Chapter Text
The stars are beautiful so far from the city, with no light pollution to take away from their splendor, nothing but scrub land for miles and miles in every direction. Hanzo might be able to appreciate it on another day, in another situation. The eerie allure of the sky, the landscape so far from what he’s used to that it feels alien, everything stark and harsh.
In the middle of the night, surrounded by a dozen twitchy mercenaries watching him anxiously, much of the spectacle is lost on him.
Talon is eager for his approval, and their nerves become more and more apparent the longer they spend out in the desert. They shift in place, and shoot him wary glances, like they’re waiting for him to snap at them. He would have been better off staying in the city at their base, where there is cool air and fresh sake and a soft bed, but he needs to keep up appearances. To pretend he’s actually interested in an alliance, concerned with their day to day operations, and not just using Talon as an excuse to escape Hanamura for a while. The elders are more stifling than ever since Sojiro’s passing, and Hanzo can’t resist the chance to be out from under their watchful gaze, however briefly.
Leaving Genji in charge in his stead was satisfying beyond measure, if only for the looks on the elders’ faces. He will drive them crazy, but he knows better than to push them too far or do any lasting damage while Hanzo is gone.
A coyote yips in the distance, a forlorn, unsettling sound, and Hanzo sighs, and lights another cigarette.
Their contact should have arrived hours ago, and Hanzo rolls his shoulders, more to feel the reassuring weight of his bow on his back than from any real soreness. His suit is stifling even without the jacket, palms sweating beneath his gloves, and putting his hair up hasn’t helped cool him down. Dust creeps into his clothes, itching against his scalp, rasping over his skin. Ever present, slowly eroding Hanzo’s patience as surely as it’s cutting through the rocks of the canyon around them.
“How much longer before we’re calling this a bust? Think our boys got intercepted somewhere between here and Espina like last time?”
Hanzo can’t remember the mercenary’s name, can’t be bothered to learn them all, but he’s either very new or very stupid. Perhaps both, if the way his commander is glaring at him is any indication. Hanzo is sure they were all lectured on the importance of appearing competent in front of him, and he knows the soldier in question will likely be ripped into later on, when no one else is there to hear.
“Osvita. Perimeter check,” the commander says, and the mercenary sighs.
Doing a perimeter check of ten square miles of desert at midnight is useless, and he can see the reprimand for what it is, but doesn’t argue as he moves out.
Hanzo is ready to call it himself, commandeer one of their vehicles and return to the base, when there is a squawk on someone’s radio, followed by a static-ridden voice.
“Payload inbound, coming in hot. Three hostiles in pursuit. Threat negligible.”
Only then does Hanzo notice the cloud of dust rising in the distance, antigrav units stirring it worse than a set of tires ever could as their connection barrels closer. A second vehicle is racing behind them, gang members with painted faces hanging out the windows, staccato bursts of gunfire spitting wildly from the barrels of ragged submachine guns. None of their shots are hitting, or even coming close, and nobody seems overly concerned. One of Talon’s foot soldiers readies his weapon, looking down his sights with intent, but doesn’t take the shot.
“Want me to light ‘em up, sir?”
The commanding officer sighs, a sound that’s troublingly familiar, if entirely out of context.
A sigh he’s given Genji more times than he can remember, all weary exhaustion laced with undeniable fondness.
“You really think that’s going to be necessary?”
As if on cue a figure appears, leaning out of the window of the first car, the red bandana around his neck flapping in the wind. He’s wearing a cowboy hat, left hand splayed over the top to keep it from flying off his head. Hanzo watches him raise a weapon with his other hand, a revolver of some sort, ancient looking and glinting silver in the harsh illumination of the headlights he’s facing.
There’s no way it’s accurate from the kind of range he’s attempting to fire from, even standing still, let alone bouncing along an uneven desert road at fifty miles an hour on dubious antigrav units. As they near, and slow, Hanzo can see his arm bouncing up and down, too, body jostling back and forth as the driver does their best to avoid the worst of the rocks and potholes in their path. Wasted bullets, Hanzo thinks, firing from the hip just like the foolish men in pursuit.
Some people don’t know when to give up, and Hanzo can’t decide if the trait is admirable, or idiotic.
Then the man with the revolver grins, his right eye lighting up unnaturally bright, and it’s not nanotech, or a visor, or anything else so mundane. His iris glows crimson, visible in spite of the headlights no doubt blinding him, and Hanzo’s breath catches, dragons stirring underneath his skin.
The rumble of one predator recognizing another, and he narrows his gaze, unable to look away.
