Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I cannot believe this was the pique of fashion in this country for almost an entire decade.”

Jesse snickers as he looks over at Hanzo, who is inspecting the webpage laid out in front of him with the critical eye of a man that was used to wearing whatever he wanted and looking good in it. Not that Jesse’d ever describe him that way aloud.

“Aw, don’t be that way. It’s gonna be fun.” He comes up behind the archer and peers over his shoulder at the website, ignoring the way Hanzo shifts slightly away from him. “Which part specifically are you havin’ issue with?”

Hanzo’s face twists unpleasantly. “The name for this… statement... was literally greaser. Centered around putting grease… in your hair. What do I not have issue with?”

Pulled up before them in undeniable letters is ‘1950s Greasers: Styles, Trends, and History’ in bold. Hanzo has one picture blown up of three men in leather jackets and slicked hair, all leaning against a car in cool, strangely provocative poses. If Hanzo’s expression is anything to go by, he isn’t impressed.

“It wasn’t actual grease, Han. You don’t think it’s kinda sexy?” Jesse asks, cocking a brow and reaching over to take the mouse from him. He clicks to the next picture; here, several men pose in white t-shirts, all of them with cigarettes hanging from their lips. Jesse puts his mouse over a man that’s particularly top heavy and swivels the mouse back and forth over his biceps. Hanzo’s lips purse, though Jesse can’t tell if he’s trying to fight a smile or trying to fight punching Jesse in the arm. It’s really 50/50 at this point in their friendship.

“That would be fine if their hair was not… like that.” He gestures at the dark hair all slicked into a coiff that every man also happens to sport.

Jesse grins, grabbing Hanzo’s chair and giving it a little shake. “I know you ain’t hatin’ on pompadours. If that’s what you’re coming after, I can swivel the camera on over to Japan and we can see what we find there.”

Hanzo sputters a little and snatches the mouse back from McCree’s hand. “This is different.”

Jesse laughs, leaning back and away and letting Hanzo continue to complain as he pulls up the mission file on his phone again.

“You’re thinkin’ too hard about this. It’s gonna be a good time. Don’t you like gettin’ dressed up… cool disguises… incognito?” McCree scrolls through the briefing before settling once again on the target of the evening; Satya Vaswani, codename Symmetra. A hoity-toity Vishkar representative that was supposed to appear at this shindig.

“Disguises are one thing… this is… putting on a leather jacket and ruining my hair,” Hanzo replies with a grumble, leaning back in his chair. He looks up when McCree holds the phone out toward him, and takes it, peering down at it with the grumpy expression still on his face. “I hate these people.”

Jesse can’t help laughing again. He turns and flops backward on the hotel bed, lifting his hands above his head and stretching luxuriously. “We get to drive that badass ride, though. Don’t tell me you ain’t a little interested in that, Mister Moneybags.”

He can hear the soft tap-tap of Hanzo scrolling further down the page on McCree’s phone, presumably settling over the sleek picture of the 1959 Eldorado Biarritz Convertible, the color of a cloudless summer sky — Brenton Blue — and with real tires and everything. McCree had picked it out special once Winston had informed him they would be arriving at the party in a car that was matched to the correct era. Apparently everyone else at the party would be coming in similar cars. While it hadn’t actually been built in 1959 or whatever, it looked exactly like the real thing.

Sometimes being part of an organization that had some influence was kinda fun. The car had to be kept under the radar, of course, since they were supposed to be sneaking into this party, so McCree had worked with Winston to help build the thing themselves. Torbjorn, Brigitte, Reinhardt, Bastion, and, with some arm-bending, Hanzo, had all helped put it together. The thing was gorgeous, upholstered in cream and detailed with silver and white. McCree might be a little in love with the car, having mostly driven whatever crap he could find before then. He wonders if Winston’ll let him keep it after all is said and done.

“Hm,” Hanzo replies after a moment, bringing McCree back to the moment. He peers down his body at Hanzo still sitting at the computer chair; he’s surprised to see the man is looking at him. He cocks a brow. The archer blinks from his clearly unfocused staring and turns away, back to the phone, clearing his throat. “It is a nice car, I suppose. I’ll just have to hope I do not get grease on the seats.”

Jesse snorts. “Well then don’t put your head near the leather, genius.”

Hanzo scowls at him over the phone and reaches out one metal foot to kick at his leg hanging off the bed, but apparently can’t come up with a comeback, so Jesse just snorts and tries to kick him back to no avail.

Tomorrow is the night of the party. They’d arrived here, in Los Angeles, 27 hours beforehand to scope out the area and prep for the mission. America was a spot on the horizon for Vishkar, who seemed eager to at least start getting their tech out to this side of the world, eager to make public relations look nice after the exposure of their association with LumeriCo. Expansion to Mexico was obviously out of the question in the wake of that, so McCree reckons that they’re trying to patch things up by making nice with America instead.

He doubts anything substantial’ll happen in this weird facsimile of a party, even if it is hosted by Los Angeles’ mayor, Kaitlin Hale. Still, it’s him and Hanzo’s job to keep an eye out and see if there really was anything else up with their involvement, and if anyone else happened to show up. If people like Vishkar were coming to this thing, there’s no telling who else could show up.

Jesse tended to like this pre-part of jobs; he liked going out and looking around the city, finding new places to duck into if things got too hot, places to stop by if they ever came back to the area. He’d always loved the traveling aspect of working with and under Overwatch, if little else, at times. Even on the shitty missions, he could still look out over the place from whatever crap lodgings they’d been provided and admire the scenery. Cities, deserts, oceans, and mountains; if he was there, he might as well explore.

Hanzo seemed to be a bit like-minded. Jesse isn’t sure if his companion’s tendency to wander is actual enjoyment of exploring or just paranoia, but he plans on taking advantage of it anyway.

“You wantin’ to go out?” he asks, as nonchalantly as he can. That was the thing with Hanzo; you ever seemed too eager for something and he’d get all kinds of suspicious, questioning your motives, narrow-eyed and pursed lips. Jesse hazily recalls an instance where asking Hanzo if he wanted some of the coffee from the pot when he got up from the rec room couch had made the archer stare at him for an unnatural amount of time before asking why he’d offered. Then the subsequent staring when Jesse just offered a shrug and a ‘cuz’. Then Hanzo had followed him to get the coffee himself anyway, staring at him as Jesse’s poured him a mug and then peering down into the contents when it’d been handed to him.

Squirrely little fella. Jesse guesses he can’t really blame him, with the… less than warm reception he’d received from most of the agents upon joining. McCree especially hadn’t been the kindest, more likely to sock Hanzo in the face than give him the time of day. It’d taken a hell of a long time for the pair of them to coexist in the same room without circling each other all cat and dog-like. Even longer ‘til Winston deemed it safe for the pair of them to go solo on missions together, despite how well they worked together when they ignored their mutual distaste for each other.

