Work Text:
“Why are you smiling?”
Given the circumstances, it’s an appropriate question.
With what Mercy, his brother, and Sojourn had all told him, Cassidy, the fool that he is, is lucky to be alive. Logically, he shouldn’t have even made it out of that explosion—shouldn’t have been near it in the first place, either—and yet his cockroach-like luck never ceases to amaze.
Hanzo’s just pulled back the curtain—the one hiding an injured cowboy behind it—and what he’s met with is so suddenly uncanny that it leaves him momentarily speechless. He just stands there, mouth pressed into a hard line, as he finds the cowboy just sitting in bed looking…overly joyful.
It’s not so unusual for Cassidy to be happy (between the two of them, especially), but there’s always been a limit. Here, though, it’s akin to childlike wonder, so naive and boundless.
There’s a glassy look in his eyes, a loopy smile on his lips. Hanzo’s taken so off guard that he completely forgets the whole spiel he’d had lined up, ready for this exact moment.
Mercy wasn’t lying when she said Cole got the good stuff.
Once Hanzo pulls himself from his stupor, he slides the curtain closed behind him, refusing to take his eyes off Cassidy’s face, the most unguarded it’s ever been. Cassidy often seemed relaxed, but he too had many things to hide. This was very out of place.
The sudden urge to throttle the cowboy surges to the forefront of his mind, and he wants so badly to call the man out on his stupidity, but he knows it would be all for not with him like this.
Hanzo thinks he feels his eye twitch, though he manages to keep the rest of himself in check.
Cassidy’s smile is a crooked thing, teeth and all, and his mouth is lopsided, quirked higher on one side. He clearly doesn’t know his left from his right, and it makes Hanzo want to (lovingly) slap the look off his face. He should not be like this.
Cassidy’s mindlessly fiddling with the blue hospital gown he’s wearing, pulling at the front of it, while the lower half of him is covered by a white, rumpled sheet. Bandages peek out from underneath the thin gown, and there’s some even wrapped around his head too. The missing prosthetic is also hard to miss. In fact, the port that connects the prosthetic seems completely destroyed too, with wires poking out this way and that, the metal dented and scratched. As for the grin, however, it seems to be getting larger the longer Hanzo glares at him.
Cassidy raises his one good hand, his movements loose and clumsy. He gives Hanzo a small wave.
“Well, howdy,” he slurs, but his voice comes out rough and croaky. For a moment, it pulls at Hanzo’s already twisted-up heartstrings, but the emotion behind his welcome is bright and unrestrained, just like the rest of him. Hanzo is relieved to know Cassidy’s fine now—Dr. Zeigler, a miracle worker, had assured him of that—and is somehow managing a good mood, be it a little high off opiates.
He’s probably going to be in a lot of pain when the meds wear off. Good, Hanzo thinks petulantly. This should hopefully teach him to not pull such stupid stunts.
But then again, knowing Cassidy, it probably won’t.
Hanzo lets out a heavy sigh before pulling a chair up next to Cassidy’s bed.
“You,” Hanzo says, scowling, "are an idiot.”
Cassidy doesn’t falter under Hanzo’s withering gaze. In fact, he might not even notice Hanzo’s ire. Instead, he hums, closing his eyes and practically preening.
“Why don’ you call me by my real name, darlin’?”
Hanzo’s eye definitely twitches this time. He gives himself another steadying breath.
“How are you…” Hanzo looks him up and down, apprehensive. “…feeling?”
Cole Cassidy, renowned outlaw with a bounty worth millions, giggles at that. “I feel great.”
The other’s sensitivity to all things medicinal has been the butt of several jokes. His pain tolerance is laughably low. Mercy’s healing stream makes Cassidy feel a little fuzzy; too much of it and it makes him nauseous. Sleep medicine has him knocked out within half an hour and dead to the world for ten. That he’s like this now should not be completely unexpected, Hanzo reasons.
The archer purses his lips. “Sure you do”
“Especially now tha’ yer here.”
“No.”
“Ahah,” Cassidy says, and he waves his hand like he wants to lightly slap Hanzo on the arm. “You worry too much, sweetheart.”
Hanzo had been brought up under the strictest of training regimens. He knows a million and one ways to kill a man. He has learned how to hide unnecessary reactions and ignore pointless diversions.
As much as he wants to (affectionately) strangle him, that is not what does him in.
It is a term of endearment that renders him nearly helpless.
He is beyond these fleeting nicknames and goading flirts. He should be able to handle these things without issue. He usually does!
And yet here he is, sitting at Cole Cassidy's bedside, lying to himself and losing his damn mind. His face is becoming increasingly pink and warm.
Despite the fluttering deep inside his chest and stomach, he managed to swallow his nerves.
“Well, if you did not do such idiotic things, I would not have to worry.”
“But I’m very smart, thank you very much.” Cassidy’s head lolls further down the pillow towards Hanzo, his pinpoint pupils looking up at him with an unwieldy amount of admiration.
“Not right now, you are not,” Hanzo says dryly, leaning forward and rubbing his temples.
Cassidy shakes his head no a few times before he frowns, his brow furrowed. What seems to be sudden dizziness stalls the cowboy’s smile, and so does the look on Hanzo’s face, the archer hopes.
Cassidy blinks at him then, comically confused. It occurs to Hanzo that Cassidy might not remember a thing about the mission.
