Work Text:
There was a crisp freshness to the sheets that he smelled long before he opened his eyes, the room filled with soft golden light. It was beautiful, almost hazy around the edges as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. The covers were warm and inviting, but the wafting scent of bacon was far more tempting than rolling over and going back to sleep.
McCree slid out of bed, half liquid-half man as he drowsily moved for the bathroom, pausing halfway through brushing his teeth before smacking his forehead.
No orange juice, then. Oh well.
He loosely buttoned a shirt over his broad chest before he finally left the bedroom, the scent of pancakes and hashbrowns growing stronger as he neared the kitchen. He rounded the corner, his smile widening as he watched Hanzo carefully tending the sausages and bacon sizzling away in a pan, before turning back to the slowly growing stack of pancakes next to the stove.
“Mornin’, beautiful,” McCree purred, slipping his arms around Hanzo’s waist and kissing his jaw.
“Good morning, darling,” Hanzo smiled, the word never quite sounding as natural coming from him as it did from McCree, but the sincerity was unmistakable. He reached up to cup Jesse’s cheek, the cool smoothness of his wedding band never failing to bring a smile to McCree’s lips, even after all these years. “Hurry up and set the table, the boys will be up soon.”
“Sure thing, baby,” McCree replied, kissing his cheek again before pulling away, grabbing a stack of plates and casually laying out four places.
“Cyrus! Kotaro! Breakfast is ready!” Hanzo called down the hall, setting the pancakes down and frowning. “You’re going to be late to school!” he added. Even with that threat hanging over their head, it still took another few minutes before the sound of little feet thundering against the floor sounded down the hallway.
“Mornin’, Daddy!” the older boy chirped, hugging Jesse’s waist.
“Morning, Papa,” the smaller boy smiled, hugging Jesse from the other side.
“Mornin’, Nugget, mornin’ Bean,” McCree grinned, crouching down and pecking them each on the cheek. “Go kiss ‘Tou-san an’ eat yer breakfast.”
Considering the early hour, the two boys were quite energetic, bouncing between their fathers and the table and the morning news broadcast on the holovid.
“Otou-san, what’s Poland?” Kotaro asked as Hanzo helped him lace up his shoes.
“It’s a country in Europe,” Hanzo replied, moving on to the next shoe, “Why?”
“It’s on the news,” Kotaro replied, his gaze fixed on the screen. McCree turned his ear toward the program as he tended to the dishes, though it was hard to hear.
“Turn up the volume,” he called, the projector responding immediately.
“…which calls itself the Central Omnic Monitoring Agency demands that Poland ‘wake up to the threat posed by an influx of migrants, both human and Omnic, from Russia in the wake of continuing conflict in the Second Omnic Crisis’…”
“Nothin’ changes,” McCree sighed.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Cyrus asked, his head cocking to the side in that Shimada way.
“Nothin’ you gotta worry ‘bout, hon,” McCree smiled. “Uncle Genji an’ Auntie Fareeha are probably gonna be spendin’ some time in Poland soon, is all.”
“Careful,” he heard Ana’s voice in his ear as clearly as if she were standing next to him, “That’s where I died, remember?”
Right, right…better off telling the others to be safe, though—he was happily retired, after all.
“Cyrus, the bus is coming,” Hanzo called, causing the boy to jump into action, darting for the door.
“Ittekimaaaaaasu!” he yelled over his shoulder as he chased after Kotaro, his feet stamping down the back of his shoes rather than taking the time to pull them on before heading out the door.
“Itterasshai!” Hanzo yelled after the boys, “Put your shoes on properly!”
“Vid off,” McCree called as he dried off his hands, the news going quiet in the living room. He calmly strode to the front door, watching the two boys clamber onto the hovering yellow bus before watching it turn and head back into town—just like when he was that age, he had always been the first on the bus and the last one off. It had been lonely for him growing up; at least Cy and Taro had each other on that long trip into Amarillo. He wrapped an arm around Hanzo’s waist, frowning a bit at the tension he felt in his husband’s frame. “…You okay, baby?”
