#a slightly less vague drabble than the last one but drabble nonetheless | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flurgburgler · 7 years

Text

things they said at sea

“I love him,” she says, “but I am not in love with him. I think somebody should be.”

James has such a capacity for love, Miranda explains. She's worried it’s going to waste, left out in the sun to blanch and blister.

Silver doesn’t know why she’s telling him this.

The sea stretches away from them to a far, wide horizon under a towering clear sky; the Walrus is nestled in the crook of the bay, seeming pleasantly still from a distance. A breeze rolling in from the water tugs at the loose strands of Miranda’s hair, rustles the palm leaves, and stirs the sand under their feet. Behind them they can hear voices and foot traffic from the little market; the wind carries the sounds over like smoke from a bonfire. It’s a small port on barely a spit of land, but it will make do to restock their fresh water supply before they reach Charleston. That’s what Flint said when they landed, and then he took off into town, jaw set and eyes forward.

The young Ashe girl is down by the shoreline, her shoes and stockings discarded and her skirts bunched up in her hands, as she dips her toes in the water. Ever inscrutable, Miranda bows her head and walks away down the beach to Abigail’s side, leaving deep, certain footprints in the sand.

“James,” Silver repeats, because he has never said it out loud before.

It’s already dark when Flint finds him, sitting in the same spot Miranda left him. He’s dug his feet into the sand; it helps him feel grounded under the vast canvas of night turning gently overhead. Even this little corner of the world seems larger than it should tonight––larger still when Flint comes to stand beside him, and although there are scarcely inches between them, Silver thinks Flint may as well be the horizon.

Silver remembers the stories he heard from the old women in Whitechapel who had grown up in the days when England still had wild country. They talked about the eldritch folk, and how to know something’s true name was to have power over it. They lowered their eyes and hushed their mouths when they caught John looking: it wasn’t for children to know. Now he looks up at Flint, whose face is spectral pale in the moonlight, and thinks: I spoke your name and summoned you.

“Everything all right?” he says at last, because he doesn’t like the silence.

Flint’s fingers twitch. He wants to fiddle with his rings, Silver knows, he’s watched him at it time enough. Poor, tired Flint. Can’t keep still, even when he stops. That mind of his always racing away to conquer some new boundary.

Conquer me something inside him calls like a wolf at midnight, and he wonders where that came from. I’m moon-struck over you.

“Get some sleep, Mr Silver,” the captain says, like he knows what he’s thinking.

Silver shrugs. “I don’t sleep well at sea. Never have.”

Most of the men say they like it well enough, the swell of the tide swaying them in their hammocks. Muldoon says it’s like being rocked in his mother’s arms. Well, Silver never had a mother to rock him, so what’s he to say to that?

“And you, Captain,” he ventures, “what keeps you awake at this hour?”

Flint sighs, and it’s a deep sound like hull timbers creaking on a dry day. For the longest while Silver doesn’t think he’s going to answer; he just watches him, Flint, this wight, staring out at the black sea with the moon in his eyes. Then at last, as though his tongue were made of stone and it’s all he can do to carve the words out, Flint says:

“I won’t be coming back this way.” He sighs again, and looks down at Silver in the sand. “And if I do I won’t be the same man that set out.”

“Like Odysseus?”

Flint cocks his head and peers at him through the gloom, and Silver thinks he catches a brief flash of teeth in the wicked light.

I did that, he thinks. I made him smile.

“Like Odysseus,” Flint echoes. “Perhaps.”

“But then who’s to be your Penelope?”

Silver gets up on his knees, and he knows he’s wearing a grin the captain would likely smack off his face if he were any other man, but he’s not any other man, he never has been.

“The comely Mrs Barlow, I should think?”

“Is that so?” and Flint’s voice is low and dark as the water. “But she wasn’t the one waiting for me here at the shore.”

The corner of his mouth quirks as though it’s considering a smile, and whatever Silver was going to say gets lodged in his throat.

“Get some sleep, Mr Silver,” Flint says again, and suddenly Silver wonders if that’s the first time he’s hearing it, and if the words that just past between them were ever real at all.

“You could have left.”

Silver sinks lower into the cushions on the window seat, wincing as what’s left of his leg throbs in protest at the sudden movement. “Could I now,” he mutters.

Flint settles into his carved-back chair, one elbow propped up on the arm-rest, cradling his chin in his hand. “I told you I wasn’t certain I’d be coming back. True, I couldn’t have predicted that particular course of events, but there was still the possibility that Miranda and I might…” He’s looking past Silver, out of the salt-fogged window at the empty horizon. It’s a pale, timeless day, and the cabin is flooded with watery light.