Longer than that for them to get to borderline footsie behavior when they weren’t being forced to for a mission.

He blows a breath through his lips at that thought, scrubbing it from his brain, and he almost doesn’t catch it when Hanzo hums an assent to his question.

“Yes. We will need to dress the part if we’re going to be doing this correctly. We might as well do that during the day, and scope out the scene when it gets dark.” Hanzo gives the greaser webpage one last perusal before shutting the laptop off, rising to his feet and stretching, arms over his head.

McCree watches him, feeling the same old tug of attraction he’d been feeling for a few months now. The admittedly bulky blue long-sleeve Hanzo has on doesn’t really do much for his physique, which makes it worse that Jesse still feels his chest do a little mamba.

Anyone with eyes could see the other man was drop-dead gorgeous. That hadn’t meant much, once upon a time — a pretty brother-killer was still a brother-killer — but as time had progressed and McCree had started hating Hanzo less and less, things had changed. Hanzo had proven himself to be a man trying to be something better, even if his steps were uncoordinated and his methods could use improvement. He’d started out in Overwatch due to obligation and maybe some guilt; McCree quietly thinks he can relate to that.

What mattered was that they both wanted to be here, both wanted to prove that they still had something to give to the world. And seeing that in Hanzo, seeing a piece of himself reflected back so starkly, the real honest truth…

Jesse reckons he’s not a madman for wanting him a little bit. Or a lot bit. How these missions together were starting to become something he looked forward to, instead of just part of the job. He liked spending time with him, plain and simple. Especially alone.

Ugh. This isn’t the time or place to be mooning, though. McCree pushes himself up off the bed and scrubs at his face with a hand. He plops his hat on his head. “Aight. I’m good.”

Hanzo turns and peers at him as he picks up the guitar case he’d be hiding his bow in, and then reaches up and pluck off his hat. “No,” he says, and tosses it on the bed behind him.

“What’s wrong with the hat?”

“Despite the several distinguishing features you have,” Hanzo replies, smirking up at him, “the hat is the most distinguishable. Leave it.”

“You’re so mean to me,” McCree whines, and makes a playful splutter of offense as Hanzo just puffs through his nose and turns away.

“I’ve been called worse. Come on.”

Scoping out the area is preempted by food.

After clothes shopping (which had sent the two of them in different directions of the men’s sections, something that had piqued Hanzo’s interest but Jesse was remaining tight-lipped on), they’d gathered their bags and started making their way back to the Hotel Babylon. Along the way, Jesse had suggested stopping for a bite, and Hanzo seemed amendable.

“It would be best to go over the plans for the evening,” he’d replied, and Jesse nodded along, seeing the sense.

They picked some small out of the way spot, a little burrito joint called Jenson’s. Hanzo wanted meal he could walk with and eat, clearly eager to get back to their room. He orders something with chicken and spinach and a large sweet tea; the latter is something that has McCree raising his eyebrows over, but when Hanzo catches him looking he just shrugs.

“What?”

“I dunno, just… figured you’d be a little… classier than sweet tea.”

Hanzo snorts, shaking the huge cup at him with the over-the-lid hold he has on it. “I was on the run for a decade, McCree. If I have my choice, I have preferences, but this is fine. Besides, everything else is carbonated. I am being healthy.” He takes a big swallow of it as if to prove a point.

McCree snickers as he clearly struggles to force the whole mouthful down just from the pure volume. He honestly is a little surprised, but supposes he shouldn’t be. McCree had eaten some questionable things in his time, himself, and they aren’t so different. “Cool. Hanzo Shimada… sweet tea drinker.”

“That’s me,” Hanzo says around a choke.

McCree’s burrito has a shit-ton of ingredients on it. After a minute of watching Hanzo sip impatiently at his drink, he opts for the sweet tea, too. Hanzo smirks at his choice and McCree takes a big slurp, unaffected.

There’s really not much to do besides wait for night to fall, after that. Hanzo and McCree walk slowly back to their hotel room, chewing and chatting. Their path gets diverged a couple of times; once by Hanzo meandering his way into an alley and saying with confidence someone had just been beaten up here. McCree demands to know how he knew and Hanzo walks with him down the extent of the alley, pointing at various little specks of blood, an overturned garbage can, and a twenty dollar bill that he states matter-of-factly must’ve been dropped.

He bends and picks it up, and, bafflingly, blows off some of the dirt on it, before ignoring the much more egregious blood that also stains the bill and shoving it in his pocket. McCree stares at him the entire time, feeling that weird wiggly shake in his chest that preludes laughter. It breaks out when Hanzo looks at him like what he just did was completely normal.

“What? What?”

“Nothin’, I just— sometimes I just forget that you’re just… someone who used to kill people all the time,” McCree replies.

Hanzo cocks a brow. “That… is not something I often hear. Usually that is the one thing people do not forget about me.” The tone of his voice hints that McCree should be careful where he steps here.

McCree hums, laughter fading and leaning against the wall of the alley. “I know. Usually I’m the one people don’t realize is dangerous.”

The archer looks at him for a brief, there-and-gone moment, a flick of those dark eyelashes and darker eyes, but something about it makes the hair on McCree’s nape stand up. Stupid, how easy something like that gets his blood roaring ‘round his ears.

“I never forget how dangerous you are,” Hanzo says, quietly.

There’s a weight there McCree almost doesn’t catch. Hanzo meets eyes with him again, then quirks one side of his mouth up. “Mostly because you announce your presence everywhere you go. There is nothing subtle about you. Or your danger. How you are a spy, I may never know.”

Jesse feels tingles up his spine despite the fact that Hanzo’s doin’ one of those funny little insults again. “Why you gotta come for me every time you get the chance?”

Hanzo’s tiny smirk expands into a large one, a glint of wet teeth in the canine he can’t quite hide. “You might grow to like it.”

Welp. No arguing that. Jesse feels heat rise in his fast quicker than is decent as he processes his own words and the archer’s response, but Hanzo is already brushing past him. Not before aiming his burrito wrapper at the dumped garbage can, though, and sinking a three-pointer with that little fist pump he sometimes does after battles are won. “Let’s hurry back and drop off our things.”

It’s ridiculously endearing. McCree just watched him pick up a bloody, crunched up wad of money he doesn’t even need, and he’s still sitting here like an idiot thinking about how Hanzo was sometimes thoughtlessly charming.

Maybe Hanzo isn’t the weird one at all.

Jesse has to compose himself for a minute in the alleyway before following after him.

Scouting out the area is fast and easy. He and Hanzo are experienced in this sorta thing, know how to scope a place effectively without making allowances.