“It has been nearly ten years,” Hanzo murmured, “…Almost as long as the first Crisis.”
“It ain’t here,” McCree said quickly, squeezing his waist. “It ain’t here, and they ain’t comin’ here,” he said, reassuring himself more than Hanzo. Hanzo leaned against him, concern creasing his brow as McCree seemed to draw the worry and fear out of the air and into himself.
“…Are you okay?” he asked, looking up into McCree’s eyes, concerned at the storm he saw brewing there. “I know we’re safe. The children are safe here. The conflict hasn’t spread here, and it won’t,” he murmured, stroking McCree’s scruffy cheek.
“…It won’t,” McCree repeated, Hanzo’s hand burning like memory against his cheek, the late summer air oppressive in its heat, the drumroll of E47s in his ears, empty shells pinging on the hardpan—“I…I think I need to lie down,” he murmured, his stomach rolling.
“It’s alright,” Hanzo murmured, guiding Jesse to the living room and directing him to the couch. “You’re safe here, I’ll protect you,” he murmured, kissing his cheek almost chastely. McCree happily sank into the cushions, the cool silk throw pillows and soft words a welcome relief from the inferno. He glanced at the clock that the holovid was silently displaying.
7:16 AM. Far too early in the day to have to deal with a flashback. He let out a shaky breath and rubbed at his eyes, taking a few deep breaths and promising himself that he didn’t smell smoke or taste ash. He longed for smoke and ash of a different sort.
“Han, can y’ bring me my cigar?” he called softly, listening to Hanzo moving about, keeping everything as orderly and quiet as he could until McCree was firmly back in the present.
“Of course, darling,” he heard, Hanzo’s voice soothing and cool like aloe. He needed that more than anything else.
“An’ maybe some coffee?” he asked, hoping for another simple response.
“Anything else?”
“Jes’ you,” he croaked, rolling onto his side and curling up a bit as he hid his face in the cool satin. He listened to the quiet bustle, his stomach churning and his heart pounding in his throat as he tried to force back the roar of flames and the sound of the horses between volleys of gunfire.
“I’m right here,” Hanzo called softly as he approached, “I’ve got coffee and your cigar. Stay with me, Jesse…come back to me, darling,” he murmured, the sound of something ceramic clinking on the coffee table before Hanzo’s hand was on his back, gently rubbing him. “You’re safe here, it’s alright…”
McCree slowly rolled back closer to that cool voice, forcing his eyes open with the knowledge that he wouldn’t see fire—just Hanzo’s handsome face, filled with worry as it might be.
“Do you want me to hold you?” he asked softly, stroking his hair now.
“No, too hot,” McCree mumbled in reply, “Just talk to me, baby…I love yer voice,” he said glancing back at the clock. 11:40-something AM. Far too early to be dealing with a flashback…at least the boys were at school. He hated how scared they got when Daddy ‘left’. He hated hearing Kotaro cry, he hated seeing how anxious and quiet Cyrus got…
“I’m right here, lovely,” Hanzo murmured, sitting seiza in front of the couch and passing Jesse his cigar. “I was thinking about cooking salmon for supper—we still have some fillets in the freezer. Maybe green beans to go with it. Mashed potatoes, too—I know how much you love your American food,” he said, holding his hand out as McCree struggled to light his cigar, taking the Zippo and holding it steady for him. “I’ve made fresh tsukemono, too. The boys probably won’t have much homework—it’s only the first week of school, after all…”
The calm talk of domesticity was like balm on the burns that still lingered in McCree’s mind, and the sweet, nutty flavor of his cigar quickly helped reel him back to the present; he didn’t smoke during the First Crisis, after all, he had been barely older than Cyrus.
