s'all."
"Aren't you?" Genji sounds almost amused, and that reply tilts the world sideways in a different way than McCree's current, awry sense of balance. The pad of Genji's thumb slides over his brow slowly. He tries not to lean into it. "I had something else in mind anyway."
"Like…" He closes his eyes, something like water sloshing around in his ears. "You wanna go out somewhere?"
Genji's hand curves around the side of his head, through messy strands of hair, his thumb now finding a place against McCree's temple. The migraine that's almost always building there subsides, if only for a second. He doesn't flinch as Genji presses the gauze to the wound, though the biotics in it sting more than he'd like. Still; the pain at least clears his head enough for him to feel a little less undone, a little more able to follow the conversation.
"That depends," Genji replies, letting go of his head, though some of the pressure stays there. Must be the gauze. "Are you asking?"
McCree touches at Genji's work, every one of his fingers as heavy as anchors. His left eye is blinded by the gauze on top of it; squinting with his one available eye, he tries very hard to focus on Genji past the nausea and the nerves.
"Depends," he says back, then pats the ground next to him suddenly and turns his head this way and that (bad idea). "Where's my hat?"
Genji reaches past his blind spot and hands over his hat, as requested. "Is your hat what it depends on?" he says, and McCree can hear his sly smile, clear as day, just as much as he can hear the trepidation. Like this is as far out of Genji's comfort zone as it is his own.
He's never known Genji to be nervous, but he supposes there's a first time for everything.
"No." McCree shifts his weight, holding onto his hat to keep his weary hands occupied. Genji lingers so close; McCree's glad for the visor, if only because it keeps him from being able to tell where Genji's looking. "Depends on if I'm making a fool of myself or not." His head pounds hard against the gauze, his tongue all tangled up. "I s'pose."
"Jesse," says Genji, slowly. "You are no fool, and —"
The ground shakes behind their wall, cutting him off. Genji sits up taller to steal a peek, and McCree's teeth chatter together, each little movement sending pain circling in his skull. He swears under his breath.
"Where's my gun?" he mutters, putting his hat lightly on his head and ignoring the burst of pain — then his brain catches up belatedly, and his thoughts sputter out in a glorious emptiness.
Genji puts a hand over his mouth when he opens it next. McCree, startled, stares up at him as intently as he can (which is not very) with his one eye. His furrowed brow and set jaw accuse, Asshole.
"We will talk about this later," Genji says quietly, a touch of fondness to the words.
"Wammgnhgun," McCree says.
A long pause follows in which they both ignore the skirmish noises happening behind them. Genji tilts his head to the side, and with entertainment in his voice, asks, "What was that?"
If he starts laughing, McCree's going to bite him. But then he gets a better idea, and it's one step farther than kissing what they've been kissing up 'til now. He purses his lips until they touch Genji's palm gently, leans his head forward into it. The material is dry and smooth and not at all unpleasant, though at this point in his life he's used to admitting to himself that most things about Genji aren't unpleasant.
There's a pause, but then Genji's palm presses down into the kiss as if meeting him halfway and McCree exhales a huff from his nose, peering at him expectantly. Well?
"You are not a fool," Genji says again, a curious edge to the words. He draws his hand away, finally, and in the same moment, Peacekeeper is plopped into McCree's lap. McCree picks his gun up incredulously. "You wanted your gun," he adds in explanation.
"Yeah, and you pretended not to have a damn clue 'bout what I said," McCree grumbles. He makes up his mind, sighing as he pushes his back off from the wall. "Alright. Help me up."
As if beckoning them to rejoin the battle, the fizzle of Winston's Tesla Cannon reaches McCree's ears. It takes Genji a bit longer than usual to manage McCree's weight as he lifts him, subtle strain showing in the way he holds him upright. McCree pats his side gingerly, reassuring.
"Would you be offended if I asked if you're sure you are okay to shoot?" Genji says next to his ear while they move into position.
"Naw, but I might beg a li'l more faith," McCree replies, huffing. "Besides, you're gonna be aiming for me."
Genji gives a hum, and McCree thinks he's a little too pleased by the concept. He'd be a hypocrite if he called him out for it, though, seeing as it's his plan. He leans against Genji's shoulder as he's turned around, vision in his one eye flickering black around the edges when he moves too quick. He slumps against the low wall, more than tall enough, raising his arm over the top of it and watching as Genji takes hold of his hand and gun alike.
