Chapter Text
“Ah, my personal chef has returned!”
Jesse does not bother to acknowledge Hanzo’s crow, striding past the agents gathered in the common room and heading to the kitchen, his arms laden with grocery bags. He can hear the collective sound of chairs scooting across the floor as everyone gets up to follow. The little audience that gathers at the kitchen bar all sport matching smiles of delight at his misfortune. Hanzo, of course, stands front and center, his grin widest of all. “A good thing; the dragon hungers.”
“Yeah, hungers for his winnings,” Fareeha says, trying and failing to control a snicker. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard. Jesse McCree, losing at poker. Never thought I’d see the day.”
“A game of Texas Hold’em! You’d think that would be impossible for someone like you.” Jesse shoots Lúcio a warning look, and the musician holds up both hands in defense. “Right! Sorry! Not from Texas! Got it, big guy!” He follows this up with a few finger guns that have Jesse rolling his eyes.
Hana bounces over to the counter so she can take a look at everything Jesse pulls from the bags. “Yeah, you guys should have seen it. Hanzo creamed him! It was like watching a boss get kited in circles; you know he’s tough but once you learn his strats, the fight’s a piece of cake—HEY!”
Jesse whacks her hand when she starts to open a bag of shredded Parmesan cheese. “Keep your paws to yourself, missy.”
“McCree used to hustle all the new Overwatch recruits. The Blackwatch agents were too suspicious to fall for it, but not Overwatch. He would take us out for drinks with his winnings. You were overdue for a loss.” Genji laughs and shares a conspiratory look with Hanzo. “You should have known better than to challenge a Shimada, Jesse. We know our way around the gambling tables.”
“Perhaps that is the problem. It has been far too long since he had a real challenge,” Hanzo concludes, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest, a touch of arrogance from his yakuza days shining through. The effect is dampened by the hot pink bunny t-shirt that he is wearing, one of the many pieces of D.Va’s merchandise that she has gifted all of the agents at one point or another.
“So what are we having?” Hana asks, making another attempt to swipe some ingredients but aborting the movement when Jesse turns and catches her.
“ We ain’t havin’ nothin’,” he replies. He lays out a cutting board on the counter and shoos them away from the kitchen. “This is a meal for two, and I ain’t on the cookin’ channel, so out. Skedaddle.”
“You’re no fun!” Hana complains, snagging a raw mushroom from the pile of ingredients before he can stop her.
“Go on, git!”
She makes a hasty retreat after that, as do the others when they catch sight of Jesse pulling a rather large knife from the block. Soon enough it is just Jesse and Hanzo in the kitchen, the latter of which hops up on the counter to make himself at home. He wants to have the best vantage point while he watches his victory dinner being made.
The game had started out innocently enough; bored on a mission with no hint of action in sight, someone suggested they pass the time with a friendly game. Jesse, always one to jump at the opportunity for a little healthy competition, suggested cards, and when Zarya expressed that she had never learned, he was more than happy to teach her. They should have known better than to play a game involving wagers, because as was usually the case in their organization, things escalated quickly. Playing for cash ceased to be thrilling after a few hands since most of them do not carry much money on missions. Favors and promises were a lot more interesting. Hanzo supposes it is a sign of personal growth that the only thing Jesse ended up owing him was a homemade dinner and not the motorcycle he recently acquired through dubious means.
Chances are, Jesse would not normally be so sour about losing, but Hanzo did wipe the floor with him in a truly impressive series of bluffs that Jesse never saw coming.
Jesse rinses off the vegetables in the sink then picks up the knife again, settling into the prep work. There are quite a few ingredients laid out for use, more than Hanzo expected would be involved in whatever dish the cowboy has in mind. Truth be told he had anticipated Jesse throwing a few steaks or hotdogs on a grill and being done with it. This looks like a production. “What are you making?”
“Cajun chicken pasta,” Jesse replies.
“Have you made it before?”
Jesse huffs. “Don’t worry, I’m not goin’ to poison you with my cookin’.” He makes quick work of the small pile of tomatoes and a plump onion that gets Hanzo’s eyes watering.
Hanzo looks dubious. “I do not see you in the kitchen very often. Forgive me for being skeptical of your skills.” Though the longer Hanzo watches, the more he wonders what sort of training Jesse might have. His proficiency with a knife is obviously not just limited to fighting; Jesse chops and dices the vegetables then the chicken with an ease that can only come with practice and familiarity. There is a technique to the knife work that he must have learned in a professional setting. “Have you had formal training?”
Jesse smiles like he has a secret. “I’ve worked in a kitchen a time or two,” is all he says, washing the board then filling a pot with water.
The non-answer is enough of a prod to get Hanzo going again. “How wonderful! I did not know the stakes for our game were so high. Perhaps I should have pushed for more than one meal. I could have been served for a week by the, what is it you call yourself? ‘The Fastest Draw in the West?’”
