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Sometimes, life had a way of complicating itself.
Hanzo was reminded of this time and time again, in all senses. His heritage was a tangled web of deceit and burdensome legacies, his relationship with his brother (although smoother now) was built on betrayal, and the rest of his life was a revolving door full of missions, questions of morality, and legally murky waters. Even though he avoided carrying the weight of the Shimada empire as originally intended, he still found himself living a life in which his decisions held a greater impact than he was necessarily comfortable with. Even when he wasn’t struggling with the magnitude of his actions, he could feel latent stress coiled between his shoulders - too tight and too constant. At this stage of life, Hanzo was fairly certain that he’d never be truly free from the weight on his shoulders. He knew that he had to make peace with that, but everyone needed to find some form of reprieve, lest they buckle under the duress.
For Hanzo, training was a reprieve. There were some things he enjoyed doing for fun (reading was a favourite of his, and he’d gotten back into those pocket monster games he and Genji used to play), but there was nothing like training to ensure that he quieted his mind and kept himself relatively guilt-free. The training was a way to tire himself, to hone his skills, and to ensure that any future missions or demands would be far easier to execute with fewer potential mistakes. It was hard, after all, to outgrow the notion that you were a living weapon, an instrument of a greater empire. Recently, the training sessions had become less obsessive. It was no longer a daily goal to wear himself down to the bone just to avoid the noise inside his mind; after all, there was a certain drawling cowboy that kept pointing out how incredibly well trained and exact as a spur on a heel (the latter didn’t sound like a real saying, but Hanzo didn’t know enough to say for sure). While Hanzo wasn’t going to be magically ‘cured’ of the inadequacy and uncertainty that had long since been woven into his soul, it did provide a balance for that. It wasn’t constant anymore, buoyed by an unfamiliar feeling of warmth and acceptance that made his heart feel lighter.
Either way, training was an integral part of their job, and Hanzo wasn’t comfortable going more than 24 hours without some kind of routine. Generally, he let his dragons roam during his sessions (unless they were training with him) and given that McCree had other things to do, he often had alone time for his sessions. The cowboy had been on his mind more often than not, especially given the way that McCree was struggling after the loss of both his arm and his close possessions. Though it was a difficult situation, time apart was good for both of them.
The thoughts eventually quieted somewhere after the two-hour mark, leaving Hanzo focused on the step-slash-turn routine he’d started on. There was a phenomenon in which he became hyper-focused, only realizing how he felt when he was finished and wiping his blade of sweat and grime. Hair stuck to his forehead, his breath not over-laboured but heavier than usual. With a few more minutes of stretching and cooling down, the swordsman was ready to head back to his quarters.
Hanzo had half-expected McCree to be in the room when he was back, lounging on the bed or trying to puzzle over some new problem. Though technically they had their own rooms, McCree’s was more or less empty and the man himself spent more time in Hanzo’s room than his own. Still, he was his own man, and Hanzo opened the door to an room empty of cowboys and dragons alike. Not unusual, and he didn’t think much of it as he stepped into the modest bathroom. Showers were quick and efficient for him, and he only took a few minutes longer to fix his unruly hair. The warm shower fogged the mirror as he double-checked whether or not he looked presentable enough. He wouldn’t say he was vain , but certain southern men would beg to differ.
The thought of McCree made his lips quirk at the edges, thinking of the quiet the two enjoyed. It wasn’t always easy - it’d only been a few weeks since the mission on the train, and each of them was adjusting to new routines. He did his best to be as patient as possible, especially given the jarring change in scenery and lifestyle. It was why Hanzo didn’t mind too much when McCree would disappear for a day or more once in a while (and hadn’t he overreacted enough to Jesse’s need for solitude?). Most times, the man returned and slipped into bed next to him without a word, content with whatever break he had needed. Other times were more difficult, and Hanzo would find the cowboy perched somewhere out of sight, thumbing a bullet and looking like his mind was a thousand miles away. Seeing McCree without his guns or his limb was never comfortable, but in those moments he knew the toll that the losses took on the man. Angela couldn’t work fast enough (not that McCree’s general suspicion helped) on the replacement piece.
Distraction only went so far, but when Hanzo stepped out of the bathroom to find some casual clothing, he eyed the growing pile of sudoku puzzles on McCree’s side of the bed. Some things were enough to capture his attention, after all.
With the smile still ghosting over his lips, he pulled the shirt over his head and turned to find his dragons who - weren’t in the room.
The dragons weren’t attached to him 24/7 (unlike the ink which tied the three of them together) but they were usually back in the room by the time he finished cleaning up. Their absence was unusual, and that prompted a red flag to raise in his mind. The search began with him poking around the corners of the room, peeking behind the succulents on the shelf, lifting the blankets to check there - he practically turned the room inside out with no success. While, objectively, he knew that the dragons were ancient spirits and not wily ferrets with too much energy, it was hard to tell the difference when he was on his hands and knees to check under the bed for his ancestral spirit guardians .
His search turned up some lint, an empty pack of cigarettes, and a pen for his handheld gaming device. The sigh that left him was so soaked in frustration that even he was surprised by the heft of it. But time waits for no man (or dragon) so he summed up the willpower to expand his search. Unsupervised dragons were a recipe for trouble, and he didn’t want to find out whether it was ‘stolen food’ trouble or ‘surprise limb removal’ trouble.
The search was on .
The search was going terribly .
