Chapter 2

[Cole]: I’m gonna need you to call off your hound.

[Genji]: what

[Cole]: This jackass you have tailing me. Who is he?

[Genji]: so you’ve met

[Cole]: Not an answer. 

[Genji]: I know

Genji doesn’t clarify any further through text, but he does take the call when Cole grows impatient. “What’s this bullshit about Gabe?”

Genji makes a sound with his tongue. “It isn’t bullshit. I am sorry.”

Cole’s tempted to hang up on him. Shove him out just like he shoved out Genji’s friend. Then he’s tempted to grill him: how do they know it’s Gabe, who are their sources, what’s the evidence? Genji wouldn’t say it in the first place without good reason though, and Cole suspects the interrogation would really be some sideways punishment Genji doesn’t entirely deserve. Besides, he’s not in the headspace to go digging through that muck just yet. So he circles back to the other issue. “Tell me about this guy you sent.”

“We all sent him.”

“But you’re the one who vouched for him, and you’re the one he mentions by name.”

“Yes. I asked him to go, but it was on behalf of all of us.”

“And?”

“And what?” 

The false innocence grates on Cole’s nerves. “Who is he?”

“Someone who owes me a great deal.”

“So, what? You say jump, he asks how high?”

“I… suppose.” Genji sounds weirdly troubled, then he sighs, with a familiar hydraulic hiss as he vents the air. “It is complicated.”

Cole doesn’t get anything more out of him, and the call doesn’t last much longer. His mind races, trying to figure what the hell Genji could’ve done that makes this guy owe him so much. Even a life debt doesn’t usually come with this level of persistence. Maybe he just takes pride in his job, and Cole’s been a more challenging quarry than usual. 

The next time he sees the stranger — not-Akihito-through-Daiki — it’s while he’s doing his damned laundry. He rented a house for this one, mostly because he got blood on some things and figures that won’t go over well at the local laundromat. 

The living room has a nice, big window facing the road, so Cole sees him pull up. He has the nerve to block Cole’s car in, parking so closely the bumpers are almost kissing. There’s no space left to maneuver the other vehicle. Cole knew he should’ve parked in the street. 

“You’re an asshole,” Cole announces as the door opens. He’s folding his whites, and he shakes the wrinkles out of his undershirt so hard that it snaps in the air, just to emphasize his point. 

The stranger looks amused. “Is that all?” 

“You want a lecture?”

“No.” He shifts his weight. “I should apologize for the way I told you.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I’ve been a dick to you too.” Cole puts the folded shirt on his small stack, then he starts on the next. “Don’t try and argue. I was the one doing it. I know.”

“I am still sorry.” 

Cole grunts to acknowledge it, but he’s not especially in the mood to discuss that any further. “You really want to make good, you can do it by gettin’ out of my hair.” 

The man laughs quietly, and then he does something weird as hell: he sits down next to Cole on the couch, and he picks up a shirt to fold, smirking at Cole like he’s doing something truly devious by helping him with the laundry. It’s cute, which is annoying, and cuter because he watches Cole and makes sure to fold the same way, and more annoying because the sight of his scarred hands smoothing the wrinkles out of Cole’s clothing is doing stupid things to his insides. 

When the last shirt is folded, Cole packs them all into his bag, then he settles back on the couch. “Got another load in the dryer. You givin’ me time to finish that, or is the owner gonna come back to a bunch of free pants?”

“You may finish your laundry.”

“You gonna iron my underwear too?”

The stranger shrugs, unbothered. “Will it speed things along?” 

Cole laughs, then he changes the subject, turning to face him. “So what’s the plan here?” He gestures as he talks, and he thinks the growing amusement on the guy’s face is obnoxiously charming. “You know I’m not just gonna go along with it. So. The plan? Bash me over the head? Put me in handcuffs?”

“Would you like me to put you in handcuffs?” He asks it perfectly evenly, but his smile is viciously smug when Cole fumbles his next words. 

He recovers well enough, he thinks, mostly because he wants to see if he can make the guy squirm too. “Guess it depends. There’s a lot of things I’d let you do in the right context.” There’s no reaction, so Cole keeps pushing. He moves closer, drops his voice lower, gets a hand on the other man’s knee. The stranger doesn’t shy away. “That the kinda thing you’re into? Might be enough to convince me to stick around, if so.” 

Cole’s closed a lot of the distance between them, crowding him against the arm of the couch, and the guy’s not backing down. His pupils are huge and eyes narrowed, and his breath’s coming faster as Cole’s hand inches up his thigh. 

Then something jingles quietly next to Cole’s ear. It’s the set of car keys he was aiming for, dangling from one of the stranger’s fingers for the split second before he snaps his fist closed around them. 

Caught out, Cole sighs and backs away, flopping back onto his side of the couch. “I already told you you’re an asshole, right?”

The guy looks way too fucking pleased when he says, “You did.” 

