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It starts with a cup of tea.
It is late in the evening, and Hanzo has just returned from a long mission with a few others. He knows he needs to eat dinner and have a shower and take himself to bed for a well-deserved sleep, but he's only gotten as far as the dining room. Other members of Overwatch come and go, preparing their dinners and chatting about the mission, but he pays them little mind. He sits with his head in his hands, waiting for his racing thoughts to slow before he even tries to drag himself upright.
It comes as a surprise, then, when he finally lifts his head out of his hands and he sees the mug by his arm. Tea, hot and fragrant, smelling pleasantly of ginger and the grassy, comforting scent of green tea leaves. Tea that he had not made himself.
He looks up. The only other two occupants of the room are McCree, seated two chairs down with a cup of coffee that smells like something more useful to a car engine, and Lena, humming cheerfully as she flips pancakes at the stove. It is nearly eight PM, but he supposes there is no proper time for pancakes to someone for whom time is such a nebulous concept.
"Who . . . ?" he starts to ask, the question trailing off as he looks up from his tea and between the other two.
McCree glances over, his own cup of coffee held in front of his mouth. “Somethin’ wrong?”
Hanzo frowns as he picks his cup. “Who left this here?”
McCree blinks at him. Hanzo has the distinct feeling of being judged. “You didn’t see someone put a cup of tea right next to you?”
“I am tired and I was thinking,” Hanzo retorts irritably.
He turns his attention to Lena, who shakes her head. "Sorry luv, wasn't me," she says. "I don't know how to brew that stuff you like."
True, Hanzo thinks mildly. Lena only ever drinks oversteeped black teas, a far cry from the green tea he prefers. He supposes someone else may have passed through while he was distracted. Ana and Satya both enjoy tea, though neither would be inclined to make this one. Genji was never much for tea, but could still make it properly if pressed, and was the most likely candidate. Still, unlikely that he would have simply left a cup for Hanzo without saying anything.
"Strange," he muses. "Neither of you noticed who it might have been?"
"Nope!" Lena confirms cheerfully, flipping a pancake with gusto onto a plate.
McCree chuckles into his coffee. "I guess someone likes you," he says with a wry little smile that Hanzo can't quite parse. (Like most of McCree's smiles, it still does not fail to make Hanzo's stomach do a little flip.)
He hadn't wanted the tea much before, but now he can think of nothing else but its taste. He picks up the mug, cups it between both hands, and takes a slow sip, letting it roll over his tongue. It tastes right, which confirms his theory that it was made by someone who knows what they are doing, but still gives him no insight at all.
There is a flash of blue and a clatter as Lena abruptly appears beside him and deposits a plate in front of him. She is gone before he can protest.
"It's on the house," she says, waving him off with a spatula before he has so much as opened his mouth. "I know you didn't eat."
"What, none for me?" McCree protests.
" You didn't just get back from a four-day mission. You can make your own!"
Hanzo looks down at what has now become a full dinner, given to him piecemeal through the generosity of his teammates. McCree and Lena continue to bicker goodnaturedly, and Hanzo shakes his head as he tucks into his meal. It goes a long way in soothing the exhaustion and agitation of the mission, and he goes to bed feeling much more relaxed than when he began.
—
Restocking supplies at the Watchpoint is a bit of an endeavor. Technically , there should be no shipments of anything going there at all, considering that nobody is meant to be living there, and without a proper budget, payments for things usually come from a variety of different sources. Hanzo doesn't know the finer points of how Winston arranges it all, but he knows that on the rare occasion that he needs to restock, he simply needs to send off a list and a payment to Winston and what he needs will be delivered with everything else. Sometimes those deliveries are made to random points in or around Gibraltar, but everything nonetheless makes it where it belongs.
He does not usually bother with going down to the garage for the deliveries, but he is nearby when the alert pings on his comm today, so he drops by. It seems that McCree was tasked with picking up today's delivery, as he's unloading a series of parcels from the backseat of the Watchpoint's lone truck when Hanzo arrives. The recent warm weather has forced McCree to abandon his favored flannels for fitted t-shirts; Hanzo is only a little ashamed to take advantage of McCree's distraction to stare at his muscular back.
McCree retreats from the truck with an armful of boxes, huffing, and turns around. When he catches sight of Hanzo, he grins and shifts the entire weight into one arm just to tip his hat. Hanzo rolls his eyes, ignoring the way his heart leaps under his ribs.
