A/N: A post-Reflections one-shot for Dragunz because they asked what might make Hanzo choose Overwatch over Talon and become personally invested in the cause, and I did wind up thinking about it. In the end, I don't believe that he'll ever really become invested in Overwatch's cause, but rather become invested in the people who are invested in the cause. And it won't be through some traumatic event or a pivotal turning point, but a series of small and ultimately uneventful interactions.

Also, before I forget, this was inspired by one of dilfosaur's Overwatch comics on tumblr, so if you'd like, look them up and check out some of their amazing artwork.

Recruitment

One of the first lessons taught to the recruits in Blackwatch was to never let their guard down during a mission. If word had gotten around in those days that Jesse McCree had let a pretty face with purple hair and neon clothes get him sloshed on whiskey shots, he would have been laughed out of the outfit.

There was something about the young woman decked from her head to her toes in tech that had drawn McCree's eye, tickled at his instincts, and so he'd dusted off his most charming smile and ambled up to the seat next to her. He hadn't thought much of the first drink she'd bought him, only that it was an expensive brand he'd never even dreamt of being able to afford, not on the bounty hunter's wages that supported him.

Now, he knew how to act like a man who couldn't handle his liquor, but she was a sharp one. She watched him closely, smile bright and dangerous, to make sure he drained every drop. Without an ounce of wiggle room or a second to himself, it wasn't long before the bottles behind the counter began to blur. Exhaustion swept over him, weighing him down like his entire body was heavy with lead, and he rested his head on the counter.

Just for a minute, he told himself, oblivious to the disappointed sigh coming from beside him. Just gotta rest for a sec and then I'll be back in the game.

Reyes had always warned him about his vices being the death of him.

He was woken later to a firm grip from the large hand on his shoulder shaking him, "Alright, hermano, pay your bill and go home. We're closing for the night." The voice was unquestionably male, deep and rough from a lifetime of drink and smoke. "The lady said you offered to pay for her drinks, as well." Without even cracking open an eyelid to check, the cowboy began to catalogue his surroundings. Judging by the lack of chairs sliding on the tile and footsteps moving towards the door, most of the patrons had already left, which immediately raised the likelihood of this ending in an altercation. And why would it end with an altercation?

Because even though he'd walked into that bar with a wallet in his pocket, which would have at least allowed him to hopefully get on the other side of the border before the bartender realized he was flat broke, there was nothing but dust and empty space in his pockets now.

There was a couple hundred in debt on most of his credit cards, making them virtually worthless to any thief, but even so, he hadn't realized how off his game he was. All that passed through his mind in a matter of seconds, and he opened his eyes slowly, keeping his expression dazed and guileless as though he hadn't been trained to snap to alertness at the first sign of trouble. He made no move to touch the hand on him, though he longed to throw it off, and drawled, "What seems to be the problem, mister?"

He looked up to see a bouncer with a shaved head and tattooed biceps the size of tree trunks. It was about what he'd expected. The conversation grew heated once it became apparent he didn't have any money on him. It wasn't long before there were three bouncers flanking him, each of them sporting the signature Los Muertos insignia on their skin. They hooked their arms beneath his and dragged him out into the ally where the bar's trash was kept, a narrow space that smelled strongly of alcohol and rotting foods.

Having been in a gang before, McCree knew what to expect, and thus the first fist in his stomach was no surprise. It knocked the wind out of him, made black stars explode in his vision, and yet his hands stayed as far away from his gun as he could manage, which was pretty far, as it would turn out, because they were plenty busy giving back as much as he got. He could have sworn he heard a nose crack at one point.

One of the skinnier punks reeled back with a cry after a solid hit. McCree caught a glimpse of blood streaming scarlet from his nostrils before his hands flew to his face, and the cowboy allowed himself a feral, red-streaked grin.

The distraction cost him, though, when a closed fist connected with his temple with enough force to drop him like a bag of rocks. He landed dazed, the lingering alcohol in his system joining forces with his shiny new concussion to wreak havoc on his senses. As he dragged his body to the wall for support, just enough to keep him upright so he wasn't lying flat on his back on the ground, the gangsters realized that he wasn't getting up again and turned their backs on him to head back into the bar and then make their way home. They'd never been after his life, only wanted to rough him up enough to send the message to anyone thinking of stiffing a Los Muertos sponsored establishment that theirs was an operation that wouldn't tolerate such behavior.

