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It had been hours since Jesse McCree boarded the train out of Utah. He sat stiff and wary, wrapped up in his serape, at the back of the carriage, one hand resting on his thigh, the other resting on his gun. The steady bump and clatter of a moving train was a familiar, comforting sort of cacophony to the gunslinger yet he did not relax. His gaze remained steely and determined as he scanned over his fellow travellers, marking each off in his head.
Fella in the back row, hasn’t looked up from that book since he got on. Suspicious. Skinny, not a bit of muscle on him, looks like he’d break in half if I so much as spat at him. Unarmed. Not a threat.
Mother and her daughter. Daughter too young. The mother? Keeps glancing at me. Could be looking for an opportunity. Could just be trying to flirt. No wedding ring… probably not a threat.
Man in black. Big, brawny, couldn’t take him in a one on one. Very suspicious. Been asleep ever since he got on board. Is he faking? Keep an eye on him, he has a gun in his coat. Potential threat.
Three omnics. Chatting, laughing, pointing. Funny sort of style of dress, far too many bright colours. Abrasive to the eyes but probably not a threat depending on who you ask.
McCree leaned over his armrest to try and get a better look at the rest of the carriage and was rewarded with a searing pain his side for his efforts. He withdrew with a barely restrained sound of pain, his free hand that wasn’t occupied with his weapon clamping itself to the source of the pain. He bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from spouting a rather colourful list of curse words as he felt the sticky, warm mess his side had been reduced to. He silently berated himself for his carelessness, he’d barely moved at all and yet he’d somehow managed to open the wound again.
He didn’t have any bandages or anything of the sort and there’s no way he’d be able to deal with the wound discretely without his fellow travellers noticing and asking all sorts of questions he wouldn’t be able to lie his way around. His only remaining option was to suck it up, keep pressure on it, and hope he didn’t bleed out before the train reached its destination.
He seemed to end up in situations like this far more often than any man should. He doubted there was any person alive that ended up shot and bleeding out on a train more often than he did. At least back in Blackwatch when he got shot he had Reyes or someone else there to stitch him up and make sure he didn’t drop dead. Reyes always said it was because they couldn’t justify the cost of a funeral for some nobody gangster.
God he could use a drink.
Behind him someone shifted making McCree start, his grip tightening on his peacekeeper before someone stood and began to move through the carriage. He shifted forwards in his seat, preparing himself as the footsteps grew closer, much as his aching muscles protested at the thought of another fight. He wasn’t sure he’d survive this one. The train passed through a tunnel, the lights flickered and sputtered overhead.
Just as quickly as a threat arose it dissipated as McCree watched a young boy, barely older than eleven stumble over himself awkwardly on his way to the toilet cubicle at the end of the carriage. The train reemerged into the harsh midday glare. He let out the breath he hadn’t fully realised he’d been holding and settled back in his seat. He was toeing that fine line between being vigilant and being paranoid again.
What he wouldn’t give to slide down in his seat and let the steady back and forth of the carriage rock him to sleep. How long had it been since he’d last allowed himself a few hours of rest? He could practically feel his bones creak when he moved, already growing old still in his thirties, his body leaden and sore like he’d gone five rounds with a bucking bronco. There were bruises dark and heavy under his eyes making him look harsher, face wax pale and sunken in under the artificial carriage lighting.
He knew he stank of gunpowder residue, sweat, smoke, whiskey; the scents gone stale clinging to his serape. He’d have to have a good long soak when he next stopped off in… where was this train going again?
~
The small, sleepy Lander County town of Austin Nevada was deserted and silent during the late hours of the night. If not for the faint glow of lights behind closed blinds Hanzo Shimada would have believed the place a ghost town and continued on his way. For once he was grateful for the faint signs of life. He was in desperate need of a hot meal and a place to rest his head for the night that wasn’t hardened dirt or cement. His weary bones ached at the thought of another night camped out under the stars.
He hoisted his pack further up his arm and approached an old motel with rotting wooden foundations and a glaring neon sign declaring “Vacancy”. The door creaked as he pushed it open, sending a bell tinkling wildly overhead and alerting a sleepy looking man at the counter that smiled warmly as he approached.
“Room for one?” he asked, voice hoarse and ragged as if he had spent most of his life shouting and wearing it out.
