Chapter Text
In 1878, on a night marked by brutality and betrayal, Shimada Hanzo died. Yet his spirit lingered, bound to the sword that he had once soaked in the blood of his own kin. Most would consider this a curse, and perhaps it was. But for Hanzo, it was also a second chance.
In life, Hanzo had valued honor above all other virtues. Yet, for the sake of his clan, he had abandoned that virtue and taken up arms against his own brother. Too late did he regret the decision. For years, he bore the shame of his actions. He could not undo what had been done, nor could he seek to make amends. In the end, it was his guilt that led to that final and most terrible night.
Hanzo found it a point of humorous irony that, in death, he should discover Genji had survived. More than that, Genji had found peace and happiness, a family, even forgiveness for his undeserving older brother.
Ever since, Hanzo had devoted himself to watching over the last of the Shimada bloodline.
Hanzo watched as Genji’s latest descendent, Ichiro, unpacked one of countless moving boxes. Hanzo liked Ichiro. He looked a great deal like Genji, though his smile was more reserved, and his eyes were softer.
Packing peanuts tumbled everywhere as Ichiro pulled out a heavily bubble-wrapped rectangle nearly too large and long for him to hold. He set it on the floor and pulled out a pocket knife to begin cutting away the tape and plastic. A glass case was revealed with a weapon stand inside. Ichiro lifted it with a grunt and set it on the fireplace mantle.
Ichiro had left his knife on the floor. While his back was turned, Hanzo reached down and brushed his fingers along the handle. The blade swung shut.
Ichiro turned around and promptly stepped on the pocket knife. He jumped, then sighed when he saw it was closed. “Clumsy,” he admonished himself. He picked it up and slipped it back into his pocket.
Hanzo agreed. Ichiro had always been absent-minded. How he survived four years of college without being hit by a car or getting tetanus or food poisoning, he wasn’t sure. Perhaps he had Rosa to thank.
Rosa was Ichiro’s wife. She was currently in the master bedroom sorting clothes and getting them hung in the closet.
Ichiro had gone to school to become an architect. He liked planning things, and he had his entire life figured out from the prodigious California university he’d chosen to the courses he needed to the companies he would apply to once he’d earned his degree. His plans hadn’t included falling in love with Rosa the biology major. It hadn’t included getting married so young or having a baby boy or wanting to move to New Mexico where Rosa’s family all lived.
When they got ready to move, Ichiro’s parents offered him Hanzo’s sword. This was tradition. Genji had started it. It was all that remained of Hanzo, and he had decided that despite its past, or perhaps because of it, the sword would be kept in a loving home so that Hanzo’s spirit might find peace. The family did not know the truth of the matter—that Hanzo’s spirit was indeed with them—but they saw how fortune favored those who kept the sword in their home, and so they had passed it down faithfully for generations.
Now, moving to a foreign land with a wife and young son, and with another child on the way, the sword passed to Ichiro.
Hanzo watched as Ichiro dug around in the moving box again and withdrew a long, thin package. He unwrapped the sword, handling it like it was made of glass. The katana had seen better days. The sheath was gone. The handle’s wrap was destroyed; only frayed, charred bits of it clung around the metal pommel and guard. The wooden handle was cracked. The blade itself was chipped—had been since the day Hanzo turned it on his brother. The steel itself, though, gleamed as if new. It had seen many purifications in shinto shrines and the loving care of past family members who tended the blade on days reserved for cleaning the graves of ancestors. It was a kindness Hanzo didn’t feel he deserved.
Hanzo waited while Ichiro housed the katana in its case, making sure he didn’t manage to hurt himself on it. That would be just his luck.
From the other end of the house, Rosa shouted: “Matty, stay out of that tree!”
If there was one person Hanzo needed to worry about more than Ichiro, it was his son, Matteo. At six years old, Matteo Shimada was old enough to get into everything, but too young to consider any of the consequences. Once he decided he was going to do something, he simply went ahead and did it. While his father might have Genji’s looks, Matteo had inherited his troublemaking spirit. Hanzo scolded himself for not keeping an eye on the boy.
