Chapter Text
“Listen, Winston-old-chap, I’m all for a treat every now and then, but just how many of those have you had today?”
“Just the one.”
Lena eyes the mostly-eaten candy bar in Winston’s giant fist with open skepticism. “Did I or did I not see you munching on one when I came down to the lab earlier?”
“No,” Winston grunts, peeling the remaining plastic wrapper back and inspecting the chunk of candy that remains. “That had peanuts and nougat. This has layers of crunchy peanut butter. There is a difference.” He pops the remaining bite into his mouth and chews, stuffing the trash in a pocket of his suit for disposal later.
“Whatever you say, luv,” she replies, looking out at the vast ocean below them. The normally turbulent water seems peaceful on a day this pleasant, pale clouds drifting lazily off in the distance, gulls occasionally swooping down at the sea. The launch deck of Watchpoint: Gibraltar is rather quiet compared to the usual hub-bub at this hour, but knowing Winston he most likely planned it that way. There is only one scheduled arrival today, and emotions will already be running high without the added stress of even more people to meet the newcomer.
Which leads Lena’s gaze over at their companion. With his mask firmly in place she cannot see Genji’s eyes but knows they are trained on the skies, as they have been for the past half hour. She is used to seeing the ninja much more relaxed, at least around herself and some of the other old guard. But at the moment his posture is ramrod straight, reminiscent of how he used to hold himself when he first joined Overwatch and was full of tamped down rage. That has eased with time, and vanished almost completely after his stint in Nepal. Lena is not happy to see the return of the old Genji; hopefully this is just a temporary drop back into old habits.
“There’s no reason to be nervous,” she reasons, giving Genji a little nudge with her elbow.
The touch rouses Genji from his focus even if he does not relax. He rocks his weight from one foot to the other, glancing over at her for a moment before looking back at the ocean. “He is late.”
“Only by a half hour. There could be any number of logical reasons why he has been delayed,” Winston rumbles, checking the time. There are also any number of projects he could be working on, but being here to introduce himself and welcome a new member of Overwatch is something he tries to take time out of his day to do.
The little scoff that escapes Genji’s throat vibrates in frequency with the electronics that assist his natural voice. “My brother only arrives when he plans to do so.” Lena rocks back on her heels, exchanging a worried look with Winston.
From the dim lighting of the hangar behind them a light ignites, sudden and flaring before easing into a steady flame. The cigarillo catches and McCree shakes the match out, taking a few short draws to get the tobacco burning before settling the it between his teeth. It leaves the left side of his face in soft orange glow, the rest obscured in shadow. Jesse has been watching the little gathered group for a while, leaning against the wall of the hangar. He is supposed to be going over ammunition inventory from a new shipment, double checking that everything is in order and letting Winston know if more is needed. Boring work, done in five minutes. No, a smoke and the possibility of a show is much more interesting.
To his right, Reinhardt grunts under the strain of lifting a heavy crate single-handedly up on top of another one, the wood creaking under its own weight before settling. The German mutters a few things about young man’s work before picking up a crowbar. “You are as subtle as my rocket hammer, ja?”
Jesse rolls his eyes, taking another draw and blowing smoke as he talks. “You know, you ought to leave the metaphorin’ to someone else.”
“What you know about metaphors that I don’t?”
“Well, for starters, you’ve got no sense of style. Be a little creative with it.” Jesse takes the cigarillo out of his mouth with his prosthetic and contemplates it a moment. “Let’s take your crack on my subtlety, then. I’d say you’re about as subtle as a rooster crowin’ on a fence post. But I’m subtler than a fox makin’ off with that prized rooster.”
As he moves to put the cigarillo back in his mouth, the tablet Jesse had been using to document the inventory beeps helpfully from the crate he left it on. Then Athena’s congenial if somewhat bland voice states, “The previous statements would be considered simile, not metaphor, Agent McCree.”
He raises an eyebrow at the tablet before looking ahead again. “Damn. A.I.’s right. Well, it’s the thought that matters.” Jesse turns his attention back to the little gathering below. Judging by Lena’s movements the time-jumper is starting to get fidgety. “You think he’s gonna show?”
Reinhardt wedges the crowbar between the slats of the box and begins to pry it open. “We sent invitation and he accepted. And it came from his brother; what is reason not to show?”
“I can think of a few,” Jesse replies. “Wanna put money on it?”