Hanzo nodded and accepted the clipboard that was passed to him. He scanned down the list of names, only seven other people had checked into the motel, a party of three, a couple and two singles. None of the names set off any red flags so he added a name to the list and passed the clipboard back across the counter.
The man adjusted his glasses and squinted at the name to read it, “Yamada Taro was it?” He smiled as Hanzo nodded mutely again and shuffled around with something beneath the counter before procuring a key and handing it over. “Room 5. Nice cosy suite, one bed, bath, balcony with a view. Enjoy your stay.”
Hanzo accepted the key with a nod of thanks and left the man to return to his former sleepy stupor. He wandered down the hall light on his feet, catching the faint sound of conversation behind doors, the clinking of bottles, the rumble of a TV, the squeaking of bedsprings, moaning. He found his room easily enough. The key barely fit the lock and it took a lot of violent twisting and shoving and curse words spat viciously under his breath before he was able to force the door open.
Cosy was a polite way of describing the room. You could stride clear from one side of the room to the other in three steps mind you swerved around the lumpy, frill covered bed and dusty old dresser. The wallpaper was a faded shade of yellow slowly peeling and the ceiling sported water stains and mold a plenty. Hanzo flicked the light switch and the room was bathed in a dull glow, washing out what little colour the place had. It beat a night sleeping outside any day.
He shed his pack on the bed and slipped out onto the veranda. There two chairs sat squatly beneath an insect zapper, sparking with each freshly charred mosquito it caught. Hanzo took a seat and barely suppressed a groan at finally taking weight off of his aching feet, allowing his body to go ragdoll limp, entirely supported by the chair.
The warm summer night hummed like an old radio, the air filled with the sounds of invisible insects chirping and buzzing. A cool breeze lazily swept by, refreshing and welcome as it dried the sweat on his skin and sent his clothes aflutter. It was peaceful and he could have dozed off then and there if not for the grind of a door being opened.
He was sat upright again in a flash, hand reaching for his bow only to grasp at empty air. He had left his bow inside with his pack. How foolish of him. He was unarmed, vulnerable and entirely at the mercy of whoever was here for him now. He wasn’t about to go down without a fight and braced himself as he was met with the sight of… a cowboy?
McCree settled in the seat next to Hanzo with an appreciative sigh, rolling his neck and cracking his joints contentedly. He spared a glance at the man beside him.
Small but built strong, knows how to fight, unarmed but ready to do whatever he gotta. Looks like he hasn’t slept in a month. Like looking in a mirror. Could probably use a drink.
Hanzo felt the stranger’s eyes on him and turned sharply to face him with a harsh glare, hoping to scare his gaze away. Rather than averting his gaze in shame at being caught as Hanzo had come to expect the man smiled pleasantly and tipped his hat at him in greeting.
“Howdy.”
Hanzo held his gaze fiercely for a moment longer, waiting for the man to break and look away first but when no such thing happened he sighed and surveyed the man. Scruffy, red poncho, cowboy hat, cigar between his teeth, spurs on his boots, what does the belt say? BAMF? He snorted, the man looked ridiculous.
“What do you want?” he asked, in no mood to entertain the ridiculous man. He was startled by how hoarse his voice was, weak and tired sounding. How long had it been since he last had to speak?
“Just bein’ polite is all,” McCree answered with a shrug. His voice wass husky with a thick southern drawl Hanzo had only ever heard in old American movies. “Don’t reckon I’ve had much time for conversation in a good while.”
He reached a hand into his serape, making Hanzo tense, prepared for a fight, only to procure a flask. Hanzo sighed inwardly in annoyance at his own jumpiness while McCree takes a long swig from the flask. What assassin would walk around dressed in such a ridiculous manner? McCree went to stow the flask away before seeming to think better of it and offering it to Hanzo.
Hanzo stared at it warily and declined, making McCree chuckle. “It ain’t poisoned. I’d know.”
When Hanzo still refused the flask he took another long swig and stashed it back in his pocket. Ridiculous clothing or no Hanzo still couldn’t rule him out as a threat. He looked haggard, worn, run down, as if he’d been on the losing end of a fight. His knuckles were bruised and bloody, his lip cut, a bruise blooming dark on his temple, favouring his right side. He shifted in his seat, letting his serape unwrap and his arms hang limp over the armrests, his head falling back.
