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It’s not that McCree thought it would be easy. Nothing to do with Genji is ever easy, and striking up an honest to goodness relationship with a man who spent the better part of fifteen years in self-loathing hurricane speaks to a level of difficulty that would have a lesser man balking at its challenge.
McCree isn’t a lesser man, not by a long shot. And he’ll eat his own goddamn hat before he gives up this thing he’s managed to start with Genji. But combine all the hiccups of a budding relationship with illegal covert missions run by the even more illegal remnants of Overwatch, topped off with all the trouble the inevitably follows, and McCree can’t deny that, even for him, it’s an extraordinarily difficult challenge.
“Remind me again why we agreed to do this?” McCree croaks from his stretcher in the Medbay. The golden glow of Caduceus biotics radiates over his left side, slowly stitching up the flesh that had, some hours ago, been riddled with shrapnel. Shots he took for Genji, quite unnecessarily, as Genji had made sure to yell at him over and over again in the transport on their way back.
Genji, who has spent the better part of four hours loudly vocalizing all his displeasure with McCree’s recklessness while resolutely refusing to leave his side, looks up. Without a visor to mask them, the bags under his eyes and the deep set frown of his mouth stand out in stark relief. “You mean why we answered the Recall against all better judgement, or why we tried to start this?” He gestures between them.
McCree chuckles hoarsely. “Both.”
Genji stares at him, seemingly unaware of how intense his gaze is with nothing to mask it. “I’m not sure,” he admits after a minute. “I think perhaps we are both more fond of hope than we like to admit.”
That draws a sharp bark of laughter from McCree. “Well don’t go sayin’ it out loud,” he chides, smiling through a particularly sharp stab of pain. “Then we’ve gotta acknowledge it.”
A smile twitches to life on Genji’s lips. “My mistake,” he says, bowing his head dramatically. “Shall I go back to keeping all my emotions bottled up until they explode in a sudden fit of destructive rage?”
“Well,” McCree huffs. “Maybe don’t go quite that far.”
Quiet falls between them, the soft humming of the biotics and McCree’s still uneven breathing the only sounds in the room. It isn’t uncomfortable, per se, but it hangs uneasily in the air, as though unfinished. McCree sighs and huffs in frustration several times before he cracks. “This isn’t easy, you know,” he muses.
Genji blinks slowly, tilting his head. “Did you think it would be?” he asks.
“Nah.” McCree sighs, throwing an arm over his eyes, trying to block out the harsh glow of the biotic field. “Nothing’s ever easy with you, darlin’.”
Genji laughs, sharp and bright. The sound cuts through the discomfort, replaced by something soft and easy McCree still isn’t quite ready to name.
Their next mission takes them to the sprawling urban metropolis of Chicago. It’s simple intel recon, but scattered reports of Talon agents roaming the area have Winston deem it too risky to send a single person, so McCree and Genji leave together. The vastness of Chicago masks them in relative anonymity, but it also slows the work, forcing them to spread out to all corners of the city in their search. For days, the only contact McCree has with Genji is via comm link or text, and it isn’t until Winston deems their collected data sufficient that they’re finally able to meet up in person.
They rendezvous in the garden of the Shambali temple where Genji has taken temporary residence, his omnic-like appearance providing him few other safe havens. (McCree opted for a hotel several blocks over, unwilling to let the bounty of his head compromise the sanctuary of the temple.) “Winston says he won’t have a free transport until tomorrow. So we’re stuck here until then,” McCree tells Genji.
“That leaves us with an entire evening free,” Genji notes.
“I know. Weird, huh?” McCree chuckles. “Angie said I oughta take the night off and relax. Told her I didn’t think I remembered how.”
“You could sit in bed and watch TV while chain smoking,” Genji suggests with a hint of mirth, and McCree laughs.
“Maybe if I was ten years younger. If I tried to chain smoke now I’d just make myself sick.” McCree flicks the brim of his hat up, clearing his throat. “Actually, I was thinkin’ we might do something, just the two of us.”
Genji crosses his arm, tilting his head to the right; vague amusement, McCree’s brain supplies. “Something,” he parrots. “Define ‘something’.”
