Chapter Text
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Hanzo hurried alongside Genji to the audience chamber, forcing his hands to his sides lest he succumb to the urge to tug on his brother’s sleeve. The elders had screened the final candidates for Hanzo and Genji’s new bodyguard, and the two had been summoned for a meeting. Hanzo wondered if they would get to help make the decision, or if they would have no say. At twenty-five, he at least was increasingly brought into clan decisions, but this one he’d had no part of. It rankled to think he might get no choice at all, but his father had urged him to trust them.
As they neared the entrance, they both slowed their pace, and Hanzo’s hands roamed over his clothing to put himself together quickly. Outside the hall waited a single stranger. He stood taller and darker than most of the guards surrounding him, stuck out like a sore thumb with a mess of brown hair and a scruffy face, sideburns far too long. He wore all black and stood insolently, one thumb hooked through his belt loop, as if he cared not at all about the guards around him. Hanzo took in the body armor that covered his chest, the empty gun holster at his belt; he was a mercenary, then. It seemed the final decision had been made without them.
It ate at Hanzo again. He was so young . Hanzo and Genji had trained all their lives; surely there was not someone their own age who could do a better job protecting them than they could themselves. Yet here this man stood, with his shoulders back, too relaxed, over-confident. He was handsome too, and that irritated Hanzo more. Hanzo should not disrespect the elders’ decision, but he resented this man’s presence here. The stranger caught Hanzo looking and winked, wide mouth curling into a half smile. Hanzo met him with a flat stare, lips pursed into a line. It would not do to be impolite if he were the new hire, but Hanzo did not have to be welcoming either. The man only smiled at him more, a flash of white teeth. Beside Hanzo, Genji snickered. The guards let Hanzo and Genji pass, and they left the stranger behind.
“Father,” Hanzo said as he bowed. Genji did the same beside him.
“Come sit with me,” their father said.
They did as they were told, and two of the clan elders entered to brief them. The man outside was Kiyoshi’s choice for the position, but some incident had occurred during the final screening that brought doubts and division among them. It seemed Hanzo might get some say in the matter after all.
Kiyoshi spoke first, folding her wrinkled hands neatly before her. “Mr. Walker is quite talented, Shimada-san, and he comes highly recommended.”
“He is a demon,” spat Takeshi. “Insolent, and a liability.” Hanzo hated to agree with Takeshi, but insolent was likely true.
Sojiro waved a hand to silence them both, ending any further squabble. “What did he do?”
Takeshi went first, red rising in his face. “He killed another candidate.”
Kiyoshi sighed. “He shot six bullets faster than I could blink. Five hit dead center on the practice targets. The sixth... it is as Takeshi-san says.”
“Right in the head! With his demonic—”
“With his gun ,” Kiyoshi finished in her firm, high voice. “Shimada-san, do not let this old man’s superstitions sway you. He’s our best candidate by far. Good enough to protect the heirs.”
“He killed a man within our walls, surrounded by guards and mercenaries, and the man was dead before any of us could react. If he cannot be trusted, who will stop him before he kills all five of us just as quickly?” Takeshi asked. The guards at the door shifted uneasily, but Genji seemed to find it distasteful; Takeshi should not underestimate the dragons so.
Hanzo took it in with some surprise. Kiyoshi, at least, had never been prone to exaggeration, but that sort of accuracy was difficult to believe. If it were true and if the stranger could be trusted, even Hanzo might be swayed to overlook his resentful first impression. He looked sidelong at his father, watched him absorb it all.
“Enough,” Sojiro said, voice quiet. “Let him speak for himself, and we will decide what to do with him.” He gestured, and the guard slid the door open, two more ushering in the stranger.
The man looked amused and entirely unbothered to be standing at the heart of their deadly clan. “Shimada-sama,” the stranger said, bowing deeply, if clumsily. The way he said their name set Hanzo’s teeth on edge. Shee-maw-da , too many harsh sounds in a deep drawling voice. American, then. It explained some things already. But he had some manners, however poorly executed they were.
