Chapter Text
Hanzo spends the flight from Japan to Gibraltar staring at his left hand.
The red string on his little finger has pointed in a southwestern direction for three weeks now, unwavering since he first touched down in Japan. He follows it with his eyes, a straight line that points forward and down now, disappearing somewhere through the floor of the plane. The angle slowly closes over the course of his flight, as though he is growing closer to the other end of the tether, separated more by his altitude than distance. Impossible to tell right now if he will meet his soulmate in Gibraltar, or just pass over them on the way.
It does not matter, he supposes. His soulmate will not accept him, and he does not intend to try or to allow them. He has spent the last ten years operating under these tenets, and he does not intend to change them. Still, the thought of it makes his heart skip a beat.
Then again, he muses, resting his head against the window, finally tearing his gaze away from his string to look at the layer of clouds below, he has already been proven wrong once.
The message from Genji had come a week after their encounter in Hanamura. It had been simple, somehow curt for all its brevity: I am in Gibraltar. The world needs Overwatch again. If you wish to redeem yourself in any meaningful way, join me. Hanzo had little interest in Overwatch--which, to his knowledge, did not even exist in any real capacity any longer--and had put off going as long as he could. But knowing that Genji is alive has eaten at him for weeks, finally driving him to board a plane for the tiny English colony in search of his long-presumed-dead brother. Hanzo has no idea what he will do or say when he arrives, or if anyone even expects him, but there was nothing else for him. His time in Japan is done--perhaps forever, now that Genji lives--and all that awaits him elsewhere is a continued life of running and meaningless, impersonal mercenary work.
The thought that Genji is still alive still sits strangely in his mind. It comes as a surprise every time he remembers, a little jolt that often stops him in his tracks until he can process it again. Even now, a mere few hours away, it still does not feel real.
His eyes fall down to his left hand again. He smooths the thumb of his other hand over the thin scarlet thread, although he cannot feel it. The threads do not have a physical presence: visible to their owners but incorporeal, often ignored until one notices it again. He hates that he is so aware of it now.
Who would want a soulmate who tried to murder their own brother?
Hanzo remembers being young, when the red strings were still new and exciting. It is most common to find one’s soulmate (or soulmates, for those lucky few with strings on multiple fingers) until young adulthood, so children and teenagers spent much of their time speculating on who they would find: steadfast friends or deep romance, priceless mentors or new families. He and Genji both had single strings, and like most children, wondered at those destiny had set for them.
Growing up in Japan, Genji’s pointed off toward the southwest, leading as far as southwestern Asia, or even somewhere in Africa. Hanzo’s suggested somewhere in the direction of the southern US. As children, they both wanted the same thing: a trustworthy friend. When they got older, Genji’s wishes turned more crass, and often he voiced a desire for someone attractive and famous. Hanzo thought wistfully of someone he could befriend outside of the clan, perhaps even someone who would love him despite his family. Then, as they got older still, the thought of his soulmate fell by the wayside, while Genji went out every night looking for sex and parties, ostensibly looking for his own partner and filling the gaps until then.
After the incident, Hanzo has deliberately given his own desires no thought.
Hanzo catches himself staring again at his string, which has moved perhaps a few degrees to the side in the last several minutes. He scowls, disgusted at himself, and turns his gaze back out the window. It does not matter where his soulmate is. His only concern is Genji, and the bizarre thing that he has become.
Eventually, the overhead PA pings and an automated voice announces their descent. Hanzo buckles himself in and lets the thoughts of his upcoming reunion distract him.
Disembarking from the plane is simple, his only luggage consisting of a small carry-on duffle and an instrument case hiding his bow. Gibraltar is truly tiny--barely more than six kilometers from the airport to the tip of the peninsula. Because of this, he opts to walk, hoping the hour or so between him and the Watchpoint will allow him to calm his nerves in time.
As he sets off, he glances at his thread again. It has changed direction, pointing steadily south in the direction he is traveling. His heart thumps against his ribs with the familiar surge of excitement, which he forcefully shoves back down. It does not matter, he reminds himself. He is not here for fanciful romance.
