Chapter Text
Jesse fumbles for the door panel. It takes him two tries before the door finally opens, and he grunts when he gracelessly stumbles against the doorframe.
“Damn ya’, Reeha,” he curses under his breath and rubs the sore spot on his shoulder as he staggers from his room and makes his way along the corridor. He should’ve known better than to let her choose the drinks. Should’ve stuck to his good old bourbon, hell, should’ve listened to those damn alarm bells when she started ordering shots. Considering how many Bloody Brains they downed in between the red wine and the Martinis, he’s not really surprised his head hurts as if it’s been down a bowling alley.
He follows the dim night lighting towards the communal area, steadier on his feet as his sleep-drunkenness slowly wears off. The air conditioning out here is far too cold for his liking, and he contemplates going back to put on his boots but discards the thought when his stomach growls at him, reminding him why he is up at this unholy hour in the first place. At least it wasn’t a nightmare that woke him up this time. As unpleasant as it is, he certainly prefers the stale taste of a hangover to the gore his treacherous mind comes up with some nights.
He lifts his head and sniffs the air as he gets closer to the kitchen. Someone’s cooking, something rich and spicy. Maybe Fareeha wasn’t quite as ‘un-drunk’ as she claimed when she deposited him at his door earlier before swaying off towards her own room.
The natural warmth of the summer night wraps around him as he steps into the kitchen, and he’s instantly grateful to whoever had the foresight to ask Athena to switch off the air conditioning and opened a window instead. Damn those heathens that can’t appreciate a breeze of real fresh air. The hum of the extractor fan above the stove seems louder than usual against the quiet of the hour, and he’s half-expecting to find Jack and Ana sitting at the end of the table, going through mission briefs or secret intel. His step falters when he realizes that it’s neither of them but Genji’s brother Hanzo who stares back at him from the other side of the room, a wooden spoon poised in his hand as if he’s wielding a sword.
“Whoa there, darlin’, I come in peace.” Jesse quickly holds up his hands to show he’s unarmed but can’t hide a smirk when he notices Hanzo’s bare feet sticking out from underneath a pair of sweatpants that is clearly too long to be his own. Genji’s, most likely. “I hope you don’t plan on scraping my eyes out with that, I ain’t got nothing to defend myself.”
Hanzo narrows his eyes at him. “Then you are a fool.”
Jesse snorts but keeps an eye on Hanzo as he makes his way over to the fridge. He’s seen Hanzo’s aim and has no doubt Hanzo can still harm him if he wants to, even with something as unthreatening as a wooden spoon. “At two o’clock at night, with Winston’s radar and an annoyingly all-knowing AI to watch over us, I think I’ll take my chances. Not sure I’m sober enough to handle any kinda weapon responsibly right now anyway.”
“I will remind you of that next time you request access to the firing range while intoxicated, Agent McCree,” Athena pipes in, and Jesse scrambles to catch the carton of milk that topples from the fridge when he yanks open the fridge door a little too forcefully.
“Damn! Ya’ trying to give me a freakin’ heart attack?”
“A heart attack is very unlikely, Agent. Your vitals are within normal range. You are merely suffering from dehydration due to excessive alcohol consumption,” Athena states.
Jesse rolls his eyes. “You’re really helping me make a grand first impression here.” She definitely knows too much for her own good. And his, for that matter. He puts the milk back onto the shelf it fell from and chances a glance over the door.
Hanzo’s eyes are wide, as if he doesn’t quite believe what kind of scene has just played out in front of him. When he catches Jesse watching him, he raises an eyebrow and makes a point of letting his eyes wander down to Jesse’s own bare feet and back up to his face, completely unashamed. Obviously having come to the conclusion that neither Jesse nor the situation is worthy of any more of his time, he turns back towards the stove where what looks like ramen is steaming from a single, small pot.
Well, this is going well. Jesse huffs and forces himself to focus on the content of the fridge, all too aware of his heavy head once more. He isn’t sure what he was expecting. Since the day they first met a few weeks ago, Hanzo Shimada has never dignified him with more than a simple ‘Greetings’. The man still carries himself with the confidence and arrogance of a leader who’s used to making the rules rather than following them, and Jesse still isn’t convinced that it was such a good idea to let him join Overwatch. He isn’t the only one, as even though Hanzo, who was already in Gibraltar when Jesse eventually answered the recall, regularly outperforms most of the other agents in their training simulations, Winston still seems to be reluctant to send him out into the field, much to Genji’s chagrin. Hanzo never comments when Genji fights his corner for him, and Jesse doesn’t know what to think about that either. However, Genji says he trusts his brother, and Jesse trusts Genji to know what he’s doing, so he keeps his mouth shut and his distance from Hanzo. And truth be told, with a past like his own, Jesse has no right to judge anyone for what they might or might not have done in theirs.