“Smokin’s bad fer ya, son,” his father murmured bodiless in his ear, “Jes’ cause the doctor can fix what’s done been gummed up with all that there tobacco don’t mean she likes it. Downright rude t’ keep askin’ ‘er t’ fix what y’ do t’ yerself with that weed. Same with that liquor. ‘S what did yer Pappy in, ‘member? Pickled his liver, he did. An’ what’ll yer boys think, growin’ up seein’ y’all drinkin’ all the time?”
“Papa, stop,” McCree muttered, taking a deep drag from his cigar and holding that hot, sweet fire in his mouth. This fire was his to control—he was the master now. Same with the burn in his throat when he drank, or the thunder and lightning he could summon in an instant with Peacekeeper—he wasn’t the victim anymore. That was his fire.
That was how he hung on to this wild bronc that was Life.
That, and the soothing sound next to him, discussing the minutiae of each recipe, Hanzo’s words fading into the gentle crash of waves.
Hanzo wasn’t upset at McCree’s disinterest, of course—he wasn’t looking for opinions or discussion. He knew what Jesse needed in these moments, and even if he was repeating the recipe for teriyaki sauce for the fifth time, seeing the tension leave Jesse’s face was more than worth it.
“…Are you with me, darling?” Hanzo asked softly, reaching for Jesse’s shoulder.
“…Yeah, I’m here, honey,” McCree murmured, his eyes fluttering open again.
9:42 AM. Not bad—he’d only been ‘gone’ a few minutes, then—and they still had most of the morning. McCree slowly sat up and reached for his coffee, happily gulping down the hot liquid and sighing. Controlled burn. That was fine. His gaze fell to Hanzo, who offered him a concerned smile.
“I’m here,” McCree repeated, smiling.
“Good…I’m so glad,” Hanzo said with a relieved sigh, resting a hand on McCree’s knee. “I love you, darling.”
“Love you, too, sweetheart,” he murmured, reaching out and cupping Hanzo’s cheek. “I ain’t never gonna leave you…I love you too damn much.”
“Are you tired? Do you want to rest some more?” Hanzo asked, cupping Jesse’s hand and leaning into his touch.
“Naw, I’ll be alright,” McCree smiled. “Don’t wanna leave again so soon.”
“You know I’d be right here when you wake up,” Hanzo said. McCree’s ear caught slightly on the hitch in Hanzo’s grammar—he was normally so careful about his English—but he was willing to accept that, perhaps, he’d just misheard. He was still feeling a bit fuzzy and anxious, after all…
“…No, I’m fine, babydoll,” McCree smiled, rising from the couch and stretching. “Better to jes’ find something to do.”
“If you are certain…then you can start the laundry,” Hanzo smirked, reaching up and toying with his beard playfully. “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me, lovely.”
“Alright, alright,” McCree nodded, heading down the hall. One thing at a time, one thing at a time…
There were always things to be done, of course—sweeping the floor, killing scorpions, hanging the laundry out to dry, a light lunch with Hanzo, romantic kisses and teasing touches with the promise of more later, sweeping the floor, killing scorpions, hanging the laundry out to dry, the fastest scrub of a bathroom in history followed by some of the softest, gentlest lovemaking he could remember, folding laundry, preparing snacks for the boys, sweeping the floor, killing scorpions, hanging the laundry out to dry…
McCree happily slumped down onto the couch, sighing at the slight ache in his back and letting out a soft purr as Hanzo's weight quickly joined him. He wrapped his arm around Hanzo, glancing up at the clock again. 10:something-3 PM. That was odd. He blinked, the numbers growing fuzzy and unreadable, flickering like an old terminal board.
“The boys will be home soon,” Hanzo remarked. McCree looked away from the clock, his concern distracting him from the joy he was sure that news was supposed to bring.
“I’m…feeling a little odd, darlin’,” he said, “Thinkin’ I might lie down for a spell.”
