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Hanzo has always been observant. As a child it was expected of him, as a young man it was necessary, and once he’d fled his home, his very life depended on it. And yet, he very rarely turned that observation on himself.
When Genji started to act out was when he first learned that turning a blind eye can be better than keen observation. Things were quieter if Hanzo didn’t see his brother scaling the estates walls in the early hours of the morning, stealing across rooftops and back into his window after a night away. And if a roof tile was knocked askew, he wouldn’t be the one to point it out. He resisted both Genji’s attempts to rile him, and the clan elders insistence that Genji was misbehaving with simple feigned ignorance.
Later, in meetings with his family’s underworld connections, half the game was knowing what cards everyone at the table held without ever showing your own hand. And there was a delicate balance to maintain: a person whose entire hand had been revealed was much less likely to be careful in seeking to tip someone else’s. It was all a calculated game, played over months or years. Neither side could give way completely, but if you could find some small weakness to apply pressure, the advantage was yours.
And somehow, despite years of practice in predicting people’s next moves, he found himself blindsided, standing over the still form of his brother, hands and thoughts covered in blood.
From there, being alert was all that kept him alive. He had no friends, no real allies, nothing to fall back on but the skills his family had insisted he hone since he could walk. It was a life lead on the run, with little time for introspection. There was only one constant: the annual visit to the site of his greatest failure. And in those small moments snatched in safe houses or between bounties to turn his thoughts inward he found no answers to the questions that Genji’s death had posed.
Or, since apparently life was given to cruel jokes at Hanzo’s expense: Genji’s almost death.
Now, living with Overwatch, he finds himself watching once more. Not sure if he has a place with this ragtag group of old and new agent, or whether attaching himself to what is essentially an illegal vigilante group is the kind of attention he wants to draw to himself. But this is where Genji - and it truly is his brother, whatever his thoughts during their initial reunion, or attempts at denial since - has asked him to at least try to belong. Whether or not Overwatch is where he should be, a second chance with his brother, a chance to atone for the failures that had lead them to that bloody night, is too strong a pull to simply leave.
And so he takes his time, and watches.
He sees the way Mei and Winston get trapped in their own curiosity, often having to be fetched from the labs, their obvious care and love for the work they are doing. He watches Pharah slip into the medbay with hot coffee and food in the wee hours of the morning, coaxing Mercy away from her work so the team has a rested doctor when they need her - and in an amusing parallel he watches Reinhardt do the same for her mother.
He notes the playful energy of Lucio and D.va and compares it to the fierce efficacy he has seen from both in training and on missions. There’s occasionally a familiar desperation to their joy, one born of too many responsibilities placed on their young shoulders - the connection to Genji in his youth is all too apparent, and as such so is how he is often drawn into their antics. And almost as if to directly contrast, he sees the thoughtful calm of Zenyatta, whose spiritual demeanor often belies how young he is. It’s hard to say which is more odd to see: Genji joining Hana in her ridiculous challenges on stream, or the still peace with which he joins Zenyatta in meditation - a feat Hanzo would have once thought impossible.
Overwatch is not short of people to watch, or things to learn. In fact, it is often overwhelming, and at those moments, Hanzo often finds himself in the practice range, Stormbow in hand, losing himself in the familiar, repetitive motions.
“Was wonderin’ where you’d wandered off to.”
He flinches almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to cause the arrow he’s intended for the target to fly wide, still hitting but far from the center he’d been aiming for.
“How you manage to walk so quietly with your choice in footwear is a mystery.” he remarks, turning to see McCree lounging against the railing.
He laughs at Hanzo’s waspish tone. “No more mystery than how you stay warm goin’ around with half your chest out.”
Rolling his eyes, he slings Stormbow over his shoulder and heads into the range to collect his arrows, aware that McCree is following him. With him around, it’s unlikely he’ll find the focus to continue for tonight.
It’s not even that McCree is intrusive, or even loud - whatever his outfit might suggest - but there’s something about the man that Hanzo finds… not unsettling, but definitely distracting. He’s a man made up of contradictions that Hanzo has struggled to reconcile since he arrived. How someone wearing bright red and spurs can have a history in black ops - though his ability to sneak up on Hanzo, even lost in thought, proves his abilities. His fondness for his ‘uniform’ is no secret, and yet he rarely seems to clean or patch either the serape or his frankly ridiculous hat. He is equally happy to talk or sit silently, and has both the patience for stakeout and the inability to sit still that Hanzo always associates with Genji.
In short, Hanzo finds himself fascinated by McCree, and loathes that he cannot figure out why.
The cowboy in question makes his way over to Hanzo, a bundle of arrows in his outstretched hand. He smiles as Hanzo takes them back, and Hanzo can feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Despite the casually grin, he feels watched, or even inspected, as if he is a puzzle for McCree to unravel.
It occurs to him that he might not be the only watcher on base.
“You wanna head into town tonight? Grab a drink or something?”
The question comes from nowhere, and hangs uncomfortably between them. Hanzo scans his expression, hunting for a motive, and when he finds none, he opts for security.
“No, thank you.” He replies curtly, and even to his own ears it sounds almost rude.
McCree’s expression only wavers for moment, and Hanzo sees a flicker of genuine disappointment before it’s hidden behind a familiar smile. He nods once, like the refusal was expected, before tipping his hat in a habitual gesture before turning to leave.
Once again, Hanzo is blindsided by what he failed to observe in himself, a sudden fierce disappointment rearing its head, and before he can think better of it he’s calling after McCree, who turns, looking curious and hopeful.
“Perhaps… tomorrow evening?” Hanzo can feel himself holding his breath, hoping that despite catching it late, he hasn’t misread the situation.
McCree’s beam is answer enough.
“Tomorrow then, darlin’.”
Hanzo huffs, even as he feels a smile tug at his unwilling lips. “I thought told you not to call me that.”
Laughing, McCree waves his scolding off as he wanders out, and as Hanzo feels his grin widen he wonders how he had missed so many signs.
“Tomorrow, indeed.”