At first, McCree had his secret doubts about the recall. He'd left Overwatch before everything went over a cliff anyway, and he'd left for good reason. And yet when the call came in, he was on the first sonic jet to Spain. He had a responsibility, after all—he had made a promise to his family. Family he'd already betrayed once by leaving. Family that had welcomed him back without question, family that reconciled in the face of incalculable odds. It seemed Ana's spirit was still with them, guiding the old guard.
He didn't much like thinking of himself as old, though. Sitting next to Reinhardt or Morrison helped a bit on that front—in such company, he was downright cool. Tracer's familiarity with him seemed to influence a lot of the other newer members, too, even though they hadn't worked together long before her accident and his exit. Lúcio had even praised his 'aesthetic'.
It didn't take long to get back into the swing of things with the other former agents; even ones he hadn't worked with much had a familiar rhythm that was easy to settle into, and given the skeleton crew that Overwatch was now illicitly running, finding that rhythm was the difference between life and death. Teaching the dance steps to the greenhorns, though, that was a whole other matter—one that McCree felt obligated to take on. The ones who had taught him how to be a proper Overwatch agent were few and far between, after all, and somebody had to help carry Ana's torch. He owed her.
That was how he found himself volunteering for almost every mission that cropped up while dragging the new blood along for the ride. Sometimes, you just had to throw someone in the deep end, and it wasn't like Morrison or Torbjörn were going to ask any bright-eyed, bushy-tailed kids to come along with them.
This mission was a bit of an exception. Only one new kid had stepped up to fight alongside all the old hands, the little firecracker with the mech suit. Her enthusiasm was palpable, and something about her cavalier attitude toward battle reminded him of himself. Another unusual exception was his name automatically entered at the top of the roster—they had been going into his gang's old stomping grounds in Deadlock Gorge, and his expertise on the area was mission essential. For the most part, it had all gone smoothly, too, aside from a tense few moments following an "Oops" as Torbjörn defused a dirty bomb; the Deadlock Gang hadn't changed up their M.O. too much since McCree left. Hell, even some of their passwords were still the same.
And so, high on their victory but still suspicious of an ambush in town, the team had retreated into the desert to await their extraction the next morning.
It felt like old times, sitting around the campfire under the star-filled night sky of his childhood. Reinhardt and Torbjörn loudly swapped stories, and Dr. Ziegler casually leaned against the leg of the mech suit as Genji and Hana discussed their own digital escapades. Quietly, McCree slipped around the ring of firelight, tapping Angela's shoulder.
"Hey, Doc, there's somethin' I've gotta go take care of while I'm here. Nothin' serious," he added as she opened her mouth.
"Where are you going?" she asked, frowning slightly.
"Figured I might could go see my parents before we left," he murmured. "Nobody needs to know, alright? I'll be back by sun up," he said, turning and walking off into the desert without another word.
Hana frowned slightly as she hopped out of her MEKA at an old ranch-style gate, noting several large-caliber bullet holes in the tall posts. Her display had confirmed that McCree was around here somewhere, and she was far too much of a nosy busybody to not track him down. Her hopes of maybe catching him secretly with an old boyfriend or something (the cockpit recorder had clearly picked him up saying he was visiting his parents, but she figured she'd lied plenty about places she was going to be, so why wouldn't McCree?) were rapidly diminishing as more of the property came into view, only partially illuminated by the moonlight. A few deformed buildings dotted the landscape, black and eerily silent. It didn't make sense—nobody lived here…
Her stomach lurched at the realization.
Nobody lived here.
The soft sound of a harmonica grabbed her attention immediately, her head swinging around to try to spot its source. Hana skirted around the husk of a building, the scent of fire still lingering around the solid shadow that rose from the silvery desert floor, swallowing up all of the pale moonlight that struck it.
McCree's hat was hung off the end of the hitching post he leaned against, a soft ballad drifting out of his cupped hands. She listened for a moment, transfixed, when suddenly the music stopped.
"Hana!" McCree called, only the rough sketch of an expression visible in the moonlight, "The hell you doin' here?"
"I'm sorry!" Hana began, stepping away from the building a bit and rubbing her wrist in a nervous gesture, "When you didn't come back, I got worried, and Mercy wouldn't say where you went, so I snuck off after she went to sleep."