It’s frustrating, but Cole thinks he can wait him out. His new shadow might be a stubborn ass, but even he’s going to have to take a leak or something eventually. In the meantime, Cole turns on the holo set and talks through the sitcom he finds, because he’s hoping to find out what really gets on this guy’s nerves. 

Instead, he joins in, mocking the bad jokes. When that episode’s over, he tells Cole to join him in the kitchen. Genji’s friend pokes around until he finds some microwave popcorn that he still somehow manages to burn. They pick their way around the burned bits, but only a few pieces are edible. It only makes Cole crave better popcorn and feel thirsty as hell. He’s not sure he trusts the tap water here, but there’s some juice in the fridge. 

The man even stays on his heels when he goes to fetch his laundry, although he offers to help again. Cole stares at his juice glass while he replays things in his head, folds his jeans while he mentally catalogues all the tools at his disposal, and he knows what he has to do. 

It’s difficult with the guy breathing down his neck, but it’s not impossible. He digs through his bag under the guise of arranging his folded jeans inside it. There’s still a small pile of shirts left, so there’s time. Next he makes another bag of popcorn — unburned, because Cole knows how to work a damn microwave — and refills their drinks. Then he resumes folding while he waits. 

“Oh,” the man says after several minutes. He looks mildly dazed and deeply pissed off. 

He grips Cole’s shoulder and makes to stand, wobbling on the way up. It takes almost no effort to push him so he’s sitting on the couch again. “Might wanna take it easy, partner.”

“You are definitely the asshole.” The words are coming out in a mumble already, and the hand on Cole’s shoulder is weakening. His glass is completely empty from chasing all that salty popcorn. Probably for the best, because Cole really wasn’t sure about the dosage and erred on the side of not enough. 

Cole can’t hide his snicker. “You wanna pretend you didn’t do that to my coffee last time, I can pretend to believe you.”

Cole hums to himself while he finishes up his laundry and packs his things. He tosses a blanket over his sleeping friend. He even makes sure to bring the guy’s stuff in from his car, right before Cole steals it.

Less than forty-eight hours later, Cole’s leaving another motel in the middle of the night. He shoves his bag into the backseat, shuts the door, then something slams into him from behind. He’s sandwiched between the car and his attacker, arm wrenched behind his back. They’ve got a grip on the metal arm most people wouldn’t be able to have, and they were smart enough to immobilize that one first. 

Metal clinks together as one cuff snaps closed around his prosthetic arm, and he laughs, a little breathless since he’s still mashed against the car. “Hello, darlin’.” He tries and fails to turn his head to see him, mostly because if it’s anybody else, he’s thinking of breaking their nose. “That is you, right?”

“There is a reason I usually prefer to kill my marks.” The familiar gravelly voice makes Cole laugh again, even as hearing it close to his ear makes his heart beat faster. The other cuff closes around Cole’s other wrist, and the pressure on his arms and shoulders lets up. 

“More trouble than I’m worth?” Cole asks, grinning wide. The guy doesn’t answer that. He grips Cole’s arm just above the prosthetic, and he yanks him backward in order to get the car door open. He is not gentle in trying to wrestle Cole into the car, and it’s kind of hot but also terrifying that all Cole’s thrashing is doing fuckall to slow him down. “Wait! Somethin’ you might wanna consider first.”

He has Cole shoved halfway into the back of the car, one foot on the floor and one still on the asphalt. He’s got a solid grip on Cole’s hot neck, and he holds him in that awkward position. Cole’s back protests the whole affair, and he’s starting to sweat and maybe pant, and the most the other guy does is give a long, beleaguered sigh. “What is it?”

“My laptop’s still in the room.”

“Overwatch will buy you a new one.”

“You forgotten what I do? It’s got a whole lot of shit on it nobody else needs to see. Not smart to leave it.”

They linger there for another moment while his assailant considers what to do: leave Cole unattended in the car, or take him with. Cole figures he knows what the guy’s decided when he hears a string of angry Japanese. Cole’s not exactly fluent, but he’s spent enough time around Genji that he knows the rant is at least eighty percent curse words. He can’t help the laugh that escapes as the guy drags him back out of the car and frog marches him to the room. 

Outside the door, the guy growls near his ear, and Cole feels himself go hot all over. “Where is your keycard?”

Cole grins. “In my pocket.”

“Which one?”

“I forget.” The other man lets out a noise that sounds more frustrated than anything else. Cole risks a smirk over his shoulder, even though he can barely see him in his periphery. “You have my permission to frisk me.”

He thinks for a second the guy’s going to back down or rough him up some more, but this one’s just full of surprises tonight. Wordlessly, he reaches one hand around and up, skimming along Cole’s ribs to reach the breast pocket on Cole’s shirt. His hand moves a lot slower than your typical frisking calls for, and as it slides across to the one on the other side, Cole can’t decide if he regrets the challenge or if it’s the best idea he’s had in weeks. 

