Summary: Beat after a successful mission, McCree and Hanzo find themselves lacking the funds and transportation needed for a comfortable return to their base of deployment. It's happens to the best, but never for long.

A/N: And another thanks to dilfosaur for the inspiration!

"Must we enter this dive?" Jesse shot a quick, frustrated glance Hanzo's way before shrugging.

They'd been trudging through muddy roads for what felt like hours. Jesse was fairly certain he had dirt clinging to nooks and crannies he hadn't even been aware he'd had until Winston had the bright idea to drop them off for a mission in the middle of South Literal Nowhere. Well, they'd accomplished the objective, gotten the info from the suspected – confirmed Talon board member, and now they were stuck outside the seediest bar in town with nothing but soaked boots and crusty slacks.

Counting off on his fingers, McCree listed, "We've got no money, no food, and the comm's busted to pieces" and finished by jabbing a thumb at the welcoming neon sign, The Swamp Bar. Below which there were several ads for beers and a wooden plaque nailed to the door that boasted of a Happy Hour that ended at 8. "Now, it seems to me like that dive's our only option, but if ya got any other ideas, hunny bun, I'm all ears."

Hanzo scowled through his dripping bangs, already marching up the driveway to get out of the rain. "Enough with the endearments already, cowboy."

They entered together, and what would happen next would fill Jesse with such joy that regret over not having carried a camera at the time would bring tears springing to his eyes for years to come. In what had to be deliberate, Hanzo barged past a crowd of bearded men in plaid and their similarly dressed sons to plant himself by the pool table. He seemed to give the table itself a quick once-over, ignoring anyone who tried to get his attention with a wave of his hand and a distracted, "Wakarimasen," before picking up a pool stick from the pointy end and aiming the handle at his eyeball. "Kore wa nan desu ka?"

At this point, most of the patrons were staring at the Asian man handling their sports equipment like he'd never seen anything like it in his life with a mixture of bemusement, suspicion, and hope.

Grabbing a beer from the nearest table – someone protests and they go ignored – McCree made a big show of apologizing for his friend. He's not from around these parts, you see, but he's always been mighty curious about American culture.

Here, McCree lowered his voice, causing those interested to lean in as he winked conspiratorially, "Especially gambling." At the same time that several of the older folks returned to their drinks with knowing chuckles, Hanzo seemed to have realized that you hit the ball with the pointy end, and men started rising out of their seats, happy to teach the man a thing or two now that the possibility of a quick buck was clear. And McCree led them over to his foreign traveling companion, chatting amiably with a trio of sandy-haired former fratboys while wearing a grin so wide and honest his teeth hurt.

Hardly a challenge.

The first game, Hanzo scratched the table hard enough the bartender with the handlebar mustache developed a visible twitch, after which he sent a striped ball – he was playing solids - flying off and crashing into a beer glass. Seemingly apologetic, McCree tipped his hat to the bothered customers, low enough to hide a smirk, and even helped to clean up. Meanwhile, Hanzo refused to acknowledge that he had made a mistake, holding himself with a haughty air that suggested he would admit no fault, and that was just fine with present company. Man didn't have to admit anything as long as his wallet spoke for him.

On the second scratch, McCree whistled, dragging a palm over his eyes as though he couldn't bear to watch, anymore. "Hey, fellas, maybe that's enough for one night, yeah? Why don't ya let me buy ya'll a beer and we'll call it even?"

"Tell your friend that if he plays us double or nothing for $50, we'll buy the two of you enough to last you 'til closing." McCree crossed his arms over his chest with a thoughtful frown, as though considering. Hanzo was still playing at not speaking a lick of English, so how to-

With a subtle roll of his eyes, Hanzo nodded towards the trio, holding up two fingers with an arched brow. And McCree could have kissed him. Hurrying over to his side, Jesse smacked him hard on the shoulder, "You got it, buddy!" Hanzo scowled. "See if you can win the next one, okay? Fifty bucks are riding on it and I've got a might thirsty."

When all was said and done, Hanzo scratched seven times, broke two beer glasses, lost twice, and won a grand total of three times. They stumbled out of that bar with a hundred dollars in their pockets and more alcohol in their systems than their livers knew what to do with.

It was a long walk down the road to the nearest Overwatch settlement, and they still didn't have a car. Plus, there were few driving down a dirt road at night who'd pick up a cowboy packing heat and his very handsome, very scary friend. Add that on to the two of them being clearly intoxicated and the notion of catching a lift seemed like a long shot.

