Chapter 3

He’s in Vegas this time. The hotel’s expensive enough that it reminds him of when he last saw Hanzo, but he does his best to ignore that fact while he straightens his bow tie. Target’s a high roller, so Cole has to look the part too. He pulls on a pair of black gloves, careful with the prosthetic, and he takes another look in the mirror. He’s got a nice haircut for the first time in a while. He pushes at the strands so they don’t look quite so done though. He ran a job in a sister casino only a year ago, so in a monumental sacrifice to his work, he’s even clipped the beard all the way down to a glorified five o’clock shadow. He’s never been able to pull off the truly refined look, but he can come damn close, and this is it. 

He thinks he looks pretty good. He wonders if Hanzo would agree, then he pushes that thought aside with a frustrated grunt. He needs to focus. At the last minute, he decides the full tux might be trying too hard. He ditches the bow tie and undoes the buttons at his throat. 

His instinct is proven right the minute he sets foot into the high limit room. Some men are in tuxedos, but there are plenty more in sport coats, and Cole’s left somewhere comfortably in between. 

Standing at the craps table is Deborah Hofler. She’s closing in on fifty, and she has a thing for younger men, hence tonight’s efforts. She’s also got a good head for business, a team of lawyers to cover all manner of sins, and a few million dollars to throw around however she pleases. She’s almost definitely hanging onto some kind of financial intel for Talon, and she’s... already got company. 

If thinking about Hanzo summoned him, it wouldn’t have been almost a month since the last time they saw each other, but still, there’s a superstitious part of Cole that wonders. The time in between has clearly done Hanzo a lot of good. He looks well-rested and well-groomed, his black jacket cut just right to emphasize his stupid big shoulders and his stupid trim waist. Cole wants nothing more than to forget the job and push him down onto one of these tables and ruin both their suits. 

His heart is suddenly racing, skin humming like he just took three shots of espresso. He feels a thousand pounds lighter. He’s practically fucking giddy, and no amount of shock or embarrassment at that discovery can fully quash the feeling. 

Plenty of the reaction is nerves too, though. Hanzo catches his eye with an expression so mild it has to be intentional, and Cole only realizes he’s been grinning when it withers in response to that look. Right now Hanzo is inscrutable. No telling what he’s thinking, or what his dispassionate face might mean. 

Deborah runs a possessive hand along Hanzo’s arm, and Cole has to hide his gritted teeth behind a much more controlled smile. He forces Hanzo’s hand by approaching like they have definitely met before. “Well, I’ll be damned. Haven’t seen you in a minute!”

Hanzo’s tight-lipped smile says plenty. “Ah, Deborah, this is my friend…”

“James Morgan,” Cole fills in, hand out to shake hers, thumb lingering across her knuckles as she pulls away slowly. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s all mine.” She looks downright delighted, and Cole can’t blame her. He worked hard to look like this, and Hanzo looks so good in a suit that, even suspecting Hanzo might not want him here, Cole’s all but vibrating where he stands. He wonders what Deborah thinks is going on here. 

He has never seen Hanzo interact with anyone other than service workers, so this is fascinating. There’s an ease to his interactions with the cocktail servers that says he’s comfortable in this scene, but he is stiff and formal when he speaks to anyone else. It fits with what Cole knows about him — both with what Genji has told him over the years and with the research he’s been pretending not to do on the side lately. Hanzo grew up with actual servants, rubbing elbows with politicians and business people and other wealthy gangsters, but he doesn’t really enjoy any of it. His flirting isn’t the worst Cole’s ever seen, but it doesn’t come naturally the way it seemed to when it was just the two of them. He’s lucky he’s as good looking as he is or she might have lost interest already. 

Cole, on the other hand, has always known how to turn on the charm. It’s easy to figure out how Deborah wants to be spoken to, and easy to fill that role. His luck at the table doesn’t hurt either. He’s got her eating out of his hand in less than an hour. More importantly, he’s got her drinking faster than is wise. He orders the same awful martini she does and carefully switches their glasses whenever she makes some progress on hers. For every pair of drinks they order, Cole gets a few performative sips from his at most. The rest goes to her. 

He came into this thinking they might have to compete if they couldn’t work together, but Hanzo isn’t stepping up to either challenge. Every time Cole gets Deborah’s head to turn his way again, Hanzo seems to withdraw further. Cole even pitches a few easy jokes his way, but he doesn’t think he’s the only one who can see Hanzo’s not in the mood for it. 

He doesn’t know what to do. He’s shocked by how good it feels to see Hanzo again, by the buzz under his skin that comes from standing anywhere in his proximity. Hanzo’s disinterest feels perfectly calculated to cause him as much distress as possible, and Cole still wants to ask him where he’s been and what he’s doing here and whether he’d like to get coffee again or make out some time. There’s also a job to worry about. Hard as it is, he does his best to keep his attention on that. 

Somewhere during Deborah’s third — well, “third” — martini, she laughs and sloshes her drink. Cole glances past her, thinking he and Hanzo are going to share a look over her drunkenness, but Hanzo has disappeared. Every cell in Cole’s body tells him to go looking for him, but Deborah practically flings herself into his arms. “How would you like to see my room?” she asks, pawing at him more than is strictly necessary. 

“Been waitin’ for you to ask me that all night.” The smile comes automatically. She actually boops his nose, then she giggles like someone a third of her age. 

Cole waits with her purse while she prepares to leave, and he tries looking over everyone’s head for Hanzo. Wherever he went, he’s not out on the floor. Then Deborah’s clinging to his arm, and he lets her pull him along, quick to steady her when she teeters on her high heels. It’s the least he can do after encouraging her to drink so much so fast. 

“This’s it,” she slurs once they arrive at her suite. It’s a hell of a lot bigger than Cole’s single room. “Whew, those were strong. Were yours’s strong as mine?” 

“Definitely. You know, Deb—”

“Ugh, nobody calls me that.” 

“I think we should get you to bed.”

“What d’you think I’m trying to do?” She giggles again and pulls at his wrist, wobbling backwards toward the bedroom. He’s not quite holding her up, and he’s starting to feel genuinely guilty about the amount of alcohol he gave her.

She almost knocks him over trying to yank him down to the bed with her, and her mouth drags along his jaw. She pouts when he pulls away. She’s a handful, and she’s pushy, and every time he gets one questing hand under control she’s trying to grope him with the other, but he eventually manages to wrestle her under the duvet. “How about you get comfortable while I get us something to drink? Water, maybe?”

He doesn’t know how he gets her to agree, really, but she eventually lets go of him long enough that he can pull away. He leaves the bedroom door cracked, and he takes a deep breath, straightening out his rumpled jacket. It doesn’t take long at all before he hears her light snoring. Harried as he feels, she’s not the worst drunk he’s had to put to bed by a long shot. He counts to twenty to make sure the snoring doesn’t stop before he creeps toward the small office. 