“Nein. I know better than to bet with cowboy like you.” The box creaks as it opens and Reinhardt sets to his own task, leaving Jesse to his own thoughts.
Jesse had not been the first to return after the recall, but only because it had taken Winston over a week to get him the message. Of all the times to take a job that kept him incommunicado. But the moment Winston reached him Jesse had dropped everything--including a rather expensive piece of surveillance equipment, but no one had been around at the time to foot him the bill--to heed the call. Two days later and Jesse’s boots were on the ground in Gibraltar for the first time since the disaster in Sweden. Winston had nearly cried upon seeing his familiar hat and serape coming off the air shuttle he had taken, sweeping him up into an undignified gorilla-hug and chattering on about having all his old team back. He had even kept Jesse’s old room just as it had been when the place was abandoned, with a few upgrades here and there and a brand new set of key codes to keep his privacy. Jesse feels a pang a guilt whenever he thinks about it; he should have done a better job of keeping up with Winston, and the others. Just because everything fell to shit was no excuse for rolling off like a tumbleweed through the brush.
Lena, Angela, and Reinhardt had beat him back to the old base, and even though dinner that night had been loose meat sandwiches and bagged chips the five of them had dined like kings. It had felt more like home than anywhere Jesse had laid his head in all the years since he left. Torbjörn’s return the next day and Genji’s three days after that had brought all but the dead back, and new blood was arriving every few days. As illegal as their operation may be, it still felt mighty good to be a part of Overwatch again.
Which brings him back to the little tableau on the deck. Jesse has mixed feelings about the eldest Shimada brother getting offered a spot in their clandestine peacekeeping organization. On the one hand, Overwatch is in desperate need of agents. There is simply no arguing that fact. They have too many enemies on too many fronts to be picky about just who is taking up arms in this fight. On the other hand, Jesse may be one of only a handful of people that knows just what is going on under the hard metal exoskeleton of one Genji Shimada, and pretty is not the word he would use. What that brother did to him was damn near sickening. He still remembers the early days where Angela was holding him together with little more than a hope and a prayer. And sure, Genji can claim forgiveness until the cows come home, but Jesse knows a few of the others are going to take more than the ninja’s word before they turn their backs to one Hanzo Shimada.
“Speak of the devil,” he mutters, catching sight of a carrier approaching from below. Sleek and nondescript, Winston and Athena must have arranged for an automated drop-off so as not to arouse suspicions. From a distance no one would notice the soft white vehicle moving through the sky on such a bright day. The carrier sends up a wind as it settles on the deck, the three below far enough back to not be in the way but close enough that Lena’s short hair dances with the air.
Jesse inhales deeply of his cigarillo, feeling the smoke burn in his lungs. “And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, ‘Come and see.’ And I looked, and behold a pale horse. And his name that sat on him was Death.” His eyes squint to focus on the figure stepping out of the carrier into the sunlight. “And Hell followed with him.”
Hanzo Shimada cuts a fine figure, at least from this distance. Broad shouldered with thick, muscled arms clearly visible since one side of his kyudo gi is baring both to the warm air. Dark hair already graying pulled back with a gold sash, carrying only what he needs in a single satchel, storm bow gripped firmly in his other hand. Jesse cannot see his face from this distance, but he sure can read body language. Stiff reluctance pours off him like water off a tin roof, but the man approaches the others nonetheless. Even Reinhardt stops his task to lean over the crate and watch silently.
Down below, Winston waits until the newcomer steps down onto the ground to approach. “Greetings. I am Winston, current Commander of Overwatch. Welcome to Watchpoint: Gibraltar. We’re glad you could join us.”
If Hanzo is surprised to meet an English-speaking gorilla, much less in charge, then he does an excellent job of hiding it. He inclines his head in greeting, the smallest of bows. “Hanzo Shimada.”
“Allow me to introduce Lena Oxton, one of the agents you will be working with.”
“Evenin’, luv,” Lena greets, taking a step forward and making a motion to offer her hand before realizing both of Hanzo’s are occupied. She instead gives a cocky little salute, winking at him from behind her orange goggles and bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Go by the call sign Tracer! It’ll be a right pleasure to have you on our side; Genji here’s raved plenty about your skills.”
Genji doesn’t comment on that and neither does Hanzo, though it still seems to be the cue to acknowledge one another. The ninja’s voice drags out from behind his faceplate. “Brother.”