“Where is your hat, cowboy?” Hanzo suddenly asks, his voice sharp. “I didn’t think you ever went anywhere without it.”
Jesse shuts the fridge and places a pack of bacon and some eggs onto the worktop not far from the bowl Hanzo has set aside for whatever he’s cooking. At least being judgmental seems to be a mutual thing. He can live with that. “You know, if you’re trying to make friends, I’m not sure that’s the right way to go about it,” he says. He fishes some toast from the bread bin and grabs a frying pan from the wall.
“I’m not here to make friends,” Hanzo says without looking at him. He dips his spoon into his pot of ramen and leans forward to taste the broth. Jesse has no idea if Hanzo’s pinched expression is one of disapproval or simply the standard scowl he wears most of the time, but the broth seems to taste good enough to be deemed edible. Hanzo puts down the spoon and pours the whole lot into the bowl, dropping the empty pot into the sink.
Only then does Jesse notice the set of plastic containers next to the bowl, and he swallows the remark that sits on his tongue. A familiar feeling settles around his heart as he watches Hanzo pick up a leftover pack of noodles and a few individual packets of salt, the ones one can get at a fast food restaurant or truck stop, and carefully arrange them inside one of the containers. A small dispenser of some sort goes into another. Jesse knows a vagabond when he sees one, recognizes the signs without having to look too closely. Carrying basic supplies in small doses, stocking up whenever one gets a chance, wherever one gets a little extra. For years he did the same, a small backpack with an even smaller cooling pocket the only personal item he carried with him apart from his gun.
He waits until Hanzo has tidied up all his supplies and settled at the table before he steps up to the stove to prepare his own food. He’s always considered himself a private person, someone who’s more than comfortable with his own company, but he still knows the value of a permanent roof over his head and a place he can return to after a mission. This old base may not be in its heyday anymore, but Jesse actually prefers this patchwork of technology and people to the sleek mass operation of the old Overwatch, or even Blackwatch. He likes that the bed and the window in his quarters are carved into the rock, but the door still requires his fingerprint to open. He likes the new upgrades to his arm and having a place to hang his hat at night. He likes reminiscing about old times with Mercy and Fareeha and watching Hana and Lucio wow their fans with skills he would never have dreamed of being useful on a real frontline. And he likes that the kitchen is always well stocked.
The fact that Hanzo is accustomed to life on the road doesn’t really surprise him, but seeing him hold on to the habits of that lifestyle when there’s clearly no need doesn’t sit right with him. He’s unsure what irks him more, the possibility that Hanzo might still be thinking of leaving or that he doesn’t feel he can settle in this place, despite all the comfort and amenities it offers. And he bets his hat that Genji doesn’t know about his brother’s little portable stash.
“You planning on leaving?” he says, tilting his head towards the containers now stacked on the chair next to Hanzo. He places his own plate of bacon and scrambled egg on toast on the table and sits down opposite him. “Not sure if that’d be a smart move. I know at least one person who’d be mighty peeved if you just upped and disappeared after you snooped us out.”
Hanzo’s head snaps up, and Jesse knows instantly he’s hit a target, but maybe not the one he was aiming for. A frown flickers over Hanzo’s face, and for a moment he looks confused and oddly stung. When he realizes what Jesse is looking at, he schools his expression back into his usual scowl and quickly pushes the chair next to him further under the table and the containers out of sight. “I am also not here to disappoint the people who have offered me nothing but respect and a chance for redemption.”
Now it is Jesse who raises an eyebrow, slightly caught off guard by the glint of openness and vulnerability he thinks he has just witnessed. Admittedly, they haven’t spent much time in each other’s company, because Hanzo doesn’t spent much time with anyone, not even Genji. He joins briefings and training session when he’s asked to, and Jesse has seen his name on the weekly shopping roster a couple of times, teamed up with Hana, of all people, but apart from that Hanzo remains consistently absent from any meal or social gathering. “He doesn’t like crowds”, Genji told Hana once when she asked where he was during movie night. Jesse always assumed that Hanzo simply doesn’t much care for the banalities of small talk and popcorn but given how awkward their attempt at conversation tonight has been so far, he wonders if Hanzo actually knows how to do small talk and popcorn.
