It reaches him like a sudden blow to the face.

Quick. Painful, and completely undignified, and leaving him very out of sorts.

He is aboard the Gilded Lady, on his way to a required Event for the Season of the Century, a tedious affair with other Houses of the Glorious Generation, specifically one only Primaries can attend. He is the youngest member to attend, and the other Houses are always eager to point it out. They call him a child, they call him a boy and it is out of sheer jealously, he knows. After all, boy he may be to them, but he is still the Primary to a more prosperous House, a more wealthy House, a more perfect and pinnacle House.

"Lord Balem," said Tskalikin, his deep voice a hiss, and, Balem noted, alarmed.

"Be quick, Tskalikinn," he responds boredly, his voice a rasp.

"A missive has been sent from the Orous Authority of Houses."

Balem blinked. Shifted slightly from his position in front of his vanity where he had been placing the final touches upon his attire.

"What in the Verse could they say to me? Is Titus being made an example of by the government of Orous?"

It didn't happen often. But sometimes Orous liked to take a blow to a House, a weak show of intimidation and a sorry attempt to police them. They had never dared to do so to House Abrasax. As sorry as Titus is as a member of my House, this will not stand.

"No, my Lord. It- A claim of Inheritance has been made to House Abrasax."

What.

Balem could not contain his quick turn around, nor the way his eyes went wide at the announcement.

"Who is the claimant?"

The Sargon kept himself straight, hands behind his back, a feat with his hideous wings.

"Not a claimant. Claimer, my Lord, as it has been accepted. Queen Jupiter Jones of House Abrasax, first of her name, Reoccurrence of Seraphi Abrasax, the new Sovereign of the Glorious Generation has taken her claim and place within House Abrasax."

Balem cannot breathe for a single second.

A Reoccurence.

Mother.

Mother.

"KILL ME BALEM, JUST KILL ME! I HATE MY LIFE!"

"The validity of this claim- WHAT IS IT?!" he bellowed, his throat burning.

The Sargon winced.

"It is an a-hundred-percent match, my Lord. The transmission has been authenticated by our communication expert, and Aegis missives have stated that we are not to trespass upon Queen Jupiter's Holdings until she has made her own assessment of all her Holdings. A list of the Holdings you have been stripped of has been sent."

Balem could barely believe this.

"Find me recordings of her Ascension."

"All known footage of her is in your desk, Sir."

Balem made his way to his desk. Tried not to tremble and failed miserably. And quickly loaded the recording.

The room was full of the horrific dull halls of Orous's Halls. Dull grey, dirty, and… And in the middle of it was a girl in a resplendent white and gold dress. Beautiful and just like I used to favor- Just a child. Barely old enough to claim her inheritance. A wisp of a thing.

But it was his mother.

"LEAVE!" he bellowed, all the while not taking his eyes off of his mother.

He barely heard himself be left alone. Barely felt as he walked to the image of His Mother. Barely felt the rapid beating of his own furious, aching heart. Dark hair. Olive skin with just the barest hint of tan, two eyes of different colors. Pale green and brown. Luminous and assessing. She walked just the same. Pace even and elegant. Her dress was one to impress, worthy of a Queen. Worthy of her. Much too young. Not really his Mother. But… But.

"There you are," he whispered, voice trembling and shaky and so quiet he barely heard it, "There. You. Are."

She was barely old enough to reach the marking desk, had to be given a stool by her Advocate to reach the machine. Balem watched as she tore through the order he had worked so hard to achieve in a single second.

"It's cool," the recording said, sweet, even, his mother. She flashed her Enitled Holding mark behind her.

To her entourage- Balem jumped at the sight of them. Unworthy. A teenage Splice, far too human to be decent, with only her transparent wings denoting her status in her long fiery robes. A Keeper in similar robes. And another Splice in military garb with similar wings. Too human as well. What sort of rabble does my Mother surround herself with?!

"It's very nice," said the teenage splice, beaming.

"I am so sorry," said the man behind the desk, face grim filled face sad.

His mother turned. Smiled. Full and even and calm.

"Whatever for?"

"For the tragedy, your Grace. You were a Terristie. You'll see soon enough."

His mother's smile- it turned cool and perfect and just what it had always been.

"Doesn't matter. Thank you for the condolences. But they won't be necessary."

I miss you, Mother. It was a sudden, ridiculous thought.

But Balem knew it was true.

"Shall we, Majesty?" said the male splice. Balem thought he looked familiar. But he could not place him-

"I suppose my Holdings won't inspect themselves. Thank you, Sir Seal and Signet Minister, you have made my Ascendance a delight."

She descended from her stool. Small and dainty boots barely making a sound. The teenage splice and Keeper walked forward to help her with her long train. She didn't even look back to them as they did so. She regally gave a nod to her Advocate.

"Advocate Bob you have done well in my Ascension. Coordinates to the shipyard with my ship, The Red Hawk will be available if you need to send me any additional information."

The Red Hawk.

His Mother's mobile Alcazar. He had been trying for years to acquire it, desperately trying to contest her will to make it available to him.

She has cut my inheritance. Reduced our ability in the Market by cutting off access to the Refinery-

SHE OWNS THE EARTH.

What if she sees it again? What if she goes mad again?!

"Kill me Balem, Just kill me! I HATE MY LIFE!"

I don't want to, Mother. But I will. You are in the way again.

"I am sorry, Mother," he whispered, gently, "But there can only be one of us. And you have gone once before."


Will isn’t good at cities. It’s easier to avoid eye contact in a crowd, but there are always people brushing past him, noisy and unpredictable. Will is better at individuals, and even working at the Bureau, he was glad to live far enough outside of DC that he couldn’t see or hear anything but fields and woods and familiar animals. Hannibal loves cities though, art and culture and centuries of architecture piled on top of each other. Once they’re settled in a tiny, perfect apartment, he dresses Will in suits that fit too well and takes him out to promenade on the avenues like something out of a nineteenth-century novel. It’s dreamlike in those first days, so far removed from any reality Will has ever known that he wonders if he’ll wake with his ears ringing in a hospital bed. When they left the US, he was still groggy with painkillers, bandaged to look as though he’d come from a plastic surgeon and not a fall that should have killed them both.

“There will be a scar,” Hannibal told him, checking the real bandage across his torn cheek, stitched through inside and out but stinging when Will tried to move his face. “But you will still be exquisite.”

Hannibal is earnest in complimenting him, and Will can hardly bear the weight of it, used to coyness and dissembling.

Hannibal calls him “exquisite” again in the boutiques in Vienna where Will is fitted for suits that rival Hannibal’s own in pattern and detail. Will pretends not to hear the word as a small, dark haired woman tugs the hem of his pants down over his shoes.

He finds himself waiting for Hannibal to touch him, electric for even the brush of Hannibal’s fingers straightening his collar. There is only one bed in their new apartment, but it covers nearly the whole width of the bedroom, and when they’re on opposite sides of it, it’s as chaste as a childhood sleepover. But Will is sure this is temporary, this distance, and the first few nights he lies paralyzed in the dark, imagining what he would do if Hannibal reached out for him. It reaches the level of fantasy, and Will has to admit it is not his first fantasy about Hannibal.

And yet, night after night, Hannibal sleeps on the other side of the bed, wakes early to make beautiful breakfasts, thin crepes crisp at the edges, omelets spilling over with fresh vegetables, small tender sausages with the butcher paper left ostentatiously visible on the counter just so it’s clear that they were not of Hannibal’s own making.

He hasn’t killed anyone, as far as Will knows, and they’re hardly ever apart. Although he remembers Alana being Hannibal’s alibi once when he slipped out of bed beside her, and then he thinks better of his certainty. But Hannibal does not seem eager to be caught. He is not taunting the police or making a scene for Will to read like a love letter. Their life so far is simple and domestic.

Hannibal buys him a robe, unlike anything Will has ever had before, silk satin with wide sleeves that make Will feel absurd as they move over his skin. He is used to mornings at home in his boxers and undershirt. The fabric warms against his forearms as he sits at the table overlooking the street, until it’s almost like someone else touching him, brushing against him. On cloudy mornings he catches Hannibal watching him reflected in the glass, and it is an easier form of eye contact, when Hannibal is barely more than a flat silhouette. New fantasies bloom in Will’s mind, Hannibal pressing him against the window, holding him in place, creasing the satin robe until he has to take it off before it’s ruined. He looks away from the window and crosses his legs. He knows he’ll need to make himself come in the shower after breakfast, and it’s all he can think of until then, the imminent relief of it. Hannibal looks at him over the rim of his cup, and Will wonders if he can smell it, the sting of Will’s arousal in the air.

Someone in a shop refers to Will as Hannibal’s “partner” and Hannibal does not even try to correct him. Will stares at a display of antique coins and wonders how often that happens in German without him knowing. If he is Hannibal’s partner, why won’t Hannibal close the distance between them? He’s never shown any regard for Will’s boundaries, physical or otherwise, before.

Hannibal enjoys cooking, so their days are circumscribed by the time needed to prepare dinners. They eat late, in the continental style, but even so, they’re usually home by sundown, nightlife rolling by in clicking heels and laughter below the window, and Will learns to treat it like a natural phenomenon, like the rustle of trees and hum of insects outside his house in Wolf Trap. Sometimes Hannibal plays music on the little Bluetooth speaker he’s laid on the coffee table, switching wordlessly among compositions Will doesn’t recognize and won’t ask about. Will learns to read his moods in the music, in harsh cymbal crashes and soft meandering piano and low, mournful violin. At times he feels as if a bow is being drawn across his body, as though he’s vibrating in time with Hannibal’s music, in time with Hannibal himself.

One night Hannibal takes his hand as he’s chopping tomatoes, making a pulpy mess of it. He is gentle, as though he’s helping a child, but Will’s fingers clench on the knife handle as Hannibal shows him a new motion. Hannibal is pressed against him, all along his side, and his breath is low and even as Will manages the rest of one tomato before he sets the knife aside and turns, leaning farther into Hannibal’s body.

Hannibal’s eyes go to Will’s mouth, and Will thinks Hannibal will kiss him this time. Surely, Hannibal will kiss him this time. But Hannibal steps away. “One tomato will be fine,” he says, returning to the stove. Will’s sense of loss is wrenching. His cheeks burn with humiliation, and he begins to wonder if desire is not what animates Hannibal at all, if what Hannibal wants from him has never been as base as sex.

He tries to reassess what he knows about Hannibal, removing that part of the profile. Perhaps Hannibal has brought him here for the love of aesthetics. Will wonders if he could live with that, shuffle his own desire into a neat little corner to be dealt with at private moments. It wouldn’t be so different from the persistent singleness of his entire adult life before Molly.