“Mmhmm,” Jesse hums, resigning himself to dealing with a gloating Shimada for the duration. He pours the pasta into the pot and retreats to the kitchen closet where the spices are kept. “Too bad, you only get the one. Better make it count, because it sure as hell ain’t happening again.”
“What, you losing? Or you making me dinner?”
“Definitely the losing. The dinner depends on how long you keep this up.” He returns from the pantry with a ridiculous amount of jars clutched against his chest, enough that he has to drop them onto the counter in a loud clatter of plastic. A small bowl is acquired from the cabinets, and Jesse starts measuring out herbs and spices for the chicken rub.
Hanzo starts to lean around so he can see the labels when his phone pings in his pocket. He checks the message and begins to cackle. “Oh look! Hana is streaming! And her eleven thousand viewers are congratulating me on my victory over you! Every time someone donates, little animated playing cards fall from the corners of the screen. How much do you think I should send?”
Thumbs tapping away at the screen, Hanzo sends in a message to the stream's chat, rubbing it in a little more. With his attention occupied, though, he does not notice Jesse’s hand lingering over the spice jars. Nor does he notice Jesse pick up a few he has already used and add a few more spoonfuls of each. By the time Hanzo finishes boasting to Hana’s stream, Jesse has returned all the spices to the pantry and is liberally coating the chicken with the colorful mixture.
Once Jesse starts throwing ingredients into a skillet to saute, the scent of sizzling butter and garlic making Hanzo’s mouth water, and his teasing eases in favor of watching the man work. He can admit that he is not much of a chef; his status in the Shimada-gumi meant he never needed to cook for himself, and traveling the world in exile did not include time in a kitchen. Jesse could be scrambling eggs for an omelette and Hanzo would find it impressive. When the cowboy uncorks a bottle of white wine and pours some into a pan without measuring, Hanzo secretly thinks that Jesse must be quite the accomplished chef.
“Do me a favor,” Jesse says, adding cream with one hand and whisking with the other. “Grab the garlic bread out of the freezer and throw it in the oven. I forgot to set it out.”
Hanzo does as he is told, too surprised at being asked to help to remind Jesse that his assistance was not part of the deal. He retrieves a box and raises an eyebrow at the words on the front. “Texas Toast?”
“Yeah, I didn’t think to grab anything fresh, so that’ll have to do.”
“Yes, but… Texas toast?”
Jesse elbows him in the side, making him laugh. “Shut up and get it in the oven, I’m almost done here.”
Hanzo gets kicked out of the kitchen after that, sent to set the table and wait for his hard-earned meal. After breathing nothing but the scent of aromatic cooking for the past twenty minutes, he is more than ready to enjoy his prize. Jesse putters around the kitchen for a few more minutes then comes out carrying two plates. He sets one in front of Hanzo with a flourish. “Buon appetito,” he says in a horrible Italian accent.
The dish could have come out of a restaurant’s kitchen. Blackened chicken sits atop a colorful mix of vegetables and a bed of rigatoni, all coated in a peppery sauce and topped with a sprinkling of green onions and Parmesan just starting to melt. A hunk of the Texas toast slathered with butter and garlic is perched on the side of the plate. “This looks good,” Hanzo says, still surprised even after everything he has seen. He is almost reluctant to mess up the presentation.
Jesse sits across the table from him with his own plate and picks up a fork, having no qualms about mixing everything up and digging in. “Thank ya kindly. I’ve always been happy with this one, and I never feel like makin’ it after a mission. Maybe I’ll have to break it out more often.” He heaps a helping into his mouth and chews for a moment before gesturing at Hanzo’s plate. “Eat up, you’re goin’ to let it get cold.”
Hanzo scoops up a forkful, trying to get an equal amount of all the parts in one bite. He takes a tentative sniff, and it smells good. Ignoring the tingle in his nose, he takes a taste.
“Mmm,” Hanzo hums after a few seconds of thoughtful chewing. He goes in for more. “Mmm!”
“I know, right?” Jesse replies.
“This is actually really good.” He takes a few more enthusiastic bites, enjoying the layered flavors, the crispiness of the chicken and the caramelized savoriness of the vegetables. But the heat is certainly picking up. “It is—it is a little spicy.”
“I do like to make it well-seasoned,” Jesse says, watching as Hanzo’s brows furrow and his face flushes pink. “What’s the matter? Spicy food too much of a challenge for you?”
With his mouth burning, Hanzo is a bit slow on the uptake, but Jesse’s words finally sink in. His eyes flash up to Jesse’s just as the cowboy cracks open his ice-cold beer—the only beverage he brought out to the table. Jesse takes a long swig from the bottle and gasps out as he swallows. “Ahh, that hits the spot.”
Panting and feeling like he swallowed fire, Hanzo offers Jesse a nod of respect. “Well played,” he says before shoving his chair back and darting for the refrigerator.
Jesse laughs. “It’s the small victories. Hey, if you can’t stand the heat, stay out of the kitchen!” he calls, helping himself to another bite.