bakerstreet | insomnia

( voicetesting and only at s5, but spoilers are fine. canonmates and crosscanon cr both loved, shippiness encouraged ♥ )

Son of a bitch.

[ Grif's grumbling sometime at ass o'clock in the night/morning, standing in front of the pantry in what passes as the Red base kitchen, out of his suit for once (as much as he's perfected the art of napping inside his helmet, he doesn't actually sleep in it, not every night, at least). the scifi light of the pantry highlights the frown on his lips and the scrunch of his nose, as he pulls out an empty wrapper, with a note scrawled on it with one of Donut's gel pens proclaiming "HAHA, EAT SHIT, DIRTBAG!" ]

Sarge flushed my Oeoes again, didn't he? Gotta start hiding those in my suit. [ he mumbles, before turning from the pantry, ready to go back to bed without his midnight snack, only to nearly jump straight out of his skin when he spots Simmons chilling in the corner, at the quaint litte brunch table Donut set up. ]

JESUS FUCK ON STICK-- The hell are you doing up? Do you even sleep anymore?

( simmons still needs sleep, but he needs less of it now that his body isn't entirely natural anymore. he can run a little faster and hit a little harder these days, too, but the difference is minimal when he's wearing armour — which right now, he isn't. instead, he's in track pants and a long-sleeved shirt and sipping tea.

sue him. he likes tea. )

Maybe you should eat something other than Oreos for once.

( you know, to keep you from ruining simmon's organs as you've ruined your own. he's scowling a little, but if asked, he'd happily proclaim that seeing grif jump out of his skin is totally worth the interruption of his peace and quiet. )

[ wow, this is fucking domestic. not that grif never sees simmons out of armor (hell, how many years have they been here now?), it's just weird with the addition of 3AM, the track pants, and, of course, the tea.

but then there's the lecturing, and everything seems back to normal. yep. ]

Yeah, and maybe I should start putting out campfires with my face instead of water. Or I could just, you know. Not.

[ after snagging a soda from the fridge, he turns back and plops into the chair across from simmons, committed to having at least some kind of sugar shoved into his body at the moment. perhaps just to spite him. ]

How's the tea, Mary Poppins?

That doesn't even make sense. Oreos aren't a balanced diet, you idiot.

( the lecturing comes all too naturally to simmons, especially now that grif has his organs. he knows that his organs need care, and a balanced diet is part of that. has grif ever even tasted broccoli?

but then grif calls him mary poppins, and suddenly simmons is on the defensive again, curling his fingers more tightly around the cup. ) And don't call me that.

[cross-canon / medium welcome!]

[ooc: Civil War compliant. Steve, Bruce, or Rhodey for anything shippy (or a previously established ship of ours), gen for everything else. <3]

When he showed up, Vision was the one who let him in. It's still strange seeing this being that they created and not wanting to wince away from it. He has to remind himself that Vision isn't Ultron, that the fact that he can pick up Thor's hammer is a test to the fact that he's safe if not entirely benevolent. He's told that Tony's away on business and offered a room at the all too empty compound. He can see the signs of the others everywhere he looks, even though he knows that they're fugitives now. It leaves him feeling uneasy and does nothing to fan down the flames of rage that have been threatening to consume him since he saw the news reports.

He accepts the room, all glass windows and modern furniture and plays the words he's going to say over and over again in his head as he waits for Tony's return. The sun sets, the late night shows come and go and he's still pacing across his room and waiting for Tony to return. He knows Vision probably told him about his arrival, so it doesn't feel entirely like an ambush, but even if it did, Bruce isn't sure he'd care.

He moves out of his room when it hits midnight, exploring the deserted compound through half lit rooms. He knows he won't be able to sleep until he sees Tony and so he doesn't even try. If Tony thinks his anger will be tempered by daylight, he's wrong. It's only been feeding on itself for the last few days. It speaks to how much better Bruce has gotten at controlling it that he hasn't given in and let the other guy take over.

It's only by sheer luck that he happens to be in the living room when the elevator doors open and Tony steps out. Bruce freezes, staring at the worn down looking man in front of him. If he wasn't so angry, he'd actually be concerned at the fact that Tony looks like he's aged ten years in the last two.

It has been a whirlwind since Siberia. Between the Accords, working with his lawyers to amend them, avoiding Ross, trying to at least minimize the charges against his team, building new legs for Rhodey and being there with him during his recovery, it has been leaving Tony busy. Too busy, some would claim, but he still finds hours in the day to rebuild his suit. It's bad, and he knows it, how he's running himself so thin until there's nothing left, but he doesn't care. He can't stop. The memories of his parents being killed are too strong. That sting of betrayal that he feels bone deep is impossible to outrun. He's worried, he's guilty, he's livid, and if working is all he can do to at least resemble any sort of existence then he's going to do it. He'll sleep when he's dead.

Today had been a day of meetings, and by the time he's on his way back to the compound he's in some stage between extreme exhaustion and buzzing from all the caffeine he has been drinking. Vision's text message had been quick and simple, 'Dr. Banner is here to see you,' and the temptation to just keep driving pierces through him so fast that he finds himself clenching onto the steering wheel for dear life. He wants to believe that this won't be a fight, because he's just so damn tired of fighting his friends, but he knows better.

And he also knows he can't run. It's a bitter pill to swallow, but he has to face this. He owes Bruce that much.

The ride up from the garage feels like a blur, and soon enough he's just feet away from Bruce. His suit is a little wrinkled from the long day of sitting and the drive, his tie is loose around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt are undone and his hair is sticking up everywhere after how many times he anxiously ran his fingers through it during the day, but he doesn't bother fixing any of it. Like Bruce, Tony freezes for a moment, unsure how to really approach this, but he forces a small smile and tosses his keys onto the table by the foyer.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Bruce?" He takes a few steps in, digging his hands into his pockets. It looks casual, but he really doesn't want Bruce to see how jittery he feels. "How has the vacation been?"

Edited 2016-05-28 19:54 (UTC)

Bruce knows him well enough by now to catch that second of hesitation and there's a part of him that is glad to see it. A part of him that wants Tony to be worried about what's about to come his way, because he deserves it. But then it's gone in a blink of an eye and Tony's standing in front of him, acting like he's been gone for a month instead of two years.

"You know damn well," Bruce says, levelling a look at Tony that says he's not in the mood for any bullshit. "I came to hear it from you. Because there's a part of me that doesn't want to believe you'd be stupid enough to get into bed with Ross."

He couldn't hide the disgust in his voice if he tried to. He doesn't. "What the hell were you thinking, Tony?"

“That— God, that mental image is going to haunt me until I die, I swear. Me and Ross in bed? Thanks, Bruce.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose for a second before sighing heavily under his breath and turning to him. He should be defensive, angry, indignant that he’s here just for this, but he isn’t. Tony’s tired. He’s so damn exhausted, and part of him already knows that Bruce wouldn’t stop, anyway, if this got out of hand.

Not only that, but Tony is well aware that he deserves it. The fallout wasn’t entirely his doing, he still firmly believes that Steve was responsible for shouldering part of the blame why the team is in such shitty situation, but he knows he deserves the venom in Bruce’s words.

“I didn’t choose for him to be Secretary of State, you know. Ross was a mouthpiece for something that was coming. Not from our government, but from the United fucking Nations themselves. What did you want me to do, tell them to shove it and figure out what to do with the fact that they don’t want unchecked superheroes running around in their countries?”

Okay, so maybe there’s still some fire in him. He’s not as argumentative as he had been in the beginning of this ordeal but, like Rhodey, he may regret a lot of things that happened ever since the Accords came up, but he still doesn’t quite disagree with what the Accords stood for. They really did need to be held accountable. Was it his guilt speaking? Maybe. But Tony hated the idea of being just like the bad guys he was trying to stop.

“I tried to be the buffer between him and the team, and it all went to shit. You want to hear what happened? That’s what happened.”

Edited 2016-06-01 03:03 (UTC)

"Telling the American Government to shove it has never been an issue for you before," Bruce points out, his fingers gripping the inside of his elbows through his crossed arms. "And we both know that the United Nations is even more incompetent than our government. Getting that many countries to agree on anything, let alone when and where to send us is an impossibility."

Bruce stares him down wordlessly for a long moment. He can still feel his anger burning hot but he can tell from the weariness in Tony's whole stance, voice and body language that he's already been run ragged. "You teamed up with a man who has never believed in peace. Isn't that what we were fighting for? Wasn't that the idea behind Ultron before everything fell apart? Protecting people? You should've known that all Ross cares about is protecting his own interests."

"Are you really surprised the others didn't stick around?"

"No, it wasn't an issue, and it still isn't. That's why I'm getting the Accords amended. I mean, knowing me, do you really think that I would agree to something that would completely get my hands tied?" He shakes his head as the frustration feels like it's bubbling within him again, and to give his hands something to do he completely takes off his tie and throws it off to a nearby chair. "Are you seriously that naive to believe that if all of us said 'no, fuck you all,' they were going to take that lightly? We signed as a temporary solution, and my lawyers were already working on amending them so that we'd reach a happy medium. I told Rogers that, too, but apparently that wasn't good enough."

Rogers. Not Steve. There's still so much anger and resentment towards the man, that formalities had kicked back in his brain ever since Siberia.

When Bruce brings up how he and Ross teamed up, Tony looks away and shakes his head as a dry humorless smirk crosses his lips. It takes all he has to just let Bruce finish talking and, when he does, he can't help the way that a small bitter chuckle bubbles out of him. It burns on the way out, but he can't stop it.

