An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Overwatch (Video Game)
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Characters: Jesse McCree, Hanzo Shimada
Additional Tags: Peapod McHanzo Week, McHanzo Week, Fluff
Summary:
Collection of little scenes of Jesse and Hanzo figuring out life and relationships. And the art of being together.
1-2-19 - Oh My God They Were Roommates! = Howdy
1-3-19 - AU = Greetings
1-4-19 - Secret Admirer = How do you say …?
1-5-19 - Game Night =
1-6-19 - Role Reversal =
1-7-19 - Meet the Family =
1-8-19 - Engagement/Marriage =
Finally! I’m onboard with McHanzo week. Late, but the beginning of a McHanzo Dump is here.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
in which Jesse takes a train home after a mission with Hanzo and a hole in his belly.
First piece for 2016 McHanzo Week prompt: First Time! Might be one of the shortest things I’ve done but its mostly completed on bus rides and dinner tables, and I’m still pretty happy with some lightning-in-the-bottle moments. And the collection name god im still proud of that Shakespeare reference
Excerpt under the cut:
Jesse stayed as still as a statue, afraid to wake him up, only shifting his neck to lower his gaze. He looked, adoringly, at Hanzo as he slept: long eyelashes unmoving, the lock of hair sprouting from his forehead bouncing lightly, the beard on his lower jaw well-trimmed as ever.
Pretty as a sunset. Jesse thought, smiling.
His butt ached with the stiff cushions and long travel, causing the end of his spine to sore as well. With both hands pressing on the armrest to support his upper body, he raised his hips to sit up straighter.
And fell back to the couch with a thump as a searing pain shot through his waist, eliciting a growl.
Hanzo's eyes flutter open and was alert in an instant. He turned to face Jesse.
"Is it hurting again?" Hanzo's eyes were filled with so much worry and concern it made Jesse's heart swell.
"Probably nothing, just wanna move my sore ass around. " Jesse said as the pain slowly subsided. He rolled up his shirt, and was relieved to find the large cotton patch wrapped around his stomach free from any new blood stains. "Yep, nothing. But, ah, fuck, I woke you up, didn't I? Forgive me?" He asked, puppy eyes on tow. Jesse found out they work on Hanzo on most occasions when all he got from others are eye rolls.
"There is nothing to forgive," Hanzo said, gingerly inspecting the dressing. Jesse shuddered as smooth fingertips slid over his hairy abdomen, fingernails gently dragging over his skin. "No blood. Hopefully you didn't tear anything. Besides, I wasn't sleeping." He retrieved the abandoned book and swung it in front of Jesse's face.
"Well, you're probably the first person I know to read with eyes shut and mouth open as large as the Gulf of Mexico."
"Quit mocking me," Hanzo said with a smack to Jesse's arm as he snickered. "I was merely resting my eyes and likely dozed off. It has been a taxing day, and reading is rather straining," Hanzo flipped open his book, a snobbish look hanging on his face. "not that you would understand."
it’s technically day 6 where I live but I’m tired and I played video games half the day and this is just what we’re gonna do now
<< Day 4 || Day 6 >>
--
The streets on the outskirts of Barcelona are quiet in the early evening, the evening air cool but not unpleasant. The team had arrived yesterday evening, and tonight they waited to intercept a Talon transport convoy. McCree can’t see most of the others, but knows that they are nearby. He himself waits on the second-story balcony of an empty department store, a cigarillo between his teeth.
Hanzo, as he often is, is perched atop a nearby building with his bow drawn, his eyes on the streets below. He is backlit by the light of a crescent moon and cutting a dramatic silhouette. A gentle breeze catches the tails of his silk hair tie and sends them dancing--though McCree hasn’t seen Hanzo wear his traditional gi in some time, the hair ties remain a favorite (for him, too, though he would never say it). He’s close enough that McCree can see the focused expression on his face, and it sends a little thrill through his gut. Hanzo at work is always a treat to watch, and he can’t help but wonder what it might be like to be the center of that focus.
Hanzo must do this on purpose, McCree thinks.
He clicks his comm to a private channel, long ago established just for him and Hanzo to talk. “So’s the flair for the dramatic like a Shimada family thing, or is that just you?” he asks.
He watches and grins as Hanzo turns toward him, a frown on his face. “What are you talking about?” he asks.
“You know damn well. Lookin’ all handsome and dramatic and whatnot.”
Hanzo makes an odd face. McCree only realizes then that the word “handsome” had passed his lips. “I am doing no such thing,” Hanzo says, either missing or completely ignoring the odd word out.
“Bullshit. There’s no way you just happen to put yourself up right against the moon lookin’ all mysterious every time I look at you. Or Genji, for that matter. Must be genetics.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“No more ridiculous than you are.”
