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The base feigns silence, the quietness someone might find in the night time with the wind pretty against their skin and the moon shining silvers over their body. It’s quiet enough that anyone would have thought everyone else but McCree and Hanzo were dispatched, their two figures sitting on the living room couch and making a (small, quiet) fuss about the volume of McCree’s music (though truth be told, it was Lúcio’s healing song he was playing) when the reality was simply that the early hours of the morning (and the really lates ones of night) had arrived, and that they were awake.
McCree’s song is playing. It’s soft enough that if they wanted to, it could pass as a secret between them, with only the silence and maybe even Athena to witness it. Hanzo is protesting something about the lines of disturbing the peace of others, but McCree isn’t really listening, if he wants to be honest. (He doesn’t, so he drawls a reply in response, grunts when Hanzo frowns and nudges his side.) Outside, the sun is barely above the horizon, preparing to make its rounds for the day. Somewhere, a drum thumps alongside the rhythm of McCree’s heart, fast and quick and steady all at once. Here, McCree’s breath hitches and tangles and untangles and knits itself into all kinds of knots (even ones he didn’t know existed), and Hanzo’s fingertips are brushing past his crossed legs as the pitch black of his hair settles for laying against McCree’s thigh.
There is no one else up. McCree doubts this, because he’s seen Winston up and alert during these times in the morning before, back when McCree would decide to watch the sunrise together with the entire universe behind him. Winston didn’t question what he was doing, didn’t protest to his small escapade from the base despite the heavy supervision and rules Overwatch had been put under back then, though in the next mission briefing McCree has a hunch that Winston might have chosen to go the passive-aggressiveness route of complaining.
“If you play it any louder, Jesse, you will wake up the entire base. Lower the volume or I will shut it off for you.”
“Aw, c’mon now, just a lil’ more won’t hurt. ‘sides, Reinhardt snores. It’d be a miracle if anyone woke up because of this music, yeah?”
There is no one else awake. McCree hopes for this, at least, even if he thinks he knows better. Whether it’s Winston monitoring Athena’s weekly maintenances or Torbjörn fixing up some kind of handy mechanism McCree wouldn’t know what to do with, or Symmetra working on powering up her turrets, there is a tiny hope—one that sits near his heart—that stirs within McCree, makes him wish for them all to be asleep and an entirely silent morning. He hopes for it and watches Hanzo drape his legs over the armrest of the couch, hopes Hanzo can hear the sound of his heart beating in a steady rhythm, hopes Hanzo likes the way his head fits against the soft of McCree’s skin, hopes the music he is playing never ends.
“You would think. Last time it was… Song who woke everyone up with one of her streams. I do not recall you to be on the side of those who weren’t irritated with her.”
“For like… what, half a day? Ain’t like you weren’t any different, Hanzo.”
A brief chuckle. “Neither do I recall to be the one playing Lúcio’s music at this very moment.”
“Got a point. But I still ain’t switching the music off.”
Hanzo sighs. It’s a shudder that McCree feels all the way to his head, nerves on edge as soft shiver lines the edges of his body.
“I see. Do not blame me if one were to accuse you for disturbing their rest.”
“Naw darlin’, what do you take me for?”
“A fool who does not listen.”
“Think I’d only be a fool if I raised the volume,” McCree says back. His robotic arm lies lazily on Hanzo’s shoulder, fingers trailing into Hanzo’s hair. The blue rectangular interface on his arm shines dimly, paints the side of Hanzo’s face a slight shade. “or completely shut it off. Admit it, you like Lúcio’s music, don’t ‘cha?”
“You are playing the music directly into my ear. I think it is obvious to judge whether it is to my tastes or not, Jesse,” Hanzo snaps, crosses his arms. He sinks further down into the couch, but his intentions die down to the small indignant half-huff half-snort he gives afterwards, bite to his words washed away by the light-hearted break in his demeanour.
McCree’s mouth, closed without much thought to it so far, parts. He’s seen Hanzo like this before, familiar with the other’s mannerisms until he can recognize the other just by the sound of his footsteps, but every time Hanzo does—does this, it’s the first time McCree successfully manages to make Hanzo’s scowl break all over again. McCree’s heart rises to his throat and in response the lump there pushes itself away, back down into McCree with the help of a swallow.
The sun must have risen by now, McCree thinks. Such a beauty. The sun must be hanging high in the sky by now.
He continues to tangle his fingertips into Hanzo’s hair. It’s a dull feeling, like feeling skin through layers of fabric. It’s there, but barely, like it could disappear at any moment if he wasn’t careful. Nothing compared to running his real fingers into Hanzo’s hair though, but if McCree closes his eyes and puts in a bit more focus to it than the lazy one he has now, it’d feel like the real thing, he’s sure. So he leans back into the sturdy of the couch, body slumping like how Hanzo did, and the tension he didn’t know was there in his shoulders vanishes like cool vapour into the air around them. A shaky breath passes Hanzo’s lips. McCree thinks that it must have been accidental.
There’s silence for a long moment. McCree doesn’t know if he’s fallen asleep, but he reckons he hasn’t from the way he’s been listening to every beat of Lúcio’s song. He opens his eyes.
Hanzo’s breathing quietly, face relaxed, looking years younger. They don’t sleep in the same room together. McCree has never known peace the same way it shows in Hanzo’s face when he sleeps, and now. He’s never seen it erase the stress like the ocean over white grains of sand, like it’s lifting every bit of the burden Hanzo surely carries and handling it for the entirety Hanzo is at rest. Such a beauty, McCree tells himself, and his hands stay in the wild that is Hanzo’s dark hair, afraid to move and yet brave enough to run through some strands. Such a beauty.
Hanzo sleeps.
“Mornin’ to you too, darlin’,” McCree says to no one, shuts his eyes.
He wonders if he will dream of brushing his lips over Hanzo’s own.