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Unsurprisingly, when Satya showed up for their dinner she brought a dressed down Fareeha in tow—in the back of his mind, Hanzo couldn’t shake the feeling of utter wrongness at seeing the woman out of her usual Overwatch fatigues or combat suit.
Satya bowed her head in greeting and took the seat across from him, a stunning smile in place on her painted lips.
“I had hoped this wouldn’t happen, but I see you have other, sinister plans in place.”
Fareeha rolled her eyes, and took the seat to Hanzo’s left, the usual rigidity of her posture abandoned in place of slouched shoulders and a curved spine. “I can feel the love.”
“I try my best,” Hanzo remarked blandly.
Before Fareeha had the opportunity to reply, Satya placed her hand, palm down, on the table, effectively silencing the both of them. “I didn’t bring you here to fight, I brought you both here to help each other.”
Fareeha quirked a brow, but said nothing, prompting Hanzo to take up the question.
“Help with what?”
“Your insufferable complaining about your love lives. Now, normally I wouldn’t even want to get involved in it, but seeing as how I am the only one in a stable relationship, I might as well impart my wisdom to you both.”
At that, Fareeha let out a sharp laugh, slapping her hand onto the table, startling them both. “You? Not wanting to get involved? Priceless.”
Satya’s mouth twitched, smile faltering. “Like I was saying—”
“Also, stable relationship? You call Sombra hacking your terminal every few days to send you love letters and lunch date invites a relationship, let alone a stable one?”
“Enough,” Satya bit out, patience fraying. “I know you are just trying to irritate me now.”
“And it’s working,” Fareeha said smugly.
“What Sombra and I have is complicated, like all things in life. But we care for each other, deeply, and we love each other.”
As if on cue, a voice cut over the station-wide PA system. “That’s right, babe, I love you!” There was the sound of a scuffle, before the voice returned, if somewhat breathless. “Shit, that’s Reaper now getting mad at me for ignoring the mission, nothing new. Gotta go, though! See you tonight in your bunk!”
Satya reddened, covering her face with her hands.
“Am I dreaming?” Fareeha remarked. “Hanzo, pinch me—wait, don’t. If this is a dream I truly never want to wake up.”
Hanzo watched on with muted amusement, lips twitching against the smile that threatened to show. “Embarrassment aside, how were you even planning on helping us?”
Satya, ever the picture of beauty and poise, quickly recovered. “In your case, Hanzo, it’d be deciding if you even like McCree. Fareeha, for you it’d be to manage not to yell your responses at Dr. Ziegler every time she tries to talk to you.”
“I don’t!” Fareeha squawked, at the same time Hanzo let out a quiet,
“I do.”
Fareeha slapped a hand over her own mouth, beating Satya to it.
“You do, what?” Satya asked, voice soft and low, as if she was scared to shatter the tense moment.
“I do like him.”
Satya jerked her hand off of the table, a look of surprise crossing her face before she managed to school her features.
“I told you! He would’ve raved about how much he hated the date if he didn’t.” Fareeha crowed, swiping the credit stick from Satya’s limp finger when it was held out to her.
“Shut up. Both of you.” Hanzo muttered.
“So are you going to see him again?”
“McCree?” Fareeha nodded, eyes glittering, but whether with interest or mischief, Hanzo rather not know. “Yes.”
“When?” Satya asked.
“This Friday.”
Fareeha let out a low whistle, and moved to lean back in her chair, one arm thrown over the back of it and the resting on the table.
“That soon? You must like him.” Satya remarked.
“Well, obviously.”
“You’re right, no one would willingly put up with McCree more than once if they didn’t. Just ask Angela,” Fareeha offered.
“As much as I’d love to discuss my life at detail,” Hanzo parsed, crossing his arms over his chest. Satya raised her eye at the change in posture, but beatifically said nothing. “Aren’t we also supposed to help Fareeha?”
Fareeha shot him a look that promised a slow and painful death, while Satya practically purred across from him.
“Of course we are. I almost forgot.”
“I hate you.” Fareeha muttered.
“I know what you were trying to do,” Hanzo responded, tone as cold as the look he returned her. “Why not get a taste of your own medicine.”