"You shouldn't be out here by yourself," McCree frowned. "Desert's dangerous at night. There's coyotes an' rattlesnakes an' scorpions. Used to be mountain lions 'round here, too. Ain't sure if they're still around, but they'll kill you real good."
"You're here by yourself," Hana replied, her hands on her hips.
"I lived here. I can get by," McCree replied, shifting to get comfortable again. He heaved a great sigh and shook his head. "Well, now that you're here, don't go off alone again. Just stick close, alright?"
"Okay," she sighed, approaching the hitching post with a touch of uncertainty. "Sorry for bothering you."
"'S alright, I ain't mad," McCree replied softly, putting his harmonica back in his left pocket, where it had always been kept. "Just catching up." Hana frowned slightly, cocking her head to the side.
"Catching up?"
"Since you're here, y' might as well meet my folks," McCree said with a little sigh. He slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her a few feet to her left. "This here on the right is my papa," he began, gesturing toward a large stone barely visible in the shadows—the biggest one he'd been able to move as a kid. "His name was Bill—but Mama always called him Will. Don't know why, but nobody else was allowed to, so I guess it was a name just for her." Silence reigned for a moment as they stood in front of the humbly marked grave, Hana uncomfortably waiting for the silence to break. Cemeteries had always creeped her out, but she didn't want to be rude in front of someone's parents' graves.
"Papa taught me pert near everything I know 'bout being a man," he continued softly. "Taught me how to ride, how to shoot, how to play music…how to look out for the ones what matter most to you." He gave her shoulder a little squeeze and guided her farther along the burned remnants of a wall.
"An' this here is my mama," he murmured, standing in front of another large stone. "Her name was Maria. You'd've liked her, she was a real pistol. Though I'm 'fraid she wouldn't think much of someone makin' a living playing video games," he said with a little smile. "She had no use for useless people."
"Hey!"
"Not that you're useless," he chuckled, "But 'less you could pull your weight on the ranch, you were good as useless in her eyes. She didn't think much of city folk. Even Amarillo was too big for her tastes." Another little sigh left him, and he shook his head. "She wanted to make sure I could make it there, though, even if she couldn't. She made sure I knew how to handle myself around highfalutin city folk, sent me off to school, stood over me every night to make sure I finished my homework. Taught me responsibility, respect, an' what it means to give everything for your family. She taught me Spanish, too, wanted to make sure I could talk to mi abuelos," he smiled.
"I didn't know you spoke Spanish," Hana remarked, smiling back up at him.
"I ain't done in a long time, perdón, Mama," he laughed softly, his mechanical hand running through his hair in an embarrassed sort of way. "Used it a lot more back in the old days…Overwatch always had a lot of languages floatin' around the Watchpoints. I miss that…" he added, a wistful tone in his voice. He took a few steps backward and sat down on the hardpan, pulling his harmonica back out of his pocket and patting the ground next to him. After his earlier warnings, she took a moment to check for snakes and creepy-crawlies before sitting cross-legged next to him.
"'Fraid you won't know most of the songs I know—ain't exactly up on the new stuff Lúcio plays or nothin'," McCree warned, another melody filling the cool night air. It was true, she didn't recognize it, though it was sad and sweet and sounded exactly like what a cowboy should play; she felt like she had stepped into a scene from Six-Gun Killer.
"Didn't think you were so sensitive, McCree," she smiled, giving him a little nudge which he returned with brotherly affection. "Do you take requests?"
"Depends. Whatcha got?"
"Do you know any 10-Shun?"
"Can't say I do," McCree frowned.
"2byTu?"
"Nope."
"iKon?" she frowned, racking her brain for what played on the Oldies channels back home.
"Why don't you try something from my hemisphere?" he asked, giving her another nudge.
"Ummm…how about the Beatles? You should know them, they're old," she grinned.
"Watch yer mouth," he chuckled, though he didn't offer any protest as he adjusted the key dial and locked it down, playing a few quick glissandos to check the tuning. Gently, he began to coax Hey Jude out of the old harp, Hana swaying slowly in time next to him. Her smile grew wider as the cowboy started to jazz it up a bit; riffing on old classics had been a favorite pastime on the range with papa and the other ranch hands, so McCree knew he'd appreciate it.
