Chapter Text
They worked well together, that’s all Hanzo had ever been concerned about when it came to McCree.
The reckless sharpshooter not only seemed to always know where to be so that Hanzo could cover him, but he also seemed to know in the fray of battle just where Hanzo’s arrows would be. More than once he’d stood absolutely still in a hail of scatter arrows, unscathed. More than once he’d lured an enemy from a blind spot, right into the path of an arrow.
It wasn’t just the uncanny way that McCree was aware of every shot that made Hanzo more than willing to always accompany him on missions. The scruffy cowboy had saved his skin on a few occasions, in the early missions together when Hanzo was still trying to figure out just how McCree could know that enemies were around the corner and be ready to fire before they were even in hearing range, let alone sight. Hanzo would get stuck on figuring it out, trying desperately to reason exactly how McCree was doing these feats, it would distract him, and next thing he’d know, the sharpshooter would aim over his shoulder and a body would drop behind him. There was never any taunting about it, just a chuckle and a far off hat tip. Hanzo had long since stopped trying to figure out what gave McCree his edge.
He’d be hard pressed to admit that every once in a great while, he would let his would-be killers get close, just to see that uncanny aim.
Back to back in close combat quarters was something else entirely.
McCree fought like a man possessed, firing shots with deadly accuracy, pistol-whipping anyone who strayed too close. He wouldn’t even flinch when Hanzo would fire arrows in close vicinity, once again sure of their path, that or he was just that trusting in the archer’s aim. He knew just when to duck, just when to lean, and just when to cover Hanzo’s back.
Before Hanzo had officially joined the recalled members of Overwatch, he occasionally accompanied them on missions that required far off and discrete cover. All of those missions had involved the gruff southern man.
After his official membership into the under-the-radar operation, he’d been sent on missions with others. He had observed them enough while working with McCree that he was aware of when to fire and when to hold his bow steady and wait, but none of them could ever match his arrows quite as well as McCree. He had to take care not to hit his comrades, only firing to cover. Not like with McCree, who set up opportunity after opportunity for Hanzo to show his skills, keep them honed out in the field.
It’d been brought up to him discretely by Winston after a close shave to his fur from an arrow. It was a kill Winston clearly had under control, but Hanzo was so used to McCree lining them up for him.
He wasn’t blood thirsty, but he felt rather useless when all he did was sit on a perch with his bow idle. When he’d explained to Winston that he was used to McCree’s style of combat, that it was common of him to fire in such close proximity to the cowboy, he’d been reprimanded. “This is a team game, Mr. Shimada. Unnecessary risks could mean a loss.”
Yet, when he’d stepped up and decided to speak to McCree about it, telling him he’d no longer be risking the cowboy with his arrows, he’d received a confused look and a shrug. “I ain’t never felt at risk. You were jus’ doin’ your job coverin’ me. I’ll settle for a few close shaves with those arrows of yours if’n it means I get to shave my beard another day.”
He would never be clear on the details, but after that chat, he was always paired with McCree on missions.
-
Their current mission had them stationed in Numbani. It wasn’t the most pleasant of cities for Hanzo, he was getting better about his prejudice against machines, they all slowly were as the wounds of war scarred and faded. But that wasn’t his only problem with the city.
Towers of slick glass and metal, winding streets, and a clutter of cars. He was an expert archer and climber, but all of the balconies he could get to were wide open and in a firefight, he’d be easily spotted and likely chased off. Prideful as he was, strong-willed as he was, he knew when to retreat and find other cover.
Thankfully, his perch on the balcony was less mission oriented. They were holed up in a small apartment that had been rented out under a pseudonym, one of the less luxurious and spacious buildings, but with their covert operations and limited funds, they couldn’t afford to be picky about location.
But Hanzo could afford to be picky about how much time he spent inside. He was slowly warming up to the other members of Overwatch, but it was a slow process and he’d rather not test his patience with them and wind up destroying some of those bridges his teammates had built with him. They’d given him anything he needed: space, silent companionship (even the chatty ones had quieted when he needed it), or just a friendly smile on a rough day. He couldn’t begrudge them for trying, despite believing himself unsuitable for such friendships.
So he avoided losing his temper with Tracer and Lucio who spoke quickly and excitedly and although they meant well, created a lot of noise when Hanzo desired some quiet before the mission tomorrow evening. The balcony was perfect, he could drone out the tunes Lucio was playing, muffled some by the glass door. He also suspected the kid had turned it down some when Hanzo had abruptly left the room.