He forces himself into a new discipline, not leaning into Hannibal’s touch, not courting it. He learns to straighten his own tie to avoid the temptation of Hannibal pressing close to do it for him. It aches, but he thinks he can get used to it.

“Have I done something wrong, Will?” Hannibal asks, when Will flinches away from the hands smoothing the shoulders of his coat.

Will looks past him and shakes his head. He is imagining Hannibal’s pressing on his shoulders, pushing him down to his knees. He’s ashamed of how much he wants it. “I just got lost for a moment.”

Hannibal cocks his head. “If something is bothering you, I would like to know.”

Will shakes his head again. “We should go, before the market gets too crowded.”

“Of course,” says Hannibal, and he tucks his arm through Will’s as they leave.

Hannibal watches him as they make their way through the maze-like corridors of the market, each stall discretely busy, purposeful in its daily routine. Will tries to pass unnoticed as usual, and yet today Hannibal insists on asking his opinion about fruit preserves and cuts of pork, matters of taste Will couldn’t care less about. It feels almost mocking, and Will finds himself resenting it, responding less and less.

Hannibal sets a pork shoulder gently in a canvas shopping bag, nestled between an acorn squash and a jar of gooseberry jam. There’s an edge to his voice when he says, “If you do not feel comfortable sharing with me like this, perhaps we should return to our old ways of communicating.”

Will smiles tightly. “I like it better now that we’re not trying to kill each other.”

Hannibal pats his arm. “I was thinking of a therapy session.”

Hannibal sends him out for fresh bread early the next morning. Will pulls on jeans and a soft black sweater and sets off in the pearly light of dawn. The city is easier at this hour, when anyone who’s out is moving with purpose and direction, barely looking up from their errands. He falls into the current and lets it carry him to the bakery up the road, slips into the floury familiar hum of the shop. The sleepy teenager behind the counter doesn’t demand small talk and Will leaves with a warm, soft loaf tucked under his arm.

Will comes back from the bakery to find Hannibal has moved the two armchairs in their living room in to face each other in front of the fireplace, a leather bound notebook resting in one of them. It looks nothing like his office in Baltimore, and yet it resonates, draws Will back to another time.

Hannibal sets the bread on the counter and nods at the tableau. “Perhaps you could humor me before breakfast? Just a little?”

“For old times’ sake,” says Will, and he sinks into the chair across from Hannibal’s. He wonders why this couldn’t have waited until after breakfast, but Hannibal would have wanted him off guard, so it’s not really a question. “Should I tell you about my childhood?”

Hannibal smiles and opens his notebook. “That sounds like a fine place to start, if you like.” He waits with his pen poised, as though prepared to take dictation. Behind him the sun is golden through the window, the fullness of morning making him blinding to look at.

Will looks at the fireplace instead. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Why don’t you start with a memory? Something that calls to mind a strong emotion. Anger, or elation, or lust.”

“Lust?” Will rolls the word off his tongue almost unwillingly. Does Hannibal know he’s started showering in the evening just so he can masturbate before getting into their shared bed?

Hannibal’s face is impassive. “If you like. When you were young, what did you desire most? What called to you most irresistibly?”

Will remembers that lust does not have to mean something sexual. He keeps his eyes on the screen in front of the fireplace, shame ringing in his ears as he redirects his thoughts. “I wanted so much. I sometimes thought want was all I was because we didn’t have much, so everything the other kids at school had seemed like a punishment.”

“A punishment? But you had done nothing wrong.”

“I didn’t know that. My dad used to say things like, ‘I’ll get you a new bike if you’re very good,’ but I was never going to be good enough because we’d never have money for a new bike. Good enough just got further and further away, and there was nothing I could do.”

“Did you feel guilty?”

“Yes.” Will decides not to elaborate.

“We have discussed your feelings of guilt before. You take a great deal on your shoulders that does not belong to you.”

Will shakes his head. “Not anymore. I’m not trying to get into anyone else’s head anymore. Whatever’s left, it’s mine.”

“And, that being the case, you no longer feel guilt for your own desires?”

He can’t avoid Hannibal’s eyes, and yet he cannot possibly meet them. He feels as though he’s been backed into a corner. Even the chair beneath him feels more rigid, suddenly, the walls of the apartment looming in on him. “What do you want me to say, Hannibal?”

“Just tell me what you desire, Will. That is all I’ve ever wanted.”

Will’s jaw feels tight, tension coiling in all of his joints, elbows and knees, hips and shoulders. He imagines Hannibal slicing him open, carving out his desires, scooping them up to lay like organs between them. Will wonders how they would look, bloodied and gleaming, if he would feel lighter with them excised. “Some desires need to be reciprocated,” Will says softly. “And if they’re not, it’s better not to mention them.”

Hannibal steeples his fingers in front of his mouth, and Will’s vibrating imagination fills with every way Hannibal might touch him with those hands. He sees the trap closing around him, but he doesn’t know what Hannibal will do once he’s caught. “I want you,” he says, the words like a rope squeezing tight around his chest, creaking as it ties him down. He looks, but of course it’s nothing, just his outwardly normal body in an armchair. He looks like someone who could get up and walk away, but he can’t. “I want to kiss you. I want to touch you. I want to suck your cock.” His voice is breathless and thready, lungs constricting under invisible pressure.

Hannibal shifts in his chair, crosses his legs in the opposite direction. “And somehow you have gained the impression that those things would be unwelcome.”

Will tries to take a deeper breath. He stares at Hannibal’s knee, not the slightest tremble in his pose. “You don’t invite them.”

“Don’t I?” Hannibal sets aside his notebook and pen. He uncrosses his legs and does not re-cross them, thighs parted so that Will cannot help but look between them.

He imagines crawling across the floor to press his face in Hannibal’s lap. He doesn’t think he could walk, his whole body flushed and trembling as it is. “You could have been clearer,” he says, in a poor imitation of disaffection.

Hannibal cocks his head and begins to undo his trousers, long fingers working over his fly, the inviting shape of his cock beneath. “I do not want you to feel confused or uncertain, Will. There is no need for that now, when we can know each other truly.” He reaches into his trousers, rubbing at himself through his underwear while Will watches, transfixed, gripping tight to the arms of the chair.

Hannibal makes a soft noise, and Will slides down onto the floor as though gravity has forced him there, as though his body is now too heavy to do anything but move towards him. He crawls, because that feels right, palms flat on the carpet. He’s never sucked cock before, but as he reaches Hannibal’s spread thighs, his mouth is almost watering with desire. He rests his cheek against Hannibal’s thigh and breathes in the earthy, human scent of him, the bitter tang of arousal even Hannibal can’t hide. He’s sometimes thought Hannibal must be more, must be something other than just human, but as he nuzzles up towards Hannibal’s crotch, it’s obvious that Hannibal is just flesh and blood like anyone else.

Having come this far, Will has to be careful about his next steps. He feels unprepared, now that he’s here, pressing his lips to the shape of Hannibal’s cock through his underwear. It’s less intimidating with the barrier of cotton between his open mouth and Hannibal’s skin, and Hannibal sighs in apparent contentment, letting him do just this. He rests his hands on his knees in a pose like meditation as Will sucks at the fabric over the tip of Hannibal’s swelling cock, pulling it into his mouth just a little. He wishes Hannibal would touch him, direct him, but of course he won’t. He’s already given Will all the guidance he asked for. If he wants more, he’ll have to ask for that too.

“Touch me,” he says softly, lips nearly brushing Hannibal’s cock. “Show me how.”

Hannibal’s hands move, one caressing Will’s face and the other reaching for his cock, pulling it out so it’s tantalizingly close to Will’s face. Will looks at it, the full length and breadth of it, and desire washes over him in waves. He leans in, getting his lips on it again, breathing in the scent of Hannibal’s skin, the heat of it. Hannibal’s hand slips into his hair, almost incidental over the curve of his skull. Will works his tongue over the head, an experimental swirl around the edge of Hannibal’s foreskin, and when he looks up, his eyes catch Hannibal’s and he can’t look away again for a long time. Hannibal’s expression is warm, fond, almost proprietary, the way he looked on a bloody cliff in the moonlight, as though Will is everything he could have hoped for.

“You’re doing very well,” Hannibal tells him quietly, gripping more firmly at his hair, and Will’s ears ring with how much he likes hearing it. He opens his mouth around the head of Hannibal’s cock, showing that he can, that he isn’t afraid of it. He firms his lips around it, covering his teeth, wondering if Hannibal expects him to bite. It seems unfair to do this before he’s even kissed Hannibal’s mouth, but then the intimacy of their relationship has never followed the expected path.

Will leans in farther, pushing the head of Hannibal’s cock to the back of his tongue and shutting his eyes as his gag reflex threatens and subsides. He can do this. He can hold Hannibal inside him, move around him with a wet pull of spit, taste the early spill of him, thin fluid reminiscent of seawater and blood, familiar.

Hannibal sighs and twists his fingers in Will’s hair, and Will’s scalp tingles pleasantly. He presses forward, elbowing onto the edge of the chair as he sucks Hannibal’s cock as deep as he can, finding a rhythm within his own labored breath. The sound of his mouth seems too loud, greedy and wet, and Hannibal isn’t making any noise of his own. But the trembling clutch of his fingers in Will’s hair gives him confidence. Hannibal holds onto him, firm, compelling pressure, holding him back when he would choke himself on Hannibal’s cock, guiding him like a rudder in a storm. He lets himself get lost in the sensation of it, lets his focus narrow down until the world is just heat and spit and skin and the pull of Hannibal’s fingers.

A sharp tug on his hair brings him back, and he looks up as Hannibal shoves forward into his mouth, deeper than he’s allowed himself so far, and comes. It’s heavy and hot on the back of Will’s tongue, and he coughs and pushes away, startled.

“That was rude,” he gasps out, and Hannibal gives him a delighted smile.

“I apologize,” says Hannibal, warmth and languor woven into his voice. “A moment’s impulse. Come here, Will.”

Will thinks about standing, about taking one step to tower over Hannibal in his chair, but his knees are watery, so in the end he lets Hannibal help him into his lap, Will’s legs barely fitting to either side of his hips, Hannibal’s softening cock tucked away neatly in his trousers again. He looks down into Hannibal’s face, warm and fond, and Hannibal touches his jaw, guiding him into a kiss. Will can’t help but close his eyes as Hannibal’s mouth touches his, softly opening.

