Chapter Text
“We had an understanding!” The angry outburst echoes around the four walls of the office and everything trembles except for the man in front of her. They moved to Japan barely two weeks ago. Unopened boxes huddle against a corner, their home a shared apartment too small for three and this wreck of a gymnasium they rented; as always, business exploding in her face like dynamite.
“Hm.”
At the insouciant answer, Ashe slams a fist against the precarious desk where she spends less than she should and more than she wants. The ashtray stumbles with a thud, its contents unscattered. She has stood up as if looking at the yakuza prick from above would change the outcome of the conversation. It’s too late for that now. She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy to deal with the elite of the yakuza empire of Hanamura. Apparently, McCree’s naiveness is rubbing off on her after so many years.
Hanzo whistles the smoke out of his lungs as if the woman in front of him wasn’t about to risk getting manhandled by two bodyguards for a chance to scratch his face. It billows in between them while he puts the cigarette out, smashing it like an accordion. Black, loathsome eyes pin her in place, and at the grimace of disgust that her crimson lips paint, Hanzo graces her with a simper.
“Consider this an upswing in our agreement,” he quips.
“That’s rich.” Ashe lets out a snort and reclines back on her chair.
“None of our other fighters could win this. My father wants the American.” The derisive tone of his voice makes her grit her teeth until her jaw aches. “If he’s up to what I’ve heard.”
Without her managing his fights and picking up his opponents, McCree would have had to retire before his twenty-five birthday. “I ain’t throwing my fighter into a death sentence,” she retorts, full of herself and hoping the fool doesn’t find out because that’s the type of deal he’d take only for the money. Just this one time, Lizzy, it’ll be fine, he’d say.
This was supposed to be the last time, a few last gigs, easy fights, in a foreign country where everyone wants a chance against the American, against Deadeye, a fighter who wears a boxing robe with twin revolvers embroidered on his back. Rumors say the marksmanship of his punches is deadlier than any bullet. McCree charms the audience in his pre-fight interviews, always ending with a grin and a wink; by the end, he has them eating out of his hand, and when they dare ask him if he will win, a smug “Deadeye’s ready” purrs out of his mouth.
Truth is, Ashe is tired of witnessing the aftermath. The pain, the blood spilled on the ring for a few bucks she doesn’t need. She wants him out before it’s too late; before an ill-timed knockout or the physical and psychological trauma ends with a friend that is more like a brother to her. McCree is almost thirty, and he agreed. He’s ready to say farewell to the fights and live his best life as something else. Ashe sighs, her eyebrows knitting. That’s if the cowboy doesn’t decide last-minute that being a boxer is better than enjoying life’s little pleasures. She misses the States, and she misses her.
“We didn’t agree to an unsanctioned fight,” Ashe hisses.
At the worrisome furrow in between her dark eyebrows, Hanzo waves his hand dismissively. “It is not unsanctioned,” his voice trails down with arrogance, “just barely legal.” Ashe feels the bile rise in her throat, her hand clenching in a tight fist.
“That was not in the plan.” Through a third party, Ashe arranged a fight hosted by the Shimadas. Lots of easy money, they said, lots of fights afterward. She stares at him as if expecting some kind of negotiation when she already knows he’s determined to get what he wants. No, worse: used to. “You can’t change the terms two nights before the fight, much less the opponent.”
“I can and I have.” Hanzo stands, a black suit elongating his figure, a black shirt tightened around his neck by an also black tie. The only things breaking the harmony of his outfit are the jade color of his skin and the grey sprinkled in his hairline. “I want your fighter, and there’s a lot of money on it already.”
McCree’s statistics back in the States preceded him. They sure enchanted Sojiro Shimada, and he requested Hanzo to hire him. Twenty-three wins, no draws, one loss; eighteen wins by knock out. This sudden change of plans irked Hanzo too. He made a deal, and now he has to go back on his word, offering something entirely different. The Shimadas rule Hanamura with an iron fist; drugs, gunrunning, and illegal fights are the main sources of money, not to speak of the legal businesses laundering the benefits. His father only cares about the profit this kind of boxing fight will provide for the organization and not the people involved. He shouldn’t care either, he doesn’t, but he gave his word and now he has to act like an asshole to get what his father wants.
