His gun clicks as it lands in his holster, and he smirks to himself knowing you just had a damn well perfect view of almost every enemy landing on the dusty ground, bullets making new homestead in their chests. His mechanical hand whirs belatedly as it moves to rest on his belt buckle, while the other adjusts the brim of his hat closer to his sweating browline. He pauses, inhaling, taking in the view of the slouching overhang you and him had set down on. In his eyes, not much beat the view of Route 66- the mesas. It brought memories, how could he forget- but he had bigger fish to fry these days than his past. That was something to ponder on over a hard drink in his hand, in his own quarters. Hurt less to think on there. He turns to you now, serape fluttering in the wind, in something that could only be called cinematically perfect. Cheesy. But you still stared. A curious outsider to him, you knew close to nothing about your teammate- but here you were, hungering for just a glimpse. There was a shuffling of thick fabric as he came to the shaded part of the overhang, crutched himself on the wall beside you, and slid downwards into a sitting position.
"Weren't nothing on my part. Just some wrong people, n' the wrong place, at the wrong time."
He caught you off guard as he mumbled it, refusing your gaze, and you closed your dry mouth. You and him didn't prepare much for these missions together. Or maybe McCree was used to not drinking often in the desert. Regardless, you found yourself semi charmed at his humble response.
You knew the nickname Deadeye wasn't some dinky showman's title, with only fable to back it up- he had earned the gold belt buckle he wore. And that's what made you treat him respectfully. Not that he was a bad man- his past pervaded him, but only when he was drunk enough for it not to have a chance to sober up the marksman's mentality. McCree took things seriously when they needed taken seriously, sure- missions being one of these things. You never had a chance to enjoy something lighthearted with him- it just happened to be fate, and you were resigned enough to simply be okay with perceiving him from afar.
He reached to his back and pulled out a cigar, then a match. He stroke it up on the wall beside him as he'd done many a time before, and the cigar awoke into brilliant embers.
McCree found you were a pretty little thing, he thought passively as he let out a smoky breath- all doe eyes and pretty voice, and when he was drunk he often came to finding himself thinking of talking with you. Maybe something more. Didn't matter much he supposed, though. Wasn't reality. You both barely justified acquaintances, though if given the opportunity, he'd pounce on like a jungle cat to get you to talking to him more. When you did talk around him- as gingerly as it had been, he found your voice a-twinkling like bells in his ears. He knew you'd heard of his past- Ana being the most likely culprit of fanning the fire, when you first started training. But, he also knew you were interested in him. Deadeye don't miss much when it comes to sight. In his free time at base, his back always burned with your watchful eyes.
McCree snapped out of his lull, and your wide eyes bore into his once again, only mildly questioning, he thanked his stars- he'd been caught staring too. He looked away, brows furrowed as his teeth chewed on the cigar's bud. Not the first time you'd seen him drift off into thought, eyes focused one place only- but the sting of embarrassment never faltered. Maybe he'd match up to you one day as far as looking went. He adjusted his hat again, more out of habit at this point, and cleared his throat in defense of the lingering silence.
"You think I'd've noticed your pretty eyes by now, with how much you've been staring at me, too, darlin'."