Hannibal kisses persuasively, licking into Will’s mouth and tasting himself there, one hand settling at the small of Will’s back to keep him in place.  Will sets both of his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders as he leans in close, and still he almost overbalances when Hannibal’s free hand goes to his cock. He’s hard. He’s been hard almost this whole time and kissing Hannibal isn’t doing anything to change that. Hannibal unfastens his trousers with one hand, fingers gliding over the rigid shape of Will’s cock, and Will squirms, breaking away from the kiss to gasp a few breaths. He rests his forehead against Hannibal’s, looks down as Hannibal works his cock free from his boxers, holding it gently in the cup of his palm.

“Go on,” says Will, and Hannibal kisses him again and starts to stroke him. It’s dry, nearly painfully so, and Hannibal moves slowly to reduce the friction, but Will can barely stand the tease of it. He pushes his hips into Hannibal’s hand, greedy. Hannibal lets go of him though, sits back a little and holds up his palm to Will’s mouth, and he understands the request. Will licks it, thoroughly, cheeks hot as Hannibal watches him do it. It feels as intimate as sucking his cock.

When Hannibal touches him again, it’s slicker but still barely enough, and Will arches towards him anyway, angling to kiss him. “There are so many ways I want to touch you, Will,” Hannibal says at the corner of his mouth, and the noise that comes from Will’s throat is soft and wounded, impossible to keep inside. Hannibal kisses his jaw and the tender throb of his pulse, and Will bends his head for it, letting Hannibal wrap around him, engulf him. Hannibal’s teeth graze his skin, and Will imagines him biting down, biting through, but he moves on again, back to Will’s mouth, pressing his tongue inside. The movement of his hand becomes more urgent, and Will can feel himself shaking, tensing, moments from coming as Hannibal’s thumb smears across the slick head of his cock, teasing against the sensitive slit. It’s as though he wants to feel Will coming as close up as possible, and Will can’t help spilling over in Hannibal’s grip, thick strands of come trapped by Hannibal’s hand as it covers the head of his cock. He imagines Hannibal lifting it to his mouth, making him taste it and compare the flavor to Hannibal’s own, asking questions like he does about wine. But instead Hannibal lets go of him all at once to lick his own fingers. He shuts his eyes to do it, and Will feels lightheaded watching him savor it.

“May I take you to bed, Will?” Hannibal asks softly, bringing his licked hand up to cup Will’s cheek. Will imagines flecks of his own come drying in his beard and finds he doesn’t care. “It would mean a further delay to our breakfast.”

Will is coltish and unsteady as he unfolds from Hannibal’s lap, and he doesn’t even bother to fasten his pants. Hannibal is looking him up and down with renewed desire, blatant enough that it chases off any of Will’s remaining uncertainties. “I have to admit, I’m not all that worried about breakfast right now,” he says.


Jesse is restless beside him in the bed - tossing and turning with soft huffs. Something bothers the cowboy, keeping him awake. It isn’t the first time Jesse’s had a sleepless night in his presence, and it will not be the last. However, this is the first time he hasn’t sought out Hanzo’s comfort.

When his nightmares and his ghosts bleed into the waking world, Jesse grasps and tucks into the archer. Even if it means waking him up - of which Hanzo assured him that it was alright, that he’d rather be awake than letting him suffer alone - his mate shouldn’t hesitate in asking to be held.

Tonight is a different story.

Hanzo lets the cowboy shuffle for ten minutes more, hoping that he will settle and fall asleep, but it never happens. He rolls in the bed, and meets wide, wet brown eyes.

“Ah, sorry hun,” The cowboy croaks, wiping at his eyes furiously with the back of his hand, leaving them drier but red all around. “Didn’t mean to wake ya.”

The archer draws his eyebrows in concern, rests his arm over Jesse’s waist. “You did not. I could not sleep either.” Not when he was worried about the gunslinger’s state of mind. The day hadn’t been easy and Hanzo’s mind still races whenever he thinks about how Jesse just disappeared.

His fingers find purchase on the thick flesh of Jesse’s side, reminding him that his mate, his sunshine is still there. Something brews in the gunslinger’s mind, something troubles him but Hanzo can’t pry, unable to see past him in the waking world.

As much as he despises it, there are things, more often than not, that even Hanzo can’t fix. Sometimes he is suffocated under weight the gunslinger can’t let go of, and there are demons so big that even he is brought low by them.

Strong hands slide up his arm, winding up around his shoulder and to the back of his neck. Before he knows it, Jesse is dragging him into a slow, heady kiss that he drowns in. Their lips part, breath mingling and Hanzo catches his gaze, oddly reverent and determined behind the wet shine of his eyes. He takes note of the gunslinger’s fingers grazing up his jawline, thumbing just under his eye. Surprise takes him when Jesse pulls his head in, pressing his cheek to the archer’s, and too soon they are clutching each other in desperation.

Hanzo doesn’t want to lose him, can’t bare to stomach the thought, so he lets his fingers curl into the gunslinger’s hip like a vice.

If Jesse is trying to keep his demons at bay, if he needs the distraction instead of dealing with it, tonight Hanzo will oblige him.

Their bare legs tangle and Hanzo pulls their hips flush together, drawing groans out of both men. Jesse ruts, cocking his hip and tangling his good hand in Hanzo’s hair, beard and stubble scraping him until the gunslinger’s head tucked against the archer’s neck where his puffs of breath heat up the space between them.

Hanzo’s hands wander down the broad expanse of Jesse’s back, where it softly gives, and his  fingers feel over every muscle that shifts beneath. Any other night, he would revel in his time, tracing the ridges of scars from old stories and the folly of battle, but tonight he has little attention to give to old wounds.

Despite the cowboy’s tendency to tower over him, he feels small in Hanzo’s arms, unsure, like he’s trying to hide himself away. Jesse’s teeth worry at his shoulder, nipping and kissing until the spot is red from the attention. He creates more and more marks along Hanzo’s skin with the intent on leaving as many as possible before the sensation becomes too much.

The archer returns the favor in a less than graceful fashion, taking large handfuls of the cowboy’s ass, roughly pawing at him. Hanzo uses this leverage to drag him closer, delighting in the hitch in Jesse’s voice and the stuttered groan bursting against his skin -  his teeth sinking in more than they should. Hanzo’s fingers slip between the cleft of Jesse’s ass, finding the place still tacky with drying lube from earlier in the night.

It won’t be enough.

The archer’s hand moves in slow circles at the meat of jesse’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart. His finger grazes over Jesse’s opening, testing, and the man tenses in his arms, a hiss slipping through gritted teeth.

Hanzo withdraws his hands. “Sensitive?”

“Sore,” The cowboy chuckles, nips at his neck. “You get real rough when you’re worried about me.”

“We do not have to-”

“No!” Jesse shouts abruptly, then quiets himself. “Please, Hanzo.” Something passes over those eyes, usually so vibrant and adoring, but now he’s not sure. He can’t read Jesse’s face. “I can handle it, please, I promise, I just- don’t stop.”

The way his voice falls tears at Hanzo’s chest and fills it with the desire rend in the name of the gunslinger, but with nothing to invoke his wrath he must turn his attention elsewhere. “Roll over, my dear.” He purrs, tugging at the gunslinger’s hip.

He reaches over to grab the bottle of lube from the bedside table, but Jesse beats him to it, grabbing it and holding it just out of reach. Hanzo snarls under his breath, but scoffs, rolling his hips so that he grinds up into the cowboy. The gunslinger gasps but holds out, so the archer repeats the action - again and again with a firm, deliberate slowness until Jesse fumbles and falls pliant and lose, arm curling close to his body.

Hanzo strikes in that moment of weakness, pausing mid-roll and snatches the lube from his fingers. “Y-y’can’t play me dirty like that, Haney.” Jesse’s voice breaks and Hanzo simply chuckles.

“If you wish to play fair,” Hanzo kisses the gunslinger, teeth grazing over his lips as he retreats. “then do not pick a fight with a dragon.”.

“Hanzo,” His mate begs sweetly, wiggling his hips backward, seeking  friction again.

The archer could give in, comply and sink into simple pleasure, but he has other plans. He kisses along Jesse’s shoulders as he pours a generous amount lube into his hand. Clicking it shut, he tosses it aside and uses his clean hand to lift Jesse’s leg.

The covers slip down, and exposed to the room, the cowboy shudders from the rush of cool air and arches forward. He outright yelps when Hanzo slicks cold lubricant along his inner thighs, between his ass and along the stretch of skin before his genitals.

Hanzo shifts just so that his dick rests between Jesse’s legs, lowering the one he had raised to create a snug grip. Jesse for his part, whines and turns his head into the pillow, tries to touch himself until his hand is swatted away. As much as Hanzo would like to watch the man pleasure himself, tonight he is impatient.

The dragon takes hold of Jesse’s cock, strokes it and begins thrusting between the cowboy’s thighs in time. It doesn’t take long for the steady rhythm to work into a frenzy, bolstered by Jesse’s sweet cries.

Faster than he’d like, though if he had his way he’d tease Jesse with this for hours, the cowboy begins to go rigid with the beginning of his end. Hanzo urges him to let go, “So good for me, Jesse.” He snarls into the gunslinger’s ear, biting at the lobe. He picks up his pace, getting a better stance by propping himself up and leaning over Jesse. He snaps his hips harder now, determined to finish with him.

But with a cry, Jesse’s spilling on the sheets, going boneless, and Hanzo’s approaching orgasm falls away with the lack of pressure.

He grunts, lets go of Jesse’s cock to wrap his arms around the gunslinger. Hanzo rolls back until the cowboy’s solid weight lays upon him. Hanzo bites into Jesse’s neck, working the flesh with his teeth and holds tight when his hips lose their rhythm, so close,  so close .

Jesse tries to coax him over, reaches down between him and digs his prosthetic into Hanzo’s hips and  begs . “Please, baby, come on,” He asks, voice ragged.

It’s not enough.

His hip locks up and he falls to the bed, his dick slipping from between Jesse’s grasp and his thighs. Frustrated, he takes himself in hand - it will do for him.

“Wait-.” Jesse bleats, who rolls over and takes Hanzo’s hand away.

The archer watches raptly as Jesse resumes his ministrations, understanding reaching him when the gunslinger slides down, peppering hanzo in little bites as he maneuvers towards his cock. “Jesse,” The cowboy looks up at him. “You do not have to.”

“I wanna,” His lips curl at the corners when he smiles, kissing the thatch of hair at Hanzo’s crotch before licking his lips and taking all of Hanzo into his mouth in one fell swoop. Hanzo nearly chokes, more surprised that Jesse doesn’t- but he doesn’t tease, and for that the archer is grateful. He’s come too close to let them revel in any foreplay and with a strangled groan he reaches his long awaited, frustrating end.