When his hand moves again, it’s just as slow, and now it leaves a trail of tingling skin in its wake. “I thought you were only needling me with your flirting,” the guy says, sounding much more amused than before. “Now I am not so sure.” His fingers slip into the back pocket of Cole’s jeans. That one’s empty too, but they take their time, knead into his flesh.

Cole holds as still as he can, but he doesn’t think his reaction is much of a secret. The stranger shifts his weight and does the same to the other pocket. “Is this how I get you to shut up?” the guy asks. His hand slides back across Cole’s tailbone, over his ass and around his hip. It dips into the front pocket now, and Cole’s jeans feel way too tight. 

“If I’d known keepin’ my mouth shut would get me this, I would’ve tried it sooner. But most guys prefer my mouth open.” The hand in Cole’s pocket slides back out, then the guy shifts his weight to change the way he’s holding Cole, so he can use his other hand to reach into the final pocket. Cole resists the urge to press into the touch, but he must do something, because there’s a chuckle against his neck that makes his nerves spark. “Maybe once you get that keycard I can show you why.”

He draws Cole’s hips back into him, and if Cole’s not mistaken, he can feel proof the guy’s not totally unaffected either. “I already told you. Not until you return to Overwatch. But until then…” He finally slips the keycard free of Cole’s pocket. He puts a few inches of space between them, pats Cole on the hip, and tightens his grip on one handcuffed arm. 

It doesn’t take long to gather Cole’s things and switch the guy’s stuff over into the same car. He shoves Cole into the backseat and doesn’t uncuff him. It’s kind of sweet that he takes the time to buckle Cole in though, and it means more of his hands all over, even if this time he’s not making a production out of it. He makes it all the way to the next town over, but even an international assassin can’t control traffic. Between Deadlock and Blackwatch, Cole’s spent a long time perfecting his escape technique on several varieties of handcuffs. He waits for a red light and a big enough crowd, then he’s gone.

The next time they meet, Cole actually sees him coming for once, and by the time he draws close, Cole’s peeling out of the parking lot and grinning in the face of one very rude gesture. After that he tries a different set of cuffs, and Cole returns the favor by securing him to his own steering wheel. Then he takes a page out of Cole’s book and zip ties him, but getting out of those was part of his Blackwatch training too, and the prosthetic arm is more helpful than you’d think. There’s another two times in public, one in which Cole incites a bar fight to cover his getaway and another that requires the aid of a particularly excitable bachelorette party. Then there’s the one that ends with Cole nearly falling from a fire escape, which he’d prefer never to repeat. 

Several times, the stranger aims for brute force again, and those would probably be his most successful attempts if Cole’s reaction to getting pushed around didn’t stress the guy out. He’s above board every time — as above board as you can be while trying to violently kidnap a man, anyway — but Cole can’t stop thinking about the time with the keycard, and his body has a mind of its own. He was surprised the first time it happened too, and maybe embarrassed, but if it’s a choice between rejoining Overwatch or inconvenient erections and introspection about a heretofore undiscovered kink, Cole will happily take the boners. He’s also pretty sure it’s the guy doing the manhandling and not the manhandling itself, or at least some combination of the two; if it was just about getting pushed around, this wouldn’t be a new discovery by a long shot. 

Even when the guy gets aggressive it’s clear he holds himself back. It’s still not in his best interests to rough Cole up too badly. Not if he’s trying to get Cole to go back to Overwatch, where they’re all hoping he’ll choose to stay upon arrival — and Cole’s reflected enough on the question that he knows he probably will, which is why he can’t afford to go — but that means not leaving Cole permanently impaired or pissing him off so much he refuses to play nice once they get there. 

He’s tried the carrot and the stick and several creative in-betweens, and Cole’s still refusing to cooperate. And yet, barring the time he drove off, every incident involves a few insults and a lot of flirting. Maybe sometimes some flirting disguised as insults. 

Cole doesn’t learn his name, but he does learn other things — that the guy eats way too much junk for the physique he has, that for all his smarts and seeming self-control, he has a reckless streak a mile wide, that the people he’s happiest to have killed are the kind who were cruel and violent in their personal lives. Despite being the asshole who’s trying to make Cole go back to Overwatch, Cole likes him, probably more than he should. It’s like he was built to pique Cole’s interest, which should be suspicious, but the tiny bursts of sincerity tell Cole that either the personality is as genuine as it seems, or he’s a better actor than anyone Cole’s ever met. Sometimes he wonders if Genji wasn’t just thinking about the guy’s skill set when he sent him after Cole, but instead how malleable Cole might be in the face of, well, that face. And those arms. And a lot of things, really. 

Cole’s pretty attached to the game. It’s a very specific kind of fun, and he justifies it to himself by thinking it keeps him on his toes. Keeps his skills sharp. 