“How,” Fareeha threw her hands up. “How are we friends?”
“Someone has to keep you in line,” Satya butt in. Barely sparing them a glance as she thanked the omnic placing their drinks in front of them.
Fareeha pouted, fingers moving to toy with the plastic umbrella in her drink, while Satya watched, face carefully blank.
“If I told you she was coming into the cafeteria right now, what would you say?”
“That you orchestrated the whole thing and that I can run much faster than you and will never be caught. Hypothetically, of course.”
Satya grinned, before raising her hand to wave someone over. “Doctor Ziegler!” She called, voice pleasant despite the dangerous glint in her eyes. “We have an extra seat if you’d like to sit with us.”
Fareeha, exuding nothing but grace and dignity, was up and out of the cafeteria—managing to overturn both her drink and chair—in the time it took for Angela to locate Satya and start making her way over there.
Satya sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose between manicured fingers. “This is going to be a lot harder than anticipated.”
“Agreed.” Hanzo grumbled.
--
Hanzo had barely remembered the appointment he had requested weeks in advance for the twinge in his joints, only making it in time due to Athena’s helpful reminder before he found himself rushing through the looping corridors of their base on autopilot.
“Really, though,” Angela chuckled, hand pressed against McCree’s chest, face lighting up with mirth. “She knocked over her chair and drink! She almost barreled over poor Lena.”
From where Hanzo was standing, he had a clear view of how McCree puffed up his chest under her hand.
“What can I say, angel? Y’bring out the fear in us mere mortals.”
She laughed then, a full body thing that had McCree beaming so wide Hanzo thought he’d split his face in two. “Easy now, Angela. She might think you ain’t interested if you keep this up.”
“If I make it any more obvious I fear I will have to carry a huge sign around with ‘I like you too Fareeha’ on it.”
Hanzo rolled his eyes at that, walking into Angela’s waiting room quick enough to catch McCree by surprise. He did nothing but twitch his nose as he scented the air, while Angela gasped, springing back from him as if she were scalded.
“Hanzo!” She smiled, albeit strained. “I wasn’t expecting you for…” she paused, flicking back the arm of her lab coat to look at her watch. “Oh, it seems you are actually on time and it is we who are late.” She reddened at that and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
“Y’have another appointment?” McCree asked, worry lacing his voice.
“Just a checkup. My joints are causing me some problems.”
“Age will do that to you.”
Beside McCree, Angela raised her eyes skyward, whether to pray for divine intervention or to be struck on the spot, Hanzo didn’t know.
“Well I’ll leave ya to it.” He grinned, inclining his head to her, before turning his gaze to Hanzo. “See you Friday, darlin’.”
McCree left, seemingly satisfied in the muted silence that followed his dramatic goodbye, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like ‘Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy’.
“Come in, Hanzo, we have much to discuss.”
At the tone of her voice, Hanzo hesitated, not enough to cause alarm, but enough for Angela to huff a breath and leave him behind in the office to stare dumbly at the potted plants.
He collected himself—or at least the fragments of himself he could find—and followed after her, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
The change in her was instantaneous, the persona of a ‘friend’ shed as easily as a coat in favour of slipping on a veneer of cold professionalism; this was the doctor that had the halls of Overwatch buzzing, with both fear and excitement, at the prospects of seeing her in action. Everything from the way her eyes dulled to the rigid line of her spine oozed an icy regality that demanded to be seen, to be obeyed.
“Mere mortals, indeed.” Hanzo remarked, lips tugging into a wry smile.
“Please,” Dr. Ziegler started, gesturing to the examination table that was already covered with a fresh sheet of parchment. “Have a seat, and tell me what exactly is bothering you.”
Hanzo, as dutiful as ever, obeyed her request—not a request really, his mind reminded him, it was an order—and neatly folded his hands over his lap. “When I draw back my string, I feel a twinge in my elbow. I am used to it, as it comes and goes, but it is becoming worse as of late.”
Dr. Ziegler hummed, and with a sharp snap, slipped latex gloves onto her hands. “May I?”
“Of course.”
With gentle hands, she tested the range of motion in his elbow, eyes narrowing at the breath she drew in at a particular angle. “Have you done any physiotherapy in the past?”