It is a welcome relief, leaving Hanzo to catch his breathe and melt as Jesse swallows his mess. The blowjob is swift and efficient, but there is no less affection as Jesse licks and drags his tongue upward.

A bearded cheek rubs against the meat of his thigh, making him jump.

Hanzo glares at the man as he chuckles. “Get up here.” He demands and the cowboy doesn’t listen, at least not straight away.

He spends time around Hanzo’s hips and thighs, kissing and biting tenderly,  scratching at his scales. He trails wet kisses up Hanzo’s chest, laving at the small clusters of iridescent blue as he makes his way up the dragon’s body.

The archer rolls his eyes and threads his fingers through the cowboy’s locks, a fond smile pulling at his lips. “Jesse, we need to sleep.” He pleas.

“Alright- alright.” He agrees, nipping one more time before he rests himself half atop Hanzo. Jesse stretches and wiggles until his head rests against Hanzo’s chest and he has both of the archer’s arms wrapped around him. Only then does he begin relax.

Hanzo noses at Jesse’s hair, hoping that he does not wake again in a few short hours and leaves him to drift.

Unbeknownst to him, the cowboy never sleeps, counting the heartbeats of the dragon and trying to commit the pattern to memory, just as he memorized the pattern of his scales, and the difference between his dragons. When Hanzo squeezes him tightly in his sleep, fingers twitching against his skin, Jesse’s heart breaks just a little more.

-

A stifling warmth wakes Hanzo in a most ungraceful fashion. He kicks off the covers to alleviate the staunch feeling of the temperature overcoming him, but even the lack of blankets does little to aid him. The air around him is heavy with steam, making him hotter when he breathes it in.

He spreads eagle on the bed which alerts him to two things.

One, the sheets are in dire need of a wash… as is he.

And two, Jesse is missing.

Hanzo sits up quickly and takes stock of the room- the sheets are placed neatly over Jesse’s side of the bed. The gunslinger’s hat is still on top of the drawers with his serape still draped over the chair; two things he wouldn’t leave without, not after they were returned to his person..

The sound of the shower running catches his attention, makes his lips curl and his brows furrow. Jesse must be taking a while. There is certainly plenty to clean, and it would explain the mugginess of the air and the steam.

Slipping out of bed, Hanzo approaches the door, left just barely ajar, and gently raps the backs of his knuckles against it. “Jesse,” He croons, “Are you alright? Do not make me wait long to get in there.” He pauses. “Or perhaps you are waiting on  me ?”

The thought taunts him mercilessly. Showers with Jesse are a welcome affair, usually in the aftermath of long nights. He loves the peaceful moment that comes with washing each other; fingers lathering shampoo into their hair, soaping down and emerging together feeling fresh, clean, sated.

“Jesse?” The door gives easily with a gentle push, the steam leaking out from the sliver now billows out in large puffs from the open door. Hanzo scrunches his face from the sudden rush of heat, dragging a hand down his face as if that would stop the condensation from collecting on his skin.

When it clears, the sight is far from what he was expecting.

The mirror is shattered, scattered across the floor with the smaller pieces of it spilled into the sink basin - what happened? When? Why didn’t he notice? The shower is hauntingly empty. It’s door is left open, water no longer warm pooling on the tile and soaking into the bath mat. A towel is tossed over the top of the sliding panel and Jesse’s shampoo bottle is laying open, tipped on it’s side with the contents long since oozed out and down the drain.

Slowly, Hanzo makes his way over to the shower, stepping over the shards of glass that lay abandoned on the ground. Stray pieces crunch under his heel- but he doesn’t linger on it. He twists it’s knobs until the water stops and the last of it slowly swirls down the drain. Pulling the unused towel down, he drapes it over the wet patch on the tiling, trying to ignore the way the air cools too quickly. Inhaling sharply, he steps away.

Jesse isn’t here. Something’s wrong with Jesse.

He turns and strides out, eyes catching Jesse’s comm on the desk, idle and left alone since they retired to their room last night. He quickly snatches it up, thumbs it open and checks his messages.

It’s an invasion of privacy, but given the state the cowboy was in last night, Hanzo worries he is hurt, trying to hide away for a reason the archer doesn’t know. He thumbs at the screen until the messenger opens- the last few messages are from Hana last night, asking to have breakfast with him.

Relief floods him. He’s off with Hana having breakfast, most likely helping her with the aftermath of the attack. And hopefully she is helping him deal with the rage that shattered their mirror- of which Hanzo makes a note to get fixed.

His fingers scrape against the ridges of the communicator. The mirror. The shower. It bothers him. Something twists in his chest and doesn’t settle right in his stomach, but he doesn’t let himself think on it too much. He can’t.

Jesse would enjoy his hat, feel better with it on. That’s the only reason Hanzo even considers joining them, not because he’s agitated and wants to make sure Jesse’s alright. Not because anger still pricks at the back of his mind.

He could’ve prevented it.

He should have stayed with the gunslinger. Inadequacy, failure, and fault. He doesn’t have the time to dwell on such feelings- there’s a cowboy in need of his hat. Hanzo picks up the stetson, patting it free of dust and dirt, and he briefly wonders if he should bring Jesse’s serape as well, until it catches his eye- a piece of paper. It falls, fluttering to the floor with Jesse’s slanted handwriting scrawled across it in hasty lines. A note.

Anxiety roils in Hanzo’s belly as he bends to pick it up, tear stains soaking the paper. Nothing about this feels right, the dread in him twisting in coils, restricting his breath. Hanzo hesitates to turn the letter over.

If he doesn’t read it, Jesse will be in the cafeteria. If he doesn’t acknowledge it, he can stroll out with the hat, shove it on that mess of brown hair he adores so much. If the letter doesn’t exist, Hanzo can cling to the idea that Jesse is still here.

But as he reads the first words of the letter, he can’t deny it. As much as he wishes. As much as he wants. Steadying himself with quick, even breathes, he continues down the page..

 ‘Dear Haney,’

Hanzo swallows a lump in his throat, he can hear the gunslinger’s voice through his writing, as if he were here reading it aloud..

 ‘I can’t stay. I got well in over my head but I’m just not made for this kind of life. I would take you with me if I could, but we both know where I’m headed.

 I’d say forgetting about me would be best, but I don’t want you to. Please don’t forget me, Hanzo.

 I love you, my Sweetheart, my Sugarcube, please, please don’t forget.

 -Jesse’

There are fresh tear stains on the paper. Hanzo stockly wipes them away, his hands clenching into fists, crumpling the letter as the coil bubbles and bursts from up inside of him. His mate- His Jesse. The archer’s body shudders with a gasp, bracing himself. He isn’t-. He can’t be-.

All at once it gives way to an anguished cry, and no force on earth could stop him from splitting into two. The paper floats to the ground -  ‘don’t forget’  - and Hanzo tries to turn in on himself, keep himself together- one dragon wrapping around the other but it’s not the same as when Jesse holds him and he walks the earth on two feet.

Jesse’s gone. He’s gone. He can’t be gone, he has to be somewhere. But where? Jesse wouldn’t leave his friends behind. He wouldn’t go back to Talon. Why would he return to the one place that frightens him more than anything in the world?

He has to be somewhere here. Somewhere close. The note was hidden, not meant for Hanzo to find - surely it was an exercise of writing that Zenyatta had him do to deal with his anxieties. The omnic had done something similar for him, writing letters not meant for others to read but to help put words to his disorganized thoughts and feelings.

Zenyatta. That’s where the gunslinger is, he has to be. He didn’t reply to Hana for breakfast; how foolish was Hanzo for thinking Jesse would just turn up there. The cowboy is hurting, the garden is the most logical place for him to go.

Hanzo doesn’t bother pulling himself together, the panic preventing any sort of calm. He’s out the door, down a floor, and scratching mercilessly at the bottom of Reaper’s door within a minute. The trip is fraught with tangles and tumbles as his back legs move faster than his front, bunching up his bodies and twisting them over on the way. He has to see Jesse, he needs to know he’s okay. Yesterday’s worry is driving him mad, Jesse isn’t missing.

Hanzo arrives by sheer desperation, claws scratching at it’s metal surface. The both of him yell for them to open the door, yet he knows all that’s heard is sharp cries and loud, rapid chirps.

There’s a fumble and a groan before the door eases open, big enough for Sugarcube to squeeze through and make a dash for it. The garden is laid before him, through the screen door.

He’s in there. He has to be.

He yelps as he’s scooped up by his middle, flipping over and brandishing claws and teeth at whoever has made the mistake of grabbing him. But he meets Genji’s concerned face, who is so focused on the dragon in his hands that Sweetheart, the larger of the two, is able to brute through the door and skitter across the room quickly.

“Hanzo, what-” His brother’s words are cut off by a loud screech, a frustrated, distressed  sound as Sweetheart scratches at the door to the garden

Sugarcube fusses in Genji’s hold, digging his claws into the oversized sweatshirt he wears, snapping at air even when the hood cords get tangled in his teeth.

“Garden.” Sweetheart manages. “Jesse.” He insists, far too distraught to focus on his words.

The door opens, the path blocked by Zenyatta, whose voice is ringing softly. “Genji, is everything alright?”

Jesse has to tend to his box in the garden, with the budding sunflowers and marigolds that are starting to burst over it’s ledge. He must be.

Sweetheart doesn’t wait for him to move, can’t waste the time when Jesse should be there, will be there. He climbs the omnic, even gets assistance as Zenyatta moves to carry him over his shoulder. Front legs straight on his perch, he cranes his neck out to see his mate.

But he finds the garden empty.

Hanzo watches the garden, as if he could somehow will the gunslinger into existence. But the longer he glares at the lush, living fauna the more he resigns to the weight in his chest. Jesse’s not here. Genji gently rocks Sugarcube in his hold, perturbed by the abrupt and sudden silence from both serpents.

The both of him inhale sharply, exhaling long before going limp. Despair crushes him, leaving him  pliant with soft, sad chitters. Sugarcube manages to drag himself into his brother’s sweater, wheezing weak wisps of smoke when Genji begins to pet the golden fur along his spine and asks him, “What’s happened to Jesse?” which only makes him whimper.

Sweetheart feels misery acutely as a sharp stabbing pain through his body. It exhausts him, he can’t even bring himself to keep his tail off the ground as Zenyatta carries him into the room. Wetness gathers at his eyes, thick and more viscous than human tears, falling to the ground and on the omnic’s shoulder in soft, wet plops. He aches, hisses in as much warning as he can when he’s touched.