The party will be taking place in this big fancy ballroom that’d been built a few years back. Hanzo scouts while McCree watches from a little ways back, seated inconspicuously on a bench.

“Lots of high ground,” Hanzo murmurs to him through the comm. “There will probably be guards patrolling along these walkways, keeping an eye on the mayor.” McCree can only see him because he’s looking hard; he’s changed from the bulky sweater into a sleek all-black get up that got McCree all hot under the collar.

Creeping along the rooftops and peering here and there like a… beefy, man-sized spider, Hanzo places little pea-sized cameras everywhere he can reach, inside the building in the high corners and along the outside entrance. Hanzo is mostly quiet while he works, like he often is, and McCree is content to keep up a commentary like he’s on the phone with someone in the meantime. Hanzo trips no alarms and raises no suspicion, efficient and competent,

They arrive back at the hotel with the satisfaction of a job well done, and Hanzo boots up the laptop again, slouching in the computer chair. McCree crouches behind him to get in frame for the camera, and tactfully keeps his mouth closed about how Hanzo always took the chair. Brat.

Hanzo doesn’t bother changing out of his thin black longsleeve, nor the black cargo pants he’d had to wear to hold all the little cameras. It’s distracting, which shouldn’t be how he’s feeling when they’re calling up Winston for the update, but that’s how it is. He’s just a man.

Winston answers the call right away, peering into the camera and going through his usual motions of asking three times if it’s on. Only then does he sit back, mercifully ending the broadcast of his nostrils as he’d struggled with adjusting the desktop correctly.

“Agents,” he greets, cutting straight to business, as ever. “We’ve got the feeds from the cameras showing the inside of the hall pretty clearly. I assume nothing came up?”

“Without a hitch,” McCree offers brightly, resting his elbow on Hanzo’s armrest. The archer makes room for him without even looking.

“Good.” Winston leans back in his seat, scratching his chin and making a waving motion with his free hand. “This mission should be simple, and I know you’ve gone over the details, so I won’t bore you with strategy talk.”

McCree makes a skeptical noise that has the gorilla glaring into the camera and Hanzo digging his elbow into McCree’s shoulder. “What? You never bore me, Winston! I’m offended you think I’m ever not payin’ attention—”

“Ignore him,” Hanzo cuts in, and continues talking over McCree’s laughter. “Get in, keep an eye on Symmetra, watch out for anyone else that shows up.”

Winston nods. “Normally this wouldn’t even be a mission for two people, but something is strange about Symmetra’s whole… appearance. She wasn’t the original agent sent on this mission; the invitation sent out was for someone else, but she’s the one coming. She’s also much higher up on the chain of command than the former agent was. Symmetra is one of the top Vishkar representatives when it comes to expanding… she’s the one they send when they’re intent of making deals happen quickly and efficiently. Apart from that, from what I can find, most of her meetings take place formally, in one-on-one interactions. Parties and galas… aren’t really her scene.” Winston’s eyes are thoughtful behind his glasses. “Something is just… off.”

Hanzo frowns, leaning back in his seat as well and folding his arms. “So either Vishkar is very serious about expanding to Los Angeles…”

“... or somethin’ else is going on,” McCree finishes, and Hanzo meets eyes with him and nods.

Winston grunts an affirmative. “It may be nothing, but I just smell trouble. Just keep an ear and an eye on her. We’ll be watching from the cameras, too.”

McCree nods, and Hanzo mirrors him. Winston bids them goodnight and ends the call.

“How curious,” Hanzo murmurs aloud, scooting backwards in his chair and standing up. McCree rises up, too, pressing his hands into the small of his back with a wince. Gettin’ old sucks.

“Yup,” he replies. “Maybe she’s just really wantin’ expansion out here, but they gotta know even if it goes off without a hitch it ain’t happening for a few years at least. Why send your big dog on a place you ain’t even sniffed around first?”

“Exactly.” Hanzo reaches his hands up high and stretches out his spine, presumably shaking off the residual muscle tightness from climbing around on rooftops. McCree plops himself down in the chair behind him and tries to pretend he isn’t watching when Hanzo starts twisting to stretch out his ribcage. “Though she might take offense to you calling her big dog.”

McCree snorts. “It’s a compliment. Small dogs are yappy. I like big ones.”

Hanzo turns to look at him over his shoulder, cocking a brow, and McCree realizes what he’s thoughtlessly blurted. “Shutup,” he snipes instantly, and Hanzo’s visible eye crinkles in a smirk before he turns back around.

He reaches up and lets his hair out of the tight topknot it’d been in, shaking it out with a hand in it. McCree feels his mouth go a little dry, like a goddamn Pavlovian response; even with the little bump in his hair that having it up all day gave it, there’s just something about someone loosing their hair like that. He’s not weird.

“I am going to shower, if you have no more euphemisms to give me,” Hanzo says.

“If you’d like, I can probably come up with a few more,” Jesse replies easily. He pushes his luck with a leer once Hanzo shoots him an unimpressed look, and is rewarded with Hanzo somehow spiraling his ponytail holder so it smacks him in the face like a frisbee.

The evening is mostly quiet. Hanzo doesn’t pull his hair back up once he gets out of the shower, instead towel-drying it once he has his boxers on. McCree may like this part of missions the best; the downtime, late in the evening, watching his partners go through their bedtime business. Hanzo brushes his teeth for two minutes exactly. He removes his metal legs to rub the stubs of his knees and apply prosthetic-approved lotion that he borrows from McCree. He puts on a plain black tank top but remains in his boxers, slipping under the blankets sitting up against the headboard. It’s all very methodical, step-by-step things that McCree has seen him do on countless missions before this one, but there’s something… comforting, in his monotony, something that has McCree lingering in the bathroom’s doorframe, watching him do it for as long as he dares before he gets caught staring and must retreat to clean himself off.

McCree showers quickly, more eager to get out and watch whatever bad movie Hanzo has picked out for them on the television. If the only indulgence he takes is in using some of Hanzo’s soap and scrubbing down with that, lingering for a few seconds in the scent of it filling the little enclosed shower, then no one has to know but him. It smells like pine, the strong clean scent underlaid with the sweet, sharp tang of sap. It’s fancy stuff, as is Hanzo’s shampoo and conditioner, but McCree knows this is a new development.

He remembers the most basic, scentless stuff imaginable in the showers when he’d first started out on missions with the archer. Now, these bottles had to cost the kind of money McCree’d never dream of spending on something he was gonna throw away, all scented and promising oil-removal and split end repair, this, that, and the other thing. Before, Jesse’d maybe have teased him about it, mocked him over having to have his froo-froo stuff. But now, he just sees development.

