Chapter Text
Falling. Falling. Falling.
Everything hurts, every part of him.
Blood runs down his arms. His chest. His legs. How many places has he been cut? He can’t even remember. His thoughts are a mess that he can’t organize.
The sky above him his clear. His back is to the ground. All around him there’s the distant sound of screaming. Of gunshots. Of feet pounding against the pavement.
The air is filled with debris. With gunpowder. With smoke. Despite it all, the sky remains clear. Not a cloud in sight. A perfect day to die.
Even though he can’t see it, he knows the ground is rushing up to meet him.
Resigned, he closes his eyes.
The sky above him is clear.
His conscience is not.
His back hits the ground with a sickening crunch–
Hanzo sits up with a blood-curdling scream, heart threatening to beat out of his chest. His surroundings are dark, unfamiliar– is he dead? Or, worse, captured ? His back screams at him, protesting every movement– he was falling just a moment ago– Gods , he needs to get help, needs to get to Doctor Ziegler. But can he even walk? Did anyone see him fall? Did they know? The mission.
Compromised .
He hit the ground– he hit the ground– he hit the ground–
“Han? Honey?”
Hanzo sucks in heaving breaths, tears rolling down his cheeks unbidden. There’s so much he needs to do, that he needs to say. Dying with regrets isn’t how he wants to go– Doctor Ziegler? He needs to get to her– can he even walk? His legs– are his prosthetics damaged? He can’t feel them. Did anyone see him? Did anyone see–
“Han, baby–”
He grabs at his arms, digging his nails into the meat of each bicep, enough to draw blood, and sucks in stuttering breaths. Every inhale reminds him of the pain, of how it feels as though needles have been driven into every inch of his skin, of the blood that is flowing out of him, unrelenting. Doctor Ziegler. Lucio. Ana Amari. Even Zenyatta. Medic– he needs to call for a medic. Was his communicator damaged from the fall? He can’t hear them in his ear. He hit the ground–
“Hanzo!”
He’s going to die out here– he’s going to die. This is it. This is how he’s going to go– alone, flat on his back, broken on the concrete. Who would mourn him? Perhaps Overwatch will, though he doesn’t count on it– he is not truly an important member of this ragtag group of heros. Certainly his brother will, though mostly out of obligation, he’s sure. They hadn’t had nearly enough time to mend the bond he’d broken between them. Selfish as it is, he also hopes he will mourn him. Hanzo regrets not telling him, not kissing him. He’d missed his chance. He wishes he had more time– he’s running out of time– of time–
“Hanzo Shimada!”
A set of arms wrap around his midsection. A strong, warm chest presses against his back. A chin hooks over his shoulder. A smokey, deep voice croons in his ear.
“Hanzo. Hanzo, shhh, ‘s okay baby,” it says, arms squeezing and pulling him closer, “I’m right here. You’re safe, ‘s just a dream.”
A dream?
Hanzo focuses his eyes. The room he’s in is dark but he can still make out a few things. There’s a dresser across from him, a television atop that, a standing lamp in the corner. Posters decorate the walls, none of which he can make out, and there’s a few bookshelves to his right and a door on his left. He’s on a bed with sheets tangled around him. It’s certainly not the war zone he was just in. There’s no screams or gunshots or feet pounding against concrete. Hanzo blinks, expecting the tranquil room he’s in to transform into the nightmarish landscape of his dream.
The person behind him rocks him, slow and gentle, murmuring nonsense in his ear. Their voice is familiar.
“‘S okay, honeybee,” they mumble, arms unwinding from around his waist so they can slide his hands up his arms. They settle on Hanzo’s, which are still gripping his biceps as if they’re his only lifeline. Their presence is warm. Soothing. Entirely welcome, for some reason, though Hanzo doesn’t know who they are. His thoughts are still a mess– he can’t parse dream from reality.
“I was dreaming?” Hanzo asks, voice barely a hush in the unfamiliar room. The stranger nods, squeezing their hands and loosening Hanzo’s vice grip at the same time. The hands are familiar, calloused and big, covering his own large ones easily. Who…?
“Yeah, y’were, honeybunch,” the whiskey-smooth voice says in his ear. He relaxes against the thick chest behind him, lets the hands on his pry them off his arms, and goes easily with them as he’s turned to face his bed partner. One of the stranger’s hands buries itself in his hair as they pull Hanzo to rest his face in the crook of their neck. Their arms wrap around him, tight yet yielding, anchoring him to the moment and making him feel safe for the first time since he awoke.
