Work Text:
Cole lights the last cigar he’s liable to smoke for the next several months with the last of his motel matches. The house Overwatch bought them is the kind of two-story McMansion he wouldn’t sell to his worst enemies, but at least the backyard is shielded with enough greenery to guarantee privacy. Mr. Sam Guerrero isn’t supposed to be a smoker.
Hanzo chose for himself a much easier role. Mr. Asano Tomo is currently using his eye for detail and good business sense to finalize their mission with Winston’s hologram. Sam would join them, but Sam is, like Cole, unable to go over something more than three times.
Also Cole isn’t as fond of his pretend-husband’s company as Sam. At least he’s pretty sure Hanzo feels the same way; son of a bitch kept repeating how he’d only agreed to this mission because he was the only one qualified for such an important task. If they can pull it off, they’ll strike a blow to Talon’s recruiting abilities from which they will never recover.
If the undercover Overwatch agents don’t kill each other first.
“Husband,” rings Hanzo’s voice from the window. “Go to the store and buy trash bags.”
“You forgot the magic word, sweetness,” Cole hisses back.
“Now.”
The window snaps shut and Cole decides to rebelliously sit there and smoke for at least two more minutes. Between the yakuza upbringing and that obnoxiously gorgeous mug, there’s no way Hanzo isn’t used to being obeyed without question. We’ll see about that.
Cole scrolls on his phone for a playlist that always cheers him up, finds none that will likely do the job, then sighs and just hits shuffle.
ᴥ
A lovesick Whitney Houston warbles beneath the drone of rolling carts, muffled voices and distant cash registers. The supermarket is one of the most retro things about this town; few automated check-outs, state-of-the-art etiquette-omnics only. In a community this tightly wound and flagrantly wealthy, there’s probably laws dictating personalized service from the doctor's office to the gas stations.
“Got your peanut butter.” Cole drops the tub into the cart.
“I said peanut sauce.”
“Huh?”
The effort Hanzo exerts to not roll his eyes must be the biggest workout he’s had all week. “Nevermind,” he mutters. “Go get eggs and milk. Surely you can handle that.”
“I can’t be darting all over the store, honey. It don’t look right.” He moves to Hanzo’s side, pretending to peruse tea boxes. “Couples don’t do that.”
“What kind of couple goes grocery shopping together?”
“The kind who enjoy one another’s company? The kind who don’t got servants?”
Hanzo narrows his eyes. “As if you would know.”
Cole doesn’t know whether that’s a dig at him being an orphan or an allusion to his life as a non-civilian. Either way, it rubs him wrong. “You’re making it real hard to stay the bigger man, sweetheart.” Hands in his pockets, Cole sways his own head just over Hanzo’s, almost resting his chin on that tuft of black hair that seems to forver escape Hanzo’s topknot. “Figuratively speaking, of course.”
Hanzo elbows him less sharply than usual, which is surprising. As rough as their bickering can get, he never snaps like Cole initially expected he would. Though it’s not like the man has a choice; Cole is the superior officer, and Hanzo prides himself on being an exemplary agent. And it’ll be a long six months if they’re at each other’s throats.
“Sam! Tomo!”
Both men turn (Cole with a groan) to see their nextdoor neighbor, Pamela, barreling up the aisle. The basket in her arm is overflowing with dark leafy greens and a bag of kids’ frozen chicken nuggets, but none of it mars her crisp white polo. Cole’s disliked her ever since she asked one too many questions in the vein of, Where are you from? No, I mean, like, originally?
Hanzo, who wasn’t present for that conversation, is far more cordial. “Pamela. So nice to see you.”
“How’re you two doing? Looking real good, Tomo! Are those shoes new?”
“Hardly. The last thing I purchased was this,” Hanzo tugs gently on Cole’s jacket with a smirk. “You should’ve seen the tattered-up blanket he was wearing before.”
“Haha! He’s lucky to have your eye.”
Cole longs to tune them out, but it’s important to stay engaged. His smile strains his face, even as he scans the rest of the store for a good excuse to walk away. “I sure am.”
Pamela eyes their full cart. “Ooo! Getting ready for a big weekend?”
“No,” says Hanzo. “We’re just stocking up so that we don’t have to come back here for a long time.”
Cole has to hold back a snort; it’s the truth.
“Oh, you’re hilarious, Tomo! I know a big spread when I see one. You’re gonna cook for Sam, aren’t you? The big game’s this weekend.” Cole sees her give Hanzo a conspiratorial wink, her diamond earrings winking along with her. “I can just see you dashing around the house, in your nice little outfit, getting everything just perfect. We gotta keep our men happy, right?”