Hanzo letting himself have something, just for him.

He maybe spends a little too long cradling the little shampoo bottle, peering down at all the things it promised to cure, thinking about Hanzo in the shower in a different way than he normally did. Still, there’s no time to let his mind go down more carnal images, at least not without Hanzo suspecting something. So he just smiles a little down at the bottle and sets it back down, opting for his good old two-in-one beside it.

Steam billows out alongside him as he leaves the bathroom, and Hanzo looks up from the tablet he has in his lap. McCree glances at him, but he can’t tell if Hanzo looked anywhere interesting; he’s back at his tablet.

“Hero of my Storm?” Hanzo asks, and McCree makes a face.

“I’ve seen it like twelve times. Not always voluntarily. I can say the lines better’n Hana.”

Hanzo flicks his eyes up again, smirking, and now that gaze definitely lingers. Jesse tries not to preen. “You do not seem to mind watching the same old, terrible, boring westerns over and over.”

Jesse bends and makes a noise like he’d been arrow’d in the chest. “Ouch! Those are classics!”

“There is a difference between classic and just old.” Hanzo’s eyes are sparkling, but he dips his head again as McCree goes digging in his bag to find clothing. Jesse almost wishes he kept looking, maybe caught a peek of something under the towel, but no dice.

They argue for awhile, but ultimately settle on some old romcom that Jesse says he’d been meaning to watch. It turns out to be boring, the same-old same-old boy meets girl that’d been shown a hundred times on the Hallmark channel. Hanzo complains for about half of it, and sleeps through the rest.

Jesse eventually cuts it off during the credits (he was one of those types that couldn’t bear to stop watching once he started) and wanders over to Hanzo’s bed to shake him just coherent enough to sink into the bed proper. He teases Hanzo about dozing off; the archer just grumbles and paws him away, but lets him come back enough to draw the blanket up close around his shoulder.

He maybe lingers for a minute over that, tucks the comforter up close. Hanzo’d have never let him do this 6 months ago. At least not without comment; now, Hanzo just closes his eyes against the pillow with a half-asleep sigh. Jesse looks down at him, all clean and nice-smelling and sleep-warm, and wants, suddenly and desperately, to lean down and kiss his temple. Just to see what he’d do. Just to press his luck a little more.

He does not, but he really, really has to make himself pull back.

“Night, Han,” he bids after a moment, and Hanzo peers up at him, blinking drowsily in the pale moonlight filtering in through the window.

He gets that same feeling like he did that day with the coffee; like Hanzo was searching him for suspicious activity, trying to figure out what his angle was, like he’s said something too earnestly. McCree swallows, freezing under the scrutiny.

But Hanzo doesn’t do anything, just draws the comforter up higher over his shoulder. “Goodnight. Get your rest.”

It takes a little while to do as he says, after that.

Chapter Text

Hanzo steps out of the bathroom and Jesse feels faintly like he’s had the air kicked from him.

The man is five foot eight inches of muscle, all cleaned up and overwhelmingly masculine. His physique is on full display in the stark white t-shirt, stretching tight over his biceps, shoulders, chest. McCree has to wonder if they got it a size too small, or something, but maybe he’s blinded by the static he can feel buzzing around his eyes. The winding dragon tattoo is just barely visible through the fabric to anyone looking, and twists sinuously down his arm from underneath the rim of his sleeve. Fortunately (or not), the tattoo would be completely covered by the black leather jacket Hanzo has folded over one arm; Jesse tries not to lament visibly.

The simple top ends tucked into a pair of dark jeans, held up by a sleek black belt clasped in a silver buckle. Hanzo’s broad thighs taper off into slender calves, finishing up the look in classy black boots. McCree briefly spares a thought for Hanzo in those old-school Converse, but the image doesn’t suit. Even dressed up as a rebel from a century ago, Hanzo sacrifices none of his fashion sense when he’s doing business.

He wishes that weren’t unrepentantly sexy, for some reason.

Dragging his eyes up from Hanzo’s body, he blinks as he meets the man’s cocked eyebrow and strange little smirk. “The clothing is suitable, then,” he says on a chuckle, wobbling only a little with something that’d be bashfulness on anyone else.

McCree huffs, rocking back on his heels and reaching up to tip his hat before realizing it isn’t there. “Uh… yeah. You look… spot-on.” Way hotter than those guys on the website, he wants to add, but doesn’t, because that’d be a weird thing to say to a friend. He flicks his eyes up to Hanzo’s hair, slicked and coiffed with just a strand dangling into his face, and grasps at the straw. “You really did the hair, huh?”

Hanzo’s smirk twists into annoyance, and he sighs, lifting his hand as if he wants to touch it, but avoiding doing so. “Does it look authentic?”

Jesse can’t help the snort that brings. “You really care, Han? It ain’t like you’re there to impress anyone.”

The archer levels him with a look, just a second too long to feel completely kosher, before growling out a “If I am doing this, I am doing it correctly.”

McCree lifts his hands in defense. “It looks good! Better’n I could do, for sure. You even managed to flatten out the wings.”

Hanzo’s shoulders relax slightly, but he does make a face at Jesse. He hated when McCree called his tufty sideburns what they so clearly were, and that was precisely why McCree kept doing it. “I’ll kill you,” he grumbles without bite, and McCree lays a hand on his chest like he’s been wounded, sputtering around a laugh.

Only then, does it seem, Hanzo realizes what McCree is wearing.

“You are… pink,” Hanzo says, with the concerned note of someone who is saying something aloud in case both of the parties aren’t aware.

McCree rustles up a smile and poses, dipping his thumb in his (for once) empty belt loops and making finger guns. “I’m the Sandy to your Zuko,” he replies, admittedly feeling a touch silly now after seeing how ridiculously attractive Hanzo looked in the greaser get-up.

Hanzo just stares at him, inspecting the light-washed jeans, the pink sweater over the white collared shirt. McCree feels more and more ridiculous the longer Hanzo doesn’t say anything.

“Tell me about it... stud.” He tries for more humor, wiggling his hips a little and affecting the breathy way the actress had said the words. For some reason, that snaps Hanzo out of it. He puffs a laugh, rubbing a hand down through his freshly-trimmed goatee and shaking his head.

“I thought we were both doing this horrible hair thing,” Hanzo says, and now he looks like he might be hiding a smile behind that hand, but McCree can’t be sure.

“I can do something weird with my hair if you want. I just thought maybe this’d be more fun.”

Hanzo’s eyes go a little sterner, though the smile is still wrinkling them at the edges. “The purpose of disguises is to blend in. You are rather eye-catching.”

Jesse feels his heart do a flip-flop at what might not even actually be a compliment. “Thanks.”

Hanzo snorts and shakes his head. “Insufferable. You’ve just made your job harder.”