When he can be honest with himself, he can admit it’s also because he’s attached to his competitor. Cole smiles more often when they’re together, even if the smile is usually because he’s up to no good. He thinks the feeling might be mutual, because Cole earns a reluctant laugh at least once every time. Plus the guy has continued bribing him with things, although they’re always conditional, pending their arrival in Gibraltar. And as he’s said a dozen times now, between the two of them, he’s not the liar. There’s no reason to believe he wouldn’t make good on the offers, if only Cole would do the one thing he promised himself he’d never do again. 

Cole makes the mistake of trying to read up on some of these dead Overwatch agents. That tiny voice in the back of his head has never really gone away, and if it really is Gabe doing it, there are few people in the world better qualified than Cole to figure him out and stop him. Hell, Cole might be the only one left alive who can. The thought leaves him feeling more cynical than usual, angry at nothing and everything.

He’s already partway through a bottle, eager to numb it all and shut his conscience up, when his new favorite distraction finally appears. There’s a scratching sound at his door that he only hears because he’s been listening out for it, hoping this’ll be one of those days. He gets up and yanks the thing open. 

“Come on,” he says. The stranger tucks away the funny device he was using to get past the magnetic lock, and he follows Cole in, a thick line between his scrunched up eyebrows. “You want some?” Cole shakes the bottle so that the liquid inside sloshes loudly. 

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah? And why’s that?”

“You should keep moving. You were too easy to find this time. I doubt anyone else looking for you cares about your best interests.” 

“That what you call almost breaking my nose? Lookin’ out for my best interests?” 

“That would not have happened if you had cooperated. It certainly wasn’t intentional.” He’s right; it was a stray elbow that got him in the middle of a very stupid scuffle, not like the guy threw a punch. Cole grins at the memory and dumps too much bourbon into one of the motel’s disposable cups, making a show out of displaying that the cup is definitely empty beforehand, then drinking straight from the bottle, because the guy probably won’t trust any drink Cole hands him otherwise. “You’ve been sloppy. Why?”

“Maybe I wanted to be found.” He shoves the cup at the stranger, who has no choice but to take it if he doesn’t want bourbon to end up all over his clothes. 

“Why?” he asks again.

“To say I’m sorry you’re stuck following me around.” The stranger tries and fails to cover his surprise by taking a very tiny sip, and Cole barrels on. “You just have a job to do, and here I am makin’ it harder. Not goin’ back though. They ought to let you off the hook.” 

“Hm.” He takes another sip, and Cole doesn’t bother to pretend he’s not watching the slip of tongue that chases the lingering bourbon on his lip. 

“Tomorrow, you’re gonna call up O-dub and tell ’em you’re done chasing my stubborn ass. Go back and do something productive with your time.”

The stranger’s face is a war between amusement and concern. “Do you think you have been my only job this whole time?”

That stops Cole short. “I… hadn’t really thought about it.”

“I hope you are relieved to know that if you were the only thing that required my attention, you would see me far more often.”

“Huh.” Cole stares, and he finds that he is strangely relieved by that, as well as more impressed. “And here I thought I was special.” The guy snorts, having settled on amusement. “You give all your marks the treatment you’ve given me?”

“I kill most of them. You have gotten off easy.”

Cole smirks and doesn’t give voice to any jokes about getting off. Instead he says, “Well, either way. Truce tonight. We’re drinkin’.”

The stubborn bastard sets his cup down instead. “No. We should both be leaving.” 

“No. I said we’re drinkin’.”

“And if I offer to get very, very drunk with you when we have arrived in Gibraltar?” He doesn’t sound like his heart’s really in it, or like he believes it will work. More like he has to try, however futile it is.

“I’m still not coming with you, but you can stay and have a drink here. Or watch my back while I drink, if you’re gonna be hard-headed about it.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re not half bad when you’re not all business or shoving mean stuff in my face? Because you’re the only real company I’ve had in months?” Cole laughs, dry and bitter, and conveniently ignores that the stranger’s been offering him a solution to that this whole time, because that solution comes with too many strings attached. “Because it’s not like I can pick anybody up if I know you might come bargin’ in any second.” Both of the man’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, then he looks away. “Didn’t think of that, did you?”

“It did not occur to me, no. But I assure you I would not enter uninvited if I thought you were… with company.” 

Cole snorts and takes another swig. He catches his lip between his teeth, eyeing the stranger. Then he makes up his mind, sets the bottle down and takes a step forward. “And what if I said you were invited? That I wasn’t interested in somebody random?” He knows his voice shifted, and he watches the way the stranger’s shoulders stiffen in response. The guy doesn’t move though, stands his ground even as Cole moves closer. “What if you’re the kinda company I’m after?”

“Is this only hypothetical?” His voice is huskier too. There’s color rising in his cheeks. 

“You know it’s not.” Cole feels like maybe this was inevitable, and he thinks the other guy feels it too. “Stick around ’til mornin’ and I might even let you get me across the state line before I go.” They’re standing about as close as two people can get without touching. The stranger looks spellbound, lips parted with no air moving between them. “So what do you say?”