Still, he cannot help but notice that the closer he gets to the base, the more the string shifts back and forth, as though a shorter distance has made it more sensitive to his soulmate’s movements.
The old Overwatch base is nestled in the cliffs by the sea, hidden from view, although not necessarily a secret from the rest of Gibraltar. The road winds around and through the cliffs until the rocky walls are abruptly interrupted by steel paneling. A few feet ahead, an open archway serves as the entrance to the base, the heavy doors swung wide open. Hanzo suspects that there are so few visitors nowadays that keeping the gate closed is more of a formality. He continues on, following the road into the base proper.
A flash of movement catches his eye, like the reflection of sunshine off of a mirror somewhere above him. He looks up toward the source and his chest seizes.
Genji stands atop one of the nearer buildings. He looks the same as he did in Hanamura, all sleek, dark metal and acid-green edging. A nauseating mix of relief and disgust churns Hanzo’s gut at the sight. He does not know what horrifies him more: the knowledge that Genji is no longer human, or that Hanzo did this to him.
“Hanzo,” Genji says neutrally. He hops down gracefully, landing on the ground in front of Hanzo with barely a noise. “You came. I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
“I still may leave,” Hanzo replies darkly. “How did you know to expect me?”
“One of Athena’s security drones caught sight of you on your way here. I asked Winston to allow me to see you before the rest of the team.” Genji tilts his head thoughtfully. Hanzo finds himself frustrated that he cannot read the expression behind the mask.
“I am glad to see you,” Genji says after a long moment. “Truly.”
Hanzo scowls. “I am here for answers,” he replies. “Not to exchange pleasantries.”
“Ah, there’s the Hanzo I know,” Genji sighs. He looks up toward the sky, and Hanzo knows he is rolling his eyes. The familiarity of the motion strikes a chord somewhere in Hanzo’s chest, and he finds himself relaxing marginally at the sight.
Genji looks back at him, the fiberglass visor impassive. “I asked you here because these are the people who saved me,” he says, gesturing with one hand to the rest of the base. “And because Overwatch is coming together again because they-- we are needed.”
“This has nothing to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you. Many of these people are family to me. And I told you before--if you want to atone, action is the way, and there are fewer goals more noble than this.” Genji shakes his head and continues, “But you have just arrived, and there are other things to discuss before that decision is made. Winston knows of you and has agreed to allow you to stay at the Watchpoint for as long as you like while we . . . figure things out.”
Though still bristling, Hanzo nods. The long trip has left him weary, and he looks forward to having somewhere to settle, alone. Genji turns and starts to walk away, heading toward a bulky warehouse built into the cliff. “In the meantime,” Genji says, “I would like you to meet the others.”
Genji leads them through the base, a sprawling maze of steel and stone melded together. The buildings are spacious, but the tons of rock overhead still make many parts of the base feeling close and claustrophobic. As they walk, Hanzo’s thread continues to shift. He watches it as they walk: moving back and forth at a narrow angle as though the other person is pacing, then stopping, then steadily moving in one direction again. Hanzo can’t tell if he is getting closer or not, or whether he should mention it to Genji, but he is becoming steadily more certain that his soulmate is somewhere in this base.
“Your string?” Genji asks lightly, startling Hanzo out of his thought. He looks up and sees Genji looking at him. The cyborg nods toward Hanzo’s left hand and says, “You’ve been staring. Have you not met . . . ?”
Hanzo grimaces. “No,” he replies curtly, and refuses to elaborate. Genji looks away, shoulders tensing slowly, and Hanzo feels a touch of shame. Despite everything, he is here for Genji, to find his answers and perhaps even broach the topic of reconciliation, and yet he cannot bring himself to be anything but angry. He is only proving Genji correct--perhaps there is no hope for him at all.
After a long moment passes, he clears his throat uncomfortably and asks, “Have you?”
He can tell by the way Genji’s head snaps up that he is surprised. Genji regards him for a long moment, then says, “Yes, actually. I have.”
Hanzo finds he can’t make eye contact and turns away. “Good,” he says. “That is . . . good.” He has to fight not to make another face. He hates the awkwardness, the way he has to force casual conversation.
