In which the midnight snack becomes the gossip buffet.

McCree snuffed a mild grunt of surprise as he shuffled towards the mess hall, blearily noting the light that filtered through the door's cracks and seams. When he decided to make the sleepy trip from his quarters to the kitchen, he was rather expecting the common spaces to be empty. It couldn't be much past two in the morning, and after several teams had rolled back into base almost simultaneously earlier that evening, most everyone had been eager to drag themselves to bed, McCree duly included. He had wholly expected to sleep straight through the night, which was somewhat rare for him these days; he'd take what he could get, whenever he could get it.

So when his eyes fluttered open in the middle of the night, with a not-quite starving but certainly irritatingly gnawing hunger curling around in his gut, he was incredibly adverse to the idea of rising to deal with it. He was still dog-tired; give it just a few minutes, and he would drift back asleep. He'd felt far worse than the munchies before. But it didn't ebb, and after more than a few minutes lying in bed, staring up at a ceiling he couldn't see in the dark and listening to the soft breathing of the man beside him, McCree decided that if he couldn't sleep, then he might as well not be hungry.

Of course, it was almost impossible for him to move about without stirring Hanzo in some fashion; he apologized, but now he had a grumpy, sleepy request for tea, too.

And so McCree had felt around in the dark until he found the pair of jeans that had been discarded on the rug earlier in the night, shrugged into an equally fresh-from-the-floor shirt, and headed for the door. His slippers were in here somewhere too, but he didn't feel like bothering; his socks would serve just fine.

He raked a hand through his hair as he entered the kitchen, just mildly cognizant of how disheveled he looked. At this hour, he was expecting only those people predisposed to relatively nocturnal habits (Angela and Winston, of the ones he reflexively noted, but Mei and Hana kept odd hours as well, amongst a few others. Morrison just melted in and out as he chose). Hana would most likely say something about his ragged appearance. Par for the course, he supposed; he just needed to grab himself a snack, boil some water for Hanzo, and he could retreat back to the dark security of his room.

Hana, however, was nowhere in sight. Instead was the oddest collection of people, and some of the first to retire upon arrival back at base. Well, taken together the three of them were odd; two of them were just about shackled at the hip, so… there was that.

Junkrat was sitting on a stool at the kitchen counter. He was also face down on said counter, arms hanging by his sides, and he seemed to be truly, deeply asleep. There may have been some soft snoring. He was in nothing but his usual dirty shorts, and it made the kid look even bonier than he usually did. That boy needed to eat nothing but chili and cornbread for three straight weeks, put some fat back on him, damn. He topped McCree's height by four inches, and yet was almost fifty pounds lighter. In his drunker moments, McCree wondered if Junkrat could pull a Mary Poppins and just fly away with an umbrella and a stiff breeze. He kept that thought firmly to himself, because if Hana caught wind of it Morrison would find her and Lúcio flying poor Junkrat like a kite. And Junkrat would not dissuade them. His guardian might.

Speaking of, Roadhog was on the opposite side of the counter, making a pair of sandwiches with the leftover fried tofu that had made an appearance at dinner. His mask was discarded on a nearby table; it was almost strange to see him without it, but he figured that its removal was necessary for eating. He cast McCree a tired look as he entered, before returning his attention to the sheer amount of items placed on the counter; evidently, sleepy midnight munchies were striking everywhere. McCree had never figured out how a man who never touched meat and probably had the leanest diet other than Angela and Morrison was also the largest person in the base (the only person he didn't outweigh was Winston, but he was a genetically modified gorilla, so that was to be expected). The complete and polar opposite of Junkrat, in both appearance and temperament. They balanced each other out, he supposed.

Next to Roadhog, one other person was also slapping together a sandwich. Other than Junkrat, who was still out cold, Zarya appeared to be far and away the sleepiest person in the kitchen. She didn't even bother to look in McCree's direction. Standing at the counter in nothing but a sports bra and bike shorts and clearly without a care about anyone's opinion on the matter, she was also apparently the hungriest because hot damn, he wasn't even sure he could see a plate under there. That was, by the way, not a sandwich. A sandwich was something you could eat with your hands; this appeared to be just about every kind of meat from the fridge, plus what amounted to a small salad thrown on top, which she somehow seemed to expect to stay between those two flimsy slices of bread she had it all piled up on. Not that she paid it any mind at all, and McCree had to wonder if she was just doing it all by muscle memory. Evidently not, because every once in a while she would grunt and gesture vaguely to something at Roadhog's end of the counter, which he would then pass without a word. The reverse happened as well, and all they would thank each other with, if anything, was a slight nod and a soft snort.