“No, I didn’t see it as necessary at the time.”
She nodded, whether to herself or to him, and gentle released his arm. He rolled his shoulder, feeling it pull in his socket, before settling his arm.
“I think you should start, despite it being quite late in your career. You would benefit from it, both physically and emotionally.”
Hanzo quirked a brow, and she took that as a sign to continue.
“Physiotherapy is about the release of physical and emotional tension. In fixing the physical problems, whether it be herniated disk or, in your case, lateral epicondylitis; the tension released from the body is equal to the tension released from the mind.” She paused, turning from him to press into the scanner beside the table. “One less thing to worry about, too.”
There was a soft whir, and she instructed him to wait by her desk as she sent the results off to Overwatch’s resident physiotherapist.
He took the time to study her office, staring at the framed photo of her and Fareeha. Her arm was flung over her shoulder, face pressed into the meat of Fareeha’s shoulder, who blushed, but smiled wide for the camera.
How Fareeha could be so dense was a mystery to Hanzo.
“They will be contacting you shortly when there is an opening in their schedule to allow for them to take you on for a consultation.” She smiled, and returned to her seat—throne, rather—behind her desk. “But, please, sit. I meant it when we had things to discuss.”
“I—Alright.”
With careful eyes, she observed the stiffness in his body as he sat. “Forgive me for my lack of professionalism, but, what are your intentions with Jesse?”
Though Hanzo expected this question, it still threw him for a loop. “Pardon me?”
She leaned forward, every inch the frozen North from where she hailed. “Don’t play dumb with me, Mr. Shimada. It doesn’t do you any good.”
His confusion and surprise quickly shifted to anger. “I hardly see how this is any of your business.”
“The mental and physical wellbeing of all Overwatch personnel is my business. Especially that of my charge.”
“You speak as if he is a child.”
“In the matters of the heart, he is.” She smiled, a familiar gesture made almost feral by the way her eyes shone. “Has he told you about his life? What he has had to overcome to get to this point?”
“We just met, or have you forgotten already?” Hanzo ground out, anger lacing his words. She stared back, impassive and steady as if he was inquiring about the time.
“I haven’t forgotten, nor will I tell you about his history. It is his to tell you, if and when he feels ready to.” Her tone lost the iciness, and was replaced by something softer, something fonder. “But for his wellbeing, I suggest you cut things off now if you do not return his feelings.”
Hanzo’s blood boiled at the implication, and fury reared its ugly head deep in his gut. “How dare you, you know nothing about me or what I feel.”
“I don’t have to to know what is best for Jesse. And that is a life without people who are using and toying with him.”
“Is that not what you are doing? Toying and meddling with his life to get the desired results? Cutting people out of his life without his consent is just as bad and detrimental as hurting him. You are taking his capacity to be hurt away from him.”
Dr. Ziegler looked stunned at that, and leaned back in her chair, obviously thinking over his words.
“If you want what is best for him you will let him make his own decisions. Be there to deal with the fallout, but you are treating him just as unfairly as those you wish to protect him from.” He smoothed out his hakama, and stood, the shrill noise of his chair scraping across concrete breaking whatever tension filled the air. “Goodbye, Dr. Ziegler.”
“Goodbye Mr. Shimada.”
--
“I thought I would find you here.”
The suddenness of it caused Hanzo’s arm to jerk, sending the arrow sinking into the thick wood of the range’s wall with a satisfying thunk. He sighed, lowering his bow to turn and stare at the foreign figure of his brother leaning against the wall.
“Am I that predictable?” The words came out more strained than Hanzo intended.
“We are all creatures of habit,” Genji offered, chrome arms folded over his chest.
“What do you want, Genji?”
“Merely to talk.”
“Dr. Ziegler sent you.” It wasn’t a question; the truth behind his brother’s sudden appearance after all this time of Hanzo’s careful avoidance of him was not a mere coincidence.
“She says she is sorry, for what it is worth.”
“Platitudes mean nothing to me.”
“I know, you did not even flinch when I begged you for my life all those years ago.” Hanzo flinched at that, and cursed the visor covering Genji’s face. The days of easily reading his little brother’s face—not brother, he reminded himself, though each day he faltered in this belief—were long over. “I am sorry, that was not kind of me.”
