Chapter Summary: After Genji's death, Hanzo wandered. He was never alone.
I know that nothing good lives in me,
for I have the desire to do what is good,
but I cannot carry it out.
The world didn't end in fire, nor did it in ice. For Hanzo, it ended gradually, with harsh words and building resentment, and then all at once, with a thrill of adrenaline and a choice he could never unmake.
He was a coward.
After the final strike that determined the victor of their battle and the future of the clan, he didn't stay to witness Genji's final breath, or grant him the mercy of ending his suffering. Instead, he took several steps back, blood clinging to the soles of his sandals, his mind distantly registering the discordant clatter of his katana hitting the ground, then broke into a blind sprint. It led him through corridors he'd walked his entire life, yet could no longer recognize, as where once they had granted him comfort in their familiarity, now they were monstrous. They stretched and shrank and howled at his transgressions, and the people in them - his family - bore no faces, just a blank expanse of uninterrupted skin.
They reached for him, clinging to his stained sleeves, their garbled voices asking questions Hanzo couldn't understand, and with a pained cry he shook them off, pushing past them in his search for sanctuary. Eventually, his feet led him to a single unoccupied room, which he quickly ducked into and then locked the door, shutting out the featureless demons and the rest of the world.
His eyes set only on the farthest corner of the bedroom, tucked partially behind the mattress, he crossed the floor in several breathless strides before curling in on himself with his back pressed firmly against the wall and his hands clapped over his ears. He refused to open his eyes, refused to listen, and tucked his knees in closer, making himself as small as possible in the space he occupied, because what he wanted, more than anything, was to disappear within himself, to become void, an abyss of unfeeling nothing.
Hours passed and stretched. The voices of the elders and the castle staff made themselves known, yet Hanzo remained silent and still. Even when the horrible pounding on the door began, and the calls ran the spectrum from mildly disappointed to thinly veiled pleading and desperation, he didn't move. The elders wanted him to justify what he'd done, to unite the clan around it.
And if he left, they would make him.
Instead, he ignored the burn of thirst in his throat, the tacky cling of the blood still coating his hands, and in the absence of the peace required for meditation, reached for that state of nothingness and cessation where no thought could survive. Thinking meant remembering. Remembering meant losing his mind.
You can't ignore them forever, aniki.
It was like his lids were being pried open with a crowbar, his head forced up to see the grain in the wood at his feet, and the clothes strewn about the room, gaudy and colorful and modern. And sneering down at him from a chair placed next to a small table was his little brother, his spiked hair dyed green as freshly clipped grass in the spring, and his favorite scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. And Genji smirked, a single line of crimson spilling from his lips.
You know, the elders never liked me, so I guess I should have seen this coming, but… I didn't expect it to be you, Hanzo. He shifted in his seat, his eyes narrowing into dangerous snake-like slits. Call me crazy, but I thought you loved me.
And in that moment, Hanzo achieved not the emptiness he'd desired, but an agonizing crash of emotions that whited him out, paralyzing his lungs, seizing his still beating heart in a corpse's cold grip. He couldn't speak, and so he didn't, merely watched without blinking as the apparition's accusing stare continued to pin him in place like tacks in a butterfly's wings.
A low keening slipped past Hanzo's remaining vestiges of composure as he buried his head in his hands, fingers fisting around the tangles of his unkempt hair. Even without looking up, he knew that the gaze with which Genji regarded him was pitiless and empty.
That was fine, though. It was nothing less than he deserved.
Eventually, Genji turned his back on him with a sigh, as though Hanzo were being exceptionally difficult. Sometimes, he would blink out of existence, only to appear again mere inches from Hanzo with sclera made scarlet from burst vessels, weeping lacerations, and raw burns.
Why'd you do it? He was sitting cross-legged on his mattress now, a peevish grimace distorting his features as he casually lifted his favorite white gi to gauge the severity of the slash Hanzo had left in it. And don't say it was for my own good because that's bull and we both know it.
Though it came out rough and hoarse, both from disuse and from thirst, Hanzo managed to quietly ask the specter or figment of his imagination wearing his brother's face, "Why are you here?"
And something flickered in Genji's expression, brief and intense as a solar flare, yet before Hanzo could rally his mental faculties to put a name to it, his skin and lips became ashen, and with a grinning, ghoulish face, the apparition snarled, Do not pretend you do not know.