Magic doesn’t feel like the right word, but it doesn’t feel like the wrong one either.
The man says something, but it’s swallowed up by the sound of the payload’s engine, drowned out by noisy bursts of ineffectual gunfire from his pursuers.
His grin goes wider, the muzzle of his weapon flashing as he fires, louder and more decisive than the rattle of the submachine guns. Impossibly fast, one bullet after another, and Hanzo stares in disbelief as all three gangsters collapse in unison. A round must hit their vehicle somewhere important, because it stutters, antigrav units strobing and blinking out before it can careen out of control. The truck slams into the ground at an odd angle and rolls, again and again, eventually burying itself upside down in a nearby dune.
Everything is calm for a handful of seconds, smoke rising from the wreckage of the gangster’s truck and coiling lazily into the night.
Then someone is swearing in Spanish, and Hanzo looks up to see two men climbing out of the payload’s cab. The man in the cowboy hat is still smiling, hopping out the window while the driver rounds on him, hands flying in angry gestures.
“You couldn’t have done that two miles back before we were down a grav pod and leaking coolant? Goddamnit, Jesse!”
The driver gives Jesse a rough shove, and Jesse lets him, unbothered.
“I can’t force it outta nothin’, and where’s the fun if there ain’t nobody around to watch, anyway?”
The driver shoves him again and stalks off, muttering profanities under his breath, and Jesse shouts after him.
“Awww, don’t be like that! Josie!”
Josie is tacitly ignoring him, giving what sounds like a vague report to one of the nearby mercenaries. Jesse doesn’t seem troubled by his anger, spitting blood into the dirt by his feet, and it should be repulsive, but it isn’t. Only then does Hanzo notice Jesse’s split lip, the rusty smear of gore across his throat, the hint of a bruise blossoming on one cheekbone. His knuckles are busted, and he’s worse for wear, but Jesse laughs as he pulls his hat off. He runs his fingers through his hair in an attempt to untangle it that only leaves it wilder, but it suits him somehow.
Hanzo hasn’t even met him and already can’t imagine him any other way.
Jesse looks up and finds Hanzo’s gaze on him. He freezes for a moment, and then winks, clearly thinking Hanzo will fluster at being caught staring. Hanzo rakes his eyes over him instead— lascivious, looking his fill, because Jesse is broad shouldered and muscled and deadly in a way that has nothing to do with the gun on his hip. His jeans are torn, and dirty, and his boots have seen better days, but his gun belt looks pristine. There are flashbangs dangling from it, and Hanzo clocks how odd it is, such high end gear on what appears to be a low rent gangbanger. He pushes the thought away, because it isn’t really important right now.
Not as important as the blatant interest on Jesse’s face when Hanzo finally meets his eyes again, and Hanzo cocks his head to the side, and doesn’t look away.
Casual hookups have no place in Hanamura, not with the elders watching his every move, ready to use anything at their disposal to try and manipulate him. If he started fucking every man who caught his interest he’d be up to his ears in liabilities, not to mention being forced to listen to them prattle on about the importance of heirs, and the sanctity of the Shimada name. Hanzo heard the lecture enough during his teenage years to last a lifetime, directed at both him and Genji. It’s not worth it, one night of carnality weighed against the bullshit he’d have to wade through afterwards.
But there are no elders here, and this cowboy is tall and filthy and handsome. Beautiful, in the same stark, rugged way the desert is, and Hanzo wants him more than he can remember wanting anything in quite some time.
The Talon commander calls his name from the back of the payload, motioning Hanzo over to show him something. The rest of his mercenaries are milling around, ready to move out, Jesse’s driver already climbing into the back of a nearby truck with some of the others.
“Cowboy,” Hanzo says, pointing at Jesse, dragons hungry in his flesh, “you stay.”
It’s commanding, the thoughtless tone of someone used to being obeyed without question, and Jesse grins again, setting his hat over his heart with a shallow bow.
“Anything for you, doll face,” he answers, and Hanzo catches Josie throwing them both dubious looks, but ignores it.
He heads toward the Talon commander without a backwards glance, feigning interest in the cache of guns and body armor they’d been waiting on. The goods are quality, but nothing fancy enough to justify the hassle of acquiring it. The clan has better weapons, sleeker armor, higher tech munitions. Anyone else might be impressed, but Hanzo is just bored, and ready to be done with this charade. He nods his approval, and talks back and forth with the commander about supply lines and import challenges, claiming he needs to convene with the elders before finalizing any decisions.