"You're right. Yes. I should have just ignored it all, follow Rogers' method. Fuck everyone else, right? Oh wait. That would have meant imprisonment for all of us after we save and protect people against the will of the countries that were signing." He rakes his fingers through his hair, frustrated, turning back to Bruce. "When a car spins out of control, what do you do? Do you fight it, or turn into the skid? Because I was looking for something that would have less of dire consequences. And, fuck, if my judgment is so skewed, how come Vision agreed to it? Rhodey? Natasha? It wasn't just me. I get it, you don't trust Ross. Neither do I, and I hate that he's the slimy bastard that managed to bring this up, but he wasn't wrong in that we needed to be put in check. The UN wasn't wrong in that we needed accountability. How many people did we kill with Ultron, Bruce? Do you know? I mean, you left, but do you know how many people died because of that? Because I do. I know how many we killed in New York, too. And how many died in Lagos. And how many died in South Africa. I mean, yeah, we saved the day, but fuck everything else, right?"

The questions about the number of casualties that they'd left behind stung. The rest of the world seemed to have forgotten that Tony hadn't acted alone in creating Ultron, but Bruce hadn't. Every time he thought that the number of casualties he caused couldn't get any higher another event happened to prove him wrong.

He knew the guilt that Tony was wrestling with far too well to deny that it was a very real one that they had to live with. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as his anger seemed to turn in on itself. He was still in control, but he could feel his heartbeat speeding up. His voice is deceptively calm when he speaks.

"Do you really think the Accords would've changed what happened?"

"No." Just like that, it feels like the steam that had been pushing him forward escapes him with a single response. A bitter smile crosses his lips, but it disappears as he shakes his head. "I knew it wouldn't. I'm not stupid."

His left arm felt numb again, and he flexes his fingers as if the motion will make it stop as he sinks into a couch. "I'm tired, Bruce. Of getting blood on my hands from innocent people. I know the Accords wouldn't erase any of it. We just... We can't run around doing whatever we want anymore." His voice lowers, looking away for a moment. "We lost that right after everything that has happened."

He doesn't miss the way Tony's fingers flex at his side, his eyes narrowing as he watches him sit down. Maybe he just wanted to hear Tony admit that he didn't have all the answers, but as Tony seems to deflate, Bruce feels his anger ebb into the background.

He's still furious that Tony would willingly work with Ross, even though a logical part of him knows that Tony's right. If he were trying to head things off at the pass, working with Ross was the only choice he had. It didn't justify everything, or signing up to the UN's weapon, but at least Bruce could understand what Tony was trying to do.

He takes a step closer, his voice even and normal. "What's wrong with your hand?"

"Nothing. It'll pass."

He glances towards Bruce, and he already knows that answer won't exactly fly, but he still doesn't elaborate. For a moment Tony doesn't say anything, just watching him as if waiting for more anger to continue pouring out of him. It seems to be gone for now, though, and Tony looks down at his hand as if he's busy adjusting his watch. "So is this really why you came back? This is what brought you out of the woodwork?"

Tony manages to keep his tone from being accusatory, but he still wants to know. It's probably better that Bruce was laying low during the whole ordeal, because Tony knows that he and his team wouldn't have been able to take on Rogers and the rest of the team if the Hulk would have been on their side, but still. Considering their friendship, it still stung that Bruce had all but disappeared after Ultron only to resurface to chew his ass out.

The answer isn't good enough, not by far, and Bruce can tell by the way Tony's fiddling with his watch, that he wants it to be. Tony's question catches him by surprise. He swallows and straightens up, crossing his arms over his chest protectively.

"I wanted to hear it from you." Maybe Tony doesn't owe him anything, but Bruce can't help but feel like working with Ross is still a betrayal. Tony knows the type of person Ross is and he still didn't think twice about getting into bed with him. Still, even under the bad taste that Ross leaves in his mouth, the logical side of Bruce knows that Tony's right. Telling Ross to go fuck himself would've only cemented the fact that the Avengers needed oversight.

"Have you been having chest pains?" No, he's not that kind of doctor, but considering he's seen Tony work on robotics for nearly twenty-four hours without a hand cramp, it's concerning.

Right, Tony says silently with a faint nod, still not looking up from his watch. Maybe he doesn't owe Bruce anything, but Tony does understand why he wanted to hear it from him. He's half tempted to keep offering excuses, explanations, but do they matter at this point? He isn't sure anymore what words to use to get his point across; none of the ones he knows or has used seem to work, and he's getting tired of trying.

"No," he answers with a sigh, looking back at him. "I'm fine." It's not a full truth, but it's not a compete lie, either. The last time he had chest pains was when Barnes had broken out after his interrogation. Right now his arm just feels numb, but whatever, he figures. He's fine.

"You're welcome to stay here," he adds as if they had just been discussing something else entirely. "There's enough room left here if you need a place to crash."

"Do you really think that's a good idea?" Bruce raises an eyebrow. He knows what Tony means by it, and he appreciates it, but being here at all and knowing how closely tied the Avengers are with Ross now is enough to make his skin crawl as it is.

There's an instinctual part of him that is waiting for special forces to slam through the windows and try to take him down. On the other side of things, though, this is Tony. And while it's clear he hasn't made the best decisions, Bruce trusts him enough to know that he wouldn't hand him over to Ross.

Not by choice, anyway.

If he really thought he was in danger he wouldn't have come here by choice. He shifts, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you on some level."

It comes out colder than he means it to, but you don't build a murderbot with someone and then take anything afterwards with them lightly.

Scott is here for work because he needs Tony to shrink with him on the next mission and Hank'll be damned if Scott teaches anyone their secrets. The past few days he's become more intimate with the Iron Man suit than he thought he ever would be--not enough to build one of his own, but enough to add modifications to it (like a belt, and veins of tubes inside for the Pym Particle to flow through). Along with that, however, he's become more intimate with something he always knew was happening behind the scenes but never quite thought was as intense as it really was.

The first time Scott witnessed Tony fall asleep (after how many hours of working), it seemed as if the moment he fell into REM sleep the man started sobbing. Tony was on the couch with a blanket tossed over his body, Scott lifted his head from his task and turned because he thought he'd heard wrong--but Tony was there, and he was shaking, and Scott had walked over to wake him only to get a hand on his wrist threatening to break it. Tony apologised after, of course, but Scott's wrist was already bruised, and these days he catches Tony glancing at those bruises every so often and hating himself for it more and more.

The second time Tony passed out from exhaustion, Scott barely even noticed, busy as he was with how it seemed the systems in Tony's suit were impossible to work around with the shrinking technology. But it'd hit him out of nowhere as he found himself pinned to the floor, suddenly, by Mark God-knows-what-now. Scott dismantled the suit into pieces with a well-aimed kick with his knee, heart beating hard in his chest, and as he turned his head his eyes widened as Tony cried and curled into himself by a counter with his eyes glued shut. That time, all he did when Scott woke him was jump, stare at nothing, and then take on a look so guilty Scott's entire soul felt as if it'd fallen through the cracks on the floor from when the suit had pushed him down.

Now, Tony's trying not to sleep. Scott knows why--it's obvious at this point, what with the mark around his wrist and the marks on his back--but it doesn't mean he isn't worried about it. If anything, he's even more worried than he otherwise would be.

He's supposed to be working now, finding a way for Tony's suit to be able to withstand the amount of force it'd receive and give in its shrunken form versus its current capabilities, but somewhere around his fifteenth screwball equation Scott's gaze had drifted to Tony and stayed.

It's four in the morning and Scott took a two hour nap from fifteen minutes past three to fifteen minutes past five in the afternoon.

"Hey." Scott's voice comes out a little awkward, but they've been quiet for hours now. Words don't necessarily come naturally after that.

He swallows, and it feels like there's gravel in his throat. "What's the compound like at night? Like, outside and not in here."

Even if Tony knows that the work they're doing is important and needs to be done, he's struggling to find the words to ask Scott to leave. Not because he wants him to, because he really doesn't. He had been so excited to have him visit the compound that Tony's spirits had soared for a whole two days, but after the last few incidents following his nightmares, he's convinced that he'd be better off away from him.

He had hurt him. He had hurt him, not once but TWICE, and to say that Tony's heart feels heavier from the guilt of it all is just a hilarious understatement. He had hoped that being so bogged down with exhaustion would make his mind shut off long enough to nap without violent dreams, but he had been wrong. He dreams of Siberia, and he watches his parents die all over again, and he dreams of Steve and Barnes, and

And he dreams of dying. Sometimes he dies with his parents, other nights Steve or Barnes kill him. Other nights he's buried in snow after being stranded there for who knows how long with a dead suit, and

And. Scott shouldn't have to deal with this. At all. Ever. He knows he has a heart of gold, and he knows he wants to help, but Tony feels like shit for putting him in danger. Because Tony's dangerous, that mind of his is a ticking time bomb, and shouldn't he try to get Scott away from the destruction zone before he gets too close?

Scott's voice pulls him out of his thoughts. He had been working on a simulator to try and figure out a way to shrink the suit successfully, trying to ignore the awkward silence and the way his chest just ached from wishing he could find a way to apologize for everything as his mind kept going into darker spaces within him, but Scott's words make him pause. The compound, at night?