Zenyatta instead reaches over to pet at Sugarcube, his orbs drifting from the table and chiming gently as he does. Both dragons feel the brief sense of calm that roll over them, even though the anguish and distress is greater than one could ever soothe. “Hanzo?”

“Jesse is gone.” - “Jesse is missing.” They say together.

Genji holds Sugarcube tighter who snuffles into the embrace. “I’m sure he’s here somewhere-”

“He left his serape,” - “His hat,” - “His comm,” - “And a note.” They list, one after the other. But both voices, strained and weary with sadness repeat, “He left me a note.”

“A note?”

Both dragons tense. “He cannot stay.” - “He would take me with him.” -

“Won’t ask me to forget him.” - “I cannot forget him.”

Genji looks concerned, pets at Sugarcube and presses a thumb at the base of one of his horns, doing his best to comfort the dragons. “Hanzo… he left a note.” His voice is remorseful, as though this hurts him as well. “What if he simply left?”

“He would not!” Two voices cry out, bodies twist, rising in anger. “He would not just leave. He would not do that.” He insists, looking Genji in the eyes. “He would not hurt me.” The words are quiet, vulnerable, and leave no room for argument. Hanzo slowly sinks back down where his bodies rest. “He wouldn’t.” If nothing else is certain about the gunslinger, his devotion to being at Hanzo’s side is.

The cyborg scowls, gathering up Sugarcube. “Master, please watch him for a moment.” And once the dragon has been traded over to the omnic, he motions and moves to the back of the room.

Lurking in the shadows, Hanzo had been so unfocused that he missed the obvious: Reaper. It was his room, of course he would be in here, perched on the large bed like a king. Perhaps on another day Hanzo will be concerned that the man was seeing him, the both of him, crumple in such a small, pitiful display, but today that worry was incomparable to the overwhelming loss he feels.

He can’t find the energy to listen in as his brother and Jesse’s former commander speak to each other. The dragons cannot bear to focus. All that runs through Hanzo’s mind is an overbearing thought of ‘Jesse - Jesse’ that the rest of the world seems to pass in a haze.

Zenyatta hums, begins to pace in a gentle flow of movement that rocks him. Hanzo feels babied, sickeningly coddled, and he should bring himself together and stand on his own two feet, but he can’t. The monk’s hold can only do so much for him.

Genji curses, bright and colorful in their mother tongue, tossing his comm across the room in a swift, cracking motion. He stalks back over to Zenyatta and the dragons, scooping Sugarcube back into his arms and scratching his fingers through Hanzo’s golden mane- whether it’s to comfort himself or his brother, Hanzo will never figure out.

He isn’t sure what’s going on, on edge from Jesse’s absence, on edge from his brother’s frustration. His mind races too fast, with so many possibilities on what to do next but indecisive of which he should choose. And for all he knows, the only thing certain is he’s running out of time.

It’s answered for him quickly- as everyone’s comms go off at once, as mass message. Genji tightens his hold on Sugarcube, burying his chin into the fluff at Hanzo’s neck and huffs. “I’m sorry, brother.” He mutters.

Zenyatta reaches for one of the comms in the room, all three resting on a little table and opens it.

Sweetheart can see the message, and the title alone makes him flinch with more fat tears threatening to appear.

>>  ‘URGENT: Emergency Meeting - All Must Attend - Subject: Defective Agent’

It doesn’t take an expert to know the ‘defective agent’ is Jesse, his cowboy, his sunshine.

-

They’re late to the meeting, it takes longer than expected for Zenyatta and Genji to help Hanzo pull himself together. He’s frayed at the edges, just barely hidden scales creating welts across his face mimicking a skin condition- unnoticeable unless one were to look too close. It would have to do, it’s as much as he can focus on and with his stomach is in knots over if he’ll see the gunslinger again- about what could be happening to him at this very moment.

Morrison shoots them a very pointed look as they enter, his desire for punctuality is more fierce on Hanzo, or maybe that’s because he thinks he was right about Jesse. No one can surprise a veteran.

“No,” He barks the second Hanzo opens his mouth, harsh and rude- intentionally so.

The shortness grates on Hanzo’s nerves, makes him itch to fight.

It’ll be the same argument they were in the day prior.Hanzo will volley for Jesse’s innocence, Morrison will continue to insist that he knows more about McCree than Hanzo would to make that call. Two fighters going back and forth about a man who isn’t there to defend himself.

The ex-commander stands tall, but there’s a weight to his shoulders, pulling him down. Despite how proud he looks, age has worn him down in comparison to the bright figurehead in his posters and it begs the question of how much authority he held back then.

The room is silent and hangs with every small movement made.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhaling roughly as though this whole thing is cumbersome.

It sets Hanzo on edge because a rescue mission should not be an inconvenience, no matter who it is that they’ll be retrieving.

“Agent McCree’s status has been changed to ‘Kill On Sight’.”

There’s an uproar in the room - people demanding for an explanation, begging for it not to be so, and others grumbling about how they regret being right about him - but it all drowns in comparison to the ringing in Hanzo’s ears. Kill On Sight. They intend for Jesse to die. No more chances for the cowboy, not even if he explicitly deserves them.

Morrison raises a hand, squares his shoulders and the room falls quiet, as quiet as it can with the shuffling of bodies and muted whispers between the closer agents. “It is not a decision I make lightly-”

“Of course not,”

Bodies twist and heads swivel to look to the back of the room where they find Reaper lounging idly in a chair, examining his clawed gauntlets as one would nails when bored. The room holds its breath- it’s not often the wraith speaks openly, even less so when Morrison is around.

“It’s just one you make against anyone who’s a hassle for you.” Reaper glances up, his mask tilting. “Speaking from personal experience, mind you Jacky.”

Morrison narrows his eyes, in combination of squinting without his visor and glaring at the other ex-commander. “He’s not a hassle, Reyes- it’s a repeated offense. How many more agents do we have to lose before you realize he isn’t going to change?””

Hanzo purses his lips, if he speaks it will just go around in circles again. He knows the gunslinger defected before Overwatch was disbanded, though Jesse has never opened up as to how he joined Talon and Hanzo hadn’t wanted to know explicitly why. Whether it was by choice or by force, all that mattered was that Jesse’s remorse was genuine- a feeling Hanzo knows all too well.

“Before.” Reaper says with a snarl. “We didn’t know what we do now. Talon wasn’t on the radar, anything that wasn’t visible to us didn’t exist or didn’t matter- that’s how everything felt to us, back then.” He stands, approaches Morrison and cranes his neck forward. “Now we know what they’re capable of.” He begins to tick off a list on his fingers. “Extortion, mental- physical manipulation, torture, threatening of loved ones-”

“We didn’t know that then, no.” Morrison agrees; at the very least he sees some reason. “But we know McCree.”

“You don’t know shit about the kid, Jack.”

Morrison glares heavily. “He’s not a kid- no matter how much you think otherwise, he’s not that lowlife punk you dragged back!” He shouts, pausing to collect himself with a deep breath. “I know you trained him,” Hanzo briefly wonders what Ms. Amari would have to say, if she were not currently away with her own mission. “I know what he’s capable of, I know that he was trained for this- but the fact of the matter is he went willingly.”

There’s compliments hidden beneath the surface of the accusation- Jesse is strong, but perhaps that’s what makes him more dangerous in the hands of Talon. He survives, does what he needs to so that he can live another day.

“He made his own decision. And he’s too dangerous for us to let him continue-”

 Ahem.

All eyes turn to Angela, who stands and slips her body between the two titans of commanding power. “If I may,” She looks uncertain, but stands straight, determined- and regardless of if she may, she will continue. “There is something you will want to consider before putting your so-called justified order into effect.”

Morrison furrows his brows when he addresses her, seeming to sag under the weight of her gaze, fury of his argument all but fizzled out. “I’m not changing my mind about him, Angela. Not this time.” He looks worn out and for a moment Hanzo almost believes that he really does regret having to make this choice, despite it being the wrong one.

Hope is waning - with not a thought placed towards Jesse’s rescue, and a looming order of his death- and Hanzo can feel the gunslinger slipping through his grasp. Just like yesterday, he feels the cowboy’s fingertips slide along his palm as he leaves, a final goodbye before he’s gone. But this time, the archer has no confidence that he’ll be seeing Jesse again soon.

Angela leers, reaching out and grabbing the ex-commander’s shoulder. She flicks her gaze between Reaper with a pointed look. “There’s something you may want to review.” She looks over her shoulder to Reaper. “And you as well,” Her eyes find Hanzo and she nods. Him too.

Morrison calls the meeting, order put on hold until he sees whatever Angela has got for him- even if he doesn’t seem convinced.

They wait until everyone else files out before Angela pulls out a tablet and connects it to the screen at the back of the room. Reaper and Morrison sit close to the front on opposite sides, and Hanzo stands at the end with his fingers curling around the back of a chair. He can’t bear to sit down, nervous energy building the longer they go without a plan to find his mate. It feels as if they’re wasting his time.

The projector flickers on, clear and bright. It’s her personal tablet, if the background photo is anything to go by- her surrounded by small, grinning cherub faced children. She’s dirt smeared but smiling happily, receiving a kiss from the kid she holds. Tents and tarps, green and smeared in dust line the background. An omnic ruined landscape, a doctor treating the world.

Personal means that the information she’s about to show them is not within Athena’s system- at least at this point in time. That is what peaks Hanzo’s curiosity- no one knows what she’s about to show and if anything- it sets him only more on edge.

Angela pulls up a file, a video, the first frame is easy to see- a younger Jesse is on his knees, surrounded by men with guns. He looks worse for wear, bruised and bleeding. “He begged me not to show anyone,” She explains, glancing back at Morrison without turning her head. “But you need to see this. You need to understand what happened to him.”

She presses play and then steps over to the side, turning away from the screen and her tablet. Whatever they’re about to witness, she doesn’t want to see it again.

Jesse’s screaming rips through the room instantly, his throat already hoarse and worn. The camera angle shifts, like a person circling around him, and it becomes clear to see what they’re doing. His arm is twisted at an unnatural angle, a knife jammed into his shoulder blade- Hanzo knows that knife. The Sandman was fond of it.

True enough, the Sandman’s croon comes through the speakers and chills run down Hanzo’s spine. “I’ll ask again, Mister McCree. Will you accept our formal invitation into Talon?”

Like the cowboy Hanzo knows now, the cowboy of then spits at the Sandman’s feet and sneers. Reaper lets out a soft ‘attaboy’ at the fight he’s giving.