“You’re never one to pass up an opportunity,” he pressed. “I was absent, and we were docked at a mainland port, one the Walrus was never likely to visit again. You could have taken your leave, disappeared into the night; started again, as far from the sea as you pleased. I half expected you to.”

Silver fiddles with the fraying hem of his blanket. Nearly a week he’s been stuck in here, and so far the only thing he’s found to occupy his time is slowly unravelling this coverlet, one fibre at a time.

“Well I can’t now,” he says, and the words taste bitter on his tongue. “Even if I wanted to.”

“You misunderstand me.” Flint leans forward in his chair. “You are a lot of things, Silver, but you are not a coward. When it comes to a fight you’ll bitch and whine, but I’ve never seen you run––”

Silver laughs, a vicious spike of a laugh. “And now you never will.”

“Dammit, John, I wanted you to leave!” Flint slams his hand down on the arm-rest and Silver quiets at once. “We had a plan, Miranda and I––I was finished, I was out of this, and I thought…” He pinches the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. “You could have gone inland until you could no longer hear the seabirds calling, or taste the salt in the air, and been rid of this life you told me once that you so loathed.”

Silver pauses, his fingers halting their undoing of the delicate blanket. “John,” he repeats, because he’s never heard him say it out loud before.

He sighs and draws up his good leg, tilts his head and rest his cheek on his knee, watching his own weariness reflected back at him in Flint’s face. “Penelope had 108 suitors,” he says.

“What?”

“Penelope. While Odysseus was away, there were 108 men vying for her hand, and she had to put them all off for twenty years. Now, granted, you were barely gone two days, and nobody was trying to marry me, but…” He can feel the beginnings of a smile tearing at the edges of his composure, and Lord isn’t it simple just to fall back into this easy charm with him.

I’m coming back to myself, he thinks. He spoke my name, and here I am.

“So, you see, I had to stay.”

Flint makes a low sound in the back of his throat that could be a laugh, if Silver squints. He leaves his chair and comes to sit on the window seat in the space where Silver’s leg should be. Gently, he reaches out and takes the hem of the blanket from him, and if their fingers touch neither of them say a word about it.

“And is this Laertes’ burial shroud you’re weaving, Penelope?” he asks.

Silver scoffs. “Did you just make a joke, Captain?”

Flint says nothing, getting to his feet once again, and drawing the blanket up over Silver’s shoulders. As he leans down to tuck in the edges he presses a heavy kiss to the top of Silver’s head. Then, resting his forehead against Silver’s temple, he recites:

“And as when the land appears welcome to men who are swimming, after Poseidon has smashed their strong-built ship on the open water, pounding it with the weight of wind and the heavy seas, and only a few escape the grey water landward by swimming, with a thick scurf of salt coated upon them, and gladly they set foot on the shore, escaping the evil; so welcome was her husband to her as she looked upon him.”

Silver feels the curve of Flint’s mouth against his cheekbone, smells the sharp tang of the ocean embedded in his beard and his clothes. He settles into the warmth of his breath and his being, and feels his eyes closing as Flint says softly,

“Get some sleep.”

#silverflint #john silver #james flint #black sails #a slightly less vague drabble than the last one but drabble nonetheless #things they said at sea #i think that's just my general bs writing tag now #wow re-reading this i really go off about the odyssey i apologise

354 notes · View notes

littleeverydaypassions · 5 years

Text

A re-written continuation to my first Elippo drabble - this time, things pick up from Filippo’s point of view. Thank you for all of the support. <3

Filippo had a feeling that he knew what would be coming up next. The topic of who was dating who had been going on for too long, and he was more than aware of the less than subtle glances that Silvia had been throwing in his direction. She was nearly bursting with the energy of a kid on Christmas day.

The group’s conversation hit an inevitable lull, and at that moment, Silvia pounced.

“So,” she paused for dramatic effect, and Filippo braced himself accordingly. “I have a cousin, and he –“

Filippo resisted the urge to groan out loud. Not again. Now that Martino and Niccolo were officially together, Eleonora’s friends had suddenly become all the more interested in his love life.

But rather than focus on remedying their own single status, he’d become their unfortunate pet project. They were about as determined as overzealous missionaries, but unlike missionaries, they were less concerned with saving his soul and more concerned with getting him to date someone for real. They were constantly name dropping cousins, friends, or neighbors that were supposedly just perfect for him.