“I do not deserve your kindness.”
“No, you do not.” Genji agreed, and Hanzo could not fault him for the sting that he felt in his chest. “But I have long accepted your actions, and forgiven you for them.”
“That does not mean I have to forgive myself,” Hanzo sighed.
“But it does mean you should start to. You cannot erase the past, but we can remedy our mistakes by the future we weave together.”
“Did that omnic give you that wisdom? The Genji I knew held grudges, despite how little the slight was.”
“You mean my master?” Hanzo did not have to see his face to hear the warmth and admiration in his voice. “Yes, he did. He taught me to accept and forgive you just as he taught me to accept myself in this form.”
Hanzo scrubbed a hand across his eyes, ignoring the pinpricks of pain in the back of them in favour of studying the solid, wood floor beneath him.
“I want you to forgive yourself, brother, and to stop avoiding me. You cannot pretend I died all those years ago.”
“But I can,” Hanzo said, voice thick with emotion. “You are a ghost of the man I once knew.”
“People change, just as the leaves change colour and fall, like when we were boys.”
The memory rose, of them red-cheeked and youthful, watching the flowers of the cherry blossom trees float gracefully to the ground. The phantom touch of Genji’s hand in his was replaced by the solid, current Genji grasping his hand in his. Hanzo did not know if the blood on his hands was imagined or not, and if it were, whether it was his or Genji’s.
“You are still my brother, and I love you. I just hope you see me as yours one day, no matter how long that takes.”
The flood gates, the one he had spent years building following mourning his brother, collapsed in the face of his brother now. His grip on the bow numbed, and it clattered to the floor, the sound drowned off by the choked sob that rose in his throat. Genji, unperturbed by the display in his usual stoic brother, wrapped his arms around Hanzo’s form, even as an adult he struggled to completely encircle his brother’s bulky form.
“It is okay to cry, Hanzo. I am here for you now, and for as long as you will have me.”
And he did.
--
The careful dance he and Genji had—Hanzo to avoid, and Genji to follow—was forgotten in the face of their confrontation, as he had come to call it.
Satya remarked on as much from where she sat, legs thrown over his thighs as they watched whatever inane reality show was on so late at night.
“You seem happier, the tension you once carried, while still there, has lessened.” Her voice was warm and quiet, almost drowned out by the omnic on the television screaming about how their partner was better than the others. “I am glad.”
He hummed, fingers light as they skimmed over the arch of her foot before pressing and easing the strain away. Satya groaned, eyelids fluttering closed in a brief moment of vulnerability. “Were you not an assassin by trade, I would’ve suggested masseuse as a job.”
“I am good with my hands.” He shrugged.
“As McCree will come to find out soon.”
Hanzo dug a nail into the soft skin of her foot, and she yelped, jerking out of his grip and sending the bowl of popcorn on the arm of the couch to the floor. He stared at it, as if he could will the kernels out of his carpet.
“Well look at what you’ve done,” she huffed, adjusting herself so her legs were once again thrown of his thighs.
“Yes, that is totally my fault,” he responded drily.
There was lull in conversation, one readily filled by the sound of an advertisement claiming to allow omnics to have fully functioning taste buds, with a litany of side effects.
“If you don’t mind me asking, what caused this change?”
Hanzo licked his lips, eyes narrowing on the gaudy title screen of ‘The Real HouseOmnics of Numbani’. “I talked to Gen—my brother.” He turned then to look at Satya, who merely returned his stare.
She looked like she wanted to ask him questions, to pry into the meaning behind his oversimplification of the situation, but she just nodded. “I am glad. I am, however, not happy about the lack of popcorn which you should remedy, as it is your fault we have none left.”
He sighed and rolled his eyes, never one to deny theatrics to drive home his point. “When do I ever deny you anything, Satya?”
“Never, and you best remember to keep it that way.”
--
Friday, it seemed, would creep up to him at an increasingly slow pace. Hanzo spent the whole week alternating between spending his time with Satya, practicing the stretches his physiotherapist—a stunning, muscular woman who put Zaryanova to shame—assigned him, and awkwardly interacting with his brother.