To torment him. To make him wish that he had died, instead.
Bingo. The specter chimed in cheerily. Do you want to play shogi?
Startled by the sudden request and shift in tone, Hanzo jerked his head in disbelief, locking eyes with the spirit that once again appeared healthy and whole, as Genji once had in life. He seemed tentatively hopeful, yet braced for disappointment. It was an expression Hanzo had observed so many times before that the sight of it now physically pained him. It took him time to catch his breath, for the ache in his stomach and the stabbing in his temple to fade to something bearable, but when it did, it was to find that Genji hadn't moved. It seemed that death had taught him what he had never learned in life – patience.
After a minute of wary contemplation, Hanzo struggled to climb to his feet, one hand on the wall to support when his legs shook treacherously, then gave his answer in the form of a slow nod, and Genji smiled.
Cool… You get the board.
Their father had gifted Genji with a traditional shogi board before his death, which had been a ridiculous decision, as Genji had never demonstrated the mindset for strategy nor the inclination to learn, but as Hanzo hadn't dared question their father's judgment, the beautifully painted set had spent the intervening months gathering dust on the shelf.
Now, however, Genji regarded the wooden pieces thoughtfully, choosing his moves with uncharacteristic deliberation and forethought, and it wasn't long before the tides of the game turned irrevocably in his favor. It all felt so surreal to Hanzo, as his hands remembered the weight of the blade, the give of Genji's flesh, even as they held the delicate pieces. Each sensation was equally real, as though his existence had been split, with part of it rooted in the present while the rest lingered in the past.
On the third game, however, Hanzo had begun to shake off the effects of his brother's reappearance to reassert his focus, and the game became more evenly matched, more of a challenge. Almost against his will, the memory of Genji's death began to lose its stark clarity and immediacy, as the bleeding, broken body was gradually replaced by the lively and animated ninja sitting across from him, ready with a smug grin and a barbed taunt whenever his pile began to grow in size.
They briefly mirrored each other's scowls when the shouting and pounding from outside resumed, ruining their concentration.
Quickly smoothing his features in an expression of indifference, Genji leaned back casually in his seat, his arms folded behind his head.
If you really want them to shut up, you could always tell them you're hanging out with me.
Arcing a brow, Hanzo flatly replied, "They will think I am insane."
Would they be wrong?
And Hanzo opened his mouth to volley a retort, before snapping it shut with a definitive click. There was absolutely no proof that he was conversing with Genji's ghost, and not a hallucination driven by exhaustion or guilt. The question was, of course, did it matter? A whisper in his mind insisted that it did, yet that would mean accepting the reality of Genji's absence. To accept that he had ruthlessly and brutally torn his little brother from the tapestry of his life with his own two hands, to come to terms with knowing that he had been tested, and failed when it had mattered most?
He couldn't do it.
As though sensing his thoughts, a smile just on the border of malicious began to creep up Genji's pale cheeks.
Now that he'd decided to embrace the fantasy, Hanzo stepped away from the game to rummage through Genji's closet for a coat hanger. None of them were free, of course, given the sheer magnitude of their wardrobes, regardless of his little brother's bad habit of prioritizing his clubbing clothes over his ceremonial and formal wear, Hanzo shook off a sparkling crop top, heedless of Genji's protests, snapped off the hanger's head, and proceeded to jam it into the locking mechanism to prevent the security staff from breaking in. Afterwards, he barricaded the door with the bookshelf.
Genji tracked his movements the entire time, his expression curiously blank until Hanzo returned to his seat, after which he wrinkled his nose, waving a hand in front of his face.
Maybe you should take a shower? You're kind of starting to smell.
Frowning with equal parts offense and bewilderment at the normalcy of the observation, Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest in a stubborn refusal to even grace the comment with a response.
The specter rolled his eyes.
You can't stay here forever, Hanzo. Firstly, this is my room, so you really shouldn't even be here, and second, you need to get out of this place. Not just out of this room, but out of this town. I don't care where you go, Hanzo, but you need to leave.
There was an earnestness to his words that came across as genuine, yet Hanzo could not help but doubt their sincerity. Bitterly and with venom, he demanded, "What do you care if I die here?"