Kiyoshi spoke in English. “I introduce Mr. Walker, our candidate for the new position.”
“Mr. Walker, explain why you killed a guest under my roof.” Sojiro used the tone he had tried to teach Hanzo to master. He was quiet, but his voice carried all the heft of their lineage behind it.
Walker stood with one hip cocked, seemingly unaffected by the weight of the command. “You want the professional reason or the personal one, sir?”
“Both.” The way Sojiro’s head tilted, only barely perceptible, told Hanzo that his father was more intrigued than he wanted to let on.
“Professional: his working name was Émile Pelletier. I worked a job in Italy a few months back, family hired me to get back their kidnapped daughter. Turns out Émile had been hired as her bodyguard and sold out to a rival family. Didn’t much think you’d appreciate havin’ to hire me in a month when he did the same to one of your sons here.”
Sojiro made a thoughtful sound, gaze sharp on Walker. “And the personal reason?”
“He hurt that kid.” He said it evenly, but Hanzo watched his fingers twitch, curling into a fist.
“I see,” Sojiro said slowly. “Mr. Walker, surely you are aware of our business. We are not above hurting people, ourselves.”
“Not kids, not like that.” Sojiro paused, then nodded thoughtfully, waved a hand for him to continue. “I did my research. Y’all run guns and got a finger on most of the local businesses. Might rough up the competition from time to time, hire men like me to get our hands dirty. But you keep this city orderly too, don’t mess around with human trafficking or none of that. And the last time you caught a child molester, you cut off his hands.”
Hanzo sucked in a quiet breath and watched his father sit back — the subtle equivalent. This man knew more than he should. The incident he spoke of had involved a Shimada cousin and had been painstakingly buried. Something about Walker’s stance told Hanzo that he knew it too; he seemed smug, like he’d expected them to be impressed. Sojiro spoke after a moment. “Thank you, Mr. Walker. We will see if your story is true.”
“Shimada-san,” Kiyoshi said, continuing only when Sojiro waved her on. “We cannot verify his tale fully. There is no official story of an Italian family’s kidnapped daughter, but there are rumors enough to suggest it. Émile Pelletier had an... unsavory reputation, even for a mercenary. Enough that another candidate corroborated Mr. Walker’s claims about his character.”
“Good riddance to this Pelletier, then. It would seem we have a mercenary with honor,” Sojiro said wryly. He sat quiet for a moment, making a show of his consideration; Hanzo could sense the presence of his father’s dragon, and he wondered what conclusion the spirit came to. “Very well. In the future, while you are under my roof, Mr. Walker, you will not dispense your peculiar justice. You await my command.” He paused, staring stonily at Walker until the man nodded. “Good. Now tell me: what did you do to frighten Takeshi so?”
Walker grinned slowly, a lopsided thing that made Hanzo’s stomach flip. “Oh, that old trick? Turns out you hired the fastest gun in the West and East.”
“I like him,” Genji said afterward, distracting Hanzo from his brooding as he always did.
“I don’t,” said Hanzo. “Takeshi was right. He is insolent.”
"I saw you ogling, brother,” Genji teased.
“I was not ogling.” Hanzo fixed Genji with a murderous look.
“Of course you weren’t. A tall, handsome foreigner talks about killing with integrity, and my honorable gay brother doesn’t have a single impure thought.”
Hanzo swatted at Genji, who danced quickly out of the way. “Fine. He is nice to look at.” Genji practically cackled. “He is still irritating though,” Hanzo said too late, well after Genji had already skipped out of earshot.
Hanzo did not see Walker again except in passing, across the grounds here and there, for over a week. He somehow stayed at the edge of Hanzo’s awareness though. Hanzo could tell where he had been by the sound of servant women giggling to themselves, or the clan guards muttering in his wake; they did not usually like mercenaries, and it seemed Walker in particular set them on edge. He saw him in the hallways or across the garden, and every time, the man watched him, smiled or winked or, one awful time, tipped an honest-to-goodness cowboy hat at him. Hanzo always scowled and the man always smiled wider.