“Brother,” Hanzo replies. Behind him the carrier lifts back into the air, a loud reminder that any thoughts of turning around and heading back into obscurity are no longer an option. He waits for downdraft to stop tossing his sash around his shoulders before continuing. “Raved?”
“Do not mind Lena, she has a flair for the dramatic.”
“Hey!”
Genji keeps his gaze on Hanzo. “I did not think you would come.”
Hanzo’s jaw works as he grits his teeth, working to stay neutral. “Here I am.”
“Here you are,” Genji parrots. He looks at Hanzo for a long moment then takes a deep breath, his exhale in time with the green gasses venting from his shoulders. “I am needed elsewhere. Winston and Lena will show you your room. We can talk later.” At Hanzo’s nod, Genji steps forward until they are within arm’s reach and puts a cool hand on Hanzo’s covered shoulder. “It is good to see you, Hanzo.”
Then he is off, striding back into the facility and leaving Hanzo with these two strangers.
“Awkward,” Lena sing-songs, she and Winston turning back from watching Genji leave to consider Hanzo.
The archer shifts uncomfortably on his prosthetics, then clears his throat. “I apologize if my presence causes distrust,” he says, polite as possible. “I am here to help. Whatever you ask of me, I will do what I can to assist your cause.”
That is good enough for Winston. He adjusts his glasses in a nervous gesture before dropping both fists back to the floor. “Uh, great! Excellent! Well, let me give you the short tour and show you to your quarters. I’m sure you’ve had a long journey.”
Lena begins a steady stream of commentary, Winston and Hanzo flanking either side of her as they head up the stairs toward the main entrance and where Reinhardt and Jesse have been watching. Jesse takes the cigarillo from his mouth and stubs it out, tucking the remaining length in his pocket. “I suppose we ought to say hello.”
Reinhardt sighs, setting the crowbar down and moving with Jesse to intercept the little group. The German is just as loud and booming as always as he introduces himself, and Jesse is distracted by the height difference. Shimada must be nearly two feet shorter that the German, no matter how proud his posture.
He is going to attribute that thought and his amusement about it to what comes out of his mouth rather than a proper introduction. “Howdy. You’s a might shorter than I expected.”
That certainly gets a reaction. Hanzo’s eyes go sharp and judgemental as they rake over the cowboy in front of him. Lena winces, making a throat-slitting motion at Jesse behind Hanzo’s back, but his attention is on the man before him. “I assumed Overwatch was a professional organization. Not a place to play dress-up.”
“Hey, now, I didn’t mean anything by it. Torbjörn’ll certainly give you a run for your money on that front,” he says, hooking a thumb in his belt loop and tipping his head back so his hat isn’t in his eyes as much. “The name’s McCree. You can call me Jesse.”
“You are an agent?” Hanzo asks, incredulous.
“Yep.”
The archer sizes him up once more for good measure, then quips. “I can see why you need my help.” With that dismissive remark, Hanzo turns and falls into step with Winston, Tracer lagging behind just long enough mouth the word ‘smooth’ at him while making a similar hand motion, then darting forward to follow.
Jesse stares after them, torn between offended and impressed, pulling the unlit cigarillo back out of his pocket and shoving it between his teeth. “Hey, nice to meet you too, partner!” he shouts after them. Hanzo doesn’t bother to acknowledge it.
Beside him, Reinhardt emits a low chuckle. “I see Genji’s humor runs in the family.”
He wanders off but Jesse stays there, eyes on Hanzo’s back until he disappears into the depths of the base. Seems that the eldest Shimada is a bit prickly around the edges to go along with being easy on the eyes. If he shoots half as good as Genji claims, they might really be in business. Nothing’s more intriguing than a sharp eye and a sharper mouth. Jesse grins, chewing on the tobacco. “Welcome to Overwatch, darlin’.”
---
Alright, so maybe Jesse’s first assessment was a little off.
Not the easy on the eyes part, that was right on the money. Jesse could watch that man move from dusk till dawn and back again. But he is starting to wonder if Hanzo is a little like the sun; bright and searing and if you stay too long in its presence you get radiation burns.