And to his surprise, Genji deflated, shrinking in on himself as he'd once done when they were boys. Refusing to look at him, he replied with an affected shrug, I don't. But you're the only person left who cares that I did.
After a moment's hesitation, during which the archer's thoughts traveled against his will to the nights where Genji had once snuck into his room to outrun the screams from nightmares that siphoned from reality, Hanzo inhaled deeply, before letting it out in the form of a fatigued sigh.
"Okay," he rasped, rising shakily with his palms braced against his knees as he did so.
What?
"You win." He made an attempt to distractedly run his fingers through his hair, only to scowl with displeasure when they became ensnared in tangles. With a hard yank, he pulled his hand free and glared at the midnight black strands that came loose. At this point, he was of half a mind to cut all of it off. Hard gaze flicking to the apparition and its look of hopeful anticipation, he declared with an imperious tone, "Let us leave this place."
Genji threw his hands up with a cheer, Heck yeah, going rogue! As Hanzo sternly reminded himself that this was not the true Genji, that it couldn't be because he was dead and gone and it was all his fault, the specter made a show of pretending to pluck credit cards from its - his pockets and shredding them.
It was ridiculous and foolish and completely inappropriate given that he had only just agreed to turn his back on everything he'd ever known for a ghost.
And if that wasn't exactly how his little brother would have behaved in this situation…
With a wide grin affixed to his face, one which for once was genuine, Genji tried to swing an arm around Hanzo's shoulders, apparently forgetting that he was incorporeal as he passed through him, nearly falling flat on his face. And though Hanzo shook his head at the other's fumbling, he discovered that he couldn't truly blame him for his forgetfulness, not when it came so distressingly and temptingly easy.
But Hanzo had denied himself such luxuries before. To do so again would make no difference.
Sneaking out in the middle of the night was an age-old past time for Hanzo, the kind of activity he'd declared childish long before he'd ceased to be a child, but the act of muting his steps and keeping to the shadows had never fallen out of practice. Though he knew that walking normally would be less suspicious, even in the middle of the night, he truly did not wish to encounter any of his family. Oh, a part of him feared that they would alert the elders to his emergence, but mostly, he simply did not want to bear the burden of interacting with any of his relatives with the knowledge that they would soon see him as traitor, and thus their next meeting may very well result with one of them meeting their end at the other's hand.
Having avoided any creaking floorboards that might have given him away, he crept soundlessly into the kitchen, expecting it to be empty. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a flash of green briefly slice through the inky shadows pooling towards the back entrance, the one that led outside to where their weekly shipment of supplies was delivered.
"Hanzo?" Still bent in a crouch, he whipped around to see Akemi staring down at him with wide-eyed disbelief, then she rushed forward to embrace him, stunning him into rigid immobility, as she pressed her forehead against his shoulder, and with a voice choked with relief, said, "You're okay! I never believed..." She was painted with the colors of an inverted night, the shadowed crescents sitting atop her sallow cheeks standing stark against the wanness of her skin. It spoke of sleeplessness and worry, and Hanzo felt the shame rise within him, renewed. Of course Genji's absence would be felt by those who loved him, as so many had, yet Hanzo had locked himself away to wallow and left them to drown.
But what was he supposed to say? What right did he have to help them through their mourning when Genji's blood still stained his hands?
Shaking her head, Akemi continued, "The elders said you refused to leave his room. They said…" And she lifted her head to look straight into his eyes, a subtle crease appearing in her brow at Hanzo's distant and generally unresponsive demeanor. Her arms fell to her sides. "They're saying you killed Genji." She didn't have to wait long for her answer. The full-body flinch that had Hanzo jerking from her touch said more than he ever could.
Blanching, she pulled away from him with a silence that screamed. His cheek stung. He looked down to see her hand raised, the skin of her palm readied while her eyes glittered with furious tears. "What is wrong with you, Hanzo Shimada?" The blows rained on his arms and chest, featherlight and agonizing. "How could you?" The next time she raised her fist to strike him, he caught it on reflex and she wrenched her hand from his grasp, howling, "He was your brother!"
He nodded slowly, not trusting himself to speak, then with a blur of movement, he landed a quick strike to the back of her neck to overstimulate her nervous system, and she collapsed as her faculties shut down, falling, though he surged forward to catch her before her head hit the ground.
