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It Will Come Back

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“Don’t say it,” Hanzo gritted, testing the bars over the window of the horse trailer.

 

McCree’s mouth split into a grin.

 

Don’t .”

 

“Hold yer horses.”

 

Hanzo glared at him. “I will kill you and make lockpicks from your bones.”

 

“I think I’m more use alive to ya than dead,” McCree said. “I’m expensive, remember?” He was feeling along the trailer doors for screws. Hanzo watched him put his shoulder forward and struck the door with it once, twice, then came away rubbing his arm. “Damn.”

 

Hanzo crossed his arms, leaned against the metal wall of the trailer and watched the moon coming just over the horizon. The mission had been successful, but at the cost of missing their extraction window. Attempting the edge of the desert had been the better escape option, especially with McCree’s expertise in badland survival. “Piece of pie,” McCree had said, dropping his serape over Hanzo’s head to lessen Hanzo’s chances of sunstroke. Irritated, Hanzo had been nonetheless grateful for the cover.

 

The bandit gang had found them walking a deserted stretch of road, a sign ahead saying 50 Miles to Duckwater. The shootout had been short-lived. They were both exhausted, low on ammunition and without cover. The gang members had tied their hands and pulled black sacks over their heads, congratulating themselves and asking each other how they’d spend their share of the bounty. Jesse’s alone was enough to set them up for life. More than once Hanzo had rolled his eyes at their chattering. They weren’t imaginative.

 

Hanzo had been a puzzle, and not one the gang leader had seemed eager to deal with. Circled up in their meager camp, the gang members had presented their find to their leader without fanfare. Lucky was a small, thin man with tattoos crawling up his bare scalp and dark eyes that glinted with intelligence. He’d nodded to McCree, “Been a long time, Jesse.” Then had put a gun to Hanzo’s temple in the same breath, thumb resting on the hammer.

 

Hanzo had looked sidelong at the gangleader. He had lived his life suspended on the hook of Sojiro’s expectations. A gun against his person had ceased to qualify as terrifying. “Your friends have less manners than you, McCree,” he had observed.

 

“Now, Lucky, than ain’t wise,” McCree had hedged as if he were talking to a dog about to lap up antifreeze.

 

Raising an eyebrow, Lucky had cocked the hammer back. “Why not?”

 

“‘Cause he’s worth five times what I am. No foolin’.”

 

The gangleader had given Hanzo an appraising look. “I’m listening,”

 

“Look up Shimada-gumi.”

 

Someone had pulled their phone out and typed furiously while Lucky held his hand out, waiting, until they’d passed it to him. He’d scrolled its contents for a few tense seconds, then said, “Well.”

 

“Well what?” McCree had demanded. “I’m doin’ you a solid, here.”

 

“What’s your play, Jesse? We keep him and let you go?”

 

Hanzo had kept his face carefully neutral. They were well beyond the Shimada-gumi’s area of influence. The gang neither had the reach nor the resources to contact what remained of the clan. His life had hinged on whether Lucky knew it or not.

 

“If that’s what you’re offerin’, I graciously accept.” Then McCree’s lips had tightened in a grim smile. “But I know you ain’t that nice or that stupid. Call it a gesture of goodwill, one desert dog to another.”

 

Lucky had tossed the phone back in its owner’s general direction. “I only got so much time and patience and neck to stretch out, McCree. You know how it is.” He gave Jesse a cryptic stare. “Whichever one of you is alive in the morning is the lucky hostage.”

 

A cold breeze swept through the trailer. Hanzo pulled up the collar of his jacket. “Do they expect us to kill each other for the honor of being ransomed?”

 

McCree was crouching down to sit on the floor. “Yeah I don’t know what that’s--” He paused, his gaze locked somewhere beyond where Hanzo stood. In the dim light, Hanzo saw McCree swallow. Hanzo looked out the window again. Nothing had changed, just the same expanse of scrub, ratty grass, hills in the distance, and the moon painting it grey under the clear sky. When he looked back, McCree had his face in his hands.

 

Hanzo’s gut tightened. “What are you not telling me?”

 

McCree gave him a rueful laugh and dropped his hands. “That’s a full moon, ain’t it.”

 

“Yes it is. What does that have to do with anything?”

 

McCree was silent for a beat. “Guess it don’t matter none. It’ll happen whether you believe it or not.”

 

“Out with it, McCree.”

 

“You know how I, ah, take time off? Just disappear every month for a week?”