“Naaah. If I stick by your side, we’re gonna blend in like two peas in a pod, trust me. ‘Sides,” and he adds the finishing touch, taking the shaggy hair at the base of his neck and tying it into a low ponytail with a flourish, “I make it look too good to pass up. And this’ll hide my arm better than the t-shirt would. That shirt ain’t hidin’ nothing on you, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Hanzo inspects the ponytail carefully, folding his arms as if to accentuate just how goddamn fit he looks in his outfit. “I do not mind,” he replies, the smile returning, now accompanied with a low-lidded look that straightens McCree from his slouch. “But you will pay for this. Somehow. For deceiving me.” He turns and goes back into the bathroom, but leaves the door open so he can hear McCree splutter with indignation.

“What, would you have jumped at the chance to be Sandy instead?”

Hanzo looks at him through the mirror’s reflection, and cocks a brow, saying nothing.

McCree blinks, picturing Hanzo in a nice sweater, white Keds, and with his hair in a low ponytail. The image brings to mind a gay middle-aged dad, which is both hilarious and kind of adorable in a way that Hanzo definitely is not and should never be. “... Alright. Maybe I’d like to see that.”

The much-sexier Zuko across from him smirks, and pulls a heart-to-God comb out of his back pocket. He begins combing his hair in a perfect mimic of the characters from that old movie. It should look ridiculous, and it kind of does, but when Hanzo’s neutral expression flickers to one of cocky arrogance as he looks at Jesse in the mirror, well. That’d put jelly in the legs of any man.

“... Still think I like this more,” he continues, weakly, and Hanzo tsks and flicks the comb back into his pocket before turning and making to leave the bathroom, only pausing when Jesse’s bulk in the doorframe causes him to.

The two meet eyes, and Hanzo smirks, lifting his hand and putting it on Jesse’s chest. He gives a light push, accentuated with a head tilt backwards, not nearly the strength he actually held in his body but enough to make Jesse stumble back anyway.

“Daddy-o,” he says, apropos of nothing.

Hanzo loses it at the same millisecond Jesse does, both of them snickering loudly in the quiet of their hotel room. McCree recovers enough to speak first. “What, did you try to learn lingo from Hana, or somethin’?”

Hanzo’s grin wiggles its way into his response. “That’s what they said!”

“No it isn’t. You know what, it’s good this ain’t like actually going undercover as a greaser, and you just gotta look the part, or we’d be up Shit Creek.”

“Cool cat. Bee’s knees.”

“Stop.”

“I did so much research for this,” Hanzo says, putting on his best offended voice, looking dead in McCree’s face like he means it, “and you are mocking me. Berating me. You did not even dress the right way. When this mission fails I’ll expect your resignation on Winston’s desk.”

“Uh huh.” McCree smirks down at the other man, who smirks right back. It was… fun, seeing Hanzo like this. Being a little weirdo, having a good time. He so rarely saw it on the archer, who was all business once jobs actually got started, who tended to keep to himself back on base unless approached.

He wonders if Hanzo is like this on solo-missions with other people. That’s a dangerous line of thinking — potentially being jealous of coworkers over something so petty — but this strange, secretive little smile Hanzo’s sporting, the easy comradery, the simple intimacy of sharing a room and seeing each other’s sleeping routines… he wants to keep it to himself.

He has for awhile. Too long to go without saying something, long enough that he can comfortably call himself chicken-shit. Hanzo just looks at him too long nowadays and he feels himself get jumpy, feel his pulse pick up under his throat.

It’d be smart to just say something one of these days. Before it was too late and he lost the chance.

It was easier not to.

The silence between them in the aftermath of the laughter is comfortable, but after a moment Hanzo takes a deep breath and sighs. “Okay.” He checks his comm, affirming the time. 6:30 pm. The party begins at 8.

The pair of them meet eyes before nodding.

Time to go.

Hanzo exits the room with a reluctant look at his bow, hidden in the guitar case, and McCree shuts the light off after him.

The car drives like a dream.

McCree pulled out of the parking lot with the top down and his hair blowing a little wildly in the breeze. He laughs at Hanzo when he realizes the archer’s hair doesn’t move a molecule in the wind, too stuck in place with the pomade. Hanzo pushes him hard enough that Jesse has to quickly put both hands on the wheel and resort to elbowing his hands away.

Still, he feels like a badass riding in the Cadillac. The engine purrs like an animal under him, and once he gets an arm slung over the door, it’s almost like he really is back a century, riding along the busy streets with a hot babe in his passenger seat.

Hanzo, for his part, seems to be enjoying himself, despite clearly attempting to keep his head off the seat. He plays with the radio, switches to something jazzy that neither of them recognizes with a lot of saxophone. It suits the car, and McCree taps his fingers on the steering wheel as they ride. At one point a song starts singing about someone irresponsible, unreliable, undependable, and Hanzo seems to really like that one, even silently bopping his head along with it. McCree obligingly turns it up, and Hanzo smiles at him as the singer croons out a soft little “I’m irresponsibly mad for you.”

Oof. Little on the nose. Hanzo either doesn’t notice or doesn’t comment, eyes going half-lidded as he nods along with the music. McCree tries to swallow his heart back down from his throat.

Driving up to the gala is simple enough, sidling into line as cars get driven away by the valet. McCree hates giving away the keys, wondering if he’ll get them back, and Hanzo seems to notice, chuckling softly and tugging him along up the steps.

Subtly, Hanzo scratches his jaw and flips on his comm as he does so. McCree mimics him a moment later.

“T-Bird reporting,” Hanzo murmurs, and McCree snorts, having almost forgotten the codenames they’d been given.

“Pink Lady comin’ in,” he says abidingly afterward, and Hanzo shoots him a look, as if suddenly understanding his outfit.

“Loud and clear,” says Winston in their ear, preventing anything Hanzo might’ve said. “Remember; keeping your cover is most important here. Be discreet, be smart, and get out.”

“Yessir,” McCree mutters, quickly losing his train of thought as he and Hanzo are let inside the party after flashing their ID cards — fake names, as McCree was using his Joel cover to ‘report on the party’ and Hanzo was his handsome +1.

The place is jumping with people and music alike. Women in little poodle skirts and men in suspenders and ties, all dancing around with each other to the loud jazz music and chatting in corners. Paper banners hung all over the place, a big one in the center of the hall shouting out a “Happy 300th Anniversary, Los Angeles!”. There were waiters and waitresses rollin’ around on roller skates, bringing food to the people sitting in the little booths that had been arranged near the edges of the room. Omnics and humans both are dressed to the nines; McCree has to blink when an Omnic in a bright blond wig walks past him, chatting up a human lady in a pretty pale dress. Everyone here is important in some way, whether they be movie producers, politicians, reporters, or Vishkar agents.