Hanzo caught a glimpse of metal and craned his neck to get a better look. He had a six shooter holstered at his hip. Hanzo was an idiot to think that the situation could have been anything different. Could he make it back inside and get his bow before the man could draw his weapon and gun him down?
Noticing Hanzo’s sudden shift in demeanour McCree followed his gaze and tucked the gun back out of sight. “You don’t like guns?”
“I do not like what guns mean,” he said stiffly, still on edge.
“Guns mean being shot,” he said with a shrug, “you ever been shot?”
“Yes.” McCree whistled at that, visibly impressed.
“You’re an odd fella.”
He let out a faint laugh and withdrew the gun. Hanzo was on his feet, alarmed, prepared to fight or flight whichever came first. McCree simply opened the chamber and emptied the bullets out into the palm of his hand, stashing them in a pocket save for one, which he held up with a smirk.
“Fancy a game of Russian roulette?” When Hanzo continued to stare he stashed that bullet away too.
“You are not an assassin?” Hanzo snapped, narrowing his eyes.
“Look at me partner.” He scoffed, gesturing at himself. “I ain’t exactly subtle. Nobody in their right mind would hire me to be their secret killer. Why?” He pulled out the flask again and held it to his lips, “You someone worth killin’?”
Hanzo snorted and shook his head. “Not to you.”
“Darn.” He took a long swig from the flask before offering it to Hanzo again. “Come on now you look like a man that could use a drink.”
Hanzo stared him down, sizing him up, weighing the risks. Against his better judgement he swiped the flask from him and took a long drink.
“Oh careful it’s-” Hanzo pulled the flask away sharply. The liquor burnt his throat and he fought the urge to cough, feeling his eyes water nonetheless. McCree looked apologetic as he trailed off, “-strong…”
He thrusted the flask back at McCree. “If you are not an assassin then who are you?”
“Names McCree. I’m…” he seemed unsure how to finish, furrowing his brow as he tried to find an appropriate answer, “just a man now I s’pose. Am I gonna get a name outta you stranger?”
He considered telling McCree a lie, let the decision hang in the air before resigning himself. “Hanzo.”
“Hanzo.” He let the name rest in his mouth, it felt like he had been entrusted with a heavy secret. “Alright. Where you from Hanzo?”
“Nowhere anymore.”
McCree snorted and reached for the flask, “ain’t that the truth. What’re you doin’ here?”
Hanzo relinquished it willingly and McCree took a long draw. “I do not know.”
“You just ended up here?” Hanzo nodded, brow furrowed.
McCree passed him the whiskey again. It went down easier now that he knew what to expect, it burnt and his eyes watered but it also warmed his stomach and left his lips tingling.
“Why are you here?” he asked in turn.
McCree cocked his head contemplatively at the question. “I don’t rightly know myself. Seemed like a nice town, peaceful, hard to find.”
“You do not want to be found?”
“Not unless I wanna visit the undertaker no.”
Hanzo wasn’t sure what an undertaker is but it didn’t sound positive. He took another swig from the flask, letting the warmth of the night air mingle with the warmth blooming within him. McCree dropped the last remains of his cigar and ground it out with his heel before reaching into his back pocket and lighting another deftly. The smell was hot and spicy, hanging thick in the air. McCree reached for the flask again and Hanzo gladly gave it to him.
Beneath the cigar smoke and liquor Hanzo picked up on another scent, metallic and gut wrenchingly familiar. He remembered the gun, the bruised knuckles. A fight perhaps, maybe someone dead, blood on the soles of his shoes or some other tricky place he had forgotten to wash off. But as McCree settled back into his seat with a flinch, a hand shooting to his left side beneath his serape, Hanzo figured otherwise.
“You are injured,” he pointed out, gesturing to McCree’s side.
“Aw it ain’t nothin’,” McCree reassured, his attempt at a smile more of a grimace than anything else as he gingerly settled in his seat, “just a flesh wound is all.”
“You should still tend to it.” He shuffled his chair over so he was closer and reached out to pull McCree’s hand from his side. “Here allow me. Consider it payment for sharing your drink with me.”
McCree allowed Hanzo to remove his hand and undo the clasp on his chest plate, his eyes never once leaving the smaller man’s face, searching for an answer to such kindness. He visibly deflated as the chest plate was removed, his body relaxing subconsciously at the comfort of not being strapped into the stiff thing.