A foul taste rises in Cole’s mouth. He doesn’t like her tone, nor the insinuations and camaraderie with which she’s ambushed Hanzo. But she hasn’t technically overstepped, and they have to ingratiate themselves in the community, and Cole isn’t—
“The only spread I’m planning is this one,” Hanzo reaches and squeezes Cole by the hip, tugging him against his side with the slightest effort. “Over the table, perhaps.” He nudges Cole towards the cart and Cole, with a face that feels like it's on fire, takes the hint and pushes the cart onward. “Be sure to treat yourself after this, Pamela. You’re looking tired.”
“Later, Pam,” Cole just manages to grind out.
They’re four aisles away before Cole lets out a wheezing, yet quiet cackle. “Jesus, Hanzo. You didn’t have to murder her.”
“I am far too accustomed to that brand of…” Hanzo swallows his next words with a soft growl.
“I get it, believe me. She had it coming.” He can’t help but smile as Hanzo angrily inspects some yellow squash. “I think we should add her to the list.”
Hanzo looks at Cole like he’s insane. “Of suspects?” he mutters.
“Yeah.”
“How on earth could that PTA-nightmare earn a spot on a list of potential terrorists?”
“She’s trying too hard. Something don’t add up.” He looks Hanzo up and down. “No one would look at you and assume you’d be the type who’d spend your whole weekend dotingly preparing a huge meal for ‘your man’ and his ‘big game.’”
Hanzo snorts under his breath, but Cole can just make out the slightest hint of a raised mood. “I think you underestimate her vapidity.”
“Maybe.” Cole leans surreptitiously to one side; he feels he’s earned at least one quick look down Hanzo’s v-neck. Though the sight reminds him: “Sooo…” He waits until Hanzo raises a brow at him to grin. “Over a table, huh?”
To Cole’s surprise, Hanzo merely smirks with the same wicked look Cole’s seen him don right before executing a flawless head-shot. “Not a chance.” Then he turns back to the vegetables.
Just as Cole’s heaving a faux-sigh, Hanzo adds, “That table is far too unstable. I’d have to take you on the floor.”
Then he bags two squash, takes the cart, and Cole stands there for five more seconds before remembering that he should follow.
ᴥ
Monday night is the double-date with the Freidman's. The state fair is in town and Agent Cassidy insists that they attend. Not only does Paul Freidman have connections to the Reeves, who could get them an invite to the Atrium Gala at the end of the summer—the one at which there will undoubtedly be their Talon recruiter and other persons of interest—he has what Cassidy calls, “the best collection of desert plants I’ve ever seen,” and is determined to grill the man on the subject.
Hanzo has seen many surprising interests arise in the gunslinger since they began this little ruse. Books Hanzo’s never seen him read on base. Not dodging conversation with his usual tactics but sharing stories freely. Delight in hunting down new reality shows featuring deranged and diabolical elites. Claiming that access to a new, state-of-the-art kitchen has inspired him to try all of the mouth-searing southwestern recipes he’d missed since childhood. Hanzo isn’t complaining—he also enjoys the terrible rich people and his tongue has been pleasantly burning for weeks now—but it has given their entire mission an air of surrealism.
Cassidy’s also been spending lots of time with the horses stabled a few miles from their neighborhood. Hanzo has joined him on numerous occasions for rides alongside the brook that runs behind the property and up into the hills. Sam Guerrero is supposed to be a retired rancher, but Cassidy slipped so easily into the role that Hanzo was surprised he’d never worked with horses before.
It turns out, as Cassidy confesses while they watch an inexplicable fair event called ‘tractor pulling’—he did. “Worked as a farm hand at a bunch of spots before I hooked up with Ashe,” he says, piecing cotton candy into his mouth. “Wasn’t so good at following orders, but I probably could've done alright if I'd had my own. Family had a ranch, too, once upon a time.”
“Is your family still there?”
“No idea.”
“You are not curious?”
Cassidy shrugs. His voice sounds as if it’s been buried under several layers of gravel, as is often the case when he’s pressed for a long-dead memory. “I don’t deserve to get curious.” Then he cheers for what must have been a particularly good ‘pull.’
Hanzo makes a sound of acknowledgment as though he understands, but he isn’t sure he does. He isn’t sure he deserves to try.
The sun sets and a strip of celestial-blue light throws the mountain’s silhouette into glowing relief, then gradually cedes to the hyper-neon gleam of the fair. Everything pops: colors, smells, sounds. A band is croaking out some ancient tune from the Carter Family while children rush by screeching. Wobbly fair-jingles accompany even more wobbly-looking rides.
It’s overwhelming, but there are some subtler points of pleasure to be had. Hanzo ate his funnel cake so quickly that now he’s eyeing the fried Oreo truck, even though Cassidy warned him about it already.
“Go ahead,” Cassidy chuckles.
Hanzo raises a brow at him. “Go ahead what?”
“Get some.”
Hanzo briefly ponders the miracle that is Cassidy learning to read his mind after only three months of pretending to be lovers. “I have no more tickets.”