Genji hums. “He is my mentor,” he says, “and a very dear friend. He is still in Nepal right now, but I hope to convince him to join us soon.” He lifts a hand and flexes, cybernetic gauntlets clicking gently with the movement. “He helped me come to terms with what I am. I would not be even half the man I am today had I not met him.”
Hanzo lifts his own hand to stare at his string. “How many others are here?” he asks.
“Six, currently, all of them Overwatch members who answered the recall. Winston has mentioned a few others that may join us, in time.” Another thoughtful head tilt. “Do you think they will be here?”
Hanzo presses his lips into a thin line instead of answering. Mercifully, Genji lets the subject drop.
Finally, their walk ends in what looks like a control room on the other side of the base. The place clearly has not been of much use in years; multiple holographic monitors are suspended on the walls in various states of function, while tarps cover stacks of crates that have been shoved into corners and against walls. A couple of wide tables are spread around the room, covered in digital tablets and paper documents under bits of recent trash. A group of varied people has gathered at the end of the room, conversing idly--and in the middle of them stands a seven-foot-tall, armor-clad gorilla in glasses.
Hanzo stops up short, and Genji chuckles.
A shorter young woman with short, spiky brown hair is the first to notice the newcomers. She stands up on tip-toe to see over the head of a blonde woman, then grins and waves enthusiastically. “Genji!” she shouts, effectively stopping the conversation. Four other pairs of eyes immediately turn on Hanzo and Genji. Hanzo holds his chin high under the scrutiny.
“Lena,” Genji replies amicably. He steps forward toward the group, then turns back with a gesture toward Hanzo. “Everyone, this is my brother, Hanzo. Despite everything, I hope you will treat him well while he is here.”
Hanzo becomes abruptly aware that everyone in this room knows what he did. Despite this, everyone’s expressions range from neutral to friendly, and he doesn’t know whether this is better or worse.
Genji introduces everyone one by one. The excitable woman is Lena, and the large, impeccably-polite gorilla is the oft-mentioned Winston. Reinhardt is a giant of a gentleman whose “inside voice” is still a booming shout; on the other hand, Torbjorn is a much shorter man who looks like he may be fifty-percent prosthetics. The last is Angela, the blonde woman, who introduces herself as the team’s doctor and whom Genji credits for the fact that he is still alive. Angela does cast Hanzo a scrutinizing look, but says nothing on the matter.
During the introductions, Hanzo glances discreetly at his hand. His thread does not end on the hands of anyone else in the room--given the interesting spread of individuals in front of him, it comes as a greater relief than he expected. It hasn’t escaped his notice, however, that there are only five of the six people Genji mentioned. His heart picks up the pace as he realizes the thread is moving toward the doorway.
“I suppose McCree slept in again,” Genji says, chuckling. “Of course he would.”
“No I didn’t, I was doing somethin’,” drawls a deep, accented voice from the direction of the door. Hanzo can hear the man approaching before he sees him: the jingle of metal, as though the stranger is wearing heavy jewelry. “Y’all wouldn’t believe this, but I think--”
The speaker steps into the doorway and stops short. Hanzo stares.
The man, apparently named McCree, is more of a caricature than a real person. From the ridiculous hat to the leather chaps to the spurs on his boots, he is the image of a cowboy lifted straight from an old movie. Even his accent, a thick Southern drawl, matches up with his outfit.
Between the two of them, the thin red string stretches, wrapped at the end around the cowboy’s metal left pinky where his hand dangles at his side. Hanzo lifts his own hand and follows the thread just to be sure, but there is no mistaking it.
McCree sees the movement and glances down. When he catches sight of the thread, a slow, wide smiles stretches across his face.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says. He looks up at Hanzo and tips his hat. “Howdy there, darlin’. I think we’ve been lookin’ for each other.”
The room goes still as everyone realizes just what has taken place. Lena gasps, hands flying over her mouth but not quite hiding her excitement, and Reinhardt whoops a cheer. Genji, meanwhile, starts laughing so hard that he has to lean on Reinhardt for support.