It was like watching a pair of horses have a conversation, and the mental image amused McCree greatly.

Sandwiches now made, with one scooted gently towards Junkrat, Roadhog began to put a few items back in the refrigerator. He gave a soft grunt and gestured to the entirety of the items on the counter before he did so, and Zarya merely set the bread and a bunch of bananas aside before canting her head with a snort that was apparently the Grunt Speak equivalent of "naw, I'm good." Roadhog then looked at McCree. He held his hands up and shook his head, and Roadhog began to pack the food away; all McCree wanted was to raid the stash of pizza rolls from the freezer and his somehow-yet-undiscovered box of Pop-Tarts from the pantry, and he'd be good. Oh, and he still had to make Hanzo's tea.

As McCree made his way around the counter, his eyes picked out something on the back of Roadhog's neck. Right…there, he could see it when the big guy turned to continue refilling the fridge. There was a tattoo right at the nape of his neck, and relatively fresh (in comparison to the established art gallery that otherwise carpeted his skin). Was that a rat-faced bomb? He gave it as close an eye as he dared, sneaking peeks as he retrieved his pizza rolls from the freezer. It looked remarkably similar to the other little doodles that occasionally cropped up around the base. And since Lúcio didn't generally draw on walls that weren't his, and had a propensity for frogs instead of rats…

Roadhog had leaned against the counter to enjoy his sandwich, but not before he reached a hand out to gently prod Junkrat's shoulder. He received hardly more than a sleepy groan in response. He prodded harder, giving one bony shoulder a firm squeeze until Junkrat raised his head. Kid looked like a damned zombie. He did, however, lay eyes on his sandwich, and with what looked like a monumental effort of will, he brought his arms up to the counter. Roadhog merely ruffled his scruffy hair with one massive hand, before returning his attention to his own food.

McCree killed a look well before it made it to his face; Roadhog wasn't gentle with just about anything, ever. While he tolerated Junkrat's daily loud carry-ons with a surprising amount of grace, this went far over and beyond that. Combined with the tattoo normally hidden under the straps for his mask, McCree was more than just a little suspect about how deep their relationship went. The kind of feeling he got when witnessing something he wasn't sure he was supposed to see. Still, though, could be anything. All kinds of crazy shit came out of Australia, that joke had been around for a good hundred years, even more so since the explosion of the omnium. These two had made it out with nothing but each other (and a couple of rap sheets long enough to build a bridge to the moon); he could be standing witness to a deep friendship born of necessity. There was a coughing snort; Junkrat had apparently fallen asleep with his sandwich partway inside his mouth, and Roadhog spared another moment to nudge him awake again. He roused with a mumble, and just continued chewing. Roadhog mussed his hair again, and Junkrat leaned his head into the giant palm; it didn't look like he was even sparing any energy to bother holding his own head up. Big guy tolerated it for a while, before removing his hand with a soft grunt. Just a close friendship, yeah. McCree couldn't even convince himself if it came with a bribe.

Nearby, Zarya had a hip resting against the counter, and it didn't appear that she could give any fewer shits to the curious petting happening not even out of her reach. Also, how the hell was she taking bites out of that "sandwich?" McCree could put a single extra slice of tomato in a BLT and one bite would send all of the contents spilling back onto his plate or lap or floor; this woman had a whole buffet table between what must have been the two bravest slices of sourdough, and the whole thing magically stayed intact. It struck him that he was too old and sleepy and distracted for this.

Also, what the hell did the big girl have bread and a bunch of bananas for? If that shit was eventually going into sandwichzilla too…

As he was loading more than a few pizza rolls into the microwave, there was a thump and a wince from somewhere else in the kitchen. McCree shot looks at all the people he could see, who clearly had not moved an inch in the last few moments, before someone came stumbling out of the massive pantry on the other side of the kitchen. Just Lúcio, with the odd cadence to his bare feet of a man who had just jammed his foot into something hard and heavy and immensely painful (which sure explained the wincing). He blinked sleepily, clutching a jar of Nutella to his chest as if it was the most precious thing in the world. His hair was loose around his shoulders—and it was easy to forget how long it really was—and he was wearing what McCree first thought was the most shapeless pink nightgown ever created. Where was his phone when he really needed it? Hana would pay in favors for this kind of blackmail.