When he looked up, it was to see Genji staring down at them with a sad expression. As he lowered her safely to the tile, pausing briefly at the sight of the tears clinging to her newly dyed auburn locks. It was a style that Genji had suggested the style to her a lifetime ago, one which she had worn confidently and proudly despite the family's stifling adherence to tradition, and now after knowing Akemi throughout his childhood and adolescence, after spending nights babysitting her younger sister, Hanzo was faced with the very real possibility that he was never going to see her again.
And she would spend the rest of her life hating him for what he had done.
Bending low so that his breath brushed against her ear, Hanzo whispered a hoarse apology that went forever unheard.
It felt empty. Meaningless.
Finally, after an eternity that fled in an instant, he withdrew to rise to his feet, his face an impassive mask as he strode to join Genji where he waited, feeling instinctively when the Sparrow fell effortlessly into his wake as he passed, silent and closer than his own shadow.
There were series of caves located in the sporadic outcroppings of rock located in Hanamura forest, most of which were abandoned due to the onset of spring, which made them perfect for a fugitive seeking refuge. Though he wouldn't consider himself an outdoorsman by any means, not when he'd spent most of his life sleeping in a bed that would cost most blue collars a year's worth of their wages, survival skills had been a part of their training growing up, so he wasn't entirely out of his depth when it came to sleeping on a stone floor or building a fire, and his talent with the bow came in handy when it came to procuring meals for himself. At first, he'd debated hiding the carcasses he left behind, until he ultimately decided that the animals would erase his tracks more adeptly than he ever could. Thus, whatever he didn't eat was tossed outside the cave entrance, just far enough that the braver animals wouldn't feel tempted to intrude.
With his lids and head growing heavier by the minute, Hanzo found himself struggling to remain alert and focused as the skinned hare he'd impaled on a spit continued to roast over the modest fire he'd erected from dried leaves and sticks.
Startled by movement in his periphery, he spun to see Genji's blurry outline crouched at his side with an unreadable expression. Birdlike, he cocked his head, When's the last time you slept, Hanzo?
And if Hanzo concentrated, he could almost imagine that he cared. Instead, he muttered tonelessly, "Including short naps during the day? About three months."
Glancing away, the specter made a unhappy sound, Look, I'm still here, okay? I'm not going anywhere.
And with a weight and darkness in his gaze that no amount of sleep or light could dispel, Hanzo jabbed with flames with the head of the arrow held loosely in his grip, "Is that a promise or a threat?" The fire cracked, shooting an ember onto the dirt, where it pulsed with a reddish glow as it cooled.
It's whatever the hell you want it to be, Hanzo. Slender fingers carded nervously through his verdant locks. Just go to sleep.
There it was, again. Desperation, Frustration. The emotions displayed by someone who cared what happened to him. Hanzo struggled to remember the last time he'd been looked after. Oh, there were those who'd tried, certainly, but they had never been anyone of influence, no one with the authority or sway to force him to rest. "You did not bother yourself with my sleeping habits before," Hanzo heard himself say bitterly. "Am I supposed to believe that you care more for me now than you did when you lived?"
As he'd expected, Genji's visage flickered, vacillating from health to a deathly pallor and back again. It was always like this when he was upset.
Regret tasted cold and metallic on Hanzo's tongue, yet the apology stuck stubbornly in his throat, as though reluctant to come to life at the wrong time, in the wrong place.
Eventually, he settled for curling up by the fire with an arrow's shaft wedged between his fingertips, and forced his eyes shut. He listened on instinct for the sound of Genji's movement as he crept towards the cave's mouth, and upon hearing nothing, wondered if he would ever stop listening.
A scream woke him up not long after – Genji shrieking his name – and alertness came swiftly on the wings of adrenaline, chasing away sleep's lingering cobwebs as he swiveled frantically for the source of the sound.
At the cave's entrance, illuminated by moonlight, he spotted Genji sitting with his knees bent and his back pressed against rock wall, confusion in the creases of his brow.
I didn't say anything.