It’s a lie, but he would prefer to be safely back in his own territory before Talon decides he is an obstacle, rather than an ally they are courting.
When Hanzo is finally done discussing the irrelevant details of Talon’s maritime assets, and how they relate to the Japanese arms trade, the rest of the crew is packed up and ready to go.
Save Jesse, who is lingering closer than necessary, gaze a bit too keen on the guns Hanzo is inspecting for one of Talon’s hired errand boys. Josie is conversing with the other mercs, but keeps a careful eye on Jesse, and Hanzo almost misses it, the wordless gesture he makes, a barely noticeable flick of his fingers below his waist.
Almost misses Jesse returning it, the gesture similar but slightly different, signing swiftly when he thinks no one is looking. It seems absent, as though he’s dusting off his clothes, maybe, but Hanzo recognizes signals when he sees them.
These men are definitely working for someone other than Talon, other than whatever ragtag gang they’re supposed to hail from, and Hanzo fights down a smirk, because it’s obvious. It’s obvious, but Talon has written them off as low-level goons, and then ignored them entirely. They’ve underestimated them so dramatically that it allows them to be sloppy without repercussion— to carry gear above their pay grade, to gather intel without being overly cautious, to communicate with only the barest hint of subtlety.
There are a myriad of reasons Sojiro did not want to team up with Talon when he was alive, and this is one of them. They are dangerously careless, overconfident in themselves when they’ve little reason to be, and Hanzo is glad he doesn’t need to pursue this faux alliance for long, even if it means returning to Hanamura sooner than he’d like.
He can always come up with other reasons to stray from home.
None of this has any bearing on his plans for the evening, other than making them a bit more interesting, perhaps. Hanzo doesn’t care who Jesse is working for, really, if he’s military or Interpol or informing for one of Talon’s rivals. It makes no difference to Hanzo, not when all he needs is a warm, willing body in his bed.
He gets the commander’s attention and nods towards Jesse, raising a brow in question.
“Do I need to seek alternate lodgings if I intend on having company for the evening?”
The commander glances at Jesse, then back at Hanzo, and huffs a laugh.
“That won’t be necessary, sir. If it was a civilian, we’d ask you relocate to a hotel, but he’s one of ours.”
He’s not, Hanzo thinks, but he’s not about to out his pretty cowboy to their mutual enemy when there’s nothing to gain from it. He finds Jesse smoking a cigarette, eyes alight with something like glee, thumb shoved into one of his belt loops.
“Intend on having company, do ya now, sweetheart?” Jesse drawls, but he’s smiling, openly looking Hanzo up and down. Hanzo reaches out and grabs him by the belt buckle, an oversized, gaudy monstrosity, and tugs him forward until they’re scarcely an inch apart. He bites his bottom lip, and plucks Jesse’s cigarette from his fingertips, taking a leisurely drag.
“What do you say, cowboy? I find myself in need of some of your… what is it they call it? Southern hospitality?”
Jesse trails his fingers up Hanzo’s throat, humming appreciatively, using one thumb to lift Hanzo’s chin.
“Mmmm. Think we could work something out, darlin’. I‘m feelin’ real hospitable.”
Hanzo smiles, something sharp and full of teeth, and the ride back to Talon’s base feels infinitely longer with Jesse’s fingers rubbing circles on his thigh.
-
Hanzo takes his time walking through the base. He lets Jesse linger, slowing their pace so he can take stock of the place for whatever employer is signing his paychecks. So Jesse can catalogue their security, get a rough idea of the layout of the building, any other details he might be able to suss out as they meander through the hallways. It’s not as though Hanzo has any particular loyalty to Talon, and the information Jesse gains won’t be put to use until long after Hanzo is gone.
When they reach Hanzo’s quarters he locks the door behind him, throwing a haphazard glance around the room. Someone has been there since he left; tidied up the place, changed the sheets, emptied the trash. All his belongings are untouched, which isn’t surprising, Talon has been nothing but respectful of him during his stay.
There are also several boxes of condoms and a bottle of lubricant on the nightstand, which is surprising. They definitely hadn’t been there before, and Hanzo is vaguely impressed at their attention to detail, even if it reeks of desperation. He pulls his bow off and leans it against the wall next to the bed, kicking off his shoes, socks following afterwards. Tosses his quiver on the floor, arrows rattling around but not shaking free. Jesse pokes through the illicit supplies on Hanzo’s nightstand, and picks up one of the boxes, waggling his eyebrows.