He sucks in a stuttering breath through his nose–
He knows who this is. There’s only one person he knows that smells like cigar smoke, automotive fluid, and cheap whiskey. Who’s warm as a furnace, has hands just as big as his, and arms that he can be in for hours. The man that he’s chosen to spend the rest of his life with, as evidenced by the rings they have sitting on their nightstand, waiting to be slipped onto their fingers come morning.
Jesse .
Hanzo chokes on a sob as he wraps his arms around his lover, the terror that’s flooding his senses bleeding out of him like he was stuck. Jesse coos softly at him, pulling him tighter against him so he can suck in bracing breaths of his soothing scent. Each inhale calms him down and every exhale pushes the nightmare he’d had away. Gods, it felt so real– phantom pain still skitters underneath his skin, though it’s ebbing away with every passing moment.
“Shh, baby, I’m right here, was jus’ a dream, it ain’t real,” his fiancé whispers into his hair while running a hand up and down the curve of his shaking spine. He repeats it over and over again, a mantra of, “just a dream,” murmured into his ear, reminding him of where he is.
That’s right, he’s right. It wasn’t real, it isn’t real. Jesse is here. Hanzo is here. He’s safe . And right where he wants to be, in his lover’s arms.
It takes quite some time to calm down. Jesse holds him as his sobs quiet down, lets him kiss along his skin like a man possessed, murmurs quiet assurances in his ear. It feels like hours that they sit there in the dark, McCree’s arms wrapped tightly around him, anchoring him to the moment. Hanzo gulps down lungfuls of his lover’s familiar, calming scent until the weight on his chest diminishes and he can breathe without feeling choked. It’s only then that he feels like he can move, although the wounds he dreamt he had still linger underneath his skin.
Hanzo pulls back from where he’s cradled against the crook of McCree’s neck to get a good look at his lover. The nightmare he’d been embroiled in had convinced him he and Jesse weren’t together, that he was going to die without ever letting the love of his life know the depth of his affections. Hanzo sucks in a bracing breath, dragging his hands along Jesse’s back and shoulders. He’s solid, warm under his palms– and, more importantly, he’s here .
“Oh Jesse,” Hanzo murmurs, cupping his lover’s face and swiping his thumbs along his stubble-covered cheeks, “Jesse… it was so real , I– I thought– We–”
He can’t push the words out of his rapidly tightening throat. Tears prick at his already tired eyes. His lower lip quivers. The dream is fresh, phantom pains still palpable all across his skin. The only thing grounding him to the moment is Jesse .
His lover turns his head and kisses his palm, warm lips soothing him again. “Shh, darlin’, Hanzo, you don’t have to say a word,” Jesse assures him, skating his fingers along the curve of his arms until he can wrap them around his wrists, “I know, I know. Come here, Han, lemme just–”
McCree tugs him forward using his wrists, pulling him closer until Hanzo’s arms are wrapped around his lover’s neck and their chests are pressed together. The contact is needed, desperately so, as it grounds him and keeps him from panicking any more than he already is. Jesse kisses sweetly at his collarbone, up his neck, along his cheeks. The nightmare that clings to his mind steadily falls away with every kiss. By the time his lips press to Hanzo’s, the phantom pains and the nightmarish landscape are mere vestiges, barely clinging to him.
Here, in his fiance’s arms, in the home they have together, in the place he belongs, he knows he’s safe.
Jesse lays them down, his left arm curled in a protective manner around his waist. Hanzo wraps his arms tightly around his lover, sharing his warmth and delighting in the comfort that his presence brings. Sooner than he expects, he feels a familiar heaviness on his eyelids, sleep a siren’s call that he can’t ignore. He nuzzles into his love’s hairy chest, eyes closed and a smile spread across his face. McCree strokes his hair with his right hand, murmuring nonsense that Hanzo doesn’t even hear but appreciates nonetheless.
“This is… like a dream,” Hanzo slurs lethargically, thinking of how his nightmare had ended in him falling and striking the ground. He’s quick to banish the memory, as just the thought has his body aching, especially his head. With a content sigh, he snuggles impossibly further into McCree’s chest, his headache bleeding away just as fast as it flared up, and smiles when his fiance presses a gentle kiss to the top of his head.
“I can assure you, honey,” his lover whispers into his hair, left hand stroking up and down the curve of his back, “that this ain’t a dream.”
Hanzo doesn’t have the mental capacity to respond to his lover as sleep overtakes him. It’s easy to slip into a dreamless slumber with his lover’s gentle, slightly cold fingers drawing soothing patterns into the skin of his back.