When he pushes the door open, there’s already someone there, illuminated by Deb’s laptop screen. Cole tenses, but it is instantly replaced by a wave of relief. “I was wonderin’ where you ran off to.” 

Hanzo barely glances up. “I thought it would be efficient,” he says blandly. “It’s a good thing. It took some time to break through. I assume we’re here for the same thing. I will be finished soon.” His tone is as stiff and professional as it was with any of the strangers downstairs. 

“Where have you been?” Cole can’t stop himself from asking. 

“Now is not the time.”

“Then stick around ’til it is the time.”

He doesn’t have much choice anyway; the desk is in a corner and Cole’s in his way. Hanzo looks like he’s contemplating climbing over the furniture while Cole makes his own copy of her files. Most of them are financial, as suspected, and they don’t mean much to him, but any information can become good information. Before they leave, Cole checks that Deborah’s still asleep and gently rolls her onto her side. Then he sets a glass of water on the nightstand and a trash can by the bed. He even digs through her purse on a hunch, and he comes up with a bottle of headache medicine to set beside the water. 

He panics for a moment when he thinks Hanzo didn’t wait for him, but he finds him hovering at the door with a pinched expression, looking like he still might run any minute. Cole waits until they’re in the hallway before he says, “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

That gets him a sidelong look, Hanzo’s gaze lingering in the vicinity of Cole’s earlobe. “I do have other duties.”

Cole has so many questions about that and other things, but Hanzo’s acting weird and it leaves him at a loss. “That all it is?” It’s as casual as he can make it, which is to say, not very casual at all. 

“I would have expected you to be happy to be left alone.” Hanzo’s tone is so cold that it bites. He’s not looking at Cole any more.

There’s no easy way to explain that Cole knows he’s the one who made a game out of leaving but now he wants Hanzo to stay. Harder still to say why. They’re getting on the blessedly-empty elevator when he asks, “Are you mad at me?” 

“No,” Hanzo practically snarls. 

Some other time, Cole would absolutely laugh. As it is now, he only holds his hands up, placating. “Then come have a drink with me. Alcohol, coffee, doesn’t matter to me.” 

“What would be the point?” 

Doesn’t matter how much Cole deserves it, that stings. He tries powering through. “Oh, you know, catch up, shoot the shit, maybe slip you something while you’re not looking just for old time’s sake.” Hanzo shoots him a look that makes his insides shrivel up. “That part was a joke.”

“I’m aware.”

“The rest — catching up, buying you a drink — that was serious.”

“Does this ‘catching up’ include your return to Overwatch so that I may finish the job I was assigned?” When Cole doesn’t answer, Hanzo scoffs. “As expected.” The elevator dings. “You have lipstick on your collar,” he says as he steps off. 

It’s not his floor, but Cole’s not letting that go. He shoves his foot between the closing doors so they bounce back open, then he follows. He feels stupid even asking, so he tries to make it sound like another joke. “Aw, honey, don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

The irritated growl in Hanzo’s throat says teasing was probably the wrong move. “No.” He stops at a door and pulls out a completely legitimate keycard. He shoves the door open, and as soon as they’re in, he beelines for the duffel bag sitting on the bed. 

A knot of panic starts to form when Cole realizes he’s going to pack, and he’s going to leave. The only thing he can do is keep Hanzo talking. “Then what’s wrong?”

“I have simply realized that your… interpersonal skill is no more than that. A tool to accomplish a goal.” 

“I thought you weren’t mad.” 

“Not at you. I read your files. I have followed you for months.” He closes his bag with so much force Cole wonders how the poor zipper survives the abuse. “I knew the situation, but I still thought—” He makes a frustrated noise. “It no longer matters what I thought.”

“It matters to me,” Cole says with all the sincerity he can muster. 

“Yes, I’m sure this has all been very fun for you.” Hanzo checks the gun in his side holster, then he slings his bag over one shoulder and bow case over the other. 

It feels like Cole’s ribs are trying to cave in. “Thought you were havin’ fun too.”

“I was,” Hanzo says pointedly, “and now I’m not.” 

They’re standing toe-to-toe now in the entryway to the small suite. Cole’s in his way, and he knows he should move, but he thinks that if he does that, he’s never going to see Hanzo again. “So what, first I can’t get rid of you, now you wanna get rid of me?” It’s meant to be another joke, but the words catch in his throat.

“I am tired of being made a fool and tired of wasting my time. You can console yourself knowing you won.” He tries to go around, but Cole stays in the way. The way his lip curls back makes every hair on Cole’s arm stand up, and he suddenly remembers that somewhere inside this man is the one who tried to murder his own brother. “Move,” he growls.

His face is a snarl and he’s radiating fury, but Cole knows what lies underneath the anger. He knows it’s his fault. He’s been flirting and charming Hanzo to disarm him all this time. Tonight, Hanzo got a front row seat to Cole using the same song and dance on a mark. 

“You’re not… crazy or stupid or any of that. You didn’t imagine anything. Last time was different. Everything’s different when it’s you.”

Hanzo still has this stubborn set to his jaw, not an ounce of his anger pacified. “That might be worse, if it’s true.”

Cole doesn’t have a good response, because Hanzo’s not wrong. “I missed you,” he says instead, plaintive and hating it. 

“You missed having someone who came back no matter what you did, because you have also confused the situation, and because you are lonely and afraid and refuse to accept the most obvious solution.”

Hanzo’s words feel like they’re coiling around him, squeezing the air from his lungs. He can’t even bring himself to argue. There’s one more thing he has to know for certain though, in case he never gets another chance to ask, or maybe because he’s eager to punish himself. “That last time. The truce. You never said it was temporary. You said I should stay and— You weren’t gonna make me go back, were you?”

Hanzo looks down, eyes fluttering shut for a moment, and when he looks back up, his face is harder than before. “Move.” Cole doesn’t think he’ll get more answer than that, but he doesn’t need it. 

He’s gathering the nerve to let him go when Hanzo shoves him viciously, violently to the side and into the bathroom. It’s shocking enough that Cole reels,  barely catching himself on the door jamb in time to see something rush past. Three gunshots ring in his ears. The disorienting sound bounces off tile and glass, and a body staggers and falls. It lands on its back in the entryway, right where Cole was standing before Hanzo saved his damn life. Again. 

He doesn’t have time to read into it. Two more come through the doorway, hindered by the corpse. Cole yanks the second into his bathroom and bashes their head against the sink counter. Even with the familiar red helmet, the blow leaves them dazed long enough for him to find a gap in their body armor with Peacekeeper’s muzzle. 

There’s another at the door. Cole hurtles out of the bathroom to slam them into the wall. He does it a few times for good measure before he wrestles their gun away from limp fingers. No reason to waste ammo; he kills this one with their own weapon. 