“Expectin’ a pleasant evening, were we?” he asks, and Hanzo laughs, more a rough exhale than anything.
“They overheard our discussion, and sent someone after what I needed, I’m assuming. They’re nothing if not overzealous in their attempts to sway me to their cause. Lose the gear, cowboy,” Hanzo adds, motioning vaguely to Jesse’s gun belt as he continues undressing himself. He doesn’t think accidentally setting off a flashbang would make for a good time, and Jesse obliges, laying his weapons in a careful pile next to his discarded boots.
“‘They’ huh? You ain’t working for Talon?”
It’s deliberately casual, like he doesn’t care either way, but Hanzo can hear the interest hidden underneath.
“Talon wants to be working for me, technically. But I’m not all that interested in talking about business right now,” Hanzo says, splaying a palm out on Jesse’s chest and shoving him down on the bed.
Jesse goes without complaint, moving up the mattress until he can lean against the headboard. He’s taken off his belt and shoes, but otherwise remains fully dressed, his dirty clothes and bloody face out of place in the pristine cleanliness of Hanzo’s quarters.
Everything in Hanzo’s world is always so carefully sterile, and getting his hands dirty is beyond satisfying, with or without bloodshed.
Jesse seems inordinately pleased to find himself with a lapful of Hanzo, naked but for his unbuttoned shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Jesse licks his lips, palms moving to clutch at the meat of Hanzo’s ass, fingers kneading appreciatively. His eyes are restless, like they can’t decide where to settle, flitting from Hanzo’s face down over his chest, his dragon tattoo, the muscles of his abdomen.
The jut of his cock, uncut and thick, half-hard already as it bobs between them.
Jesse meets Hanzo’s eyes again, grinding up into him in an absent way, as though he’s not entirely aware that he’s doing it.
“Not that I ain’t happy about where this is going, but I’m a fuckin’ mess. You don’t want me wash up first? And I still ain’t got your name, beautiful.”
Hanzo pulls the tie from his hair, letting it fall loose around his face and spill over his shoulders. Jesse slides a hand up his side and tangles his fingers in it, like he can’t quite help himself.
Behind enemy lines, playing a perilous game, and still Jesse is losing himself, his world realigning with Hanzo at its center.
Hanzo preens under the attention, powerful like he only ever is with someone underneath him.
Begging, or bleeding, or calling his name.
“It’s Hanzo. And if I want you to do something, cowboy,” he says, stealing Jesse’s hat and putting it on, “I’ll tell you.”
Jesse is silent for a moment, flushing hot and dumbstruck before he gathers himself with a smirk.
“Bossy,” he says, and Hanzo reaches down to cup Jesse through his jeans, rubbing the heel of his palm against the unmistakable bulge there. Jesse’s big enough that Hanzo’s mouth waters at the feel of him, thighs flexing in anticipation, want roiling in Hanzo like storm clouds.
Heavy, and powerful. Banked for too long, ready to break free.
“You seem to like it well enough,” Hanzo answers, looking down his nose at Jesse as he works him through his clothes. Jesse hand strays from Hanzo’s hair to grope at his chest, and thumbing over his nipple, and when he speaks again his voice is strained.
“Reckon it suits you. The hat, too. Think it looks better on you than me, sweetheart.”
“Of course it does,” Hanzo says, and Jesse opens his mouth to reply, but they’ve done enough talking.
Hanzo kisses him hard. Presses his tongue between Jesse’s lips, licking into him, swallowing the rumble of Jesse’s moan. His mouth is hot, and tastes faintly of blood. Hanzo can smell gunpowder, and sweat. The smoke of unfamiliar cigarettes, the faintest hint of cologne, barely detectable under the rest. His hands are strong and calloused, rough on the softness of Hanzo’s skin, and Hanzo’s dragons are roaring in his ears.
Jesse is dangerous. Sharp, full of edges— a threat, as surely as Hanzo himself is a threat.
Worthy, his dragons insist too loudly to be ignored, and Hanzo bites Jesse’s bottom lip and revels in the hiss it earns him.
Something in Jesse snaps, and falls away, because his hands are all over Hanzo now. Up his spine, under his shoulder blades, back down the over hips. Down further, past his thighs, and Jesse hooks his hands behind Hanzo’s knees and tugs him closer. Then Jesse takes two generous handfuls of Hanzo’s ass, and guides him into a slow rhythm, both of them rocking together. He murmurs into Hanzo’s lips, praise that should be meaningless, but makes Hanzo writhe.
“Christ alive, you’re gorgeous darlin’, feel so nice... taste even better, goddamn.”