 

Hanzo nodded. He would be lying if he hadn’t noticed McCree’s absence. Before he’d gotten to know the cowboy better, Hanzo had assumed he was spending his paycheck on debauchery somewhere in Europe. Jesse had always returned more ragged than usual, but there had been a fierceness about him. A clarity that didn’t come from alcohol. Hanzo had mentioned it in passing to Winston, who’d adjusted his glasses and said McCree took necessary medical leave.

 

Looking at McCree now, Hanzo saw no trace of illness, no weakness. Perhaps McCree just hid it well. “How long do you have?” Hanzo asked, mouth dry as the desert outside. He hadn’t been a part of Overwatch long, but they had grown on him, worn down his cynicism until some part of him believed in their cause. And now he was going to lose McCree because of a mission run too long, missing whatever monthly treatment he took leave for.

It was absurd. Hanzo would not allow it.

 

McCree blinked. “How long do I…” He chuckled and Hanzo felt a flush creep up his neck. “I ain’t dyin’, darlin’. I’m just a werewolf.”

 

Hanzo stared at McCree long enough that he far exceeded rudeness.

 

“Darndest thing, right? Made puberty hell, I tell you what.”

 

Hanzo had been speechless very few times in his life. This counted among them as the strangest. When the gears in his head began turning again, the details fell into place; the absences, the odd, wild feeling of McCree when he returned.

 

Lucky’s strange mention of only one of them surviving until dawn.

 

“You leave to contain it,” Hanzo said.

 

“Can’t really do that much,” McCree admitted, adjusting his hat and not looking at Hanzo. “Just find some secluded woods and let it run its course. Kinda like a fever.”

 

Hanzo paced the short length of the trailer, boots thumping against the wood. “You’ve never been able to stop or delay the change?”

 

McCree stood with a flap of his serape and walked into the shadows at the back of the trailer, tall form leaning in the corner. “Once,” McCree said haltingly.

 

“Explain.”

 

“I was with somebody. Passin’ the time, as they say.” McCree pulled his hat further down over his eyes. He looked like he wanted to disappear.

 

It took Hanzo a moment to catch his meaning. “ That kept you from changing?”

 

“I ain’t an expert! The change is like a rush of energy. Rolling in the hay focuses it? Gives it something else to do? I don’t know how to explain it proper. All I know is I didn’t change.” McCree leaned his head against the wall with a dull thud. “Fuck, I sound like a creep right now. I swear I ain’t sayin’ this to try and get you to sleep with me--I mean I wouldn’t mind, you’re hotter than damnation and I can’t say I never--” McCree covered his mouth and groaned.

 

Hanzo tensed, “Has it started?”

 

“No, just whatever’s left of my pride tryin’ to escape my body.”

 

Snorting, Hanzo regarded McCree trying desperately to fold himself into the wall. He’d harbored his own thoughts of what it might be like to get close to McCree, feel his big hands, taste his skin and feel the scratch of his beard. Unprofessional at best, dangerous and a detriment to the team’s integrity at worst. Better to keep his feelings close to his chest than risk it.

 

Or find out the difficult way that he couldn’t stand to be touched or allow the affections of someone else without over-examining every word, every gesture as some sort of play for power, a means to get the best of him.

 

Considering the situation, Hanzo’s normal reservations were calmed at the simplicity of it. In many respects, it resembled the conditions of a contract. Get in bed with the threat and hopefully neutralize it, or have his throat ripped out. It did not require feelings or tact.

 

“I agree to the idea,” Hanzo said.

 

McCree turned to him, his eyes reflecting back the moonlight, pale and eerie. Hanzo backed up until his shoulders touched the wall of the trailer. He knew somewhat of wolves from his time in exile. Hidden in a tree, he would listen to their song before he slept, then cup his hands over his mouth and answer them. The few times he had encountered them in the forest they had vanished with all speed, afraid of humans unless pressed by hunger or some unfortunate stroke of luck.

 

Judging by how McCree watched him, he did not share that fear.

 

Hanzo sank slowly into seiza. It galled him, but if he wanted to survive the night he would have to appear as little of a threat as possible. The opposite of what he’d done his entire life.

 

McCree prowled the other end of the trailer, peering out the window, huffing through his nose, walking back the other way, his steps gone silent on the floorboards. He pulled restlessly at his clothing, his hat falling to the floor, forgotten, his serape following it.

 

“Do you always play with your food?” Hanzo muttered.

 

As if remembering he was there, McCree fixed on him again. It took every ounce of willpower to remain still as McCree stalked towards him, the lines of his body stiff and predatory. As he passed through the patch of moonlight coming through the window bars, Hanzo saw the fresh gouges left in his breastplate from fingernails. McCree dropped into a crouch in front of him, nose twitching.