--
Everyone disperses a few minutes later, after the routine soulmate-meeting congratulations are passed around and Winston has given a short debrief about the new arrival. Hanzo is too aware of his surroundings the entire time. Everyone keeps glancing in his direction and he knows what they are thinking-- this murderer is someone’s soulmate? The revelation of his soulmate and the realization that he has been forced to confront it now makes him feel ill, his stomach roiling with anxiety.
McCree, for his part, seems unperturbed, and smiles throughout the rest of the discussion. When the rest of the team breaks apart, he turns to Hanzo and puts his hands on his hips. “So,” he begins with a little laugh. “I guess we’re soulmates or somethin’.”
“Or something,” Hanzo says dryly.
On his way out, Genji stops to clap Hanzo on the shoulder once. “I’ll let you two talk,” he says, giggling again. “My brother and one of my best friends. Unbelievable.” He breaks into fresh peals of laughter as he leaves the room, shaking his head. Hanzo is left alone with a cowboy.
His cowboy, apparently.
“So, well, you probably heard but I’m McCree. Jesse McCree.” He holds out his hand. His left hand reaches up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, giving Hanzo a better view of the prosthetic that makes up the lower half of his arm. He cannot take his eyes off of the thread between them as it shifts and falls slack with McCree’s movements.
“Shimada Hanzo,” he eventually replies, shaking McCree’s hand once and abruptly taking his back.
“Genji’s told me a lot about you,” McCree says. With a wink, he adds, “Didn’t mention you were so damn handsome, though. Dunno what I expected from my soulmate, but I hit the jackpot.”
In spite of himself, Hanzo can feel his face redden. He grits his teeth, frustrated, and tries not to think about how the compliment warms his belly. “I realize you wish to discuss this,” he says, “but I have had a long journey.”
McCree’s smile falls a fraction, but he is undeterred. “That’s fair,” he replies. “Want me to show you the dorms? They ain’t much, but they’re cozy enough.” When Hanzo nods, he turns to lead the way out of the conference room, through another claustrophobic steel-rock tunnel and out into the open plaza. Hanzo releases a breath he did not realize he was holding as the sky opens up above his head again.
“So,” McCree says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans. The spurs on his boots jangle with every step, almost as though he is walking to intentionally make noise. “Genji says he thinks you’d be a good addition to Overwatch. You’re a sniper?”
Tactical discussion is safe enough, Hanzo decides, and there appears to be no way of avoiding conversation for the next few minutes. “Yes. Archery.”
McCree whistles. “That’s a specialty I don’t think I’ve ever seen,” he says. “But if you’re even half as good as Genji says, you’ll be welcome ‘round here.”
“I did not come to join Overwatch.”
“Ah, yeah. He mentioned that too. Said if you even showed up, it’d probably just be for him.”
Hanzo finds himself bristling again. “Is there anything my brother has not told you?” he snaps.
McCree, to his credit, looks fairly non-plussed by the outburst. “I imagine so, but it’s mostly good stuff,” he says mildly. “Although, if you’re gettin’ at what happened between the two of you awhile ago, we all know about that.”
He shrugs before Hanzo can answer. “Don’t matter much now, though. He asked you to come here and that’s good enough for me, if that’s what you’re worried about. Not like the rest of us don’t have pasts.”
“I do not wish to discuss this with you,” Hanzo growls.
“Alright, alright.” McCree shoves his hands into his pockets and is mercifully silent for the remainder of their short walk.
The dorms themselves are plain: rooms lined up side-by-side in a hallway, numbered and labeled by name. Most of the digital nameplates are empty, the rooms’ occupants long gone, but a few are bright with the names of those who returned. They find the one labeled with Hanzo’s name, and McCree stops and turns to face him.
“Well, here you are,” he says with a gesture toward the room. He hesitates, then sweeps off his hat and holds it in front of himself demurely. “So uh, I imagine you’ll wanna get settled and all that, but afterwards, do you wanna--I dunno, grab a drink, talk about this whole thing?”
Hanzo regards him for a long moment. McCree’s expression is polite but earnest, his grin wide. He looks all but smitten, despite having known Hanzo only for the last twenty minutes. Hanzo has to admit, despite the man’s wild appearance, he is not unattractive. And it has been a long time since someone was so genuinely eager to be around him, seeking him out instead of running away . . .
