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Hanzo gazed absentmindedly as he sipped his tea, mind too preoccupied to register the taste. It had been two weeks since the last mission. While he considered himself as a person with discipline, even he was starting to feel antsy.
Discipline. Strength. Unbending will. You’d do well to learn from your brother.
Then there was the memories that hounded his thoughts, slinking out of their cages the moment Hanzo had a quiet moment. Working for Overwatch, engaging in one battle after the other, held more than one purpose.
He had sent a polite inquiry to Winston as to the reason for their holdup, who muttered something along the lines of;
“We need more intel before we can move. Sorry about that.”
Hanzo placed the cup with more force than necessary. He needed to do something.
Overwatch had a scattering of both permanent and temporary bases around the world. They were currently holed in a transient building, due to the nature of their mission which left them traveling frequently. As such, the facilities here were built with the intention being cheap, but sufficiently efficient.
Which meant grey walls, windowless rooms and dull food. After many years of travel Hanzo no longer felt homesick, but sometimes images of wide open spaces would flash through his head. High ceilings and rich wooden floors that cast a warm glow in the sunlight. Sliding open the doors, to be greeted by a tranquil sight of elegantly sculpted trees. To have such fondness for one’s childhood home, but knowing one will never feel welcome again. It made him ache more than he cared to admit.
Sentimental fool.
Pace quickening, Hanzo decided he will visit the training room.
In accordance with the rest of the building, the room consisted of nothing more than a couple of wooden poles driven into the ground, cushioned by hay-filled bags. Weights were haphazardly thrown in the corner. The lack of ventilation gave the room a stuffy air, with a lingering smell of sweat. Hardly luxurious, but it would do.
That was when he saw McCree. The man was throwing punches at the target, strands of stray hair stuck to his face from the effort. He was chewing on an unlit cigar all the while. A distant ray of sunlight illuminated the dust that flew out of the stuffing, which serenely circled around the man. Hanzo stood by the doorway, considering. Despite sharing a similar code of conduct (justice above all, only kill when necessary) the man was a foreign entity to him. He wielded brazen American idealism like a badge, surprisingly enthusiastic despite his criminal past. Regardless, he did respect the man for his incredible sharp shooting.
Mind decided, Hanzo quietly walked into the room.
“McCree.” He said.
Said cowboy started, and whirled around - apparently he was oblivious to Hanzo’s presence. A wide-eyed look of surprise was quickly replaced by his trademark careless smile.
“Hanzo.”
An uncertain silence settled.
“So what brings you here?” McCree was the first to break it. He knew it was an obvious question, but the assassin’s curtness always caught him off-guard.
“I need to train. Can’t afford to let my muscles soften.”
“Right.” A small nod.
The silence returned.
McCree absentmindedly brushed his poncho, scuffed his feet on the floor. He supposed he could act on the idea he had been mulling over for a bit, but he hadn’t anticipated the odd nervousness that followed.
“You know, I was considerin’.”
Hanzo glared in his direction (man must be in a bad mood); McCree continued to fiddle with his poncho.
“If you’re up for it, how about a sparring match? It sure as hell would be better practice than these lifeless things.” He lightly punched the bag in emphasis.
“And well, I’ve seen you in a fight, and you seem like a pretty capable guy, you know?”
Hanzo’s lip twitched, a ghost of a smile. “A sparring match. I would enjoy that.”
This time, McCree’s smile reached his eyes. “Great!”
With newfound enthusiasm, McCree brushed his poncho back, which fluttered like a small cape.
“I warn you partner, I fully intend on winning this. This might be practice but I won’t go easy.” The man oozed cocky sureness. Hanzo was itching to punch the smirk out of his face.
“Of course.” He said.
There was a feral glint in McCree’s eyes, and Hanzo was instantly reminded of the cutthroat organisation that he stemmed from, shaped by an unforgiving land.
He wasn’t the only person trained under tough conditions however. Shifting on his feet, Hanzo tried to gauge how seriously he would take the fight. He supposed neither wanted broken bones. They slowly circled each other, McCree’s right hand twitching near where his gun holster would be. Testing the waters, Hanzo let out a quick punch, which the other man easily dodged. Without hesitation McCree punched back at the assassin’s face. Metallicity filled his mouth as his lip broke. Right. He was going to take this seriously.