"Pretty quiet," he ventures with a small sigh, glancing between Scott and the simulator. Not because he found a solution or was even close to it, but it's easier than turning to Scott completely. It's cowardly, probably, how he can't quite look him in the eye but he just can't help it. Tony hates hurting those he cares about, and somewhere along the way Scott had joined that list. "We're far enough from the city that it's just quiet." A beat. "Other than that, I don't really know. I'm usually in here, I don't really go out there."

"Oh, heh." That chuckle sounds weak even to him, the one who did the chuckling, but Scott does his best to hold his ground regardless. Just because he starts off tentative doesn't mean he has to continue on the same way. He can be strong for Cassie, so he can be strong for Tony, too.

Granted, it's different now: this isn't Scott waking up at three in the morning to find Tony in his kitchen, but rather Scott knowing intimately the reason Tony and sleep don't get along. Still, for all its difference, Tony is still Tony, and Scott is still himself, and that means he can't leave him alone no matter what he does. It'll probably evolve into a character defect somewhere down the line--the amount of care Scott pours into his precious people--but Tony's awkward little voice and his awkward, shifty glances, and his awkward just about everything isn't something that should stay, even if the healing process might take ages.

"Man, 'course you're always in here. I hate to say it, but--" Scott tries at a smile, crooked and small despite the fact Tony probably won't see it. "--you've got some kinda addiction going on." A pause. "With the lab stuff. Not that I blame you, the lab is awesome, but you might want to look into that sometime."

His voice cracked somewhere there, squeaky from disuse, but Scott trucks on nevertheless. Apparently the best parts of him come out whenever other people need him to be better--and with Tony at a low like this, Scott thinks pillars and strength and how important Tony's become to him and he feels he could take anything on.

"But maybe after we go out." There's another stretch of silence where Scott lets that sink in, his fingers tapping absently on the desk he stands in front of. "... and, yeah, I'm asking you to go outside with me, if that's okay.

"We've been cooped up in here too long, you know? It'll be good."

The problem is, Tony doesn't feel that Scott should stay. He appreciates it, more than he can ever try to say, but knowing he hurt Scott... It feels like a weight he can't get rid of, making him miserable in his attempts to even breathe the same air as him. Scott deserves better. Scott just...

He deserves better.

At the mention of his addiction, despite how much Tony doesn't really allow himself full eye contact, he turns to Scott. He opens his mouth to argue it, but how can he? He honestly can't remember the last time he left the lab, since he had purposely added a shower and bathroom in one end, and a mini kitchen in another. Tony could very well live here the rest of his life, and be okay with it.

Well. As okay as he could be isolating himself from the world, anyway.

With another sigh, he cards his fingers through his hair. It's anxiety and possibly too much caffeine blending into one, but he pauses when Scott brings up going outside. He wants to say no right away, that he should go on his own, but it's Scott, and somehow saying no to him just seems wrong. Even if he feels like a destructive force that'll eventually hurt him again, anyway.

"Right now? It's..." The middle of the night, he almost says, but stops and nods after a moment. "Yeah, okay. Just outside, or do you want to go anywhere?"

It feels like a weight's been lifted off his shoulders when Tony agrees, but Scott's doing his best not to slump visibly or make any particularly embarrassing sounds in relation to his relief. The situation's tense as is; there's no use making it any weirder or worse than it's already come.

Scott doesn't realise it, but he's doodled a couple of hearts in the corner of his computations. "Awesome," he says, and like that he's standing from his seat and letting the pen in his hand clatter to the desk beneath him.

"I was just thinking of plain old outside--I've never actually taken a good look at it normal sized, so you know." Given that Scott's been in the lab the entire time (entirely on his own choice, certainly), that's only to be expected. He probably looks just as haven't showered haven't eaten haven't slept as he feels, but already the prospect of getting some fresh air is making him feel the slightest bit refreshed. "I think being in a place as far from the city as this is means the stars'll be bright as hell."

Scott's already opening the glass door, making a sweeping gesture with his arm to beckon Tony through it. Less than gentlemanly, he's just hoping Tony'll actually go through with it. "You can make fun of me for being cheesy later, by the way."

There's no time to really second guess his agreement to go outside. Scott is already getting up, and Tony puts on a small smile on his face even if it doesn't quite reach his eyes. If he were more alert he'd probably see the hearts on Scott's computations, but right now his mind is too busy being worried and guilty to focus all that much. Maybe that's what's keeping him from solving their problem, but shit, after hurting Scott he just can't help it.

Except, he can't help it, the way that Scott opens the glass door makes that smile grow. The change is marginal, but it's there, and he even huffs out a breath that's supposed to be a chuckle. "Oh don't worry, I will." The familiar banter makes the overly tensed muscles along his back relax slightly, and he walks towards the door.

Despite Tony's claim that he doesn't need fresh air, he can't help but feel a little better the moment that he breathes in the cool night air as soon as they step outside. At a distance, the path leading up to the pool can be seen, illuminated by soft lights that shine through the grass, but beyond that there's nothing but trees. Despite how big the compound is, the Stark property is huge and there are still a couple of acres that are nothing but country and nature. And, like Scott had predicted, by being away from the city the night sky is covered with nothing but stars that are shining brightly above them. Tony stares at them for a moment, at the dark background behind those stars, and even if he remembers the way that he was almost swallowed up in space, he (thankfully) doesn't freak out. He just keeps walking, out of the compound and onto the grass.

He glances at Scott. "Not bad, huh?"

"I think the word you're looking for is awesome." But then, nobody uses the word 'awesome' as liberally and as frequently as Scott does (except Luis).

Having grown up in a city area and then spent his adulthood in a city area (when he wasn't in prison, anyway), stars are a luxury. Back in university he'd managed to see them more often, walking out of the dormitory and then lying down whenever he felt too stressed with papers and lab assignments. He'd watched and he'd watched, searched and searched, felt like he was looking for answers to questions he didn't even know yet--ironic as it is, Scott finds comfort in knowing he's a tiny piece in an endless universe. It makes him feel less alone.

For all his love of staring, however, Scott's never found the time nor the patience to learn the actual constellations. He thinks he regrets that, a little bit, because now he can't tell Tony any stories like they always do in the movies. But maybe Tony knows constellations more than he does, anyway, so it's no real loss. If anything, it's just good to breathe outdoor air and to know Tony's breathing it, too.

"I like grass," he says, which is stupid out of context, but a little more meaningful with the way his sneakers crunch into the blades beneath them. "And, you know, plants in general. Recently, insects too.

"But God, your old man picked such a good spot to take." Smiling, his gaze finally shifts from the expanse of the world to where Tony walks with him. "And you picked a great spot to rebuild, so. You're awesome, too."

Bending down, Scott grips some grass in his hand, and he pulls hard enough to get the scent of it on his skin, but not enough to pull it out of the dirt. Then, like a kid, he tumbles down until he can lie splayed on top of it.

"Man... I wish there was this much grass near my place..."

The enjoyment Scott gets out of seeing stars is so damn refreshing that Tony just... He's helpless to the way that he feels a little lighter around him, the way that he can only smile despite his best efforts to keep a straight face, and he's just so thankful to witness it that he doesn't even know what to do with himself. Scott could very well be some bitter guy after his stint in prison, after getting thrown into the RAFT for nothing other than trying to help Captain America, but he isn't. There's still something so pure about him that Tony can't even begin to comprehend, but damn if it doesn't make his heart swell up in the best way.

"Yeah, he did pretty good." He turns just enough to look at the compound, and he knows it looks so damn odd to have a very futuristic building in the middle of trees and country, but Scott doesn't seem to mind it so Tony doesn't either. When he turns back, he expects to see Scott standing again after he bent down to touch the grass, but no. He's laying down, and Tony breathes out a chuckle.

Any other day, Tony would have probably joked (but not quite joking) that he should move. To the compound. Because hey, that's a good idea, right? But Tony knows he can't - there's Cassie to think about, but after the last few nights, he really isn't sure he wants to expose Scott to his quirks. His nightmares. As cheesy as it was (he blames him for this), Scott is like sunshine and the last thing he wants to do is tarnish it or diminish it with everything he carries inside.

So, he doesn't say anything. Instead, after a moment or so of considering it, he moves to sit down next to him. "Have you ever lived anywhere other than California?"

The grass rustles when Tony sits by him, and Scott turns his head from where he's settled, corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. He's got his legs spread, his arms bent so he can rest his head atop one hand over the other, and while he'll admit Tony isn't at a hundred percent (probably won't be for a bit, if Scott's learned anything about him over the months they've become the unlikely pair of friends they are), he at least looks a little more like he can breathe than he did when they were cooped up inside.

It's the miracle of outdoor air. Scott was hoping it'd work.

"I was born in Florida," he answers, and if it'd been in the afternoon as opposed to that strange hour between too late and too early, he might have even sounded like he was chirping it. He looks up at the stars again, and while logically he knows he's looking at a different combination of lights from the ones he'd seen in his college years, Scott can't shake off the feeling that the view looks exactly the same. Feels the same, even. Or something like that. "Miami, actually. California was just me moving after getting married because most of Maggie's family lived there." His knees rising, Scott lets one leg cross over the other in the most stereotypical pose of relaxation he knows. Ironically, however, it just puts strain in the legs he hasn't used practically all day. "And now it's Cassie's hometown, so... it's a pretty special place."

