AN: I got sucked into the Overwatch fandom and into rarepair hell. RIP me.
The nerves in his legs were on fire; he really needed to remove his prostheses soon. Seventy two hours of continually wearing them was pushing it. He only had to let loose one last arrow, and he could bail the hell out of there. His target was slowly moving, glancing around her and out of the windows to make sure her way was free of danger.
Hanzo wanted to scoff at her visibly useless scans of the premises. He had been tailing her for hours now. The High Priest, they call her. Delusional, the lot of them. Her guards had been incapacitated, or otherwise disposed of with ruthless efficiency. The only real problem Hanzo had encountered was that the cult that she was presiding over was incredibly secretive and hid away. It took him two entire weeks to track them down. Ever since he had 'come clean' because of Overwatch, he had cut ties with most of his past, although he still had his contacts when he needed them. You never know how a group of seasoned sex-workers would come in handy one day when they owned you a few favours after you killed their abusive bosses. They had been dicks anyway, and they had yet to pay back the loan they had taken to start their trafficking. Plus the girls and boys he had helped get rid of unsavoury people were all pretty sweet, if a bit handsy.
He wanted to get back home, finally get away from all the snow and biting cold, and get into a warm bath with his beloved with perhaps a good glass of fine wine. He hiked his thick woolen scarf higher over his nose, and breathed in deeply and exhaled a small could of white puff, preparing for his final shoot.
He had to get back to Gibraltar soon and he had no wish to await more than he had already done so. He needed to call the headquarters for extraction.
Hanzo was exhausted by the time he came back during a the sultry night in Gibraltar, welcoming the heat of his home as compared to the frigid cold of Canada. Those cults were quite a hiccup to the reputation of the country. He did not even have the time to buy some souvenirs for his teammates. That left him with only a damp overcoat and aching knees. His prostheses did not help either. They had warmed up by the time he touched foot to the soil of the headquarters, but the chill had settled in his bones.
He could deal with the mission report in the morning. For now, he wanted something warm to fill his stomach, a bath with perhaps the scented oils he had procured a few weeks prior that made his skin soft and satiny and cuddles with his beloved.
He jumped off the transporting vehicle as soon as the ramp touched down, leaving Lena to park it properly, nodding to her as he hightailed out of the hangar. He went straight (he snorted a tiny little bit when the thought came to him. Shimada Hanzo? Straight? As if) to the kitchen, intent on digging in the fridge for leftovers he could warm up. He encountered no one in the halls, surprisingly. He would have expected to meet up with at least a few of his teammates. Overwatch was overrun by chronic insomniacs and Omnics who powered down only once every few weeks.
By the time he reached the kitchen, he had realised he was famished. He washed his hands on the sink meticulously before turning to the fridge. It seemed that luck was on his side this time. He found a plate of croissants that looked amazing, and grabbed two before putting back on the cling film that was protecting them. There was no notes on them to indicate that no one should touch them, so they were free territory. It was a miracle that they survived long enough in the fridge that Hanzo had the opportunity to get to them.
He searched around in the cupboards for an appropriate ware to warm then up in the microwave and popped them in as soon as he found one. He considered making tea as well, but he chose not to. Tea and Hanzo at night did not mix if he wanted not to use the restroom every five minutes. Instead, he found a jar of jam - orange, peculiar but he liked it. He had the time to place it on the table and went to retrieve his croissants and returned back to sit down and enjoy his warm pastries.
As soon as the last bite was stuffed as delicately as he could in his mouth, he was throwing his plate into the dishwasher and the pot of jam back in its place. He was a man on a mission and his objective was to go down on his love and enjoy the rest of the night.
Hanzo marched determinedly down the halls towards the wings for residential areas. When he had first come to Overwatch, he had chosen a room far away from the hustle and bustle of those near the kitchen and recreational rooms. However, he had grown used to the constant sounds at the base, enough that he accepted the offer to move in with his beloved when he had been asked, some two months ago. It was still startling to wake up to a body that usually runs hot, and would bear hug him to one inch of his life as long as he lounged in their bed.
