Work Text:
When they arrive at the safe house and there's only one bed, Hanzo is so far past caring anymore that he just drops his bag on the floor, tugs his boots and coat off, and falls face down onto the mattress.
"Hanzo?" McCree queries, and Hanzo groans.
"Just -- just sleep, McCree." He shuffles as far towards the wall as he can, leaving just enough room for McCree to lie down next to him. They hadn't stopped for over twenty hours, their pickup is in six hours, and all Hanzo cares about is sleep. He can already feel himself drifting off as McCree carefully lies down next to him, obviously trying -- and failing -- to keep a gap between their bodies.
Sleep turns out to be elusive. He's close, he knows it, but Hanzo finds himself lying in a perpetual half-awake state listening to the traffic on the busy street outside, the screaming of nocturnal creatures, and the light sounds of McCree snoring next to him.
He sighs and shifts himself around so he's lying on his back. There is just enough light filtering in through the shoddy curtains for him to be able to see the paint peeling from the ceiling -- a ceiling which probably used to be nice, considering its decorative plaster with roses scrolling their way along the edge. The safe house has long been abandoned by its original occupants, and all that is left is this single room with the bed, a run-down bathroom, and a couch which is missing two cushions. Hence, two grown men -- one of them quite tall and bulky -- sharing a bed not much bigger than a single.
McCree snorts in his sleep, and Hanzo looks over at him. The gunslinger fell asleep facing him, and it provides Hanzo with a golden opportunity to study his face up close, something he has never been able to do before. Always McCree would catch him looking, and toss a wink or a sly grin his way, and Hanzo would inevitably turn away with a blush.
There's a scar on his cheek, almost hidden by the shaggy beard, and Hanzo wonders where it came from. He's seen McCree's file, seen photos of him from before Overwatch fell, and this scar is relatively new. He resists the urge to reach out and trace it -- it's almost shaped like a lightning bolt in the right light, and Hanzo smiles.
McCree shifts in his sleep and his mouth falls open, letting out another loud snort, and Hanzo recoils a little. It's a pity neither of them had had a chance to brush their teeth before sleeping, he thinks, as he waves away the stink of hours-old hamburger. He laughs softly to himself, wondering at the fact that even while McCree is snoring and belching out terrible smells, Hanzo is still watching him adoringly.
You're screwed, he thinks to himself as he continues to gaze at the man next to him. His face is soft in the dim moonlight, jaw relaxed and forehead no longer tight with stress. He knows McCree gets tension headaches, has seen him rubbing the back of his neck during fraught missions and wincing as he makes his way to breakfast to down a painkiller with a strong cup of coffee. Perhaps Hanzo will offer to rub the back of his neck in the morning. Perhaps McCree will accept the offer.
Hanzo rolls over to face the wall. It is very unlikely. Despite the flirtatious winks and comments, despite McCree calling him darlin' and sugar, he knows the gunslinger is like that with everyone. He's seen him give Winston and Mei those familiar half-hugs Hanzo had been so happy to receive, has heard him call everyone from Morrison to Satya pet names.
No, it is best to just go to sleep and not think about having McCree's warm body mere inches from his back.
He's having an absolutely wonderful dream. McCree is behind him, hugging him tight, nuzzling the back of his neck. His beard is scratchy and makes Hanzo giggle helplessly. He dreams that McCree's warm, solid chest presses up against his back, his leg hooked over Hanzo's, a gentle grind against his ass that has Hanzo moaning softly and pressing back against him.
His eyes fly open and Hanzo stifles a grunt as he realises that McCree's arm is indeed around him, and they are pressed together from neck to knee. McCree's face is nuzzled into the back of Hanzo's neck, his beard just as delightfully scratchy as in his dream, and his leg is definitely slung over Hanzo's. The gunslinger's metal arm is a solid lump of discomfort between them, but that is of little concern in comparison to the shift of his hips as he presses up against Hanzo's ass. And that is --
Hanzo pushes McCree's arm off him and pulls away, breathing hard. McCree grunts and rolls over, still asleep, leaving Hanzo lying on his side, staring at the wall, the memory of McCree grinding against his ass painfully vivid in his brain. He reaches down and presses against his own erection, stifling a whimper as his hips jerk unconsciously into his hand. Bad idea, really bad idea. He wraps his arms around himself and tries to stabilise his breathing, hoping McCree won't remember this in the morning.
Unfortunately, five minutes later Hanzo finds himself back in the same position. McCree has rolled over again, apparently determined to spoon him, and his warm breath on Hanzo's neck is driving him up the wall. He wonders if McCree is dreaming too, and who he is dreaming of. An old lover? A current crush? He tries not to think that it might be him, that McCree might be dreaming of holding Hanzo in his arms.
"Mmm… Han…" McCree murmurs, and Hanzo freezes, his eyes opening wide.
"McCree?" he says softly, terrified to wake the man up but feeling a little bad about taking advantage of his desire to cuddle in his sleep.
"Hanzo… feel so good…" McCree responds, and Hanzo feels the unmistakable sensation of warm lips against the back of his neck. McCree shifts again, closer, and once again slings a leg over Hanzo's, dragging their hips together.
"Are you awake?" Hanzo has to stop this, he has to --
"Kinda," McCree mutters, still kissing the back of Hanzo's neck. "Or maybe … dreaming. Good dream. Mmm."
"Don't stop," Hanzo whispers, and places a hand over the one stroking his belly.
McCree stops moving behind him, and Hanzo almost wants to cry when the kisses on the back of his neck stop. "Hanzo?" McCree says, his voice clearer and obviously more awake. "I'm sorry--"
"Don't, please," Hanzo gasps. He pushes McCree's arm off him and rolls over to face him in the dim light.
"Don't be sorry? Or just don't?" McCree asks. His eyes are wide and he looks terrified, and Hanzo takes a deep breath and leans in to close the gap between them.
McCree tastes awful -- leftover hamburger, instant coffee, and one hell of a lot of morning breath. Hanzo doesn't care, though, because McCree lets out a soft moan and kisses him back without hesitation.
It only lasts a few seconds -- a few wonderful, intense seconds during which Hanzo honest to god sees fireworks go off behind his eyelids -- before they both pull away.
"God, I'm sorry -- " McCree gasps.
"No, don't, I want -- "
"Not sorry for kissing you," McCree says hastily, and there's a nervous grin on his face. "Sorry that neither of us brushed our teeth last night."
"Oh, god," Hanzo blurts out, and holds a hand in front of his mouth to test his breath. McCree's right, it's dreadful, and he can't stop the laughter that bubbles out of him.
"Did you bring a toothbrush?" McCree asks, and when Hanzo shakes his head they both laugh again.
"Maybe we should try this again when we get back to base," Hanzo suggests. His hand slides around McCree's waist, and McCree smiles widely at him.
"It's a date, darlin'."