It took McCree a moment to realize that he was wearing a shirt. Not his shirt, oh no, it didn't fit the kid at all, but someone else's. A bright pink one that proudly invited everyone within sight of it to the gun show, and that McCree could distinctly remember being on someone else earlier that night at dinner.

Zarya made that shirt look tight. Lúcio made that shirt look like a flowing poncho.

Also, it was two am and Lúcio was wearing Zarya's shirt. Which may explain why she, well, wasn't. It explained a lot of things, actually.

McCree could not for the life of him hide the nearly painful face-splitting grin that twisted his mouth as Lúcio padded towards the counter. Zarya almost-blindly retrieved a knife from the drawer and handed it to him, handle first. She somehow managed to shift sandwichmountain to one hand when she did so. The kid was well into opening his jar of Nutella by the time he even noticed McCree leaning against the back counter by the microwave, grinning like a shark. This was too good to pass up. He came for snacks; he was gonna stay for the gossip.

Lúcio gave him a lazy wave, and began to slowly assemble his own sandwich, which was far and away the most modest of the four that McCree had seen this evening. A proper midnight snack; if he weren't already invested in pizza rolls, he'd feel tempted towards some Nutella-banana-goodness, too. Somewhere at the other end of the counter, Junkrat gave another coughing snort. Roadhog flicked him a couple times until he roused. McCree ignored it in favor of removing his rolls from the microwave and coming around the counter to a stool. On his way past, he gave Lúcio a hearty clap on the shoulder. The kid shot him a quizzical look, which McCree met with a grin that was probably growing wider. He threw himself on the stool, and just stared pointedly at the tiny medic until Lúcio cocked a brow at him.

McCree made a show of looking him over. Nice shirt.

Lúcio blinked, before glancing down at himself. His eyes widened, he shot a look at Zarya (still oblivious), stared back down at himself, and winced. Well shit.

McCree crammed pizza rolls into his mouth in order to keep from laughing. Lúcio still noticed, and McCree shifted his gaze most deliberately to the giant woman standing next to the kid, entirely uncaring about what they were up to just off of her shoulder (and dear lord, how was that monster sandwich half gone already? Where? How!?). His smile turned conspiratory. How the hell did that even happen?

Lúcio gave a soft snort as he spread far more than a humble share of Nutella on some bread. Don't you wish you knew.

McCree put more pizza rolls in his mouth, smug. He did, because imagining Lúcio attempt to seduce a woman three times his size was the most amusing thing he'd encountered in quite a while. Boy had some game, no doubt, but Zarya was still…. A lot. In more ways than one. On the other hand, McCree didn't rule out that the tryst was less the accumulation of the slow flirtation dance and not her just backing him into the nearest wall with a rough, "you'll do, let's go."

Either way, it had ended here, with McCree bearing glorious witness to Lúcio standing in the kitchen in a pink "toga." Someone above was looking out for him. He wondered if Hana knew; he doubted it, since Gibraltar was a churning cesspool of gossip, more than any high school on the planet, and nothing about these two had come down the pipe. At least, not with each other. There were betting pools, several of which McCree belonged to. He was a little disappointed to learn that he would clearly be getting his original ten bucks back, but heartened that no one else had won either. Damn, they had all been way off the mark.

However, now he had a fresh pool to start. Yeah sure, it was cheating, but hey, cigarillos didn't grow from trees. Neither did whiskey. Besides, he had to make some money back after Genji had robbed him in the Angela and Fareeha pool. Damned sneaky ninja, knew about stuff he shouldn't.

Lúcio seemed to feel his conspiracy (not surprising, the kid saw emotions like the rest of them saw colors), and shot him a dry, tired glare. Not a peep, old cowboy.

McCree leaned dangerously far back on his stool, arms over his chest. Or what? Oh, yes, he was using this. Gossip meant favors in this place, and he was all for storing them away for later use.