The man shines on the field. It had been hard to believe Genji’s claims about his brother’s abilities before, when he had insisted to Winston and the others that his brother would make a valuable asset to Overwatch. After all, Genji can get hyperbolic when the mood strikes him. He always thought it made Genji sound like the little brother he is, offering up wild exaggerations of just how good his older brother was at one thing or another. Turns out he was understating. Watching Hanzo execute the fluid motions of draw-aim-fire, whether still and poised on the range or in quick motion between obstacles, it is a thing of beauty. Jesse has always found aptitude attractive and there is nothing more attractive than a skilled ranged fighter. Hanzo wields his storm bow just as good if not better than Jesse wields his pistol, and part of Jesse died a happy little death at the realization.
Not that he is going to admit that. Or that he could if he wanted to, with the way Hanzo is every other moment of the day.
When he is not training or being slowly worked into a mission rotation, Hanzo is about as talkative as a cactus and just as wary to approach. So far his interactions with the other members of Overwatch have been limited to answering yes or no to questions thrown his way--if he deems them worthy of answering at all--and the occasional sentence or two regarding a mission.
Oh, and insulting Jesse. How could he forget.
Now, Jesse knows good and well that he got started on the wrong foot with Hanzo Shimada, and it is a good seventy-five percent his fault. No one has ever claimed Jesse made the best decisions in life. Mistakes are kind of his bread and butter. But any attempts to try and make amends seem to fail before they even get started, because that man brings out the back-talk in him something fierce. And, for whatever reason that he cannot quite put his finger on, Hanzo is the same way with him. Where everyone else gets a polite if distant Hanzo, Jesse always manages to weasel a quip or cutting little remark out of the man. If Jesse times it right he can even get a little sharp banter going on before Hanzo inevitably stalks off. The others do not understand it, discourage it, tell Jesse he is going to run their new ally off into the sunset with his attitude.
Jesse never explains his reasons. Maybe he does not understand them himself.
The archer spends his free time holed up in his quarters doing God-knows-what, meditating alone out on the cliffs, or tracking Genji through the compound. That last one, Jesse is not sure Genji or anyone else is really aware of. The only reason Jesse knows himself is from a night he had perimeter watch about a week after Hanzo arrived on base.
He had been leaning against one of the huge boulders off to the side of the hangar doors, just thinking about lighting up and enjoying the reprieve from the heat earlier that day, when he spotted Genji heading out. The ninja, damn fool that he is, sometimes practices his agility and balance by scaling the sheer rock faces that Watchpoint: Gibraltar is tucked into. Leaping from foothold to foothold, running damn near vertical if he has the momentum, it is a wonder they haven’t had to fish him from the drink yet. (To be fair, they have had to, once, but that had more to do with Genji’s own arrogance and a thousand dollar bet. The less said about the chastisement they got from Morrison after that one, the better.)
On that particular night Genji looked to be taking it easy, staying close to eye-level with the compound and stopping occasionally to sit and ponder whatever it is ninjas ponder when they look up at the night sky. He was hard to track, though, and Jesse figured he would keep an eye out and holler if he did not see Genji come back after an hour. His thumb had just been hovering over the match about to strike when he saw it. A flutter of gold, just the barest shine. He would not have seen it at all if the moon had not been full that night.
Eyes straining to pinpoint the movement, Jesse had tensed against the rock, gloved hand falling to his holster and thumbing the hammer of his pistol. If an intruder had already made it up to that level, then Jesse would need to radio for backup. Surely Athena would have detected someone getting past that point, unless they had somehow cut the power to the sensors--
Then Jesse had seen a shadowy figure skirt quick as lightning around a motion light, the gold sash in his hair picking up the faint glow. The now recognizable figure leapt across a narrow gap between two sections of roof before ducking to kneel behind a low retaining wall.
Jesse uncocked his gun after a few minutes, the tension easing from his muscles, and he put the cigarillo back in his pocket. It took him that long to figure out just what Hanzo is up to. From his little perch hidden in darkness Hanzo could easily watch the movements of Genji on the cliffs without being spotted in return. He had his storm bow at his side, quiver over his shoulder, but there was nothing hostile about his readied stance. They were at a distance from each other but Jesse could clearly see Hanzo’s form, black against black with the night sky. When Genji made a particularly long leap Hanzo leaned up, as if fighting an instinct to leap after him. No, there was something protective about this, Jesse thought, considering Hanzo in a new light. An older brother, still keeping an eye out for the younger. After everything the two of them have done, to others and to each other, there is still something there. It is small and by the time the pale light of day came it would be hidden away again, but it is there.