 “I ain’t workin’ for no-”  He screams again, the movement is swift and sudden and it takes the occupants of the room to realize what transpired. In the blink of an eye, Jesse’s leg was extended and his knee shattered. The young cowboy’s face goes red, and his gritted teeth do nothing to muffle the sounds of pain he lets loose.

His eyes are defiant, fiery and dangerous. Talon is toying with a man who could take them all out, who’s gaze promises agony as soon as he is free. He says nothing, doesn’t agree to join them. Jesse is strong, and unfortunately his captors know this.

 “We’re asking nicely.”  The Sandman coos, leaning down to take Jesse’s chin in hand. There’s something sickeningly affectionate in that touch, the man was fond of those he caused pain. Hanzo remembers the burn of the Sandman’s palm under his chin as he tried to break the dragon, so disgustingly fascinated by his scales.

 “I could take your other knee, or your mind, or- perhaps…”  The laugh the Sandman gives stills the room, it’s bad news, whether you knew the leader of Talon or not. The boss leaves Jesse, walks toward the camera which catches the nasty, devilish smile on his face. He turns to face his captive.  “What about those friends of yours from Overwatch? We keep tabs on them, you know? Tracer has quite the sightseeing itinerary created, and - oh you will be delighted to hear this - Angela’s research clinic is doing quite well.”

Hanzo glances to Angela, finds her hunched over, arms firmly crossed with her knuckles white in their hold.

Jesse stares wide eyed, and Hanzo can see him breaking piece by piece- the one weak spot, his friends, his makeshift family of people who think he’s good. He needs them alive, even if they hate him. In Jesse’s eyes, Hanzo can see that the cowboy believes he’ll make it out of there soon, that agreeing is just a temporary situation. The gunslinger doesn’t know that no one will be coming for him for years.

The Sandman approaches. Jesse once more who leans back, suddenly afraid of the leader.  “Don’t-”  His voice breaks as a black leather shoe prods at his destroyed knee, but he has to agree, he has to protect who he can.  “Don’t touch ‘em, please.”

Unsatisfied with that answer, or perhaps just because he’s a cruel man, the Sandman uses his foot to press against Jesse’s chest, his toe just under the cowboy’s chin.

 “I’ll join.”

A song filters through, hummed but no less distinguishable from when the Sandman played it over the speakers and sang it while he drew samples and pumped things into Hanzo’s body. “ I knew you’d see things our way. ” He glances over his shoulder at the camera, an ugly smile on his face before he pushes Jesse over.

Hanzo flinches as Jesse howls, the knife in his shoulder sinking in further, his knee jostled and his head hitting the floor behind him.

 “And we won’t touch them, I promise you that.”

 “Because you will.”

The video goes black but there’s some shuffling and some whimpers that are definitely from the cowboy. Hanzo feels a sick churning in his gut, Reaper’s head hangs low but Morrison’s eyes are glued to the black screen- something is running through his mind, but Hanzo can’t figure it out, he doesn’t know the man well enough.

Angela stays where she is, gaze fixed on the wall in front of her. “There’s another.” Is all she supplies before the screen comes to life again.

The camera is held at head height and for one second Hanzo believes it to be attached to some sort of headgear- right up until a hand made of metal joints pushes open the door. An omnic, that’s what it is, with recording software.

It approaches a lump on a bed in a dark room, gently peels back the covers to reveal Jesse’s face.

He’s pale and shaking, a sheen of sweat covering his face.

The omnic reaches out, tenderly tucks a lock of sweat-soaked hair behind an ear before it abruptly gives the cowboy’s cheek a quick series of less than affection slaps. “Wakey, wakey, eggs and bacey, McCree.”  It coos.

The cowboy grunts, his face twisting in pain as he turns it from the offender’s hand. The omnic sighs and grips his chin hard forcing Jesse to face what Hanzo is presuming is it’s own face- the recording device.

His eyes are glazed over, unseeing - “Is he drugged?” Morrison asks, leaning forward and staring intently still. Reaper answers with a grunted ‘no’ and before he can speak, the words croak from the back of Hanzo’s throat.

“He’s giving up.”

It’s a face he’s only seen one other time, in the storage room when they were running. Jesse thought himself abandoned, staring down the barrels of too many guns and while he was going down with a fight, Hanzo had seen it in his eyes - resignation to a cruel fate. Accepting of death.

This time, Hanzo is not there to surprise him, to bring that flicker of  fight  back into his gaze.

Jesse doesn’t respond to being grabbed by the omnic and the automaton doesn’t take that too kindly, ripping the covers down with a harsh clicking sound from it’s headpiece. It doesn’t take an expert to know the bandages on the gunslinger’s arm shouldn’t be a sickly yellow and the skin peeking from beneath it shouldn’t be dark purple - black almost.

With a start, Hanzo realizes that it’s flesh, decayed as it is. It’s Jesse’s arm, not the prosthetic which freed him. He’s losing his arm.

The omnic yanks him out of the bed, the cowboy falls to the ground, weak and frail with fever. His body is failing, he’s letting go bit by bit - how long was he fighting for?  “You’ve got a job, McCree.”  It waits for Jesse to nod slowly, tapping impatient fingers against it’s arm.  “What’s the rule?”

 “If-”  Jesse draws in a shaky breath, using every last ounce of will within himself to keep going. The longer he lives, the longer he can make sure his former comrades live.  “If’n I don’t come back with a body, I keep losin’ mine.”  His voice breaks, trembles because he’s already losing.

Hanzo shuts his eyes, unable to witness such a broken display, regardless of the knowledge that somehow, someway, Jesse survives this tormented state.

There’s a thud and an irritated sigh from the omnic.

The archer glances back at the screen, sees the omnic toeing at Jesse’s form. The cowboy’s breath comes fast, panicked,  in shock  .  “Such a soft thing,”  It comments dryly.  “I will never understand why it wants you.”

Jesse’s eyes open just barely, a glare of red eyes looking up before rolling back into his head.

The omnic kneels, hefts the gunslinger’s form over his shoulder,  “We best keep you alive, or else there will be hell to pay.”

The video pitters out and Angela takes in a deep breath, collecting herself before looking at the men in the room. Her eyes are glossy and red, but her expression is no less bold, a look that Hanzo feels in his gut but refuses to show as much.

He refuses to dwell on Jesse’s past pains, even if the cowboy were present, there is nothing Hanzo can do to change the circumstances of that event. He focuses ahead of him, his eyes flicking over to Morrison who leans on his knees, staring at the blank screen, brows knit together.

Hanzo expects action, he expects for the ex-commander to stand up proudly and declare they must reclaim the cowboy.

Instead he rises, slow, weary, and mashes a gloved palm on one of his eyes, rubbing the strain from them. “I…”

-was wrong? -will form a plan? Hanzo hangs on the word.

“... need to think.” Without much else, he slinks out of the room.

Despite the tail between his legs, the old soldier doesn’t rectify the call- or make one at all, even though it’s clearer now that Jesse didn’t join of his own free will. That he stayed under the thought that the people he loved and knew would be safer if he did, and under the agony of losing his own body.

They’re losing time. There’s no inkling to Jesse’s fate and Hanzo looks back over at the blank screen as though it has the answers.

The idea ignites like a candlewick, a small light in the back of his skull. Morrison needs to see Jesse as Hanzo sees him, as Hanzo had learned to see him when he began gathering the intel to retrieve the renegade cowboy.

He slips out quickly, there’s a phone call he has to make.

-

Hanzo perches in the rafters, eyes narrowed in suspicion at Morrison.

The entirety of the base is together again, going over new drills and tactics now that they are down one gunslinger. Morrison hasn’t withdrawn his pending order, and he’s been trying to get his attention the entire day, likely to tell Hanzo not to run off and do something stupid on his own - which is exactly what he itches to do.

There was no lie behind his words when he promised Jesse that he’d tear the world apart to get to him.

But destruction begets destruction, this he knows, and he’s chosen for a more subtle route of ripping the world apart.

Genji sits beside him, one leg dangling off their beam, the other bent so that he can rest his head on it. He’s been a silent companion in the day and a half since Jesse left, support when Hanzo needs it and a distraction when the archer falls too far into his own thoughts.

The rest of the team is buzzing below - he can see Reaper and Zenyatta tucked away and talking, occasionally glancing up at the two dragon brothers, and Hana and Lúcio are conspiring, throwing loud laughs when someone else wanders too near. He wonders what they’re talking about and if he would feel more himself, more at ease, if he approached them without a thought, tease them because it’s a riot when they can’t tell if he’s joking or not. Jesse always knew- knows when he’s joking.

His heart seizes briefly as he realizes that he’s already thinking about Jesse as though he were a part of the past instead of the present.

A hand on his shoulder draws his attention to his brother. Genji’s faceplate is lowered but not removed, showing his eyes as he looks at Hanzo in concern. The archer nods, a silent thank you.

The buzz of the conversations below quiets suddenly, followed with a light and smokey “Excuse me,” Everyone turn swiftly, hands flying to their weapons and readying them- only to lower them from the civilian before them. The woman takes them all in and a wry smile twists at the corners of her lips, “I guess I’m in the right place.”

Morrison steps forward, slinging his gun over his shoulder. “Who are you?”

Hanzo knows- her posture, her gait is a dead giveaway even if he didn’t know her name. She fancies the color red, by her attire; a long coat that sweeps at her calves, vibrant with gold trim to match the scarf wrapped seamlessly around her neck. Hanzo chuckles to himself- a wide-brimmed hat rests against her neck hanging on a string, not one be-fit of a cowboy, but something much sleeker. Her thick, dark hair is peppered with greys, similar enough, but her nose is identical to Jesse’s, wrinkling a little when she smiles and holds her hand out. “Nolli.”

Ever courteous, even in the face of potential danger, the ex-commander returns the handshake, stands a little straighter when Nolli embraces it just as firm as he does. “Morrison- Jack.” He reciprocates before his words turn sharp. “How did you get in here?”

Nolli beams innocently enough, smooths down the sides of her coat and folds her hands in front of her. “The front door of course, it’s only polite.”

Hanzo covers his mouth to prevent himself from laughing at her coyness, he can certainly see where Jesse gets it from. Genji shoots him a look, tense over the stranger just like everyone else - surely he’s wondering why Hanzo is so relaxed.

The old soldier isn’t having any of it, “I’m sure you noticed that you can’t just walk in here,”

“But I did.”

“So how did you get into the base?” He lowers his gun, holds it firmly in front of his body, a threat.