He was sitting in a plastic lawn chair and drinking from his gourd, plum wine he’d brought to ease the time as they waited. It also served to keep his mind from wandering to subjects he’d rather not speak or think about. Things still raw to his heart, despite the passage of time.
“Figure I’d find ya out here.”
He glanced over his shoulder to find McCree meandering out onto the balcony with a pouch and a bottle of whiskey in tow. That was how he moved at all times when he wasn’t on a mission, slow and easy, yet on walks he never fell behind. He plopped himself into the other chair, kicking his spurred boots up on the rickety wooden table that creaked in protest, they’d brought it from inside for the sole purpose of being a footrest.
The cowboy fished out two shot glasses from his pouch, putting them on the matching plastic table that sat between the two chairs. With teeth he pulled the cork off of his whiskey bottle and filled both glasses. He didn’t speak as he pulled the cork from his mouth and dropped it between the shots.
Hanzo idly watched it roll to a stop as they picked up their respective glasses. With a small raise to each other, they tossed them back. The whiskey burned in the sweetest of ways drawing a hum out of him and the satisfied noise from McCree made his lips twitch ever so slightly into a smile that he was quick to hide. “Where else would I be?”
“I s’ppose you’re right.” McCree drawled, raising the bottle in an offer. When Hanzo set his glass back down, he refilled them both. This time they remained on the table instead of being picked up straight away.
Hanzo plucked a silver case off the table, his own that he’d left out here from the night before. He opened it and pulled a cigarette from the metal container before snapping it shut. He’d long ago stopped offering one to McCree, the man had his own cigars. He clicked his tongue, spinning the cig softly between his fingers. “What caused you to search?” He asked, stilling his hand, open end pointed toward the cowboy.
McCree was used to this routine by now, he pulled a cigar and his lighter out, doing the gentlemanly thing and lighting Hanzo’s smoke before his own. “Ain’t a mission without a good drink the night before. Figured I’d find my drinkin’ partner.”
Taking a drag, he rested his cigarette between his index and middle fingers. “One usually drinks to calm his nerves…” His eyes slid over to McCree who was happily puffing away. “Are you nervous about this mission?”
The sharpshooter chuckled, picking up his shot glass and pausing until Hanzo did the same. Another raise to each other, another down the hatch. “I ain’t been nervous about a mission since I got me a sniper watchin’ my back.”
“Archer,” Hanzo was quick to correct, setting his glass back down. As expected, it was filled again.
“Right, my own Robin Hood.” He purred with such a tone that if Hanzo wasn’t a more schooled man, would have brought a flush to his face.
Hanzo chose to ignore it though another drag on his cigarette. “You sure are trusting of my arrows.”
McCree lifted his head, looking at him. “Should I not be?”
The archer turned his head as well, looking right back at the cowboy. “My aim is never off.” It was as much a boast of his skills as it was an assurance that he’d continue to pick off the enemies that threatened McCree. “But you certainly are less…. Concerned about how close it can be.”
The boisterous laugh he received was infectious and Hanzo didn’t even try to hide the smile that wrapped around his cigarette. “A little thrill ain’t hurt no one, partner. The others just gotta get used to livin’ a bit risky again- they ain’t all been on the run like you and I.”
“I will drink to that,” He replied, and this time he was the one to pick up the glass first. Raise, down, refill. “I have learned that I cannot take the same shots with others as I can with you.”
McCree snorted. “And tha’s why I told Winston to pair us up for every mission. Wastin’ your potential, and that ain’t gonna continue happenin’ on my watch.”
The archer gave a wry smile. “How thoughtful of you, worrying about my potential.”
“No fuss now,” He replied with a deep laugh. “I’m bein’ selfish with it. It’s nice to have someone watchin’ me. And it’s mighty fun to see them panic when they realize I led them to meet their maker. You put the fear of god in men, Robin Hood.”
Hanzo curled his upper lip, like he’d smelled something foul. “I take it that will be my new nickname for a while?”
“If you’d rather go back to bein’ Legolas, I can do that for ya.”
He snorted, picking up his shot and downing it without waiting. When he set it back down he eyed McCree, head to toe. The man was dressed as he usually would be for a mission, sans his chest armor and sarape. Casual wear in the hideout. “Don’t be cheeky.”
The cowboy broke out into a fit of laughter, holding his gut. “You’ve been spendin’ too much time with Tracer,” He grinned widely, punching Hanzo’s shoulder. “mate.” He said, trying to mimic her accent.