“When will you wake up?” he asked softly, an odd pain in Hanzo’s voice. His Spanish was impeccable—just like everything else, of course.
“Soon, baby, soon,” he smiled. “You could always come an’ lay down with me.”
“I need you…” Hanzo murmured, his Spanish lightly accented, “I need you to wake up, Señor.”
“Of course I’ll wake up, sugar,” McCree smiled, cupping Hanzo’s cheek. The older man held McCree’s hand close, leaning into his touch with something almost like desperation. The motion made him anxious somehow, he couldn’t explain it—like the clock.
Until he saw it.
His hand. It was gone.
The metal he had known for so long, that he had grown so used to that it felt just as natural as his organic parts, what hid his shame—it was gone. Someone had replaced it with flesh.
Foreign flesh.
Unnatural.
His heart pounded in his ears, his stomach dropped and churned as his hand shook, flexing and testing the sinew and blood and muscle and bone with revolted fascination. Someone had split his wedding band off of his hand—shorn it from where it had been welded to his finger, his eternal promise, no, no!—and placed it on this impostor limb. The whole room seemed to tremble and quake as he stared at his alien hand.
“Please, Jesse,” Hanzo begged softly, “Come back to me. If you can hear me, Señor, squeeze my hand,” he instructed, hurriedly taking Jesse’s hand in his.
“What is this?! Hanzo!” McCree gasped, clinging tightly to the other man.
“Wake up, Jesse…come back to me. Please, I need you,” Hanzo whimpered, “You have to get back to me. Wake up, leave this place…”
“No, n-no! The boys will be home soon, I can’t leave!” McCree cried out, tears welling in his eyes as dull pain seeped into his bones, the house growing increasingly insubstantial and noisy. “I won’t leave you, Hanzo!”
“Go,” Hanzo begged, “You can’t stay here.”
“Hanzo, darlin’, honey, sugar, please, please please please!” McCree begged, wide-eyed. “Our children—our babies! No!”
“You know this isn’t real! Señor, if you can, open your eyes,” Hanzo sobbed, clutching McCree's wrists, “You have to leave now—go! You have to get home.”
“I am home!” McCree cried out over the white noise growing around him, everything but Hanzo fading away as he desperately cupped Hanzo’s face in his hands, “I’m here with you! You’re my home! Please, Hanzo!”
“Aishiteru zo,” Hanzo whispered, his voice cutting through the deafening roar. “Let go…”
McCree’s final cry was wordless as Hanzo’s form slipped through his fingers, his aching fingers, his scream of anguish ripping his throat apart as he roared into the void.
His throat hurt so badly. It hurt and was full and something heavy and sterile-tasting was on his tongue. He tried to raise his arm to pull whatever it was out of his mouth, but he couldn’t—not only was his arm missing, but what was left of his limb was exceedingly uncooperative. His intact right arm was just as sluggish, his wrist flopping unhelpfully.
“Señor? Can you open your eyes?”
Open your eyes. That should be easy.
“If you can hear me, open your eyes.”
‘They are open, ain’t they?’ The room was just dark. He tried again, his eyelids like lead.
“Good work, Mr. Pérez, get some rest. We’ll try again later. Dr. Rossi will be in to visit you next time. Let’s see if you can wake up again for him.”
Hospital de Clínicas "José de San Martín" Patient Records
Patient Name: Pérez, Juan
30-40 y/o M, coma, severe head trauma, lacerations to right arm, 1st and 2nd deg burns
PMH – NN
PSH – Left arm amputated above elbow
Allergies – NN
Meds – NN
SocHx – Smoker (tobacco), drinks alcohol; discovered with cigars and hip flask
Day 12: Entered MCS, conscious for short periods. Attempts speech in both English and Spanish. Lacerations completely healed.
Prognosis good; PT and OT consult, O&PT completed replacement left arm prosthetic (repair impossible)
Attending phys. – Dr. Mario Rossi