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Overwatch, like all other secret organisations, had their secret weapons; elite soldiers bred and battle-hardened, ready to fight and tear down the enemy within the blink of an eye, sometimes quite literally too. Theirs however, was nothing less than one of their close guarded secrets and most valuable assets, believed to be lost to time or the raging battles of old.
When Hanzo had been drafted into the reformed group, drawn and tense from the thought of confronting his brother once again, he hadn’t even thought to ask about it. If he was being honest, he had forgotten about their asset between the near-fatal confrontation with Genji and trying to hold the Shimada clan together before abandoning it all together.
So when he had been gone on his first official covert-ops mission, he had thought nothing of it, assuming it’d be a routine mission. His back pressed against the cold brick of their King’s Row base, fingers toying with the edge of his hakama’s sash; he wasn’t nervous, per say, but he was definitely not looking forward to working with a team.
After he had lost Genji, he had grown used to working alone, it allowed him to take out his frustrations and short-comings with nothing more than a sharp drawback of bow string and the sharp thunk of an arrow sinking into its target, wooden or otherwise.
There was a gentle whirring beside him, and he looked up, cold eyes meeting the colder steel that was the ‘face’ of the omnic before him. Dimmly, his mind reminded him that the man’s name was Tekhartha Zenyatta, though much preferred to be called Zenyatta.
“Hanzo,” the omnic greeted him warmly, Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, trying not to let his sense of unrest at his presence show. “I advise you to step back from the door, we are about to meet our third member.”
He cocked his head to the side, as much of a response as Zenyatta would get out of him.
“Please, I’d hate for our meeting to be cut so short.”
Hanzo complied, vehemently denying to himself he was doing it because Zenyatta had told him to, but that he had just grown tired of standing in that particular spot for so long.
Zenyatta bowed his head in thanks, before floating off back to wherever he had come. The way he just hovered had never sat right with Hanzo since he was so used to seeing biped omnics.
The door to his left slid open with a soft hiss as the hydraulics eased the heavy steel open. Stepping out, first, was a woman Hanzo knew to be Dr. Ziegler, the stone-faced doctor had dark circles under her eyes, and her usual impeccable hair was ruffled and out of place. A sharp stab of worry spiked in his gut, but he pushed it down. She was a doctor, after all, he reasoned, she was probably just overwhelmed with the wounded that came back from missions.
“Hanzo,” she greeted warmly, the lines of her face disappearing to be replaced by crow’s feet and a warm smile. “It is nice of you to be joining us for this mission.”
Hanzo scoffed. “Zenyatta warned me about the third member of our team, I’m not sure that worry was warranted now as it is just you.”
“Just me?” A laugh and a shake of her head, further tousling her blonde hair. “I am not your third member, merely their handler.”
As if on cue, a man practically materialised to her side, hunched over on himself and growling, yet despite the fact he was nearly doubled over, he still towered over Angela. Hanzo stepped back, instantly weary of the figure. He was collared, the metal sitting snug and tight against the column of his throat, and his wrists and ankles were shackled together like a criminal.
“This,” she said softy, raising a gloved hand to grasp the man’s hand. “Is Jesse McCree, the third member of your team.”
In response, the man raised his hands—and by extension, Angela’s—to his face, snuffling her hand before letting out a low whine. She hushed him, the sound practiced and warm, and the low whine building in the back of his throat stopped.
“Who—what is he?” Hanzo stuttered, his usual poise and control lost in the face of this—this beast.
Angela sighed, using her free hand to remove McCree’s hat. The man blinked, eyes owlishly large with blown pupils. A shiver ran through Hanzo at the sight of his eyes; they were practically glowing a dull gold in the light of the full moon. His eyes trailed down his face, passing over a sharp, angular nose to lips pulled back over elongated teeth and foam dribbling down the corner of over-stretched lips.
“He is our asset, and he is what you’d call—“
“Okami,” Hanzo finished for her, the word nothing more than a sharp exhale.
Angela looked vaguely annoyed at his interruption, but shrugged her shoulders. The movement jostled McCree, who let out a low growl in warning, before quieting at the sharp click of her tongue. “Yes, a werewolf was what I was going to say, but that works too.”