If asking him questions is Tony's brilliant idea at conversation, Scott decides that he's going to be as honest as he can. He's not used to talking about himself; he can barely talk about anything. But it's different when Tony asks. It's even more different when he thinks about all that they've done together: such little things, he supposes, mediocre in the eyes of society, maybe--but to Scott they mean just about everything.

Tony's humanity is a lovely thing, even if he's scared of it.

So Scott turns to him again just to offer him a half-grin. "You gotta admit San Francisco has its charms, 'specially since you come visit so much."

"Miami's not bad." Not bad at all, if that's Scott's hometown, he thinks, and there's a quirk of his lips that twist into a small smile. It might be strange for Scott to talk about himself, but Tony is enjoying to know more about him. The world knows all about Tony Stark, from his birth in Long Island, to living in Massachusetts for both his boarding school years and then MIT, to California and then back to New York again. Tony doesn't really believe his life is all that fascinating as the media portrays, but Scott? Scott is fascinating to him. He had done the whole college-then marriage-then kid route. Sure, life had gotten in the way and all that had broken up, but the rest is so different than what he's used to.

"San Francisco isn't so bad," Tony concedes with a half grin of his own as he turns towards Scott. "That place just seems to keep drawing me back there."

And it has nothing to do with business meetings, or fundraisers he needed to attend. Because Tony had been visiting the Bay Area for far longer than he has known Scott and Cassie, but it never really had much meaning before other than money.

Now... Now there's Scott. Cassie. They're his reasons for going back, for paying more attention about news from the West coast, for being more willing to fly out to California for business than he used to. He doesn't know exactly when that happened, but here they are nonetheless.

In some ways, the fact that Scott has come to mean so damn much to him is what makes this harder. The fact that he had hurt him, even if he hadn't even realized at the time he was doing it. It makes him want to apologize, he even takes a breath as if he's about to speak, but he can't quite say the words. Not because he doesn't want to or doesn't mean it, but he's really not ready for Scott to absolve him of his guilt. He doesn't deserve it.

"Has Cassie ever been out to this corner of the country yet?" he says instead, picking at a blade of grass.

Scott's heart skips a beat.

And it's a strange thing, because his heart doesn't just do that. He's sure he's gotten a good enough hold on himself to keep that from happening, but there's something about Tony coming to San Francisco to see him, to see his daughter, to spend time with them that just... sticks. Scott knows the whole point of this outdoor expedition had been to make Tony feel better, but he's grateful for the blanket of darkness around them and how it hides the redness that's spread from his cheeks all the way down to his neck.

"I, uh..." He shakes his head, one hand removing itself from behind his head to rest lazily on his stomach. Scott's mind is still filled with some quiet, pink haze, and he tries his best to clear it. God, what the hell was that? "N-No, she hasn't. Maggie, she won't, um..." He flounders a bit, manages a little laugh when he finally finds his words. "She doesn't want Cassie to go too far. Or at least, you know, that's what she told me back when I was the irresponsibly ugly father that I was. While yelling. Into a phone. In prison."

Scott's expression goes sheepish, voice going soft as he speaks. He's been called a lot of things: optimistic, bright, spastic. He's been known to take the awful things in life, manage them, and then still only see the good. But it's late and it's just him and Tony and the stars and the smell of grass, and somehow it gets his tongue looser. "There're a lot of things... I mean, I missed a lot of Cassie's life, you know? Three years is a long time, and it kills me that she grew up memorising the rules of prison visitation hours because that was the only way she could see me.

"Maggie, she... says a lot of things. I don't think she even really trusts me fully yet--that I've changed, or that I'll stop putting myself in these dangerous situations because nobody's asking me to be a hero." The corners of his eyes crinkle. "And she's... probably right, 'cause... here I am, being what Hank Pym used to be. Pays child support, sure, but I'm not--I don't have anything normal to hold onto."

Scott's posture goes awkward, his eyes half-lidded before he lifts them enough to look Tony's way. It's strange saying so many things; it's strange talking like this when he's never really had any outlet to. He feels clumsy, stupid, and he's half-worried about what Tony might think, even though Tony doesn't have to think anything.

"Sometimes I worry I'm getting it too good, balancing things like this. And one day I'll have to give up helping people or my little girl because this shit's gotta catch up with you somehow, right? And that's..." His voice cracks, but Scott powers on with a laugh. "God, Tony... it's the scariest thing I've had to think about."

( cannot put up worthy starter yet because have to leave soon but places flag here.
update: ok this got away from me idek. )

[ ‘Every Passing Hour’ – the song title slides benignly across the little app Sam downloaded onto his phone, and Bucky would like to punch the screen. Bucky would, in fact, like to punch Sam, since he’d only put the app there for the purposes of immediately filling it with dubstep playlists.

“For the club rat I know is deep inside you,” Sam had quipped over morning coffee, before a dish had whizzed smoothly past his left ear.

Bucky has it on good authority Sam had used no such disrespect when he’d stuffed a pair of earbuds in Steve’s ears, once upon a time. Steve tells him stories, and Bucky semi-laughs. More like coughing obscenities under his breath. More like turning a fairly toxic shade of green, when he knows he has no right. They seem so… well-adjusted.

Every Passing Hour.

It’s instrumental, not exactly moody or morose, but still a self-indulgent sort of affair. Wistful use of chimes in and out that invite what most people would call reflection and what Bucky would call dangerous navel-gazing. You don’t go down that rabbit hole, Soldier. You take a hard left, you aim high, you let the blood dry under your fingernails—

—you hear static in the chimes, you feel shocks to your temples

you smell flesh burning
you see white, just white, they’re only ever playing snow on this screen

1986, Ukraine. It’s snowing in Khyriv, and it slows his support team down. There’s a muted sense of aggravation that comes with this, but only in the way the Soldier can assess the loss of efficiency and feel a corresponding itch of agitation. The snow slows down their target too, however, and the Soldier knows this is the last stop on their train to anonymity.

It had been a good choice, he surmises; a town with less than 5,000 people, nothing noteworthy having happened here since the occupation of 1939. Nice enough place to get lost.

Nice enough place to be buried, too.

The Soldier stares down at the crumpled heap, white flakes dusting dutifully down to dress it in thin layers, as if for modesty. It is not modest, he knows. It is grotesque. (But, he thinks again, efficient.) He bends, retrieves an enveloped floppy disk from inside the heap’s wallet, slides it into a pack slung over his shoulder. The white flakes are in his eyelashes now, obscuring his vision; he lifts a gloved left hand to remove them, feels the burn at his temples—

—snow, white, static
his whole body spasms, resetting and rebelling
someone screams (him?)

He blinks his eyes several times. The chimes are still low and indulgent in his ears, and in front of him, the TV has lost its signal. It’s playing snow, only snow on the screen.

Bucky rips the earbuds out and tosses the phone aside. The time reads 4:00 AM. There’s no Khyriv; there are no electrodes on his skull; there is no heap in the snow. He’s alone on the couch in their temporary hideout, their literal den.

Hell of a nice place to get lost, Soldier. ]

Edited 2016-05-30 03:22 (UTC)

[ ota and voicetesting. ]

Edited 2016-05-28 17:28 (UTC)

[ wanna do something? haha. could be tlou 'verse (as i'm not familiar with AoS 'verse), or could be MoM 'verse where joel and daisy get along. ]

Yes please! Either works.

[ voicetesting like whoa! ]

[Any preferences for prompts?]

[ i'm open to any of the prompts except 2 (hunger) and 8 (anger) but that's it! ]

Genji slept more easily these days. He had long since grown accustomed to the constant presence of the mechanical parts of himself. The feeling of artificial nerves connected to his organic ones, that were more sensitive than some of his remaining skin, as scarred and damaged as much of it was. In the past he had often blamed his inability to sleep on the cybernetic parts, rather than acknowledge that it was his own mind dwelling on them and the events that necessitated them.

This night it was not the past that kept him awake. He had pushed people away so much during the years after Dr. Ziegler saved him, but now he was beginning to miss the lost opportunities to get to know those he fought alongside. Genji knew it lay entirely on himself for being difficult at the time. He could meditate more, but part of accepting and embracing himself was being honest with himself. So Genji stood up and stretched, and left the room he was in to seek out Zenyatta.

It isn't difficult to find the young monk. He never strayed far from their agreed location wherever they chose to settle during their travels. Should he do so, rare as it maybe, there were at least certain types of areas he would gravitate to should they fulfill his simple requirements, his need for silence and peace.

The shade of a humble tree, with the solitude of the night and the light of the stars as his only company, is such a place he would head to if he wished to find new revelations from himself and from the world. Here he rests, meditating and pondering as he always does, when the familiar sounds of someone approaching comes from the distance. He slowly pulls himself out of his reverie, humming thoughtfully as he turns to see who it is.

"Ahhh… Genji." There's always a note of fondness found in the monk's voice just for the man since the two of them met. Zenyatta nods in greeting at the sight of him, turning his whole body to face him proper. It was only respectful after all. "What brings you out in these hours?"

Appreciating the world around him is something Genji has only just relearned, not realizing he'd lost it. Or perhaps he never really did notice in the first place, as absorbed as he was in other things. First in the lifestyle he had as a child, and then in being a cyborg. The spot Zenyatta is sitting is peaceful and pleasant, and Genji would once have not noticed either of those things.

Hearing the sound of Zenyatta's voice and that particular tone that seems reserved for him brings a smile to Genji's face behind his faceplate. Omnic body language and the subtle expressions in their voice are not so difficult to notice as he once thought they would be. "I am unable to sleep, and did not wish to sit alone in my room."