 

Hanzo forced himself from meeting McCree’s gaze. It would be seen as a direct challenge. He stared instead at McCree’s generous lower lip. “I will help you out of the armor if you don’t bite me,” Hanzo offered.

 

McCree pressed his face to Hanzo’s cheek, sniffing, working back towards his ear in sharp movements.

 

“If you bothered to condition your beard, it would be just as nice,” Hanzo said.

 

Rising slowly to his knees, McCree rested his hands on Hanzo’s shoulders, interested in the top of his head. Hanzo placed his hands tentatively on McCree’s breastplate, then moved them around to the buckles, undoing them blind. The armor came loose and Hanzo set it aside. McCree was leaning weight on him now, pushing him back against the wall, to one side, then the other, face in Hanzo’s hair, against his ear, his neck. Hanzo’s hands went back to brace against his own thighs, instinctively knowing not to let McCree push him over. It was a test, and while Hanzo could not safely push back, he would not yield ground either.

 

McCree sat back on his haunches, still close, lips hovering near. His pupils were large and dark, rimmed by gold. “Hanzo,” he rasped, then tipped his head, pushing their lips together. He tasted like tobacco, warmth. Hanzo was not expecting the careful slip of McCree’s tongue, the hesitant nips at his lips. Questions, invitations. It wasn’t until he kissed McCree with the same fervor that McCree pushed against him. Hanzo’s head met the wall with a dull sound, McCree’s hands scrabbling at Hanzo’s jacket until he discarded it, shivering in the cool air.

 

Suddenly McCree’s hands were everywhere, touching, pulling him away from the wall. Hanzo went without resisting, let McCree shove him down on the floor with a grunt. He pulled Hanzo’s legs up and around his hips and ground against him. The roughness, the shameless need of it was stiffening Hanzo’s cock faster than he’d anticipated. He’d never been treated this way before. No one had dared. To have who he was-- what he was--disregarded with abandon, it made his mouth fill with the sharp taste of adrenaline. He stole a hand between them and undid his belt, McCree’s hard stomach pressing against his knuckles. McCree wasted no time in fisting his hand in the fabric and pulling Hanzo’s pants down. He let Hanzo’s legs go briefly to get them off, then tugged them back around him. Gripping the waistband of Hanzo’s briefs, McCree tore through them and tossed the shredded remains over one shoulder, then reached for the fly of own his jeans.

 

Hanzo growled to get McCree’s attention. “Lubrication.”

 

McCree stared at him, licking his lips, then the fog of lust cleared enough for him to understand. He urged Hanzo onto hands and knees and pulled his hips up, hands spreading his cheeks, then McCree’s hot mouth was on him, tongue pushing at his asshole. Hanzo bit into the meat of his forearm to keep in the sounds he made. McCree seemed to take this personally and redoubled his efforts until he left Hanzo wet and opened and shaking.

 

Then McCree was rolling him onto his back and hooking Hanzo’s legs over his shoulders. He felt the blunt head of McCree’s cock press against him, then the burning stretch of McCree inside of him. McCree’s back arched, hair in his face, his hips curling forward. He dug both hands into the floorboards near Hanzo’s shoulders. Wood splintered as he started thrusting slow, tentative.

 

Hanzo threw an arm around McCree’s neck, the other grasping at his side, trying to find purchase. McCree was so hot under his hands, thick and searing inside of him, McCree’s weight driving his cock in deep and keeping it there. The moon bobbed into sight between the bars of the window. Hanzo fixated on it. At any moment they could be discovered, fucking on the dirty floor of a horse trailer like animals in a circus cage. Would they be stopped or jeered at? He imagined them cheering McCree on, some with hands down their pants at the sight of him pinned under McCree’s mostly clothed bulk.

 

Hanzo came with a choked sound and McCree followed, rocking them both through it. Slumped over, McCree pulled from him slowly and untangled their limbs. Hanzo pushed himself up onto his elbows, watching as McCree got to his feet and started to pace, discarding his clothing as he went. He paused by the window, facing into the wind. The moon haloed him, outlining his tall body in silver and darkness. Then McCree moved on, his bare feet almost silent on the wooden floor.

 

Get up , Hanzo told himself. They were captives in enemy territory and didn’t have the luxury of bathing in afterglow. He was reaching for his pants when McCree crouched next to him, kissing him, then pulled Hanzo back down with a rumbling growl. Hanzo watched McCree clean his chest and stomach with rough passes of his tongue, unsure of what to do with his hands. With each sweep, Hanzo caught sight of McCree’s teeth, now longer, whiter, sharper. McCree moved lower and lapped at his cock, balls, the insides of his thighs. Then McCree was nosing under him.