And while he was truly glad for Martino, whose recent happiness had slightly renewed Filippo’s faith in the world, he had little personal interest in finding something similar. Maybe his early encounters with love, awkward starts and messy endings, had ruined all of its allure. Simple pleasures, yes, but a lengthy and binding romance? He’d have to pass on that.

After all, he wasn’t lonely, and on most days, he was more than happy enough. There were other things to think and worry about. Perhaps if people focused more on global warming than on matchmaking, the world would be better off. The ice caps would be melting a little bit slower.

Yet these girls were his friends now, and that meant dealing with their little whims. But while he was content to play along most of the time, there were also occasions where he had to put his foot down. So, in line with that, Filippo settled on letting Silvia down gently. He shook his head and waved her off like he would an overexcited Chihuahua.

“No.”

She gave him a pleading look, but Savas were made of steel and so it had no effect on him whatsoever. “Silvia, no.”

“He’s very cute, I think you’d like him –“

“Let me get you another drink.”

Filippo turned around and made his escape before he could get dragged back in. Years of experience had equipped him with the skills needed to escape unwanted conversations and to weave through drunken crowds. What worked against him however was the fact that he wasn’t familiar with whoever’s home they were in.

One wrong turn to the left, and he’d stumbled upon a couple that were more than past the stage of making out. A step back and a journey to his right had led him out into the backyard. He retraced his steps, took a right instead of a left, pushed open a door, and bumped into a familiar face.

“Oh, hey.”

Elia smiled and gave him a small wave, a gesture which was made somewhat awkward by the fact that he was holding a beer in his hand.

“Elio, right?”

If Eleonora were around, she’d know what he was doing. After all, there was no real excuse for him to not know Elia’s name. Martino spoke of his friends often, and he’d spent that one afternoon in his company. It had been an afternoon in which Elia mostly avoided his gaze and became flustered whenever he approached, but nonetheless, his name had been repeated at many points.

And while Filippo usually found such awkwardness to be more trouble than not, Elia had piqued his interest. Out of Martino’s group of friends, he seemed rather interesting, so why not play around a little?

Elia hardly looked affected by the mix up. “Close, but no. I’m Elia.” The words rolled off his tongue smoothly, and Filippo couldn’t help but notice the casualness of it all. Elia was a bit more confident than he’d been the last time they’d met.

Filippo vaguely wondered if it was an effect of alcohol, but in any case, he had no complaints. After all, stilted conversations were no fun.

“If you’re bad with names, then you should repeat it, so that you don’t forget.”

“Okay, Elia.”

Elia looked visibly pleased. He raised his beer slightly as a sign of approval, but Filippo wasn’t finished just yet.

“Elia, I’d like you to get me a beer.”

“Oh.” Elia laughed and shook his head. “I guess I should’ve expected that.” He glanced at the other beer in his hand and held it out for Filippo to take. “This was supposed to be for Gio, but I think you deserve it more at this point.”

“A reward for good behavior?”

“Sure, let’s call it that.”

Filippo took the beer from Elia, their fingers brushing against one another’s in the process.

Now that it was in his grasp, Filippo could feel that the beer had grown somewhat warm, but he wasn’t going to bother looking for a new one. He expected for Elia to say something, but his attention had been stolen away, giving Filippo the opportunity to observe the other boy’s profile.

By all means he was good looking, and Filippo wondered if there was a reason why he’d only chosen to have a piercing on one ear instead of both. Filippo’s parents had been indifferent when he’d come home with a lip piercing. He wondered if the people in Elia’s life had reacted the same way.

But he couldn’t let his thoughts drift away too far, so Filippo took a small sip of his drink to reign everything back in. He gave up on staring and turned his attention to whatever had captured Elia’s interest.

Two drunk boys were trying to stack cups at the other corner of the room. It was a race that had become a messy affair because some of the cups still had drinks in them. Filippo’s inner clean freak despaired at the sight. Meanwhile, Elia looked absolutely amused.

Filippo leaned in and nudged Elia with his elbow. Now that he had Elia’s attention again, he gestured to the boys. “You could join them.”

Elia’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Me? I’d rather not. Besides,” he turned his head slightly, drawing his face closer to Filippo’s. “Why would I leave you alone?”

And while Elia’s words had been delivered in a friendly manner, Filippo suddenly became aware of how close they were. Mere centimeters separated them. At this proximity, Filippo could see the beads of sweat on Elia’s forehead, and the moles on his face. If they moved any closer, Filippo was sure he’d be able to feel Elia’s breath against his skin.