Now though, it was almost eight o’clock in the morning. Hanzo was early to his regular morning practice, and he heard the sounds of someone already inside. He thought perhaps it was his sensei warming up. When he entered, he instead caught sight of Walker, fists pounding rhythmically into an old punching bag someone had dug up so the American could practice his own fighting.
He was shirtless, gleaming with sweat and grunting with his effort. His hits were strong and precise, but his balance was poor; he put too much weight behind each punch, trusted that brute force would do the job on its own. For most enemies, it probably would have; Hanzo had to give him some credit, however begrudgingly. He fought in a style Hanzo could not have named, something halfway between a street brawler and a soldier, but when he brought a knee up to the bag he thought the man might have learned some kickboxing. He tried to focus on taking his measure, counting the steps it would take to defeat him in close combat. He tried, but instead he watched the bunch and stretch of powerful, freckled shoulders. A bead of sweat slid from Walker’s damp brown hair, dripped down his spine to the dip of his back, and Hanzo’s mouth went dry. He cleared his throat.
Walker swung around, clearly startled, and for the briefest moment he looked like a predator ready to pounce. Then his stance eased, loose and relaxed enough that it made Hanzo doubt what he had seen. “Shimada-san,” he said, smiling much too widely.
Hanzo spoke in English; as far as anyone could tell, Walker’s Japanese was fairly limited. “I apologize for interrupting, Mr. Walker. I am early for my training.”
“Ah, shit. Tuesday mornin’s I gotta be outta here by eight. I knew that.” Walker reached for a towel, wiping down his neck and gleaming chest. Hanzo kept his eyes carefully trained on his face. “Still learnin’ your schedule so I don’t disrupt... whatever it is you do with your day,” he said by way of apology.
Hanzo said nothing, watching while Walker flung the towel over one shoulder and his damp, discarded shirt over the other. “I’ll get outta your hair now, Shimada-san,” he said as he passed Hanzo. He stopped close, though, close enough that Hanzo could smell the clean sweat on him. “Unless...”
“Unless?”
“Unless you want a sparrin’ partner? Been ages since I went toe-to-toe just for fun, and it’d be good to know how much protectin’ you really need.”
Hanzo looked at him appraisingly, took in the flushed face, damp hair clinging to his cheeks, the glaze in his honey-colored eyes. He smirked. “I have already seen your form, and you lack the stamina. Trust that I would hand you your ass.”
Walker laughed then, loud and surprised. “Not gonna ask how you came by that particular idiom,” he said finally. “I’ll show myself out then, Shimada-san.”
Hanzo spoke again before he could stop himself. “Just Hanzo, Mr. Walker.”
“Hanzo then.” Hanzo tried not to flinch at the way his name clanged around in Walker’s mouth: Hawn-soh .
“And you?”
“First name’s Wayne. But most folks call me Walker. Drop the mister though, I’m beggin’ you.”
He did his best not to make a face. “Wayne Walker? That does not suit you at all.”
“Take it up with my mama, I dare you,” he said, laughing as he made his way to the exit. “See ya ’round, Hanzo.”
Hanzo followed the smell of cigarettes. It trailed down from the roof near the cliffside, from his and Genji’s old hiding spot. If he listened, he could hear faint voices, could hear Genji’s laugh. He double-checked that nobody was watching. Then he pulled himself up the wall, shimmied around the eaves and onto the red rooftop, where he startled Genji and Walker.
“Fuckin’ ninjas,” Walker spluttered around a mouthful of smoke.
Genji recovered with more grace, though he looked at his brother warily. “Did you come to join us, brother?”
Hanzo grunted, then reached for Genji’s cigarette. “Share.” Genji did, and Hanzo took a long drag, eyes half closed. Both watched him, but Walker watched his mouth in particular. It made a part of Hanzo want to preen at the attention; he did his best to ignore it. “You skipped archery today,” he said to Genji after a moment. “I was sent to find you.”