Anticipation coils hot and sickly sweet in his chest, and he swears the stranger sways forward, swears he feels the ghost of a shaky breath on his lips, before the other man jolts and takes a step back, rattling the table. It’s the first clumsy thing Cole’s seen him do. “No,” he says. “No, you wouldn’t if...” 

He’s a lot more spooked than Cole thought he’d be, especially after all the flirting. Cole’s not prepared for how much he hates this rejection, an icy weight settling into his stomach. “If what?”

“Hanzo.” The word feels like an itch Cole can’t scratch. Like something sitting at the tip of his tongue. The stranger must see it, because he clears his throat and says, “My name.” He takes a deep breath. “Shimada Hanzo.” 

There are a dozen possible reactions, but the only one Cole manages is a rough laugh that surprises him so much that he laughs again, higher this time. He backs off though, because what the hell else is he supposed to do? When he finally finds words, they still don’t do him any good. “Just my luck, ain’t it?”

Hanzo doesn’t look hurt or angry or anything like that. He only looks resigned. It’s the second time he leaves of his own volition. 

[Cole]: Since when are you in contact with your brother?

[Genji]: since a few months ago

[Cole]: Why didn’t you tell me?

[Genji]: would it have mattered

[Cole]: You at least could have told me that’s who you sent after me. Why hide it?

[Genji]: I didn’t know what you would do

Cole’s not as surprised as he should be; he thinks he suspected long before this, but he was having too much fun to go diving down that rabbit hole. He doesn’t know any better than Genji what he wants to do with the info, much less what he will do. On the one hand, he works hard to believe in second chances, and the guy’s been nothing but honest with him — even in hiding his name. He could have come up with a fake one, and instead he was upfront about keeping that to himself. On the other hand, it’s hard to think about cuddling up to the person who tried to kill Cole’s friend. It feels like a betrayal, even if Genji’s working toward some kind of reconciliation now. 

Hanzo was right not to let Cole kiss him without telling him first, but that’s one more piece of conflicting information. The thing is, now that it’s all out in the open, he can’t reconcile the two Hanzos in his head. There’s the one who put Genji in that damn suit, scarred him up and left him dependent on machinery just to breathe. Then there’s the stubborn ass who’s been shadowing him, who runs hot and cold, flirtatious then too serious, cynical and sarcastic one minute then wide-eyed and sincere the next, who cares about honor and honesty and keeping Cole alive. The one who’s supposed to be on a mission to drag Cole to Overwatch, yet left him his space twice now instead of pressing the issue. 

“Well, shit,” Cole mutters, rubbing at his chest like that will banish the warm sensation. 

Hanzo doesn’t break into his hotel room again. Cole should be pleased, but he doesn’t know how he actually feels about it. It’s not like Hanzo disappears entirely though. Cole swears he catches sight of somebody shadowing him on more than one occasion, but it never comes with the jolt of adrenaline that says he should be worried. He wonders if Hanzo’s letting himself be noticed or if Cole’s starting to learn how he works.

It should probably creep him out, but there’s something weirdly comforting about it. It’s familiar. Something constant in his otherwise unstable existence. 

He’s in Houston when the feeling of being followed stops being comforting. He has just collected on a bounty and is ready to get some much-needed sleep. It’s late enough that the bars have been closed for nearly an hour, the sidewalks mostly vacant. Something creeps up his spine. There’s clammy cold across his skin even in the warm Texas night. He tries to speed up his walk without being too obvious about it, inching his hand subtly closer to the gun tucked under his jacket. 

He’s not far from his stolen car, but there’s also not much in the way of cover in the dark parking lot. He can’t risk looking behind and giving away that he knows he’s being tailed, so he sticks close to the other cars, trying to catch a reflection in any of their windows or mirrors. 

He hears the creak of old leather and a strange whooshing sound, then someone steps out of the shadows by the nearest building. It’s definitely not Hanzo. Peacekeeper is in Cole’s hand before he gives it a conscious thought. “Don’t know what you’re after, partner, but it’s best you move along.”

The laugh that greets him is dramatic, the sort of cruel cackle that would be at home in a cheesy old movie, but it still sends a shiver across Cole’s nerves. “Don’t you recognize an old friend?” 

“You’re supposed to be dead.”

The skull mask vibrates when Reaper laughs again. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.” He whips his coat back theatrically and draws two oversized shotguns. 

Only years of training keep Cole’s hand from shaking. He’d know those guns anywhere; it’s the final piece of confirmation he needs. “What do you want?”

“You, working for me again.”

“I heard about what you’ve been up to. No thanks.”

“The money’s good. You’d like the job.”

“I also like bein’ a free agent.” 

“Is that all?” He paces, and Cole keeps his gun trained on him. “Not still loyal to Overwatch, are you? After everything they did?” He gestures at Cole’s prosthetic arm with one gun, then sweeps it outward as if to encompass something much bigger. “After all the people they left to die?”