He keeps talking, mumbling things too saccharine and sweet for what they’re doing together, but Hanzo is having a hard time focusing on the words when the rest of Jesse is so overwhelming.
The scrape of Jesse’s jeans against Hanzo’s cock is harsh, and delicious, and Hanzo slips his hands under the hem of Jesse’s shirt to scratch through the thick trail of hair on his belly. He’d like to suck Jesse off, to bury his nose in the dark curls he’s petting and breathe in the musky scent there, but there’s an urgency in him that doesn’t have the patience for it.
Not with the promise of something better, and Hanzo leans over to fumble blindly for the bottle of lube on the nightstand without breaking their kiss. He locates it without issue, but the cap is sealed in plastic, and Hanzo pulls away from Jesse to open it with his teeth.
Jesse takes the opportunity to mouth his way down Hanzo’s jaw to his throat, biting down hard enough to bruise, then licking messy over the sting. His fingers are teasing deeper between Hanzo’s cheeks, pushing them together and then pulling them apart again as he ruts up into Hanzo. The tips of his middle fingers brush the edge of Hanzo’s hole, like he wants to touch but isn’t sure he’s allowed.
Pressing his luck, inch by inch.
Jesse seems like the kind of man who’s spent his whole life pushing, waiting for someone to push back.
By the time Hanzo gets the bottle open there are at least a half dozen hickies on his neck, and Jesse is rubbing insistent circles against his hole, hips moving in time with his fingers. Hanzo bats Jesse’s hand away, and pours lube over his own fingers before reaching back and slipping two of them into himself. He moans at the feeling, taking a moment to relax into it, lids fluttering closed.
He hasn’t fucked anyone since he left Japan, hasn’t had the inclination to do anything more than get off in the shower once or twice, and the stretch is so good he can’t find his voice right away.
“God, you’re a sight, ain’t ya?” Jesse says, leaning forward to peer over Hanzo’s shoulder, watching him with rapt attention as his wrist twists and moves.
“I’ve got this, cowboy,” Hanzo replies, working himself open with brutal efficiency and nodding towards the bedside table, “make yourself useful.”
Hanzo unbuttons Jesse’s jeans with his other hand, pulling Jesse free of his boxers while he rifles through the condoms to find what he needs. Jesse’s cock is a beautiful thing, heavy in Hanzo’s hand, uncut and leaking precome from his flushed crown. He gives it a few strokes, jerking Jesse off lazily as he nudges a third finger into himself. It goes easily, his body taking everything he’s giving it and aching for more. Jesse’s punched out groan is drugging, and he’s arching eagerly up into Hanzo’s fist, and tearing open a condom with his teeth.
It’s tangible, how much Jesse wants this, and Hanzo can almost taste it in the air between them. More dragon than man, and it’s been ages since Hanzo has become like this, running on instinct and ready to growl.
Hanzo is as ready as he wants to be, and he withdraws his fingers with a sigh. They’re filthy, shining with lube, and Hanzo fights the urge to wipe them off on Jesse’s clothes. Jesse holds out the condom, a lopsided grin on his face, and Hanzo takes it, rolling it quickly down over him. Once it’s on Hanzo strokes Jesse again, tight but teasing, making sure the condom is snug and in place.
Jesse exhales rough, and arches, sucking in air through his teeth.
“Baby you keep that up, and I ain’t gonna make it to the main event,” Jesse says, and Hanzo huffs, and releases him.
The lube is still rolling around on the bedspread, dripping and sticky, and Hanzo picks it up to drizzle some more on Jesse’s shaft. He clicks the bottle closed afterwards and sets it on the nightstand, lifting up onto his knees, reaching back to hold Jesse’s cock steady.
Hanzo waits there, hovering in place with only the tip of Jesse’s crown breaching him, just to drink in the desperate sound he makes.
Then he sinks down, faster than he probably should, but unable to resist the inexorable slide of Jesse filling him up so completely.
Pressing his luck, inch by inch, and Hanzo whines low in his throat like he’s wounded. It’s good, it’s too good, and Jesse pets up and down his thighs with one hand, strokes his spine with the other. Like Hanzo is a skittish animal that needs soothing, and it should be irritating. Condescending. Instead it’s endearing, somehow, this rugged giant of a man shushing him and nuzzling into his throat. As though Hanzo is breakable, when he’s anything but.
People placated Hanzo, or pleaded for his leniency, or fell all over themselves to gain his favor.
