Chapter Text
The Canadian safehouse doesn’t have much in the way of heating or furniture, Hanzo observes with a deep scowl. “There’s a fireplace in the bedroom,” McCree says as he ambles back into front room. “Neat little stack of firewood beside it and I got my lighter. We could try warming this place up a bit, unless you got a better way to spend the next twelve hours ‘til Winston extracts us.”
“I do not,” Hanzo says. McCree shrugs with a lop-sided smile and Hanzo’s scowl deepens, though it has less to do with the sparse safehouse and more to do with how insufferably handsome McCree is. “And food?”
“Got our rations.” Jesse leans up against the doorframe and hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. it requires a great force of will not to let Hanzo’s eyes drop to his ridiculous belt buckle. “Wouldn’t blame ya if’n ‘chicken dinner’ in a bag weren’t appealin’ though.”
Hanzo grunts and slams shut the empty cabinet of the pathetic kitchen he had been searching in -- a single cupboard with an electric kettle on a counter should not ever be considered a kitchen. It doesn’t help the frustration at being in a tiny house with McCree, who is still giving him an intolerably charming grin that makes the corner of his eyes crinkle so that Hanzo wishes to kiss them.
What Hanzo really wants is to forget that he’s snowed-in with McCree in the middle of the Canadian wilderness; since he has no sake, sleep will have to do. “Very well, light the fire then.”
“Y’got it,” McCree says and swings back into the bedroom.
Hanzo shouldn’t be surprised that there’s only one bed, because of course there is. He takes out more of his frustration by beating the dust out of the thin blanket and turning over the mattress. The other side is just as filthy but it gives Hanzo something to do that isn’t watching McCree crouch in front of the fireplace and coax a fire into life, cooing at the reluctant sparks. The fire catches, proving just as weak for the cowboy as Hanzo is, and Jesse sits back on his heels as he feeds it another log.
McCree looks over as he stands up, patting the dust from his knees. Despite his best efforts, Hanzo had been watching him, and he jerks his head away as soon as he realises. Jesse says something -- about the fire, largely unimportant, but Hanzo nods and looks like he’s listening. They will have to share a bed tonight out of pure necessity and it bares so much resemblance to what Hanzo actually wants that he aches with it.
Until he sees McCree heading for the door again. “Wait,” Hanzo says, louder than he meant to. Jesse looks at him, blinking in surprise. “Where-?”
“I, uh, was thinking I’d take the sofa,” Jesse says, scratching at the back of his neck in a strangely sheepish gesture. Hanzo scowls at him, so perhaps he was right to be sheepish. The sofa is even less suitable for human use than the bed and it is further from the fireplace.
“The bed is large enough, don’t be foolish,” Hanzo spits. McCree still looks only a moment away from retreating out of the bedroom. “You will freeze and I will not explain to the others why I allowed it to happen.”
“Wouldn’t want that,” Jesse mutters. He still eyes the bed like it might bite him but he does take a step back into the bedroom. Hanzo turns away as he pulls off his archery glove and unwinds his obi. He does not intend to sleep anymore undressed than that -- he does not even remove his prosthetics as he flicks down the covers and sits on the bed.
McCree is looking at his legs when Hanzo glances over. “Ain’t ya gonna-” he begins to ask.
“No,” Hanzo says curtly.
He looks as though he wants to argue before he shrugs stiffly. “Suit yerself.” Jesse has placed his breastplate on the floor, his gun on the tiny bedside table next to his hat, and he sits down heavily on the bed to pull off his boots. As the weather worsens outside, the safehouse grows darker, until the only light in the bedroom is the crackling fireplace. It would be romantic, almost, except for how awkwardly the two of them attempt to arrange themselves on a bed not meant for two full-grown muscular men.
Hanzo tries to keep his freezing cold prosthetics away from McCree while Jesse struggles to find room for his long legs and barrel chest. Hanzo’s elbow finds his ribs at one point and McCree has to nudge him over to keep from falling out completely. Eventually they grow too tired to care and drift off into uneasy sleep.
Hanzo wakes in the night shivering from the cold. The fire has burned down and the thin blanket is no long enough to keep out the oppressive Canadian cold. He is almost sure his breath his visible. Hanzo huffs and tries to pull the blanket closer around him with numb fingers and shaking hands while McCree snores softly, wrapped up in the warm wool of his serape. He radiates warmth, and the faint smell of whisky and sunshine, and Hanzo is helpless to keep from scooching closer to him.
Jesse jerks awake when Hanzo accidentally kicks him in the shin. “Hanzo?” he slurs sleepily.
Hanzo begins to apologise but a violent shiver overcomes him and his teeth clack against each other.
McCree makes a noise of concern and rolls over to face him, lifting up the corner of his serape in invitation. “C’mon in, there’s room ‘nough for two.”
Hanzo wiggles closer but obviously not enough as Jesse slings an arm around his waist and pulls him flush against his chest. He does not squeak when his nose gets buried in the warm skin at McCree’s throat, and he does not blush at how they’re lying tangled up in a small bed together. Hanzo is warm though, and Jesse’s arm is a comforting weight against his back. It’s heavenly, and Hanzo lets out a blissful sigh.
“Night, Hanzo,” Jesse murmurs, already mostly asleep again.
Hanzo whispers a goodnight into the scant space between them and falls asleep to the gentle rise and fall of McCree’s chest against his cheek. In the morning Jesse will apologise for getting ‘cuddly’ in his sleep, and Hanzo will tell him it is fine and look away before he has to see the relief on McCree’s face -- but for now, he is warm.