Backing off a bit, Hanzo’s eyes tracked tracked the man with purposeful intensity, mind alert for any small change of body language that could help predict his next move. Fighting was as much of a mental exercise as it was physical. McCree seemed to be along a similar track, his brow furrowed in concentration, the cigar all but forgotten.
Hanzo couldn’t help but feel a thrill of excitement run through his body. He had no idea how the man fought; certainly a lot less predictable than the martial arts trainers he fought with on a daily basis, back in his home town.
They continued to circle each other, the mutual competitive streak not allowing for the slightest mistake or weakness. The seconds slowed as their minds worked into overdrive.
Suddenly McCree’s muscles tensed, his arm muscles shifting, his legs pivoting for more solid footing - Hanzo was more than ready.
His opponent went for a swift punch that may have been over in the blink of an eye, if it wasn’t for the assassin’s honed instincts that allowed him to move a split second faster. Hanzo parried the punch with a calculated counter-strike, pushing McCree off kilter - the momentum then carried him forward for a solid punch to his opponent’s abdomen.
McCree let out a soft ‘oomph’ as the hit connected, doubling over as the breath left him. Hanzo let out a small victory grin, and prepared for a kick to sweep him off his feet-
- only to have under-estimated McCree’s endurance. He recovered faster than anticipated. With an angry growl, the cowboy sent a punch to the jaw that knocked Hanzo off his feet, caught off-guard. As he rolled across the arena the rough ground scratched his face, his hands aching from breaking the impact. Grunting, Hanzo willed himself out of his disorientation, and quickly jumped back on his feet.
To his surprise, McCree looked dazed. Hanzo only gave the oddity a brief consideration - he had a match to win. Taking advantage of his opponent’s distraction, the assassin leapt forward, grabbed McCree, and spun him into the ground. With a forceful thump, the man laid sprawling.
Kneeling, he pinned his opponent, taking his hands and encaging them with his own. Hanzo wasn’t taking any chances. McCree made a show of struggling, but both knew he wasn’t going to escape this. Sighing, he finally let his muscles relax. Time went back to normal, and Hanzo’s veins were singing with adrenalin.
It was only then when he could feel his hair tickling his neck. Ah. The ribbon must have been pulled off from his impact with the floor. Hanzo didn’t enjoy hair getting in his way, which was why he usually had it tied. He concentrated his gaze back to McCree and tried to analyse what happened.
McCree sure as hell didn’t anticipate this slip-up. If his old collection of Westerns told anything, it was that he had an absolute soft spot for heroics. (And really, his getup conveyed just that. Even after years of working for Overwatch, the notion of being a symbol of justice filled him with pure, simple excitement.) And damn, if that weren’t the most heroic sight he’d ever seen, he was ready to throw out his films out of spite.
With hilarity brought from slight panic, McCree considered the circumstances of the dingy grey room, under the intentions of practice. A far cry from weather beaten houses, a sleepy desert, the grand rocks that stood since the creation of this Earth.
Why can’t I stop staring at his hair.
Fighting to control his breathing, McCree finally managed to put on a careless smile.
Hanzo frowned. He was more annoyed than satisfied from the victory. It didn’t help that his carefree attitude reminded him of a certain someone.
“What do I need to do to get that damn smirk off your face?” He absentmindedly put a hand to the side of McCree’s face as if in emphasis.
To his surprise, the man’s breath hitched.
What?
The room’s air felt stifling. Hanzo liked to think of himself as always in control; this foreign feeling of being out of his depth unnerved him.
Mind racing, McCree’s eyes hardened as a plan formulated.
I can’t lose. Not like this.
Slowly, he reached out for Hanzo’s hair that shone raven-black in the half light.
“You know, you should let your hair out more often. I reckon it suits you.” The fingers that intertwined his hair was soft, and they lightly brushed the back of his head.
“I’m sorry?”
Despite himself Hanzo could feel his face heating up, and his hand slackened from shock.
Score.
The mischief that glinted in the opposition’s eye was all the warning he got. The hand that held his hair tightened mercilessly; a built-up force pushed hime like a tide - with a forceful oomph, the world was suddenly upside down.
This time, it was Hanzo who was pinned.
“Looks like I wasn’t the only one who was caught off-guard.” McCree drawled.
Fuming, Hanzo heaved his upper body to deliver a solid head-bang which truly did wipe the smirk off his face.
(“I wasn’t kidding about the hair thing though.” McCree said, trying his hardest to stem the blood flow from his nose.)