As far as pushing his buttons goes, even the Gabe he knew could have gone harder, but it squirms under Cole’s skin anyway. “If you’ve been alive all this time, you abandoned me too.”

“You left me. I dragged your sorry ass out of the desert and gave you a real life. I gave you a purpose. I made you. And when you disappeared, I didn’t hunt you down and lock you up. I let you go. If you’re a ‘free agent’, it’s because of me.” His voice doesn’t get any louder, yet somehow every word seethes with anger, bubbling with all the toxic waste that’s been building up inside Gabe for years.

Cole can feel his anger bubbling too, and he grits his teeth against the writhing in his stomach and all the words he could say if he let himself be baited. “I don’t care. I’m not helpin’ you murder good people.”

“So be it.” Reaper shrugs, and it’s such a Gabe move that Cole’s jaw aches from clenching it. “Never did appreciate everything I gave you.” The world moves in slow motion as he brings the shotguns to bear. 

There’s no way Cole can do what he has to do, not to Gabe. Even as he has the thought, he does exactly what he thinks he can’t: he squeezes the trigger. Reaper disappears in a cloud of smoke, then he rematerializes at point blank range. Cole feels the barrel of a shotgun dig into his stomach. 

Then Reaper grunts, jerks, and collapses in a heap, guns clattering to the ground beside him. He doesn’t move again. 

Hanzo stands just behind Reaper’s fallen body, looking nearly as stunned as Cole feels. There’s no way it was that easy. There’s no way a ghost from Cole’s past showed up just to die so unceremoniously. Hanzo’s hands are on him, dragging him away, and it’s not until Cole is shoved down into the passenger seat of his own car that he realizes Hanzo’s bow is still in his case. Cole might be in shock, but he thinks he would’ve heard a gunshot. He thinks he would’ve noticed another weapon or a pool of blood.

They make a stop at Cole’s motel, and Hanzo leaves Cole’s room with his things, only to disappear into a room a few doors down and re-emerge with another duffel. He meets Cole’s eye with a wry smile, then stuffs everything into the backseat and gets back behind the wheel. 

It’s not until they’ve been on the road a good twenty minutes that Cole finally asks, “The hell did you do to him?”

“I put him to sleep.” Hanzo glances sideways at him and sighs. “That shot was meant for you, but I had to improvise.”

“You were gonna tranquilize me?”

“You do not get to be offended. You weren’t cooperating!” 

Cole laughs and sinks down into his seat, exhausted and mind racing at the same time. It hasn’t sunk in yet that he saw Gabe, that he shot at Gabe, that Gabe was going to kill him. He knows it hasn’t. It’s all intellectual right now. All his processing power is directed toward his knees almost touching the dashboard, the faint smell of pine air freshener, the realization that he needs a shower and maybe a snack — the way Hanzo looks in profile, lit intermittently by the rhythmic flash of the streetlights they pass.

He can’t sleep, mind too restless, and he doesn’t know what Hanzo’s going to try if Cole doesn’t keep tabs on him. So he watches as the city gives way to the interstate, and he finally picks up that the road signs declare they’re heading west. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense if Hanzo’s planning to haul his ass to Europe. Why add hours to the flight by driving the opposite direction?

With nothing better to do, Cole asks, “Where are we going?”

Hanzo hesitates, eyes fixed on the road. “Away from Reaper,” he says after a moment. He sounds tired too, voice scratchy and dry. 

“This the same direction you would’ve gone if you’d put me to sleep?”

Hanzo smirks and doesn’t answer the question. “I cannot believe I wasted that on him. You have no idea what it took to get even one of those.”

“So tell me.”

Hanzo keeps them both awake by explaining his relationship with Shrike and the deal he had to strike to convince her to give him a sleep dart. It involves a Moroccan tea set and several promises Cole doesn’t have the context for. Hanzo seems simultaneously amused and annoyed by the whole affair, and he admits quietly to finding her intimidating. He says it’s not a feeling he is used to. Cole’s never met Shrike, but he’s heard of her before. She’s a legend in their line of work, but he’s never thought of her as real, as living and breathing, with connections and wants and needs, until now. He wonders privately what kind of person Hanzo could respect that much.

The conversation drifts, aimless talking just to keep awake. Hanzo tells him about a woman, a grifter he turned in for bounty between this and the last time they saw each other, and it’s both easy and flattering to believe Hanzo’s damn good at his job when Cole’s not the one giving him trouble. Cole tells him about his latest blog post, mostly trying to cover Overwatch’s ass after their antics nearly destroyed an ancient monument in Greece. It prompts Hanzo to ask the thing he’s had to have wondered for weeks: “Why don’t you want to work for Overwatch again? You are practically in the same business already.”

Cole chews his lip, but eventually he settles on the truth. “I gave enough of my life to them, and you know what it got me? A new arm and a wanted poster.” He laughs, rough and without humor. “Not just me, either. Humiliated Reinhardt. Forced him into early retirement and a pension half the size it should’ve been. Angie’s a goddamn genius, and they destroyed her career. Blackballed by the same folks who should be kissin’ her ass, all because Overwatch made promises they couldn’t keep.”