“Might want to try and repay their efforts with some gratitude,” he says. For some reason he thinks Hanzo needs to hear this, and since Jesse already managed to get him a nudge off his high horse, he may as well make him hear it now. “If they’re showing you respect, it’s not because they’re serving your clan. Remember that.”
Hanzo lowers his eyes and stares at his food, absentmindedly pushing the noodles around the bowl with his chopsticks. “I have not been part of that clan for a long time,” he growls but says nothing more.
If Jesse’s interest wasn’t piqued after that last statement, it is now. He’s no stranger to the Shimada family history, probably knows more about the former clan than most people, thanks to his time with Blackwatch. He was in Hanamura ten years ago, sent in as part of the ground team to monitor the situation after Sorijo Shimada had died suddenly. Back then not even Reyes had expected it to go down the way it did. They weren’t unfamiliar with the brutality some of Sorijo’s clan members conducted their business with, and were anticipating trouble to come Genji’s way, considering many of Sorijo’s followers made no secret of what they thought of the ‘spoiled’ younger brother. They weren’t prepared for the deciding blow to come from Genji’s own brother, though, nor for the ruthlessness and ferocity with which Hanzo attacked.
He watches Hanzo silently as he digs into his own food. Even though the stern look on Hanzo’s face remains, he doesn’t seem to be bothered by Jesse’s presence, his eyes fixed on the bowl in front of him. He eats slowly, his mind evidently miles away, and at one point, Jesse wonders if Hanzo has forgotten that he’s actually still there.
It’s hard to imagine that this is the same man who almost killed his own brother ten years ago. Who cut Genji up so badly the only way to save him was to replace the body parts Hanzo had shredded with cybernetics. Jesse isn’t particularly fond of the memories. Once Genji was rebuilt and back on his feet, it didn’t take much to convince him to join Blackwatch. They didn’t get along, not at first. Genji was wild, furious with resentment and anger, and way too eager to make use of the weapon they had turned him into. He thought he had lost his dragon, but even without his spirit companion, he was more lethal than any of the other Blackwatch agents. His determination to take revenge on his brother and the clan was bordering on obsession, an addiction to eliminate anyone and anything with even the faintest connection to the Shimada empire. He killed without remorse, and Reyes let him, time and time again.
He didn’t manage to kill Hanzo, though, mainly because no one could find him. Genji tried, hell, he tried, but whenever he managed to get a lead on a location, Hanzo was long gone by the time they reached it. He usually left behind a bunch of dead clan members, most of them peppered with arrows. Between the two brothers, they probably killed off half the clan in those first few years. Since then, the Shimada numbers have tumbled, and Hanzo has become much more economic with his arrows. Jesse knows, because he has seen how many kills Hanzo makes with only the content of one quiver.
Across from him, Hanzo moves. He gets up from his seat but leaves his bowl behind. For a moment, Jesse thinks he’s leaving, but Hanzo only walks over to the fridge and grabs a bottle of beer. He removes the cap but stops half way back to the table, apparently remembering himself.
“My apologies,” he says and points back towards the fridge. “Do you want one as well?”
Jesse’s sure he should rather drink water than add more alcohol to his hangover but now that the offer is on the table, it’s hard to resist. Especially as it’s Hanzo who’s offering, and Jesse has the feeling he doesn’t do so very often.
“Yeah, go on,” he says with only a little regret. A beer isn’t the worst thing he could have with his midnight breakfast.
He watches as Hanzo grabs another bottle and quickly opens it before coming back to the table. He lowers himself back onto his seat and slides Jesse’s beer across the table.
“Thank you kindly.” Jesse easily catches it.
Hanzo takes a long pull from his own bottle, regarding Jesse over the top of it. He meets Jesse’s eye and doesn’t look away, not even when he lowers the bottle and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He may be lacking social skills, but he certainly isn’t shy.
Jesse holds his gaze and smirks. Now that’s something he can work with.