Walker looked back and forth between them, then away, retreating into his cigarette. Genji sighed. “Are you going to drag me back?”
“No.” Genji looked grateful at that. “But your smoke travels,” Hanzo said dryly as he took another drag. “Someone else will catch you here, and you will give away our best hiding spot. It would be a shame to lose this one too.” He looked pointedly at Walker then, hoping the man would keep this to himself.
Genji grinned. “Just because they can find it doesn’t mean they can get up here. Walker almost broke his neck even after I showed him all the footholds.” When Hanzo only stared, Genji became serious again. “So you came to tell me to... find a new smoking section?”
Hanzo snorted, then he nodded. “On the north end of the garden, the guards smoke there. Nobody would think twice about the smell.” He handed Genji back his cigarette. Genji finished it, then flicked the burning end off, handed the rest to Walker. Walker stubbed his out and stuffed the butts into his pocket. “I have to go. Don’t let our clumsy American die getting back down.”
“Wait,” Genji said, grabbing at his sleeve. He glanced at Walker, then back at Hanzo, a familiar smile slipping into place. Hanzo braced himself; Genji had a scheme. “Walker and I were discussing how much we would like to go dancing.” Hanzo raised an eyebrow at that.
“Genji wants to go dancin’, I wanna keep him safe and keep my job,” Walker clarified.
“And dance and drink with pretty girls,” Genji insisted. “Or boys,” he added, obviously watching for a reaction. Walker only smiled serenely. “Anyway, Hanzo, if you come—”
“I will not,” Hanzo said. “One of us has to work for this family.” His tone was sharp, sharper than he intended, and Genji’s face fell.
There was a brief quiet, then Walker spoke, sounding slow, maybe even cautious. “Way Genji explained it to me, he makes friends with some of the younger crowd from other families, you do business with the friends he makes.”
“I know. Genji gets to dance and pretend it is business, I do business and pretend it is dancing,” Hanzo said. “He has proposed this before.”
“I’m sure, darlin’. But it seems like you joinin’ us will lend legitimacy to the whole thing. And this time I’ll be around to blend in and protect you both.”
“You will not blend,” Hanzo said with a snort. Walker looked taken aback. “I do not mean that unkindly.” He waved a hand at Walker’s appearance. At least today he wasn’t wearing the hat. “Only that foreigners stand out.”
Genji finally spoke again. “Right, we use that. You can be my new favorite tourist! Or,” Genji said slyly, “Hanzo’s mysterious American boyfriend.”
Hanzo gave his brother a withering look. “Do you want me to agree to this or not?” Genji quieted but would not stop smiling; he knew he was winning this fight. Hanzo sighed and fixed Walker with a stern look. “Why do you care?”
“I know what it’s like to be bored and chompin’ at the bit for some fun.”
“So do we all. That does not mean Genji gets his way. You work for the family, not for him. Nor for me.”
Walker looked at him thoughtfully. “There’s a difference?”
“Of course.”
Walker sighed, chewed his lip. “I’m just goin’ along to keep an eye on him. I expect he’d find a way to go without us sooner or later.” Genji preened at that. “And I might wanna see you dressed up to go dancin’,” he tacked on, exaggerating his usual wink at Hanzo.
Hanzo flushed, pressed his mouth into a harsh line while Genji yelped out a laugh. Walker was smiling at him, that wide, lopsided smile with too many teeth, his stupid gold earring glinting in the sunlight, and Hanzo couldn’t find words for a moment.
Finally he spoke, schooling his face to a carefully neutral expression. “Brother, did you know his first name is Wayne?” Genji howled at that, shouted a drawn-out “no!”
“ Wayne Walker ? There is no way that’s your real name, cowboy!” Genji cackled, and Hanzo took the moment to slip down off the roof.
Hanzo stepped back from Genji’s blade, holding his own steady across his body. He adjusted his hands carefully, sweating palms catching and slipping on the grip. He feinted left then took a quick swipe; Genji danced away just in time. So it had gone for what felt like ages. Genji was a hair quicker and more agile, harder to predict; Hanzo was that small bit stronger, with more stamina and far more discipline. He could see he was wearing Genji down. He had missed too many practice sessions too many times. Hanzo felt the resentment bubbling inside him, and he let it ride his blade, sharpen his focus.