“Ms. Oxton seems to appreciate their intervention.”

“Lena wouldn’t have needed intervention if they hadn’t rushed that prototype.” Hanzo hums thoughtfully, and he looks like he’s at least taking it in. “They abandoned Amélie Lacroix, left her to suffer God-knows-what at Talon’s hands. I could go on. A lot of good people died for no damn reason too. You try watching three of your heroes die.” Another bitter laugh escapes him. “Or two, I guess. And I don’t know what Gabe’s deal is. He wasn’t… like that before. But even if the method’s screwed up, I can’t blame him if he’s got a bone to pick with Overwatch.” 

“These people whose lives Overwatch supposedly ruined. They came back anyway. Perhaps they would not entirely agree with you, or they believe the cause is still worth it. And what of Winston? Dr. Zhou? The Lindholms?” The steering wheel creaks as Hanzo’s knuckles go white, and his voice sounds like he’s got the same grip on his self control. “My brother?”

“That’s—” Cole doesn’t have a good answer for that one, so he huffs and scratches the thinning denim at his knee. “Alright, Genji’s better off, but do you really think they gave him all that for free? Angie did what she did because she’s a good person, but it took a lot of resources. Overwatch had to make sure they got their money’s worth.”

Hanzo gives a tight nod. He probably doesn’t see it Cole’s way, but Hanzo doesn’t seem to be judging him either, and it feels good to have said it all out loud. Even knowing Reaper is somewhere behind them, Cole feels lighter than he has in a long time. 

“So why are you stickin’ it out?”

“Genji.” It’s a one-word answer with a thousand meanings. There’s an awkward beat before Hanzo looks at him sideways and says hoarsely, “You may ask.”

Cole chews on that for a second. “Do you want me to ask?”

Hanzo’s brow draws down, lips parting and closing wordlessly. “I hadn’t considered. I only thought you would, eventually.” He breathes in and out, ragged. “I think… yes.”

“Okay. Why’d you do it?”

His voice is tight but weirdly distant, his knuckles white and his breathing rigidly controlled. He doesn’t make excuses. It’s just a series of actions and the rationale behind them, the orders he took and his tunnel vision for duty. Even stripped to bare bones, the story’s not easy to sit with. When it’s over, he looks like a man awaiting his sentence. 

Consoling him feels wrong, and seems like the kind of falsehood Hanzo probably wouldn’t forgive the way he’s forgiven all Cole’s stupid little lies. Punishing him seems worse; Cole thinks he’s been an unwitting participant in Hanzo’s penance all along. More than that, Cole doesn’t want to punish him. “Okay,” Cole says after a moment. “Thanks for… sharing that.” He’s not sure there is a right thing to say here, but Hanzo seems satisfied, shoulders sagging with what might be relief. 

Several minutes pass before Cole thinks it’s safe — maybe necessary — to change the subject. “Why’d you wanna know about me and Overwatch anyway?” He tries a teasing grin. “Adding to my psych profile so I’m easier to grab next time?”

Hanzo doesn’t seem totally at ease, but he does give a quiet snort, so that’s progress. “No. I was only curious. And I think—” He pauses, visibly conflicted. “Last time, you called a truce. I think that is warranted again in this case, don’t you?”

“Ooh, you wanna play hooky now? Got a sudden urge to run away together?” Cole’s teasing, but the instant it leaves his mouth the idea is far too appealing for comfort. He wonders what could be, if they did exactly that. 

Hanzo rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling again, and the conversation fades to a comfortable silence, interspersed with idle chatter and observations about the billboards they pass. They hit San Antonio with the sun rising behind them, and Hanzo ditches the car then forces them to walk a ways with their stuff. Smart. Cole’s going to need a new ride, one that Reaper hasn’t seen. Hanzo leads him to a much nicer hotel than Cole’s been staying in lately, but it’s filled to capacity and too early to check in even when he offers to pay as if they stayed last night too. 

They’re dragging their feet, exhausted, but Hanzo treats him at the café on the corner. He still remembers Cole’s order and everything, and this time he simply gets two of them in the largest size the shop sells, because they’re going to need it to survive until somebody’s checked out of the hotel. He gets bagels too, and these mini quiches that are probably the closest thing to genuinely healthy food here, if only because there’s some spinach in them. He slumps when they finally sit down, and Cole feels himself do the same. 

“Thank you,” Cole says. It’s about more than breakfast, and he hopes Hanzo knows it. They sit in silence even after they’ve eaten, sipping too-sweet coffee and biding their time. 

Cole thinks about asking him why. Why he joined Overwatch in the first place. Why he’s sticking to this stupid mission after Cole’s been such a pain. Why he saved Cole. Why he’s not taking advantage of the opportunity to take Cole back. In the end, he settles for watching Hanzo stare out the window at the folks passing by, the sidewalk slowly filling up with them as the day really begins. 