About thirty minutes later, they were standing outside a 7-11, debating whether to ask the cashier if they could borrow her phone, or to use some of their well-earned cash to buy chips and a pair of cokes for the road, when the sound of the old woman screaming came from inside. Now, heroes, usually, won't hesitate to help anyone in need. With that said, Hanzo and McCree took a moment to consider their options.

Still a bit unsteady on his feet, McCree pressed his face against the glass to see a young man in a ski mask trying to calm the elderly woman at the register down. This would have worked much better if he weren't holding a gun at the time.

Well, it didn't seem like the old lady was in any danger. Hanzo sidled up beside him, squinting oddly at the scene, "That poor woman."

As the woman's screaming grew increasingly hysterical and the boy increasingly flailing and desperate, McCree shook his head with a snort. "That poor robber."

In fact, the rookie crook was outright begging at this point, "Please, Ma'am, someone's going to call the cops!" and sounded about a hair's breadth away from tears himself. What was it that had put that gun in his hands, then? A bet? Getting involved with the wrong crowd? Or was it just desperation? Nothing justified the act, of course, but teens didn't wind up pointing guns at nice old ladies without a story behind it.

A security alarm started up, blaring and gunning for attention. McCree turned to see Hanzo had put his foot through the glass. The police would be there in minutes, which was great, when you weren't one of the most wanted men in America.

The instant the alarm activated, the masked teen bolted for the backdoor. What he didn't expect was the former yakuza and outlaw waiting for him in the parking lot, each of them sporting grins that missed friendly by a mile. Easing up upon seeing how the kid frantically backpedaled at the sight of them, Jesse quietly gestured for Hanzo to let him take the reins on this one. Judging by the too-long limbs and sneakers that pinched at his ankles, Jesse guessed that the wannabe crook was riding the tail end of an adolescent growth spurt.

With a jaunty wave, he drawled, "Heya."

And from the way the kid reacted, the cowboy might as well have threatened his family, his goldfish, and all his descendants down the line, because he aimed his gun at McCree's hat with trembling hands. "D-don't come any closer, Mister. I know how to use this."

"Sure you do." From his peripheral, Jesse could see Hanzo, slowly edging closer to disarm him, and prayed he could manage it before the twitchy kid accidentally put a bullet through his favorite hat.

There was a lamppost in the parking lot. One of those old fashioned types that had gone out of fashion centuries ago, and thus became their own brand of endangered, except in backwater places like this, but it worked fine, and right now, it was shining a bright enough light on their little scene to out them to anyone with eyes, and none of them wanted the attention that well-intentioned interference would bring.

Slowly, he reached under his serape for Peacekeeper, intent on shooting out the bulb, but at the sight of its barrel leaving the holster, the kid let loose a high-pitched squeak, the tremors wracking him growing even more pronounced. Noting the effect the weapon was having on him, Hanzo growled, his shoulders hunching forward, "Put it away, McCree. He's frightened enough."

That was debatable, considering he'd tried to rob a helpless little old lady – and one with a set of pipes on her, too. Was she still going? – but after a nonchalant trick spin of his revolver and a tap to the head, he dropped it back in its case, watching closely when the teen visibly relaxed. "Alright," the rookie breathed, his chest heaving with nerves, "now you two get inside and we'll pretend like you never saw me."

"Now, we'd like to do that," Jesse told him without a hint of a slur, taking a steady step forward. Hanzo, he noticed, was still a mite too far to help, but that was okay. He had this. "But there's no guarantee you won't shoot us in the back, is there?" The boy's dark eyes bulged behind his mask, the skin around them clearly washing out. He'd never hurt anyone in his life, probably never even held a gun before tonight. Whatever the law had to say about it, to Jesse, he was still an innocent. He had a chance.

There's not dying for your sake, and not dying because a kid doesn't need murder on his conscious before he can legally buy a drink to drown the memory with, and this was the latter, so when McCree made a grab for the gun with a move Reyes had used on him so many times he'd lost count, he wasn't intending on getting shot.

Which, naturally, was exactly what happened.

Just as McCree redirected the kid's arm, the gun went off with a bark, its bullet missing him by a wide margin, followed by a metallic ping from close behind, and a bolt of agony traveled up from the pant's seat of McCree's britches. At first, he'd assumed he'd been shot from behind by the gawky teen's gang, but a quick look at Hanzo revealed that he was just as confused as him, as was the kid. No one seemed to know exactly what had occured until the archer tracked the likeliest trajectory of the bullet, following the path from the barrel to the lamppost, before settling on McCree's rear. And the corners of his mouth ticked up.