It was a lesson that sucked for anyone on the receiving end, but McCree didn't mind taking a couple licks if it meant he could get through the night without any extra blood on his hand. It was Christmas, for cryin' out loud. He refused to shoot people on Christmas.

A man had to have some standards in this crazy, mixed up world.

He wasn't sure how long he sat outside, only that he couldn't remember when it had started to snow. It clung to his lashes, cool and wet, and collected in his lap. Tilting his head back against the wall, McCree breathed out a long sigh, sending plumes of mist into the night.

What he'd failed to notice, because the man hadn't made a single sound in his approach, nor spoken a word since he'd arrived, was the Japanese archer staring down at him with an impassive gaze. At least, McCree assumed he was an archer; he was wearing a quiver filled with impressively sharpened arrowheads, after all. They could have been a sign that he was involved in some kind of club or interested in pursuing the skill purely as hobby, but even with his mind fogged and his thoughts slow, something told the cowboy that this wasn't the case. Even with his hands shoved in the windbreaker he wore, he appeared to be dressed a little lightly for the cold. Groaning as he struggled to focus, Jesse slurred, "Who th' hell are you…?"

"Nobody," the archer replied without missing a beat. Then he bent to drape the cowboy's flesh arm over his shoulders and hefted him to his feet. They walked together through the crowd as the snow continued to drift in fluffy clumps from the sky, the archer supporting the cowboy's back so he would not falter or stumble. Every now and then, McCree would catch his gaze wandering to the well-lit shops decorated with wreaths and bells, would watch without comment as he tilted his head to the sky and followed the paths of the snowflakes with his sharp eyes. It was like the man was seeing the world for the first time, and it took McCree's breath away

"Hey," he muttered after a time, and the archer tilted his head to show he was listening, reminding him rather strangely of a certain cyborg he'd once worked with," are you any good with a bow?" He could have sworn he saw the man smile, though it was closer to a smirk, more playful than any expression he'd expected to see cross the archer's stern features.

"Are you any good with that toy you keep strapped around your waist?"

That was when Jesse knew for certain that he liked the man. And wasn't Overwatch on the look out for the kind of guy who would pick up a drunk and beaten up gunslinger off the side of the road for no reason other than somebody had to? Overwatch was in need of heroes, and tonight, this archer was Jesse's hero.

So he offered him an invite. It came out a little jumbled, a little garbled, but it must have been clear enough to understand, because McCree saw the archer's eyes brighten with some emotion he couldn't pinpoint as his jaw slackened in surprise.

"You are… inviting me to join Overwatch?"

About a week later, Gibraltar base was buzzing with the news that McCree was brining a new recruit with him to the Recall. No one knew any details, only that the man was an archer, which had Genji understandably worried.

He ended up sharing his concerns with Hana while they were en route to meet the new archer at the entrance, "Maybe Jesse could take him back?"

"He's not a shoe, Genji." she replied, a mild reprimand in her tone. After blowing out a huge pink bubble and then popping it without getting a trace on her face, she added with a gleeful swing of her arms as she turned to speak to him and simultaneously walk backwards, "We'll just have two archers. The more the merrier!"

Somehow, Genji doubted his brother would share the sentiment.

He noticed McCree's outline first. It was a relief that he hadn't changed much over the years, still wearing the same hat and serape he'd been wearing when they'd last seen each other, shortly before Genji had departed from Overwatch to seek out solace elsewhere. The man beside him, however, was a mystery.

As his back was facing them while he conversed with the cowboy, Genji made note of the quiver strapped on his back and the likely hollowed-out guitar case in his hand. After his initial scan, his gaze swept over the undercut and pierces, each of which were surrounded by skin that was red and inflamed, as though he'd only recently had his ears done. He was roughly the same height as his brother, and the metal prosthetics were the same, yet he couldn't reconcile the man standing in front of him with the broken shell he'd found in Hanamura.

