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McCree would’ve been lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it before. Omnics had a way about them, completely synthetic, sure, not all soft curves and smooth skin, but there was something alluring in their circuitry, the geometric cuts of their bodies, the fine details of their hands. Well, of one’s hands in particular. Hands that came with voice that made his spine quiver.
“Are you certain you are well, McCree?” Zenyatta asks, the smooth joints of metal fingers cupping his shoulder. Friendly, as always. McCree tips his hat, hoping it covers his rapidly flushing face.
“Nothin’ that a few stiff drinks won’t cure, I reckon.” McCree says with a crooked smile, itching to have a cigarillo, give himself something to do with his mouth instead of embarrassing himself.
“I have always been intrigued by the human activity of drinking.” Zenyatta replies, resonant voice blooming with interest, always fascinated with the small things.
Moments that McCree took for granted, like sprouts budding between cracks in the pavement, Lucio working through a particularly difficult section of a new composition, the lull in action after a mission. All these things he would mention in that gentle robotic timbre, and it made McCree take a second to close his eyes and breathe.
“Shibui,” Genji had called it once, when McCree mentioned Zenyatta’s penchant for it. “Subtle, unobtrusive beauty.”
Relaxing, McCree thinks. A calm in the storm that his life has always been, on the run and on the edge. Overwatch had given him another second chance.
“I would love to join you.” Zenyatta says, snapping McCree back to the present. He swallows once, staring at that unmoving face that somehow seems so expressive.
“I don’t mind but,” McCree shifts. “Can omnics even drink? Don’t want ya to be bored.”
Zenyatta hums, tilts his head. “I doubt I could be bored in your company.”
“You’re a real charmer, ain’t ya?” The cowboy whistles, smiling despite himself.
Zenyatta chuckles and floats silently at his side as they head for the watch point’s kitchen.
—
Three drinks in and McCree feels loose. It’s the perfect balance of relaxed and near sober that leaves him warm and soft around the edges. They both sit at the kitchen counter, McCree nursing a whisky while Zenyatta sips at some oil he procured from a lower cabinet.
“I never noticed ya have a mouth.” McCree says, smiling easy, craning towards the omnic who cradles his mug in both hands like he’s enjoying the heat. Maybe he is, has hands sensitive enough to analyze the warmth radiating off the porcelain, and doesn’t that get the wheels turning in McCree’s mind.
Zenyatta hums. “I suppose it is strange, seeing a synthetic imbibe when we do not need to eat.” He raises one hand from his mug, slides it across the golden lip of his faceplate, tracing the small, hidden slit that serves as his mouth.
McCree follows the slide of his hand, face warming from more than just the booze. He takes a hearty pull from his glass, blinking away the bite, mind spinning. Zenyatta stills, and his mala which circle his head slow and even tighten to rest against the column of his throat.
“Though this has been illuminating, perhaps you should retire for the night. You seem unfocused.”
“That’s kinda the point,” McCree drawls, canting his head too far; his hat slips to one side. Buzzed, he stares at the highlights of Zenyatta’s face that shift in the low light, mesmerized. “Y’know, you’re really pretty.”
McCree wants to punch himself in the face, does it mentally when Zenyatta doesn’t react immediately to his words. He starts to sputter, lips trying and failing to speak, tongue thick and stupid in his mouth.
“Uh, I mean–”
The soft chime of laughter interrupts his stammering, the sound so lively and human-like it stuns him into silence. The way Zenyatta grips his sides, the paneling of his shoulders shaking with his undulating guffaws, unabashedly enjoying the moment, exhilarates him.
“My apologies,” Zenyatta says, the vestiges of amusement touching his words. “I do not mean to be rude. It is not often that people pay omnics such a compliment.” He braces his hand against the gold of his chin, like he is almost shy.
“Naw, really?” McCree replies. “You must be pulling my leg. Yer all shiny, super smart, nice to a fault. Can’t believe you don’t have people falling over themselves to be with you.” He babbles, unable to stop the words spilling out of his mouth.
“You flatter me,” Zenyatta continues, drink forgotten on the counter. “I assure you that though people may offer sweet words for kindness extended their way, it is rare to receive compliments on my physical form.”
Zenyatta turns to face him fully; the omnic’s moments are so swift and fluid it’s hard to believe he’s synthetic; nothing seems awkward or tense, nothing like the robots in those old 1950s movies.
“Is this perhaps the reason for your drinking?” Zenyatta asks, not unkindly. He slides his hand over McCree’s fingers that are nervously tapping the counter.
McCree jerks beneath the touch, and if Zenyatta couldn’t tell he was flushed, he certainly looks it now, feels the burn in his ears as his whole face grows heated.
“W-what makes you say that?” He grumbles, staring off to the side. Is he so easy to read?
“Jesse, your internal temperature has been rising in my presence for one month and sixteen days.”
McCree slaps his palm against his face, wishing the ground would swallow him up. He is obvious, so damn stupid, and Zenyatta had just been rolling with it all this time.
He blinks. Zenyatta hadn’t tried to avoid him. Something like hope threads a low heat through his stomach, and he can’t keep the huge grin off his face.
“You’ve been tracking my body heat?” McCree whispers, dragging his hand down to clench his mouth, eyes again tracing Zenyatta’s face, his glowing dot alignment. He flips his hand, palm up, and interlocks their metal fingers.
It’s Zenyatta’s turn to go still, lights flaring once. Faintly, he hears the omnic’s fans speed up. Overheated.
“So you’ve noticed me getting…hot around you?” The cowboy feigns smooth confidence, fueled by liquor and the steadily overwhelming panic that he could fuck this all up somehow. Whatever this happens to be.
Zenyatta’s hand flexes, and his head twitches once, twice before he glances at the counter. His fingers clench around McCree’s so hard it almost hurts.
“I am unused to this kind of attention. It is interesting.” His voice box glitches slightly, voice crackling halfway through his hurried explanation. “Perhaps,” his voice dips low. “We could explore this mutual awareness when you are less inebriated.”
McCree’s face hurts with how hard he smiles, and he laughs once, dizzy with the happiness that washes over him like some strange dream.
“I’d like that a lot, darlin’.” He coos, gently brings Zenyatta’s hand to his face, kissing the dark material of his knuckles. Zenyatta emits a soft chirrup that sounds suspiciously like a gasp.
The next morning, McCree wakes with a groan in his own bed, stripped of shoes and belt, but softer clothes still in tact. He reaches for his cell on the nightstand and finds a glass of water instead.
He slowly pieces together the night’s events, giddier by the second.
What better time to take Zenyatta up on his word?