Nobody else enters, so he turns to help Hanzo, who has one dead, one bleeding out, and the last in a nasty chokehold. He thinks there isn’t much for him to do until he sees the bloody one reaching a shaking hand for their gun. With a growl that startles even him, Cole’s on them in an instant, sending the pistol skidding across the carpet. He grips their helmeted face in his metal hand to hold them still. Dense resin spiderwebs beneath the pressure. By the time he puts a bullet in their neck, there are dents in the helmet the shape of his fingertips. 

After the body’s gone still, he checks on Hanzo, who is rising from a crouch over his own handiwork. He’s not sweating or panting, barely even has a flush in his cheeks, and he’s still in that suit, and Cole thinks it’s probably screwed up how badly he wants to suck Hanzo off right there, dead bodies be damned. Hanzo’s gaze flicks from the corpse Cole just made and back to his face, and Cole feels it like a punch to the gut. Hanzo’s eyes are dark, glittering as the faint color in his cheeks begins to deepen. The fight might not have left him out of breath, but it’s coming visibly quicker now. It’s hard for Cole to stop the smile slowly spreading across his face, and harder not to watch Hanzo’s every minute reaction. 

The whole thing shatters when there’s a sound neither of them makes, and Hanzo tackles him to the floor. They land with a thud as a bullet hits the carpet nearby, then the body where Cole was, then the nightstand near both their heads. 

Pressure throbs behind Cole’s eye, the room growing hotter as one more Talon grunt rounds the corner to get a better angle on them. Hanzo starts to move, to scramble back to his feet no doubt, but Cole grips him tightly, neck and chin straining as he rises just enough to steady his gun. Then he shoots. One bullet might not be enough to break through the helmet, but four at once certainly do the trick. 

Nobody else follows this time. There are seven dead bodies and a smoking hole in the floor, carpet fluff and concrete dust gently settling around it. Everything has gone still, silent beyond the ringing and rushing in Cole’s ears. He still has a death grip on the back of Hanzo’s suit. It’s probably torn to hell now, but Hanzo is a warm weight on top of him, and he’s not inclined to let go. Hanzo stares, panting harshly, his eyes wide. 

The anger and frustration from before seems to melt away in that instant, replaced by this other tension. Hanzo’s mouth is so close that all Cole would have to do is shift his head. Anticipation shivers in the breaths they share. 

Then Hanzo snaps out of it. Cole’s stunned enough that he can’t even react before Hanzo is well beyond his grasp, tugging his hopelessly wrinkled clothing back into place. At least he reaches a hand down to help Cole to his feet. “We need to leave before—”

“Security,” Cole finishes, and Hanzo nods brusquely. That logic makes sense, and it soothes his stung ego, although the balm can’t cover everything. It’s been a long, long time since he’s gotten caught up so much that he’s forgotten his surroundings like that. It’s embarrassing, but it’s exhilarating too, and God, Hanzo makes him so stupid. 

Luckily for them both, Hanzo doesn’t appear to be suffering from the same affliction. He gathers his scattered things then pulls Cole along at a brisk walk, down the hallway toward the stairs. The stairwell door is already closing when the commotion starts behind them. 

Cole’s dress shoes pinch as they descend, moving as fast as they can without threatening to spill down the stairs. “Shit’s a lot more fun when we’re on the same team, ain’t it?” Cole asks with a grin.

“Imagine that.” The sharp, bitter tone cuts through Cole’s adrenaline high. In hindsight, maybe it was the wrong choice of words for the present company. Cole shuts his mouth so hard his teeth click painfully.

They’re a few flights down when Cole grabs Hanzo’s arm and pulls him to a stop. “Wait,” he pants. “We goin’ out the parking garage or ground floor?”

“It’s probably best not to be seen leaving together.”

“Yeah,” Cole agrees half-heartedly. “Yeah, that’s smart.” He clears his throat, then yanks his wallet from his pocket, rifling through to find the small envelope that houses a spare keycard, emblazoned with a hotel logo. He thrusts the thing at Hanzo. “I already got a backup room. Hotel’s about two-and-a-half blocks west of here. Room 314. Can get cleaned up, catch your breath, let me... whatever. Whatever you want.” Hanzo eyes the card with some skepticism, his hand hovering in the air. “Please.”

There’s a clang high above them, then the sounds of several footsteps echo through the stairwell. Hanzo takes the card, then he pushes Cole gently toward the door. “Go.”

On the way out, he checks himself in a mirror in the hallway. There’s still Deborah’s mauve lipstick on his collar, but he’s surprisingly free of blood spatter at first glance. There are a few spots on his suit and gloves, but the thick black material hides it all well enough as long as nobody stops him to get a good look. His heart is in his throat the whole time, but he makes it out of the place just fine.

When he gets to the backup hotel room, the lights are still off. It was a mistake to come straight here; Hanzo is smart enough he’s probably circling around, making sure he’s not being followed. This is what Cole tells himself while he washes up, changes clothes, organizes his gun kit, smokes on the balcony. He finally lets the worry set in after nearly two hours. Maybe Hanzo is just late, but there are two other possibilities, and both of them suck the air from his lungs in their own special ways.

Genji picks up on the second ring. Cole doesn’t bother with the hellos. “Heard from your brother recently?”

“Why?”

“Got in, uh, some hot water together a couple hours ago. Just makin’ sure he got out okay.”

“Oh. Yes. He sent his report a few minutes ago.”

“Good, good. That’s… good.” Cole clears his throat, wincing at how stupid he sounds. He can only lie to himself for so long, but somehow the wavering thread of hope is still there. “Any idea where he is?” At Genji’s silence, he does his best to push while staying casual. “Got a job that could use an extra pair of hands.”

“He works for Overwatch, not for you.” Genji sounds annoyed, maybe even protective. Cole wonders how much he knows.

“Right, gotcha, but can you just humor me?”

There’s this clicking sound that Genji sometimes makes when he’s feeling peevish. “Fine. He has already left Las Vegas.” It’s more or less what Cole expects by now, and it’s better news than if Hanzo got caught, but it still hits like a ton of bricks. He doesn’t know how long he spends staring at his knees before Genji asks, “Cassidy?”

“Why’d you send him?” He knows his voice is tight, knows Genji will hear it and figure something’s up — if he didn’t before this — and he doesn’t care, because he needs the answer.

“You already know we needed someone to find you.”

“No, I mean, why him?” He’s not even sure what he expects to accomplish by asking. Not like Genji’s going to say he sent Hanzo to get under Cole’s skin or mess with his head. That’s not Genji’s brand of devious, and he’s probably not interested in playing matchmaker for any reason. 