"Well howdy," McCree says. "Came all the way down here to help little ol' me?"
Hanzo snorts. "No. I merely wanted my things." He holds out a hand expectantly. McCree immediately unloads everything he is carrying into Hanzo's arms anyway and laughs when Hanzo sputters under the weight.
It takes shamefully little convincing for Hanzo to stick around and help organize everything. The boxes are arranged by recipient in the usual place on a long, sturdy table by the door. Winston and Torbjörn both have a suspicious number of boxes. Brigitte's seems to be entirely full of sweets, judging by the packaging. Mercy's has a label from a wine delivery service and looks like it could easily contain half a dozen bottles. Most of the rest are for team members out on missions, and are ultimately stacked on a table to be collected at their leisure.
Hanzo doesn’t see his deliveries while unloading, but McCree gestures to a stack near the end of the table. “Here’s yours,” he says before turning to seek out his own supplies. Hanzo picks up the long, thin box, expecting it to carry the new batch of arrows he had ordered, but as he starts to turn away, McCree says, “Oh, that other one’s yours, too.”
Hanzo eyes the much smaller, square box beside the first. “I did not order anything else,” he says.
Curiosity piqued, Hanzo takes the other box. It does have his name written in marker, now that he looks at it, but is otherwise unremarkable. Pulling off the tape first reveals a packet of arrow nocks. Underneath that is a box of Ramune candies. Both are equally benign but confusing, because he had not ordered either. He had thought of the nocks only after he had given his delivery order to Winston, and complained irritably about it during some social gathering or another. He hadn’t considered the candy at all. On thinking about it, he hasn't had these candies in years. He thinks he might have mentioned those, too, maybe during the same situational gathering, but doesn't recall. He does have fond memories of his childhood with these silly candies and the soda that was their namesake, taking Genji and what pocket money their father gave them to the little convenience store down the road before their father declared those trips over—at least, over for Hanzo.
McCree is watching him from the corner of his eye, his cheek turned up with a little smile. Hanzo catches his eye and holds up the items. “Who ordered these?”
McCree opens his mouth, closes it again, and purses his lips. “No idea,” he says once his face journey is done. “I guess someone just likes you." He quirks a smile, and some amusing secret hides in the lift if his lips. Before Hanzo can figure out what is, McCree takes his things and departs with a wave over his shoulder.
Hanzo is left to assume that the candies came from Genji, who shares a fondness for them and will probably demand half the box, anyway.
—
It's the third one that makes Hanzo realize there's something else going on.
When he returns to his dorm, high on the thrill of a solid workout, he drops his gym bag onto the bed. He unzips it to unpack the few belongings that go between the gym and the dorm, then stops.
There is a book, sitting innocently on top of his water bottle and towel. He frowns at it for a moment before he picks it up. It’s a fantasy novel, some pseudo-historical fiction that he had expressed interest in after Reinhardt waxed poetic about it. Perplexed, he peeks inside the front cover and finds a folded piece of paper. It looks like it was taken out of a notebook before being folded into a neat square. Hanzo’s name is written in the middle, erasing any possibility that it made its way to his bag by mistake.
He turns it over, considering. He had not paid too much attention to the others in the gym, focused more on his own exercise. He remembers seeing Brigitte and Hana, both of them seemingly more interested in conversation than weights. He had talked briefly with Zarya, and she had still been there when he left. Reinhardt passed through at some point. McCree, of course, he remembers perfectly; they had talked on and off, exchanging playful banter that wouldn’t quite be construed as flirting, and Hanzo had been unable to resist sneaking glances whenever McCree’s back was to him. None of them had, at least that Hanzo witnessed, left anything behind.
Equal parts apprehensive and curious, he unfolds the note.
I hope I’m not overstepping, but I have to say, it’s always a treat to watch you work. I’ve never seen anyone combine grace and power the way you do. It’s beautiful.
Then again, everything you do is.
There is no signature. It is not a long note, but Hanzo finds himself frozen for a solid minute, reading and rereading the words as though doing so will grant him more understanding. A blush burns his cheeks, though no one is around to embarrass him.
He was not unaccustomed to compliments about his appearance, at least in his youth. He is aware that he is at least conventionally attractive and uses it to his favor. But this is something much more thoughtful—not just a bland pick-up line, but something genuine.
What would drive someone to say something like this?
