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The mission, while a success, was very nearly not.

Tracer had throttled the engine of the transport the instant the team was loaded, the door still partially open. They'd taken off in a roar of turbines and a hail of bullets, Morrison providing cover fire from the bay door while Lúcio tended to D.Va, the girl bleeding from a pretty nasty gash in her thigh.
The wound had come from her mecha, a piece of shrapnel having torn into her when an enemy rocket nailed it.

D.Va was furious about the loss of her mech, not realizing that her injuries, really, could have been so much worse. If McCree hadn't been there to catch her, the fall would have broken her spine like dry spaghetti.
Morrison's visor was shattered in half, a near miss from a sniper that almost took an eye but only grazed his skull, Tracer was heavily favoring an arm and winced at the strain of controlling the transport, and McCree, while bleeding in several places, still had his damn hat. But all in all, they were lucky to still be breathing.

Hanzo limped his way to McCree's side where the gunslinger had slumped against the wall- near enough so D.Va could hook her fingers into his chaps and have something to hold on to through the pain -and dropped down next to him with only a modicum of his usual grace. McCree shot him a tired smile, which Hanzo acknowledged with a huff, reaching out to rest his hand on the cowboy's arm.

Hanzo himself didn't get out unscathed, the sleeve of his kyudo-gi torn and one prosthetic sparking worryingly. And if other his hand shook where it gripped his bow still, no one commented on it.

“Howdy, darlin'.” McCree's drawl was tinged with a rasp, too much smoke inhalation, but was warm all the same as he leaned into the archer's side. “How're you holdin' up?”

Hanzo only jerked his head, like shaking off a fly, and McCree let it drop with a quiet hum. It would take Hanzo a while still to come down from the adrenalin high, the gunslinger knew, and it was best to just let him be and give him physical contact to ground him.

Morrison finally closed the bay door with a slam, rubbing his temple as he set his gun down.

“Status, Lúcio?” he asked stiffly, coming to crouch at D.Va's wounded side and studying the gash. Lucio flashed a brief, if strained, smile, his speakers playing a low and soothing tune as he worked.

“Not super great, but it'll be alright once we get back to base. Stable right now, but it'll probably need stitches, which sucks.” the musician replied with a click of his tongue, talking over D.Va's irritated and pained groans.

“Really? Awww maaan, that better not scAR, dammit Lúcio that hurts!” her grumbled commentary cut off with a screech, digging her fingers into McCree's thigh and making the gunslinger wince.

“Easy, little lady! I need that!”

“Imagine how I feel!” she snapped waspishly, grimacing and for once not shying away from Morrison's hand when he smoothed down her hair.

“Language, Hana.” he chided, and D.Va scowled at the snicker she heard from Lúcio.

“Whatever, pops.” she growled back, but her tone lacked heat, slumping against the floor with a relieved sigh when the painkillers Lucio had shot her up with started working. The music was helping, a steady throb that brought her heart rate back down to normal. Suddenly, she was overwhelmingly exhausted.

“What's the ETA lookin' like, sugar?” McCree called up to the cockpit, the leg D.Va didn't have a hold on bouncing with post-battle jitters and making the spurs jingle.

“About an hour, love, I'm pushin' her as fast as I can.” Came the faintly apologetic voice of Tracer, the girl's wild head poking around the doorway to check on them before turning back around. She still had a smudge of dirt over her nose.

McCree made a vague noise of assent that turned into a grumble, Hanzo's hand having moved to his knee to press down with steady, firm pressure, stopping the restless movement.
The gunslinger was hyper-aware of the contact, of the warm weight of the archer against his side, and huffed like a hound. While he welcomed the change in focus- Deadeye always left him a little rattled -he felt acutely uncomfortable being so attuned to his boyfriend-lover-thing while the team kid still had a hold of his leg like a security blanket.

The flight was spent in companionable silence except for Lúcio's healing music, the man himself having curled up against the wall to tap away at a tablet now that D.Va was stable and resting, her head pillowed on Morrison's thigh. Morrison seemed content to doze, nursing a headache and wanting to keep the light out of his sensitive eyes, his shattered visor and cracked mask on the floor next to him.

