Chapter Text
The Overwatch Inn was a hole in the wall if Jesse McCree had ever seen one, and you could bet your britches that he had, after all those years of running with the Deadlocks. Of course, those days were behind him; they felt more like bad childhood dreams than memories. Any fondness he could have found for them was long gone, replaced by the stillness of the desert air, the crippling loneliness of being single, and acid reflux.
Never did McCree think that he would go from a bona fide gunslinger—best shot born east of the Atlantic, he liked to say—to some lousy cook at a scrappy little joint in Nevada, the most recluse state in the Union. Everything there was about a hundred miles west of nowhere; so far out that the only things that visited were scorpions, crackpots, and flying saucers.
The inn itself was a squat wooden building: reception and food on the first floor, rooms on the second floor. Its elevation was the highest for miles, just barely breaking the flat landscape of the desert. The neon sign reading “The Overwatch Inn” was like a tiny beacon at night, the inn being the only place to stay along the crumbling road.
Its owners were two ex-soldiers, Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison. Jesse preferred to talk to the latter if something ever came up, given Gabriel’s… menacing personality.
---
McCree grumbled to himself as he poked a frying pan full of ground meat. Beef, probably, but he couldn’t guarantee there wasn’t horse mixed in. As much as he hated it, as little as it could compare to his former life, he was glad for it. The owners were kind enough to give a room to each of their employees, many of which were ex-cons and criminals such as himself. None of them would have stood a chance in the real job market.
An old song played over the dingy radio propped on a shelf, next to a stack of cookbooks that had never been read. There were about twenty guests in the pub that night, more than usual. One of the benefits of the job watching who passed through, and it was never anyone boring. That night, two women sat in a corner booth, both wearing heavy denim jackets in the middle of summer, one with an eye patch and the other with impossibly sharp nails.
A ding pulled McCree out of his trance, the ringing of a tiny bell on the ledge separating the kitchen from the dining area. He looked up to see Lena securing a slip of paper to the board and spinning it to face him. Another order.
“Busy night, innit?” she asked, leaning so that her head was inside the kitchen.
“Nothin’ you can’t handle,” he responded. Lena was the fastest waitress he had ever witnessed, whisking through crowds with ease, never dropping a crumb. She helped him in the kitchen sometimes, and she cooked everything with a speed that shouldn’t be safe for consumption.
Lena sighed, aware of the constant lack of customers. “You know, sometimes I feel like people just aren’t ready for the Overwatch.”
“Ain’t ready for it?” McCree jeered, spooning ground beef into some slightly stale tortillas. “And what do you reckon there to get ready for?”
Lena shrugged. “Character, I suppose. Folks like you and I.”
McCree slid her a couple plates. “If I’m bein’ honest, Lena, I’m not sure when they will be.”
She took the plates away without a word, but instead with silent agreement. Maybe one day.
The kitchen closed at 10 pm, at which point Jesse and Lena began cleaning up for the night. Dishes were washed, tables were wiped down, and the dining area belonged to the employees. Lena cracked open a fresh bottle of whiskey, offering a glass to McCree. He politely declined, offering a simple “smoke break” as explanation.
That night, the sky was stained by a string of stars, brighter than what any streetlight could achieve, when combined with the light of the low-hanging moon. Jesse leaned against the front wall of the building, holding a cigarillo between his teeth. His mind wandered once again to old memories, of late nights in hotels like these, of heists and fights and nights with no peace.
He lowered his gaze from the sky as a man breezed past him and through the front door of the inn. McCree hadn’t noticed him pull up in any vehicle, nor had he heard him approaching until he was just feet away.
Needless to say, he was taken aback, both by the other man’s presence and his appearance. He held his head high, his black hair graying on the fringes, neatly pulled back and secured in place by a long, pale golden scarf. The entire left side of his torso was bare, (an odd fashion choice in McCree’s mind,) revealing a tattoo of a dragon winding up his arm and onto his breast.
Overall, the stranger was handsome. His face was rugged but smooth, showing age around his eyes and forehead. He cast a glance at McCree as he passed, his scowl lined by a swatch of facial hair. McCree hoped that his own facial expression wasn’t as ridiculous as it felt.