McCree can’t see from here, but he imagines Hanzo is rolling his eyes in playful disbelief, as he often does when conversing with McCree.
Quiet lapses between them for a moment. McCree listens for any communication from the rest of the team, but there is nothing. He sees a brief, bright flash of electric blue down the road--Tracer on the move--but no updates come. He sighs on an exhale of cigarillo smoke.
“Never did like this part of workin’,” he says.
He sees Hanzo tilt his head towards him. “What part?”
“Waitin’ around. Did a lot of it in Blackwatch. Never much cared for it.”
“Some things require patience, McCree.”
“I got patience when I need it. Don’t mean I have to like it.”
Hanzo chuckles, a rich, warm sound that soothes the edges of McCree’s restlessness. “Fair enough,” he says. “I admit, this does get tedious after a while.”
“It really does. I got used to it while I was still with Blackwatch, but I still hate waitin’ around when we could be gettin’ something done.” McCree considers, then adds, “Not that I mind a good vacation.”
“This is hardly a vacation.”
“It could be. There’s a couple bars down the road.”
Hanzo snorts, amused, and McCree can’t help grinning. “I thought we already had this discussion about drinking on missions,” Hanzo says.
“Maybe after, then.”
A beat passes. Then McCree says, “Can I ask you something?”
“That depends on the question.”
McCree worries the inside of his lip. He’s thought of this a few times now, but never ended up actually asking. It wasn’t a question easily brought up in conversation, but nonetheless one that McCree found himself coming back to over and over again--particularly in the lat few weeks. “What are you gonna do after this?”
A pause. “What do you mean?”
“After all . . . this.” He gestures vaguely, though Hanzo may not see. “After we’re done here with Overwatch. It’s not like Overwatch is gonna be reinstated anytime soon, and we can’t keep this up forever, and I know you really only came here in the first place for your brother.”
There is a long pause. McCree tries to ignore the traitorous, rapid beating of his heart.
“I do not know,” Hanzo eventually says. “I suppose I will return to my mercenary work, as I did before this.”
“That’s all?”
Hanzo shrugs, a barely-visible gesture from where McCree stands. “I do not know what else I would do. Perhaps Genji has other thoughts on what we should do, but . . . I truly do not know.”
The answers causes something to twist tight in McCree’s chest. Unconsciously, he had always assumed that he would be at Hanzo’s side, one way or another. Perhaps not romantically, but they were close friends at this point, and those were hard to come by--was he so mistaken to think that Hanzo thought the same?
Most likely. Hell, McCree had plenty of friends in Overwatch when he chose to leave, and that had been after years of working side-by-side. Why should Hanzo feel differently? Because McCree was head-over-heels for him? As though that made a difference, when McCree was too much of a coward to tell him.
“Why?” Hanzo asks, looking back toward McCree. “Does that concern you?”
“I wouldn’t say ‘concern,’” McCree replies, once again lying through his teeth. “Just wonderin’, is all. Thought you might have given a little more thought to that bar in the States.”
“We have a visual on the convoy,” Genji cuts in suddenly, abruptly reminding them both of the presence of their teammates. “Get ready to move.”
“Well,” McCree says, pulling Peacekeeper from its holster and patting his other hand on his flashbangs, “be careful out there. Can’t start that bar up if you go and kick it now, can we?”
He expects a retort, but none is forthcoming. He risks a glance up at Hanzo, and he looks . . . startled, somehow thoughtful, like something has just occurred to him. But then he turns away, drawing an arrow, and McCree forgets about it in favor of getting down to the street.
The convoy arrives, two dark, unmarked vans driving together down the empty road and into Barcelona city limits. On either side of the road, Tracer has planted a pulse bomb, and both ignite perfectly as the vans pass by. The explosion is painfully loud and dizzyingly bright, providing the cover the team needs to burst onto the scene.
Tracer and Genji lead the assault, swift and invisible. McCree is close behind, hurling a flashbang into the first masked face he sees and following with a one-two shot from Peacekeeper. Overhead, an arrow streaks through the night, catching a Talon soldier in the chest mere seconds after he steps out of the van.
The firefight that ensues is like any other. McCree doesn’t dare call it mundane--any moment where he could be hurt or killed should not be called mundane--but it is reminiscent of the dozens of other scuffles he has been in. Flashbang, fire, duck and reload, scan the scene, fire again--it is simple, as far as fights ago.