“Like… shit, I dunno.” McCree kicks the ground with the toe of his boot, tamping down violently on the nerves trying to flutter around his stomach. He’s thirty-seven goddamn years old, he will not let himself get butterflies . “What about dinner?”
Genji tips his chin back, just slightly. It’s not an expression McCree’s familiar with, but he gets the distinct impression Genji is squinting at him.
“Dinner,” Genji repeats. “As in us, eating. Together.”
“Does dinner mean something else in Japanese?” McCree pulls the brim of his hat back down over his eyes. “I know you can’t eat much, but there’s all sorts of places ‘round here. Wouldn’t be that hard to find a nice tapas bar, maybe get a couple small things.”
Genji’s chin tips back farther, like eyebrows rising in surprise. “That sounds like a date,” he says after several painfully long moments of silence. He sounds both incredulous and amused.
McCree refuses to acknowledge the sudden burst of heat from his cheeks. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But it don’t have to be, exactly.”
“What else would it be ?”
“Just… us. Eating dinner.” McCree sighs, shrugging his shoulders. “We don’t have to. Just seems like we never get to spend a moment alone unless we both drop dead from exhaustion on the bed at the same time. Thought we might take advantage of the evening is all.”
Genji doesn’t respond right away, only stares at McCree for prolonged amount of time in which McCree grows exceedingly uncomfortable. Just when McCree is about to snap and take it all back, laugh it off with a forced smile and some trademark cowboy charm, Genji speaks. “I get to pick the restaurant,” he says. His speech is slower than normal, words sounding thoughtfully picked. “You have terrible taste in food.”
McCree rolls his eyes. “Fine, Mr. Picky,” he agrees, ignoring the rapid uptick in his heartbeat. “No sushi though; you know I hate raw fish.”
A text comes shortly after McCree’s returned to his hotel room. The Violet Hour . 8pm. If you’re late, I’m eating without you.
The first thing McCree does is shower. Not the quick, barely two minutes one with cold water that are his standard, a holdover from his Blackwatch days that McCree struggles to break. A long shower, with water so hot it’s near scalding. He use the mini bottle of brand name shampoo provided by the hotel, takes the time to work a rich lather into his hair. It sits while he scrubs himself down, taking the extra time to get all the nooks and crannies of his body, until his skin is near pink from agitation and the heat of the water. He comes out of the shower smelling distincty of lime verbena.
The steam has dissipated by the time he finishes blow-drying his hair. He pauses to look at himself in the mirror, taking in the dusky skin littered with scars, the coarse hair covering his chest, the small belly that’s developed over the last few years. He doesn’t looks bad, McCree thinks, considering his age and the overload of shit he’s been through. Worn around the edges, maybe, and a bit unkempt, but decent. Good enough.
He rubs his chin, grimacing at the roughness of his beard. It could use a good trim, but McCree didn’t bring a razor along. He chuckles at the thought of using his pocket knife, the way the Deadlocks taught him, but decides against pushing his luck.
He pads back to the main room, grabbing his phone. A quick search shows him a department store with a small salon only a few blocks away. “Just as well,” McCree mutters to himself. “Reckon I didn’t pack a single nice thing to wear anyway.”
He comes back a couple hours later with new clothes, a neatly trimmed beard, and a silk ribbon to tie back his hair, courtesy of the bubbly hairdresser who assured him he could, without a doubt, pull it off. The clothes are a pair of jeans from a brand he knows Genji used to favor, and at the suggestion of a nice sales omnic, a handsome flannel shirt. McCree worried the ensemble would look too woodsman with his trusty beat up boots, but the sales omnic assured him it looked very nice. “Lumberjack chic,” it called it. “It’s very in right now.”
It’s strange, dressing up. McCree hasn’t had occasion to since he stopped attending the ceremonies held for Overwatch years ago, and even then, he never bothered doing much except throwing on his dress blues. Dressing up to go out is stranger still; his early entry into Blackwatch never afforded time for dating. He tried, once or twice, but a covert ops agent constantly on the move and hoarding unfathomable quantities of secrets never did make for good dating material. McCree wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s nervous , but he doesn’t much care for that weird tingle running up his spine as he looks at the finished product in the mirror. He thinks he looks good (the hairdresser was right; the ribbon adds a nice touch), but McCree’s also not sure how much he can trust his own judgement about these kinds of things.