He figured that was a good time to take Lena up on that drink.
---
McCree woke up the next morning to loud bickering outside his room. Well, not exactly bickering, one of the voices was distraught, but the other seemed unfazed. The bed creaked as McCree grumbled and rolled over, covering his ears with his pillow. The blue glow of his alarm clock projected a number into the air above his bedside table. 5:03 am. The sun couldn’t have been more than a dim candle’s flicker over the east. But it was too late, he was already awake, and there was no hope of him going back to sleep. He stormed across the little room, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, then off his entire face.
The door slid open to reveal Jack Morrison arguing with a very, very large, bearded man. Reinhardt Whilhelm, the inn’s resident janitor. He was the only thing keeping the place from being blown off the map by a health inspector.
“The fuck is goin’ on?” McCree rasped, his throat stinging from breathing the dry early-morning air.
“Oh, good, Jesse is awake!” Reinhardt pulled the much smaller man into a bear hug, threatening to nearly crush him. “I’ll miss you when I’m gone, cowboy.”
“Gone?” Jesse felt as if the words were being squeezed out of his mouth. “And where exactly are you headed?”
“There are some things back home that must be taken care of,” Reinhardt said, dropping his grip on Jesse and allowing his spine to realign. “I hope you understand.” This time he addressed Jack, who seemed a little less understanding.
“Where am I supposed to find someone to do your job?” Jack’s eyebrows were pressed firmly together, forming a worried expression.
“Try the internet?” Those were Reinhardt’s last words before giving his boss one last goodbye-squeeze, and going on his way.
Jesse simply shrugged at Jack, offering him a look of pity and mumbling, “What can ya do?” Jack shook his head before proceeding downstairs. McCree followed suit, resolving to open the dining hall early rather than try his hand at going back to sleep.
---
No sooner did McCree start the stove than a disgruntled Gabriel Reyes came storming into the hall. A stack of flyers was in his hand; he nearly dented the wall as he slammed one in the empty space above a corner booth and stapled it to the wood paneling.
“I’m guessing you got the news?” McCree called from the kitchen, attempting to light a cigarillo without his boss noticing.
“Yup. And this isn’t a convenient time for us to be down a maid.”
“Janitor,” McCree corrected him, “although I’m not too sure old Reinhardt would’ve cared either way. Great guy.”
“Yeah, well either way he kinda screwed us over here.” Reyes cast a glance into the kitchen, already halfway to the door. “But I won’t hesitate to go down another staff member if you keep smoking inside.”
McCree hastily put out his cigarillo as Lena Oxton came strolling into the room.
“Did ya hear the news, McCree?” she asked, pulling out a chair and sitting down.
“Sure did. It’s a shame.”
“Well, yes and no.”
McCree looked up from his work in surprise.
“I mean of course I’ll miss the old chap, but this is a golden opportunity. Life around here always seems to be the same old faces over and over again. It’s like… do you ever get that feeling of déjà vu?”
“What are you talkin’ about?” McCree asked, smiling from ear to ear. “You ever taken a look at one of our fine patrons?”
“Sure, but how many of them do you actually talk to? That’s a rhetorical question; I already know the answer. It’s none.”
McCree shrugged. “You got me there.”
“Yes I do, I do have you there.” She flashes him a grin. “So what I’m saying is that this is exactly what we need: a fresh face, someone to liven things up. You know, just so we don’t get too comfortable with ourselves.”
Their conversation was stopped short at the sound of the floor creaking. A guest wandered into the dining hall, taking a bow and quiver off his back and placing it in a corner booth. He sat across from his weapon like he was on a date with it.
Tracer was already up and taking his order before McCree realized that this was the stranger from the night before, in all his glory. Once again, he looked incredibly out of place in the shabby inn. His detailed yukata stood in sharp contrast to Tracer’s musty leather jacket, and McCree’s faded serape. Even the gloss of his hair was impressive when compared to McCree’s dead, damaged mane.
McCree cooked in muffled quiet, save the low crackle of the radio and the occasional comment from Lena. His thoughts bounced around in his head haphazardly, but what else was new? That morning, the thought that kept coming back was simple, if a bit rude. Wonder what a guy like that’s doin’ in a place like this?