They both laughed, McCree’s loud and rough, Hanzo’s soft and subtle, until a blanket of comfortable quiet settled over them. He enjoyed these moments with McCree, if he was honest. When he had first met the man, he would never have guessed that they both were aiming towards similar goals of redemption, that they both understood that the past should not be forgotten. Where they differed on that was whether it should consume the future or not.
It was getting easier to consider McCree’s view of not letting it clog up future opportunities. Spending time with the cowboy and what few conversations he’d had with his brother since their conflict in Hanamura were helping.
Somewhere in the middle of his second cigarette, which McCree had lit for him without even a word exchanged, he let out a deep sigh and relaxed in his chair. Slouching much like the cowboy, kicking his metal feet up on the table.
He reached over for another shot, was this the sixth or the seventh? He’d lost count, but judging by the gentle buzzing in the back of his mind, he was willing to bet seventh. It made him feel light and just the slightest bit fuzzy. Downing it, he didn’t miss the raised eyebrow from McCree, tipsy didn’t mean he wasn’t still sharp.
“You remember we got a mission tomorrow, Robin Hood?” The cowboy asked, his silent way of suggesting that Hanzo had had enough.
Hanzo held his glass up, staring at it for a moment. How easy would it be to say no, have a few more and sleep out here on the balcony? Even if McCree cut him off from the whiskey, he had enough plum wine to push the upper limits of tipsy, a guaranteed deep sleep. With a grunt he flipped the glass, placing it top down on the table. He was done. “You do remember that it is in the evening?”
McCree did the same, downing his shot and flipping the glass. He stood with a groan and offered his hand to help the archer up. McCree was thus far the only person he accepted a hand from, he knew the gesture was out of manners instead of thinking Hanzo was too in the tank to do it himself.
With a grin, he took the hand.
Either he had misjudged how much effort McCree was putting into the gesture, or he had missed McCree tossing a few extra shots back because as the cowboy braced himself to pull Hanzo up, he faltered and the archer wound up pulling him over and tipping the chair. They landed with Hanzo on his back, one leg thrown off to the side and McCree’s face jammed into his abs, hat crumpled between his yukata and McCree’s forehead. He couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or the company but they both started laughing once more, this time less restrained.
Silence settled once again and neither of them made an effort to move, limbs buzzing with the consumption of more alcohol than what was probably recommended the night before a mission. The hangover, if any, would be slight.
“Hanzo,” He felt more than heard against his abdomen. He could see the sharpshooter’s hands grabbing at the chair, as if they had attempted at some point to help push him up but had failed him entirely.
“McCree?”
“I-“ The cowboy paused, hands clenching and unclenching and suddenly there was a crack in the plastic that seemed to help McCree find his voice again. “Yer kneein’ my pelvis.” He mumbled, words half muffled by the fact that he refused to lift his head.
Hanzo snorted, and wiggling the leg that was underneath McCree, noted that the place where his prosthetics began was indeed digging into McCree’s hip- he took some form of delight in the agonized groan he received from the motion. “I believe you are the one with the power to remove yourself.”
“Can’t.” Was the only response he got before McCree became dead weight on him.
The archer blinked. Once, twice, and was about to just accept his fate when the glass door slid open.
Tracer poked her head out, took in the scene for about one second before she began laughing, something Hanzo does not mirror this time around. “Oi, I heard a noise and thought one of ya dropped dead. I didn’t know you were havin’ a shag out here.” She teased crudely, stepping out and beginning to help haul McCree off.
The cowboy groaned, swatting at her as she helped.
“We were not having a ‘shag’.” Hanzo spoke as he rolled out of the chair with far more grace than he expected to have after being nearly eight shots deep. Or was it nine? “It was a drink.”
“Looks like many drinks to me, love.” She quipped. “Come on, help me get him inside.”
Hanzo stood and glanced at the carnage their tumble had caused. The butt of a cigar and a half smoked cigarette laid on the ground, their embers dying. And an entirely empty bottle of whiskey- of which, Hanzo had been sure that it was full when they had started drinking. It only confirmed his decision that McCree had been taking extra shots. He frowned, but made no comment as he helped to get the cowboy to his feet and dragged him inside.
The pull-out couch bed was merely covered in sheets, but they tossed McCree onto it and Hanzo didn’t even want to bother trying to figure out other sleeping arrangements. So he flopped right down on the other side of the rather uncomfortable ‘bed’ and ignored the giggle from Lena as she turned off the lights.
He was out in seconds.