“The fight stands as we agreed,” Hanzo says, his voice hoarse. “The only change is the opponent.”
After a pregnant pause, Ashe sighs. “I want a neutral referee,” she leans forward, her red eyes drowning into two black wells. She knows there’s no backing off from a deal with the yakuza and that this is a courtesy visit. “And my crew on his corner.” Hanzo nods. “No more surprises.”
“Fair enough.” His father will be pleased, and this has been easier than he expected. Except for getting yelled at which he isn’t very fond of. “If that’s all…”
“Hold your horses, I haven’t said yes yet,” Ashe snorts, “you want to pit him against...”
A grating noise interrupts her, both swiveling about to look at the office’s door. McCree shoulders his way in, mumbling a curse under his nose at the bodyguard already reaching for his gun. “What the hell, Jesse?” Ashe snarls.
“Who’s getting you riled up?” He could hear her shouting even while he was hitting the bag and throwing a few jabs until the meeting was over. But Reyes warned him about the business they were getting into in Hanamura: don’t trust the yakuza. Keep your eyes open, your mouth shut, and your fists ready.
Hanzo shoots an icy glare at the two bodyguards unable to stop the man barging in, one sports a recently acquired bloody nose. “Wait for me outside the building,” he commands, then his eyes sweep over a torso chiseled in heaven, covered by a veil of sweat and nothing else. His mouth goes dry at the sight of the ridges of swollen muscles; at six feet of a sinewy male who stares back at him unabashed with an almost smug -no, charming- smile stretching on his lips. His rugged good looks and those whiskey-colored eyes don’t match the idea he had of him, of a professional pugilist in general. He was just a name until today. “Jesse ‘Deadeye’ McCree,” Hanzo says in a raspy voice. The boxer his father wants.
His name on his lips sounds so good it prickles the little hairs at his nape. “I’m your Huckleberry.” And McCree almost loses his cue. Hanzo frowns as if the true meaning of the statement hadn’t reached him. He notices his hands wrapped in red while he indulges in another not-so-subtle sighting of his body until he meets his gaze.
The shameless ogling brings a grin to his lips. Hanzo Shimada needs no introduction. McCree knows all too well who Ashe was meeting and whom they were getting in bed with. Albeit he wasn’t aware of the foreign beauty he wouldn’t mind getting into another kind of bed with. They came here so he could live off the profits until his hair turns white, hopefully back in New Mexico restoring his parents’ ranch. But at the sight of the man wearing black and sporting a challenging, resting bitch face, he forgets his own retirement plans and probably his last name.
“You beat up my bodyguard.”
“Sorry ‘bout your guy,” McCree shrugs, tapping the door closed with his heel and rounding the desk to lean on the side. “He was in my way, collateral damage.” He winks, but Hanzo’s countenance moves not an inch. From the corner of his eye, he spots Ashe rolling her eyes until she sees stars. “What’s going on? Is the deal off or somethin’?” She parts his lips to bark at him when Hanzo interrupts her.
“I hope not.”
The heir of the Shimada empire, the most notorious and dangerous yakuza in Hanamura after the king. McCree cannot hide the nonchalant smile on his lips. He was expecting someone different, perhaps an old guy or a young, spoiled brat who thought he’d play as a boxing sponsor this week to please the big bug. But Hanzo has turned out to be something awfully tempting.
Like a moth to the light, McCree tries to learn by heart every ruthless detail of his thick, black eyebrows, the sharpness of his jaw, the perfectly trimmed goatee that rims his face or the depth of his unrevealing eyes. He stares at him as he would at a long glass of icy water on a hot day. Only God knows it’s been too long since his stomach curled nice and warm at the sight of such a prize. He’s right up his alley and yet he’s aware he cannot even dream to touch a creature like him; that is if he wants to keep his fingers attached to his body.
