McCree sighed with disappointment, running his fingers over the scruff that he'd been so carefully growing out. He'd always been a fan of that casually unkempt look, since it kept him from looking too baby-faced, but Ana would never let him go to a white-tie event looking like he'd just come off of a cattle drive. And so, with a heavy heart, he draped his hot towel around his shoulders and picked up his shave brush.
"...Maybe she'll let me keep the goatee, at least," he muttered into the mirror, lathering up.
"We're going to be late!" Ana called from upstairs, though she was the one who was running behind. She stepped into her heels with a grumble and hurried down the stairs as best she could. She was a soldier, always had been—she could manage walking in high heels across flat surfaces only. Forget stairs, forget marginally uneven floors or carpet or wet pavement. Halfway down the stairs, she was strongly considering just kicking them off and trying again at the bottom of the steps.
"Fareeha forgot her shawl," she called, taking each step carefully, "And I think she might need a spare pair of shoes in case her feet start hurting…" Her voice trailed off as she watched the last three steps, her concentration almost frighteningly intense. Overwatch needed to have a formal uniform suitable for these black-tie and up occasions—one which didn't include stilettos. She would bring it up with Jack first thing Monday morning.
When both feet were on terra firma once again, she let out a sigh of relief and tossed her hair back, finally looking up. The sight that greeted her stopped her dead in her tracks.
"Jesse!" she gasped, her hands rising to cover her mouth. "You—you brushed your hair!"
McCree let out a chuckle at her response, though it was a good deal more reserved than his usual tone. "Is that really the first thing you noticed?" he asked, reaching up to casually feel his coiffed hair as if he hadn't spent 45 minutes in front of the mirror trying to make sure every damn hair was in place. This was, after all, a special occasion—one which the ghosts of his mother and Emily Post would haunt him forever for if he didn't pull out all the stops. He'd even pressed the fold in his pocket square.
"W-well, no—your hat," Ana sputtered, though her smile was a mile wide. "You're not wearing your hat."
"Of course not, ma'am, this party ain't in Texas," he winked.
"And you shaved!"
"Think anybody'll recognize me?" McCree asked, giving his carefully groomed goatee a little stroke as well. "Should I throw in a highfalutin accent?"
"Heavens no," Ana laughed, "Anything more and you'll give me a heart attack."
"I told you I clean up good, didn't I?" McCree chuckled, offering his arm. "Now we'll just have to see how many of them dance steps I remember. Cotillion was a long time ago..."
The ballroom was naturally quite plush, replete with marble columns, a fine parquet dance floor and a gold and crystal chandelier glittering overhead. Fareeha and Reinhardt couldn't stop looking up at it as they hovered around the edge of the dance floor, gabbing together joyfully as they mingled. Torbjörn had turned up at the gala with a very comely, statuesque woman who didn't seem to be interested in speaking with anyone who didn't speak Swedish. It left Jack, Gabriel and Angela standing awkwardly together just at the edge of the Master of Ceremony's field of view, desperately counting the seconds until their 'fashionably late' colleague arrived.
"Gabriel, didn't you come with someone?" Angela asked, fidgeting with the bangles she wore.
"Yeah, I brought Sombra as my plus one."
"Where is she?" Jack asked, his brow furrowing. Gabriel glanced around the ballroom, a frown claiming his face.
"Not this again," he muttered, huffing.
"You'd better track her down before she decides to try hacking the Pentagon for fun or something," Jack chuckled, waving off the waiter offering glasses of champagne—Angela was still a few months shy of twenty-one, and it would be terribly rude to drink in front of her with that knowledge.
"Well, at least I know where to start looking," Gabriel replied, fruitlessly scanning the crowd again for a moment. After a moment, he froze, his eyes widening slowly.
"Oh. My. God."
"What, is it too late? Are the missiles launching?" Jack asked, disinterested.
"Jack. Look," Gabriel said, swatting Morrison's shoulder. "Look!" he repeated pointing toward the entrance to the ballroom. The three peered around the other bodies in the room, finally catching sight of their late arrival. Ana seemed to sail through the crowd in a ruby red evening gown, her thick black hair blending into her sheer dusky wrap; she glowed like a hot coal on the arm of her escort.
"She's so beautiful," Angela breathed, a hand rising as if to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest.
"She is quite a vision," Jack smiled, somewhat shocked that Ana was capable of wearing anything but armor and boots.
"Yeah, she looks great," Gabriel replied, not intending to sound flippant with his comment but failing, "But no, look who she's with."
"Who is that?" Jack asked, his brow furrowing. He was pretty sure Ana didn't have a new beau, and was even more certain that she wouldn't be daring enough to bring him near Reinhardt.
"Dude. That's McCree," Gabriel replied, incredulous at Jack's question.
"No it's not," Jack replied, equally in disbelief.
"That's definitely him," Gabriel said, still staring as the pair made their way toward their little cluster.
"That is not Jesse McCree," Angela interjected, her tone firm. "Impossible."
"Bet you $100 each," Gabriel smirked. "Ana! McCree!" Gabriel called, grinning at the way the cowboy perked up at the sound of his name. He was officially $200 richer.
"Commander Reyes," McCree greeted politely, "Commander Morrison, Doctor Ziegler," he smiled, giving a polite little bend at the waist in her direction.
"I'll be damned," Jack grinned, reaching out to shake McCree's hand as if he was meeting his fellow agent for the first time. "I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't looking at you with my own eyes—Jesse McCree in a tuxedo!"