Before anything could come of it, though, his form blurred, and the gun went flying from the stunned teen's hands. Afterwards, a quick swipe took out his knees, sending him sprawling to the concrete, looking dumbfounded. He opened his mouth to speak, only to snap his jaw shut when Hanzo stared down his nose with an acidic glare, "Silence. Do not tell me about your life or your problems. I do not care." Sirens blared in the distance. "Now get up and go home. If we find you stealing again, do not expect us to be so merciful a second time." The boy cringed when Hanzo reached out a hand to help him up, before grudgingly accepting the offer.

From where he stood with a hand applying pressure to his britches and stress lines pulled taut on face, Jesse managed to add with a subtle undertone of strain, "And should anyone ask, you came here cuz you wanted some late night snacks and panicked when you heard screams." Frowning at the kid staring at him with doe eyes, he tacked on a testy, "Now, get."

Instead of leaving immediately, however, the boy pulled off his mask, revealing a head of dark brown curls and a dubious frown, "Why are you doing this?" He nodded towards McCree. "I shot you."

McCree shrugged, saying dismissively, "Yer not worth the paperwork." The boy glanced at the door of them and up the street, then nodded. There might have even been a hint of gratitude there. They'd never know for sure, because he turned on his heel and sprinted into the shadows of the trees bordering the sidewalk, disappearing seamlessly into the dark. Before he could get too far, Jesse hollered after him, "And ya didn't shoot me! The dang lamp did!"

A chuckle, rich and melodious, started from behind him, and he peeked over his shoulder to see Hanzo with an arm wrapped around his stomach as he failed to muffle his mirth.

For a second, it seemed all McCree could do was stare. Then his wits caught up and he sheepishly scratched at the back of his neck. "Aw, come on, darling. It's not that funny."

Wiping a tear from his eye, Hanzo nodded, then deftly maneuvered himself under McCree's prosthetic arm, whereupon they began the last stretch of their journey back to the nearest Overwatch base. Not far down the road, McCree pitifully bemoaned his fate. "How am I gonna explain this to Angie?"

From beside him, Hanzo snorted, not even out of breath after shouldering most of his weight for nearly a mile. "It is not Dr. Ziegler you should be concerned with."

With the vehemence of a curse, McCree breathed, "Genji." He fixed Hanzo with a look of pure horror. "He's never going to let me live this down."

Hanzo shifted his grip on the cowboy to obscure a smile, "Would you rather go to a hospital?"

"Darlin', I'm wanted in like," he paused with a frown of pure concentration, counting on his fingers before exclaiming, "a whole lotta states!"

The excitement caused him to briefly overbalance, nearly bringing Hanzo down with him. When they managed to steady themselves, Hanzo refused to comment, except to warn with the iciness of a polar cap to, "Never. Do that. Again."

Gulping, Jesse was only too happy to oblige.

It took them roughly two hours to reach the base where most of their teammates were awaiting their return, meaning it was far enough into the night that it was arguably morning, and as it was doubtful that anyone was expecting them just then (and McCree was hopeful about patching himself up before the incident became a stain on his name forever) he turned to his partner with an honest suggestion, "Maybe we could sneak in through the back?"

Hanzo fixed him with a skeptical brow. "Like a pair of rebellious children?"

McCree shrugged. "Well, if you're not up to it, partner-"

"…I did not say that."

Being a ninja and an outlaw respectively, breaking and entering sort of came with the territory. After McCree jimmied the lock on the window, Hanzo laid down a palm on the sill to vault over the threshold with the grace of a panther, touching down on the tile in a neat crouch with bent knees and one steadying hand on the floor. After watching him, McCree attempted to do the same.

Except he banged his head on the window frame, tripped with one leg over the threshold, stumbled, then fell through the opening, landing flat on his rear in a mess of limbs and spurs. An alarm sounded through the base, the second of the night, while McCree howled in harmony. It was apparently enough to wake the entire compound, because Soldier 76 came running up the hall with his pulse rifle out in seconds, followed by Angela, armed with her staff, and Genji, who took one look at the scene before putting his shurikens away with a bemused, "Huh."

Faced with such an audience, Hanzo pointedly stepped away from the wounded cowboy, "I do not know this man."

After a beat, Morrison reluctantly lowered his weapon, Angela shook her head, muttering, "It's too everything for this," and Genji nodded solemnly, like he completely understood – McCree felt impossible hope balloon within him – and then he whipped out a camera phone.

Click.