Hanzo looks like hell, with deep lines and blue-gray shadows under his eyes, skin washed out by fluorescent lighting and fatigue. His lips are chapped. It’s clearly been a few days since he tidied up his facial hair. Cole thinks he can see gray hairs hiding in the lengthening undercut. Cole sees it all, and he knows what Hanzo has done, and Cole still thinks he’s sort of beautiful. 

Eventually Hanzo gets a call from the hotel, and Cole has to stare at the lid of his coffee cup like he didn’t spend the last several minutes examining every line of Hanzo’s face. A couple checked out early, so the hotel’s got a room all cleaned up and ready to go. 

When they get to the room, Hanzo nudges him toward the bed and insists that he sleep. “I will guard us,” he says, then he turns on the holo set, flips to some kind of nature documentary with the volume at a murmur. Cole would argue, but he has food in his belly and a soft bed right there. He doesn’t know what Hanzo’s going to do later, but Cole believes his call for a truce. Here and now, Cole feels safer than he has in a while. The feeling settles into his bones and brings lethargy with it. It’s hard not to be selfish.

It doesn’t take him long to fall asleep, but it does take a while for it to stick. He dozes here and there, wakes up wrapped around a pillow and then again with the pillow shoved halfway off the bed. Once, he thinks he feels fingers in his hair. 

When he finally wakes for good, it’s with the soul deep knowledge that it’s been several hours. The curtains are closed, but he’d be willing to bet it’s at least late afternoon. He truly slept and slept well. His head is also in Hanzo’s lap. 

Hanzo himself is staring at the holo screen, blinking slowly and heavily and way too often. He’s slow to react, too, when Cole finally sits up. 

“Hey,” Cole says quietly, and Hanzo looks at him with eyes that want to close. “It’s alright. Get some sleep.” 

Hanzo huffs, so tired it’s not even the laugh it’s clearly meant to be. “And wake up to find you’ve run off again?” 

“Bet I could push you over right now and you wouldn’t even get up.” He does just that, but gently, and Hanzo, who usually looks so immovable, definitely sways until his back hits the headboard. “How are you gonna drag me off like this?” Hanzo hums, but he doesn’t seem mollified, so Cole adds, “I’m gonna shower and order some room service on your tab.” He grins, and Hanzo gives him a wan smile in return. It fades to surprise when Cole touches his cheek. This feels dangerous somehow, more dangerous than trying to sleep with him even, but the look he’s giving Cole is too soft to give it up now. “You said we had a truce, right? And you’re not the liar here. So I’m not goin’ anywhere as long as I’m eating for free.” It doesn’t come out as playfully as he intends.

Hanzo stares back, half-dazed, while Cole gently brushes the sharp line of his cheekbone. Cole thinks it would be so easy to kiss him right now, and as he thinks it, his gaze and thumb both move to trace the shape of Hanzo’s mouth. Hanzo lets out a shaky breath, then he swallows and nods. “Order something for me too. And wake me when it arrives.”

It snaps Cole out of it, and his heart thudding in his chest makes him feel sort of jumpy. He’s quick to put space between them, milling around the room to release the sudden nervous energy. It’s easiest to turn it into a joke. “Fancy hotel room? Buying me breakfast and dinner? Gotta be careful, darlin’, or a man might start jumpin’ to conclusions.” 

Hanzo laughs with quiet exasperation. “Conclude what you like, so long as you stay,” he says. He’s looking down at his hands, cheeks still flushed from before. It looks like he might say more. And God, does Cole want to know what it is, but he also thinks they might both be better off not knowing. Whatever Hanzo’s thinking, he keeps it to himself in the end. 

Cole digs some fresh clothes and toiletries out of his bag to take with him into the bathroom. While he brushes his teeth, he teases Hanzo from around the brush and his mouthful of toothpaste, uncaring that half the words are garbled. “You see they got lobster on this menu? Might get that. Maybe filet mignon. I mean, after being such a pain in my ass, I think you owe me.” He spits and rinses out his mouth and the sink both. “You a red or white wine kinda guy?” Then he pokes his head back out of the bathroom. “Or should I just get the most expensive, since you’re buyin’?” 

Hanzo can’t answer. He’s already out cold. 

Cole pulls the covers tight around him. He wants to touch Hanzo’s face or hair again. He wants to crawl back into bed and curl up together; he thinks the safe feeling might stick if he does. He wants to shake Hanzo awake to ask why he called the truce — and why he traveled away from Gibraltar instead of toward it. 

He thinks, if Hanzo woke up right now to ask him, he might actually agree to go back. It scares the shit out of him. 

He takes his shower, and he orders room service, but he puts it on his own card. No lobster or steak or wine, either. All he asks for is a bottle of water to go with a sandwich and a salad, figuring Hanzo should have options to choose from. Then he gathers up his things and does what he does best: he runs.

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