“Here,” and Cassidy rearranges the stuffed toys he’s won so he can reach down and tug up the corner of his plaid shirt. Hanzo gets only a glimpse of the sharp V of muscle leading into Cassidy’s jeans as well as the contradictory soft belly and dark hair leading south before a roll of tickets are earthed out and pushed into his hand. “Got lucky at skee-ball with Paul.”
Hanzo looks up and mutters acidly, “Something wrong with your pockets?” But he doesn’t stick around for an answer. He marches to the window and orders a bag of fried Oreos with a probably terrible glare; the boy running the stand cowers a little.
It’s unfair, having to see Cassidy in this setting. Soft blue flannel and horrifyingly well-fitted jeans. Smelling like some cologne that Hanzo regularly catches himself leaning towards on top of that old tobacco acridity, as signature to the cowboy as his hat. It isn’t fair, especially since Hanzo already decided that his attraction to Cassidy was superficial and likely wrought from years of loneliness, a thing to be discarded once its all-too-natural course has run dry.
But it’s all so easy. When he returns to Cassidy’s side, Cassidy gestures to the Oreo bag. Hanzo lets it hang open and Cassidy roots around for the biggest one he can find with a child’s glint in his warm brown eyes, purring, “My mama used to love these." Hanzo finds himself unable to stop smiling.
It fills him with anxiety when he imagines how hard it should be. Something is liable to go wrong any day now. Any moment.
“Ey, you picked the best truck,” says Paul, returning with his wife Jen and their young daughter. “Y’know they fry whole pieces of cake, right?”
“Perhaps after I have finished these,” Hanzo replies, dead serious. Cole laughs.
“You two wanna try the Whirlibird before you finish that?” says Jen with a smirk. “So you don’t puke everywhere?”
“Whirlibird!” pipes the little girl.
“I have a strong stomach,” Hanzo says.
“It’s true,” Cassidy sighs, linking his arm over Hanzo’s shoulders. “I made my spiciest posole ever for his birthday. Ate it all in one sitting.”
Teasing Cassidy with sexual implications is one thing. Having Cassidy’s arm over his shoulders, that soft flannel brushing his neck, the feel of Cassidy’s warm, solid arm weighing him down...
Paul and Jen mutually turn to Hanzo. Ralph says, “I didn’t know you just had a birthday, Tomo. Happy birthday!”
Though a fine actor if he does say so himself, Hanzo still struggles to smile. The sweetness is becoming too much. Not for the first time, he wonders if he truly is qualified for this type of mission. “Thank you.”
“Ah, he’s a little annoyed he has to be another year older,” Cassidy chuckles, lowering that arm from Hanzo’s shoulders to hook him around the waist. “I keep telling him he’s the best-looking thing in twenty-six-point-six square miles.”
It’s an inside joke. ‘Twenty-six-point-six square miles’—their chosen town’s actual size and the circumference of their mission. What do you want to do tonight within twenty-six-point-six square miles? Nothing but idiots for twenty-six-point-six square miles. Or, when one of them is acting outside of their chosen character, That’s something way beyond twenty-six-point-six square miles. Hanzo can’t even remember when it started, but it rarely fails to make him smile. He can't remember ever having had anything resembling an inside joke. Even with Genji.
It just makes it all the more intimate when Cassidy places a whiskery kiss on Hanzo’s temple. It doesn’t quite feel like Sam kissing Tomo, and it makes Hanzo go outwardly rigid while a fire dances up his spine.
Luckily Cassidy is quick on the draw. “Let’s table these Oreos for some Whirlibird action.”
No one pukes, but Hanzo feels like he’s spinning long after the ride is over. Jen offers to take their picture and Hanzo almost refuses, thinking he won’t be able to fake it, but when she tells them to smile, it’s another easy thing.
ᴥ
They decide to host a belated-house-warming-party about five months in. It’s both a way to solidify their place in the neighborhood and an excuse to invite the Reeves. Cole thought Hanzo would refuse the idea, but actually, he was pretty into it. He cleaned the whole house while Cole cooked, both listening to Hanzo’s bizarrely emotional collection of 1980’s Japanese crooners. Cole’d teased him at first, but now he kind of likes it.
There’s a lot of things he likes now that he didn’t before, and one of those things is making it hard to concentrate on the mission tonight. Hanzo’s wearing this crisp, short-sleeved button-down in soft blue silk that falls over his muscles like it was made for him (which, of course it was.) His hair, now long enough to fold into a neat knot rather than hastily tied up in short spikes, looks equally silky as he speaks to the local wealthy bachelor, Ford McKibbon. Cole keeps looking over, expecting Hanzo to end the conversation at any second, but only compounds his irritation when he catches Hanzo smiling. Surely nothing Ford says could be that interesting. What kind of stupid name is Ford, anyway? Like something a suburban wanna-be redneck would name their kid. He’s surprised the man isn’t wearing plastic sports shades on the back of his neck.