Despite the adrenaline and the danger, McCree finds his attention drawn to Hanzo, again and again. Hanzo is always a sight to behold during a mission, and tonight is no different. He starts atop the building, his firing arm a blur as he looses arrow after arrow, but when it becomes apparent that he cannot continue fighting effectively from his perch, he leaps down effortlessly and lands on his feet. He lets his forward momentum carry him through a rolla and when he is upright again, he instantly has another arrow nocked on his bow and pulled tight on the string. Even under his wide-collared jacket, McCree can imagine the shoulders in Hanzo’s back and shoulders flexing with every movement.
Hanzo is graceful, too, moreso than one might expect. He is built strong, the muscles in his upper body seemingly carved into perfection, but every move is calculated and smooth. He twists and dodges oncoming bullets without a hint of distress, and McCree is riveted by the sight.
“McCree, look out!” Tracer shouts, yanking McCree’s attention back to his own life as a Talon soldier takes aim with an assault rifle. A flashbang and a quick fanning of the hammer takes her out quickly, but McCree still grimaces.
He can’t keep carrying on for Hanzo like this. As far gone as he is, he’s going to get himself killed one of these days, and if he doesn’t . . . well, he might just be in for a lifetime of pining and misery, if he keeps it up.
He has to tell him. For better or worse. He doesn’t expect Hanzo to care about him, at least not that way, but he has to know. McCree’s never been one ot let something like this go on so long, and he’s about to reach his breaking point. Maybe he’ll wait until they’re back at the Watchpoint. Wait for one of the nights they drink together, or go shooting. Something casual, so he can ease into the conversation. And if it ends badly, well. That’s better than this horrible limbo he’s trapped himself in.
The fight ends fairly quickly, the Talon soldiers subdued and the cargo seized. Angela makes their report to Winston while Genji and Lena gather the cargo. McCree keeps an eye out with Hanzo for any interlopers, though he doesn’t expect anyone else to show up.
“Well,” he says, holstering his pistol and straightening his hat, “that was nice and straightforward.”
Hanzo does not answer. His gaze is distant, turned somewhere down the road.
“Han? You alright there?”
"Go on a date with me," Hanzo says.
McCree freezes. He stares at Hanzo. Hanzo looks back at him, looking as startled as he feels. "What?" McCree asks, choked.
Hanzo swallows hard. He looks downright terrified, even alarmed by what he has said, but his gaze never wavers. "Will you," he amends, and clears his throat. "Will you go on a date with me?"
"Um."
Hanzo waits. McCree can't find a damn word to say. He's thought about a scenario like this a hundred times, but never with Hanzo being the one to ask. Definitely never with Hanzo looking so terrified, like the world might collapse around him depending on what McCree said.
"Y-yeah, darlin'," McCree finally says. His mouth is drier than any day he spent in the deserts of New Mexico. "'Course I will."
Hanzo nods once, stiffly. His eyes turn toward the ground. "Good," he says. "I--good." He shuffles slightly, his boots tapping gently on the ground. His cheeks flush a ruddy red, the handsomest sight McCree has ever seen. "I realize this is a bit . . . unorthodox."
Hanzo nods again. He turns away, but not quickly enough to hide the smile that spreads across his face. McCree's heart leaps.
“Is this--” he starts.
“The shuttle will be here in twenty minutes,” Hanzo says, addressing nobody. “We should get going.”
McCree recognizes a request to be left alone when he hears it. He swallows down the rest of his sentence and says instead, “Yeah. We’ll get movin’.”
He doesn’t get moving, not immediately. His boots are rooted to the asphalt beneath them. Lena and Angela pass by him, casting amused smiles in his direction as they follow Hanzo toward the drop zone. Genji, too, starts to pass, but he pauses at McCree’s side. He drops a hand on McCree’s shoulder.
“You are both idiots,” he says companionably.
“Yeah,” McCree says, unable to stop the grin he feels coming on. “Yeah, maybe.”
Hanzo doesn’t talk to him for the entirety of the shuttle ride home, but every time McCree looks in his direction, he catches him smiling.
“I’m sorry about this,” Jesse says after a moment, voice a near whisper.
“You do not need to apologise. You were not at fault.”
“I know.” A pause as Jesse rolls onto his side, and disappointment washes over Hanzo, much to his surprise. “Just that the old fella at reception didn’t bother, and I felt like you were owed it.”
A smile blooms across Hanzo’s lips, thankful it is dark as he cannot fight it. “Thank you,” he breathes, inhaling sharply when he feels a hand on his shoulder, warm and gentle and reassuring. He feels safe, like nothing in the world can hurt him, and he aches as the hand is pulled away.
“Good night, Han.”
“Good night.”
From @chilliebean5 ‘s fic This World Can’t Tear Us Apart
Art for McHanzo Peapod Week! Day 1: Oh no, we have to share a bed...