[ The most efficient way for Bastion to heal is to sit in a corner and shut down all non-essential functions, then divert that power to their self-repair systems.

But since Bastion is sentient and therefore gets lonely, they're seeking out someone else to sit with while they repair themselves. Even if they can't talk properly, they can at least listen to whatever they have to say.

They trill a greeting to the first teammate they happen to come across as they limp down the hallway, which is Zenyatta. They like Zenyatta, and not just because he's an omnic - Zenyatta's nice to them. In fact, he's nice to everyone.

They tilt their head, beeping a few times, unsure how to communicate their question. They wonder if it's okay for them to sit with Zenyatta for a while. ]

[ he's pulled from his meditation when he hears a trill, a call. his thoughts on harmony and existence may wait if there is someone attempting to call his attention.

looking up, he turns his gaze to the source of the sound and makes a friendly 'hmm' of recognition upon recognising the towering figure. a hand is lifted up, palm open and gesture one of friendliness. ] Greetings, my friend.

[ his voice is calm as it always it but there's also a warmth to it too when he recognises the presence of his fellow omnic. is he surprised to see bastion is still awake at this hour? it is hard to say but he listens patiently to the beeps while tilting his head in mimicry to show he's listening.

then, sure enough, he gestures to the empty space next to him. ] The view out here is a lovely one. Would you give me the honour of your company?

[ Bastion chirps back at Zenyatta, a distinct little three-note sound that is as close as they'll ever get to saying 'friend', raising their hand in return.

They're happy to shuffle over and sit next to the other omnic. It's nice to spend time in the company of someone who's not going to judge you, sometimes.

After a moment, they readjust themselves in an imitation of Zenyatta's customary meditative pose. They're trying their best. ]

[ it most certainly is nice to be able to spend time with others in peace and not in conflict. zenyatta believes he is doing the right thing, this siding of his, but everyone, sooner or later, must have some respite from combat.

even bastion. so seeing bastion attempting to mimic his pose is both welcomed and encouraged. he cants his head to the side while he watches and waits, his orbs around him glowing a friendly blue.

that said his interests are quipped by these turn of events. ] It is rare to see you out in this hour. What brings you out to the evening if I may ask?

[ 'What brings you out?'

Bastion trills, apparently more just to make sound than anything else, before attempting to answer the question.

How do they communicate 'lonely'? They're...not entirely sure, to be honest. After a moment, they mime looking around, then shrugging, then drooping a bit, before straightening up into their (admittedly kind of awkward looking) pose once more.

They tilt their head curiously at Zenyatta. They could ask the same of him, though. He's always outside. Does he like the view? ]

no apocalypse spoilers please.

[ It had been a long several days and York had not been able to allow the events of the week to settle in his mind. He'd watched over Carolina, watched her work out whatever tension was in her body and mind, but he hadn't really been able to contemplate what it meant until he got quiet in bed and tried to settle in.

The fact of the matter was, though neither Carolina nor Tex would speak of it, something had to have happened with Connie. York couldn't begin to guess what it was, but as he turned over in bed and tried to get comfortable, the thought assaulted him suddenly that she was never coming back.

It got late, and Delta's company, though appreciated, just wasn't cutting it. North had seemed to be sympathetic when they'd spoken earlier that evening and York just kept concentrating on it—maybe it would turn out that North needed him. It was a new thought, but it grew in York's consciousness until he couldn't help it anymore—he got up, stealing quietly down the hallway of the living quarters of the ship, and knocked on North's door. ]

[Sleep was becoming a rare commodity and the knock on his door wasn't as much a surprise as it might have been a week before. North opens the door after a moment before stepping to the side to let him enter.]

Delta keeping you awake, or are you thinking about Connie?

[ York takes that cue to step in, and when North asks that question he sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. ]

Little a' both, to be honest. Seems like you're awake, too.

[ Without invitation, he steps over to the bed and sits down. They'll end up there anyway. ]

Theta keeps me up. [It's the simplest answer and doesn't really touch on the other things that keep him up, like how his sister had reacted to the news about Connie. She hadn't been the same since, really, and then there was the tension within the team. ]

And I have a feeling it's only going to get worse from here on out. [ He dropped down to sit beside York once he'd settled on the bed. ]

Yeah, with what we were talking about earlier. I just...

[ York looks at him. ]

How did you know I was thinking about Connie?

[ After all, the topic hadn't come up when they'd spoken earlier in the night. Maybe pointedly so. ]

Lucky guess. She's probably been on everyone's minds lately. [Well, not necessarily everyone, Wyoming and Maine were up in the air, but Wash, South, himself, definitely. Carolina too.]

She was a member of the team, whatever else she did.

Yeah. I guess so.

[ He sighs and looks at his hands. ]

You know, we were sent after her, we didn't catch her, we didn't even retrieve her armor. With the way Carolina's been acting...

[ He frowns. ]

You know, I really ought to just ask her? But maybe...I'm afraid of the answer.

I know what you mean. [He's thought about asking himself, but in a way, he doesn't want the confirmation for what he's suspecting.]

If it had gone well, we would have had something...

[early canon preference ]

[You alright with a canon OC perchance?]

(ota!)

[After that big mess on the hypertrain, McCree kept his head down as he navigated through Houston, a little more complicated than intended but life had a bad habit of throwing stray bullets his way, figuratively and literally. Having to deal with all that also put a damper on some of his emergency funding, which made the prospect of a ten-million bounty sound extra appealing. It was hard to ignore reports about the guy--this Solider 76--and turns out he was recently seen in Dorado.

McCree figured there could be worse things to stick his nose into. With Talon causing a ruckus over that pink cube thing, maybe it was related. He didn't entirely care what or why for, but money like that sure did talk big.

So another hypertrain he took, this time much more uneventful. By the time he arrives in the outskirts of Dorado it's late. It's easy to commandeer an old abandoned farm doing little than growing crops of dust and dirt and maybe a stray cactus as a campsite. Plenty to burn in a fire. Nice and cozy and inviting to anyone with a number on their head, he thinks. Despite the long travel he doesn't feel much like sleep. He convinces himself he did enough of it on the train. Or maybe he's just wondering what kind of man gets a grudge like that for Overwatch, apparently. What a mess that turned out to be... right.

He takes a long gander at the moon ~~and it's angry gorilla inhabitants~~ and watches his cigar smoke trail around it until a breeze takes it away, wondering if he'll attract the right kind of attention or if he'll have to go looking for itself later.

Either way suited him just fine.]

[ha ha GUESS WHAT ASSHOLE

It works. It works really well, because what kind of idiot lights a fire in the middle of a desert in a position that's not at all defensible? That's suspicious, and though he knows on some level that it might be a trap, this moron is basically asking for it.

76 hasn't exactly had a good week. After his conscience got the better of him in a split-second confrontation, Los Muertos has become that much more elusive, a testament to being alerted of his presence. Raw intimidation can only do so much, and he has a feeling he lost some of that clout when word got around that he let an entire truck full of weaponry get away. It's a soft spot to exploit--doesn't matter how many heads he beats in if they're laughing about how a notorious vigilante terrorizing their operation is really just an old man who'll more than willingly pitch mission objectives out the window to throw himself down for a singular child. He doesn't regret the decision, exactly, but as far as they're concerned, it's a weakness, and he's still going to be angry about what happened.

Add that to the Overwatch recall and he's in a sour mood. The silhouette in his tac visor is uncomfortably familiar (even if he knows everyone dresses like this out here, maybe), and ever since he caught wind of Winston's message, he's known that ex-agents are going to try and seek him out--some altruistically, some not. The bounty on his head isn't anything to sneeze at.

So, yes, probably this will get him in trouble, but mostly he wants to see who's stupid enough to light a campfire where anyone in a ten mile radius can see it. He's not stupid enough to think that the guy is asleep--he sees the cigar smoke, after all.

There's no real cover as he moves in, so he tries to approach from behind.]

Edited 2016-05-31 22:40 (UTC)

[Yeah, McCree didn't have to nose around very much to hear whispers of viejo soldado being passed around like a boogey man... or the butt-end of a joke depending on if you asked the guy with a few new bullet holes in him or broken bones, or not. Might've made any lesser man scared or stupid to do a set-up like this, but McCree was nothing if not confident in his skills. He of all people knew better to take legends and stories with a grain of salt.

To his credit, the set-up is awfully hard to approach. Even the cover of darkness won't afford much against tell-tale crunches of boot against stand and ~~tactically placed horse manure~~ dried shrubs. There's no trees or anything taller out here than the barn itself, wood old and rotting on one part of the roof. The worst someone could do is sneak up on said roof and try to get the height advantage as McCree tends to the fire, but even then that's just going to confine them to one place and make them an easy target for his Peacekeeper.

No. McCree keeps his eyes on the dirt, familiarizing himself with every rock and spit of sand within a certain amount of paces, while his ears do the looking out.]

[~~is this tactically placed horse manure fuck you mccree~~

76 doesn't have enough of a death wish to try the roof, but the cover of the barn walls will do. He's starting to get the feeling that this is all on purpose (or maybe he's just paranoid), because anyone who gets this close has to trade the shadows of the derelict building for the possibility that their footsteps will be heard. That's something he keeps in mind as he tries to slink along the outside, taking care to keep himself out of the line of the fire, lest he cast a shadow where McCree can see it.