Surely it meant nothing, to be so close?

During that one afternoon, they’d moved within the same spaces. He’d hung out with Martino’s friends before, and everything had passed without incident. But all of a sudden, now of all times, something had clicked. Filippo felt a familiar twist in his stomach. It was soon followed by an unwelcome realization.

Fuck.

Elia was looking at him, and maybe the other boy was expectant or maybe he was just confused. Had he said something? Filippo wasn’t quite sure anymore. It felt somewhat like it was difficult to breathe.

“Filippo?”

Someone touched his arm, and Filippo jerked back in surprise. He turned around to see Eva standing behind him. He wanted to smile and play things cool, but his heart was racing. It was difficult to tell if he was feeling relieved or annoyed.

“We were looking for you,” Eva explained. Her eyes drifted to Elia, and she gave him a tight lipped smile. “Hi Elia.”

“Hi Eva.”

Filippo bit his lip. He was momentarily saved by the awkwardness of Eva’s past, but it wasn’t like the environment was any good. He considered saying something to loosen things up, but Elia beat him to it by speaking first.

“I should go.”

Elia clasped Filippo’s shoulder in farewell briefly, squeezing tightly before eventually letting go. Their eyes met, and once again, Elia smiled. “I’ll see you around.”

“Bye Elia.”

The mere mention of his name made Elia’s grin widen. “I hope you don’t forget my name next time.”

And with that, he disappeared back into the other room.

Filippo let out a breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding and then took a long sip of his beer. It was now too warm to taste any good, but he needed it. He found himself nearly finishing it before coming up for air. And while he felt less on edge, his heart was still out of rhythm.

He glanced at Eva, and she merely pursed her lips before looking away. And while what they felt was different, if anything, Filippo felt a miniscule amount of comfort knowing that he wasn’t the only one going through something.

But, the fact remained that they were at a party, and being unhappy or confused simply wouldn’t do. And at that moment, he could think of only one solution to fix things for the two of them.

He polished off the rest of his beer and then set it on the nearby kitchen counter before his arm over Eva’s shoulders. She looked up at him, and he offered her a bright smile.

“Come on sweetheart, let’s get really drunk.”

#elippo #skam italia #my writing

17 notes · View notes

giantmonsterdad · 7 years

Text

Five Sixteen Drabble: 1/9

Not much tries to bother a solitary dragon in his wooded home. Except a bold gunslinger doing a favor for a friend. (Set before the fall of Overwatch, but after the split of the Shimada Clan.)

Overwatch Jesse McCree + Hanzo Shimada

Word count: 2143 Warnings: Minor violence and mentions of alcoholism. AO3: link Notes: One of 9 drabbles for @ohhicas‘s birthday. More will be posted over the next month, all different ships and fandoms. (Also warm-ups for the fic series I’ve been working on but that’s something else.) HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LEFT TITTY. (Partially inspired by @radio-silents‘s mercenary Hanzo design. I’d already had loner merc Hanzo in my head, but that look really sets a scene.)

Hands that haven’t been steady for years fidget across the fletching of a cocked arrow.

Typically his safehouse sees nothing but the occasional glimpse of wildlife. At the biggest, an occasional deer. But the footsteps he can hear now are even, two heavy feet and definitely of the human variety. If it was another member of the family looking for him, they wouldn’t clip through the underbrush so loudly. And any employers wouldn’t come calling in person. He had channels for that, a hard-to-find digital connection that he maintained if only to keep his skills sharp and some cash in his name.

This has to be a bounty hunter.

A noise through it in the background while he meditated--not that it came easy to him. It was a late afternoon and he’d been contemplating an unopened bottle of sake instead of clearing his mind. His stores were getting low, spring grasses getting high around this cottage. The trickle of a nearby stream louder as of late, as there’d been plenty of rainfall this spring. Anyone else would consider this forest home a haven, but this Shimada had the weight of the world on his shoulders. Or, at least, it felt like it at times.

Instead of enjoying a warm afternoon, he was perched in a lofted window, shaded by the branches of a nearby tree, straining for any further sounds of footsteps. His sonic arrow would do little good in such a confined space, so he had to rely on his natural senses. The distant coo of a quail, a breeze through healthy trees, a slightly jingle of metal that accompanies a foot-fall--Hanzo wastes no time in letting his arrow fly toward the noise. No line of sight through the trees, but his ears are as good as they ever were. Already he reaches for another arrow as the sound of another human being reaches him. A groan, muffled cursing in what sounds to be English, though he can’t tell from the distance and the rustle of spring.