Genji hums thoughtfully. He has never been the most empathetic person Cole’s known, but he does try, especially lately. His voice goes softer, patient in a way he never was back when they first met. “He is the best person we had for the job, and he is very determined. In general, and about… well, you should ask him that. And we thought— I thought it might be better for us both if we built in some distance.” 

Cole laughs. He knows the sound is harsh, knows Genji didn’t ask for any of this even as he says, “So you sent him out alone on missions an ocean away, on a hunt you knew would take him forever. You sure reconciliation is what you’re after?” 

Genji makes that clicking sound again. “I did not ask for your opinion.”

“I didn’t give you one.” Cole knows he sounds just as testy as Genji does, and he doesn’t care.

“It was clear enough.” Genji’s vents wheeze through the receiver, and there’s a bite to his voice when he says, “I am not going to argue with you. Whatever this is about, I don’t think I am the person you are angry with.”

It knocks the wind right out of Cole’s sails. He scratches a hand over his face, missing the beard already. “Yeah, alright. This was a bad idea. If you talk to your brother again, could you pass something on for me?” He gets nothing but an expectant silence. “Just tell him... message received.”

He writes. He hunts bad guys. He tries not to think about Hanzo. He excels at the first two, and he’s very bad at the last.

He hides his head in his work, tries to stay too busy to think. Sometimes it’s easy; there’s plenty to keep him occupied. Making a mess of his own head doesn’t change his deadlines or suddenly cause criminals to turn over a new leaf. 

But at night in the mirror, he can see his beard growing back in, and that reminds him that he cut it short, which makes him think of that night in Vegas and everything Hanzo said. Cole has the whole thing memorized by now, refined to perfect, vicious clarity in his head. He revisits it whenever he’s in the mood for some self-flagellation, which is often. He thinks about San Antonio a lot too, and about Hanzo telling him to stay. He tries telling himself he didn’t understand, that he just didn’t hear what Hanzo was really saying, but he can’t get the story to stick. He saw Hanzo’s face. He knows what almost happened, and he knows how he felt, and he knows that Hanzo felt it too. He still ran.

Sometimes he’s angry instead. Angry at Hanzo for being too stubborn to let him apologize. Angry that Hanzo gave up on him, that he didn’t believe Cole meant everything he said in Vegas, or that the things Cole said didn’t matter. Angry that Hanzo stood him up, even if he never actually agreed to come. Angry that Hanzo was right.

More often, he’s angry with himself. He’s self-aware enough to know who the real problem is, to know that being mad at Hanzo is nothing but self-defense. He’s the one who let Hanzo think San Antonio was different — because it was different — got Hanzo to trust him then broke it right away. He could have apologized in Vegas. Maybe he said it all wrong. Maybe there was a way to make Hanzo believe him, trust him again, something that would change how it turned out. 

Sometimes he’s angriest that he cares at all. It’s not like they know each other well. He was Hanzo’s job. That’s not exactly a solid foundation for anything else. Maybe he should’ve just slept with him and gotten it out of his system. Curiosity has to be half the appeal. Sex would have scratched most of the itch. Probably.

It’s not like they actually had anything, but he’s grieving the loss of potential, all the almosts, the same way he would if it was a bad breakup. It’s futile to try to quantify the hurt or make rules about what emotions he is or isn’t allowed to have, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like an idiot. It doesn’t stop him from constructing elaborate what if scenarios.

It doesn’t stop the world from constantly reminding him, either. He can’t drink his usual coffee, so he gets used to the taste of soy and hazelnut. Sometimes he catches something in his periphery, and he’s so sure it’s going to be Hanzo, but it’s always something else. He’ll hear a knock at his hotel door, and every time, his heart trips and stutters until the person on the other side announces that they’re housekeeping. He’s tempted to work out the tangle of feelings by picking up a stranger to distract him for the night, but he’s stopped by the thought that maybe this will be the night Hanzo changes his mind and picks up his mission again. 

He needs to get a fucking grip.

He doesn’t really hear from anyone he knows for a while. The closest he gets is when he swipes a few pieces of proprietary tech off some Helix agents as payment for Sombra. She hands him intel on Reaper that teaches him absolutely nothing he didn’t already find out for himself. It makes the back of his neck prickle. None of the things it implies are good. They don’t talk about it, but she also clearly knows he’s suspicious. She tries to pacify him — or manipulate him, more likely — with a freebie that tells him she once again knows way more than she should: it’s grainy street cam footage of Hanzo just yesterday, alive and whole and doing God-knows-what only one state over. 

It’s good to know he’s okay, but it also dredges up the thousands of feelings Cole’s been trying to cram down. He thanks her stiffly and doesn’t even have the heart to tell her off properly for her bullshit. She’s smart enough to know he’s not having it, anyway; she doesn’t try trading favors again. When he’s feeling especially self-loathing, he uses that to torture himself too. Even the most mercenary person he knows has her loyalties, and Cole doesn’t have what it takes to buy her back into his corner. He knows he’s taken the pity party too far when he tries to make a metaphor out of losing his shadiest contact.

He can’t even get away from Hanzo in his dreams, because his head’s so full of guilt and regret and anger that his subconscious keeps it going even while he’s asleep. The only real reprieve is when the dreams latch onto his attraction instead. There are a few variants, but Cole’s favorite is the one with Hanzo back in that tailored suit he wore in Vegas, hands fisting helplessly into Cole’s hair while Cole blows him. The serotonin dump is a nice break in the monotony, but afterward, the fantasy makes the frustration of his reality that much more acute.

A few weeks go by in a cycle of work and moping and pretending he’s not moping — then feeling ashamed and stupid for both the moping and the pretending — before he finally picks up Reaper’s trail. The feelings it summons are conflicted, but there’s a clarity of purpose there too. There is a solution, and Cole knows what it is and knows he’s capable of handling it. Painful as it is, that makes it a lot more appealing to focus on than any of his other problems.

Reaper moves like he has somewhere to be, and he’s constantly checking over his shoulder even though Cole’s sure he hasn’t been noticed. That tracks with what he remembers; Gabe was getting that way toward the end, reasonable suspicion succumbing to outright paranoia. Suspicion made Gabe a good strategist, but it didn’t always make for fine company. He could be arrogant too, and it could cloud his judgment on what he actually should be paranoid about. Cole can imagine Gabe easily enough: certain a vague, nebulous concept of someone might be watching his every move, and simultaneously certain he could handle anything they tried. Cole’s memory should serve him well in deciding how careful he really has to be. 

Naturally, given his luck these days, Cole’s wrong. 

He rounds the next corner to find Reaper’s disappeared. Leather flaps nearby, and Cole turns in time to sidestep a punch, mostly by accident. He can stay close, run the risk Reaper can kick his ass — Gabe always was better at CQC, and better at doing than teaching — or put some space between them, risk Reaper getting hands on his shotguns before Cole can draw Peacekeeper. In the end, he doesn’t get to choose. 