And more than that, who? If it were someone he knew only superficially, he might understand, but everyone on this base knows of his past. Even if he has formed friendships now, he cannot imagine anyone would want him like this, especially not enough to pursue him.
He tries to decide if he has ever seen the handwriting before, but it is a lost cause. Nobody handwrites anything anymore, at least not to communicate around the base; even obtaining a sample of writing to compare would be more effort that it is worth. He sits on the edge of his bed with the note between both hands, thinking and scraping his thumb along the paper until he finally drags himself to the shower.
—
“It sounds like a secret admirer,” Genji says.
“That is stupid," Hanzo sighs, gesturing with more emphasis than is strictly required. Luckily, the hallway through the dorms is empty except for the two of them, and Genji both is accustomed to his older brother’s dramatics and has no room to judge them. “Everyone on this base is a full-grown adult. Secrecy is childish. And besides that, who would even—”
He stops himself, trapping the rest of his sentence behind gritted teeth.
Genji makes a noise he probably means to be thoughtful, but which comes out sounding like pity. “You never know,” he says. “I, personally, would question their taste, but there’s someone for everyone. Besides, what else would it be? People don’t just leave love notes in people’s bags.”
“But it makes no sense . Nobody does this kind of nonsense in real life. And it wasn’t a love note, just . . . complimentary.”
“I feel like our lives are strange enough that a secret admirer is not the weirdest thing you will see, and nobody leaves ‘complimentary’ notes that aren’t love notes.”
Hanzo does not have an argument. He had come to a similar conclusion, after all, reluctant as he was to believe it. He shoves his hands into his pants pockets and stews over the matter for the entire walk to the firing range.
Unfortunately, the matter only gets worse when they arrive. Hanzo notices it immediately and, even worse, so does Genji: the small bouquet of flowers standing at the counter beside Hanzo’s favorite shooting lane, neatly packaged in a glass vase. There is no mistaking its intended recipient; that lane is permanently set up for archery and is never touched by any of the other agents. Hanzo likes it because he can easily see the main door and because most of the other agents, with their louder firearms, tended to fill in wherever there was space nearer the door.
Genji makes a noise beside him that sounds suspiciously like a laugh being quickly suppressed. “Ridiculous,” Hanzo mutters, marching over to the offending gift. The bouquet, with its blend of half-bloomed white lilies and full heads of blue hydrangeas, has suffused the whole area with a delicate floral scent.
“Ridiculous? No one’s ever given me flowers.”
“Because you always preferred your suitors to give you cocaine.”
“But since then.”
Hanzo gently rubs a lily petal between his thumb and index finger. In spite of himself, he smiles a little. They are rather nice.
He hears the door slide open again and jerks back from the bouquet as though burned. The jingle of spurs reaches his ears before he sees McCree.
“Well now,” McCree says as he saunters over. “Ain’t that pretty. Someone’s fond of you.”
Hanzo’s cheeks warm. “Another secretive gift,” he mutters. “I do not understand who keeps leaving these.”
“Mystery for the ages,” McCree says dryly. His gaze flicks over to Genji. “Hey, Genj. You shootin' with’ us today?”
“I thought he might like to join us,” Hanzo explains. “If that was alright.” It was not actually alright—Hanzo had been looking forward to his usual time with McCree alone, but had met Genji on the way out and had been all but forced to extend the invitation. Hanzo quietly curses society’s irritating rules on courtesy.
“‘Course.” McCree takes his usual place in the range next to Hanzo’s. “I don’t mind kickin’ both your asses.”
Hanzo grins as he shrugs his bow off his shoulder. “You realize, of course, that I have won our last two competitions.”
“Exactly. I’m overdue.” He unholsters his pistol with a flourish and a cocky grin, and Hanzo smothers his answering smile.
“We will see,” he says. “Athena, please remove the dividers and start our usual.”
“Of course, Agent Hanzo,” Athena replies pleasantly. The dividers sink down into the floor, leaving one open space for a proper competition.
“It will not matter once I beat you both,” Genji remarks. Hanzo and McCree both share a laugh at that, and Genji sighs. He at least has the foresight to move the flowers away from Hanzo’s station, muttering to himself as he does.