He had stayed there, Hanzo watching Genji and Jesse watching Hanzo, until the two brothers disappeared back into the building in their own quiet ways. His suspicions are confirmed when three days later he catches a repeat performance, this time Hanzo quietly watching Genji as the other man does katas.
This time Jesse does not linger, instead strolling past the ninja and offering a warm greeting before moving on. It takes all he has not to look up at Hanzo’s hiding spot and tip his hat.
---
“But I don’t understand; what makes a food a superfood?” Lena asks, scraping her spoon along the bottom of her bowl to get the milky remnants of her cereal and a few random leftover blueberries.
Mei adjusts her glasses and replies with a soft but eager voice, “Actually, superfood is not really scientifically proven at all. But in the broadest sense of the word it is meant to represent foods that provide health benefits beyond their nutritional value, such as antioxidation or cancer prevention, or--”
“But it is proven!” Zarya punctuates this with a loud thump to the metal table, causing Mei’s pencil to rattle across her notes. “Trainers back in Russia, they say what to eat, say how much, how it build strong bones and stronger muscles. Use superfoods to help make Zarya strongest woman in--”
“It is nonsense.” Fareeha stabs her fork through a grape in her salad, popping it in her mouth to chew and ignoring the affronted look Zarya gives her from across the table. “Just clever marketing.”
Lena slurps just a tad drinking the remaining milk from her bowl, giggling at her own childishness before setting it down. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, a company wants to increase profits? Say it is a superfood. No one listens to scientists about what they eat, sorry Mei, especially when all it takes is a little money to buy a scientist’s expert opinion.”
Mei huffs. “That is just so unethical!”
“And that is my point. No one is checking behind them. No one cares as long as it moves products. It’s the sort of thing people want to believe is real because it makes them feel better about themselves. And it hooks some people, no matter what is true,” Fareeha concludes, gesturing to Zarya and accidentally dropping another grape onto the ground.
Zarya shoves her chair back, the metal screeching uncomfortably loud and jarring over the floor. She leans down to pick up the fallen fruit and uses it to point at Fareeha. “Just because you are--”
“Hey!” A mop of unruly brown hair and annoyed dark eyes look up over the top of the couch. Over his head they can see the harsh glow of a movie on screen mounted on the wall. “Can y’all quit bickerin’ about berries and keep quiet? I’m tryin’ to watch this and y’all are ruining the atmosphere.”
“It’s a common room for a reason,” Lena points out. “Why are you in here, anyway? You’ve got one in your room.”
Jesse grumbles, turning back and slumping down lower to focus back on his movie. “Ain’t working. Something’s wrong with the input, and it’s low on Winston’s priorities, if you must know.”
“Movie does not make sense, anyway,” Zarya says, tilting her head to watch the man on the screen. “And main actor, he does not look like hero. He is too skinny, too--”
“Alright, now, you may be the world’s strongest woman but if you plan on disrespecting Eastwood you’re going to have to bring a gun even bigger than the one you lug around to that duel.” And to punctuate that he picks up the remote and hikes the volume up another eight clicks.
Zarya’s voice goes from aggressive to confused. “What is Eastwood--?”
Lena hops to her feet, suppressing her amusement for now. “Speaking of big guns, it’s getting pretty late and we’ve got training first thing in the morning! Let’s clear out and let Jesse relax!”
Jesse glares at the television, listening to the four women talk another few minutes and dispose of their late night snacks before they begin to shuffle out. Honestly, he usually hardly minds if there is chatter going on while watching a movie. Quiet is rarely available anywhere inside these walls, not since all these new agents signed on. But tonight he is just not in the mood.
It started yesterday when a mission left him bruised along his left leg from knee to ankle, an omnic throwing him like a sack of grain through a window and down a flight of stairs. Combat rolling is pretty ineffective when you hit the the ground at that kind of angle. The broken glass had caused a single superficial cut on his ear that stings like a fire ant bite but will heal in a few days. Worse still the fall had him heavily favoring his leg and Mercy benching him until his mobility comes back. This on the heels of a scathing assessment of his inability to stay out of arm’s reach by Hanzo, who had taken out more than his fair share of opponents and barely looked winded.