"It's a good look," Gabriel admitted, though it was hard to tell if he was commenting on McCree's look or his own—he did look quite dashing in his white tuxedo, if he said so himself.
"All men look handsome in tuxedos," Ana smiled, gesturing toward Torbjörn and his companion to emphasize her point. "It can really clean up a man's image," she chuckled.
"Speaking of cleaning up," Gabriel smirked, stroking his goatee and pointedly staring at McCree's nearly matching style, "Looks like you're finally starting to learn a thing or two from me."
Angela watched like a hawk as McCree lead a giggling, blushing Fareeha through a simple foxtrot, unable to catch any snatches of their conversation but filled with an almost unreasonable amount of suspicion. Some part of her knew that if Ana wasn't worried, that she shouldn't be either, but how could someone not be concerned about Fareeha growing up in the company of assassins and 'reformed' criminals? But of course, Ana was a killer herself—Angela had seen how cold, calculating and brutally efficient she could be in the heat of battle. Why did a lamb like Fareeha need to worry about the wolves around her when she was protected by such a lioness?
Fareeha laughing aloud caused Angela's gaze to narrow as McCree twirled and dipped her. He was being charming, one of the many skills that undoubtedly made him such an excellent Blackwatch agent. Before tonight, she wouldn't have believed he had an ounce of subtlety, class or charm, just a reckless nature and a keen eye—seeing him blend into such a highly civilized environment like a chameleon just made him seem all the more deadly to her. Had he killed at a party like this before? The thought flashed through her mind before she could stop it.
Fareeha dead on the floor, her limbs askew, her turquoise dress rumpled and bunched up far too high, eyes wide, blood pooling behind her head, a single bullet wound partially hidden by her bangs—Ana nearby, her red dress darkened in some places, shredded by gun fire, betrayal in her glassy eyes—her own parents broken apart and bloodied as they'd fled—
"Doctor Ziegler, may I have this dance?" McCree asked, offering Angela his most charming smile as a waltz began to play. The question snapped her back to the moment, her blue eyes wide as they met oddly friendly brown.
"I-I—" she sputtered, looking down at his offered hand and hesitating. She couldn't help but see the blood on his hands. He withdrew it after another moment, a politely embarrassed smile on his lips.
"Beg your pardon, Doctor," he said after a moment, giving a light bow in acknowledgment of her tacit rejection and retreating with a surprising amount of grace, for a man who had been not moments before unknowingly imagined to be a ruthless indiscriminate killer.
"Ah, no, McCree, it's fine," Angela sprang to life and followed him a step, offering her own polite smile in response. "You just broke my train of thought, is all. Of course I'll dance with you." Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, after all—and though Angela hated to admit it, she was never quite certain if her Blackwatch colleagues were friends or enemies. Regardless, she placed her gloved hand in his with well-disguised trepidation.
"I hope I didn't interrupt you curing something," McCree smiled, his hands moving into position, his right hand a very polite distance from her waist. She wasn't sure why this surprised her; he was, after all, playing the role of a perfect gentleman. As much of a cad as he may have been when amongst the other Blackwatch agents (he certainly seemed the type, anyway; Angela didn't make a habit of socializing with Blackwatch any more than she had to), he could certainly be professional when the situation demanded it.
"Oh, no, no, that's not it," Angela replied, taking his shoulder but remaining rather stiff as he began to lead.
"Well, I won't press the question if it's personal," McCree began, "But we're gonna be locked face to face for a few minutes, so we might as well find something to talk about."
"I suppose," she replied. "We don't talk much, do we?"
"No, ma'am," he smiled. "Though I try to keep myself out of the hospital, when at all possible. Nothin' against doctors, of course," he added. She gave a polite, but short laugh, stiffly allowing herself to be dipped. She refused to allow herself to be charmed by such a viper—she may not have been a member of Overwatch at the time, but she knew what McCree had done on Route 66.
"And I don't spend much time in combat," she replied. "Though I do have something against war."
"Understandable," McCree nodded, "Can't hold that against you. Not everybody's got the stomach for it. Not everybody should. World needs more people like you, Doc." Angela blinked, silent for a moment as she tried to process what, exactly, his intentions might be. Simple flattery? A moment of honesty? A clever tactic to win her over?
"...I must say, McCree, I'm not sure who I'm speaking to right now," Angela admitted, struggling to keep the frown from her lips. "Which version of you is the act—the gentleman, or the cowboy?" He let out a throaty chuckle and lead her into a twirl, shaking his head.
"Why's one gotta be an act?" he asked. "My mama wanted me to be a 'proper Southern gentleman'," he explained, affecting a much longer, smoother drawl as he put on airs for a moment, "So I had to learn how to be proper and such to make her happy. It ain't an act, just how my mama raised me. The rest, now that's what my daddy taught me to do," he added, chuckling lowly again. His little addendum sent a chill down Angela's spine, like hearing a rattlesnake.
"It's just so unexpected," Angela said, watching his expression carefully. "I watched you get into a spitting contest just yesterday, after all."
"Ain't everybody got something unexpected about them?" McCree smiled. "World'd be a might plain if everybody was exactly like your first impression." The music wound down, and McCree bowed deeply, catching Angela's curtsy only in his peripheral vision.
"It was an honor and a privilege, Doctor," McCree smiled, leading her back to her still vacant spot at the edge of the dance floor. "I do hope we can have more cordial relations in the future." As he slipped back into the mingling crowd past the dance floor, Angela chastised herself for not immediately assuming he had tried to sneak a double entendre into that salutation.
