Chapter Text
When Hanzo enters the bar, tucked in a quiet corner of the otherwise bustling city, he is pleasantly surprised. Despite its name, its interior is rather low-key and modern: dark red walls, comfortably dim lighting, cherry wood tables polished to a gleam. There are about a dozen small tables arranged around the space and as many stools lining the length of the bar counter. Soft music plays from the speakers--country, he guesses--filling all corners of the bar but not so loudly that it is obnoxious.
Cozy, he decides.
A tall man stands alone behind the sleek bar counter wearing a soft red flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves, beard untrimmed and dark hair tied up loosely in a small, messy ponytail. A black cloth apron is tied around his waist. He looks up when Hanzo walks in and flashes him a friendly grin.
“Howdy! Welcome to the Deadeye Saloon,” he calls. He has a distinctly Southern American accent, Hanzo notes. Like a cowboy .
Hanzo nods in greeting, then looks around. The bar is rather empty; there only a few customers scattered around the various tables. Hands in the pockets of his dark jacket, he walks up to the bar and takes a seat at one of the padded stools there, shifting the weight of the large black guitar case he is carrying so it rests against his back more comfortably. Immediately, the bartender ambles up to him.
“Ain’t seen you ‘round here before. You new to these parts?”
“Do you think yourself familiar with everyone around here, then?” Hanzo asks, pulling his hands from his jacket and resting them on the bartop.
The man blinks, then replies smoothly, “I’d be willin’ to wager as much, yeah.”
“Hn.” Hanzo looks past him and scans the shelves of bottles and glasses stacked against the wall behind him. The selection is impressively large and varied. He nods.
“I will have a whiskey on the rocks, please,” Hanzo says.
The man gives him a quick once-over. “Sure thing,” he says agreeably, and reaches for a glass.
Hanzo subtly glances around again. None of the other patrons appear to be paying them any sort of attention, engrossed in their own drinks and conversations. Occasionally, a cheerful, short-haired woman pops out of the kitchen to check on them before skipping away. Now that he is looking more carefully, Hanzo notices some of the more quirky decorations. A silver horseshoe nailed above the door. A cluster of dartboards in one corner. Several acoustic guitars hanging on the wall behind the counter. And, strangely enough, a vase of tiger lilies behind the bar with a cowboy hat resting beside them.
“Here y’are.”
A glass of amber liquid slides to a stop in front of Hanzo. He lifts it, swirls the cool glass once to hear the pleasant clink of ice against glass, and takes a small sip. The whiskey rolls down his throat smoothly, cold and burning all at once.
“Whaddya think?”
Hanzo looks up. The bartender is standing in front of him with an expectant grin. Hanzo considers for a moment.
“It is… not bad,” he says, grudgingly approving.
“Heh, thought ya might think so,” the man says, almost smugly. “Took ya for someone who’d prefer their whiskey on the softer side, and not so sweet.”
That is indeed how Hanzo prefers his whiskeys, but he does not give the man the satisfaction of agreeing with him. He takes another sip of the drink instead, savoring the flavor it leaves in his mouth and noting a faint undercurrent of smokiness to it.
The bartender wanders away to take care of some other business and Hanzo takes the time to nurse his drink in peace and let the alcohol relax his tense muscles. It has been… a long day, to say the least.
Eventually, the bartender walks back to him, leaning against the counter. “Y’play?” he asks, nodding at the instrument case hooked around Hanzo’s shoulder.
Hanzo stiffens. It seems the man has nothing better to do with his time than talk to him. Hanzo sighs inwardly and looks at him sidelong. “Something like that,” he responds simply, and pointedly does not elaborate.
He finishes his drink.
“Well then…” Hanzo trails off.
“‘Name’s McCree. Jesse McCree. I run this here fine establishment.”
“Well then, McCree,” Hanzo says haughtily, placing a few bills on the counter and standing. “Good day.”
“See ya later,” McCree calls cheerfully to his back.
“Do not count on it,” Hanzo replies, and walks out.