Some of Talon’s foot soldiers come racing their way like this was all planned. Ambushed and outplayed, Cole figures he should’ve seen it coming. What he knows about Gabe is years out of date, and Reaper was awfully easy to follow. 

He staggers back as quickly as he can. Deadeye’s always been kind enough to give him more time than should exist. It’s enough time to draw his gun, at least. He probably can’t stop them all, but he’ll take as many with him as he can. 

Reaper dematerializes again, smoke billowing toward Cole. Then there’s a sound like a freight train, a sudden gale screaming in his ears, and Cole’s vision explodes with blue. The wind whips around him, his body tingling like it’s covered in static. It smells like rain and ozone and blood.

The shock throws off his Deadeye, but through the gleaming, swirling blue, he sees red helmeted mercenaries drop to their knees. It takes time for his brain to catch up, to properly name what it is he’s seeing. Dragons. It’s as if thinking the word helps him focus, really see their long, scaled bodies and the massive, fanged mouths. 

He’s seen Genji’s dragon before, seen it leap from his back to ride his sword arm, swift and deadly to match Genji’s already uncanny speed. That one scared the hell out of him the first time he saw it too, but that experience was nothing like this, caught in the middle with his knees turning to rubber. It feels like it lasts forever, and it’s over sooner than he expects. 

He’s the only one still standing. Reaper is simply gone, but the Talon agents lie motionless, and no one comes rushing out of cover to attack again. Belatedly, Cole staggers backward, a hand twisted in his serape like an elderly woman clutching her pearls. There’s a scraping sound behind him, and he turns, spooked, to find Hanzo watching him. 

Cole’s heart really can’t go any faster, but it tries its damnedest. His head crowds with all the things he should say, and his throat clenches around them. Unable to focus on any one thing, the only word to escape is a hoarse, “Christ.”

Hanzo’s head tilts, his face carefully neutral. “That is not my name. Did you forget so soon?”

It’s so dry that Cole almost buys it. Then he sort of wants to buy it because the joke’s so bad. Then he surrenders to the laugh, though it’s more like a cough with his nerves as shot as they are. As far as Hanzo’s smirks go, this one seems almost tentative, but it makes a not-wholly-unpleasant ache settle into Cole’s chest. 

“Those things are… Christ,” Cole says, then he finally releases his death grip on the serape and shakily holsters his gun. “What are you doing here?” His throat is tight again, this time with the stranglehold he’s using to keep his hopes from getting high. 

Hanzo gestures past him, toward the Talon agents. “Following a lead.”

“Oh.” He misses the anger, however misplaced. At least with that, he wouldn’t be shifting his weight awkwardly, scrambling to rub any two brain cells together. 

“Are you well? I know the dragons can be—”

“Yeah. Or I will be. I’ve seen Genji’s before. Yours are just… sorta overwhelming?” He fishes for anything to say to make this less weird. 

“You weren’t afraid?”

“Scared shitless, but I still know the rules. They wouldn’t hurt me unless you— Well. I knew you liked me.” 

Cole tries a grin, but Hanzo’s face twists up, quickly shutting down any hope Cole had that this might go better than the last time. “It only means I don’t consider you an enemy,” he says icily. Hanzo takes a deep breath, and when it’s finished his expression is milder. “We need to leave.” Cole knows it’s the right call, but if they move, Hanzo’s going to disappear again. When Hanzo turns away with a wince, Cole figures that’s it. They’re done here. With one bad joke, he screwed up another opportunity, if it ever existed. 

Hanzo glances back to where Cole’s still rooted to the spot. “Are you coming?”

Cole does not run. He only walks very quickly, and only because they need to get a move on before Talon sends reinforcements. 

Hanzo’s motel room is rougher than the last, more like Cole’s usual, and for similar reasons: cleaner to get in and out when you don’t have to go through the lobby to get to your room. Raises less attention if you show up covered in dust and blood. Hanzo doesn’t look like he much enjoys the prospect of Cole in his room, which is upsetting no matter how fair it is. Still, Cole is here. The hope he’s been trying to quash wants him to make something of it, but Hanzo puts a damper on that when he tells Cole he needs something from him. “I suppose I could do it myself, but it would be easier if you did it,” Hanzo adds defensively, clearly out of practice asking others for help. 

Hanzo strips out of his jacket with a visible flinch. He did seem like he was favoring one side while he walked, and now Cole gets to see why. There’s blood soaking through the gray t-shirt beneath. 

“Shit,” Cole mutters.

“Indeed.” Hanzo starts to peel the t-shirt up, grimacing when he reaches fabric that’s adhered to his skin by tacky, drying blood. Cole balls his hand into a fist to stop it from trying to shake. That’s not going to help anybody. With a glance up at Cole’s face, Hanzo says, “I believe it may look worse than it is.”

Cole grunts, unsure he trusts either that assessment or his voice, and he forces himself to stand still while Hanzo reveals the wound, prodding at the uninjured flesh around it. It’s a gash in his side, just above his hip, and it’s been stitched before, though now those are torn. Hanzo directs him to a first aid kit in his bag, which Cole tosses on the bed to dig through. 

Hanzo’s lucky there are even painkillers left. The kit is sparse and fully out of most of the basics. It’s been used often. Cole does the slow clench and unclench of his hands again. “No biotics?” Hanzo looks almost sheepish, which is a look that doesn’t suit his face at all. Cole sighs. “Did you have any in here to begin with?” 

Cole keeps his own kit well stocked, even if sometimes it means stealing the supplies. He doesn’t have the luxury of getting slowed down by an injury. Neither does Hanzo, but the damn fool won’t admit that. Cole had him pinned as reckless long before this, but the truth of it sitting in front of him makes a cold, hard knot form in the pit of his stomach. He pushes down the wriggle of anger — at Hanzo for running around without them, at Overwatch for letting him. It’s not the time. 

“At least let me get you patched up with a real first aid kit. Unlike some guys I know, I have biotic gel.” 

Hanzo snorts. “Never mind. I have wasted enough time.”

“Then they’ve either already left and there’s no point in rushin’, or they stayed put and will still be there in a few hours.” He doesn’t seem sold, so Cole adds, “Why go in at a disadvantage?”

Hanzo, stubborn as he may be, doesn’t have a good answer for that. While Cole watches, he fits a patch of sterile gauze over the wound to at least soak up some of the blood. He has to finagle how he places the last of the tape to hold it in place, because there’s not quite enough. Cole would laugh, if he weren’t so angry at him. Then Hanzo carefully pries his bloody shirt off. 

“What are you—?”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “Changing.” 

“You’re just gonna get blood on another one.”