He snaps a picture of himself in the full length mirror and sends it to Angela for a second opinion. Responses from every Recall agent besides Genji come flooding in mere seconds later.
Very nice! ❤️ ✨ ❤️ I’m glad to see you finally shaved properly!
You look very handsome. Mom would approve. :)
I don’t understand much about human attraction, of course, but from an aesthetic standpoint, I believe flannel suits you very well.
You look wonderful my friend!!! Now get out there and knock some lucky people off their feet, HAHA!!!
As a fully bona-fide lesbian, gotta say love, you look amazing!!! I’d give you second glance on the street!!!! ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡
Which, McCree supposes, is a pretty good sign.
McCree leaves for the restaurant a half hour before eight, leaving him enough time to stroll along at a leisurely pace. The sun sinks slowly behind the skyscrapers and highrises, but the heat of it lingers, warming the air pleasantly. The corners of McCree’s mouth tilt up, unbidden. He still has his comm link and his phone linked to Athena’s hardware in his pocket just in case there’s trouble, but he wonders if maybe—just maybe—he might be able to relax a little after all.
He’s been walking for just a few blocks, when a prickle runs up the back of his neck, the distinct sensation of eyes on his back washing over McCree’s skin. He lets out a slow breath, pausing next to a large set of windows. He adjusts his shirt and fiddles with his hair while he scans the reflection for anything off. Two figures on the other side of the street catch his eye, idling next to a store front wall. Their postures mimic something casual, but McCree knows soldiers when he sees them. They stand like he does; with faked indifference, and muscles coiled, ready to fight.
Shit .
He resumes his walk at a faster pace, weaving expertly in between people even as he keeps his eyes trained on the reflections in the windows. The two figures across the street begin to move shortly after he does. McCree grits his teeth. He could try losing them in the crowds dotting the streets, but he’d rather not risk civilians getting trapped in a crossfire. So he scans ahead, spots a gap in between some buildings, and ducks into an alley the first chance he gets.
McCree glances back just long enough to confirm the two figures are following him before he books it down the alley, grabbing the comm link from his pocket and jamming it into his ear. “Athena, time,” he hisses. The phone in his pocket buzzes to life.
“Hello, Agent McCree. The time is 7:41 PM. You seem distressed,” comes Athena’s automated tone.
“Who, me? Don’t know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” Nineteen minutes; cutting it close, but do-able. If McCree’s fast, maybe he can lose his pursuers without—
Three figures drop to the ground mere feet from where McCree manages to skid to a halt. They wear Talon uniforms, and their guns are raised. Peacekeeper is out and six shots are fired before their fingers even touch the triggers. They drop like flies, helmets shattered, chests oozing with fresh blood.
“Well so much for keeping this quiet,” McCree snorts, reloading. Shouting echoes from behind him; McCree turns and shoots down the first two pursuers as well.
“Shall I alert Winston?” Athena asks.
“Naw. No need to get the big guy worked up just yet,” McCree answers. “But I reckon it might be helpful to direct as much police attention away from this area as possible.” His eyes scan the windows and ledges of the buildings above. He counts at least two more people, knows there’s more that he can’t see just yet.
“Attempting to reroute all police activity within a six block radius,” Athena confirms. “But I believe they may have hacked some security drones to come this way.”
“Oh, did they?” McCree quips. He ducks behind a dumpster at the same moment a sniper shot rings out from above, the bullet grazing his shoulder and ripping a hole in his new shirt. “Oh for fuck’s—I just bought this!”
There’s shouting up above now, and he can just pick out the telltale whir of drone machinery from the alley on the left. McCree exhales forcefully through his nose. He darts up, fires twice, grinding his teeth when he only hears one body drop. “Be a dear and call Genji for me, would ya?” he asks, ducking back behind the dumpster
“Calling Agent Genji.”
The measured beeps of the comm link call have McCree’s stomach clenching more than the bullets and laser pulses now raining down on him. He uses his metal arm to rip through the sides of the dumpster and uses it for cover, the old and rusty metal barely holding long enough for him to make it into the next alley over. He chucks what remains at the incoming drones, smirking in bitter satisfaction when the impact causes two of them to collide and explode. His new shirt now has rust stains, he notes with a sigh.