The archer slips from his windowed perch and through the tree that had sheltered him. Branch to branch until he’s caught sight of his quarry. A wide-brimmed hat knocked to the ground, black cloak around broad shoulders, a few glints of metal--albeit one from a holstered gun, but it existed nonetheless. It seems Hanzo’s first arrow had hit just glancing off the intruder’s breastplate and sunk into flesh below collarbone, placed just as well as it could to immobilize the man’s right shoulder. Looks like that revolver won’t do him much good for the time being.

A right shoulder marked by a logo in black, red, and the white of a skull--Hanzo flexes his hands in frustration before swinging down from the tree. The momentum of his fall lets him crush his bow into the man’s chest and pin him to the trunk of the tree before he’d even know he’d been hit. There’s no sneaking up on a dragon in his own territory.

“Goddamn, you greet all your guests like this?” The gunslinger hisses out, his hands automatically trying to brace against the Storm Bow so he can at least breathe. Not that it’d be easy, considering the arrow in the crook of his shoulder and the blood that seeps down over the straps of his breastplate.

“Only trespassers.” At a closer inspection, Hanzo vaguely recognizes this face from an occasional news report. Definitely a legitimate member of Blackwatch, and not one pretending to be in such a dangerous profession. Probably not a bounty hunter, then. “This is not the first time one of your people has come looking for me.” His English is rusty, but fluent. After all, it’s not like he speaks much of any language lately.

The agent struggles weakly against the bow on his chest for a moment, though his right arm has almost no strength to it. He groans, ends up just keeping a hold of the bow at this point and not much else. “I ain’t comin’ to knock you off, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.” A sigh and he lets his head tilt against the tree behind him.

Are the trees always so blurry around here?

“Been sent t’ make sure nothin’s happened t’ you. Got some intel that Talon might’ve gotten their hands on the last Shimada, and that ain’t somethin’ my crew would be lookin’ forward to.” The gunslinger blinks, slow, and when he opens his eyes again, he can see less of foliage and more trickles of light than anything else. That arrow went deeper than he’d thought, must have nicked something.

Hanzo expels air in what almost sounds like a laugh. Talon managing to coerce him? A once-mighty dragon could not stoop so low. But, the American’s words do have a note of truth through such a ridiculous accent. The thought of removing the bow from the newcomer’s chest is trickling into his mind when he notices the man’s hand slip from the weapon to dangle loosely at his side. It’s the only warning Hanzo gets before he’s supporting all of the man’s weight on his own.

It wouldn’t do well for his isolation if he lets a member of Overwatch bleed to death in his front yard, now would it?

Jesse wakes to the smell of wood fire and the sound of a tea kettle some time later. Not to mention pain from his shoulder. What starts out as a chuckle turns into an irritated laugh and just as he's tempted to abandon his urge to sit up, someone presses a hand behind his good shoulder and helps to lift him the rest of the way. Gathers his left hand up to hold onto a warm cup of tea.

“Drink this.”

It takes the gunslinger a moment to focus his eyes. One long blink, two, he scrunches his face up and opens his eyes a third time and gets a headache when his vision finally clears. The hand giving him tea has a familiar dragon head printed on its wrist. That’s right, he’s Shimada-hunting, isn’t he?

“A guy has to take an arrow to the shoulder before he gets some hospitality? Shit must be rough all around.” Jesse finally takes the cup under his own strength, holding it in front of his mouth as he watches Hanzo move back towards the stove. Whatever he’s being made to drink smells awful, but doesn’t taste too bad, at least. Could use a bit of sugar, in his opinion. “Thanks, though.”

The archer doesn’t particularly reply. Jesse gets a grunt of acknowledgement as Hanzo moves about the kitchen--well, area. Left to his own devices, McCree manages to get a look at the forest house. One central room, the bed that he currently sits on in the corner. A kitchen set-up diagonal from it, full stove and sink and a skinny fridge. There’s a table with two chairs--one pushed completely in--below an open window and what he can see of the sky is a dark purple. Most of the walls are covered in things. Newspaper clippings, framed pictures, several bookshelves cluttered with books and other items. Jesse can see a door close by, open to a small bathroom, and a ladder by the front door that leads into a dark space above them--an attic of sorts, he guesses.