“And you expect me to work with him?”
“I can assign someone else to this mission, despite you giving us so short notice. But, I chose you as he benefits most from having those who project calmness and stability, despite not feeling as such.”
It clicked then, why he had been assigned with Zenyatta. A sour taste formed in his mouth, and he swallowed in an attempt to get it out of his mouth. “Why not pick my brother then?”
The force at which he had spit out the word—brother—caused her to flinch back, triggering another low growl to rise up in McCree. “He is getting repairs done to his cybernetic parts, they were somewhat destroyed in Gibraltar.”
“Whatever,” Hanzo muttered, grabbing his bow from his back with practiced ease. “Let’s get this over with, then.”
--
He would be lying if he said he hadn’t been scared when Angela had removed McCree’s collar and shackles, watching as she soothed the deep marks they left on his skin. He averted his gaze at this, feeling like he was impeding on a deeply intimate moment.
“You’ll be okay,” she murmured. “I will be with you every step of the way. We’re safe.”
His ears pricked at that, and his stomach tightened.
“Are we ready?” Zenyatta asked, blissfully ignorant to the happenings around him. Hanzo envied him, in that moment.
“Yes.”
The man grunted in response, and from the corner of his eye, Hanzo could see him stretching out his limbs and standing to his full height. The sight nearly took his breath away, the man was broad, as he was tall, covered with a smattering of hair on his face that seemed more lupine than human.
Angela retrieved a small piece of cloth from a pocket in her pea coat, and Hanzo dimly watched as McCree sniffed it, before letting out a soft howl and trotting off ahead of them.
“What do we do?” Hanzo asked, more to himself than those around him.
“We follow,” Zenyatta replied, voice somewhat amused.
Hanzo scrunched his face, but nodded, making a move to walk after the retreating form of McCree. Angela wrapped a hand around his wrist, fingers barely encompassing it. “Before you go, I must warn you, do not hurt him.”
He didn’t know whose behalf the request came from—hers or McCree’s—but he nodded. She exhaled softly, and tension drained from her form. “Let’s make this routine and easy, then.”
--
It was just that, routine and easy, the entire affair ending much sooner than Hanzo had thought thanks to McCree’s literally sniffing out their target and Hanzo’s well timed arrow. Zenyatta floated somewhere nearby, probably studying the anti-omnic graffiti with a sense of sadness, or however close to the emotion his programming would allow.
A soft trill ruined the stillness of the night, and Angela swore as McCree’s head swung around, eyeing the woman where she stood. She retrieved a thin communicator from her pocket, and pinched the bridge of her nose as she read the caller ID.
“Please watch him, I need to take this.”
Before he could even open his mouth to protest, she had walked off, answering the communicator with a soft ‘Dr. Ziegler speaking,’ before leaving earshot.
Hanzo eyed McCree, watching his chest heave with each breathe, no doubt sniffing out Angela to ensure she hadn’t wandered off to far. When McCree turned his burning gaze to him, Hanzo stiffened, allowing his eyes to meet McCree’s for the second time that night.
McCree’s nose twitched, and he stepped towards Hanzo who automatically stepped back before stopping when he hit the solid brick wall. He let out a silent curse to whoever had planned the streets of England to be so bloody narrow. This gave McCree the opportunity to crowd against Hanzo, and used a strong, hair-covered hand to grasp the underside of Hanzo’s thigh and lift it to wrap around his hips almost as it if weighed nothing.
Hanzo let out a startled breath, pressing numb hands against the solid wall of muscle that was McCree’s chest and pushing. “What are you doing?” He stuttered out.
In response, McCree pressed his nose into the dip in Hanzo’s shoulder where the meat of his shoulder met his neck and deeply inhaled. The rush of cold air against his heated skin caused Hanzo to shiver involuntarily and arch into McCree’s touch.
“You smell mighty fine,” McCree rumbled, the first words of the night that he uttered. They startled Hanzo, the deep timbre of his voice, coupled from the roughness of altered vocal cords sent the words pleasurably skittering across his skin.