He watched the stranger examine something on the wall, plucking it down just as McCree slid Lena a plate of food. A help wanted flyer, left there by Reyes just minutes ago. He stared at it like he was reading it many times over, furrowing his brow and squinting in consideration.
When Lena brought him his food, he showed her the flyer, his voice low enough that McCree could tell he was speaking, but couldn’t make out a word of it. Lena spoke slightly louder, faster, but still incoherent. She rushed back across the room, poking her head into the kitchen.
“Oi, love, you wouldn’t believe it!”
“Believe what?”
“This bloke over here is interested in the job! What did I tell you?”
“I’ll be damned,” McCree muttered, looking past Lena at the brooding man in the corner. “That happened a whole lot quicker than I expected.”
“It happened exactly when it was going to happen.” She pointed an accusing finger at McCree, as if he was going to jinx their good luck. “I’m gonna get Morrison.”
McCree was left to observe the man as he shoveled eggs into his mouth. He wasn’t sloppy, but you would have thought he hadn’t eaten in days. McCree found it rather rude that he didn’t order anything for his bow.
He was just beginning to zone out again, from the sound of Queen on the radio and the sight of the stranger meticulously eating, when Lena reentered the room, practically dragging Morrison along. Reyes followed, a look of distrust on his face.
“This is the guy!” Lena said proudly, gesturing at the stranger. The stranger stood up and bowed his head, much to the surprise of everyone in the immediate vicinity. Out of everything that had passed through those parts over the years, politeness usually preferred to take a different route.
Jack cleared his throat. “Right. Well, kid, we don’t ask a lot of questions. Probably because we can’t afford it.” That last part was spoken lower, more as a side note to his current employees. “But I would like to know what your name is.”
“My name is Hanzo Shimada.” His voice was deep and rough around the edges, but when he spoke he seemed to hold a certain amount of pride in his words.
“Great,” Jack replied, elbowing Reyes. “It’s a basic janitorial position. Just make sure we’re not a health hazard and you’ll do fine. Payday is every other Friday, and we offer free room and board, as well as food. Oh, and if you’re gonna quit, we need two weeks notice.” He glared at Jesse and Lena. “That goes for everyone. New company policy!”
Jesse nearly laughed from where he leaned, sticking his head out of the kitchen. “You call this a company?”
Jack ignored him, while Reyes shot him a cold glare.
---
The next day, the Overwatch Inn had a new employee. Still, the same question lingered in McCree’s brain, growing louder, climbing to a shout whenever he saw Hanzo. Come nightfall, he had decided to give up on sleep, opting instead to appreciate the view from his window. The desert was dead silent, except for the occasional thwap… thwap… thwap…
McCree looked towards the ground to see a shadow crouched some distance away from the building, firing arrows at some distant target. It could only be Hanzo, the man in love with his bow, unless someone else was taking up archery. McCree watched him shoot arrow after arrow, in some sort of transfixing rhythm.
He was quickly brought back to the real world as the bowman turned and, making eye contact with the wannabe cowboy, launched an arrow into the wooden window frame. There was a brief period of hesitation, during which McCree kept his eyes locked on the other man, pondering whether he should take the hint or confront him.
“Hey partner,” he called, throwing open the window. “Sorry, didn’t mean to intrude or nothin’.”
“It is two in the morning,” Hanzo replied, nocking another arrow. “Why do you choose to stare when you could be asleep?”
“Geez, didn’t realize I was starin’. Anyway, I ain’t the only one who’s still awake here.”
“Fair enough.” He lifted his bow and pulled back the string. “But it would seem as though my time is better spent than yours.” He fired, lifting his chin as he watched the arrow find its target.
“Was that a good shot? I can’t see.”
“It was fine.” There was a brief pause, and then, “You should lower your voice. You’ll wake the guests.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t shoot at such ungodly hours.”
Hanzo looked at him like he was going to kill him on the spot.
“Okay, I get it. Guess that’s goodnight.” He started to shut the window, then paused. “Name’s Jesse McCree by the way. If you ever need anything.”
Having received no response, he closed the window and turned off the light. He doubted he would sleep, but the darkness went well with the distant sound of arrows outside.