Then this morning found him drinking the bottom dregs of the coffee pot, stale and flavorless from whoever forgot to start a new one. Jesse might rise with the morning sun like any good farmhand but without a decent cup of coffee he is always ornery and ready to fight. Target practice was less than stellar, even if he did get some well-needed practice shooting from a prone position. His concentration was just all off today, and a wandering walk around base was a no-go, so he had done some much needed laundry and a few mission reports for Winston that he had been neglecting. All in all the kind of day that leaves him restless yet exhausted and needing to immerse himself in another time and place for a few hours, which is why he is here with his leg elevated on the table in front of him, a pack of ice strapped in place.
The sound of four sets of shoes fades down the hall and for a few blessed minutes Jesse allows himself to appreciate the solitude. But soon enough something unknown makes his ears strain, feeling as if someone is behind him. Leaning up just a few inches he checks over the back of the couch before ducking back down again, fighting off a sigh.
Of course. It had to be Shimada.
The other man barely makes a sound moving around the little kitchen behind him. If this is anything like every other time they have met in the common rooms, he will be gone as soon as he finishes brewing his tea. With that in mind, Jesse trains his eyes back on the screen. Club, the biggest of Cloy LaHood’s hired goons, is threatening Hull and the Preacher with a sledge hammer. With a mighty swing he cleaves apart the stone Hull had been working to break for the past two years in search of the gold underneath. The speakers make a loud crack along with the strike, and Jesse obediently turns it down a few notches, hoping he did not damage them.
Josh LaHood, son of one of the antagonists, nods for Club to attack. Preacher, at least a good hundred pounds lighter than Club, takes him out with two swift strikes of his own hammer, one to the forehead and one to the groin. Then, like a gentleman, he leads the giant of a man back to his horse and recommends a little ice as he helps him up in the saddle. Jesse smirks a little at that. He always liked how Preacher could be a total badass and at the same time more considerate to all these strangers than all their friends and family have been for years.
On the other horse, Josh glares at Preacher and tosses the ends of his coat aside to reveal his gun, fingers poised and ready to draw on this man who just bested the most intimidating man on their payroll. But Preacher just stares back, disapproving, and after a tense moment the two ride off from the mining site.
“He just lets them leave?”
Jesse does not startle, having not completely forgotten Hanzo was back there, but he was not expecting commentary. Judging by the distance he thinks Hanzo is back by the counter brewing his tea. Or possibly just refilling that canteen of alcohol he knows Hanzo carries with him at all times. “Yep.”
“Even though they were just threatened?” Hanzo presses, incredulous.
“Yep,” Jesse repeats. “None of ‘em are armed, not even Preacher. They might take ‘em in a rush, but that ain’t the point. Preach’s got to give them a chance to do what’s right.”
Hanzo makes a disapproving and dismissive noise and turns back to his task, and Jesse assumes that ends the discussion. The movie goes on until Preacher is getting the offer from Cloy LaHood himself before Hanzo speaks again, this time much closer than expected.
“He is trying to bribe a man of faith?”
Jesse tilts his head, considering. “I don’t know if it’s considered a bribe if he’s offering to buy them out.”
“It is a bribe or extortion, with the threat of violence he includes,” Hanzo says, stepping into view at the end of the couch, watching the screen with a displeased look on his face and a cup in his hands. Jesse wonders how long he was standing back there watching.
“The LaHood’s ain’t exactly the most benevolent of businessmen,” Jesse chuckles, glancing up at him.
“Then why would he even agree to speak with him in the first place?”
“Get to know your enemy and all that, I reckon.” The other man stays standing there another minute before it occurs to Jesse to mind his manners. He pushes up with arms and his good leg and moves to the side, his leg dragging to the edge of the table. “Hey, now, forgive me, let me make room--”
“That is not necessary,” Hanzo starts, but Jesse shakes his head and gestures for Hanzo to take the other side of the couch.
“Course it ain’t necessary, but you got it all the same.”
McCree picks up the controller and stops the movie, which gets Hanzo confused and a bit annoyed, until he realizes that the cowboy is just restarting the movie. Which means he intends for Hanzo to stay. “I did not say that I was going to--”
“You can’t appreciate the story as well if you come in from the middle. The beginning’s important; you got to establish just how helpless these guys are, how much they need somethin’ to rally behind. C’mon, don’t be shy, it ain’t like I’m gonna object to starting over, I’ve seen it enough times.”
Hanzo visibly hesitates, all uncertainty and distrust and searching for ulterior motives. It is a look that Jesse has had pointed his way enough times that it does not bother him too terribly much. Besides, if anyone around here has a reason to have trust issues he would wager it would be anyone with Shimada as a surname. So Jesse does not call him on it, instead settling back into his new corner of the couch and tugging his serape a little higher toward his chin, eyes on the screen.