His unfathomable gaze rose to rest above his shoulder, yet he did not continue and Hanzo did not think so ask. Once the hammering beneath his ribs began to settle, he instead grudgingly resolved to pursue whatever little sleep could be gained, only to soon register the glittering point of a blade held above his neck by an assassin wearing the Shimada crest upon their arm. He jerked violently to the side, rolling as he did so to avoid the blow, yet a lightning bolt of sharp agony sliced through the side of his throat, deep enough that his heartbeat became a countdown. With a defiant, nearly feral snarl, Hanzo planted his feet on his would-be slayer to push them off-balance, then reached into the fire, grabbed a handful of embers, and clapped them against the wound until the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils and bursts of stars whited out his vision. In that moment, the only thing he knew for certain was unconsciousness was equivalent to death, so he staggered to his feet with a throat burned and coated with blood, a blistering palm, and an arrow lodged between his fingers.
His dragons writhed sluggishly beneath his skin, as though caught in the throes of a dream, but it was just as well, as Hanzo bore within him no desire to call upon their aid. The ninja standing before him was slender and masculine in build – young, too. Most likely one of their cousins sent to kill the defecting and murderous traitor. Hanzo had been raised apart from his cousins, so though it was unlikely that he would not know the face beneath the mask, there was a chance that their familial bond alone would lack the strength of connection required to rend his soul any further. Or perhaps the truth was that, after destroying the closest bond in his life, there was little else that even killing the family he had sworn to lead and protect could do to destroy him.
The thing about fighting with swords that few realize is that the clashes often end well before romanticized period pieces would have their audience believe, as exhaustion set in quickly and a single misstep was all it took for a victor to rise. When only one of the combatants is armed, however, and the element of surprise is lost, the outcome of the duel becomes infinitely trickier to gauge. Desperation makes miracles, after all.
Knowing that he was at a disadvantage, Hanzo did not hesitate to throw whatever remaining embers remained into the ninja's unguarded eyes, causing him to reel, jerking back as his arm came up high to shield his face, while Hanzo darted forward to duck within his range and plunge the arrow's head deep into the flesh of the assassin's throat. There was a gurgling cry as the ninja clawed at the shaft, desperate to remove it, though doing so would only damn him sooner. Then he sank bonelessly to the earth, his brown eyes blown wide with fear and panic.
And Hanzo watched it all without comment, until the flailing of his limbs lost their purpose, until the last convulsion passed, and the ninja rested in a prone position that did not speak of peace.
Slowly, he turned from the body to see the Sparrow still sitting at the cave's mouth, a satisfied smirk curling his ash-colored lips.
Did you forget I was dead?
It was some time before the apparition appeared before him again, long enough that the archer began to idly wonder if the vengeful dead could come to feel remorse for their actions. Then one day he appeared again, as smug and talkative as ever, and Hanzo adapted, as he'd learned to, as he would always have to.
No longer could he be the inflexible heir. Now, he was a mercenary and a relic, still keeping up traditions that had died out centuries ago. It was during the intervals between his jobs, the terrible stretches of idle time, that he was almost grateful for the apparition's chatter, at times even engaging in the old familiar banter that hurt so much less than it once had.
He'd often pondered whether giving in to madness was a betrayal to his brother's memory, as the line between the memory and the shadow seemed to bend and blur and meld into a seamless whole. It was in part due to this that Hanzo ventured to scale the walls of the Shimada castle every year to return to the shrine where they'd fought and remember him as he'd once been.
Until the day the cyborg spoke his brother's name, and Hanzo's world changed irrevocably once more.
It was impossible not to notice the gnarled burn scar stretched over the archer's neck like a sunburst, and though many were curious to know the story behind it, such marks of history were not out of place on mercenaries and bounty hunters, as McCree could attest to. There were more than a few old wounds hidden by the cheery reddish-orange of his abuela's serape.
He'd caught Genji's visored gaze lingering on the scar more than once, though, and knew he wanted to ask the how's and why's. Sometimes, McCree wondered if the knowledge that Hanzo had taken no pleasure or satisfaction from his victory did more to help or hurt the ninja's fragile new outlook on life.
They didn't ask the archer about the scars, or where he'd been, or what he'd done, anything to keep him from scurrying back into the wilderness. And while McCree hoped from the bottom of his boots that Genji could iron out his issues with his brother before he wound up getting hurt again, there was something about the haunted man that made the cowboy want to give him a chance.