Only once they are done shooting and everyone else leaves does Hanzo smuggle the flowers out of the shooting range, taking to the shadows and ducking behind buildings until he is safely back in his dorm. There, he carefully arranges them in the corner of his desk nearest to the window. The blooms are fresh and will likely last a solid week or two, but he still snaps a photo on his phone for posterity’s sake.
The entire matter is confusing and infuriating for it, and the perpetrator may be horribly misguided in where they have placed their affections, but still—someone thinks he is worth flowers.
—
The next gift is left on the dining table, his name written neatly on a scrap of paper beside it, and Hanzo decides he has had enough. He snatches up the gift and the note and retreats to his dorm, face burning.
This one is wrapped, unlike all the others: a long, flat package hidden in plain blue paper. Unwrapping it reveals an art print, mounted on thick cardstock, depicting a black-and-white ink painting of some of the native trees and flowers growing in Numbani. While on a mission earlier that week, Hanzo had lingered over it at a display while they shopped on their downtime. He had no decor in his dorm, unlike most of the other agents, and something about the piece had made his fingers itch for a set of pencils in a way they haven’t for nearly twenty years. He was certain he had been alone, though, the rest of the team scattered throughout the market.
First, he compares the writing on the label to the note that he received last week. The thin, slanted writing on both is clearly the same. Satisfied that there is only one to find, he lays them both together on his desk, pulls up his tablet, and sets to making a list.
He starts with a list of everyone who was on the mission in Numbani besides himself: Mei, McCree, Lúcio, Ana, and Fareeha. He crosses Ana’s name off the list immediately; even if she didn’t often treat him like a particularly amusing child, she would not be even half as coy about these matters. He does not speak to Fareeha often and has a difficult time imagining she likes men at all, let alone one like him. Still, it’s not technically impossible.
Mei and Lúcio are a little more likely, though only by a slim margin. Mei, at least, he can imagine might keep something like this to herself, though the gifts do not seem like her style at all. Lúcio might do the kinds of gifts Hanzo has received and has admitted attraction to multiple genders in the past, but he too is the kind of person who would probably speak up if he were interested. Hanzo puts question marks beside all three names, unable to rule them out.
McCree—unlikely. Hanzo would not be so lucky. He has no evidence one way or the other, but fate is not so kind. He is not entirely blind; he knows McCree thinks something of him, at the very least finds him attractive enough for silly flirting and an occasional look. It is the absence of anything beyond that which Hanzo finds unbearable. He is attractive enough for base attraction and decent enough for friendship, but lacking too much somewhere for anything else.
But, whispers a traitorous little voice, you do not know that for sure.
Hanzo is not entirely successful in quashing the hope that swells in him. He beats it down swiftly and wrestles it back into its box in the corner of his mind, but that little voice persists. After a long moment of contemplation, he puts a question mark next to McCree’s name, too.
—
“Here we are,” McCree says, dropping himself beside Hanzo at the cliff’s edge. He has a paper bag cradled in his arm, which clinks with the sound of glass bottles rattling within. He settles and peers into the bag, then produces one bottle that he holds out for Hanzo’s approval. “Your winnings from the other day.”
Hanzo gleefully takes the bottle; he has been anticipating this for a few days. He expects the regular mid-grade sake, but is pleasantly surprised to find that McCree has handed him a rather nice bottle of umeshu. “Oh,” he says. “Is there an occasion? You did not have to get me something so expensive.”
McCree waves him off. “It’s nothin’, don’t worry about it. Just felt like gettin’ you somethin’ a little nicer, is all.”
Hanzo can hardly argue. McCree loans him a multitool to work the cork out of the bottle, then produces a couple of glasses and a fresh bottle of whiskey from the paper bag. He pours them their respective drinks and they chat for a while, then soon settle into a companionable quiet.
Hanzo’s chest begins to ache as the minutes tick by, the way it seems to do more and more when he is with McCree. It used to be a pleasant sort of feeling, a bloom of warmth under his ribs that could be triggered just by thinking of McCree for more than a moment. But as time has gone on, that warmth has hardened into something more bitter, less enjoyable: an acute awareness not of what he has, but of everything he does not.
Hanzo bites back a sigh and once again reminds himself that this is his fate in life. Just because he has learned to want and allow himself certain things, despite his mistakes, still does not mean he will be permitted to have them—that question mark on his list notwithstanding.
After a time, McCree lets out a breath and leans back on one hand, swirling his drink casually in the other. “So,” he says. “Any new thoughts on who your secret admirer is?”