Any thoughts of this place being just a safehouse go out that twilit window, as this looks and feels like a home. It must be where Hanzo has lived in all the years since he--gave up the blade, so to speak. They’d known for some time where this place was--in the middle of fucking nowhere forest, and Jesse had to get directions twice from locals before he found the dirt path leading to this cabin--but after their first attempts to convince him to join Overwatch failed, the organization had just put a plainclothes in the local village and left things as-is.

And it was the plain-clothes who had alerted them to Talon in the area.

Normally, Jesse wouldn’t go on a mission as low-profile as this, but a small dragon covered in cold metal and angry scars had appealed to his softer side. Not that it’d taken much convincing. Someone’s going to owe him something extra after this, though. Considering the arrow that he’d taken to the shoulder.

Speaking of, Jesse glances down. Armor and shirt are now missing, and his wound had been wrapped rather skillfully if he had to admit it. It still hurts like hell, but he won’t be bleeding out any time soon. Which is preferable, of course. Something from Hanzo’s direction begins to smell like soup by the time the elder Shimada speaks.

“They did make an attempt,” he says softly, stirring at something on the stove.

It takes Jesse a moment to realize that they were suddenly continuing their conversation from earlier. A surprise, but he was curious, after all. “Y’dont say.” He continues to sip at the drink he’s been given, and the more he does, the less he dislikes it. Which must be saying something.

Another noise from Hanzo, nonverbal communication must be an inherited trait, Jesse notes. “Two agents. They would not take no for an answer.”

There’s about a minute of silence before Jesse realizes that Hanzo is not going to provide details without being prompted. The stove clicks off, and the archer is heading toward the bed with two bowls of--something. McCree’s aching brain supplies “ramen” as the bowl’s contents come into view. One bowl is passed to him, the other Hanzo keeps as he sits on the edge of the bed with his trespasser.

“What answer did they take?” McCree has traded strange tea for familiar ramen and picks at it slowly. His right hand still doesn’t have as much control to it as he’d like, but it’s something. Hanzo replies without even looking at him.

“Their lives.” As to if Hanzo means he let them keep them in exchange for leaving, or took them to make an example to the rest of Talon, the gunslinger can only guess. In fact, he’s not sure he wants to know, at this point, since Hanzo could’ve done the same to him while he was passed out. After all, this is a guy who, for all intents and purposes, killed his own brother in cold blood. Killing a stranger who threatens him would be a simple action.

The two of them sit in silence as they eat. An occasional sound of forest from beyond cottage walls, a soft couple of ticks of the stove as it cools down. McCree feels less like death, he notes, but still downwind from a pasture by the time he finishes his bowl. He prods at a floating bit of onion in the broth for a moment.

“Is the trek down to the village safe in the dark?” Jesse hadn’t seen any lights on the way up, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any. Not that he particularly wanted to stumble around in an unfamiliar forest at night with a chest wound.

“No.” A simple answer as Hanzo takes both of their bowls back to the kitchen, emptying any remaining broth before he stacks them up to wash later. “Not unless you know the area.”

“Oh, yeah, just have t’ follow the map I made on the way up.” McCree snorts and it hurts a little. It hurts a little less when the Shimada echoes him with a similar noise. He might have a hole in his shoulder, but at least he still has his humor.

“You are going nowhere tonight, Agent McCree.” The archer states as he crosses his arms, brows lifted slightly. “I may actively dislike Talon, but Overwatch has--my respect, at least.”

So, he’d done more than make dinner and wrap a wound in the hours that his intruder had been passed out. It wouldn’t take much look into Blackwatch’s activities to find Jesse’s name, considering the profile of some of the missions he’d been on. Shouldn’t he already know not to underestimate a Shimada?

“Fair enough.” The gunslinger reaches up to prod fingertips gently at the bandaging on his shoulder--yeah, still hurts. Why’d he do that, again? At least it feels like, under the wrap, that Hanzo had stitched the puncture shut. That’ll make things easier for when he gets back to civilization. Though he suspects he’ll get one hell of an ear-full from Captain Amari, at the very least.

“One more thing.” In the time that McCree’s been checking out his shoulder, Hanzo has walked to his kitchen table and back. Holding now what looks to be a photograph, taken from a distance. The archer places it into his guest’s hand, and McCree finds he recognizes the face. “I’d appreciate not being watched.”

Right. A keen-eyed Shimada, at that.

#overwatch #mchanzo #jesse mccree #hanzo shimada #ohhicas #it's not a far stretch to go from my accent to mccree's i should be ashamed.#zenith: fic.#c: from one thing know ten thousand things.#c: i’m the quick. you’re the dead.#s: remember this moment.

3 notes · View notes