(He was still growing used to his presence, and the way Genji talked and treated him like the whole ‘I tried to kill you because our dad said to’ event didn’t happen. Hanzo was grateful, if not a little perturbed by his nonchalance, as it helped him to work through the knots in his chest at each meeting.)
“And so we find ourselves in the same predicament as last time, but with some extra help.” The extra help Satya referred to, was Fareeha. The woman in question was sprawled across his bedroom floor, eyes glued to the device in her hand as she texted away.
“Mm,” Fareeha agreed, obviously not paying attention to what occurred around her.
Satya pressed her foot into her side, causing Fareeha to drop the communicator that landed squarely on her face.
“Do you have any idea on what you’d like to wear?” Satya asked, words honey-sweet as she ignored the irritated mumblings of Fareeha.
“I was thinking maybe the same semi-formal? We are just eating in the same cafeteria, or at least I think so.”
With a hum, Satya rose off his bed to trail her fingers over the fabric of his clothes in his closet. “What about fitted jeans with a dress shirt? Keep the first few buttons undone and just roll the sleeves up to your elbow.”
“You’d look hot,” Fareeha piped up. “He’ll be drooling over you like a dog to a bone. Does it count as workplace discrimination to imply your human-challenged coworkers are dogs?”
“Yes,” Satya and Hanzo said at the same time, sharing a look after that oozed smugness at their synchronised response.
“I’m sure worse has been said, considering Reyes and Morrison are often in the same room together.”
“Doesn’t make it any better,” Hanzo muttered.
“Fareeha’s insensitive comment aside, I think you should wear my suggestion. Especially if wearing a simple v-neck garnered his reaction.”
Hanzo scoffed, throwing off the shirt he was wearing in favour of tugging over the one Satya selected. Fareeha let out a low whistle, to which Hanzo blushed.
“Get out of my room before I call security.” He bit out, words muffled as he struggled to pull the shirt over his head. Satya sighed, deftly unbuttoning the front so he could wiggle in.
“I don’t need to be told twice,” Fareeha muttered, leaving as soon as it was offered.
Satya waited until she had left, the hydraulic hiss of the door indicating she had cleared out of his quarters entirely, before she spoke. “You will be fine. I am but a text away.”
“Thank you,” he paused, taking her hand in his and squeezing to add sincerity to his words. “For everything.”
“You say it with such an air of finality,” she mused. “Tell me how it goes, and don’t spare any sordid detail.”
“For who,” he called, watching her retreating form. “Fareeha or you?”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
--
Contrary to their first date, Hanzo showed up on time, albeit panting and visibly rumpled from his effort to do so. McCree stood in the same spot as the first time, however the nervousness that lagged down his posture their first date was replaced by a slick confidence that oozed from his pores.
The customary nose twitch that marked his scenting the air, followed by the way he all but lit up at catching Hanzo’s familiar one (a part of him fluttered with the fact that McCree managed to pinpoint him every time, let alone know it to be solely him).
“Hanzo!” He called, voice loud enough to cause Mei, who was innocently walking by, to wince and plug her ears. He murmured an apology, before rushing over to him, eyes dancing with excitement. “You look as ravishing as ever.”
“I wish I could say the same about you.”
“Going with the same tactic as before? S’okay, I like it when they play hard to get.” The low tone of his voice, coupled with the wolfish grin caused Hanzo to almost choke on his spit.
“What would you like to eat?”
“You.” McCree smirked.
“Be serious,” Hanzo ground out, willing the heat that settled low in his belly away.
“And if I was?”
“I would tell you to stop dreaming.”
“’Cause you’d make it a reality?”
“Hardly.”
“I am kiddin’, just so y’know.” He placated. “Unless you’re offering, in which case I wholeheartedly accept.”
Hanzo let the bland stare he shot him speak for himself. McCree, the fast learner he is, grinned wide in response.
“I was thinking maybe Mexican food? Are the places here even authentic?”
McCree tapped a finger against his chin, the chrome sparkling in the light. “You want Mexican food? How’s about we blow this dinner and I cook for us.”
“What?”
McCree shrugged, practiced nonchalance masking the nervous tremor in his hand. “I’m as authentic as you’ll get, thanks to my ma.”