Hanzo pauses, his glass half-raised to his lips. “No,” he says.
A beat of silence. “You still don’t know?”
“No,” Hanzo answers bitterly. He takes a deep pull of the umeshu before he continues. “I can never seem to catch who leaves the gifts, even when I am surrounded by people. I do not recognize the handwriting from the note. It has been two weeks and I still have no clue at all.”
An odd expression crosses McCree’s face. “Not even an idea?”
“No.” Hanzo is aware he is pouting, but he can’t quite help it. “I cannot seem to find a pattern, and nobody will confess or even seems to be acting any differently around me.”
“Huh,” McCree says. He stares into his glass for a long moment, slowly swirling the contents. “Real puzzler, that. Well, I’m sure it’ll come to ya one way or another.” He takes a deep drink, and when he lowers his glass, he asks. “Anyone you’re hopin’ it’ll be?”
Hanzo’s chest seizes. For one horrifying moment, he thinks McCree knows—but a glance at his companion’s grinning face, eyes twinkling with mischief, and he realizes otherwise. The tightness in his chest is gradually replaced with a cold pit, however; this is the closest they have ever broached the subject.
He could say something now. It would only take one word. The weight of it— you —rests on the tip of his tongue.
But he won’t say it. Because there is no reason to believe, even when handed an excuse to confess on a silver platter, that Hanzo’s feelings will be returned.
“No,” he says. “Of course not.”
McCree’s eyes search his for a long moment. Then he turns away and takes another drink, and silence reigns between them again.
In the distance, the sea crashes against the beach in a ceaseless rhythm. The sun finishes its descent beyond the horizon, and the last glimmer of its light vanishes from the water's surface.
—
The next day, the gifts circle back to tea, although instead of a cup of fresh-brewed cup, he finds two bags of loose tea leaves neatly arranged side by side at his seat at breakfast. The logo stamped on the bag sources them from a tea shop in London, where he and a few others had been just yesterday following up on some threats of anti-omnic violence. He had sampled a couple of varieties at the shop with Lena and Ana; McCree and Hana had politely turned them down.
After that, there are no more gifts at all.
He waits for a week and a half just to be certain, but the gifts usually came around every four or five days; it does not take long to confirm they have stopped.
They came back from the mission in London three days before he received the tea. Two days after that, he drank with McCree and told him he had no interest in anyone on the base. Then the gifts, aside from the tea that would already have been purchased, stopped.
It is not proof. But it is enough to nurture that little seed of hope and wonder, enough for it to plant roots in his heart and poke its fledgling buds through the surface.
He makes himself a cup of tea as he considers this one night, or tries to—distracted as he is, he accidentally over-steeps it, and while he would normally drink it anyway, it seems like a waste with such a nice blend. He sighs as he dumps it out, then enlists Ana’s help when she passes through. “I would be happy to, if you share,” she says, eye twinkling, and Hanzo cannot help but laugh as he agrees.
They sit across from each other at the table, cups of tea in hand and Ana’s old floral teapot between them. Ana sips primly from her cup, then fixes Hanzo with a stare. “So,” she says. “What troubles you?”
Hanzo sighs at his cup. “I am afraid I have been a fool,” he admits.
Ana does not answer him. Hanzo looks up. She finishes taking another drink before she says, “If you’re expecting me to disagree with you, I am not going to.”
Hanzo snorts and lifts his cup to his mouth. The tea smells strongly of smoke and spice, a blend of lapsang souchong and something else he doesn’t quite remember. It reminds him of campfires or gunpowder, and perhaps it is because of his mindset today or because he has always been that far gone, but he immediately associates those with McCree. He sighs and drops his head, supporting his forehead against the warm cup.
He hears Ana chuckle and the tap of her cup resting on the table. “What have you been a fool about, then?”
Hanzo considers whether to say, and how he can possibly explain it without sounding childish. Then again, news of the whole thing has spread through the base, because nobody has anything better to do between missions than gossip.
“I think I figured out who has been leaving me the gifts,” he says reluctantly.
“Oh?” Hanzo can hear the smile in that one innocent syllable. He looks at her, and while her smile is politely contained, her eye is crinkled with delight. “I would think you would be happy about that.”
“I fear I may have figured it out too late.”
“How do you know?”
Hanzo winces as he recalls the cold way he had spoken to McCree. No, of course not. “I may have said something foolish before I realized.”