McCree couldn't help but notice that Hanzo, while outwardly calm, seemed to be vibrating against him with repressed energy. The archer's breathing is forcefully even, his fingers flexing against McCree's leg. The gunslinger shifted to let Hanzo settle against him easier, choking off a noise of surprise when Hanzo all but shoved his head under McCree's scruffy chin and tossed his sparking calf over McCree's shin.
It was the closest Hanzo could get to being in McCree's lap without actually crawling on top of him, and the gunslinger tangled the fingers of his gloved hand into the fabric of the archer's hakama to try, vainly, to distract himself from the heat that pooled at the base of his spine.

His mechanical hand clenched into a fist, scraping lightly against the floor, and Morrison cracked an eye open briefly to study him.
McCree smiled at him, lopsided and weak, which seemed to appease the soldier enough that he sighed and went back to his doze.

Blowing his bangs out of his face with a wheeze, McCree tries to settle back against the wall and only succeeds in pushing closer to Hanzo, shivering when the archer nuzzles into his throat.

This would be the longest hour of his life.

Mercy is the first to greet them when they touch down at base once Tracer guides the transport into the hangar.
They unload with Morrison carrying a groggy D.Va, who Mercy immediately fusses over. They head off to the medbay, Morrison declaring that debrief would be after they've rested, which is a shock coming from the former commander, normally a stickler for rules.

McCree is thankful for the respite, eager for a shower and a nap, slipping away before Mercy can hound him about going with them. He's had worse, nothing some alcohol and bandages can't fix.

He has a hand on the small of Hanzo's back as they walk in case the archer stumbles- he really should get that looked at -McCree thinks, right before his paramour shoves him bodily behind a stack of crates along the hangar wall.

McCree nearly trips over his boots, “Darlin', what're you doin', easy now-” gets cut off with a harsh wheeze of air when he's pushed up against the wall, and his confusion morphs into need with shocking speed when Hanzo damn near climbs him.

The archer's hands tangle roughly in his hair, and McCree spares only a passing thought for his hat as it drifts to the ground before his mind blanks, focused on how Hanzo slams their mouths together.
The gunslinger huffs a groan, his hands flying to Hanzo's hips to try and steady him, gentle him a little, growling “Easy, honey, easy” through the brutal kiss and getting his hair pulled for it. McCree whines, a desperate throaty sound, when Hanzo yanks his head back and starts peppering his neck with biting kisses.

“Never disappear on me like that.” Hanzo snarls against his Adam’s apple, referring to when McCree had bolted away from the payload to distract their pursuers.
The gunslinger winces, shudders, spurs jangling noisily as he shuffles against the wall and slides his hands up the archer's sides.
“Shit, darlin', I'll never leave yer side again-Fuck!” the curse is snakeskin rough and hoarse, his back bowing harshly when Hanzo reaches down to grab the front of his crotch none-too-gently.

McCree twists his hips, panting out a few hard breaths before his mouth is occupied again, Hanzo's tongue doing its damnedest to map his molars, and the gunslinger jumps to reciprocate. The archer's free hand digs into the nape of his neck, roughly dragging the serape off before shoving into his shirt to scratch over his collarbone.
McCree squirms and fumbles with the knot of Hanzo's obi, groaning every other breath and pressing his advantage when he bites Hanzo's lip and the archer whines.
He flips their position in a flurry of movement, slamming Hanzo against the wall with a grunt before shoving the ragged kyudo-gi off of his shoulder. Hanzo licks his lips and pants, hands flying to McCree's ridiculous belt buckle to yank on it impatiently, making the gunslinger chuckle breathlessly.

“God-damn, yer the prettiest fuckin' thing when yer fired up like this.” McCree growls, pushing into Hanzo's hands and relishing the way the archer flushes scarlet, his pupils blown so wide his eyes look obsidian.
Hanzo's hair is slowly coming free of the scarf, black strands draping over his face and shoulders like spilled ink, and only accentuates the graceful curve of his neck when he tips his head back against the wall.