While the property surrounding the new house was sprawling, there was little in the way of trees. Only one of them was tall enough to climb. A small stream cut through the acreage to the east, and it was there near its bank that a cottonwood tree stood. It was an old, massive beast of a tree with bare branches twisted up towards the sky. The perfect temptation for little boys with too much free time on their hands and no supervision.
Matteo was easy to spot, standing a few feet away looking as innocent as he could as he picked up pebbles like a hen pecking at grain, as if it had always been his intention to fill his pockets with rocks and not to climb the tree his mother had very explicitly told him not to climb.
He wasn’t alone.
Hanzo went still when he saw the man standing beneath the cottonwood tree. He looked rough, unshaven as he was and dressed in obviously well-worn clothes. He wore a cowboy hat and a wrap of sorts over his shoulders that obscured his features. He seemed to be completely focused on Matteo, who continued digging in the dirt, unaware and uncaring.
In the blink of an eye, Hanzo was there beside his young charge. Muscle memory—or would it simply be memory now?—drove his hands to seek a weapon. As soon as he thought it, there it was: the bow in his hand and a quiver across his back. He could not strike down the living, but he had found ways over the years to affect them: stinging pains, scratches, bruises, unfortunate accidents. His was not an empty threat.
The man appeared to start. Then he slowly reached up and tipped the brim of his hat in greeting. Shock stayed Hanzo’s hand. He could see him?
“Howdy,” the man said, and the corner of his mouth pulled up in a tentative smile, as if he, too, was struggling to understand what was happening. And perhaps he was. A man had just materialized before him, intent on attacking him. Hanzo would be equally startled, though he didn’t think he would smile as this man smiled.
Hanzo didn’t respond beyond a slight tilt of his head in acknowledgment. He kept his bow at the ready.
The rough-looking man’s smile only grew. His hand dropped to rest on his belt, just above an empty gun holster. “Now see, it’s been a while since I conversed with a fella, but I do believe the polite thing to do is introduce yourself.”
Hanzo had never been the curious sort. Death had not changed this. Any other person might have a thousand questions about who this man was or how he could see a spirit or what he was doing here in the first place. Hanzo did not intend to ask any such thing, nor give his name, nor say anything at all that might be misconstrued as an invitation to “converse.”
When it became clear Hanzo was not going to answer, the man sighed and shook his head. “Fine then, I’ll go first. Th’ name’s McCree.”
“I did not ask,” Hanzo said curtly. He snapped his mouth shut, realizing he had been baited into replying. He frowned.
“No, you didn’t,” the cowboy—McCree—agreed. “Mighty rude, but I won’t hold it against ya.” He settled back against the trunk of the tree, relaxed as could be, as if Hanzo were not armed. “You could always make it up to me by tellin' me what I can call you. ’s only fair.”
Never in all his life had Hanzo been addressed so informally. Times may have changed, but he had not, and he did not appreciate this McCree’s familiarity.
“Not much of a talker, are ya?” McCree commented to break the silence that had fallen yet again. “That’s fine. Ain’t the first time I’ve had a one-sided conversation; I can talk enough for the both of us. I’d bet money you’re with the folks that just moved in, right? From the looks of ya, you’ve come a long way. Maybe when you’re feelin’ more talkative, you could tell me some stories. Bet you’ve seen a thing or two.”
Enough of this. Hanzo drew an arrow and set it to the bowstring, not yet taking aim, but with clear intent to do so. “This is not your land. You are not welcome here. Leave.”
The man’s brows shot up and vanished under his bangs. “I beg your pardon?”
Hanzo sneered. “You heard me, McCree.” The man’s name, unfamiliar on Hanzo’s tongue, carried a natural harshness to it. It served his purpose better than any insult or threat, and he spoke it with the same vehemence. “Leave.”