"Hey, why don't you play for everybody more often?" Hana asked, tipping her head to the side.
"Back in my old gang, it drove 'em up the wall when I played," McCree began. "An' I like Overwatch a lot better n' Deadlock, so I figured I'd give 'em reprieve. I just play on my own now, don't get near so many death threats now."
"Well they're a bunch of jerks," Hana huffed, crossing her arms.
"Alright, my turn. Y'know this one?" he asked, raising the harmonica to his lips again. "Careful, it's old," he smirked, gently beginning to blow a slow, familiar tune.
"Oh yeah! Somewhere over the rainbow, way up hiiiigh," she began to sing, a smile on her face as her voice cut through the night high and clear. She was a Korean celebrity—she'd probably been forced to take at least a few singing lessons, McCree figured. Soon, however, her expression changed to one of concentration as he moved on to the bridge. "Arrgh, I don't remember the words." McCree lowered his harmonica and, with a sigh, leaned back against the hitching post.
"Someday I'll wish upon a star, and wake up where the clouds are far behind me," he continued, his tone considerably rougher and less refined, though he seemed to have no trouble with the high key.
"Aww, you have a nice voice, McCree," Hana grinned.
"I really don't," he chuckled, glad that the silver moonlight and shadows could hide the red in his cheeks. His high singing voice had always been something of an embarrassment for him…but Papa had been a tenor, too, so he wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when his voice finally settled. "That's why I let my harpoon do the singing for me. It sounds a might better."
"No, you sound very American," she laughed, giving him another little push.
"Well I'm fixing to go back t' sounding like somebody who just plays the harmonica, so hush your mouth," McCree said, quickly raising his harp again and finishing the song at a rather accelerated tempo. Couldn't leave a tune unfinished, it'd drive them both crazy.
A few more tunes of his choice and a few more interesting requests from Hana, and McCree finally tucked his harmonica back into his pocket, reaching for his hat. "Better get a move on," he said, rising from the cool ground and stretching.
"Alright. Sorry again, about following you," Hana said, standing and brushing off her legs.
"Nah, no big deal," McCree said, waving off her apology. "…I'm actually kind of glad you came. 'Cause there's one last person you need to meet," he said softly, stepping a few paces away and hefting up another nearby stone, dropping it next to the other markers.
"…Who's this one for?" she asked, watching from a distance.
"…My other mother," he said softly, beckoning her over. "Her name was Ana Amari. She was all of our mother, really," he murmured. "Don't know where she's buried—she was killed in a hostage rescue mission a little while after I left Overwatch." He opened his mouth to continue, but no words came. They were choked off by something he hadn't felt in a long time, that rattlesnake twisted around his throat like a noose, it's icy venom dripping into his ear, over his tongue, into his heart…
'You abandoned them. You abandoned your family, and she died without you. You're guilty, Jesse McCree…'
"Oh yeah, she was one of the founders, wasn't she?" Hana said, looking up at McCree, his expression hidden in the shadows.
"Yes, ma'am, she was," he said softly. "Best damn sharpshooter in the world. Everything my mama and papa taught me, she taught me to do better. 'Cept play the harmonica," he attempted to joke, but the chuckle caught in his throat, steely fangs piercing down on that bubble of laughter, dragging it back into the black sinkhole in his gut that was growing deeper and wider by the second. He swallowed past the strangling feeling, bowing his head.
"When Overwatch brought me in, I wasn't worth nothin'. I was a no-good, murderin', thievin' dog. Didn't have no right to call myself a man. My life was paid for in blood by my mama an' papa, an' I went and wasted that. Then Overwatch paid for me in blood, too—I had a heavy debt to pay back. But Ana…she kept me on the straight and narrow. Gave me a family again. She…she trusted me." McCree rubbed at his face vigorously, as if he could wipe the pain and regret away before it could stain his cheeks.
Hana didn't hesitate. She reached out and wrapped her arms around his chest, hugging him as tightly as her skinny frame would allow.
"We trust you, McCree," she said into his chest armor, smiling warmly. "You're a good man. All your parents raised you right."
"I'm hopin' that's so," he murmured, giving her a tight squeeze in return as the specter of his other father haunted the edge of his thoughts.