 

“McCree you don’t--” Hanzo grunted when McCree flipped him onto his stomach as though Hanzo weighed nothing and began cleaning the cleft of his ass. Hanzo tucked an arm under his chin, now hyper-aware of those teeth so close to his skin, though it was easy to get lost in the steady rhythm of Jesse’s tongue on him. Hot and clever, it began teasing at his asshole again. Hanzo shuddered, still sensitive. What was the rebound time for werewolves? Or was this simply Jesse?

 

As if to answer, Jesse was crawling over him. Hanzo gasped when teeth clamped onto the back of his neck, holding him down as Jesse split him wide again with his cock. He felt thicker this time. Whether it was because of the different position or the moon now higher in the sky, Hanzo didn’t know and couldn’t form the presence of mind to contemplate it with McCree’s hips slapping against his ass and cock pounding him with single-minded intensity. There was nothing careful about this. McCree’s weight pressing him to the rough floorboards said, You belong under me , and his teeth bruising Hanzo’s neck, his shoulders, said, Mine .

 

Hanzo’s cock did nothing but agree, hardening again under him as spikes of pleasure embedded themselves in his spine. The world narrowed to the push and drag of McCree’s dick and the way his body stretched to accommodate its girth, the hot trickle of blood down the back of his neck.

 

McCree’s mouth found the spot just behind his ear and orgasm roared through him. There was a splash of heat inside him, the rhythm of McCree’s hips slowing to a sinuous roll. Hanzo let himself go limp, cheek against the floor, heart thundering in his ears. McCree’s hips remained pressed tight to him, the aftershocks tightening Hanzo’s muscles around him and returning to throb in Hanzo’s prostate with the pressure of McCree’s cock against it. McCree was lapping at the bite on his neck that had bled with tender movements of his tongue. He gave the occasional lazy roll of his hips and set off another round of tremors with his softening cock.

 

They lay there for some minutes more. Soreness began to set in and Hanzo had had enough of McCree playing his body like a stringed instrument, all nerves and humming wires. “Off,” he gritted, pushing up on his elbows and lifting McCree as well. McCree made a surprised sound but pulled from him without being told again. He regarded Hanzo curiously as Hanzo cleaned himself as best he could with the remains of his underwear, then pulled on his clothing. There was a pile of old hay in the corner, musty but dry, and Hanzo stretched out on it, tucking his hands into his armpits. Without sex to distract him the cold came creeping in. His eyelids drooped, beyond worn out. He didn’t expect to sleep. Not in this cold and not with the threat of McCree turning into some ravenous wolf creature.

 

He watched McCree sitting on his haunches, hair mussed, head tilted with his ear towards the window. He couldn’t help but admire McCree’s arms, shoulders, the thick lines of his neck. The moon was past the window now, hopefully low enough to no longer be a looming problem.

 

Hanzo let his eyes close. A few minutes, he decided.

 

Sunlight on his eyelids woke him, slanting into the trailer from the window. He was warm, the hay softer than when he’d crawled onto it the night before. Something cold and wet pressed to Hanzo’s neck and he started with a swear. There was a huff behind him Hanzo felt against his back, then a large, furred head burrowed its way under his arm and rested on his side. Hanzo turned slowly, heart in his throat. A large wolf was spooned against him, rusty red and browns with cream colored fur on its belly and chest. It met Hanzo’s eyes and he heard its tail thump against the hay pile. It was at least the size of a bull.

 

“You are...big,” Hanzo said, then chuckled at the stupidity of the comment. McCree licked a wet stripe up the side of Hanzo’s face, making him growl and dry it with the sleeve of his jacket.

 

Then McCree raised his head, ears pricked towards the door of the trailer. A rumbling growl began low in his chest and he slunk from the pile of hay, body stiff and intent. Another minute and Hanzo heard the engines of the gang’s motorcycles.

 

A gruff voice yelled, “Hey, anybody alive in there? Let’s see who made it.”

 

Rolling to his feet, Hanzo padded across the trailer and crouched beside the door, flexing his hands. He made a sharp motion at McCree for silence. Regardless of who they’d expected to survive the night, they weren’t betting on both of them, nor McCree in his wolf shape. Hanzo showed his teeth in a grim smile that made McCree’s tail wag.

 

It was going to be an interesting morning.