The comm link makes three quick beeps, and McCree’s heart skips a beat as a “Yes?” in the familiar robotic lilt of Genji’s voice comes through the line.
“Hey,” McCree greets, trying desperately not to sound as breathless as he feels as he makes a sharp turn; one of the drones smashes into a wall, and McCree downs a fourth with a measured shot from Peacekeeper. “I know you said not to be late but I, uh. Ran into a bit of trouble. Might be just a few minutes behind schedule.” In the distance, he lands a bullet directly between a Talon agent’s eyes.
“Oh, you too?” Genji asks lightly, the distinct sound of bullets ricocheting off a blade ringing in the background of the call. “What a coincidence. I just happened to bump into some trouble myself a few minutes ago.”
McCree snorts. “Fantastic,” he drawls. “Just dandy . Where are you?” His ears twitch as something rounds the corner; McCree swivels, his metal fist slamming into a face with a satisfying crunch as it breaks through the helmet and hits the soft flesh beneath.
“On a rooftop, near a park,” Genji answers. A muffled scream cuts off suddenly. “I don’t know the streets.”
“Shit.” McCree scans the horizon, looking for a distinct landmark. “Can you see that old fashioned theater sign from where you are?” he asks, catching a glimpse of the distinct rounded and flashing lights.
“Yes.”
“Meet you there in five?” A laser pulse brushes McCree’s arm, slicing neatly through his new shirt and searing his skin. He clenches his jaw shut, only the barest sounds of pain escaping him.
“Make it three.” Genji’s cybernetics prevent him from getting breathless, but his tone is too light, too casual; McCree doesn’t like it one bit.
“Three,” he agrees. The comm link goes silent.
McCree rolls his shoulders, tamping down on the worry rising rapidly in his chest. Genji is a highly skilled fighter, more than capable of taking down a few measly Talon lackeys. He can handle himself. McCree knows Genji can handle himself; he’s seen it, time and time again.
But he still finds himself moving towards the old theater sign like he’s racing against time itself, scrambling ungracefully through side streets and back alleys, his pursuers never far behind. He grabs an errant trash bin and throws it behind him, catching just enough time to turn and finish off the last two security drones, at the expense of a bullet clipping his side, drawing blood.
“That ain’t coming out,” he laments as he rounds another corner. He slams into something, his lip splitting open as the butt of a gun collides with his face. He lashes out, grabbing the weapon with his metal arm and crushing the barrel. The Talon agent moves, but McCree moves faster, grabbing their head between his hands and bringing it down to meet his knee. Blood splatters onto his jeans.
“Fuck,” McCree spits, tossing the agent to the side, then nearly letting out a whoop as he spots a service lift only a few feet away. He chucks a flash grenade over his shoulder, buying himself just enough time to leap onto the platform and slamming the start button, sending it soaring up the side of the building and leaving his pursuers below in the dust.
He jumps over the ledge of the roof, collapsing to his knees and counting five breaths before forcing himself to stand again. His hair falls into his eyes; McCree shoves it out of the way angrily, wondering where the hell his ribbon went. At least now he has a much better vantage point; from here, McCree can see the old theater sign clearly, just a few buildings over. And there, just beyond it—a faint glow of familiar green.
His heart leaps, lodging itself firmly in his throat as McCree rushes forward, scrambling over the rooftops. His body protests against the acrobatics, joints aching and muscles screaming at him. McCree pushes it all away, refusing to focus on anything but getting to his destination in one piece.
The jump to the last rooftop is, predictably, the hardest. McCree barely manages to catch the ledge, saved only by his metal fingers jamming themselves into the concrete. He hauls himself up and over with a yell, and comes face to face with a drone. Peacekeeper’s barrel is empty, and McCree knows he won’t be fast enough to dodge all the fire. He swivels, hoping direct the worst of it at his legs, sparing his torso.
There’s a flash of green, and the drone’s neatly sliced halves fall to the ground. McCree nearly shouts in relief as Genji steps through them, arm extended in aid.