Ashe interrupts his daydreaming and his blank stare with the honeyed accent of her voice. “Now that you’ve come up here to stick your nose in my business.” McCree refrains from rolling his eyes, he knows Ashe is all bark and no bite. “They want you to fight a higher weight.”
“Fine.” He graces her with an unruffled shrug. “What else?”
“McCree!!” She chides, realizing this is the reason she takes care of the negotiations and he does the fighting.
The cowboy is desperate for a good fight after the loss that brought them to the other side of the globe. Fighting here seemed to sway the grumpy moods and the self-loathing away, and even Gabriel managed to draw from him one or two smiles while training. Everyone knows once they are back home, there will be no more fighting.
“What? It’s fine, it can’t be that bad.”
“I will take my leave then,” Hanzo says, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a smirk.
“I’m calling this out,” Ashe snaps. “Find another punching bag.”
Hanzo swivels about, his hands in his pockets, his eyebrows knitting as if he couldn’t be bothered anymore. “You know better than to back off from this deal.” The truth settles like a lump in her throat. She knows, and yet Hanzo can’t escape her red glare. Things in Hanamura don’t work as they do back home. “I’ll double what we agreed upon.”
“Well, how ‘bout that,” McCree chuckles.
“For your trouble.”
Ashe stares at him; it sounds too good to be true. A pregnant silence grows uncomfortable until McCree nudges her and they lock eyes. A fool. She sighs. “Fine,” she says, nodding to Hanzo. “No more surprises.”
“Glad to make business with ya’,” McCree says, stretching his arm, his hand hidden under a sweaty hand wrap. Hanzo eyes it, the smirk coming back to his lips while he turns about and heads toward the door, ignoring the offer. One of the bodyguards is waiting for him outside and it irks him. He should be waiting outside as he ordered and not here eavesdropping for his father. “What? Don’t I get a handshake?” McCree says, his gaze roaming down the length of his spine and the subtle -and promising- curve of his ass underneath the suit.
Hanzo glances at him over his shoulder, catching him red-handed. “Use your hands for what you’ve been paid for, you’ve proven to be quite expensive so far.”
“If only you knew…” McCree quips, winking at him even though he knows Ashe will reprimand him later. When those ungentle eyes turn away from him, he watches him leave through the door as unhurriedly as a smile stretches on his lips. No, Hanzo Shimada is not what he expected at all. Then Ashe punches him right on his arm, and he complains out of habit.
“Are you out of your mind?” She hits him again as if she could infuse some sense in him.
“Stop it, it wouldn’t be the first time I fight a big guy.”
“We came here so we can get you out of the ring making a handsome profit, not to risk your sorry ass.”
“Double the price,” he drawls, throwing an arm around her shoulders.
“Did you lose your head for the money or for a pretty ass?” Ashe glances up at him, seeing a spark behind his eyes she hadn’t seen since the last boyfriend showed up only to disappear two months later. The cowboy didn't take it so well, and she lost count of the nights they drowned their sorrows at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey. When he falls, he falls hard.
“It is a pretty ass, ain’t it?” he jests. “The guy's a bit serious, but I can steal a smile after a few drinks.”
“Jesse,” Ashe sighs. She hopes he’s joking about getting in Hanzo’s pants since that won’t end up well if it even starts at all. It could jeopardize their future here.
“It’s just a fight, nothin’ new. I’m square tough, baby.”
“Well then, congratulations, dumbass,” she says. “You’re fighting Akande Ogundimu. Again.”
“Doomfist?” McCree has fought as a heavyweight in the past. With the proper training, he could put on weight and build muscle to fit the catchweight, but for the past five years, he’s been fighting as a light heavyweight. He’s in shape, but it will be tough. “Do what I say and this’ll go nice n’ smooth, you said,” he jeers.