But it will not last, no matter what McCree says. They do not know each other and it will be for the best if it stays that way.
The realization makes Hanzo turn abruptly away. “I am sorry, but I have business to take care of tonight,” he lies, tapping the panel beside the door and stepping inside.
“Tomorrow, then?” McCree is undeterred, following Hanzo to the very edge of the threshold. “I’d really like to get to know ya, y’know?”
“I imagine I will be with Genji tomorrow.”
“For what, the whole day?” McCree gives a nervous chuckle, his bravado beginning to falter. “You’re not just tryin’ to avoid me, are you?”
Hanzo does not answer, letting his silence speak for itself.
“Wait . . .” McCree’s smile falls, his brow crinkling slightly with trepidation. “Are you?”
“It may be for the best if we do not pursue this,” Hanzo replies, turning away and moving into his room. He sets his bow against the wall and undoes the clasps on the case to unpack it.
“‘Not pursue’ this--we’re soulmates ,” McCree sputters. He holds up his left hand as though to prove his point. “Y’can’t just not see where that kinda thing goes! I don’t get it. Did I do somethin’?”
“No. It is merely in both of our best interests.” Hanzo carefully opens the case, revealing his bow and quiver nestled in heavy contoured foam. He eases his bow out of its slot and strings it, leaving it ready for combat at a moment’s notice, and resolutely does not look at McCree’s face.
“How? It sure as hell ain’t mine! You don’t get to make that kinda choice for me, Shimada!”
“Then consider it made for me. Either way, I do not think we should act as anything more than teammates, and I do not intend to act on this.” Hanzo pulls out his quiver and snaps the instrument case shut, its purpose finished for the day. “I came here for Genji, and perhaps to see if I can be of use. The fact that we met each other is coincidence.”
“That don’t mean we can’t--”
“Goodnight, McCree,” Hanzo says, and shuts the door.
“Are you shittin’ me?” he hears McCree say on the other side of the door. “Shit. Goddamn it.” After another moment, he stomps off, spurs jingling, and Hanzo is left alone in the sudden silence of his dorm.
He glances about, taking stock of what he has. There is only the most basic furniture--a bed wedged into the corner, a small table beside it, and a long desk that takes up most of the opposite wall. A fine layer of dust coats everything but the bedsheets. Hanzo drops his duffel on the bed, and the room feels a fraction warmer for the presence of his belongings.
Alone, he sits down onto the bed and finally allows himself to decompress. The mattress is cheap, but soft enough to sink into, the memory foam take the weight of his weary body off of his muscles. He lays back and stretches across the mattress, staring up at the dull gray ceiling. The thoughts and feelings of the day wash over him all at once, forming a nauseating pit in his gut.
He has spent an hour at the Watchpoint, and already he regrets it. The people are friendly enough, but he knows they must be judging him for his past actions. Genji is clearly a well-loved member of the team--doubtful that they all regard Hanzo with even a fraction of that warmth.
But it has been good to see Genji again. Despite the fact that he no longer looks like the young man Hanzo knew, and the carefree attitude has been tempered by time and, evidently, his unnamed soulmate, he is still achingly familiar. The warmth in his voice when he said Hanzo’s name, the easy way he clapped him on the shoulder in passing, the tinge of pride in his words when he introduced him to the team--they all spoke of a relationship from years past, long since destroyed by their family--and Hanzo’s decisions.
He sighs deeply and lifts his left hand. The thread points off somewhere else in the base, moving slowly as it follows McCree’s departure from the dorms and to parts unknown. Guilt pushes up into his throat, threatening to gag him. McCree had been nothing but friendly, and the look on his face as Hanzo pushed him away had been heartbreaking: hurt and anger combining in a painful cocktail.
It is for the best, Hanzo reminds himself. He is alone, and he will remain that way. The reminder does nothing for his guilt.
He pushes himself up and roots around in his duffel bag until his fingers hit cool glass. He comes up with a bottle of sake , purchased before his flight, and unscrews the cap. The scent is familiar, sharp and sweet.
Reminders might not make the guilt go away, but alcohol certainly will.