“‘Scuse me,” Cole finally cuts in with a tight smile, “Need to borrow my husband for a second.”
But Hanzo looks hesitant. “What is it, my love?”
Cole blinks rapidly with the sudden bodily response that nickname elicits. “Uhh... the—we—we need more guacamole.”
“Surely you don’t need my help with that,” Hanzo turns that dangerous smile onto Cole and all of his determination melts. His hand on Cole’s bicep feels about a hundred degrees. “Ford here was just telling me about the charity ball coming up.”
“Biggest event of the season,” Ford grins. “And I’m without a plus-one! Can you believe it?”
“I surely cannot,” Cole drones, turning away without another word. He read Hanzo clear enough: this could be a way into that gala without ever having to involve the Reeves, who are currently chatting in a corner while throwing disdainful looks at the little succulents Cole's arranged on the mantlepiece.
As he’s cutting onions to create what will become a surplus of guacamole, he realizes—Hanzo may intend to play Ford’s plus-one on his own. Ford is clearly keen and it would be fine for just one of them to be there. Might even create an opening for the other to safely infiltrate.
Cole sighs; it’s clever. Just one of Hanzo’s many clever moves over the past five months. It's not fair to grant someone with such good looks and tactical smarts.
After everyone has left, they start clean-up right away. Cole suggested they just head to bed, but Hanzo cannot abide a messy house, and the only reason Cole doesn’t argue is that he could use a buffer to sober up before he has to sleep next to Hanzo. Drunk-Cole is known to be a bit of an octopus.
He pulls out the blue paper umbrella he’d playfully stuck into Hanzo’s topknot earlier and tosses it into his trash bag. “Have a good time?”
“Yes.” Hanzo, adorably tipsy, smiles at Cole like Tomo would smile at Sam. “You are… a good host."
Cole tries not to let it go to his head that no one is around for Hanzo to need to act; with long undercover missions, sometimes staying in character is just easier. “Yeah? Never thought I’d be the type, to be honest.”
"People like you."
"People like you, too."
Hanzo chuckles, but it sounds a little complicated to Cole. "People like Tomo. And moreso when he is with Sam."
Cole doesn't know how to respond to that, so he just goes on disposing of red cups by pouring their remains into an empty margarita pitcher. After a while, he mutters, “Hey—”
“No.”
“What?”
“You were about to dare me to drink the contents of that,” Hanzo looks with disdain at the Frankenstein-esque concoction Cole has brewed. “The answer is no.”
Cole laughs, shaking his head. “Stop reading my mind,” he mutters, though there’s nothing behind it. Artlessly, he segues: “You get anything from Mr. Built Ford Tough?”
Hanzo snorts. “He invited me to the gala. Somewhat respectfully.”
Cole nods at the disposable plates until he realizes he should probably speak. “That’s great.”
“I turned him down, of course.”
“Mm,” Cole hums. Then his head snaps up. “Wait, what?”
Hanzo regards Cole with equal befuddlement. “I’m married. It would be inappropriate.”
“Han, this might be our only shot! You saw how stuck-up the Reeves are. The ball’s less than a month away.”
“But…” Despite his quietness, Hanzo is never one to be at a loss for words, but now he seems genuinely frustrated. “No. That would be unseemly. I am with you.”
Cole tries not to think too hard about how that statement, delivered with Hanzo's typical intensity, hits the space behind his rib cage like a close-range shotgun. Now his own words seem just out of reach. “That’s... mighty sweet of you, Tomo, but Sam is just fine letting his husband of ten years accompany some fool to an exclusive party. Besides,” he forces himself to chuckle, “Everyone knows that Sam ain’t exactly the gala-type.”
Hanzo frowns and opens his mouth, but once again fails to communicate. He just shakes his head and turns back to his cleaning. “Perhaps I will call him tomorrow and say that you are, apparently, fine with it. And that I was... mistaken.”
“Think it’s be our best bet,” Cole mutters, now feeling strangely miserable. “Besides, this way I can just sneak into our mark’s office. Would give us a big leg up on the interrogation.”
“Perhaps it’d be even better to have you on the inside from the start, not sneaking in through tight security.”
“Han, I’ve talked my way into a lotta places, but I don’t see how even I could get into this ball while also keeping our profile low.”
Hanzo looks thoughtfully out their front window. “Didn’t you say you once posed as a waiter?” When Cole freezes, Hanzo shows him that wicked smirk again. “I dare you.”