Winston is still fighting off Talon's cyborg, Zenyatta flitting near and far from him again. When the omnic spots McCree hanging over the lip of the wall, he gives a small nod of his head, though none of the instant relief from his healing comes. McCree knows he's gotta keep an eye on their big, tanky gorilla pal, but he really would appreciate Zenyatta working his magic on him. All the more reason to end this as fast as possible — he still might lose his lunch or collapse. Or both at once.
Tall, Dark, and Menacing isn't looking too hot himself. One arm is lost and the other nearly is torn free of the shoulder joint. Despite that, he's still fighting, braving the currents of electricity fired at him by Winston, grappling and grabbing at the other Overwatch agent. McCree tries not to think of Genji's stubborn will driving him the exact same way.
"Should take out his leg," McCree says, willing away the nausea. "Right at the knee. Your shurikens threw him into a fury, stuck all up in his arm, before. Sink a bullet in there, he's immobilized."
"You know," Genji says, wry, "I could simply fire it myself." As if daring him to agree.
"C'mon, now. Don't you like this better?" McCree's lips tilt upwards, mischief that he knows Genji will appreciate lacing the smile even as his head cries mercy.
He feels Genji lean his side into him without putting any real weight behind it, their bodies pressed flush from shoulder to hip to thigh. "Of course," Genji murmurs, just for him to hear, matching his mischief. "I'm only teasing."
"Ha." McCree swallows the sudden burst of warmth in his chest that puts his heart in his throat.
Genji signals their team. Winston glances to the both of them and must see the plan forming, because he jumps clear, as quick as a whip. The cyborg stumbles back as Winston wrenches free from his hold, and stutters in his motions so, so briefly — McCree struggles to keep track of the shorter-than-a-second chance for a perfect shot at that reinforced knee, blinking past his sudden wave of dizziness.
But he's not the one aiming. Someone else has the wheel; he's just waiting to slam the gas pedal.
Genji sees the opening, lifts Peacekeeper just right. His fingers squeeze McCree's, and he says against his ear, "Go."
McCree fires.
As the cyborg crumples to the ground, his weight uneven and his body so broken, McCree turns to Genji and presses his forehead to the cool metal of his visor, shuts his eyes, and forgets the world.
"Don't fall asleep," Genji reminds him.
"Mm. With you keeping me company? Wouldn't dream of it."
They're seated in the very back, empty area on their trip back to Gibraltar, Lena having picked them up once the fight was finished and they'd helped the monks straighten things up again. Zenyatta is still busy at work in the front doctoring Winston up; he'd taken a lot of hits in the brawl, and while McCree's head still pounds with every tiny movement, Winston's got him beat on the number of broken bones he's sporting.
McCree's eye slips shut for the fourth time since boarding, full-body exhaustion dragging him under, and then there's a cool hand under his chin, fingers gripping his jaw.
He finds Genji's glowing visor mere centimeters away when he chances a look and nearly jerks back in his seat out of surprise, getting a soft huff of laughter in response. Genji's hand slides away to settle on his collarbone instead, fingers resting just above his serape, right along his throat.
McCree wets his lips. Clears his throat. "Lemme guess. Don't fall asleep."
"I could keep you awake," Genji offers, a little wicked. McCree gets dizzy all over again.
"Ah."
Genji laughs again, but there's that uncertain note to it, half-there and half-not. "That is all you have to say? You were so bold before."
Oh, and of course —
McCree feels a little bad for leaving him hanging, but it was Genji who'd said that they would talk later. Is it later? His head spins.
"Offer still stands," he says, because he can't help but be honest about it when Genji's the one trying to maneuver around mixed signals. His heart pangs loud in his ears, but the rapt attention Genji's got on him makes it all worth it.
"For dinner, or for a kiss?" Genji asks, not really tiptoeing now that McCree's opened the door.
And he guesses that's fair, considering. He'd offered; it's his line to walk over.
So McCree reaches — gets his fingers around the back of Genji's neck and pulls him in, presses a firm kiss to the front of his faceplate. The way he tilts his head makes it hurt, but he pushes the pain back, just focuses for a brief moment on the cool, pretty silver against his mouth and the way that Genji presses into it and wraps fingers into the edge of his serape, like he'd hold McCree there if he could.
McCree pulls back, though. Glances away and back again as Genji slowly releases his hold on him.
"That kiss did not count," he says. Clear as day, McCree hears the smile there.
No fool, indeed.
"Never said I was offering to let you kiss me back," McCree points out. It's only playful, not really that true — and he's left unsurprised when Genji calls him out on it while settling back into his own seat, his knee touching McCree's.
"But you would like me to."
"I wouldn't object, if that's what you're saying."
"Mm-hmm."
It isn't much of a talk, as talks go. But they're not really the kind of people for that, anyway.