They circled one another, then Genji came at him. Hanzo stepped in quick and close, knocked Genji’s sword arm wide, and in a swift sweep of Hanzo’s blade, Genji’s own skittered across the floor. Hanzo stepped in again, one hand tight on his brother’s collar, and the other thrust his blade up. Genji’s eyes went wide.
They hung there, frozen, until a sharp clap ended their bout. As he withdrew, Hanzo slid his practice blade slowly along Genji’s side, a reminder of who had won again. Genji scowled, pulling roughly away. They both turned to their father, bowing deeply.
“Well done, Hanzo, as always,” their father said. Hanzo stood fully, put his shoulders back. He was exhausted, sweating, but he refused to let it show. Genji had no such compunctions; he slouched and panted, scowling at the floor. Genji hated these sessions most of all, Hanzo knew. Today was especially grating. All six elders had made an appearance. Walker was there too, watching with an unreadable expression. The entirety of the clan’s leadership and Genji’s new friend had watched Hanzo best him. Hanzo would have hated it too had their roles been reversed. Even as the winner he felt little satisfaction, itching only to be done.
“Hanzo, your critique?” his father asked, and Hanzo forced his face to remain neutral, to keep from flinching. This was the part he hated most. At best, Genji would avoid him for the rest of the day; at worst, he would be rude for weeks.
“Genji overextended himself. I saw his energy flagging, and I waited until he got impatient and clumsy. He stepped too wide and gave me the opening to disarm him. My final strike would have disemboweled him.” Hanzo reported the details as blandly as possible. “For myself, I missed an earlier opportunity to do the same. I fell for Genji’s feints twice, and I let myself become unbalanced. The fight should have ended five minutes ago.” He braced himself then, prepared his gambit. He had not discussed this with Genji, but he hoped it would earn his forgiveness. “Father, if I may ask a favor as the victor.”
Sojiro looked briefly surprised, then waved his hand for Hanzo to continue.
“Genji lost because he has not kept up with his practice as I have.” Genji grumbled quietly beside him. “But I should have done better against a less practiced foe.” That silenced his brother, and he felt more than saw him perk up, catching on that Hanzo had a plan. “I believe he and I could both use a break from our typical duties to refresh ourselves. Perhaps a night out.”
Their father smirked back at Hanzo, the tiniest quirk of his lips. “This hardly sounds like your idea,” he said, staring pointedly at Genji. Hanzo felt his cheeks heat up at that.
“It is for both of us,” he said haltingly, aware of how unconvincing he surely sounded. “I am happy to pursue clan interests while we are out.” When his father only looked at him, he failed to stop his mouth. “And it would be a low stakes time to test our new bodyguard’s capabilities.”
The tiny smirk that had been forming on Sojiro’s lips grew a little at that. Their father liked when Hanzo showed a head for strategy for the clan; it made the elders happy, made their father's indulgences easier. “Do you agree, Genji? Does our Sparrow need to spread his wings in order to better commit to his practice?” Genji nodded quickly but smartly kept his mouth shut. Sojiro switched to English. “Mr. Walker, are you amenable to escorting my sons for a night on the town?”
After the elders had all filed out, Genji punched Hanzo on the shoulder.
“You did it! I’ll make a scoundrel of you yet, brother,” Genji said excitedly, though his voice stayed low in the echoing room. “You should have told me your plan, though.”
Hanzo sighed. “If you stopped dodging practice, you might actually win one,” he said in return as he gathered up both their blades. As the winner, it seemed more sporting than to leave them for Genji. Besides, Genji didn’t care enough and would likely leave it to a servant.
“Y’all wanna tell me what just happened?” Walker’s deep voice rang through the dojo.
Genji laughed, calling back in English. “Hanzo won us a night on the town. All he had to do was disembowel his own brother!”
