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Hanzo told him. Hanzo always told him. He always says Jesse needs to be more careful in the field, needs to be more cautious and watchful. Jesse always laughs him off and claps his paw-like hand on Hanzo’s shoulder and tells him, “You jus’ worry about yourself out there. I can take care of myself.”
And now look where they are - Hanzo sitting in a chair in a second-rate hospital, McCree attached to all sorts of machines - machines that beep, machines that sigh, machines that make no noise but drip endlessly into Jesse’s veins.
It’s been a week, and Hanzo has said nothing; not to the nurses, not to his various teammates that filter through to visit the man who is usually the most boisterous on the team. McCree does nothing but sleep, and breathe. The wounds are covered now, but Hanzo can’t forget the sight of all that blood, all those wounds. He mourns the fact that there will be so many more scars on Jesse’s skin to trace with his fingers.
A wave of grief washes over Hanzo so strong it threatens to overwhelm him - but like he’s been doing for the past week, he pushes it back and buries it deep. There will be time to hurt later, in private, when he doesn’t have to keep vigil. For now, he will be strong for Jesse when he wakes.
Hanzo’s thoughts are so consuming, he doesn’t notice the twitch of fingers on McCree’s sheets; he does, however, hear McCree’s groan of discomfort.
He looks at Jesse’s face, eyes wide, and sees the unsettled fluttering of eyelashes. Without delay, he pours a glass of water and hastens to the bedside. “Jesse?” he asks quietly, gently pushing the hair from his face.
McCree tries to speak, but is overcome with a dry cough that makes Hanzo’s throat close up in sympathy. He holds the glass to Jesse’s lips, and makes him drink slowly. When the glass is half empty, Hanzo places it to the side and resumes his seat. He watches silently as McCree takes stock of his body. He shifts one leg, then the other. He wiggles his fingers of his flesh hand, and looks startled when he realizes his prosthesis has been removed. He rolls his head to the side to solemnly regard Hanzo.
He’s horrified when he feels his eyes begin to fill with tears.
Jesse looks shocked, but his face gentles into a tender smile, which makes Hanzo shake. He feels his shoulders hitch and his cheeks burn in embarrassment. He buries his face in Jesse’s sheets as his tears overtake him.
“Aw, it’s not so bad, sweetheart,” Jesse murmurs, and Hanzo can only shake his head. He clutches the sheets and cries quietly, and Jesse’s fingers thread through his hair. “‘M alright, see? I’m still here.”
And just like that, Hanzo can’t take it anymore. He sits up and glares, ugly and angry, tearstained and furious. “But you almost weren’t,” he snarls, wiping the tears from his face even as more quickly take their place. “I always tell you to be careful, and you almost got yourself killed!”
McCree watches sadly as Hanzo buries his face in his hands and cries. He feels so stupid, so childish; grown men don’t cry like this. Shimadas don’t cry like this. Hanzo cried for Genji, but he did not cry like this.
“I know. You were right,” McCree sighs, exhausted and sad. It almost makes Hanzo cry harder; Jesse never gives in so easily. “I know, I’m sorry. I didn’t see him - he was right there, and I didn’t see him. If I were more cautious, I wouldn’t be in here. If I was any less, I’d be dead.”
Hanzo can’t take much more; he hides his face in Jesse’s mattress again and lets himself cry. McCree resumes petting his hair with a sigh. “But I am still alive,” he adds, weary and triumphant. “Took that fucker down.” Hanzo can’t help but laugh through the tears, and Jesse chuckles. “I love you,” he says warmly. Hanzo sits up and wipes his face again.
“I love you, too,” he sighs. Then he glares petulantly and adds, “But I won’t if you keep hurting yourself like this. I won’t stand for it.” He means it as a joke, but realizes it’s at least a little true; each time Jesse ends up here, in some hospital bed in some country, his soul cracks just a little more.
Jesse seems to understand. He nods solemnly, and lets Hanzo take his hand. The room is quiet for a few minutes, but Jesse never seemed to know when to let a good silence stand. “What happened to my robot arm?” he asks, apropos of nothing.
Hanzo snorts and shakes his head. “Your prosthetic arm was irreparably damaged. Torbjorn said when he visited that he is consulting with Angela to make you a new one.”
McCree nods, then sighs and settles back into his bed. “You should go home for tonight, tell everyone I said hi. Get some sleep, get some food.” Hanzo tries to protest, but Jesse speaks right over him. “Don’t try tellin’ me that you ain’t been here the whole time I have. I know ‘cause I would have done the same damn thing.” He smiles then, something gentle and tender that twists Hanzo’s stomach into complicated knots. He can’t help but nod.
Jesse’s grin only grows. “Good. I’ll see ya bright an’ early, okay?”
Hanzo stands and nods. He walks around the bed and presses a kiss to McCree’s forehead. “I love you, Jesse. Be nice to the nurses.” McCree rolls his eyes and begins to complain about nurses as Hanzo leaves the room, smiling and feeling a little lighter than before. He gently touches a nurse’s shoulder and tells her that her patient is awake, and leaves the hospital to report to his teammates that McCree should be up and ready soon for transfer to the Watchpoint at Gibraltr.
And maybe, if McCree is good, Hanzo will sneak him a burger from one of the good places.