“What are you doing?”
“Y’already said that,” McCree drawled, nosing along his throat to where Hanzo’s pulse beat roughly against his skin. Teeth pressed against it, and Hanzo let out a yelp, springing as far back as the wall and McCree’s grip would allow. “A tad flustered, Shimada?”
“Stop, you aren’t in your right mind.”
“I’m as right as rain, darlin’. S’what the full moon grants me; absolute clarity.” A hot tongue pressed against his neck, and Hanzo bit back a moan. The way McCree darkly chuckled told him his heightened senses had picked the noise up anyway. “Y’haven’t yelled yet, so I’m takin’ that as a good sign.”
Hanzo doubted he even could at this point, voice trapped under the hot tongue pressed against his throat and trapped even tighter against the body pressing against him.
“Smelled divine, drove me crazy the entire night. Almost threw off my tracking.”
Hanzo gulped, the movement bringing his Adam’s apple into contact with the point of McCree’s nose.
“Y’know what you smell like?”
Silence answered, save for the small wheeze that escaped Hanzo’s throat.
“Mine.”
Hanzo startled then, letting out a sharp cry that had McCree wincing against his flesh and releasing him to startle back to a respectable distance. The sound of Angela’s heels clicking dimly filtered into Hanzo’s ears, and he tore his eyes to her.
She raised a brow at the picture he made, flushed and debauched from where he was pressed against the cold brick of the wall.
“Everything all right here?” She asked, voice laced with worry.
Hanzo’s chest heaved, shaking his head enough to cause a dull throb to build at his temple. McCree let out a soft grunt, moving to nuzzle into the hand Angela extended his way.
“Hanzo? Did he do anything while I was gone?” She trailed her gaze from the man nuzzling her hand to where Hanzo was adjusted his kimono with shaking hands.
Hanzo’s eyes cut to where McCree’s was still nuzzling the palm of her hand, as if sensing his gaze, McCree’s eye cracked open, glinting in silent warning as if to test him to tell the truth.
“No,” he assured. “I was just growing a little hot under the collar, as you put it.”
McCree huffed what Hanzo assumed was a laugh against Angela’s hand, before straightening up.
Angela looked hardly, but shrugged. “I trust you to tell me the truth,” she said mildly, shoving her hands into the pockets against the chill of the night. “Since we’re done, we should head back for a debriefing and medical examination.”
Hanzo nodded, the pounding in his head drowning out whatever else she had said, and made to follow her, body running on auto pilot.
--
After re-shackling McCree, and having another agent escort him to who knows where, Hanzo sat through the debrief and medical exam feeling vaguely numb as he processed the events of the night.
He didn’t necessarily dislike what had happened, but felt the time, place, and condition they were both under wasn’t the best to make a move as bold as that. Hanzo scowled and laid his hand over his stomach as he stared at the ceiling of his quarters.
He would have a talk with Angela about McCree’s faculties when he was under the influence of the moon. And if he had even any recollections of the event when turned.
A soft shuffling sound from the outside of his door had him snapping back to attention, and he sat up just in time to see a small square of paper be pushed under his door, and to hear the sound of footsteps faintly trailing away.
Curiosity peaked, he stood up, and walked over to where the square sat, innocent and stark white, against the rich mahogany of his floorboards. He picked it up, examining the square before flicking it open.
Neat, tight cursive greeted him, the letters a dark red against the paper. Blood red, Hanzo’s mind supplied. He swallowed, and brought it closer to his face to read.
‘I would apologise about tonight,’ it read, ‘but it wasn’t a mistake. At least not for me. I’d like to make it up to you, and perhaps even court you officially if you’d let me (is that how you hoity-toity type call “dating” nowadays?). I’m never one to let something that’s mine escape my grasp.
-J.’
Underneath was a scrawled number, no doubt McCree’s. He’d call, Hanzo reasoned, to give him a piece of his mind and chew him out for what had happened.
Of course, if he slept with the note pressed tight against his chest that night, and a smile on his lips, no one would know but him.