The archer moans low and pleading in his throat, winding his hand in McCree's shirt to yank him closer, grinding against the gunslinger's thigh. McCree swears roughly, reaching down to help Hanzo finally open his pants, before shoving his own hands into the archer's hakama. The mechanical hand wraps around to grab a generous handful of Hanzo's pert ass, the flesh hand diving down to encircle swollen flesh, only to muffle a pained groan in the archer's shoulder as his fingers are immediately coated in precum.

“Jesus christ you're so wet, darlin'- how long you been achin' for this?” he grinds out, licking a hot stripe up to Hanzo's sharp jaw. Hanzo, for his part, buckles against McCree and whimpers, throaty and desperate, trying to hitch his leg over the gunslinger's hip.
It turns out to be the injured leg, as he hisses in sudden startled pain and lowers it again, trembling all over. McCree shushes him, groping the firm cheek in his hand once more before pulling away, diving in to kiss away any protests.

“Easy there, sugar, jus' need ya to turn 'round for me is all.” he soothes, pressing on Hanzo's side to help guide him. The archer is quick to comply, and McCree has to reach down to grab himself through his underwear to ride the throb of need that pulses through him when Hanzo bends at the waist, forearms braced on the wall, presenting himself shamelessly.

“Fuck, yer perfect.” McCree growls, loosening the hakama ties before yanking them down to Hanzo's prosthetic knees, sparing a kiss to the dip of the archer's back as he does so. Hanzo shivers and presses back harder, the muscles in his back rolling with the motion, and swears colorfully at McCree in Japanese.

“Jesse, just shut up,” he huffs, tone sharp but lacking any real bite, curving to stare at the disheveled gunslinger, shirt rucked up and hair a mess. “I need you.” Hanzo finishes, almost shy, and McCree wheezes a feeble groan and grabs the archer's ass with both hands, kneading the muscle firmly.

“Anythin' you want, sweetheart, just a sec.” his voice is deep and warm, syrupy as molasses, belying the way the gunslinger dips down and fumbles a moment in the pouches on his belt. He comes back up with a small, travel sized bottle of lube- one can never be too prepared -and rips his glove off with his teeth before popping the cap. Hanzo shuffles impatiently at the noise, cock heavy and leaking where it hangs between his legs.
He's just about to snap at McCree to hurry when he feels slick fingers rubbing over his hole, and the words die in his throat with an embarrassing gurgle. McCree laughs breathlessly, gingerly breaching the tight ring with one finger and bending forward to press wet, open mouthed kisses to the back of Hanzo's neck.

They pant and move together for a moment, Hanzo's squirms getting progressively more frantic as McCree works to three fingers, scissoring and stretching as patiently as he can despite his lover's need. He'll be careful with Hanzo every time, no matter how long they've been together, refusing to hurt the archer.
Hanzo, however, is groaning out half words and shoving back onto his hand, and McCree finally relents when a titanium heel kicks back and knocks into his shin.

“Now, Jesse, more, please.” he's dipping from English to Japanese and back, digging his fingers into the wall and arching prettily. McCree will never leave him wanting.
The gunslinger shifts and reaches down to free his cock from its confines and holding it steady by the base, his mechanical hand gripping Hanzo's hip to steady him.
He hunches his hips and grits his teeth, pushing in agonizingly slowly, and digs his forehead into the space between Hanzo's shoulder blades.

The archer's mouth drops open, a high moan rattling out of his throat, unconsciously standing up on tiptoe to present a better angle, thighs shaking when McCree bottoms out. The gunslinger groans, the sound seemingly drug from the depths of his chest, and slides both hands around to cup Hanzo's chest. He pants harshly and holds still for a moment, messily kissing the archer's spine and swallowing muffled grunts every time Hanzo shifts and flexes.

Hanzo keens at the pause, biting his lip and purposefully clenching down to hear McCree curse and hump forward reflexively. It's enough to get McCree moving finally, the gunslinger pulling back and immediately setting a brutal pace that has Hanzo wailing, head thrown back in abandon and hair bouncing loose around his shoulders.