---
Hanzo does, in fact, end up visiting the bar again. In his defense, he has found that most places in this new city are far too loud for his comfort, and the Deadeye Saloon had been--with the exception of the talkative bartender--blessedly quiet, relatively.
Reassuring himself with this fact, as well as the thought that he probably should not stay in his still-unfamiliar apartment alone to stew in his thoughts, he shoulders his guitar case and heads back to the bar several days later.
He finds the spot again easily enough despite it being nearly hidden at the end of of a wide alley. The front is rather nondescript--smooth concrete walls hosting a set of heavy wooden doors. The bar’s name is displayed in bold, slightly faded print on a large sign above the entrance, the red letters practically glowing in the light of the setting sun. A faint breeze picks up around him, cool with the promise of autumn. With the slightest trepidation, Hanzo pushes open the door.
The interior is just as he remembered it, albeit slightly busier today. He immediately spots McCree behind the bar. When the man sees him, his face splits in a broad grin.
“Howdy! I’ll be with ya in a sec!” McCree calls, turning to grab several bottles from the liquor shelf.
Hanzo stuffs his hands into his pockets and walks up to the bar, taking the same seat he had last time. The tiger lilies in the vase behind the bar have been replaced by blue lilacs, he notes.
There is another bartender working as well today--a giant, hulking, white-bearded man whose stature rivals that of a mountain--chatting with another customer at the other end of the bar counter whilst shaking a drink. He throws his head and laughs at something, the sound booming out and rumbling like an earthquake, startling Hanzo. A few of the patrons turn to look at the source of the sound, their expressions amused as if they have heard it a hundred times before.
“Don’t mind ol’ Reinhardt there. Man’s like a force o’ nature but he’s got a heart o’ gold.”
McCree’s voice snaps Hanzo’s gaze back to his side. The bartender has sidled up to him, wiping his hands with a towel. Hanzo notices belatedly that his left arm is mechanical. He still has that pleased grin on his face.
“What?” Hanzo cannot help but snap.
“Ya came back,” McCree says, stating the obvious.
Hanzo snorts. “Yes, well. I enjoyed the drink I had last time.”
“‘S that so. I assume you’ll be wantin’ the same today, then?”
Hanzo nods and McCree turns away. He is wearing another flannel shirt today, blue this time, with faded yellow stripes.
Hanzo looks around the space again. Due to the traffic, there seems to be one more waitress on duty in addition to the one he had seen last time--a woman in a tank top and jeans with long brown hair tied back in a ponytail, the usual black apron around her waist. As usual, the speakers are playing some variety of country music.
Hanzo had done a bit of digging on this place, after the first time. The Deadeye Saloon, opened 6 years ago, quietly, in a more discreet part of town. Generally well-received, boasting a good host of regulars, but enjoying only moderate success--unsurprising given its inconspicuous location and appearance; Hanzo is surprised he even managed to stumble upon it in the first place. Currently owned by one Jesse McCree, on whom Hanzo’s cursory research had, curiously, found little information otherwise.
McCree returns with his drink. “Here ya go.”
Hanzo takes it with, nodding in thanks, and takes a long sip. Soft-edged, not too sweet, a hint of smokiness underneath.
“I noticed ya didn’t answer my question last time,” McCree says. He is leaning against the counter behind him, arms loosely crossed, expression politely curious. “You new ‘round these parts?”
When Hanzo just looks at him, McCree shrugs good-naturedly. “I’m pretty good with faces, and I think I’d remember a pretty one like yours,” he explains, and winks at him.
For a moment, Hanzo is thrown. He quickly takes another sip of his whiskey so as not to look like a gaping fish, feeling a telltale burning at the tips of his ears. Damnit.
Figuring he probably cannot get away with avoiding the question again, he sighs. “You are correct,” he admits, staunchly ignoring the last thing McCree had said. “I moved here very recently.”
“Oh? Where from?” McCree leans forward.
“...Japan,” Hanzo says. He is sure McCree would not be satisfied with that answer, could have probably figured as much himself, but it is all he is willing to disclose.