And it is McCree--this close, he can recognize him. 76 has lost track of him in the time between Overwatch's fall and the immediate aftermath, but he knows he's wanted for a variety of things. Some true, some not, he's sure, but he doesn't think finding him outside Dorado is a coincidence.

There's a gap in the wooden boarding at the back of the barn that he manages to slip through. It's not without noise, but he's sure McCree already knows he's here by the time he gets within spitting distance. If he's come this far, he needs to follow through.

McCree is most definitely not asleep, but he's getting a wake-up call anyway, in the form of the muzzle of a rifle nudging the back of his head.]

[~~silly old man you think McCree walked all the way out here by himself? he's got a horse, o'course o'course.~~

He's definitely attracted some kind of attention and his ears follow around his new guest; picking out the minute shuffle of clothes from shrubs caught in a breeze, and the quiet padding of boots on wood from the crack of fire. Even if McCree is acutely aware he's not alone, he's put himself in a very precarious position for sure. The idea of being shot in the back isn't his favorite so he'll speak some words before that muzzle gets too close for comfort.]

Not the best at sneaking around, are you?

[For all he knows he's picked up a stray coyote, so he he turns slowly, just the side of his head until the corner of his eyes meets a glaring red visor and that's confirmation enough. McCree snorts, unable to help letting some cigar smoke drift out from his nose, the rest escaping from the corner of his curled lip.]

Must be all those dollar bills over your head weighing you down in the dirt.

Edited 2016-06-02 04:52 (UTC)

[~~where is the horse, mccree~~

76 is not surprised to hear McCree speak up before he manages to touch the muzzle of his rifle to the back of the cowboy's head. He expects nothing less, and luckily, he's willing to roll with this.]

Don't have to be.

[Not to say he can't sneak, but this is clearly a setup. They both know it. 76 is more than confident in his own abilities. He knows McCree much better than McCree knows him, and he plans to capitalize on that.]

You sure went through a lot of effort.

[Then again, it did work...and he is worth a lot of money.]

[~~tucked in the only bed in the barn with a blanket on top. McCree sleeps in the hay :(~~

He'd hardly consider this an effort, but effort well enough worth the price on his pretty little... well... frankly graying and jacked up head. McCree had been commandeering an old log to sit on and with the introduction of his quarry he slowly rises and turns around, patting his rear with his metal hand. Nice and easy, no sudden movements, but with an obvious casualness that suggests McCree isn't taking this guy very seriously yet or just isn't interested in a fight. He was willing to stick his neck out for a kid, maybe he wasn't all that bad.]

Like a moth to a flame, right stranger?

[But apparently bad enough for McCree to not feel bad about taking him for what he's worth.]

I figure we can make all the ruckus we want out here, and no one else who needs to get involved is going to get involved.

[He takes a few steps backwards, the spurs on his boots jingling with every seemingly methodical step. He tips his hat up and splays one arm out by his holster. He's a very polite fellow when it comes to business, you see.]

You wanna' do this the easy way or the hard way?

[~~would you say he has spurs...that jingle jingle jangle...~~ 76 shrugs a little, but otherwise makes no move to lower his gun.]

Rather we didn't do it at all.

[Which begs to question why he even walked into this, but maybe 76 thought he could strike preemptively before this guy tailed him all the way to Brazil, or something. This is clearly him giving McCree one chance to back down and back off.]

You think they'll pardon you if you bring me in?

[That's said with an air of incredulity, like McCree would really be stupid if he thought that.]

[~~Oh ain't I glad I'm single and that song ain't so very far from wrong~~

Definitely does beg the question why he walked right into this, gun-first no less. McCree supposed maybe old habits were hard to break for some folks but he was hardly deterred. He gives a little shrug of his own.]

I don't even think death'll pardon my name. People are going to believe whatever they like. Can't change that.

[Viejo soldado gets a finger point while McCree slowly circles the firepit, and naturally his fingers form the shape of a gun.]

Better question: why target Overwatch's? Los Muertos? LumériCo? Can't think of a thing they all have in common except for you stickin' your nose in their business.

[That begs to question what all this is about, then--what is McCree going to do with ten million dollars if he'll be arrested the instant he shows his face to any kind of authority? Luckily, McCree is quick to fill him in.

76 wants to ask why he even cares. Why he cares when he bailed on Overwatch (Blackwatch, he corrects himself) and presumably has no business in Mexico in the first place. What has he even been doing?

He counter-circles, keeping his gun trained. McCree can and will outdraw him, so he stays at the ready. 76 doesn't answer, only counters with questions of his own.]

You get the recall?

[He's sure someone less than savory would be willing to exchange his bounty, no questions asked. Leave it to McCree to find gainful employment in the best and worst of circumstances.

And--Yep. His eyes widen at that question and his smirk fades rather tellingly. That was pretty much the reason why McCree cared at all--he got the recall and that meant if this Soldier 76 was going after old Overwatch establishments, well, then for his sake he'd better make it his business, much as he'd rather not.

He--and them--were better off going their separate ways. He could carry out his own brand of justice with no red tape and no risk of getting too sentimental about the team. That recall was unsurprisingly met with silence. He sure didn't need any ghosts in his shadows and he sure didn't need any new kinds of guns pointed his way.

Funny how that worked out.

So that question now prompts a wide assortment of many other implications and questions McCree wasn't entirely expecting to be met with. Nor inclined to answer. Either this guy was legitimately previously part of Overwatch in some fashion, or, he's dug around deep enough into Overwatch's old business that he knows about the recall and that's mighty dangerous to think about. The cynic in McCree hadn't entirely gone away, just got quieter after seeing some of the good Jack inspired in everyone else back in the day, but now that cynic elected to oblige paranoia and McCree rolls his eyes like he doesn't even want to oblige it. God damn it.

He doesn't draw his gun but with the same fast flick of his wrist he's lobbing a flashbang at 76's feet. He's circled him around the fire right to where he'd want him and he doesn't need that particular flashbang to hit...

...not when he's buried like three of them in the dirt right next to where 76 was standing.]

[76 knows that mentioning that his mentioning the recall can mean only one of two things--that he's ex-Overwatch himself, or that he dug deep enough to get his hands on the message. Both are the truth. Winston had no reason to contact the dead, but he'd suspected something was up after the botched museum heist, and it hadn't taken him very long after that. He's got the recording on file now, and it angers him more than he wants to admit.

Hopefully McCree assumes the latter, as far as that's concerned, even if he doubts anyone will actually put two-and-two together. What's satisfying is seeing that question throw him off. Make him stumble.

76 is ready for him to unleash either gunfire or something else, and takes a few nimble steps backward. He feels the heat of the explosion, but it's another second before he realizes that it was only a distraction. When the other flashbangs go off, he brings a hand up to shield himself and then indiscriminately opens fire--more a kneejerk reaction than anything.]

[McCree was definitely trying avoid gunfire in this if he could help it, especially if 76 has ties to Overwatch and consequently a lot of questions that need answering. The bounty was only have the interest now.

The flashbangs go off and before he knows it there's bullets in the air. His chest armor wasn't for show but that would only do so much for a random close-range spray. They ricochet off his chest and he jumps and rolls for cover ~~and hits his own flashbang and dies~~ ~~the horse woke up said stop it dad you are doing me a frighten~~. He feels more whiz past his head and feels his hat knocked clean off his head mid-tumble. His ears ring from the dangerously close proximity and he hisses a curse feeling that sudden draft through his hair. It's not quite enough to addle him coming out of the roll and he gives a hard kick to the back of 76's knees, hoping to get him more prone. If that does the trick, he'll follow up by shoving that big robot hand of his against 76's face mask and gripping hard, trying to make him eat dirt.]

[76 doesn’t want to kill him if he can help it—he just really doesn’t want to get apprehended, and if that means putting a few pulse rounds in McCree, so be it. He knows what his old team can take.

Still, knocking him out is preferable, so once he gets a grip on his knee-jerk reaction to being flashbanged, he opts to go hand-to-hand.

McCree seems to have the same idea. What McCree doesn’t know is that 76 is intimately familiar with his playbook, unless he’s majorly overhauled it in six years. He expects that, sure, but at the very least, he knows the basics. 76 responds to that strike at the back of his knees by trying to bring the butt of his rifle down on McCree’s shoulder in a bid to get some distance between them. He feels the metal hand scrabbling against his visor and tries to take him by the robot wrist. It’s a precarious dance—him trying to keep his balance and get McCree to loosen his grip while he’s being pulled downward, quite literally, by the face.]

[McCree groans as the rifle hits that sweet spot where his shoulder strap ends and (comparatively) unprotected shoulder eats most of the hit. 76 was no slouch at hand to hand, not that he expected any less from a guy who supposedly single-handidly sent a good number of Los Muertos to the hospital. More than that, the way he moves is familiar for other reasons, but it's too soon in the fight for McCree to really think of that when he feels both of them thud to the ground in a tangle of limbs.

It's dangerous and bold but he swings his leg over the other man and tries to straddle him over the hip, at first putting his full weight against the temple of his head which he lifts up once and slams bck down, but then he tries to use that momentum and roll off him, hand still tightly clutching at his mask.]

[They both go down and he's immediately trying to extricate himself from the bottom of the arrangement, trying not to let McCree complete his maneuver.

He growls--a real, honest-to-god snarl as fingers try to wrap around his visor. The mask clasps locks into place on the inside. Good in the sense that it's going to take some substantial effort on McCree's part to get it off him. Bad in the sense that it lets him jerk 76's head around in his efforts to remove it. All bets are off if he decides to hit hard enough to break, it, however.