A myriad of emotions passed through Hanzo, before he settled on bewildered amusment. “Alright,” he intoned.
“Great.” McCree wrapped a hand around his thick wrist, fingers easily encircling the width before he tugged Hanzo alone like a marionette on a string. “Little secret about me you’ll soon discover: I am an excellent cook.”
“Have you surveyed everyone who has eaten your cooking?”
“Only the ones that survived.”
Hanzo laughed at that, a soft sound that caused a shy smile to replace McCree’s grin. “You are doing a poor job at getting me excited to eat your food, you know.”
“Low expectations cause you to be blown away later.”
“If my expectations were any lower you’d be underground.”
“That hurts, Hanzo.”
“Would you like me to kiss it better?”
He had never seen McCree at a loss of words, or seen the slack jawed look of surprise on his face, Hanzo grinned, happy to give McCree a taste of his own medicine.
“And if I said yes?” McCree asked, voice and posture visible strangled.
“I’d say we’ll see how the night goes before I make any choices.”
McCree swallowed, before he let out a low growl. “Better bring my a-game then, huh?”
Hanzo smirked, using his free hand to push against McCree’s muscled chest, urging him back into movement. “You better.”
--
Dinner, despite Hanzo’s efforts to hate it, was perfect. McCree knew how to draw out flavours Hanzo didn’t even know existed, let alone be complimentary together. It seemed he would be getting dinner and a show as he watched the muscles of McCree’s back ripple as he washed up. His long hair, usually free and settled around his shoulders, was tied up in a ponytail, while Hanzo’s let his free.
“And then Reyes just socked him right in the mouth! Angela had no idea what to do, ‘specially when Jack hit ‘im back.” McCree laughed, shoulders shaking as he flicked stray droplets of water off the dish in his hand. “Man, Overwatch was wild back then. Y’shoulda seen it.”
“That does sound funny,” Hanzo mused, stretching out lazily from where he was on McCree’s couch. It smelled distinctly like him, a heady blend of cinnamon and spiced sweat.
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, and Hanzo let himself be lulled by the sound of McCree’s splashing and washing, and the sound of the ceiling fan whirring away into the evening.
“Did I bring my a-game?”
The question was so quiet, Hanzo wondered briefly if he was even meant to hear it.
“Yes.”
The sound of washing faltered, and McCree hissed; there was a loud splash and he dropped the dish he was holding into the sink. “Do I get my kiss then?”
The coy tone of his voice was offset by the way Hanzo saw McCree practically curl in on himself. He watched the line of McCree’s back, and he watched himself get up off the couch and slowly make his way to McCree. Each creak of the floorboards beneath Hanzo’s feet caused the bunched muscles of McCree’s back to jump.
“Yes,” Hanzo repeated, the word barely more than a breath.
McCree let out a noise, one that Hanzo wasn’t sure was human, before he dropped the dish in favour of cupping Hanzo’s face. Before Hanzo could open his mouth to protest the wet, sudsy hands against his skin (and ruining his beard) McCree slotted their lips together, taking advantage of the slight parting of his lips to nibble at Hanzo’s lower lip.
A soft groan escaped Hanzo, and his idle hands quickly found the belt loops of McCree’s pants and tugged until their bodies were pressed together, toe to forehead. His fingers trailed from McCree’s hips to his lower back, wrapping his arms around and interlacing his fingers to settle above the dip of his spine.
McCree pulled back to exhale, breath mingling with Hanzo’s as they rested their foreheads together. A feeling of calm settled over Hanzo, and he smiled, before pressing his lips against McCree’s, enjoying the jolt of surprise that went through McCree before he pressed back with equal fervour.
Hanzo didn’t know how long they spent in the kitchen trading lazy kisses (long enough for the water on McCree’s hands to dry, for the suds to disappear, for Hanzo’s lips to tingle and feel over sensitive from the brush of McCree’s beard and sting of his teeth) under the soft breeze of McCree’s ceiling fan. But when he finally pulled away, feeling the physical ache of losing McCree’s touch, he felt like he had spent an eternity in his arms.
“Worth the wait?” He asked, voice small and hopeful, baring his soul under the fluorescent light.
“More than you’ll ever know.”