ᴥ
The uniform is a bit tight but, of course, it still looks good on Cassidy. Hanzo keeps an eye on him as the man guides his tray of bacon-wrapped dates across a sea of finely-dressed gala attendees, all chatting over tall glass tables and swaying to a stuffy band under one of the biggest chandeliers Hanzo has ever seen. It spins free-floating above the crowd, hovering like a glittering monolith beneath the atrium-like ceiling. No one seems perturbed by its precariousness, however; this is a crowd who’ve never harbored true worry in their life.
Hanzo is contemplating his own hovering sword when Ford hands him his third flute of champagne. Hanzo smiles. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Love that you decided to go all in black,” Ford lifts his hand and brushes his knuckles against Hanzo’s shoulder. “It’s very striking.”
Hanzo only nods and turns his gaze outward towards the party, mirroring Ford. “My husband picked it out.”
“Did he now? Reminds me of my ex. Did I tell you he owns the local jewelers? Magnificent store...”
That’s Hanzo’s cue to zone out, which Cassidy must sense, because he snickers in Hanzo’s ear, “Must have good taste, that husband of yours.”
Hanzo blocks his mouth with his champagne; Ford is barely looking at him anyway. “Not always.”
“Oh yeah? Suppose we all got our faults.”
“His are hard to miss.”
“That why you’re chatting up a waiter right now? Shame, Mr. Asano.”
“Are you pretending to be my husband pretending to be a waiter pretending to flirt with me?”
All Hanzo gets in return is a breathy chuckle and that’s how he realizes: there’s no need for them to flirt right now. No one else can hear them.
But that’s just how Cassidy is. Hanzo has thought before that Cole Cassidy is the one person who could’ve charmed the famously unbendable Shimada Sojiro. It’s good that he’s the one breaking into Reeve’s office; of the two of them, Cassidy is the best at talking himself out of trouble. But it does play rough with Hanzo’s heart.
Across the dance floor, Hanzo can see him chatting with some woman in a gold-sequined dress while two other women smile like they're looking at the stars. Hanzo can’t really blame them; Cassidy looks like exactly the cut of meat a younger Shimada Hanzo would’ve taken home to sample. Back when his name and his looks were all the charm he needed. What does he have to offer now?
“Excuse me,” Hanzo gestures vaguely in the direction of the bathroom and leaves Ford with his shrimp cocktail and a gaggle of high-society sycophants. It isn’t hard to locate their Talon lead—Ursa Demetriou, a towering woman with a platinum-blond crop and some of the most seamless spinal biotech Hanzo has seen in years, is holding court near the edge of the dance floor.
Hanzo pretends to be inspecting an ice sculpture while he dumps his champagne flute into a planter. Under his breath, he whispers to Cassidy, “Have you ID'ed who she’s speaking with?”
“No, but I got a good memory for faces. Christ, wish these aprons were bigger. Feels like the first person who bumps into me is gonna get Peacekeeper’s serial number.”
Hanzo snorts. “You mean one of those women did not get it already?”
“Aww, you jealous, Tomo?”
“Hardly.”
“Don’t worry, I only got eyes for you, sweetheart. Especially in that suit.”
Hanzo feels his face grow warm, but it only makes him scowl more. “I wanted to be sure I would not draw attention if we had to spill blood.”
“S’why I always wear red.”
Unwilling to argue that Cassidy is mostly in white, he takes himself to the bar for a complicated cocktail order that will likely take ten minutes to make. He only has to pretend to drink it and sit through two more of Ford’s self-aggrandizing anecdotes before Ursa’s diamond-sparkling spine catches his eye—she’s making her way to the grand staircase with three dull-looking individuals in tow.
“Eyes.”
“I got her,” whispers Cassidy. The sound in Hanzo's ear is enough to make him shiver. “Bet those are Talon accountants. I’m gonna see if I can get an ear before I search her office.”
“Do not get caught.”
“C’mon. It’s me!”
That statement would have been worrying enough if twenty whole minutes didn’t pass before Hanzo heard from him again.
Ford is just working up the courage to say something Hanzo knows is going to be whisky-bold and highly inappropriate when he hears Cassidy again: “I’m in. Searching now.”
Hanzo immediately looks for Ursa. She’s gliding back down the staircase with only two of her previous friends. “The third is unaccounted for. The redhead.”
“He’s in the hallway. I can hear him on his phone.”
Hanzo forces himself to take a slow breath and remind himself that Cassidy is a talented black ops agent, but all self-soothing comes to a halt when Ford takes his hand. “Hanzo. Have I told you how good you look tonight?”
“Many times.” Hanzo actually takes a drink now. “But feel free to do so again.”
“So handsome. Would you like to dance?”
“I am not much of a dancer. Perhaps after one more drink.”
Ursa has stopped on the stairs. She's frowning at her phone.
“Now I don’t want you tripping over your own feet. Not that I would mind carrying you home. Maybe to my own.”
Now she’s heading back up the stairs.
“I hope I’m not being too forward.”
She looks pissed.