“Then I will change that too. This one is… wet.” Hanzo wrinkles his nose. Then he continues wriggling out of the shirt, one hand slapped over his shitty, slapdash bandage. Cole’s seen him in enough fitted clothes to have known, intellectually, what Hanzo probably looks like under there, but it’s a lot different now that it’s just skin. He’s broad across the shoulders and narrow at the waist, and everything in between is starkly defined. His muscles bunch and flex with the movement, and Cole wants to sink his teeth into the gray-green bruise tucked between his collarbone and the slope of one pec. His sweats sit low enough that Cole can see the beginnings of deep furrows that disappear beneath the waistband. 

Hanzo catches him staring and looks away quickly. He pulls on another t-shirt, starting with the arm on the injured side and working it gingerly up and over. Swallowing around a dry tongue, Cole finally tears his gaze away and directs it at the ceiling instead. Lord have mercy.

“I am ready,” Hanzo announces, and if Cole weren’t so convinced Hanzo’s only barely tolerating his presence, he might think he sounds amused. 

Cole’s room halfway across town is as dim as Hanzo’s and maybe more cramped, although that might have more to do with Cole’s growing awareness of Hanzo in his space again. In the bathroom, he forces himself to breathe. Rhythmic, in and out, staring past his hands while he scrubs every tiny crevice of his prosthetic. Then he grabs all the linens and takes them with him. 

There’s nowhere for Hanzo to sit but the bed, so Cole kneels on the floor in front of him. It doesn’t escape his notice that this position is not unlike the fantasies that have been fueling his downtime lately. The thought is distracting, so he locks that one away with the others. He pushes up the hem of Hanzo’s shirt and starts carefully undoing the tape around the bandage, and he resolutely refuses to think about the show he just got or how warm Hanzo’s skin is. 

The wound is mostly clean, but the torn sutures stick out haphazardly. It looks like they were put in haphazardly too. “Who did this half-assed bullsh—” Hanzo won’t meet his eye. “Oh, of course. You did it yourself.” 

“It was necessary,” Hanzo mumbles. 

Cole sighs and carefully cleans up the wound with one of the washcloths from the bathroom. “Your stitches suck.” 

“I was in a rush.”

“That’s not really reassurin’ me.” 

Hanzo hums, definitely amused this time, and he doesn’t argue. Cole works in silence, plucking the old ripped sutures free, then setting to work adding his own. Unwelcome images float through his mind. He can picture a thousand scenarios that let Hanzo’s supplies get so low, and he doesn’t like a single one of them. He shoves each down and focuses on what’s in front of him right this minute. 

Hanzo remains utterly still, save for the occasional, involuntary twitch of muscle beneath Cole’s touch. When he glances up, Hanzo’s eyes are squeezed shut, brow drawn, and he is breathing in a slow, controlled rhythm. Hurting, despite the painkillers he took. 

Cole’s never had the lightest touch, but he does his best to be gentle, to balance it the best he can with working quickly so he’s not drawing it out. Every time his fingers slip in the blood slowly oozing from the wound, he has to fight with the anger roiling inside him. He knows the anger’s covering for something much worse, and he doesn’t let himself linger on that at all. He has to wash the wound again, and then his hands, which tremble under the running water, the prosthetic moving in sympathy with the organic’s anxious response.

He takes up the same position again, kneeling on the floor, eye level with Hanzo’s torso. Hanzo could probably do this part himself, but neither man points that out. This time, it’s harder to ignore the heat of Hanzo’s skin while he rubs the biotic gel on and puts a new, sturdier bandage over it all. He smooths his hand gently over it, and he looks back up at Hanzo’s face. “All done.” 

“Thank you for your assistance,” Hanzo says again, tone uncomfortably formal for a guy Cole just sewed up. “I need nothing further.” Dismissing him like a servant. 

Cole laughs, some of the nerves escaping with the sound. “You need to rest.”

“I need to finish this job.” 

“And ruin my hard work?” He tries to make it light; he doesn’t really have the right to argue more. Hanzo is stubbornly silent, and his face is… complicated. “You hurt somewhere else?” Cole guesses, though he doesn’t think it’s that. Hanzo shakes his head wordlessly. The thing clenching inside Cole’s chest loosens halfway with the release of a shuddering breath. “Guess we’re good then. Try to give it a couple hours before you—” He hisses through his teeth, too many things bubbling up at once. “I’m sorry.”

“You have been very helpful. There is nothing to apologize for.” Hanzo is rigid beneath his hand, his voice carefully flat; there’s no way he doesn’t know what Cole’s talking about. 

“Not that,” Cole says anyway. “I meant—”

“This is hardly the time.”

“You ever gonna give me the time?” Frustration bleeds into his voice, and Hanzo doesn’t answer. “I shouldn’t have left, and I’ve been mad at myself every day since, and I know it’s stupid ’cause we barely know each other, but I feel it and I know you do too. Or you did. Maybe I messed that up. I don’t know, but I’m sorry.”

Hanzo breathes deeper, abdomen pressing into Cole’s palm as his lungs fill. Then he lets it all out. “I believe you.” He finally, really looks at Cole again, a faint, dry smile on his face. “Does this mean you are going to rejoin Overwatch?” 

“No.” Hanzo nods, unsurprised. “I’m sorry about that too.” Cole clears his throat, then he asks the thing he’s suspected for a while now. “You’re not really a full agent, are you?”

“No,” Hanzo says with a barely-there flinch. “More like an… independent contractor.”

“And bringin’ me in was supposed to change that.”

Hanzo takes another of those long, steadying breaths. “Yes. It would have marked the end of my probationary period.” His mouth twists unhappily. 

“What is it now? They’ve gotta know by now that I’m not comin’.”

“This mission will be my last before I go back.”

Cole nods. He doesn’t bring up the times Hanzo let him go anyway, or the times either of them called a truce, or how much he doesn’t want Hanzo to leave him again. Instead he says, “I’ll make you a deal. You stay put a few hours to let this thing heal up, I’ll help you finish this job. Gotta be easier with two people, right?”

“And if they have moved on?”

“I’ll still help. However long it takes. I don’t wanna be the reason you’re… stuck.” 

Hanzo swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Alright. We have a deal.”

In the silence that follows, Cole’s reminded how close they are. He still has a hand on Hanzo’s waist, and he’s on his knees, and he’s just confessed his feelings, more or less. Even if Hanzo didn’t exactly share his thoughts on that, he didn’t shut Cole down either. And now he’s staring down at Cole with an expression that is hopelessly unreadable, but it’s not angry or cold or any of that this time. This one makes Cole’s breath stutter. They’ve been here before — walked right up to the line only to back down — but Cole’s heart still thuds like it’s the first time, like he can honestly expect some follow through. 

An electric current thrums between them. Every breath comes shorter and shallower. Cole’s tensing to flee again when Hanzo seizes the back of his neck and yanks him upward, mouth crashing down into his. 