Now that it was out of the way Hanzo could get more of an idea of what he was dealing with. His shirt stuck to his wounded side, sticky and red, the blood congealed and drying. That was a good sign at least, the wound had clearly stopped bleeding some time ago and was not an immediate threat to his life, more of an inconvenience than a real issue. He stood and left McCree sitting there, still in a state of shock, to return to his room in search of medical supplies. He had had his fair share of injuries along the way, he made sure to constantly keep a supply of bandages, antiseptic and whatever else he might need just in case. It would be his first time using them on someone other than himself though.
McCree blinked owlishly at him as he returned, supplies in hand. He allows Hanzo to untuck his shirt and tug it up, flinching as the shirt was tugged away from the wound. The flesh beneath his shirt was dark with dried blood, the hair on his abdomen matted with the stuff making Hanzo’s nose wrinkle.
“You need to bathe,” he commented dryly.
McCree chuckled at the comment, knowing it to be true. He flinched with a sharp intake of breath as Hanzo set about cleaning the wound, gritting his teeth against the pain. The wound was perfectly round where it split through his side, Hanzo’s prodding causing it to slowly begin to ooze red once more. He didn’t need to study it that closely as he cleaned it to know what caused it, he was very familiar with what a bullet could do to a person, McCree had gotten lucky.
“So how did this happen?” he asked, cocking a brow, preparing himself for a lie.
McCree stiffened and smiled sheepishly. “Ah y’know how things are… accidents happen.” He met Hanzo’s unimpressed gaze and shrugged, “but I guess you already figured it out for yourself, huh?”
The wound needed stitches. Hanzo discarded the bloody gauze he had used to clean the wound and reached for his needle.
“How did it happen?” he repeated.
McCree sighed and let his head fall back, neck bared, staring at the ceiling. “Same way it always happens. We were both armed, we both fired. One ends up on a train out of town,” his face split into a wicked smirk, all sharp teeth, “one ends up in the morgue.”
McCree didn’t react at all as Hanzo began threading his flesh back together. He couldn’t help but be a little impressed.
“Why would people be shooting at you?”
“For the same reason they’re shooting at you I imagine.”
Hanzo paused and looked away from the wound to meet McCree’s eyes turned towards him, searching. Hanzo couldn’t hold the gaze for too long before he was averting his eyes, feeling far too exposed under that intense gaze.
“And what reason would it be that you have imagined?”
“People looking to collect on your head.”
“You are a wanted man then.”
“Hmmm now that’s a tricky one.” he mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “Which answer doesn’t end with you killing me and turning me over?”
Hanzo snorted, shaking his head. “If I were to kill you why would I have put this much effort into tending to your wound? Better to just let you bleed to death. Less effort involved.”
McCree laughed, shaking his head. “Well glad to see you’ve got it thought out. I appreciate it though. The whole not killing me thing.”
“It would be unbefitting of me to strike down a man that willingly shared what little he had with me.”
“Well you know,” he shrugged, embarrassed, “us vagabonds gotta look out for one another.”
Hanzo tied off his work and sat back on his heels, repacking his medical supplies. McCree appraised his handy work with a low hum of approval.
“Neat work. So what’s the verdict doc? Am I gonna live?”
“It is only a scratch. You will be fine.”
When he received no response Hanzo dared to meet McCree’s gaze and found him vacant, distant, as if caught in a daydream. Unsure of how to respond he reached out tentatively to tuck his shirt back into his pants, hoping to draw him back to the present. McCree blinked at the hands at his side and his eyes slid back into focus, his head tilting downwards with a sheepish smile.
“Sorry partner that just… reminded me of someone I knew.”
“Were they the one that stitched you up before me?” Hanzo reclaimed his seat, leaving his kit to collect dirt on the ground.
“Ah, sometimes. She was a doctor of sorts… well more soldier than doctor really. She would fix me up from time to time but mostly that was Reyes or Angela that’d tend to my wounds. Nah Amari she taught me how to shoot. She was the best of the best.” His smile grew sad as his tale faded to a conclusion.
“And where is she now?” Hanzo probed lightly.
McCree’s jaw clenched and he reached once more for his flask, something to keep his hands occupied. “Dead now. Most people I knew are dead now. The rest… off doing something else I s’pose. How ‘bout you partner? Got any friends? Family?”