“The offer is tempting,” Hanzo says, letting their hands slip apart as he strides away. “But I am afraid that I love my husband.”
She’s already out of sight.
“Cassidy,” he hisses under his breath. “She’s coming back up the stairs.”
A minute passes. No response.
“Cassidy, come in.”
A few more minutes pass. Hanzo doesn’t want to risk crossing the velvet rope to head upstairs. He also doesn’t want to delay and risk Cassidy’s life. Ursa and her ilk wouldn’t hesitate to quietly murder him first and discern his identity later. Already the cold anxiety of Cassidy's abrupt end is making it very hard to breathe.
He’s about to exit the atrium so he can scale the wall outside when his hand is grabbed and he is pulled towards the dance floor. The only reason he doesn’t break the offending arm is because it’s embedded with a familiar iron skull.
“Cassidy.”
“Keep dancing,” he mutters.
Cassidy has shucked his waiter’s uniform to reveal a suit of deep red—no, oxblood—complete with shined shoes and an even darker shirt. Three open buttons yank Hanzo’s eyes to Cassidy’s strong throat and flood his brain with the urge to taste his skin.
“When did you—?”
“S’why the uniform was so tight,” Cassidy chuckles, out of breath.
“What of Ursa?”
“Dunno.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“I left her in the hallway.”
“What?”
“I had to book it fast and I wasn’t gonna do it with her over my shoulder.”
“You irresponsible—”
“This ain’t the clan, honey. Sometimes shit goes sideways and it’s a choice between a bad decision and a worse one.”
“You know very well—”
Then Cassidy tugs him in even closer and Hanzo really does feel the outline of Peacekeeper. Heat floods his face but he maintains his steps.
Cassidy rumbles into his ear, “We’re gonna wait until her detail heads up the stairs. Then we’re gonna skedaddle.”
“And what of her interrogation?”
“I got her drive. I know a good hacker who owes me. This way’s easier.”
“This was not the plan,” Hanzo hisses, pulse thumping in his ear.
“Winston’ll agree. Trust me.” Cassidy leans back to meet his eyes just when Hanzo feels like he might go dizzy from the smell of him. “That Ford's a real jackass, huh?”
Hanzo absentmindedly nods, “Yes, just like everyone else in twenty-six-point-six.”
“Yeah, but... the guy practically asked you to bed.”
Hanzo had forgotten that Cole could hear his and Ford’s every word, or else he assumed Cassidy would be focused on the office search, or it just slipped his mind. Either way, all he feels is frustration at Cassidy’s seeming lack of concern for their imperiled mission. And his own bodily reaction to being so close to the cowboy has sanded his patience to dust. “What of it?”
Cassidy hesitates, then shrugs. He seems inordinately frustrated. “Was way outta line, that’s all.”
The music switches to something slower but Hanzo’s heart rate stays right where it’s at. Somewhere in the sway he realizes that he can, in fact, dance, but can’t remember ever doing so before now. It figures that Cassidy would be so full of surprises as to make Hanzo surprise himself. At his age, in this ridiculous little town, when just a few months ago he thought that the only thing he had left to look forward to was to die in battle.
It’s all so unfair.
“There they go,” mutters Cassidy.
And just like that, they part and begin striding for the door. The evening is winding down but the crowd is still thick, making it easy to escape unseen. Hanzo sends a quick apology text to Ford while Cassidy hot-wires an old pick-up a mile from the party. Hanzo feels like there's a storm inside his head, but at least their partnership is still copacetic enough for them to wordlessly agree not to speak for the entire ride home.
ᴥ
“How will we pack the plants?”
Cole laughs as though Hanzo had made a joke, but when he looks at him, the man is stone-faced.
“Are you kidding? Just grab the essentials, Han.”
He watches Hanzo give the succulents a long once-over before resuming tossing items into a bag. Lena confirmed pick-up in oh-two-hundred hours at least twenty-eight miles from their address, so they have to move quick.
Still, Cole can’t hide the warmth generated by Hanzo wanting to preserve the vibrant little plants dotting their bedroom of six months. There’s a lot about this McMansion that Cole will miss. The plants, the framed photos, the blankets. The lawn chair out back where Hanzo would lay for hours in his stupidly tiny bathing suit. Their big closet whose rigid borders gradually dissolved until Hanzo was always grunting with frustration as he tried to locate a particular shirt amongst Cole’s flannel. The lame sudan outside whose radio presets were a mash-up of American folk and Japanese R&B.
The faux-leather couch that would get too warm as summer stretched on, but still Hanzo sat next to him rather than the armchair. The bed where Cole struggled not to hold Hanzo more nights than he cares to count, where he often woke to see Hanzo’s still-sleeping face and think about how he had no right to house such powerful desire.