She chuckles, deep and smooth. “I walked in,” Morrison goes to stop her but she continues on, regardless of the proximity of his weapon. “And used a handy code little I was given.”

Winston seems to take over then, scuttling over to a nearby terminal and pulling up the base’s access logs. He adjusts his glasses and then frowns. “A guest code.” Everyone begins looking at each other, trying to figure out who brought this woman here.

Genji clues in fast, “Brother,” He hisses and shoves at Hanzo’s leg. “She could get hurt.”

His concern for Nolli is not misplaced, one wrong move and someone could believe she’s the enemy, but at the same time, it’s apparent she knows how to tread in dangerous waters. She’s played a peaceful position- her hands have been visible at all times, her movements slow, and despite her teasing, she’s answered all questions.

“She can take care of herself,” He says, watching as Morrison eyes her carefully, assessing.

“Who is she- Hanzo!” Genji shouts.

He slips off the rafter, landing a bit away from the group with a soft thud before he stands straight and stares at Nolli.

The other agents gather closer, whispering about what he intends to do. He knows what he is to them, cold and distant, and he knows that a few of them will never see past Genji’s armor plating. They fear what he has to say to this stranger.

Hands shoot out to hold Nolli back as she approaches him swiftly, but she shrugs them off to get to him, standing toe to toe, looking up at him. Her heels could cut a fine line into dust, he realizes. Gentle hands come to cup his jaw, thumbs swiping across his cheekbones.

“How was your flight?” He asks with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Quick. I am surprised.”

“Good to see my name still holds some weight.”

“And money, don’t think I didn’t catch the price on those tickets.” Her smile fades to sadness and all Hanzo can think about is how Jesse makes that same face; it’s the face waiting for the dragon to come for him, to save him.

He crumples, folds into her and wraps around her. She’s wearing cologne, something thick and spiced. He doesn’t cry, can’t let himself with all eyes on them, but he holds her tight, twists his hands in her coat as though he has no anchor to hold him to the earth.

Nolli embraces him, plays with the fine hairs on the back of his neck and rubs at his back. “Mijito.” She pries him upright and takes his face in her hands. She waits until he looks at her, face still twisted into a scowl. “I know you will find him. I know you won’t let them turn him into a weapon.” she whispers.

Hanzo inhales, nodding swiftly, setting his face back into the mask he knows well before his eyes settle behind her. She smiles, a simple motherly smile.

All too soon, she steels herself and draws straight, turning from Hanzo and facing down Morrison who no longer holds his gun as a threat. “Who is in charge?”

Winston raises his hand uncertainly from his position at the terminal, regretting the choice when Nolli strides toward him.

“Why haven’t you gone after my son? It’s in my understanding that he’s been gone for over twenty-four hours- aren’t those the most crucial?”

People shift around her, away from her-Jesse McCree’s mother who demands answers with the tone of a woman who has raised hellions and shaped them up right.

“We were just about to.” Morrison answers, approaching her. “I’ve been trying to form a team, but the designated leader,” Hanzo can only assume that his gaze is directed at him, the visor obscuring his eyes. “Has been avoiding me all day.”

He isn’t wrong, but Hanzo refuses to be humble here, not with Jesse’s life on the line and when his stern pride is one of the few things he still has the dignity of keeping.

Morrison sighs, rolls his neck with a crack. “Well, what are you standing around for? Hop to it Shimada. You’re the one who’s defended him the most, go and get him.” He lifts his hand as if to shoo the archer. “Take who you need.” Orders given, he quiets his voice to speak between Winston and Nolli.

Hanzo wants to talk to her, assure her that he will get Jesse back, but she’s being escorted away before he can.

He will just have to make good on his promise instead.

-

He is entirely prepared to leave on his own, team be damned. There is nothing that will stop him from finding Jesse, except for his brother’s hand firm on his shoulder, halting his brisk walk to his room.

“I’m coming with you.” His brother says curtly and leaves no room for argument as he strides ahead and disappears into Reaper’s room.

Hanzo quickly changes into something nondescript for his journey and shoves his bow and arrows into a sleek black case that hangs from his shoulder with a long strap. A small bag is stuffed roughly with a change of clothes, a clip of bills, and a burner phone. If he were more patient, he would properly pack, folding his clothes and making sure he had a great sum on an untraceable chip, but he’s wasting enough time as it is.

He’s about to leave his room, when he passes the serape still draped over the back of a chair.

It pulls him in, and his fingers bury and twist into the worn fabric, his callouses catching on the frayed patches in the weave. Vividly he can remember roaming his fingers along the golden pattern while he walked close behind the cowboy, tangling his small serpentine bodies in it when he no longer desired to walk.

Slowly he pulls it off the chair, folding it as tightly as he can before replacing some of the clothes in his pack with it. No one will question if he’s wearing a few extra layers- he always ran cold-blooded.

He doesn’t get to knock at Reaper’s door, Genji is waiting for him, tapping away at his comm as he leans against the wall. He wears a sweater that is entirely too large over his mechanical exterior and instead of a nondescript case for his weapon, a thin guitar case is resting against his back.

“You do not have to join me.” Hanzo offers.

His brother tilts his head - something of a smile. “Of course, Hanzo. He is my friend, and you are my brother.” He rolls a shoulder, standing shoulder to shoulder with his brother. “I know what it is like to lose a mate.” There is a story there, one that Hanzo one day hopes to hear, but it is for another time.

“I hope you were not planning on leaving without us.”

The melodic voice belongs to Zenyatta. The omnic walks with Reaper, arms linked as has become the norm to see them.

Reaper separates only to open the door to his quarters and disappear inside. He leaves the door open and Genji laughs, ducking inside.

Again, it appears as though the decision for his team is being made for him.

The wraith rifles through a drawer before pulling out a set of comms. They look just like the Overwatch ones, but instead of a standard blue, they are sleek black and the logo is a red and white ship, a sword overtop- it matches the large symbol on the back of one of Genji’s hoodies. He hands them to everyone in the room and then silently demonstrates taking the earpiece out of the compartment in the back.

“Blackwatch,” He says, pulling out a few more gadgets. He manhandles Genji, spins the cyborg so he can get at his bag, depositing his items in there. His brother seems to have become the designated pack-mule. “Harder to get past the encryption, and the base can’t listen in the whole time.”

He pauses, turns and grabs an extra comm, tossing it to Hanzo.

“For both of you,” The privacy and the consideration of his other form is welcomed, but Hanzo is still surprised that Reaper has said nothing to him about the dragons - though looking at how close he is with Genji, he is not surprised..

Zenyatta quickly leaves a message in Athena’s system, should anyone come asking for them, and just as they are about to depart, a sharp knock goes throughout the room.

Another delay and Hanzo’s gut twists. He wants to find Jesse, he needs to bring him back home, wants to know he’s safe.

“You were thinking of leaving without us?” Hana’s disbelief is undertoned with haughtiness, as though she knew she would be coming along no matter what.

Lúcio waves at Hanzo, “We came to help.”

The sinking feeling turns into swelling - if only Jesse could see them now, how many people want him home. How many people love him. Angela’s insistence upon proving Morrison wrong, Hana and Lúcio ready to throw themselves into danger for him. His old friend, old mentor, and his teacher all prepared to go in without a clue to save him.

Jesse is loved, but unable to see any of it from where he is.

“Now where do we start?” Hana asks.

Reaper sighs and fishes out more comms - a quick glance tells Hanzo that he has enough for eight people roughly. Where he got them or why he was hoarding them, Hanzo will never know. “I have a list of bases, we start at one and comb through them until we find him.”

Hanzo bristles. “That will take too long,” He snaps. “Surely there is a better method- which ones are empty, which ones are capable of being a prison. What about hidden areas such as the one I was kept in?”

The blatant truth, is that they simply don’t have enough information. “And... what of new locations?” Genji asks in tandem, tilting his chin downwards. Everyone looks at each other before they begin to set their items down. There’s no good place to start, Talon’s secrets are well guarded.

The wraith sighs, pulls out what looks to be a personal phone and taps away quickly. The reply is instantaneous and he growls at whatever is on his screen. “Give me an hour. I’ll be back with intel.”

-

Nolli thanks Winston as he hands her a warm coffee mug. A sip tells her it’s bitter, but she refrains from making a scene. Well, even more of a scene. Not like she could help it, the old soldier had made it too easy to tease and she was biding time until she found Hanzo.

That rascal, hiding and watching her put the agents of Overwatch on edge. She smiles into her mug - a man after her own heart, that one. Speaking of, her heart breaks to recall how he looked, worn down and lost, and how he held her too tight in his grief. His wounds were too visible and unfortunately there was no time for him to recover before finding her son.

 “So,” Nolli jumps, startled out of her thoughts. She was currently sharing a space with a talking gorilla. Strange, but not the strangest thing she’s ever seen. Winston clears his throat and pretends to have not noticed her surprise. “Where are you from?”

“Montana.”

“You got here pretty fast, assuming Mr. Shimada called you after…” He trails off, they both know what he implies.

She smiles, eases the awkwardness. “The wonders of money, the boy doesn’t appear to be short of it.”

Winston grins. “Certainly not, he’s been an asset in gathering resources and funding. It would be a lot tougher if he didn’t lend a hand.” An oversharer. He seems to think of something and lumbers over to a screen.

From the angle, Nolli can’t see what he looks for, but there’s a visible crease between his brows. “Were you near the attacks? The omnic ones?”

Pursing her lips, she nods. “My city was the first one hit,” She can still smell the smoke from her neighbor’s house going up in flames.

“I’m sure you’ve heard here have been many attacks like it all over the world then- few casualties, thankfully, but too much destruction, and there’s been a lot of missing people after each attack.” He rambles off, handing her a tablet pad and letting her scroll through it.

She sees faces, so many of them, labeled missing and short descriptions of them. All of them appear to have some sort of status due to a talent. “Are they collecting people who go above and beyond?” There’s a vet with a purple heart on the list, an olympic gold medal sprinter, and a businesswoman with a note of - Nolli’s eyebrows raise in surprise - eight fluent languages and three other semi-fluent.

Winston shakes his head. “We thought that too, but there’s something else not adding up. All deceased are whole, but there are…. Body parts. Always with the omnics, but none of the tests are genetic matches to those missing. We don’t know where the pieces are coming from, it’s almost like the-”

Nolli tightens up, “They’re bringing the pieces in with them.”

“Precisely, and the same thing happened with the omnics that attacked our base-”

“Here!?” She hisses. “Who’s missing?” She hadn’t considered it, hadn’t connected the dots between her son with hellfire in his eyes, a wicked shot, and the missing talented folks. “Jesse,” Her fingers tighten around her mug and on the tablet. “They took m-” Her voice cracks. “My boy?”