“And I assume this upsets you because you return their interest?”
“I—” Hanzo cuts himself off. He does not finish the thought.
Ana snorts at his helplessness. “Well,” she says. “I’m sure it isn’t so hopeless. Neither of you are very good at words, but I’m sure if you simply spoke with him, you’d sort it out.”
The realization settles over Hanzo like a chill. “You knew, ” he accuses.
“I have known Jesse for many years—not that you have to know him so long to see how smitten he is. Plus, Jesse may have come to me for advice at some point. Poor boy barely knows what good coffee tastes like, let alone tea.”
Hanzo has to set his cup down now to put his face in his hands, cheeks burning. Thankfully, Ana does not laugh at him anymore, although he figures he can feel her smugness radiating from her side of the table. When he drops his hands, she is carefully paying attention to her cup.
“What do I do?” Hanzo asks.
Ana gives a wry smile. “I am not the most qualified to talk about successful relationships.”
“Moreso than I, I suspect.”
Ana regards him for a long moment. “I don’t have a good answer for you, Hanzo,” she says more seriously. “But I do know that our lives are complicated enough without also playing games with the ones we care about. If you want something, speak plainly.”
Hanzo stares into his cup of tea, barely touched. “And if I have already hurt him?”
“I won’t say he is not the kind to hold grudges, but I don’t know that he would hold one about something like this.” The corner of her mouth ticks up in a smirk. “Particularly with you, even if I cannot imagine why.”
“Neither can I.” Hanzo huffs, head spinning with the possibilities now laid out before him. “But thank you, Ana I will consider all of this.”
—
Before Hanzo can decide what to do, however, McCree beats him to the punch. A few hours later, Hanzo receives a flurry of texts.
From: McCree 19:32
You know it was me the whole time, right? The gifts, the notes, everything.
From: McCree 19:33
I um, was just gonna let the whole thing go and lick my wounds in private, but I got to thinking that maybe I should give it a real try first. So, here it is. Me being clear. It was all me.
From: McCree 19:34
I’m gonna shut up just in case I'm still off-base here, but I'm sure you can figure out what that means, at least.
From: McCree 19:34
I’ll be on the comm bridge if you wanna talk about it. If not, well, no hard feelings, just could use a heads-up.
Hanzo rereads the texts once, then again, then a third time for good measure. When he is done, he quietly closes the messages and places his phone on his desk. Despite the fact that he is alone, he has what must be the most stupid grin on his face.
—
Hanzo finds McCree on the bridge as expected, his back to Hanzo as he leans on the rail and looks out toward the sea. He isn't smoking, surprisingly, and drums his fingers against the rail to a nervous rhythm. Hanzo pauses to take a deep breath and steel himself, but not before McCree notices him.
They both hover uncomfortably for a moment. McCree gives the rail a final pat and grips it tightly.
“So,” Hanzo says with a forced lightness he absolutely does not feel. “You were the ‘secret admirer.’”
McCree’s face goes through half a dozen expressions before settling on something like confused and embarrassed. "It was never supposed to be a secret," he says.
Hanzo stares at him. "It wasn't!" McCree insists. "At least, not at first. I was right there every time I gave somethin' to you. You just never seemed to notice it was me."
Hanzo thinks back over the last several weeks and comes to the conclusion that McCree is, in fact, telling the truth—he had always been present when one of the gifts would have either been given to him or placed among his belongings. Except . . . "You never came clean when I asked," Hanzo accuses. "On the first day, with the tea"
"I was bein' a smartass," McCree says in exasperation. "Couldn't believe you didn't notice I'd left it there. Thought you’d cotton on if I said something.”
"Even afterwards. The delivery afterwards, the book, everything. You had a number of chances to tell me, and yet everything you do is cloaked in five layers of plausible deniability. How was I ever to know for certain it was you?"
That, finally, seems to drive home. McCree shrugs as he looks to the side. "Why did you not admit it when you realized I did not know?" Hanzo presses, uncaring now if he sounds too desperate.
"It got awkward," McCree says. "When you didn't notice on the first couple, I couldn't tell if you were bein' dense or just polite. Felt weird to point it out. And the longer the whole thing went on, the harder it got to come clean."
Hanzo still doesn't know whether to cry or shout for joy. His stomach seems to be making uncomfortable loops between this throat and his feet for the way it swoops and cuts off his breath in turns. He tries to swallow it back into place as he takes a step forward, catching McCree's shirtsleeve between two fingers.