Hanzo can’t remember the last time someone tried to soothe him. Can’t remember ever actually needing to be soothed, and Hanzo closes his eyes, and seats himself fully on Jesse’s cock.
“Oh sugar,” Jesse bites out, and Hanzo gives them both a moment to adjust. Lets Jesse kiss his cheek, and cling, and shake.
Then he starts moving, and there’s no more room for mercy.
Hanzo rides Jesse like it’s the last thing he’s ever going to do, bracing his hands on Jesse’s shoulders and rolling his hips sinuously. Jesse swears, hissing out profanities and bucking up into Hanzo as best he can, face tucked into Hanzo’s throat. The slide of Jesse’s cock in him is searing, and Hanzo’s head lolls back on his shoulders as he fucks himself with abandon. He isn’t quiet, never has been, doesn’t see any reason to start now.
None of the people here matter, not in the slightest, and he doesn’t feel guilty about subjecting them to the noise. Hanzo moans, burying a hand in Jesse’s hair, using it as leverage to take him faster, deeper, harder. He scratches his nails down Jesse’s chest, leaving vicious red streaks in his urgency. It’s incidental, not anything he does deliberately, but something ancient in him is pleased with the sight.
He waits for Jesse to respond in kind, to bite him, or flip him over. To take him with the brutality Hanzo can sense running through Jesse’s veins, a ruthlessness that lives under his skin, but it doesn’t happen.
The rougher Hanzo is, the gentler Jesse becomes in response. Hanzo digs in his nails, and Jesse brushes kisses over his shoulder. Hanzo pulls his hair, and Jesse shoves his face in Hanzo’s throat, breathing in, hands light and affectionate everywhere they touch.
Maybe it is Hanzo who has spent his whole life pushing, but Jesse doesn’t push back.
Just takes what Hanzo gives him, and aches for more.
It’s disarming, and Hanzo’s orgasm takes him by surprise. Crawls up his spine, and buries him in sensation. He hides his face in Jesse’s hair, and shivers through it, hot stripes of come landing messy on Jesse’s clothes.
Jesse follows after, calling Hanzo’s name, fucking into him hard with his arms wrapped around Hanzo’s waist. Tight, like he’s afraid Hanzo will get away somehow, but if anything the opposite is true.
Hanzo’s not going to let Jesse out of his bed for a long, long time.
-
They fuck twice more before Hanzo is satisfied, dawn light creeping through the tiny opaque window of Hanzo’s quarters, both of them drowsy as they smoke cigarettes together in the tangled sheets. Hanzo lays on Jesse’s chest, eyes trying to close as Jesse’s fingers pet through his hair, body sore in the best ways. He’s going back to Japan today, and he’ll be feeling Jesse long after he’s back home, will be wearing his marks for days and days.
Carrying this moment with him, long after it has passed.
It would be easy to fall asleep like this, warm and sated in Jesse’s embrace, but Hanzo needs to shower more than he needs rest. He sits up, snuffing out his cigarette and standing. Jesse’s eyes linger on him as he stretches, and there’s still heat in his gaze, even after so many hours spent in Hanzo’s bed. Hanzo smiles, unable to hold his tongue— sex drunk, and smug, too pleased with himself.
“So what will you tell your superiors when you report back?”
Jesse furrows his brows, and feigns confusion, like he doesn’t know what Hanzo means.
“You mean Talon? Or Deadlock?”
Hanzo laughs, running a hand through the mess of his hair and smirking.
“Talon is full of fools if they haven’t figured you out yet. I don’t know who you’re working for, but I know it isn’t Talon, or some trashy biker gang. You and your associate are far from subtle, though I’d wager that’s Talon’s fault for making things so easy on you.” Hanzo shrugs, leaning against the bathroom door. “It’s of no importance to me, though I am curious as to whether or not I’ll feature in your report. Are you a gentleman, cowboy? Do you kiss and tell?”
Jesse looks caught, and Hanzo takes mercy on him, and heads into the bathroom.
“You’re welcome to join me,” he calls, turning the water up as hot as he can stand it and stepping under the spray.
His room is empty when he’s finished, and Hanzo isn’t surprised to see Jesse gone. Spooked, and running; Hanzo doesn’t blame him.
He would be running, too, if he were Jesse.
There is a flashbang on the nightstand holding down a slip of paper, a note scrawled on it in abysmally bad handwriting. It’s barely legible, but Hanzo can make it out.
One of yours for one of mine, you’re stunning doll face, xoxo
One of Hanzo’s sonic arrows is missing.
He doesn’t even mind.