He had checked the kitchen, finding nothing but another of Reinhardt’s disastrous culinary experiments. After narrowly dodging the death of a thousand burnt tastebuds, he picked apart the indoor gym. Halfway through overturning the mats, Morrison practically chased him out for his ‘neurotic tendencies’ (hypocrisy wasn’t a great look on the soldier, but Hanzo bit his tongue). His hands were scraped up from maneuvering scrap metal in the garage, trying to ignore Tjorbörn’s din of noise. He made the fatal mistake of believing his brother could help, only to be rewarded with pointless riddles in the media room (it took a sum total of eight riddles before Genji admitted through howling laughter that he never knew a thing). The hunt for the dragons was a losing battle, and after two hours, he more or less gave up. The couch in the lounge would be his final resting place, and Hanzo buried his face in the couch cushions. This was the end - he would suffocate in the old-fabric and be left to rot in perpetuity.
He was left mumbling to himself about potential baits he could use to lure incorporeal spirits back to him. Food? Sweets? The promise of a quarter of his immortal soul? He was several items into the list when he heard a quiet giggle from the doorway a few feet away. Hanzo raised his head with a weak glare, hair coming loose from the tie and drooping in front of his face. He was a picture of defeat and exhaustion, and he internally cursed whosoever dared to look upon him in this moment of great shame.
Hana was grinning at him, twirling a keychain around her finger as though his suffering was the world’s greatest entertainment. A fleeting thought of I work with children passed through his mind, bitter even in his internal monologue. His only response to the laughter was a weary hmph , met by a wide grin from the mech-pilot.
With the tone of a cat with a mouse in its claws, she asked him, “how goes the search, old man?”
“It’s been put on a temporary… hold,” he said. He didn’t want to engage with this child right now (he genuinely cared for her, but death’s sweet embrace was twenty minutes and one couch cushion away).
“Is there something you find entertaining in this?” He challenged.
Her smile grew, if possible - the pink ‘whiskers’ on her cheeks wrinkled with the movement.
“Oh, nothin’! I ma-a-ay have a lead though.”
The sing-song tone in which she offered this ‘lead’ made him think about Genji’s ‘lead’. His suspicion may have been written all over his face, given the way Hana leaned closer with amusement still embedded in her raised eyebrows and bared teeth.
“Promise it’s not like Genji’s thing - I’ve got some action shots of you during your hunt, so I consider this a clue paid for already.” Ah yes, because ‘ documentation of your suffering ’ is equivalent to ‘ helpful assistance ’.
“I just thought I saw some li’l blue noodles at the western lookout spot, the one by that rock that looks kinda like a melted chicken? I’d check there.”
Before he could deign to respond, there was a click from a camera and Hana was snickering as she absconded from his sight. The monumental effort it took to get himself off the couch and headed in the direction of the nearest exit almost convinced him to head to bed early. By the time he stumbled outside, the sun was touching the ocean on the horizon. The air was still warm against his skin, the salt in the air giving him just a little bit of an energy boost as he began the short walk up the hill towards the western lookout. The spot was isolated by the nature of the rocks surrounding it, hiding the little grassy area that looked out across the ocean. Gibraltar had breathtaking views - something he tended to forget about. If nothing else, he’d get a decent view out of this trip.
He didn’t expect the warmth that flooded him when he caught sight of what waited for him.
The reds and oranges of the sun bled into a similarly coloured serape, wrapped tightly around the slowly moving chest of the man asleep on a bedroll, propped against the warmed stone. There was a serenity in the way he seemed to blend into the little patch of undisturbed nature. And, like the cherry on top, both of the dragons were tangled on top of his chest, sleeping just as peacefully. It was a breath of fresh air, and the weariness he’d been carrying with him melting as he sunk to the ground.
The cowboy jerked his missing limb, grumbling as he shifted to adjust his hat with the hand that remained. His expression was pinched for a moment but softened when Hanzo settled in beside him, wordless in his intention to join the others in their rest. It only took a few moments for the two men to find themselves comfortable with each other, Hanzo’s head tucked against McCree’s collarbone while the cowboy cracked his jaw and settled once more. If he hadn’t known that McCree could be up and fighting in less than ten seconds, he would’ve poked fun at the ‘sleepy cowboy’. Instead, Hanzo chewed on his private thought, and let his eyes go hazy as he stared out towards the horizon. The peace was only interrupted by a rumbling question from McCree.
“So… s’there a particular reason y’look like a hen with its feathers all ruffled?” He pulled apart the word ‘particular’ and gave each syllable the weight of a full word. Hanzo couldn’t find it in himself to glare.
“Mm. My grand and significant ancestral spirits seemed fit to abandon me for a comfier bed.”
As though they sensed that they were being spoken of (and maybe they did), the two small creatures stirred, Ao taking the time to glare at Hanzo from below droopy eyelids. There was a passing thought of can you blame us that Hanzo could only assume came from one of them before they were back to snuggling into McCree’s serape. The cowboy simply chuckled, the sound something Hanzo could feel from where he’d slipped in next to the man. It was a pleasant sound, one he was hearing more often these days - though it often came with a tightness that betrayed McCree’s troubled mind (a tightness that was absent in the light of the setting sun).
“Y’know, if’n a man napping in the sun gets y’er pants in a bunch, y’might wanna try some of that meditation crap Zen’s always preachin’,” teased the cowboy. The joke was met with a swift jab of Hanzo’s finger to his ribs, making the man jump and whine liked a kicked dog.
“I hope the dragons eat you in your sleep.”
Despite delivering the threat with a sober face, neither man could keep the amusement from breaking out in smiles on their faces. McCree pressed his lips to Hanzo’s forehead, allowing them to settle once more into the peaceful quiet of the sunset.
When Hanzo closed his eyes once more, he could see the reds and oranges dancing behind his eyelids, moving to the beat of the heart next to his. This, he thought, was perhaps the greatest reprieve of them all.