“Mean thing to say, y’know.”
“You could have died. Forgive me for being worried,” Hanzo says pointedly, yet his voice is a fragile. He's distinctly aware of the fact that his throat has started to close up. The fluttering in his chest borders on uncomfortable.
If Sober Cole were here now, he would be sure to endlessly tease Hanzo about his reaction, cooing about how sweet it is that he’s actually worried over little ol’ Cole. However, since Hanzo’s stuck with Cole-on-Morphine instead, wonderfully delirious and hooked up to multiple machines, he decides that his reputation can handle a little bit of emotion.
Cassidy hums again. He leans closer like he’s divulging a secret.
“Earlier, ‘Reeha came,” Cole adds.
“I heard.”
“Said she’d beat the shit outta me if I pulled somethin’ stupid again. And that when Ana gets back from, uhhh, somewhere, she’s gonna kick my ass for her.”
“I can do it for them instead,” Hanzo says under his breath.
“And Angie! She threatened to tie me down,” Cassidy complains, practically pouting. “You believe it? Swear, you guys are so mean to me. And you!”
Hanzo sighs for the dozenth time today, all before he gives the other man a tired quirk of his lips. “And me.”
For all of Hanzo’s frustration, though, he knows what this is. It’s an attempt, no matter how directionless it seems.
Cassidy is smarter than he makes himself out to be, and to Hanzo, actions always speak louder than words. Of course, Cassidy picked up on that, but that still never stopped him from opening his damn mouth.
Small talk Hanzo usually hated, but when it came from the cowboy, though, it was more than just useless chatter or a half-assed attempt at bonding. There was, in fact, meaning behind it all.
It could be a check in, a thank you, an apology. Whatever Hanzo needed it to be, Cassidy knew.
And admittedly, it took the archer a while to realize it really was more action than words, but when he did, Hanzo knew he was in too deep.
Talking has always been Cassidy’s failsafe. Whether or not it's an explicit sorry, conversation in moments like this is an apology in its own right—an attempt to soothe. Hanzo, so easily spooked and put off by the smallest of things, has never been good at simply returning to normal once the balance has been disturbed, too conscious of the possible consequences hanging overhead.
Cassidy, however, is good at reeling him back in.
And somehow, it always works. Deep down, Hanzo knows why.
Cassidy suddenly turns serious—or as serious as he can be given the situation—as if he’s pondering something very important. He’s studying Hanzo’s face.
The archer keeps his expression neutral, even under such odd—but not unwelcomed—scrutiny.
“Ashually,” Cassidy starts, limply pointing at Hanzo, “you’re pretty when you’re mean. Don’t mind when it’s you. Bein’ pretty and mean. It’s really kinda cute.”
Hanzo’s jaw tightens, but it does nothing to curb the red tinting his cheeks. With Cassidy’s usual flirting, he’s much more resilient. Of all the times, why is it getting to him now?
Hanzo doesn’t know what to say, and so he simply stares. The cowboy blinks several times.
Then Cassidy reaches over towards him, his hand laying palm-up on the edge of the bed.
“Hand.”
Hanzo glances between the other man and the offered limb.
“No.”
“Hand.” He tries to reach for Hanzo but the archer keeps himself just out of reach. “You’re bein’ mean,” Cassidy complains, drawing out the final word.
Any other day, any other situation, Hanzo might just talk back. Cassidy has always liked a challenge and appreciates quick wit. It has become a game, if anything: a game to see who can more easily get under the other’s skin. Now though, even with a quip on his tongue ready to be fired, Hanzo flounders. He can’t bring himself to speak.
That becomes the challenge.
So instead, Hanzo picks the easier option. He hesitantly offers up his hand.
Cassidy takes it, just to pull it down and let it rest on the bed with him. It is not as much of an actual hand hold as it is just Hanzo’s whole hand clamped in Cassidy’s grip, but hey, at least Cassidy’s getting what he wants.
Hanzo holds the gunslinger’s unfocused gaze, and the silence that follows seems to finally settle into something calm, something familiar. Hanzo lets himself relax a little bit, some of the tension finally seeping out. He gives the cowboy a weary smile, thin, tight lipped, and embarrassed.
“You are not going to remember any of this, are you?” Hanzo finds himself asking. Part of it is dry amusement, part of it is subtle desperation.
Cassidy relaxes back into his pillows, readjusting his hold on Hanzo. Pleased with himself now, he closes his eyes and nods. “Yeah.”
“Promise me you will never do what you did again.”
“Mmm, I’ll try, darlin’.”
Something about the way he says it though gives him away. Hanzo looks at him with narrowed eyes, skeptical.
“You do not remember what happened, do you?”
“Nope,” Cassidy agrees, popping the p.
Hanzo rolls his eyes, mumbling, “I cannot stand you.”
But it’s a lie, and one he’s been telling himself for a while now. For now, though, he can let himself have this. No one except him will know.
Plus, the archer knows he should try and enjoy a loopy Cassidy for as long as he can. Maybe Hanzo should collect some information for blackmail, too. Genji would be thrilled (and proud).
After a few quiet moments, Hanzo lifts his other hand and takes Cassidy’s between both of his own.
“Cassidy?”
Nothing.
“Cassidy.”
A quiet snore.
Hanzo looks up at the ceiling, silently asking for patience.
Idiot, he thinks, but this time it’s not just Cassidy he’s criticizing.