Walker moved closer to Hanzo, pitched his voice lower. “That how you get to do anything fun around here? Gotta win a dogfight for your gang?” His smile seemed less open than usual, and something dark lurked behind his easy tone.
Hanzo looked at him, scowling. “You overstep with your impudent question. Look at your schedule, Mr. Walker. The elders look in on our progress once a month. It is only that Father is more willing to grant favors when he is pleased.” Walker stepped back, although he did not look properly chastised.
“Do not mind him,” Genji said as he passed Walker. “He’s always an asshole when he has to break a sweat to kill me.” Genji took his leave then, likely predicting the lecture Hanzo was already preparing.
Walker remained though, looking thoughtful. “I... you’re right. It was a dumb question.”
“Think nothing of it,” Hanzo said tersely as he put away the practice swords.
“Nah, I offended you, and I owe you an apology. It’s just... I’ve seen enough gang life to know that it ain’t always a big, happy family.” Walker ruffled his mop of hair with a big hand. It made Hanzo’s hands itch to tidy his own.
Hanzo sighed. “I accept your apology. Your concern is appreciated but unnecessary.” He gave in to the urge to fix his hair, shook it loose before he pulled it back again, Walker’s eyes on him the whole time.
“Right.” Walker cleared his throat. “You were real impressive out there though.”
Hanzo’s mouth set into a firm line again, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Is that so?” He looked up at him, resenting the way Walker seemed to tower over him.
“Yeah, never seen anybody fight like that outside of a movie or somethin’.”
It was stupid, Hanzo thought, that this foreigner’s clumsy awe should make him feel so pleased. Stupid that he was intrigued by what Walker had seen before. He looked at the tattoo on Walker’s bare forearm, and he reached out to grab him without thinking, thumb tracing the faded lines of the skull and wings. “You have seen these ‘dogfights’ you mentioned, though?” He read the tattoo, Deadlock Rebels . He had seen the like before, although yakuza tattoos were often far more elaborate than this. “Were you in a gang?”
Walker went still, for the first time seeming uncertain. He laughed it off quickly. “Ah, darlin’, first rule of mercenary work: give nothin’ away for free. You wanna ask questions, you gotta pay.”
“Does my family not pay you enough?” Hanzo asked, still looking up at him.
“They’re generous, I assure you. But you told me I work for them, not for you.” Walker was smirking now, and standing much too close to him. Hanzo felt too warm, uncertain what to do with the way Walker managed to irritate him and set his pulse racing at the same time. He was far too aware of the way Walker’s skin burned under his fingers, and he pulled his hand away, trying to put some distance between them.
“What payment must you want?”
Walker made a big show of thinking hard, as if he were not already three steps ahead in this silly game. He ducked his head down a little, creeping into Hanzo’s space. “How ’bout... for every answer I give, you pay me with a kiss?”
Time froze for a moment. Hanzo was not an idiot; he’d known Walker was flirting, known he was flirting back. He remembered watching him, sweat-drenched and shirtless. But voicing it aloud made it too real, and Hanzo felt a heaviness burrow into his chest.
“Impudent,” he growled again, pushing Walker away from him and backing up. He thought of the way the servant women giggled in Walker’s wake, thought of the jobs he must have worked before and the certainty he expressed with his flirtation. How many beds had he wormed his way into on the job? “Stop this.” Walker backed away from him too, a strange look on his face.
“Right, too far,” he said, much too easily to be believed. “Stop, uh, which part, exactly?”
“All of it,” Hanzo huffed, frustrated. “I am not your darlin’. Stop your flirting and... and winking . You are an employee. Act like it.”
“Right, boss. You’re right, of course.” Hurt. The look on Walker’s face was hurt. He patched over it quickly, schooled his expression into something more neutral. “I’ll get back to mindin’ my own business now,” he said, and Hanzo only turned his back on him, waited for him to leave. It took a long time for the heavy weight to fade from Hanzo’s chest, no matter how hard he rubbed.