76 swings a wild punch. He has to let go of his rifle in his attempt to pry McCree's hand away, but he's not going to be doing much good for himself if he's being held by the visor.]

Edited 2016-06-06 03:59 (UTC)

[That punch hits more of his chest armor but it's hard enough to knock the wind out of him to the same effect, jostles him and almost threatens to send him rolling off the man. He tightens his resolve, and his thighs around 76's waist to the best of his abilities. This is definitely not the most dignified way of fighting, no sir, but he wasn't ready to just shoot the guy and call it a night. That'd be quick and easy and not gain nothing at all.

McCree's natural arm fumbles for a second then goes for the barrel of the rifle and basically tries to blindly twist it out of 76's hand. It's more for a distraction than anything while his robotic hand continues to keep a vice grip on his visor. He's not making any headway that way, and short of punching the poor bastard blind he decides again to try and use the terrain to his advantage.

He tries, rather humorously with his clamped legs, to scoot both of them just an inch or so over so he can promptly lift 76's head up and bash the side of his visor on a rock.]

[76 tries to get a handle on his rifle again so that he can shove it up under McCree's chin or maybe hit him in the face with it, but it's already out of his grasp. Even if it was, all of his fighting instincts have been reduced to getting the hands off his mask, something that proves increasingly futile.

He bounces back from injury slower, nowadays. He doesn't know if it's his age or the fact that he kind of got himself exploded in Switzerland that one time, but he's still feeling that grenade he took for the girl. It makes it easier for McCree to get the upper hand, especially when he's putting the metal arm to use keeping relentless hold of his face.

Still, he's augmented. His opponent is not, and 76 needs to use that to his advantage. As soon as he feels his head lifted up in preparation for it to be driven back down, he drives his knee into McCree's stomach, but not before the side of his head slams against the rock. 76 is protected somewhat by the plating around the visor, but white still explodes behind his eyes and his ear pops. He shoots a hand upward, trying to wrap it around McCree's neck to keep him from doing that again.]

[The rifle hits him right in the throat resulting in an audible choking-gag, then a quick follow-up hit nails him in the temple. He doesn't feel blood but already it's throbbing and he's sure that's going to bruise something nasty later.

Adding to the symphony of embarrassing sounds is the warbling groan that comes from being nailed in the stomach. This guy sure packs a punch, it's almost inhuman! It ticks McCree off and drives him to really slam that visor down in the midst of it all. He hears the satisfying crunch of glass/whatever breakable material it is and given 76 isn't wailing in pain he assumes his vision is fine. McCree thinks it'd be cruel to rob it from him unnecessarily even if they're fighting in the dirt like two pigs in slop.

He'll have little chance to make any further sounds as soon enough 76's hand finds his throat. Much as McCree wants to keep slamming his head down, now with the intent to ideally knock him unconscious or at least get his hands off his neck it's difficult to do so with said hands around his neck. He gives up messing with the rifle and tries to contest the hand at his neck with his own. He figures he won't have to resort to using the rock now that the visor is broken, he can fumble around and hook his fingers (broken shards of no concern to metal fingers) behind the rim of it and pull very hard.]

Sonnuva--[bitch doesn't make it out and sounds more like GHICKL.]

Edited 2016-06-06 23:22 (UTC)

[Feeling the impact is more than a little satisfying, but he has no time to enjoy it because McCree is still trying to bash his head into the ground. He tightens the grip he has around the cowboy's neck, but that doesn't stop his visor from cracking, splintering, and then shattering completely under the force of that metal hand.

Shit. He'd gone through a lot of trouble to steal that. 76 has no choice but to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from getting glass in them, which lets McCree get a better hold on the rest of it.

The mask isn't attached to his face, but it takes substantial effort to wrench it from the rest of his headgear. When McCree manages it, he can't bite down the shout that's a direct result of the sheer force required to snap it off. His head bounces back upon release and smacks against the ground. All it does it make him angrier, hand on the rifle leaving it entirely to join the other around McCree's throat as he tries desperately to kick him off and away.

He's not especially worried about McCree putting a name to the face. The explosion and subsequent years hadn't been kind to him, and he guesses that unless someone is already thinking he's Jack Morrison (and why would they--he's dead), he's mostly unrecognizable, at least at first glance, and hopefully in the middle of a fistfight.

But man if this isn't a bitch.]

Edited 2016-06-07 00:28 (UTC)

[The visor gets tossed in the air behind them with little care but McCree's not satisfied with that. It's definitely not enough to make heads or tails of this guy, especially as his oxygen is quickly being cut off and two hands are craning his neck in all kinds of uncomfortable ways. He's forced backwards while he continues to stubbornly straddle 76. Blindly he fumbles for 76's face and he's quick to get his metal fingers around the rim of the face plate/mask and he pulls again. It's got less to securely connect to, he should be able to manage it.

His other hand desperately tugs and pulls and does whatever he possibly can to try and give himself any kind of air but it's not enough to do the job. He's just got to make this quick while he has the opportunity and extricate himself afterwards.

When he feels the face mask give the first thing he does with it is immediately slap 76 with it.]

[He lets out another involuntary growl as he's slapped in the face with his own mask, the sharp edges of the broken visor digging into him and drawing blood. It's enough to get him to let go of McCree's neck, but now he's angrier than ever, and he channels that fully into throwing the guy off.

76 tries to shake the pieces of the visor away from his eyes, and with a burst of strength, takes advantage of McCree's rearing back to try and switch their positions--or at the very least, get back on his feet.]

[McCree gasps for air once he's able to breathe again and it's plenty enough to distract him from 76's lunge. It all happens in a blur and he feels the full weight of the other man on him, crushing him to the ground. Definitely not the most dignified way to fight and he kicks his feet to try and roll himself back upright. McCree's trying to get back on his feet but also keep 76 underneath him and it seems like 76 is also trying to do exactly the same. McCree tries to defend himself and throw some punches in while simultaneously trying very hard to not eat any punches either. They tumble around like this for a while, back and forth, crashing through dried old shrubs while the firepit burns steadily on, business as usual. ~~The horse is definitely spooked now.~~

At some point in their tussle they happen to roll by McCree's hat, and, well yeah he picks it back up and puts it on his head in the middle of the fight. That might also be the point he tries to push himself off 76 and put some distance between them and tries to get back onto his feet if he can.]

[That hat-snatch doesn't go unnoticed, and 76 even tries to reach for it before McCree manages to grab it and put it back on his head. Absolutely terrible--he considers that the last straw.

All this is quickly turning into a waste of time, and he simply doesn't have the energy to keep it going. Luckily, McCree seems to realize this about the same time he does, and he manages to roll away and scramble to his feet.

He doesn't expect the breather to last long, so he tries to take stock of his equipment while he can. Rifle is within reach, but within reach of McCree as well. His visor and mask have long been thrown away, but he scans the barn floor for them iust in case. After a moment, however, he figures it's more prudent to keep an eye on McCree--make sure he's not going for his own gun. He wipes blood off the corner of his mouth and settles into a defensive stance. 76 doesn't want to give his opponent reason to focus on his uncovered face, but it's hard not to be a little snide, after that.]

Had enough yet?

Edited 2016-06-07 04:07 (UTC)

[The rifle is within his reach but why would he even bother when he can just point his own gun at 76? He whips it out and keeps it lazily trained on the man, slouching backwards and seemingly catching his breath from the tussle with a deep exhale. Not fantastic but that certainly could have gone a lot worse. He got done what he intended to do and now his mystery bounty was de-masked. The fire casts strange shadows, makes the chiseled features on 76's face that much more stark, makes the blood glisten in strange ways and McCree just stares. His expression slowly goes from a sort of casual relief to a slow grim realization that that face is more familiar than he wants to admit. For a moment he forgets what 76 even asked him.]

...

[Shit was he... His fighting style, the voice, him knowing about the recall... no. No way... McCree looks increasingly uncomfortable, and then there's a flash of anger in his eyes as he takes a step backwards.]

I don't know, you tell me if I'm looking at a dead man or not.

[He waggles his gun.]

You'd better make your answer loud and clear, soldier.

[Without the tac visor, the finer details of McCree's expression are lost, but 76 can see well enough to know that there's a look of recognition on his face, and he's pointing a gun right at his chest. This isn't exactly how he wanted this to go--his only solace is that McCree is in no position to out him. They're both outside the law (and Overwatch) on this one.

Besides, he doesn't consider himself the same person anymore.]

Pulling that trigger's no trouble if I'm a dead man, right?

[76 won't give him the answer he wants. Getting shot will hurt, sure, but he's wearing body armor, and presumably McCree wants to take him alive.]

[That is not a loud and clear answer! McCree groans and rolls his eyes, in fact, it's that aggravating. That is the exact opposite of a loud and clear answer which leaves McCree to draw his own conclusions. He's not the sort of guy to second guess himself and his gut is telling him he's looking at a dead man.

Just not in the way he would most other dead men he knew.

He could shoot him in the foot or thigh or something for that stupid answer. It'd probably feel cathartic if nothing else but there'd be no point in it beyond that. His lip curls and he spits out all the frustration that was welling up inside his mouth and the way all that said spit hits the ground with a loud justifiable splat that seems to almost be cathartic enough.]

Say it. [He growls and waggles the gun again. It's the only demand he'll make of this encounter, something he hopes results in a better answer.] Your name. Your real one.