There’s a bar that’s serving alcohol, but also serving milkshakes. Honest to god milkshakes.

“This is so weird,” he says, and Hanzo elbows him, though the little smile he has suggests he has the same thought.

“Do you see her?”

“Ah…” McCree blinks, and scans the crowd again, more intently this time, trying to recall Symmetra from the picture on his phone. “... no.”

“Me neither.” Hanzo laces his arm in McCree’s and guides them further inside, confident and poised, even dressed up as a greaser. McCree guesses he’s been to a hundred get-togethers like this, having been one of the most influential and powerful gangsters in the world once upon a time. In a way, the outfit suits him; though it was far from anything Hanzo’d probably wear by choice, the bad-boy gangster vibe it gives him makes Jesse smile a little at the irony.

“Focus,” Hanzo says, cutting him a look out of the corner of his eyes, having noticed Jesse’s blatant staring.

“A-yup,” he replies quickly, embarrassed, jerks his head up. Hanzo frowns at him but doesn’t comment further, guiding them to a far corner of the room and leaning up against the wall. He folds his arms, pulls the leather jacket tight across his shoulders. McCree tries not to notice that.

“Anything?” he murmurs, this time directed at the voice in his ear.

“Looking,” comes the reply, and then a dissatisfied gorilla grunt. “She’s probably dressed up for the party, too. Might take me a few minutes— there she is.”

Hanzo and McCree both straighten up, narrowly avoiding getting their toes skated over by a passing waitress.

“Talking to the mayor,” Winston continues, “over on the right side of the building.”

McCree tips his head in that direction, eyes searching. After some looking, he sees the the mayor, blond, pushing 60, and talking to someone with a swath of dark hair wrapped up into a tight, straight updo. Dark skin, a blue circle-dress with a shawl, a neck of pearls that her hand returns to 3 times in the short instance he’s looking at her. When she turns her head to avoid someone bumping into her, there’s no denying the strong nose, the flawless eye makeup, the expression of distaste.

It’s Vaswani.

“Alright,” McCree sighs, and wraps an arm around Hanzo, pulling him close and leaning in to murmur in his ear. “Let’s just get as close as we can.”

They do, moving slowly around the dancefloor toward their target while trying to pretend they were moving aimlessly. Twice, they are stopped and complimented on their matching outfits. One man tries to rope them into conversation about how Hanzo’s shoes aren’t technically historically accurate, but is quickly deterred by the incredibly cold look he gets in return. Hanzo begins a detailed description of exactly how perfect the shoes were for his outfit that threatened to go on for way too long before McCree almost drags him over to the milkshake bar just to get out of the guy’s path.

“These are Oxfords, everyone wore these,” Hanzo gripes, taking his milkshake (strawberry, McCree’s preference) and not even noticing when McCree puts two straws in it.

“I know, pumpkin,” Jesse soothes, and he does. Like Hanzo’d be caught dead in shoes that don’t match.

They eventually make their way over to the booth closest to Vaswani and Kaitlin, seating themselves as close as they dare and putting the milkshake on the table between them. They make small conversation (mostly Hanzo insulting McCree’s choice of flavor without even trying it, the bastard) but focus most of their attention on eavesdropping.

“I’m well aware it may take some time to come up with a viable collaboration,” Vaswani is saying, her hand back on her pearls. She looks stern, cold, but her voice is pleasant enough. “I just believe it would be a grand opportunity for Los Angeles, when you are prepared.”

Mayor Kaitlin takes a sip of her champagne. “We’ve done well enough without your tech in the past. What makes you think we need it now, if you’ll pardon me?”

Vaswani is not drinking. She flicks her gaze across the room before returning them to Kaitlin, light brown eyes pretty in the fluorescent lighting. “The world is ever evolving, Mrs. Mayor. It is… prudent, to learn from the past. To return to times when things were simpler. But if one spends too much time looking backward…”

McCree blinks and averts his eyes as suddenly Vaswani’s gaze falls on he and Hanzo. Shit. It doesn’t move, burning into their table with enough intensity to melt their milkshake if she really tried. “... you may miss the opportunities that lay in your path.”

Hanzo glances at him across the table, clearly reading the same thing, and reaches across to lace their fingers together. A sideways look shows Vaswani has averted her eyes, instead listening to the mayor as she continues waffling, but that doesn’t mean anything.

Jesse tries to focus on the danger they might be in even as Hanzo’s fingers absentmindedly trace up and down between his own. “Could be nothin’,” he hums, leaning forward to take a sip of the milkshake.

Hanzo, watching him sip, wrinkles his nose. “Doubtful,” he replies, and, somewhat reluctantly, leans forward to take a pull, as well. He seems surprised by the flavor, leaning back and licking his lips. “... Huh.”

“Ha! See. Ain’t so bad. You just gotta give it a shot,” McCree crows, briefly dropping the guise, if only to gloat a little, and because it’s something Joel would say to his partner, too. Hanzo glares across the table at him, and then pulls the milkshake closer with his free hand, effectively keeping it from McCree’s reach unless he wanted to cause a scene.

Jesse scowls back, using his foot under the table to kick at Hanzo’s calf. The archer’s head snaps up, and he narrows his eyes, kicking back at him. Their feet scuff together, and Jesse feels a thrill run up his spine, especially when Hanzo hooks a foot around his ankle and gives him a little yank. The effect is McCree’s shoe skidding between Hanzo’s, and the foot around his calf gliding up to hook around the back of his knee, instead.

Heat bubbles unexpectedly in McCree’s stomach. Hanzo stares back at him, eyes seeming an inkier black than he’s seen them before, and his shoes slowly slides back down McCree’s calf to the floor, butting up on McCree once more.

“Don’t mess up your Oxfords,” Jesse teases, a little breathless. It earns a direct kick right in the shin. “Ah, shit—”

“Gentlemen.”

Hanzo and Jesse jerk up and apart from where they were leaning close to each other across the table. Their hands, ridiculously, spring apart, as if they’d been caught doing it for real.

Vaswani doesn’t seem to notice, looking down at the pair of them with a polite look on her face. “Pardon my intrusion, but I must ask. Are you Joel Morricone?” She flicks her eyes over to Jesse, who blinks, having very, very rarely been identified as his pen name before. This was… not what he’d expected to be approached over. “You wrote on the train robbery with Talon, correct?”

“McCree? Is that Vaswani?” The voice in his ear sounds alarmed and cautious, but to react to it would be way more suspicious.