McCree was not supposed to find any of this funny, but apparently he did. He leaned forward with a hand on his knee so that his hat brim hid everything but his wide, laughing mouth.
Hanzo’s grip on his bow tightened. A wind picked up, making the branches of the cottonwood creak.
McCree put up his hand. “Sorry. ‘m sorry. It’s just, well, technically I was here first. An’ anyhow”—when McCree looked up, there was a dark humor in his eyes—“I couldn’t leave if I tried.”
“What do you mean?”
“You ain’t figured it out yet?”
When Hanzo didn’t reply, McCree nodded towards Matteo, who had found a beetle and was watching it with his little mouth hanging open in fascination. Matteo, who had not responded to anything the strange man had said so far or even glanced his way once.
“You’re—” Hanzo cut himself off. Of course he was a spirit. Why else would they be able to see and speak to one another? It explained everything: McCree’s appearance, his accent, his strange words about not being able to leave. But this brought up a new issue.
“What are your intentions towards my family?”
“My… intentions?” McCree seemed confused.
“This family is under my protection,” Hanzo said. “If you should seek to harm them, I will end you. What little of you there is left, at any rate.”
McCree held up his hand as if to defend himself. “Whoa now. I got no quarrel with you or yours. I’m not lookin’ for trouble.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Well now, if that ain’t a loaded question.” McCree ran his fingers through his short beard, which only made it look wilder. “You’d think after all this time I’d have an answer, but I can’t rightly tell ya. I don’t know why I’m here. I just…am.”
Hanzo watched McCree’s expression darken by minute degrees and his mouth work wordlessly as he struggled with some thought. Whether he had an answer or not, it seemed he had some suspicions, none of which he intended to share. Not with a stranger, anyways.
When he had been alive, Hanzo had often endured Genji’s lighthearted jabs about his lack of social grace. He knew all the etiquette and rules of society, but had no tact when it came to words. He was curt at times, and he approached every conversation like he was discussing business, which many found off-putting. While no one would dare speak poorly of him in his presence, he was no fool as to think people did not gossip about him.
Still, the moment seemed to call for words, as much as Hanzo wished to avoid it, so he tried his best to make small talk. “I take it, then, that you will not be leaving any time soon.”
While it might not have been Hanzo’s exact intention, his brusque words seemed to lighten the other spirit’s mood. McCree smiled wryly. “I’m afraid not. Looks like we’re neighbors.”
“Hm. Very well then.” Hands now empty, Hanzo crossed his arms. “But should you harm any member of my family, I will make you regret it.”
“You got nothing to fear from me,” McCree reassured. He leaned back again, and the sun snuck under his hat brim to warm his cheekbones and dance in his dark eyes.
Now that Hanzo knew his young charge wasn’t in any danger, he found his attention drawn to all the little details that made up the whole of his new and questionable “neighbor.”
McCree’s clothes were not merely well-worn, but old. He wore chaps over canvas trousers; simple leather boots with spurs on the back; an empty gunbelt decorated with round, silver plates along the band and a rather large buckle; and last but not least, the sun-bleached, sweat-stained cowboy hat currently threatening to tip backwards off his head. Although the wrap over his shoulders hid everything else, it was frayed and torn like it’d seen years of use. The entirety of his wardrobe consisted of muted shades of brown. The wrap may once have been red, but time and the elements had faded it.
The man himself looked to be around Hanzo’s age. It made sense, he supposed. People who died of old age without regrets didn’t typically become ghosts. Ghosts were born of fear and blood and pain and regret. McCree seemed peaceful enough now, though, leaning against the cottonwood with his long legs loosely crossed and his thumb hooked in his belt. However, something about the set of his shoulders and his keen eyes gave Hanzo pause. He knew nothing of McCree’s past, but he knew that doves did not have the eyes of hawks. McCree could be violent. A liar. A killer. It was hard to believe, though, with that perpetual smile tugging at the corners of his wide mouth.