There was a shift in the room, and McCree could suddenly feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. A feeling twisted around in his gut, the same jittery sensation that he got when he had disappointed someone who's opinion he gave a fuck about. Lúcio looked past his head, towards the door, and McCree was sure the grin that skipped across his face was the scariest the kid had ever worn. A terrible, carnivorous combination of glee and vindication and no small amount of smug elation. Holy shit what was going on behind his back—

Oh. Well. There went all his clout in this conversation. Standing in the doorway, looking very distinctly peeved in the most acute way, was the disheveled, stunning man he had left half asleep on his bed. He suddenly recalled that he was supposed to bring back tea with him. God dammit, he forgot the tea! And the, y'know, "going back" part. He gave Hanzo a weak wave, which only prompted him to scowl harder. And Lúcio to grin wider.

McCree's stomach sank. Wrapped around Hanzo's shoulders was McCree's red serape; he hugged it tightly to himself, and if he was wearing anything else underneath it, McCree couldn't tell. He was also wearing McCree's slippers.

Never mind, the universe hated him; his secret lover had just not-so-secretly shuffled into the kitchen wearing nothing but McCree's own clothes. Karma was one hell of a bitch. Any other time, watching Hanzo stalk past him in just his serape, with his soft hair loose across his back and shoulders, would have made McCree stupidly happy. Now he just buried his face in the palm of his flesh hand, willing the fates to take him away right there.

Lúcio was loving it. With McCree's conversational leverage well and truly broken, he quite openly shot a cheeky smile at Hanzo (who scowled at him) and McCree (who also scowled at him), and gave Zarya a nudge with his elbow. Girl blinked a couple times and looked near about to scowl at him too, and he canted his head in the archer's direction. Hanzo walked past them both, determinedly on his way towards the stove, and Zarya turned her head to get a tired look. She snorted and shrugged, but then turned her head again, and McCree watched her gaze sharpen substantially as she finally took in exactly what Hanzo had decided to clothe himself with. He swallowed a groan as her lips twisted into a lopsided smirk, and for the first time this whole evening she actually looked McCree in the face. And if he thought Lúcio's grin was carnivorous, hers was borderline bloodthirsty (sometimes he wondered exactly where Winston found all these kids). Oh yeah, he was not going to hear the end of this until the day he died. The news would be out by dinner tomorrow night, if not sooner. He'd better go Hana-proof his door right now.

At least Hanzo was oblivious as he grumpily minded the teapot on the stove. More than that, the tea order seemed to have increased substantially, as Roadhog left his charge sleepily gumming his sandwich to a slow death in order to retrieve a teacup for himself. Lucky peaceful bastards. Like nothing was amiss.

Zarya tempered her grin only long enough to put her plate in the sink (and whenever that sandwich had gone from half-gone to what-sandwich, McCree would never know) and give Lúcio a soft squeeze to his shoulder that was allusive enough to blow away any lingering doubts that McCree may just have had. She gave a curt nod to Hanzo, and a grunt and a wave to Roadhog; both gestures were loosely returned. On her way past him, her grin returned full force, and she gave the cowboy a good, hard swat on the back that was just so full of cheek he knew he had to glare at her just on principle. Also, ow. But she hadn't paused for a moment and was halfway out the door, so he merely settled for scowling at her back. Didn't even have the decency to stay and let him fight for his dignity.

Lúcio, meanwhile, was leaning dramatically on the counter, happily munching away through bananas and Nutella, and thank the Lord for small mercies because it did not appear that the kid had his phone anywhere on him. Instead, however, they had reached some sort of stalemate; Lúcio happily, McCree not so much. The kid scooped his plate up into his arms (along with the whole jar of Nutella, and it was clear that the contents would not survive the night) and made to take his leave as well, but not before pinning McCree with a cocked brow and a smirk.

Talk, Lone Ranger, and your secret man-toy ain't so secret.

And McCree could do little more than give him a huff and a dismissive wave. Had to take all the fun out of it. If Hanzo had just stayed in bed…

But his vague committal seemed satisfactory, and Lúcio gave him an otherwise friendly bump on the shoulder on his way out, leaving McCree to sulk with his now cold pizza rolls. He propped his chin on one hand, and resigned himself to watching Hanzo and Roadhog have the world's weirdest a tea party in the kitchen. As Hanzo moved around, with his hands largely full and clearly too sleepy to have too many fucks to give, the serape loosened around his shoulders. Well, God bless archer's arms.

At least tonight wasn't a total bust.

AN: This was not going to be the first chapter of this fic, but it was the one that got done first. My friend wanted it posted ASAP, so here ya go. Ah well.

McCree is the only one who thinks his relationship with Hanzo is a secret. That man could make puppy eyes from across a continent; the whole base already knows.