Jesse wets his lips before straightening up, settling into his alter ego with ease. “Ah, yes, that would be me, ma’m.” Hanzo flicks eyes at him in what must be the closest thing to a double-take he can do at the subtle but important change in McCree’s accent. “But as you can see, I’m on a date right now, so I’d appreciate it if you just email me with whatever you’d like to talk about.” He leans closer, cupping his hand around his mouth and speaking theatrically, eyes all charm. “I think he really likes me, so…”

Vaswani glances at Hanzo, who obligingly looks as indulgent as he can manage. She cocks a brow, and then smiles, looking back at Jesse with a laugh. It doesn’t reach her eyes; they’d be the color of honey if they weren’t so cold. “I see,” she hums, before gently placing her gloved hand on his arm. Normally, this’d be unwelcome contact, but nothin’ unusual.

She gives it a meaningful squeeze. It’s his metal arm. McCree feels ice down his spine, unnerved at her intense, hawk-like gaze.

“Well. I heard the second floor has a beautiful balcony to look out from, if you would like to bring your date there. It’s a lovely night.” She dips her head in a small bow. “My apologies for disturbing you.”

With that, Vaswani walks off, heading through the crowd.

Jesse slouches in his seat, rubbing his temple with his hand. “Fuck. Now what. She knows.”

Hanzo frowns at him, eyes a little hot as he looks at the place on Jesse’s arm Vaswani had grabbed him. “Does she?”

“I could tell. She squeezed right where the metal meets me. Mentioned Talon by name and watched me when she said it.” He aches to shove his hat further down on his head, but it isn’t there, leaving him exposed for everyone to see. “Joel’s official appearances are so rare I’d have known if she knew what he looked like.”

“Hm.” Hanzo takes a sip of the milkshake, seemingly forgetting what it is. “Should we go?”

Winston’s sigh in his ear is frustrated. “If she knows who you are and didn’t immediately expose you… I’m not sure. It doesn’t mean she didn’t report you as soon as she got out of earshot. I’m reluctant to send you up there on your own. She didn’t seem to recognize Agent Shimada?”

Jesse grunts a dismissal. “Nah. Didn’t look twice at him.”

Hanzo bristles a little, in a funny kinda way, like he’s pissed about not getting recognized, but doesn’t say anything.

Winston is quiet for a moment, then exhales. “See what she wants. Shimada, be on standby. If she attacks you, if it gets hot, get out of there immediately, keep your covers as much as you can. It can’t get out that Overwatch was at this gala.”

Jesse sighs, pushing to his feet and reaching back to tighten his ponytail. “Alright.” The lack of Peacekeeper at his side makes him antsy, but the gala had a strict no weapons policy; metal detector at the door and everything. All he’d have was his wits and his hands if push came to shove, and he hated that, even if he knew he could handle himself.

He looks at Hanzo, glaring across the crowd, the playful mood he’d had before they’d been interrupted gone and sour. Hesitantly, Jesse gives his shoe a little kick, getting Hanzo to redirect his glare to McCree’s face.

“Don’t drink all that without me,” he says, trying to get that smile back on Hanzo’s face.

It works only partially. A tight smirk twitches one corner of his mouth. “Then you had better hurry back.”

Taking the concern for what it is, Jesse tips an invisible hat. He heads up the stairs after weaving through the bodies of people, taking his time, trying not to make it obvious that he was after somebody.

Meandering through the second floor is a lot less stressful. There are a few people up here, but only one or two couples. Over by one of the balconies, through the open doors, McCree sees the shadow of a lady cast out over the floor by the moon.

He takes a deep breath, exhales, and then walks over to her with a little weight to his step, to announce his presence.

Vaswani is standing next to the railing, leaning on it gently, though she straightens up when she sees McCree approaching. Her hand reaches up for her pearls before she visibly aborts the movement, and while she looks slightly less uncomfortable up here and away from the crowd, she looks no less severe.

“Mr. Morricone,” she greets, eyes never leaving his own. “Alone?”

“Wanted to scope the place out before I brought my date,” McCree replies, nodding once to her, confirming that he is by himself. The woman’s shoulders relax slightly, and she steps closer to him, falcon-eyes blazing in the silvery light.

“Wise of you,” she says. After a moment, she lifts her left hand — the prosthetic — and traces it along her necklace, sighing to herself. “I do not have much time… to enjoy places like this.”

McCree blinks, and folds his arms, knowing well enough what she was getting at. “Me neither. Work’s kept me real busy. What was it you did, Miss Vaswani?”

The barb doesn’t go unnoticed, and the woman cuts him a look, almost as intimidating as Hanzo’s, before moving closer to him and laying her flesh hand on his chest.

“Uh,” McCree begins, startled, definitely not expecting the familiarity from the architect. Vaswani’s eyes are still on his, boring in, and she runs her hand up his chest to his collar. There is no heat in her gaze, not even the barest hint of attraction or desire, and so Jesse can only stare down at her as she brings herself closer to him.

“Why must we dance around the point?” she says, a touch too loudly for how close they are. For the cameras, he realizes, jaw going tight. Jesse swallows, playing along because she’s clearly up to something, and then he feels a weight in his pocket. She’d dropped something there.

Vaswani leans up to his ear. “Have your commander contact me for more information. I will be in touch. Push me away.”

McCree robotically does so, then steps back, quickly readjusting his face. “No, Vaswani. I’m on a date, stop tryin’ to get in my pants.”

The look Vaswani gives him is extremely unimpressed, but she’d been the one to come onto him for whatever was in his pocket now. It sells well for anyone watching, though, and the woman leaves in a huff, heels clacking on the tile as she marches her way back downstairs.

Slightly dazed, McCree watches her go. “... Jesus Christ,” he murmurs to himself, all kinds of discombobulated, before exhaling one last time and running his hand through his hair as best he can with a ponytail. “Mary and Joseph. Alright. You get that, big guy?”

“I, uh… saw her get… very close to you.”

“What?” comes Hanzo’s voice, sharp. Jesse feels a thrill up his spine at the implications of him caring.

“She put somethin’ in my pocket,” Jesse mutters lowly, and dips his hand inside, touching the rectangular plastic of something that felt easily familiar. “Got real grabby so she could put it there. Said she’d… be in touch. It’s a hard-drive.” While Hanzo is absolutely silent, Winston’s voice comes back, hesitant and confused.

“I see. Alright.” A pause. “Vaswani is leaving the premises. Whatever… that was… let’s hope it was worth her knowing who you were.”

“Think she’s wantin’ to join up?” McCree hums, making his way down the stairs once more and back towards his table, spotting Hanzo there, looking absolutely murderous. McCree wishes that didn’t make him hot like burnin’.

“That would be… incredibly valuable,” replies Winston, a touch more excited now. “There’s no way to know for sure… and no easy way to trust someone from Vishkar… but there’s no telling until you get back, anyway. I wouldn’t put that hard-drive in your laptop there; I’ll have Athena check it when you return to base.”