It all mingles together to create a lump in his throat. Usually he shoves it down before it makes him say something he’ll later regret, but now, with his duffel bag in his hand and all of their drawers growing emptier and emptier…
“Hey, Han,” he croaks, clearing his throat. “Would you uhh…”
He looks at Hanzo and Hanzo looks back. There’s no future for Sam and Tomo, but there is a future for Cole and Hanzo. As Overwatch agents. As two men trying to do better. As friends, even. If Cole doesn’t fuck it all up here and now, maybe they could be more.
Which probably means he should wait. He’s jumped the gun on so many things in his life. Though he’d bank on his own good luck more often than not, there are some things he won’t just roll a dice over.
“You did a real fine job, partner.” Cole feigns a smile as he quickly folds up another pair of jeans. “Had my reservations, as I’m sure you understand. I know you had your own. But we did pretty good.”
“I will concur once we are far away from here and that intel proves useful,” Hanzo replies, though he doesn’t sound dour. Just his same old ever-practical self.
“Yeah.”
The rest of the packing goes on in silence. In fact, neither of them speak again until the debriefing aboard the Orca. Hanzo is calm and professional where Cole is not, and afterwards, he falls asleep fast, leaving Cole to wonder if he, too, shouldn’t just let it all go. It’s rare that he’s been shown such a potent vision of what his life could be, but something that seductive is bound to be misleading. Like a desert mirage. And Hanzo hasn’t shown any sign that it meant more to him than a job. Nothing that couldn’t be explained away as him staying in character, anyway.
Still, Cole is regretting not taking at least one of his plants. Now the only reminders he has of the past six months is the ache in his chest and the face of the man with whom he’s still playing pretend.
ᴥ
The next mission comes up quick. The intel Cole stole did prove useful, enough so that they have a strong lead to possibly pick up Ursa in Stockholm two weeks after returning to Gibraltar. Their approach will be much more direct this time, so Hanzo, Cole, Angela, Genji and Mei all commit to a rigorous training schedule. Most of it is run by Cole and Genji, with occasional input from Hanzo; their combined histories of espionage, extraction and stealth fill the whole team with confidence.
Even Cole feels good, though it's a shallow veil over the excruciating knife-wound that is not being able to joke or tease or put his arm around Hanzo. With enough time and distance, he could eventually forget the past six months, but Hanzo is always around, looking into Cole's eyes from across crowded rooms and then turning away. Cole can't say he blames him—ignoring Hanzo is the only thing that's kept him from going insane. It's only right Hanzo should respond with the same.
It'll be fine. He's gotten over worse trials. Besides—that he’d be paired for a mission like that with Hanzo was random. It could’ve been anyone he was pretending to love.
Except Hanzo's the one he can't stop looking at now. And he can't get images of shared couches and radio stations out of his head.
He lasts eight days before he turns up at Hanzo’s door with a mug of coffee and zero plan. “Cream two sugars, right?”
Hanzo looks surprised, which hurts more than Cole thought it would; ignoring Hanzo had somehow been easy, and seemed like the right choice at the time, but not even being friends feels wronger than wrong. “Thank you,” he mutters, “But coffee was Tomo’s preference.” Hanzo sips it anyway, stepping aside to give Cole entrance.
“Oh. And what’s Hanzo’s thing in the mornings?”
“Green tea and protein.”
“Makes sense.” Cole hooks his thumbs on his belt loops, then lets his arms swing to his sides, then crosses them, all while looking around Hanzo’s room as if searching for anything of interest. There are a few open drawers, an open closet, some clothes strewn over the bed; evidence that their rushed schedule hasn’t only affected Cole. “Been real busy this past week. Didn’t want you to think… well, I, uhh… I can still bring you tea sometimes, right?”
It feels strange and painful and like it’s utterly the wrong choice of words, but when Cole finally glances up at Hanzo, there’s softness there. Almost a smile. Hanzo nods, mutters back, “If you agree to keep up the cooking.”
Cole can’t help the nerves in his laugh. “When I got the time, you bet. If Genji ever lets me wrap up before midnight.”
“He kept you up late again? You need rest.”
“Had me up early again this morning, too,” Cole finds himself going on, milking whatever approaching-concern look has taken over Hanzo’s face, “Said he wanted to change up our approach map.”
“What?” Hanzo immediately lets his mug knock heavy onto the table, rises (Cole rises too, startled), and grabs his comm before heading for the door. “He cannot simply—” The rest devolves into vicious Japanese muttering, half of which Cole can pick out as swearing.
Alone in the room, Cole chuckles. He lifts Hanzo’s coffee to his lips, even though it’s too sweet for him, then dumps the rest down Hanzo’s sink. He puts away Hanzo’s toothpaste and toothbrush. Then he puts a towel back on its rack, and scoops some of Hanzo’s clothes off of his bed and into a drawer.