McCree said something low to the man, elicting a full-bodied laugh from the archer, and Genji felt his heart still as his feet became rooted to the floor. He couldn't move a single step forward, couldn't walk away. It'd been so long since he'd heard his brother laugh that hearing it now felt like a dream.

Distantly, he heard Hana calling him, trying to get his attention. The archer turned, first his head, and then all at once. After visibly hesitating for a moment, his brother took a step forward, reached out his hand to Genji, and said, "Hello, I am called Hanzo." He paused to take a breath, to steel himself. "I'd like to fight by your side… if you'll still have me."

Genji couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't breath, couldn't process. McCree's gaze flicked to him with concern while he struggled to move his stupid, unwieldy tongue, to raise his heavy limbs and take his brother's hand, but before he could utter more than a strangled groan, Hana rushed forward, virtually pushing him out of the way, and clasped his brother's hand in hers, "What do you say, newbie? Are you up for a friendly challenge?"

Hanzo blinked, his confusion at this turn of events evident, but nodded nonetheless, "I have never backed down from one before, friendly or otherwise. But know that I will not hold back in deference to your youth."

"Good," her mouth curved upwards at the ends in a cat-like grin as she dragged him off to the practice range, "It'd suck if I beat you too easily."

It was a solid minute before Genji found his voice, and once he did, his first act was to turn to McCree, who was also staring after the pair, and ask, "What just happened?"

There was a small party thrown, mostly by the insistence and planning of Winston and Tracer, to celebrate the reformation of Overwatch.

From the position he'd secured near the punch bowl, Hanzo could see every attendee, and there was certainly more to the organization than the handful of field agents he'd anticipated. There were volunteers chatting amicably near the entrance, most of whose names the archer didn't know, and often the few people he did know were preoccupied by their own groups, of which they were always the center. But Hanzo didn't have their pull or their magnetism, nor was he a planet caught in their orbit. In fact, in keeping with the metaphor, he had always imagined himself as something of a comet made of ice and dust, though that might have been his ego at work.

There were too many people, too many unknowns, but just as he was debating leaving the party to return to his quarters, Hana appeared at his side, "This party's kind of a bore, huh?" They each watched as Reinhardt threw back his head to laugh heartily at something 76 had said. Somehow, Hanzo doubted that making the elderly warrior laugh had been his intention. With her brown hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain, Hana angled her body so that she was looking up at him, and said, "What do you say we ditch and have some real fun?"

It didn't take him long to nod his agreement, then she hooked an arm under his with a smile and they walked out together, leaving the veterans to handle the niceties for the night. Though the archer had expected her to take him to the practice range, she actually led him to her quarters, where he could hear the sounds of cars honking and crashing while two grown men shouted at the top of their lungs.

Hana held her card up to the scanner beside her door, and her room opened to reveal his brother and cowboy staring unblinkingly at the television screen as they each tried to one up each other in the blaringly loud video game they were playing, "Throw that shell at me one more time, Shimada, and see what happens."

"I already know what will happen, cowboy." As he said this, Genji's small green dinosaur pulled ahead of McCree in the race. "I'm going to win."

"They like old video games because they're old," Hana muttered sourly, then she upended her comforter to find the television remote to lower the volume.

"Hey!"

It wasn't long before Hanzo found a place on the mattress where he could sit to observe the game, though he made sure to keep his metallic boots off the fabric, as was polite, and Hana snuggled up beside him, entirely content to rest against his side despite their recent introduction. And every now and then, when Genji would pull into first and squeeze out a win, he'd raise up a fist with a triumphant shout and Hanzo would bump their knuckles together while the cowboy called for a rematch. Overtime, others joined, and soon Lucio was switching off with Genji while Tracer alternated with the cowboy, and in the dim room, illuminated only by the flashing screen, Hanzo caught himself thinking about family, as he often did, but for the first time in a very long time, the thoughts brought no pain, no regret, only a promise of a better future.

Closing his eyes, the archer did his best to tune out the heated outbursts of Spanish, Portuguese, and Japanese emanating from the floor as Lena somehow managed to incapacitate the entirety of her competition with turtle shells, wrapped his arm around the sleeping girl slumped against him, and thought fondly of what tomorrow might bring.