McCree snarls and rakes a hand down the archer's back to watch angry lines bloom in vivid red against his pale skin, the gunslinger's hair clinging to his sweat slicked neck and face.
In a distant corner of his mind, he hopes the cameras are turned off. But even if they were, he's sure the base can hear the way Hanzo is all but howling, crying out at every thrust and begging hoarsely in broken English.

McCree can't stop his own ragged groans, growling through clenched teeth, bolts of heat lancing down his spine at every heavy slap of skin on skin. Dimly, he feels Hanzo's bad leg falter, and without even pausing in his rhythm, reaches down and hooks a hand under the archer's thigh and hauls it up, easily taking the added weight.

Hanzo claws frantically at the wall, his voice jumping higher and panting moans reaching a fever pitch. “Jesse Jesse Jesse,” sounds like a mantra in his wrecked voice, a prayer to whatever heaven is listening, and McCree intends to make him sing.

He grunts and moves his free hand to dig into the firm muscle of Hanzo's pec, thumbing the dusky nipple to a stiff peak before using his grip as leverage to haul the archer back into his thrusts.
The delighted smile that splits McCree's flushed face when Hanzo's voice cracks and almost gives completely out lasts only a moment before it's a grimace of near-pain, ducking down to bite the meat of the archer's shoulder, scrabbling to outlast him.

Hanzo lasts only a few seconds before he's tensing all over, shuddering mightily at the gravely encouragement in his ear, “C'mon baby, c'mon, fuckin' hell you're gorgeous-” and arches sharply, jackknifing and spasming hard around McCree's cock as he comes on the floor, on the wall, on his own chest, in thick ropes of white. He tries to scream, only manages a strung out, choked cry, and reaches back to grab McCree's hip tightly.
McCree curses once, twice, speeding up his erratic thrusts for a mere moment before going still, groaning heavily into the back of Hanzo's neck and crushing the archer to him, hips moving in jerky, abortive thrusts as he empties himself in his trembling, gasping lover.

Hanzo is making tiny overwrought sounds, tears of over-stimulation beading at the corners of his eyes while he comes down from the high, and doesn't fight it when his leg gives out. McCree catches him, letting them both slide to the ground in a graceless heap, the gunslinger rearranging them and hefting the archer back to lean against his chest.
Hanzo takes the support gladly, his head lolling back on McCree's shoulder as they catch their breath.

McCree hums a pleased noise, wrapping his arms loosely around Hanzo and pressing gentle, loving kisses anywhere he can reach. Hanzo shivers, both from the attention and from the feeling of cum drooling down his ass.

“Y'alright, darlin'?” McCree asks, voice a deep sandpaper rasp, and Hanzo doesn't trust his own to answer. He doesn't think he even has a voice left, so he simply nods, exhausted, turning his head to press his nose under McCree's ear.

“Good. Damn, I love when ya get needy after a shit mission.” McCree huffs with a tired laugh, and Hanzo only swats at him halfheartedly in retaliation.

He can't help the fact that he needs, on a soul deep level, to feel that McCree is unharmed and alive after a mission that goes south- needs to be reminded of his purpose and drive, grounded back into the present after a bloodbath with something visceral. It may be a terrible coping method, but it works well for both of them, reaffirming that they're still here with each other.

They stay in the hangar for a few more minutes, cooling down and trading sweet kisses, before they attempt to clean up and redress. Hanzo's clothes are a mess and McCree's shirt is missing a few buttons, both of them drenched in sweat and hopelessly mussed, and eventually they give up and accept that they definitely look like they just fucked each others souls out.

McCree carries Hanzo back to their room under the guise that the archer's leg is acting up, but in reality, Hanzo can't walk quite yet. The halls are blessedly empty, and Hanzo settles against McCree's chest with a contented hum, basking in the smell of cigarillo smoke, cedarwood, sweat, and the musk of sex.

They definitely need a shower, now.