Then his hand hits something sharp beneath cloth. Without thinking, he tugs aside a few folded shirts and finds a printed photo of he and Hanzo at the state fair: Cole with a big smile and his arm around Hanzo, Hanzo holding the uneaten bag of fried Oreos with an equally genuine grin.
Cole stops breathing. His gloved thumb brushes over Hanzo's smile. He can still smell the fried food and burnt sugar alongside the irrepressible scent of Hanzo himself, his particular expensive soap over something much more animal. The feel of him warm and solid under Cole’s arm. His wild grin as they let themselves be tossed around on that stupid, dangerous ride. The feel of his skin under Cole's innocent kiss to his temple.
Cole doesn’t own any photos. He’s never had many happy ones to begin with, nor any place to put them, or even any idea that having a physical copy is different than a digital copy hidden inside whatever device he’s using at the time. He never thought to take the photo with them. But Hanzo did.
He carefully and quickly replaces the frame and exits Hanzo’s room, not bothering to leave anything as it was when he found it. There’s no way he can keep pretending now.
ᴥ
Training is rough, but Cole still insists that they wrap up early. Hanzo defends his decision, citing Genji’s irresponsibility in regards to their sleep schedules. Genji, clearly shocked to see his brother of all people advocating healthy rest, fades willingly from any argument. The rest are all too happy to disperse.
That’s when Cole tugs on Hanzo’s gi . “Can I speak with you?”
Hanzo seems nonplussed. “May I shower first?”
Cole’s hand fidgets around Peacekeeper, which he hasn’t noticed he’s still holding. “Sure. I mean, actually… Can we speak now?”
Even more surprised, Hanzo nods. He follows Cole to the corner beside the locker rooms, and when Cole faces him again, it’s Hanzo’s hand that is restless around Stormbow. “What is it?”
Cole is, once again, going in plan-free, assuming that something would come to him in the moment like it usually does. But, once again, the urge to be careful with Hanzo hamstrings any gift of improvisation. Never has Cole stammered so much around one person; that Hanzo likes him at all is a miracle. “You kept our picture.”
Ever the actor, Hanzo’s face doesn’t change. “What are you talking about?”
“The photo. The state fair. I saw it.”
Then comes rage. “You had no right to—”
“I was putting away your clothes. And I'm glad.” The lump returns, bigger and more riveted than ever, but he presses on. “I don’t know why you kept it but I’m so glad you did.”
For a moment, Cole stops; he can’t bring himself to go on without any sign from Hanzo that he’s not over-stepping or barking up the wrong tree. But Hanzo is equally still, and no longer looks angry. Confused, maybe. Ever hard to read.
“I… I didn’t wanna say nothing because, shit, we were undercover, and I know how that is, and maybe you didn’t say nothing because you wanted to let go and you only kept the photo for… some other reason, I don’t know, but if there’s a chance, I had to—”
Hanzo doesn’t move quickly and Cole’s always been fast, but he still fails to react when Hanzo gently tugs him down to kiss him. All he does is go where he’s guided and stop breathing again.
It’s over too fast—but when Hanzo starts to lean back, Cole leans forward, his own hand trapping Hanzo’s jaw with a speed more typically his style. Both of them are trying to be soft, to go slow, to show care above the obvious racing of their hearts and the quickness of their breath and it all melts Cole's heart.
Hanzo is stroking his hair when they finally part. “I did not want to presume…” He sighs and Cole understands. “Your charms can be misleading.”
Cole knows he's grinning like an idiot, but he supposes that’s accurate. “You think I’m charming?”
Hanzo snorts, his own grin creeping up. “I do.” His hands migrate from Cole’s hair to his waist, pull him closer. “You make even grocery shopping enjoyable.”
Now Cole feels like he’s blushing hard. “High praise, darlin’.”
“You can earn more,” Hanzo mutters in a voice as low and rough as Cole’s ever heard, making Cole tingle all over, “If you will permit me.”
Then Hanzo leads him into the showers and Cole, once again, is too slow to do anything but follow. And he stays slow: in how he kisses, how he takes Hanzo apart and is taken apart in turn. How he touches him warm and hungry as they bring each other to gasps under the hot waterfall. He’d slow things down even more if he could, freeze the moment where Hanzo’s jaw goes slack and his head arches, yet some small part of his brain reminds him that they have time. Time and space; miles all around.
Kissing in the midst of post-coital bliss, Cole laughs. “You think anyone heard?”
“Probably,” Hanzo mutters, moving his kisses to Cole’s throat. “You are loud.”
“Really? Thought you kinda liked my noises, what with how it made you go faster and all.”
“I don’t mind,” Hanzo replies in a faux-light way that lets Cole know he’s right on the money. “It has nothing on your snoring, anyway.”
“Honey, you snore, too.”
“Lies. Bring me a towel.”
Cole grins and places a kiss on Hanzo’s temple. “You forgot the magic word.”