“You’re starin’,” McCree said.
Hanzo started, then frowned. “I am assessing.”
“Funny, your assessin’ feels a lot like starin’. What’cha thinking there, partner?”
“I am thinking that I know nothing about you beyond your name.”
“Well, I know even less about you, so, if you think about it, you got the high ground, wouldn’t’cha say? Speaking o' which, feel free to even the playing ground any time.”
Impetuous, overly-familiar, possibly dangerous—McCree possessed a combination of traits that ought to make for a wholly unpalatable individual. On the other hand, one might also describe him as unreserved and good-natured. As for being dangerous, well, Hanzo was hardly in a position to judge.
Hanzo found himself smirking. “If I have the high ground, then I see no reason to relinquish it.”
The crunch of gravel and the scrape of scrub brush against denim announced the approach of another person. It was Rosa.
Rosa tried to storm over, but she was short and seven months pregnant, which ruined the effect. “Matty! What did I tell you?”
Matteo dropped the rocks in his hands and wiped his sweaty palms on his shorts. “I didn’t climb the tree,” he argued in the tone of a child who had still done something he knew he shouldn’t have.
Rosa took Matteo’s little hands in hers. “I told you earlier not to go too far. I don’t want you all the way out here by yourself. You need to stay where I can see you. Come on inside, mi hijo. We’ll come back out later.”
“I don’t wanna,” Matteo whined even as he let himself be guided back towards the house.
Hanzo turned back around only to find McCree had vanished. It seemed their conversation was over. Hanzo sighed, surprised at the twinge of disappointment he felt. He began to follow his charges back to the house, but drew up short.
“McCree?” he called, turning on his heel, hoping the other spirit might hear him.
McCree was sitting in the lowest crook of the cottonwood’s branches, leaning forward with his arm braced across his knees. “I’m here.” Even from a distance, the flash of his teeth was obvious as he smiled. “Did ya come up another threat to throw my way?”
Hanzo snorted softly and shook his head as he reconsidered what he was about to say. “I do not know how long we will be here. Several years at least.” Rosa and Ichiro had talked about this house merely being a stepping stone, but already they spoke of remodeling and a yard and possibly even an expansion to the house. Plans looked to be changing.
“I’ve decided. Despite my…” Hanzo waved a hand in a small circle as he tried to come up with an appropriate word.
“Threats?” McCree suggested cheekily.
“Reservations,” Hanzo said, frowning. “Despite my reservations, I am not looking to make enemies. I would rather we be on peaceful terms. In light of that fact, you may call me Shimada.” His family name alone was rather less formal than he preferred, but he wasn’t inclined to teach this American about the intricacies of honorifics, and that was presuming he would use them if taught.
McCree seemed pleased. “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Hanzo immediately regretted being polite. His expression must have been quite something, because McCree laughed in a vaguely nervous sort of way. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself. Suppose my manners are rusty after all this time. Lemme try that again.”
One moment, McCree was in the tree, the next, he stood a respectful distance away from Hanzo. He touched the brim of his hat while ducking his head. It was less of a bow, and more like he was leaning in to share a secret. “It’s a pleasure t’ make your acquaintance, Shimada. I look forward to, ah, being on peaceful terms with you.”
While still wary, Hanzo found himself pleasantly surprised. He gave a precise, shallow bow. “Likewise.” Something about the look in McCree’s eyes and the self-amused curl of his lips drove Hanzo to add: “Don’t make me regret not shooting you.”
“Not sure I can promise ya that. But I like to think I’m better company than none at all.”
“I suppose we will see. I will take my leave now. Good day, McCree.”
“See ya ‘round, Shimada.”
Hanzo took his time walking back to the house. He paused at the door and took one last look back at the cottonwood tree. McCree was too far away for Hanzo to make out any details beyond his silhouette, but he thought he saw smoke curling above the other spirit’s head. How funny: a dead man who smoked. He wasn’t sure what to make of McCree, but at least he was interesting.