Perhaps it was the liquor that had loosened Hanzo’s tongue but he couldn’t find it within himself to lie to the gunslinger. “Friends no. I had a family once but it was… complicated.” McCree raised an eyebrow at him, urging him to continue. “We were… well criminals. My clan was established centuries ago and over the years our power grew through arms trades, drugs and assassination. Because of what we were we were not exactly a loving family. My mother was distant and my father cold and strict. The only family I truly had was my younger brother.”
“A brother huh? Always wondered what it was like to have a younger sibling. I mean I got close but never the real deal. You guys were close?”
“We were inseparable in our youth. We would train together, play together, eat together, wander around the estate together. But… as we grew the clan demanded things off us that I was willing to provide and he…” Hanzo frowned and grit his teeth against the memories. “It was ordered that I straighten him out or else he would be dealt with.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t like that?”
“No my brother was quite,” he chuckled fondly, “fun loving in his teenage years. Quite the carefree playboy, content to spend his days wasting time in the arcades and at the ramen store. So the clan saw fit to…”
“Deal with him?” McCree finished for him.
“Yes.” he sighed, his brow furrowed.
“They killed him? A teenager?” McCree said in disbelief, expression irate.
“No. I did.” He fought to keep his expression neutral as he met McCree’s gaze. “I killed my brother.”
McCree stopped mid way through going for a drink, eyes wide in surprise as he absorbed what Hanzo had just dropped on him. It hung in the air seeming to hush the previously endless noise. The silence was deafening as Hanzo waited with bated breath for disgust to take root on the cowboy’s kind face.
Instead McCree scowled, shook his head and hissed, “Fuckers. Making you do that.”
Relief washed thick and heavy over Hanzo and cicadas echoed through the night air once more, no longer drowned out by his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. His hands had been trembling. What a silly thing. Why had this strange cowboy’s opinion of him mattered so much in the end? McCree offered him the flask but he shook his head.
“I think I’ve had quite enough for tonight. It is late, I should turn in for the night if I wish to be gone by dawn.”
McCree nodded, “Well thanks for the chat and stitching me up. It was awful nice meeting you Hanzo. Good luck out there.”
“And the same to you. Your liquor is terrible but appreciated. Your company was far better. Try not to die McCree.”
McCree tipped his hat once more in farewell and Hanzo retreated back to his room, shutting the door tight behind him and blocking off the rich aroma of cigar smoke and cowboy.
~
The constant itch of the frilly bedsheets were not enough to occupy McCree’s already buzzing mind. He had finished off the last of his liquor, smoked another cigar down to a stub, tossed and turned for what felt like hours and still couldn’t silence his mind long enough to rest. Exhausted as he was his own mind so desperate for sleep wouldn’t grant it for him.
Every time he closed his eyes he saw them. Reyes carrying him bleeding out of a warzone, expression switching constantly between fury and worry; the Swiss HQ going up in flames, people screaming and sirens blaring; Morrison patting him on the arm with gruff words of encouragement; monuments giant and cold, made of stone, to honour fallen soldiers; Amari handing him his gun, guiding his hands, showing him how to aim, how to be great; a dragon tattoo winding down an arm gently tending to his wound.
A knock came quick and urgent at his door and McCree jolted to his feet, peacekeeper ready in his hand. He crept to the door quickly, slowly drawing back the deadbolt and readying himself for an onslaught as he pulled it open only to be greeted by-
“Hanzo?” McCree squawked, taken aback. “What in hell’s name are you-”
He was cut off by Hanzo surging forward and kissing him, forcing him backwards into the room, all hunger and desperate need. McCree was barely off kilter for a second before he was hurriedly leaving peacekeeper on the dresser and taking Hanzo in his arms, returning the kiss with equal enthusiasm.
Hanzo’s hair was untied and tickled McCree’s face as they maneuvered their way back towards the bed, both a little clumsy, both a little overeager, both buzzing with electricity coursing through their veins from every point their skin touched.
Days, weeks, even months down the road McCree still gets lost in the memory of how beautiful Hanzo had looked illuminated by nothing but the moon and glowing neon, naked and writhing atop him. And in the morning McCree wakes up and finds himself alone as he expected to be, no sign that the other man had been there at all save for a thin gold ribbon, tied around his wrist.