The archer was an odd one, though. And not just because the infamously traditional elder brother defied expectations by arriving at Watchpoint with a nose bar, several ear piercings, and a decidedly modern undercut. He'd seemed self-conscious about it at first, often fidgeting with the hoops, suggesting that the look was recent, but if Genji's mystified silence at his arrival were any indication, the change was a welcome one.
There were other things that caught his attention. The odd twitch here and there when no one had moved or addressed him, the way his gaze seemed to track the empty air, or how often he became distracted, as though he were constantly listening to multiple conversations at once. Though he was always polite when asking others to repeat themselves, McCree hadn't pegged the man for daydreaming.
Lena had wondered once if it wasn't because English wasn't his first language, as the man himself seemed to imply, yet Genji was able to keep up more or less effortlessly, and he claimed that Hanzo had always been the more devoted study of the two.
While the archer's transition into Overwatch had started out smoothly, his quirks seemed to be getting worse, and as sleep continuously evaded him, McCree noticed the man reacting more and more often to phantoms. A man gets too attached to his ghosts and he'll join them soon enough.
That morning, Hanzo walked into the kitchen wearing gray slacks, a sweatshirt, and a scowl that said he'd trudged through a field of corpses to get there. Waving him over to the seat where he'd saved the archer a plate of pancakes, McCree greeted cheerily, "You're looking mighty homicidal this morning, archer. Something we should know?"
Stifling a powerful yawn, Hanzo slipped into his seat. "It was merely a long night."
"Couldn't get to sleep?"
The archer's tired gaze drifted to where Angela sat talking to Reinhardt – no, slightly to her right – and grimaced with what looked like second-hand embarrassment. Resting his head in his hands, Hanzo murmured with an unmistakable note of exasperation, "You could say that."
McCree tilted his head, but heard nothing that should have garnered such a reaction. When he turned back around to ask the archer about it, however, it was to spot the man deftly digging out a flask from within his sleeves so that he could pour a generous helping of sake into his orange juice. Taken aback, McCree managed a half-hearted shrug, "Well, okay, then. It's 5 o'clock somewhere, I guess."
The clack and clatter of silverware knocking against plates filled the resulting lapse in conversation like cement, drawing it out, until finally Hanzo groaned miserably under his breath, "Yametekure."
And while McCree's knowledge of the Shimada's native language may have fallen solidly into the barely conversational, he'd caught enough snippets of Genji's cartoons back in Blackwatch to suss out the meaning, not that it helped him anyway when the cause was still a mystery. He noticed that the archer was staring tentatively at Genji, but there was something shaky and unfocused about it, like he was trying to concentrate on a double image. The edge of his mouth twitched, the movement subtle enough that Jesse couldn't tell if the man wanted to scowl or...
"Who are you talking to?" The pair turned simultaneously to see Hana had sidled up next to them to place her elbows her elbows on the table and hang her head sideways. Wary, McCree shook his head, since if anyone was going to put the archer on the defensive it should be him, since he could take, but she ignored him. "You've been making faces at the walls for days. If you're going to be watching my back, I'd like to know why."
A soldier before she was an adult - that was Hana Song.
Hanzo's gaze flicked to Genji once more. McCree noted that the cyborg had completely given up the pretense of ignorance, and was now actively and visibly paying attention. "Overwatch is an illegal organization maintained by some of the most wanted criminals in the world. I was not aware that you could afford the luxury of standards." Spots of color appeared in Hana's cheeks while she seethed, and she plopped down in the empty chair beside him. A moment passed and Hanzo huffed a laugh, gusty and brief, surprising all of them but most of all himself.
He pressed his coffee mug to his lips, only to quickly begin coughing when the beverage went down the wrong pipe. The table shook under the force of Genji's palms when he slammed his hands on the table, silencing all conversation and bringing the attention of everyone present to where he now stood with subtle tremors ripping through his synthetic body. "Do you have a problem with me, brother?"
Hanzo looked so thrown by the accusation that McCree actually felt bad for the man, but he had to admit that Genji had a right to be upset. After inhaling deeply, Hanzo rose to his feet while his eyes remained downcast. "No, that is not…" He swallowed around an unwelcome lump in his throat and tried again, resignation plain in the formality of his tone. "I did not intend to offend you."