Hanzo’s kiss is a hungry, biting thing that leaves no time to shake off the surprise. His tongue sweeps into Cole’s mouth like it owns the place, demanding and so dizzying that it takes work to keep up, to push up and into it so Hanzo’s not bent down so far. Months’ worth of suppressed longing rushes hot to the surface, and Cole jerks him forward, lodging himself between Hanzo’s spread thighs. 

Only when Hanzo grunts against his mouth does Cole remember the injury. He tries to back off, slow down maybe, and definitely apologize, but it’s muffled when Hanzo tightens his hold on Cole’s hair and doesn’t let him get away. Cole leans helplessly back into it, breathless and hard in an instant.

Hanzo is merciless, touching Cole’s throat, his hair, skimming his shoulders, grasping at his chest, everywhere at once like he’s grown extra limbs. One hand snakes down between them, and Cole twitches into the touch, laughing as the kiss finally breaks. “Sweetheart, you keep that up and this is barely gonna last. Still, ah, a lot of time to kill. And you should maybe not aggravate that thing.”

Hanzo lets him go, plucking instead at the buttons of Cole’s shirt. Hanzo’s teeth are at his throat, facial hair scraping skin when he growls into his ear. “Show me how you want it, then.” It takes a moment for Cole to catch his meaning, then he’s fumbling to do as he’s told, arms tangling with Hanzo’s, whose hands are still working on those buttons. “Did you think about me?” 

“All the time.”

“When you touched yourself?” 

Cole laughs, breathless. “All the time.”

“Tell me what you thought about.” Hanzo finally gets Cole’s shirt undone, raking over his skin with eyes and touch alike.

“Holy hell, darlin’,” Cole pants as he drops back onto his heels, fingers clumsy on the fly of his jeans. He tries to take his time, because there’s a lot of material to go over, and because he wants it to last. If this is the only chance he’s getting, he’s going to milk it for all it’s worth. But he really should have known Hanzo would be the type to go from zero to sixty in half a second, and Cole’s whole body feels alive with the thrill of it.

Hanzo’s knuckles go white where he’s gripping his pants at the knee, but otherwise he looks regal somehow. Dark eyes burn straight through him while Cole explains in vivid detail everything he’s pictured them doing together. Some distant part of him thinks he should feel ashamed, on his knees, jerking off while he confesses every dirty thing he’s thought about Hanzo since they parted — if not shame over the content, then over the sheer quantity — but instead it’s one of the hottest things he’s ever done.

When Hanzo has finally had his fill of watching, he sits back with his legs spread, and Cole blows him exactly the way he described, one hand working between his own legs. Just as he imagined, Hanzo does fist a hand into his hair, fingers spasming helplessly until long after it’s over. 

Neither of them speaks about whether this is the last time as well as the first, but when Cole’s done cleaning up, Hanzo coaxes him onto the bed and kisses him again. They shouldn’t really sleep or lose track of time, but it feels good to just kiss someone. Have someone close for a while. 

Cole’s aware he missed Hanzo, but only now does it really hit him how long it’s been since he had anyone this close to him. He soaks it up, keeping it as playful as he can so that Hanzo doesn’t get a sense of how badly Cole needs this. Hanzo doesn’t seem like he’d mind even if he did know anyway, because he simply lies on his side facing Cole, sometimes talking and sometimes kissing and sometimes only watching his face. 

When Hanzo says his injury no longer hurts, Cole nudges him onto his back and kisses his way down Hanzo’s chest and stomach, mouthing moving softly over his skin — and ticklishly, apparently, although Hanzo takes great pains to hide it. Then Cole checks the bandage. Part of him wants to lie and buy more time, but it’s healed more than enough by now. 

He tells the truth, quietly bursting their peaceful bubble. 

Like he predicted, Talon never moved. They get in and out in less than an hour, and they take a few grunts with them on the way to the exit. It’s easy and quick, and that’s just Cole’s luck. 

Now he’s watching Hanzo pack his things. He likes to imagine Hanzo’s dragging his feet, but that would be stupid. They both need to get out of here in case Reaper or what’s left of this Talon deployment come looking. It would be dumb to waste time, but here Cole is, already packed and refusing to leave. He wants to ask Hanzo to stay in the States, but he knows that’s asking him to choose between a stable home and life on the road — between Cole and his brother — and the person who asks that doesn’t deserve to get chosen. 

When Hanzo finishes, he stares at his hands, brow drawn tight again. He doesn’t look at Cole as he says, “It will take some time to arrange a flight.” It’s hardly a declaration of his undying devotion, but it still punches the air out of Cole’s lungs. “I could… leave in the morning.”

This time, Cole drives, and he doesn’t stop until they’re a few towns over. He shells out for a nicer place, another one with an actual lobby and rooms that don’t face the parking lot. They shower and eat and dance awkwardly around each other for a while before they finally fall into bed again. 

The sex isn’t any less intense than before. If anything, it’s more. Hanzo’s kisses still have that hungry edge to them. He’s pushy, utterly certain of himself and without reservations. It claws at Cole’s insides, burns him from the inside out, leaves him gasping for air. Before they’re finished, Cole marks him with his teeth, one more bruise among all those he’s earned on the job. 

Cole tries not to fall asleep. This is all he’s getting, and he doesn’t want to waste it unconscious. But it’s been a long, long day, and there’s only so much stalling he can do.

When he wakes up, he’s alone. Hanzo’s things are gone. It’s not a surprise. Cole would probably do it the same way, skip out early so there’s no awkward goodbye. Doesn’t mean it doesn’t sting. 

He gets his shit together quickly, unwilling to sit around contemplating a bed too big for one person. He’s in such a rush he almost misses the note. It’s short and simple, so plain that it is hilarious even with his heart trying to crawl up his throat: Sorry. Thank you. Farewell.

After that, there’s a phone number. Despite all the rest, Cole grins. 

Tracking Reaper is a pain and a half. It becomes his full-time job. The misery of the mission is balanced by how much Cole lights up when he gets a text from Hanzo. 

The messages are mostly inane. Hanzo texts like Cole has any idea what’s going on at the Watchpoint, probably assuming the new Overwatch operates enough like the old one that Cole doesn’t need context. He does, but he doesn’t ask for it, because he likes the way Hanzo tells it. 

Hanzo’s observations about his teammates are sometimes mean, sometimes funny, and sometimes shockingly fond. Cole might be jealous, for example, of Hanzo’s palpable awe and fierce protectiveness over Dr. Zhou, if he weren’t the person Hanzo was telling all this to in the first place. There are other things Hanzo doesn’t say but that Cole can suss out for himself: life with Genji is difficult. Angela doesn’t like him. Some of their other teammates treat him with varying degrees of suspicion. Cole waffles between understanding where they’re coming from and feeling indignant on Hanzo’s behalf. 