Had someone come into his way, they'd probably have been sent flying. Hanzo could feel his fatigue tugging at his body, making his limbs all the more heavy. His prostheses were wearing on his stumps and he would probably need a massage to get rid of the knots in his shoulders from handling his bow and climbing around on buildings. He was not old, but he was not as flexible as before. He would probably struggle to do even a split now.
Finally, the door to his room came into his line of vision and he upped his speed, impatiently pushing his hand on the identifier. The door open with a faint hiss, a sound that would probably have alerted the person inside if still awake. Hanzo hoped his darling was.
Immediately, he spotted the figure of his love in their bed, already tucked in for the night. Hanzo gave a soft sigh at the sight, leaning against the doorway. A small smile graced his face. It was nights like this that became a driving force in his life, a goal he had to achieve everyday. Calm and peaceful, away from all aggression of the day. A life out of the battlefield, where he could come to breathe and live and love.
He took years to come to this point. Genji and he never reconciled properly. They were the two persons who sometimes met in the common areas and barely spent a few minutes saying general greetings. His younger brother might have forgiven him, but neither of them would forget. That was fine by Hanzo. His brother had done more for him than he could ever have asked. Then, the others in Overwatch had welcomed him into their organisation - taking in the assassin-to-hire off the streets and gave him a home. Hanzo would sometimes feel like this was all a dream and he would wake up the next morning to find that his bed was cold and his heart was still made of stone.
Silently, he made his way to the bathroom, opening and closing the door with care. That one was not an automatic one, so he could control how much noise he made. He shucked off his clothes and threw them neatly in the hamper to deal in the morning when he had had a bit of rest. The shower started before he even entered the stall, already warmed to his preferred temperature. AIs were such a blessing, and Hanzo would forever thank whoever took inspiration from Tony Stark, a fictional character from an old comics, back in the early 2000's. They had discontinued the production of all the related comics after something about a clash between new "Gen Z" writers and the older generations that were too unwilling to hand over their positions. It ended in bad blood. Figuratively. Hanzo was seventy percent sure that no one actually died from that.
The running water warmed his body greatly and he heaved a long sigh of relief. He snapped off his hair tie and hanged it around his wrist. He would probably forget about it until the morning. Hanzo quickly shampooed his hair while still marveling at the part of short hair he had. It sure made his wash ups more rapid and efficient. Having long hair sucked ass. And he rocked the undercut. Did kids these days even use that anymore? "Rocked"? It was in rage back when he was younger.
His shower was performed as fast as he could possibly do, which was something to say for a ninja born and raised. He waved his hand in a circular motion to indicate that he wanted to cut off the water and stepped out of the stall. He grabbed one of the fluffy towels from the rack, noticing by the size that it was probably not his. Surely, his love would not mind. He did his best to wring out the most of the water from his hair and dried it with a hand towel. He slipped on a pair of boxer briefs he had snagged on his way in and had left on the counter.
He was still warm and a bit damp when he ventured back to the bedroom, ready to crash and sleep for seventeen hours. Or until he would get too hungry and wake up. Or if he had to go use the restroom.
Hanzo moved to his bed, sitting down lightly on it so that he would not disturb the other's sleep. The dark did not hinder his movement - what kind of sniper would he be if he was useless at night. He leaned over to unclasp his prostheses. The hiss of air indicated their successful release, and he put them away for the night, on his side of the bed for easier access. He carefully massaged his stumps, rumbling in pleasure as the scarred skin was allowed some well deserved rest.
"Hanzo, liebling?"
It seemed that for all his precautions, Reinhardt still woke up.
"Beloved. Go back to sleep, I just came back," Hanzo tried to placate him. Reinhardt hummed at his side, slung an arm around his waist and pulled him to his side. Hanzo almost overbalanced and belly-flopped onto his love, but was able to steady himself. He gave out a chuckle. That man would be the death of him one day.
He nudged Reinhardt until the man moved to allow him to slip under the covers. He allowed his darling to pepper small sweet kisses onto his face indulgently, pushing back his bearded face back with a laugh when Reinhardt insisted on kissing as many times as he could around his bridge piercing. "Let us sleep, my love. Tomorrow, more kisses. For now, I just want to cuddle and rest."
"Of course," came the answer. Hanzo fell asleep as soon as his head touched his pillow, wrapped into the warm circle of his love's arms. How cliché, but it was a good cliché.