Chapter Text
It wasn’t often that Hanzo found himself caught off guard. He generally prided himself on his situational awareness, and his ability to read people. He was not, perhaps, the most socially adept member of Overwatch, but he could still read people. He just generally didn’t like them.
Which is probably what irritated him the most about Jesse McCree. At first glance, he was ridiculous, on further inspection, still ridiculous. Even in battle he was reckless, although generally talented or lucky, Hanzo had yet to decide which though he leaned towards the latter out of spite.
Not only was the man closer to Genji than Hanzo thought he himself would ever be able to be, the cowboy constantly surprised Hanzo. The man who never shut up with his slow, western drawl, and unfathomable idioms and metaphors, who surprisingly did not care for sweets (a fact mentioned in passing by Genji when Hanzo commented that Hana’s missing candies might be found with the cowboy.)
Hanzo honestly thought at that point, there was little else left to figure out about the gunslinger. He knew a fair detail of his past, and now he had compiled some general information about his personality. With the strange oddities that the man tended towards, Hanzo really thought nothing else would surprise him.
So, when he heard soft, unintelligible crooning from a fairly out of the way common room on one of his strolls he felt he should investigate. As he walked up to the door, sure to keep his footsteps silent, he started to make out some words, before they fell silent. He held his breath, for a moment, fearing he might have been heard somehow. But a moment later they picked up again, a new tune carrying itself into the nearly abandoned hallway.
“I was a highway man,
Along the coach roads I did ride,
With sword and pistol by my side,
Many a young maid lost her baubles to my trade,
Many a soldier shed his life blood on my blade,
They finally hung me in the spring of ’25,
But I am still alive…”
Hanzo stood still, recognizing the familiar voice that crooned out the melody with surprising skill. He slowly poked his head around the edge of the entryway, to find McCree laying on a loveseat much too small for his stature beneath the rooms sole window, a book over his face, obscuring his features from the nose up. His flask sat on the floor by a dangling hand, no doubt prepared to reach for what Hanzo assumed to be alcohol, if the gunslinger was alone, singing to himself with melancholic tones.
The archer was mesmerized by the unusually soothing voice, unwilling to draw attention to himself. Slowly, he backed away from the entryway, tucking this little bit of information with everything else he knew about Jesse McCree that continued to surprise him.