Fortunately, McCree does not push him for more details. Unfortunately, he then switches the topic.
“So, what d’you do?”
Hanzo furrows his brow. Does the man not have anything else to do? A quick glance around confirms his suspicion; everyone seems to be happily occupied and taken care of.
“I would rather not say,” Hanzo says curtly after a beat, and hopes the man will get the hint.
“I take it you’re not a musician, then?” When Hanzo blinks at him, McCree nods toward his guitar case, smirking.
“...” Hanzo huffs and looks off to the side. He is saved the trouble of answering when a loud crash emits from the other end of the bar, the sharp sound of shattering glass carrying easily over the low din of the bar.
“Reinhardt!” the waitress with the long ponytail scolds the bartender. “What have I told you about being careful with the glassware?”
“Sorry, Brigitte!” Reinhardt laughs sheepishly at her, rubbing the back of his head.
“At this rate, we’ll be straight outta glasses by the end of the week, and then what are we to serve our drinks in?” she huffs, but Hanzo can tell she is not truly angry; her lips are pursed as if hiding a smile. The customers nearby laugh, unperturbed by the incident.
Hanzo glances back at McCree. The man is looking toward the commotion with a fond smile. When he notices Hanzo’s eyes on him, he turns back and grins wider. “Don’t worry, darlin’, happens all the time.”
“It’s true.” The other waitress--the short-haired brunette--bounces up to them, an empty serving tray in hand. “Sorry ‘bout the noise, luv,” she says to Hanzo, smiling apologetically. Hanzo notes her accent-- British, he assumes.
She turns to McCree. “Gonna need a gin ‘n tonic for table three, Jesse.”
“You got it, Lena,” McCree replies, already reaching for a clean glass.
“Brigitte’s right, though,” the waitress-- Lena --continues as McCree pours the drink. “We’ll be straight out of glasses soon if this keeps on. I’ve got to remember to ask Angela to order some next time.”
“Or, I could order the cups, seein’ as how I’m the owner and all,” McCree says.
“Jesse.” Lena fixes him with a flat look. “I know the kinds of cups you’d order. We don’t need more glassware with horseshoes or pistols or bulls or whatever it is that you cowboys fancy for some reason.” She stops, recoiling as if an awful thought had just struck her. “Or worse, glasses with spurs," she all but whispers, expression horrified.
“They don’t even make those!” McCree responds indignantly. “... Do they?”
“Not going to dignify that with an answer,” Lena says, singsong, before taking the drink from McCree’s hand and zipping off.
McCree snorts as she leaves, grabbing a towel and wiping down the counter absently. To Hanzo’s horror, his expression is… contemplative.
The noise has settled down once more. Hanzo focuses again on finishing his drink, letting the sounds of the bar wash over him. Muted conversations and clinking glasses blend seamlessly with the music playing softly in the background--some combination of acoustic guitar and husky vocals--creating a low hum that ebbs and flows around him like waves.
He drains the last sip of amber liquid from his glass. The alcohol sits warmly in the pit of his stomach and his head feels just the slightest bit lighter--nothing that would cause any concern, but enough so that the jumbled thoughts that have been rolling around in his mind all day settle down. Surprisingly, he finds that he feels at ease in a way that he has not felt in a while.
The clink of a glass in front of him pulls him from his reverie. McCree has set another drink in front of him, this one slightly lighter in color.
“Here.”
“I did not order another drink,” Hanzo says, staring at it blankly.
“‘S on the house,” McCree responds easily. “Another one o’ my favorites. A lil’ welcome-to-town gift, if y’will.”
Hanzo blinks. “... Thank you,” he says, accepting it, feeling warmer than the amount of alcohol he has had can explain. It is whiskey again, this time with a stronger woodsy taste. Hanzo finds he quite likes this one as well.
McCree offers him a pleased smile. “‘Course.” He gives Hanzo another ridiculous wink. “Y’can repay me by comin’ to visit me again.”
Hanzo feels his face slip into a glower. “Do not chance your luck, cowboy, ” he growls, scornfully.
McCree just tips his head back and laughs.