Ducking his head to conceal his expression, he quickly gathered his plate, mug, and drink into a manageable stack and turned to carry them to the kitchen.
Warning bells going off in his head, McCree jumped to his feet, and before his brain could catch up with his mouth, blurted, "Hey, you alright there, partner?"
Bemused, the archer hesitated at the threshold, "I am merely cleaning up so that I may return to my quarters. Do not disturb me."
And McCree, not knowing what else to do, let him go.
No other attempts were made to stop him.
The door to Hanzo's room shut heavily, reminding him forcefully of coffins falling shut prior to the burial. Before he'd abandoned the clan, he'd spent enough time at funerals to know the sound.
Genji was already in the room, lounging on his bed with his arms folded behind his head. He seemed agitated. Jeez, who stuck their katana up his –
At Hanzo's entrance, he smirked, Oh. Now I remember.
Snarling, Hanzo advanced on him. "I thought you'd grown tired of such pranks.
With a wide grin distorting his features, Genji languidly propped himself up on an elbow. Me? Get tired of tormenting you? He laughed, a horrible sound. Never.
"Flirting with the doctor, distracting me –"
Doing my death face, the Sparrow interrupted. We both know that's what you're really mad about.
It was a challenge and Hanzo answered it without hesitation, the darkness in his gaze consuming the light as he viciously retorted, "Except it's not really your death face that you wear, is it? Genji is still alive." It should have been such happy news, yet it was said with anger and bitterness, confusion and something bordering on cruelty. For once, Hanzo wanted to be the one causing this specter pain.
Canines lengthening, blood pooling in the creases of his face, Genji bore a striking resemblance to a monster, yet Hanzo still saw more of his brother in the malicious ghoul than in the cyborg outside. Are you accusing me of being a fake?
And, yes, that was what he had been implying, but neither of them knew what it would mean for their pasts or their futures. Who was the specter, if not Genji? Who was Hanzo, if not his brother's murderer?
"I am saying…" Hanzo said gently, though his feet remained root to the floor, "that we both believed you to be something you are not." The Sparrow's cocky expression faltered, uncertainty leaking through the cracks. "And by trapping you here in this state, I have robbed you of any opportunity you might have had to grow or find some measure of peace as… as my brother seems to have done."
At the mention of his true family, the specter's features shuttered, becoming colder than a frozen lake as he slipped off of the mattress to stand at his full height, an inch or so below Hanzo. So I'm not real? Is that it?! His arm reached for his sword while Hanzo's remained at his sides. And then the blade was drawn, glittering an unnatural green in the dim lighting that through color and shades across the walls. The ninja bared his teeth. And you're just going to abandon me? Again?!
He swung the blade with the intent to kill, to rend and tear, like a dragon tearing meat from flesh, yet Hanzo made no attempt to avoid the blow. He closed his eyes, allowing the katana to pass harmlessly through him.
Chikusho.
The archer opened his eyes once more to see the blade resting harmlessly at the Sparrow's side as he ran a hand agitatedly through his green locks. So what happens now? You don't need me. You have the real deal now, the genuine article. Not this… He gestured helplessly to himself - horrifying distortion you've imagined me to be.
For the longest time, Hanzo had thought of the apparition as his curse, his punishment. He had seen in parts, mischief and fury and wantonness, the worst aspects of Genji anchored to the living world by his hatred. Now, however, he could see the whole, and what he saw was just as lost and afraid as he was. Together, they had been unchanging, trapped in their anger and sorrow, but not even that could last forever.
For the very first time, Hanzo reached out to him. He laid a palm on his shoulder, certain he could feel the resistance of cloth and flesh beneath his hand, and looked straight into the Sparrow's disbelieving brown eyes, so like his own. "Real or not, for these past ten years, you have been a constant companion by my side." And if he were insane, then Genji's shadow was his greatest proof, and if he were not, then that same shadow was his greatest cause. "I needed you then, as I will always need you." They regarded each other in silence, as a genuine smile began to curve the Sparrow's mouth at the corners. He covered the hand on his shoulder with his own.
Then you shall have me.
There came a knock on the door, soft raps almost too quiet to be heard, and the unmistakable whirring of machinery. Standing alone in an empty room, Hanzo moved to let him in.