“Well, fancy meetin’ you here,” McCree laughs, grabbing Genji’s hand and dragging himself to his feet.
“I couldn’t let you have all the fun,” Genji answers. His katana comes up, saving McCree from a barrage of bullets. The drone firing them becomes riddled with holes, as does a Talon agent coming up behind it.
“Course not!” McCree swivels, pressing their backs together as he reloads Peacekeeper. Genji seems to have taken out the last of the security drones, but there are still six Talon agents closing in on them, all angry, and all armed to the teeth.
McCree’s bleeding, sweating, breathless. His lungs are burning, his muscles ache, and his stomach churns in nausea. He ought to feel terrible, and he does. But he can also feel Genji pressed up against his back, hear the hissing of his steam vents, see the green reflection of his biolights cast on the plaid pattern of his shirtsleeve. And that—that assurance, that comfort, that Genji is here, with him—that makes it okay.
“May I have this dance?” he grins, unable to help himself. New adrenaline surges through him, burning away all the exhaustion and worry and anger.
Genji’s laugh echoes loudly, his biolights flaring. “It would be my pleasure.”
The Talon agents descend. They answer with a whirlwind of blade and bullets, flashes and slices. McCree gets two agents between the eyes while Genji slices through one’s throat. When McCree has to reload, Genji covers him, katana little more than a green blur to deflect the oncoming laser shots. When Genji pauses, McCree takes over, throwing a flash grenade and unleashing his whole clip. Two more agents drop, riddled with bullets. He bends, Genji rolling over his back to avoid a final string of bullets before he dashes forward, and the last agent falls.
A huge breath heaves itself out of McCree’s lungs. His knees wobble and he pitches forward, but Genji is there, taking his weight. He stays steady as McCree takes a few more deep breaths, forcing himself back to a state of calm.
“Are you alright?” Genji asks. The concern lacing his voice tugs sharply at McCree’s chest.
“M’fine,” McCree mumbles. “Nothing I ain’t dealt with before.”
He pushes back, standing. McCree grimaces as he runs a hand through his sweat damp hair, tonguing at his split lip. “Well,” he says. “Don’t we make a lovely sight.”
“Absolutely charming,” Genji agrees. His biolights—nearly blinding before in their ferocity—dim considerably. McCree can look at him without squinting now.
McCree sighs heavily, turning to assess Genji’s damage. “Least you aren’t wearing—" McCree cuts himself short, staring dumbly.
A badly ripped dress shirt adorns Genji’s torso, the grey silk shimmering faintly in the silver moonlight. McCree’s gaze drifts downwards; his jaw nearly drops as he takes in trim black slacks, marred by dark splotches of blood, and a sleek belt, the buckle hanging loose from being sliced in two. The ribbon that normally hangs from the back of his helmet is currently falling out of what looks to have been a loosely tied bow.
“You trimmed your beard,” Genji comments before McCree can voice his disbelief.
“You’re wearing clothes ,” McCree counters. “And,” he sniffs at the air, just now able to pick out something underneath the overpowering scent of blood and sweat. “Did you put on cologne ?”
Genji shifts back and forth on his feet, and if McCree didn’t know him better, he’d almost think Genji was embarrassed. “Well,” Genji huffs. “It was supposed to be a date.”
Something sharp and warm rattles up from the pit of McCree’s stomach, filling his lungs rapidly. He finds himself laughing, loud and hard. It fills the air between him and Genji, carving away at all the tension and fatigue until none remains. McCree stumbles forward, dizzy, but Genji catches him again. The robotic lilt of his answering laughter soothes McCree’s frazzled nerves. Adrenaline and stress begin to ebb, replaced by that peculiar feeling McCree doesn’t want to name, but which now sits comfortably in his chest.
“We’re bad at this,” he chuckles as he moves to extricate himself from Genji’s hold. Genji allows him to straighten, but his arms stay loosely hooked around McCree’s waist, and McCree finds he doesn’t much mind them staying there.
“Awful,” Genji agrees. He tilts his head up in offering; McCree dips down, presses the foreheads together and plants a small kiss over where Genji’s mouth would be. “But at least we’re awful together.”
And that does make it better, somehow.