“I was trying to get you out.” Her eyes never leave his face, he sports not a single worry painted on it, a three days stubble growing haphazardly out of control.
“Yeah, we’ll tell ‘em we want out, that we’ll give back the first payment in full. I bet the yakuza are nice and understanding people.” His jokes used to make her laugh, but a lazy smile is the only thing she can muster. “This is the last one, Lizzy.”
“For real?” Was she ever a believer? Ashe takes his hand, the one hanging off her shoulder and McCree meets her eyes with a carefree grin.
They’ve been family since they were seventeen, getting their asses into trouble more often than not. She had been alone until she met the troublemaker Jesse McCree, and when she was able to, she squandered her family’s fortune in whatever business caught her interest. The money never seemed to diminish.
McCree got into brawls and fights for pleasure until he knocked out a guy at a bar with a perfectly executed uppercut. That’s how they met Gabriel Reyes who witnessed the incident. I could work with that, kid, he said. Then Mexico, more fights, McCree seemed to love boxing more than the desert, and Ashe met her and never minded spending her days fooling around Castillo as long as Olivia would follow her closely.
It was fun for a while, a while that turned into five or so years way too soon. It was exciting, new, traveling from one place to another, getting ready for the next fight, higher bets, better opponents. They were like a family for a while; a while that lasted too little. The adrenaline of the fights, the injuries, the pain, the long-term damage nothing would heal. It scared her as nothing had. That one last fight McCree lost put him in bed for a month and took him another nine to fully recover. The wake-up call they needed.
Then the happy times seemed a century ago, they’re both tired and feeling old news. But McCree couldn’t retire with the bittersweet taste of defeat in his mouth. He knows why he lost the fight; he didn’t listen to Gabe, he caroused well into the night, and he woke up with the worst hangover of his life and a broken heart. McCree gave his hard work for granted and after twelve rounds of pain, blood, and tears, his opponent knocked him out. He couldn’t stand up, no matter how hard he tried. He lost his self-confidence and the title on the ring.
It was Gabriel’s idea to move to Hanamura for a change of scenery. Besides leaving her back in Mexico, Ashe didn’t think much of it when he saw a spark in McCree’s eyes again after a rough year. They’ll be back once this deal with the Shimadas is over; richer, happier, freer than they left.
“For real,” McCree promises.
Ashe holds his gaze and believes him. “You tell Gabe ‘bout this.”
“Hey, Lizzy, c’mon…”
“I dealt with that asshole, now you tell Gabe what you got into.” If Reyes ends up killing Jesse because of this, she’s next.
“Well, sweetheart, next time I deal with the pretty thing on my own.” McCree should be worried about the incoming fight, but in his mind, there are only that smile, those deep eyes, and that subtle smirk he wants to turn into a shy smile. He has always been fond of lost battles.
“I don’t think we’ll see him again,” Ashe retorts, knowing exactly what goes through his mind.
Feigning a heartache, McCree releases her from his hold and clutches a hand against his heart. “You hurt me.”
“He ain’t like us,” Ashe quips, arching an eyebrow at him while her lips stretch in a wolfish grin. “That bastard won’t let you touch him, he’s got a stick up his ass.” McCree chuckles, opening his big mouth to fuel their ongoing bickering when a familiar voice interrupts them.
“What happened?” Gabriel’s deep, raspy voice sends a frisson through their spines. Good old’ Gabe knew how to deal with them in their early twenties. When they needed him, he was there, not only to keep him in shape or hold the pads but also to be the voice of reason when needed. From the moment he became his trainer, he called the shots in the boxing business and taught Ashe everything she knows. He leans on the threshold, squinting his eyes at them, his eyebrows knit in a furrow, covered by a black beany. Somehow, just looking at their faces, he knows they’re in big trouble. “And who’s the bastard?”
The realization that he’s been listening for that long sinks in.
“It’s her fault!”
“It’s his fault!”