Hanzo’s reaction is instant as he snorts and averts his eyes. He sets down his bottle and picks up his chopsticks again, and Jesse recognizes the challenge. He’s curious and Hanzo knows it. This time, when Hanzo focuses back on his food, he’s definitely aware that he’s still being watched, and Jesse takes it as an invitation to take a closer look.
And a good look it is. Never mind the time of night, Hanzo looks immaculate, even dressed in nothing more than a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. His hair is neatly tied back and there’s something about the contrast of the vibrant colors of the tattoo covering his left arm and the grey in his beard and at his temples that makes him look distinguished. Jesse has seen the full glory of the tattoo, once or twice during training sessions, and he can’t deny that it’s a damn fine piece of work. Certainly better than the old Deadlock skull that used to decorate his own arm, back when he still had two of his own. Arms, that is. He still has two tattoos.
He remembers Genji’s tattoo, or what was left of it when they hauled his half-dead body out of Japan and into Angela’s medbay. It was nowhere near as big as Hanzo’s, scrapes of green barely visible amongst all the flesh, blood and bone of his shoulder. He remembers the dying flicker of the spirit as Angela struggled to keep Genji alive, and Genji’s agony when he thought his dragon was lost for good. To his relief, the dragon returned, and once they had been reunited, Genji finally mellowed, to a degree. But if the ink was what manifested the bond with the spirit in the first place and if it bore any resemblance to its appearance, Hanzo’s dragon must be one mighty thing of a beast.
Jesse clears his throat to get Hanzo’s attention. “So,” he starts. “Your tattoo. I’ve seen Genji’s dragon. Do you– “
“Two.”
“Pardon?”
Hanzo glares at him, but he doesn’t look anywhere near as irritated as Jesse thought he would. “Dragons,” Hanzo clarifies. “I have two. I assume that was what you were going to ask.”
It takes Jesse’s brain a few seconds to catch on to that information and how willingly Hanzo has given it up, but once it does, he can’t quite stop his mouth from running away with him. “Well, I’ll be damned. You ever thought of introducing them to us?”
“They are ancient spirit creatures,” Hanzo snarls, but he sounds more exasperate than threatening. “Their purpose is to aid me against my enemies, not to entertain. They are not pets.” Just on cue and as if to substantiate the sentiment, the extractor fan above the stove cuts off and an owl cries outside the window.
Jesse grins. “Do they have names?”
Hanzo narrows his eyes at him. “I will not tell you their names, McCree. They are not something to give away lightly, especially not to someone I hardly know.”
Or trust, Jesse adds in his head but resists the urge to say it out loud. He’s starting to warm to this man. Whatever he thought of Hanzo before, he thinks he’s being proven wrong, right here, right now. Hanzo may not like crowds, but he isn’t afraid to talk if only one dares to actually talk to him. Jesse knows the feeling, all too familiar with people being too intimidated by his reputation, and possibly his getup, to approach him.
“The last time I fought someone who knew their names, I almost got killed,” Hanzo continues.
“Genji.” Jesse thinks he knows what Hanzo is referring to. Genji told him how he had finally managed to track down his brother because Hanzo had made it a tradition to return to their hometown every year on the anniversary of their fight.
Hanzo nods.
“Heard about that,” Jesse says. “Not sure Hanamura was the best choice you could’ve picked for your little reunion.”
“It was our home once,” Hanzo states, aiming a steady stare at Jesse. “And I believed my brother to be dead.”
“So you thought you’d just go back every year on the same day, to the place where even the birds recognize you with their eyes shut, and no one would take notice? I’d say you didn’t much care if you got killed or not.”
Hanzo huffs, a hint of a smile flickering over his lips before they turn into a firm, straight line again. “Says the man with a sixty-million-dollar bounty on his head who thought it a good idea to board a train to Houston. I don’t think you are in any place to lecture me, cowboy.”
“Huh!” Maybe it’s his hangover, or the glint in Hanzo’s eye just before he coolly sets aside his chopsticks and downs the rest of his beer, but for a moment, Jesse is rendered speechless. Then two things become blatantly obvious to him all at once, and he almost laughs at his own ignorance. For one, he shouldn’t underestimate this man, because Hanzo knows much more about him than he was let to believe. And two, he now also knows what it feels like to be outwitted by the man with the awkward tongue.
A smile spreads across his face before he can stop himself. He likes this man. He levels his eyes at Hanzo’s and raises his bottle in a one-sided toast. “Well, ain’t that the truth.”