The archer must decide the risk is worth the reward as he sits across the couch, as far from Jesse as possible with his back straight and formal. He also notices the empty glass tumbler by Jesse’s raised foot, the remnants of ice melting on the bottom. Feeling the need to reciprocate his kindness in some way, Hanzo reaches for his canteen. “I take it you drink?” he asks.
Jesse’s face tilts up into a pleased half-smile. “Only after nine in the morning,” he says. His glass gets partially filled with a rosey golden orange liquid, and Jesse leans up to pick it off the table and bring it to his nose. “Thank’ya kindly. What’s this?”
“Plum wine,” Hanzo replies, topping off his own cup.
“Plum wine, huh? Ain’t had this in a good long while,” he comments, taking a sip. It’s sweet and sour all at once, so different than what he usually imbibes, and he makes a face as he swallows. “It’s good.” Hanzo does not laugh, but something close to amusement crosses his features, so Jesse adds, “And please, you gotta at least sit back. Watchin’ you is enough to make this old back ache, and I got enough aches for one night.”
“You would not have them if you would have minded your flank,” the archer points out. But for once it lacks the heat the words usually bring. And, unbelievably, he eases back against the couch cushions. Still stiff but McCree takes it as a win.
“We’ve been over that, I think,” Jesse says, waving him off and gesturing to the screen. “Now, let me know if something don’t make sense; it’s supposed to be based in the Californian gold rush, and I’m guessing you probably didn’t cover that in Japan.”
“I think I can figure it out,” Hanzo grouses, turning his attention to the movie.
But he does ask questions, eventually, enough that Jesse ends up pausing the movie long enough to answer some of them in detail. He finds Hanzo to be a good listener, and it is so rare for people to be interested in McCree’s hobbies. And though he expects Hanzo to leave within the first half hour he ends up staying through until Megan runs after the Preacher riding off into the mountains, shouting her love and thanks to him.
Hanzo frowns at the screen for a long moment before saying, “They should have left.”
“You think so?” Jesse asks, tilting his head back and looking over at the archer.
“It is like you said; they were helpless. They did not know how to fight. And the peace keepers of the area, they would not come to their aid. They put all their faith in a man.”
“That’s how faith works. Not that I prescribe much to it myself,” Jesse replies, chuckling. “Would be a piss-poor movie if they’d just took the money and left, wouldn’t it?”
His companion makes a grunt noise, reluctant agreement. “They still should have left. They could have taken that money and started somewhere new, that was less dangerous for their families. The man, Spider Conway, he would not have been killed if they had.”
Jesse nods. “Maybe not that day,” he agrees. “But he’d have never found that nugget of gold, either.”
“It was foolish.”
“Well, it’s like they said. ‘Starting fresh always sounds good when you’re in trouble.’ Take you, for instance.”
The moment the words leave Jesse’s mouth he knows he should have kept his trap shut. Hanzo stiffens and looks at him sharply, the skin around his eyes and mouth going tight. “What about me?” he asks sharp and deadly. Like a viper waiting to strike.
Well, in for a penny. “You always look about two bad steps away from rabbitin’ right on out of here,” Jesse says. “I see it, and I know damn well Genji sees it. Hell, Genji probably didn’t think you’d last a week. It’d be a hell of a lot easier for you to leave, after all. Disappear, start somewhere new. Somewhere where they ain’t never heard of Hanzo Shimada, and the name doesn’t really matter, does it?” He sits up, injured leg falling down to the ground so he can rest both arms on his knees, the edges of his serape pooling in the crooks of his elbows. “But you’re still here. Stickin’ it out, even though it’s hard, even though everybody knows you don’t want to be here. Something to be said for that.”
“You have no idea what I want,” Hanzo practically growls, surging to his feet, hands clenching for the storm bow back in his room. Not waiting for a rebuttal, he turns on his heels and stalks out of the room, prosthetics tapping loudly on the metal floor and echoing down the hall in his wake.
Jesse is reminded of the dragons, what he has seen of Genji’s and has not of Hanzo’s, and another time long ago when another Shimada slashed out with those same cutting words. They are more alike than they know. “Maybe,” he replies to the empty room, thinking of Hanzo keeping a watchful eye on his unaware brother. “But I know more than you think.”