Winston looks down, ashamed and sorry all at once. “We don’t know for sure-”

“Is that why they were in my city? They were coming for him there?” She has to get help- Hanzo will not be enough.

“Ms. Nolli, where are you going?” Winston calls out to her as she leaves, tugging her hat on, holding her purse close to her side.

She glances over her shoulder, regrets not being able to stay for Jesse’s return. “Family business.”

And as she exits, she barely hears the scientist say “I... thought McCree was family business?”

-

It would be a dive joint - and a crowded one at that. There’s no better place to meet a mercenary than a crowded restaurant, and one with dim lighting so while you’re visible, your business can’t be seen.

Reaper looks around again. Or maybe his contact just likes the place genuinely, they’re strange enough, it wouldn’t surprise him too much.

He takes a seat at a booth, waits until a server comes by and leaves before speaking aloud. “I know you’re there,” Something brushes up his calf, wiggling like toes. “Sombra.”

In a shimmer, she appears on the opposite side of the table, leaning into her hands with a pout. “You’re no fun. Were you always this much of a buzzkill, Gabriel?” She pulls an image of his former self into thin air and laughs. “Of course you were,” She sends the image forward where it breaks in front of his eyes.

The wraith remains astute, his featureless disguise hiding the curl of his gnarled lips. He would appreciate it if people would let Gabriel Reyes rest in peace.

She ignores the threat in his silence. “You know it’s risky for you to contact me, right? Talon wants your head on a platter- this better not be some sort of booty call or I’m getting myself a promotion.”

“I need a favor.”

Sombra groans loudly and slides down in her seat until only her head is visible - Reaper can feel her strange footwear prodding at his side. "It's always a favor!" She gripes and begins imitating him, "Sombra, remove the ingrate's name from the botched mission on the train. Sombra, make this omnic disappear, hide these cyborg schematics. Sombra, the door ."

She laughs suddenly, reveling in a playful, but false irritation. She sits up and leans in close. “Do you know how many IOU’s,” She brings up three screens, each with a bolded letter on it. They change as she taps them, “U-O-me?” The last is a winking graphic of her face.

“That you never call on.”

“That I’m saving!” She sounds indignant.

He leans forward, tilts his head in a grin - a behavior learned from Zenyatta and Genji that he hadn’t noticed develop over time. “Then consider this three more to your collection.”

Her eyes go wide. “Woah. Three, what exactly do you need from me?” She’s wary, he doesn’t blame her.

“Your employer has managed to get his hands on McCree again- I need to know where they put him.”

Sombra snorts. “He’s worth three? This little tidbit of information? Alright then, I can find him for you- and y’know, I’ll even give you a discount. Make it two.”

“Two IOU’s it is then.” He agrees.

“Give me ten minutes and I’ll give you everything you need.”

“Ten?” She looks up, squinting at him. “You’re getting rusty, Sombra.”

She wrinkles her nose at him, tapping away into a holo-keypad before vanishing.

“Five.”


Harry didn't understand her reaction, "What,  What ? I’m telling you I’ll help you help Draco. I thought you would be happy with my decision.” He gave her a half looped smile.

She looked accusingly, “What have you done until now, with his case?”

He shrugged, “Low priority.”  This is still about a git, a bullying git.

"Harry, I can't believe this! A wizard is attacked, and the Head Auror considers it a low priority? Because of the man he was in the past?" Her temperament rose several degrees, "Are you serious? Seriously, serious?"

 At least he has the decency to look guilty, Harry cowered slightly, “Look, Hermione, I admit it. I shouldn’t have swept it under the rug. But don’t forget that we are talking about the ferret.”

 He's not getting away so quickly,  she looked accusingly, putting both hands on her hips, "Who's a human being, just like you and me. He bleeds and pees the same colour. How many other cases have you treated this way?"

“Only his case.” Harry sighed deeply, “Alright, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I’ve said it already. But we are talking about the git. We weren’t exactly best friends…”

"Harry, since when is that an excuse? You have responsibilities, Harry. Your job comes with accountabilities that you can't ignore because they were arseholes over your youth years." She kept pointing an accusing finger at him, "If everyone handles this like you did, where does it end, Harry? If a healer starts to deny treatment to a wizard because he holds a long-time grudge? What makes you better than Voldemort?" Hermione spread her arms in frustration. Harry winced at every jab, knowing all too well nothing she said was wrong.

She raised both hands in the air, at face height, fingers open wide, “What am I going to do with you, Harry?” She took a deep breath, to find her peace again. “Harry, do you know something more?”

“Malfoy was here this morning, telling me to keep you off his back. AND to inform me that you knew something about his attack.” He laid all his cards on the table.

Hermione inclined her head, “And???”

"And that's it." His admission forced Hermione to subdue the urge to hit him in the head. She gave Harry a quick overview of what she knew and suspected, summing up the names of the Death Eaters who Theo still had contact with. Harry nodded and scrunched his face upon hearing some of the names.

Harry frowned, concerned, "Rookwood knew about Gibbons? I suspect this attack wasn't a spur of the moment. But a planned event to be executed the moment someone spotted Malfoy."

Hermione nodded, “It may very well be, Harry. He was left to die, in such a state. To suffer while his life slipped away.” The memory came back in full force, and she felt her throat go constricted. A few moments later she rasped her throat and continued, “Have you offered him help?”

He nodded, “Yes and he denied.”

She flexed a fist, “He’s so obstinate. A headstrong git…” Her lips curled into a smile, “And what are we going to do, Harry?”

Harry made a few decisions, “It’s time I tap decently into my contacts in the underground, and finally try to dig into the matter. I hope my informant knows more.”

“And what about Ron, Harry?”

He assured her, “Don’t worry about Ron. I’ll convince him to help us, based on my assumptions. I saw a different wizard. Not the arrogant teenager we knew.”

Her face told him wordlessly,  I told you so . "Harry, he reads to sick children, visits lonely elders. I saw him yesterday at St. Mungo's. The children call him uncle Drake, Harry. He spoke to every present child, touching them. The git we knew, was disgust from a little spit, but the man? He held hands. He stroked over the heads, kissed the cheeks. And he read to them, he sounded just like my dad. The gentle voice, changing the tone according to the story. Explaining difficult words…"

“Oh Hermione, you are falling…”

“No, I’m standing straight, Harry.”  Hold down your horses, not so fast.

“I have his mobile number.”

"So do I, Harry." His eyebrows disappeared under the fringe, "Did he give you an address?" The wizard shook his head, "It's just a matter of time before I can find him." She stood up and gave him a kiss, "Harry, please do your job decently this time. I'll keep you up to date."

“Hermione, and his request?”  I think I know the answer, already.

“I’ve heard you, Harry, and I’ve considered it. My conclusion? I find it first class bullocks.” She winked, “I have a few other partners, who are working on their end of things.”

Harry didn't know if he felt curious or anxious, she was taking unnecessary risks in his opinion, "Who?"

Hermione dismissed him, "Nobody you should worry about. We will help the git if he wants or not. Or my name isn't Hermione Granger."

“At this rate, your name will become Hermione Malfoy.”

“Not funny, Potter.”

“See what I mean? He’s rubbing off on you already!” They both smirked.

-oOo-

"How do you find a git, who doesn't want to be found?" She tapped her lip with a finger, "It's time I called some of my fellow Muggle colleagues." Putting words into action, she spent the next half hour talking to her MI6 contact, placing a plan at work to narrow down on his location. The number gave them an idea of the surroundings, but not an exact address. They agreed on a phone call at a certain hour, to pinpoint precisely his whereabouts.

But first, enjoy a well-earned dinner,  it was time she turned the plates on him .

-oOo-

The mobile was answered at the second ring, “Granger.”

“Malfoy, I missed your company last night. I had made so many arrangements.” She watched her stopwatch, they were talking for ten seconds, she needed to keep him talking for another fifty.

His chuckle sounded through the earpiece, “Which arrangements precisely, Granger?”

“You sound husky, are you curious, Malfoy?”

“Don’t dawdle, Granger. Tell me, which arrangements? Handcuffs?”

 Ten more seconds…  “No, no handcuffs, but you gave me an idea there. You’re into kinky…ha ha...No Malfoy, Draco.” She drawled, “I had my sexiest lingerie set…”

“In which colour?”

"Black, but very sheer. Like a thin veil." She spoke slowly, seductively. A message lighted up, and she glanced over with a knowing smile. Setting course to the indicated location, she kept talking.

“Sheer black lingerie?”

"It was more a lace nightgown, it barely covered my bum…" His heavy intakes of breath were doing weird things to her mood, "And…"

He was getting as aroused as she was, “And, what Granger?”

Hermione didn't answer straight away, looking up to the highest floor of a two-story modest house in a residential London neighbourhood. She was hidden by a disillusionment charm, aided by the dark of the night. The focus of her gaze was a low-lit window with its white curtains closed. Behind, the shape of a man, pacing back and forth, talking at a mobile. She was able to discern his features, from the only time he came close enough to the curtains. Her answer, rather the lack of it, was messing with his system.

Happy with her confirmation, she entered the door, using a simple alohamora to unlock it. Using the same spell to enter his home and adding a muffliato to the game, she hid in a corner to watch him closely.  Oh boy, was he restless now. ..

“Granger?” Her silence through the mobile alarmed him, he sounded anxious. “Are you still there...Hermione?” He never stopped pacing back and forth.  Was she in danger? Where was she?

Her answer soothed him, “Yes.”

"For a moment, I feared…" He sighed deeply, a hand ranking over his blond hair, "You haven't answered me yet, witch. And what?"

She smirked,  payback buddy  , "And what? You mean about my lace thingy?" He froze in expectation, and her fun increased, "Oh, that...Malfoy, you could see everything," she drawled, "Of course through a black shadow." His loud grunt came from deep.  What a sight he his, this worked up .

His husky voice did weird things in her belly, “And did you wear anything underneath, Granger?”

"A little something. It barely covered the basics, if I'm honest." Her grin couldn't be bigger, "I believe Muggles call it a thong." Her belly trembled with laughter at the sight. "You know it, I'm sure. A small fabric triangle and a cord running through its base over my…" He was leaning his head against the cold window, hand rubbing his groin. "My quim, up the crease of my arse and connecting with the waistband on the back." His hand flexed harder around his hardened member, her words hit the target entirely.

 I have to end this if I want to have some fun this evening, “Malfoy, see you later.” His grunted words were inaudible.

She ended the call and bided her time.