Hanzo sends him pictures too. Most are of the Mediterranean, taken from high up on the Rock. Hanzo likes to watch the boats. He says he likes to fish. The only thing Cole can think to reply to that is, Come on, man. You’re not even forty yet. Hanzo responds with a goddamn selfie of him dressed to go bow fishing, chest and arms and ridiculous abs all fully on display. Cole takes back every judgmental thought he’s ever had about boring ass hobbies, and he saves the photo. After that, Cole tries angling for even more inspirational pictures, but Hanzo says it’s his turn, and every time Cole tries to take a lewd picture, he can feel the blush creeping all the way down his chest and he chickens out. He sends a lot of food pics though. 

It helps occupy him, but when he’s not focused on work or grinning like a dumbass texting Hanzo, the emptiness comes rushing back. The giddiness is a high, but like any high, its absence brings a crash that reminds him what he’s missing, makes him wonder if it’s worth it. Then he gets another message, and he forgets about the low points for a while, and the cycle starts all over. 

He doesn’t know what they are or what they’re doing. They had sex one time — well, twice, but in a single day — and they’re probably friends, and the texts and pictures definitely constitute flirting, but there’s no name for it. No conversation dictating rules or expectations. Hanzo calls one evening when he can’t sleep. It’s the wee hours of the morning in Gibraltar. They talk about nothing in particular until Cole rumbles drowsily into the phone, “So what, you just missed my voice that much, darlin’?” 

Hanzo breathes out too loudly and says, “Yes.” What happens after suggests that the sex was not a one-time deal, but nothing about this says it’s sustainable. Could just be passing the time. 

Doesn’t take long before the cat’s out of the bag. Hanzo forgets to turn his phone off in a meeting. After that, Cole has to field increasingly annoying messages from Angie and Genji, and less frequent ones from Echo and Lena, even a few from Fareeha, although she was still with Helix last Cole checked. During one of their late night talks, Hanzo asks him with surprising delicacy if he’s still convinced his friends don’t care. Rather than the phone sex he thought he was going to have, Cole spends the next hour waxing philosophical about the difference between Overwatch as an institution and Overwatch, the group of mostly decent people. When he finally trails off, Hanzo is silent except for the quiet snore barely picked up by the receiver. Upon reflection, Cole figures he might have had that coming. 

He finds Reaper twice in as many months, and he loses him both times. He publishes a couple articles and blog posts, and he pitches a few more. He picks up some bounties, but the jobs aren’t really a challenge. He’s bored more often than not. 

Something’s eating at Hanzo too. There’s a tension in some of their conversations now. They don’t snipe at each other or anything, and Cole’s pretty sure that he’s not the problem, but Hanzo always seems dissatisfied with something. Cole imagines someone like Hanzo, a born leader turned lone wolf, working on a team, and low on the hierarchy to boot. There’s no way that’s easy. 

Then Cole finally gets another rumor about Reaper. He’s still on the move, but he’s not in the States any more. He’s in Europe. Rome, most often. By hypertrain, it’s practically a stone’s throw from— 

Cole sighs. 

He resists as long as he can, but now that he’s had the thought, it won’t go away. He almost gives himself a nervous breakdown over it: imagining his return to Overwatch, imagining the new Watchpoint going the way of the old HQ in Geneva, imagining it hurting Hanzo and every friend he has, the pests that won’t leave him alone so that he can wallow and believe he really is alone, smother all his fear with rage instead. 

“Fuck me,” he groans into his hands. Then he sends another text message, but not to Hanzo. 

The weather is so pleasant it’s almost suspicious, and this high up he can’t really smell the salt. Without the trepidation to weigh him down, he might actually be able to enjoy it.

His arrival is relatively quiet. Shockingly subtle for Lena, actually, who picked him up from the airport. Nobody announces his presence. He meets privately with Winston, who is excited to have him, if harried and disappointed by the rules Cole sets down about how he wants to work. 

The only person he sees in the hallway is a young redhead he’s never met, who is trailed by an enormous white cat. She waves cheerfully, but Cole gets the impression she’s like that for anyone. Never meets a stranger, probably. 

He gives himself time to set all his stuff down, but after that he can’t keep to himself any longer. He knocks on the door Winston told him about, pulse racing. He’s starting to second guess, wondering if he should give some kind of warning before just showing up at Hanzo’s door. That’s when it opens. 

Hanzo stares like he thinks he’s imagining it. “Uh, hey,” Cole says, gripped with sudden, overwhelming nerves. 

There’s nothing to worry about, if the tongue down his throat is anything to go by. If that didn’t sell it, the part where Hanzo drags him into the room and nearly attempts to climb him definitely does the trick. He’s out of breath by the time they’re finished. Hanzo won’t stop touching him, which is equal parts distracting and flattering. 

“Why are you here?”

“Guess I’m signin’ on. Give or take some contract negotiations. Looks like you finished your mission after all.”

That makes Hanzo hesitate. “Did you come here for…” He’s not going to finish the question. It’s probably an embarrassing thing to ask. 

“It’s complicated? Uh.” Even after the way Hanzo greeted him, after everything, it’s hard to convince himself to say anything out loud. Cole scratches the back of his neck. “Y’know, I thought about what you said about… how I’ve been toward people. And now Reaper’s in Europe. And I remembered you callin’ yourself an independent contractor, and I thought there were some options other than the way things used to be. So there were a lot of reasons.” Hanzo nods, understanding, and his face is doing this carefully neutral thing that makes Cole realize he’s fucking something up somehow. He sucks in a breath. “But you were maybe a not-insignificant part of the equation. You know. If that’s not weird. For you.”

Hanzo does something very strange then: he steps back, angling his body toward his room like he’s inviting Cole further in. There are clothes folded on the bed, and there’s Hanzo’s familiar duffel bag, and a first aid kit that Cole hopes is fully stocked this time. Wait. 

“You goin’ somewhere?”

Hanzo laughs, the sound shot through with anxiety. “I was considering a… leave of absence. To do some further independent work.” Hanzo clears his throat, and his face is slowly turning beet red. “I was thinking North America.” He glances meaningfully at Cole. “So no, I do not think it’s weird.”

It takes Cole a moment to catch his drift, but once he does, he can’t stop the grin that’s about to split his face in two. “In that case, I was thinkin’, there’s a lot of jobs out there that don’t need a whole strike team. And Winston told me I could contribute however I saw myself best fittin’ into the new organization. And I really did like workin’ with you. We don’t have to stay here, but we could come back sometimes. Can have us a little freedom but keep a safe place to land.” Cole’s never been much for looking too far ahead. It’s always given him something like vertigo. But this doesn’t feel unreasonable or like he’s aiming too high, doomed to fail. This feels like it simply fits. “So what do you say? Partners?”

Hanzo’s smile gives away the answer long before he summons the words.

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