“Roger. We free to go, then?” McCree reaches out a hand for Hanzo to take, and the archer does, clenching it tightly. Possessively. Jesse’s heart starts pounding a mile a minute in an instant, and he almost doesn’t catch Winston’s affirmative.

“Nothing more for you to do there. Let me know when you get back to the hotel safely. Good work, agents.”

The line goes dead, and Hanzo immediately begins dragging them out of the building, brushing rudely past a man that, on second glance, turns out to be incorrect-shoes guy.

Incredible.

The night air is cool and relieving on his hot skin. Hanzo lets him go to get their car back from the valet, voice commanding and low and assuring the Eldorado is cruising up in front of them at a quick kinda speed.

Jesse’s surprised when it’s Hanzo that slides into the driver’s seat, but the look of him, all dressed up in that classic car, looking straight out of an old movie, looking cockily and impatiently over at him as he purrs a “get in” has McCree more than happy to take the passenger seat this time.

He follows orders, hopping in the side seat, and Hanzo pulls the car out like he’s driven sexy cars all his life and knew exactly what they were capable of. The engine growls like a tamed tiger beneath Hanzo’s touch, and the archer leads them down the road at a speed that was probably illegal. It was fun, though, too, and Jesse’d always been the type to do the fun thing over the legal thing.

Hanzo really was like him in a lot of ways. He thinks about it as they drive, looking over at Hanzo as he flicks the radio back on and turns it up. Hanzo’s got this glint in his eyes, like he’s still on the mission, untouchable and fierce and a mankiller. But he’s found a way to drive with one hand; the other is on the seat between them, has got McCree’s hand back in a death grip after they’d been reunited.

He was dangerous as hell, but there’s something in there that McCree’s really started to see these past few months. An old want, a desire for something, and maybe it really was just for Jesse to see.

He doesn’t even realize they aren’t heading back to their hotel until Hanzo suddenly pulls off the road and parks the car.

Jesse blinks, eyes widening when Hanzo looks over at him and shuts the car off.

“She was right,” he says, voice rough. McCree has a second to try and figure out what he’s saying before the archer continues, “it is a beautiful night.”

It takes him a minute before McCree remembers Vaswani’s words. He flicks his eyes out from their car, realizing Hanzo had parked them at a little curve in the road, above the city and the treeline, leaving the sky and the stars in full view. It’s a little embarrassing it took this long for him to notice, but now that he does, he whistles. “Wow. Damn. It sure is.”

Hanzo is silent, eventually pulling Jesse’s eyes back to him from sheer force of will. The man is still staring at him, dark eyes lit up silvery-gray in the evening air. “I have never forgotten how dangerous you are,” he murmurs, and scoots closer. Jesse instantly feels his blood do a somersault through his whole body, blazing into life at just his proximity. He’s in so deep.

Luckily, he’s starting to think he’s not alone down here.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes.” Hanzo wets his lips, lets out a slow breath. “But you are the only one who has ever seen beyond how dangerous I am. Who laughs rather than flinches from me when I… am blatantly so. You make me feel... less alone.” He looks at McCree’s face, and then reaches out, lacing his fingers through Jesse’s hair, neatly undoing his ponytail in the process.

Jesse can’t be held responsible for how shaky his next breath is.

“I asked,” he continues, lowly, “to come on this mission. Knowing the parameters. Knowing I would have to dress up in this ridiculous outfit. I knew you would be going, so I asked to accompany you.”

“Oh,” Jesse replies, and sits up, leans into Hanzo’s hand. The archer’s serious mouth twitches at the corner. Slowly, he feels a smirk curl out over his own face. “... I’m guessin’ maybe not just because we work well together, then?”

“I have already told you,” Hanzo says, voice low, eyes bright, “you are a terrible spy. I have carried us through this entire mission.”

Startled into a laugh, Jesse doesn’t stop himself from drawing closer, bumping his nose with Hanzo’s, testing. “You’re awful mean to me. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were flirtin’. Better ways to get a man’s attention than by pullin’ his pigtails, you know.”

Hanzo doesn’t move back; his hand tightens in Jesse’s hair, and gives a little pull. Jesse feels his eyelashes flutter without him meaning for them too, and Hanzo’s secretive smile pulls into a full one. “I do not think you mind very much.”

Welp. No arguing that. “When you’re right you’re right. I just said there were better ways.”

“Oh?” Hanzo’s voice is all lilting teasing now, and Jesse can’t help but grin. “Show me, then.”

Jesse does. He slides his way into Hanzo’s lap and tips his head back and dips his face down into the inevitability.

Kissing him feels like all the music of the evening is blaring in his gut. Hanzo’s hands slide down to his waist instantly; he pulls McCree closer with a soft growl, leaning up into it and pulling back only to kiss him again.

It’s three kisses in before they pull apart to look at each other. Hanzo looks incredibly pleased with himself, eyes a little fuzzy and drawing his tongue over his canine. McCree looks at that for about two seconds before bending down again, pressing Hanzo into the seat and parting his lips to coax Hanzo to do the same.

Time passes slowly, making out in the car, and Jesse feels relief filtering through his veins, relief and giddiness. More than once he has to pull back because he’s smiling too big; every time, Hanzo gives him a few seconds of cheesing before rolling his eyes with a huff and bringing him back down.

They kiss until they run out of the air to keep doing it, and then kiss some more, until McCree is a lazy little pile on Hanzo’s lap and Hanzo is panting softly into the open night air.

“I have been flirting all mission,” Hanzo says after a minute, and Jesse snorts, nuzzling up under his jaw.

“You’ve been flirtin’ a lot longer than that.”

“And it still took me coming onto you. Are you sure you were a spy? You are the least perceptive man I know.”

“If you make one more crack about my spy skills I’m gonna sneak up into your bed when you ain’t lookin’,” McCree grumbles, offsetting the threat with kisses along Hanzo’s throat. The archer snorts.

“Oh no, don’t do that,” he deadpans, and then flinches as McCree nips at him, both of them bursting into small, soft laughter unlaid with relief.

This was real. Finally. Peace swallows up through McCree as he gets comfortable kissing on Hanzo’s neck, thinking about all the times he’d be able to do this starting forward. Back at the hotel… back at the base… in his room—

“Oh, fuck,” Hanzo says, suddenly jerking upright.

McCree blinks blurrily, feeling a stab of insecurity. “What? Han?”

“I… I got my hair on the leather.”

Jesse stares, and then laughs, bending down and pressing his teeth to Hanzo’s throat. “You’re gonna get more than that on there,” he rumbles.

In the end, for all his worrying, Hanzo doesn’t seem to mind that much.