"It seems to me," he says, "that this could be fixed with words, for once."
McCree glances down at Hanzo's hand, then up again, eyes tentatively hopeful. He straightens his shoulders and blows out a breath. "I like you," he says. "A lot more than is good for me, and for a lot longer than is probably sane. And, you know, I'd give a whole lot more than some tea and some books just for a sliver of a chance to get a little closer to you." His throat bobs with a nervous swallow. "If you'll let me."
Hanzo can't help but smile, relief and happiness bubbling through the apprehension. "That will not be necessary," he says, and McCree immediately breaks into a grin. “I think it is more than past time for me to return the favor.”
“Now you know that ain’t the point of gifts.”
“Oh?” Hanzo slips his hand to McCree’s collar instead, tweaking it playfully. “Are you certain there is nothing you would like?”
McCree’s eyelids droop as his gaze drops down slightly, and his smile takes on a distant softness. The whole effect makes him look a little drunk, and Hanzo can’t help but feel pleased knowing he is the reason. “Well,” McCree says, his voice dropping to a rumble. “If you’re offerin’.”
Hanzo fights a grin as he leans up, closing the distance between them. Thankfully, there is no mystery in who he is kissing. McCree kisses back eagerly, hands falling to Hanzo’s waist, then sliding around to his back.
The whole endeavor has been frustrating and embarrassing, but it was worth it for this.
—
Hanzo insists on taking McCree for dinner later that week to at least begin paying back McCree’s kindness (“It’s not a gift if you pay me back, Hanzo.” “Fine, then allow me to take you for whatever non-debt-related reason pleases you.”). After, they both intend to go their own ways that night, but one kiss at the door turns into two turns into too many too count, and after the last few weeks, Hanzo is far from eager to let the night end early.
They at least keep to the agreement not to sleep together quite yet, although that doesn’t rule out sharing a bed. They kiss for what feels like hours; Hanzo can’t remember the last time he kissed anyone just for the sake of it, and certainly never with anyone so content to do nothing else. Hanzo’s mouth feels bruised and every inch of his skin tingles under McCree’s roaming touch by the time they settle together under the sheets.
Hanzo wakes first in the morning. He has just enough presence of mind to turn off his alarm, sparing them both, before sinking back into the cozy nest of blankets. McCree is still sound asleep, stretched out on his stomach with his arms folded above his head. Hanzo props himself up on his elbows and just looks for a while, chest tight with affection and amazement. He wants to reach out and brush a stray piece of hair from McCree’s face, and it takes a moment to remember that he can, and no time at all to give in to the urge after that.
McCree stirs at his touch, making a sleepy noise as his eyes flutter open. It takes a moment for him to focus, but he smiles as he finds Hanzo’s face over the curve of his biceps.
“Mornin', sugar,” he rumbles. He starts to shift as though to get up, but Hanzo shakes his head.
“Stay,” he says. “I will not be gone long.”
“M’kay.” It takes seconds for McCree to drift off again. Hanzo laughs softly to himself as, with great reluctance, he slides out of bed.
It does not take long for him to retrieve what he needs. He returns swiftly with his prize, which he gently rests on his pillow where McCree will see it when he wakes. Perhaps a plant is not the most original gift after the flowers earlier, but he thinks the charmingly round ball cactus will amuse McCree, anyway. He cannot help a smile as he brushes his fingertip over the plant’s sharp spines, thinking of how (he hopes) McCree will light up when he finds it.
But the point is not to be standing there when McCree wakes. Hanzo pulls himself away and to the bathroom for a shower. He takes care to leave the door open.
It’s only a couple minutes before he hears a gentle rap over the rush of the shower. McCree pokes his head around the curtain, heedless of the spray, with the cactus cradled against his chest and his hair still in sleep-addled disarray. He doesn’t say anything, just reaches in to grab Hanzo around the back of his neck and pull him into a kiss.
“Thanks, honeybee,” McCree murmurs when they part. He is now almost as soaked as Hanzo is.
Hanzo smirks. “It was not me.”
McCree rolls his eyes. “Asshole,” he says fondly.
Hanzo laughs and gives him another quick peck, lingering to brush his wet nose against McCree’s. “You are welcome. Now, do you plan to stand out there the entire morning, or are you going to join me?"