[It's a more complicated demand than McCree probably knows. As far as 76 is concerned, Jack Morrison is dead, and even the alias he uses now is one the media slapped on him after the security footage from Grand Mesa hit the news. There's no real name to give.]

Don't have one.

[He knows McCree won't find that to be a satisfactory answer. He takes a step closer to his gun.]

Sorry to disappoint.

[McCree shoots the dirt right in front of the rifle. Not so fast. He feels a twist in his gut he never thought he'd feel. Thought he put all the complications of Overwatch behind him and now they're rearing their ugly scarred-up visor-less head right in front of him and part of him just wants to get on his horse and git. Forget the bounty. Forget any of this.

He can't, though. He can't ignore it now. Christ... was Jack even aware of what happened to Overwatch after Switzerland went sky high, or did he watch everyone fall apart and say nothing to it? ...Like he did? Sure explains the dogged tenacity in sticking his nose in places they don't belong. Now all that makes much more sense. Some part of him is even elated he hasn't really kicked the bucket just yet. Some part of him is even envious he did a better job of it than McCree, but, McCree also had a slightly different methodology enacting his brand of justice. He wouldn't stick that in a grave.

McCree tries to think of a way to get his answer, maybe rephrase the question but he gives up and shakes his head a little, licking his lips. He doesn't need to hear it, satisfying as it would be. He already knows it and furthermore he knows he won't get it out of him.]

You piece of jack shit--[He's so frustrated he says the name as part of the insult unintentionally (though the insult is fully intended), and quickly adds on:] Jack-Shit. That's befittin' of you. [Jack-Shit. His new name.]

You know what--[McCree shrugs audibly and decides he's too old to be getting worked up about this, even if he really has every right, and holsters his gun with a huff.] I don't care if you want to put on a mask and keep your death.

[He tips his hat up, trying very hard to take back his laissez-faire attitude.] But you sure messed up my bounty. [He points his finger, practically as if it was his gun.] You owe me about ten-million.

[Jack-Shit-Jack and Piece-of-Shit-McCree.]

You don't have to understand.

[Even if, ironically, McCree is probably the one who would understand the most.

But he certainly doesn't owe him an explanation. Maybe if this was Angela or Reinhardt or Lena, but it's not. If it were any of those people, he'd have to explain himself, but McCree did the exact same thing as him, just without the grave.

Still, 76 is acutely aware that what he did was, on some level, unacceptable. Overwatch was finished anyway, but he'd left them all to deal with the fallout. He could have come back, but at the time he'd been so shell-shocked and betrayed that he felt it best to disappear. His punishment for letting everyone down so thoroughly.

And after that, when it was clear that the world didn't want or need them anymore, it just became easier to stay dead. Dead, or reinvented as something else. Let them have their statues and their plaques and their memory of him. They don't need to know who he is now.

Speaking of which--now that the cat is out of the bag, he locates the remnants of his visor. There's a not insubstantial amount of squinting involved. He can't go near his gun? Fine. 76 goes to the pieces of his mask, instead, picking it up off the floor and not caring whether McCree is going to shoot at him or not. The red glass isn't salvageable, but thankfully the lower part is mostly intact. He starts inspecting it. It's like McCree isn't even there, at least until he starts talking about owing ten million.]

You owe me a new tactical visor.

Edited 2016-06-07 15:05 (UTC)

[McCree crinkles his nose, trying to sort out his feelings on top of trying to not care about what his feelings are wanting to do. It's frustrating to say the least and he betrays none of that by crossing his arms.

He as least starts to think if Jack were going to kill him he wouldn't be messing with his broken visor on the ground, so McCree goes over to the rifle and picks it up, turning it on its side and duly not pointing it at 76.]

More tech you liberated from ~~black~~ Grand Mesa?

[He doesn't want to think about what's going through McCree's head. It's easier to see how much of the face mask is salvageable--the lower part seems fine, and he tests clicking it back on the rest of his headgear a few times. It's not quite right, so he takes it off. He'll have to take a look at the delicate connections when there's better lighting.

Or make McCree do it, seeing as he's the one who busted it in the first place. There's an idea.

He seems to forget about the visor, however, when McCree picks up the rifle. That had been a bitch to get, and he's not going to let anything happen to it. 76 stretches his hand out for it.]

They weren't doing anything with it.

[Just like how 76 ignored him earlier, McCree ignores him for the moment to get a good gander of the rifle. Grand Mesa wasn't exactly close to Santa Fe but it'd be a lie to say McCree hadn't been to the area and and time again... for his own purposes. He was a wanderer now and sought to spread his territory more since disbanding from all previous affiliations.

Been a while, though.]

Wasn't the only thing there.

[Slowly he hands the rifle back but keeps his hand on it while he makes the exchange with 76. He needs to look him dead in the eye (now that he rightly can), like he's seeing an old friend, a stranger, and possibly a new friend all at once. Or a new pain in the ass.

It's hard to choke all that down so the hard, prolonged stare will just have to suffice where words won't. He lets go of the rifle and his features soften, though it seems somewhat forced.]

You look like shit.

[He takes a step back, hesitant like he wasn't sure if he wanted to step away but follows through with it and drifts more into the barn.]

I can spare a few supplies for however long you plan on staying. [One vigilante to another. That's all that generosity is. Ain't nothing more than that.] Fresh outta' band-aids, though. [He's not expecting him to stay long.]

Edited 2016-06-08 05:53 (UTC)

[Definitely a new pain in the ass.]

No thanks to you.

[But he understands what McCree means. He's not talking about minor damage sustained in the scuffle. 76 is under no illusions about how he came out the other side of the explosion that rocked HQ, and he can only imagine that seeing him back from the dead and that much more shellshocked is more than a little disconcerting. He feels McCree's eyes on him but he doesn't meet them as he takes the rifle back and moves it to his side of the barn.

After a very long moment of hesitation, 76 decides that he's not really in any shape to head back out. Biting down the kneejerk reaction to get as far away from McCree as possible isn't easy, but he'll manage. He knows, despite everything, that he's got nothing to fear from this particular ex-agent. At the offer of supplies, he sits down slowly at the fire, exhaling audibly as he goes.]

You didn't answer me about the recall.

[That's when he meets McCree's eyes. Maybe now he'll feel like talking about it.]

[McCree sniffs, shakes out his hat (damn that ugly glaring bullet hole in it now), paces around the fire and does pretty much everything he can do to stall on that answer before taking a seat at the fire. He reaches into the neck of his chest armor for an unseen pocket and pulls out a small paper pack of--yes, cigars.]

Yeah.

[He finally mutters, tapping a fresh stick out then puts the rest away. Didn't always have something to cut it, so he just uses his teeth and carefully bites the end-cap away and spits it into the dirt. He wasn't about to be any more elegant about this and decides to save himself a little butane when there's a fire right in front of him. Once it's smoldering he leans back and takes a deep drag, letting the smoke swirl around his mouth and soaks in the flavor of it. Makes him forget about the welt that's sure to form at his temple.]

I got it. Still prefer to do my own thing.

[He'll meet and keep 76's stare. He's not afraid to do that.]

Can't help it if I might cross paths with any of them.

[He means with the rest of Overwatch as they're getting the band back together... or attempting to, apparently, anyway. McCree had no intentions of being in an organized group like that again, but, well... the world did need heroes. It did need justice. He just wanted to go about it his own way. No rules, no remorse, no complications.

'Cept the latter wasn't as easy to come by as he thought.]

Edited 2016-06-08 07:39 (UTC)

[76 deliberately waits for McCree to put the cigars back in his pocket before holding his hand out for one. Probably he's already coming up with varied and creative ways to get under his skin as revenge for damaging his visor. Definitely this is one of those ways.

He's not surprised to hear McCree has no plans to answer the recall (or maybe McCree is just saying that and is texting Winston behind is back or something, but that seems unlikely), and offers little more than a growl in affirmation. It's definitely for the best. 76 is still trying to figure out what he thinks of the recall himself. The larger, more cynical part of him knows there isn't any point--that they're all going to needlessly get themselves in trouble. That Winston is far too idealistic to lead a new Overwatch back into the world that rejected them, and it's all going to crumble before they begin, even without taking Talon into account.

76 is sure he doesn't have to say that if and when McCree crosses paths with other ex-agents, he'd prefer that there's no mention of this. Still, he hadn't expected to be outed, though he supposes the cowboy is probably the best-case scenario. He tries to hold onto the thought of potentially having an ally, to bite down the overwhelming urge to disappear again.

The cigar (if McCree obliged him with one) and the remnants of his visor are a good distraction. It's a little easier to get a better look in the light of the campfire, but he's still obviously squinting at the bent fastenings. After a few long moments, he has a better idea.]

You get to fix this.

[Heads up. He's tossing the face mask across the bonfire. Catch.]

Edited 2016-06-08 21:28 (UTC)

[McCree's been isolated for so long it takes him a few moments to realize 76 is asking for a smoke. Figures he would. McCree certainly feels less inclined to share after their method of reuniting but it's also for that same reason he eventually passes the cigar over. He can have a little. For all he knew this would be the last time he'd ever see his former sorta commander ever again.]

You sure fall back into old habits real quick.

[He thinks about adding a line about how he doesn't have a leash on him anymore and shouldn't act like it but that'd be giving Overwatch entirely too much credit to begin with in his eyes. All in the past anyway. His head tilts up admiring how dark the sky gets out in the middle of nowhere. Well, close enough to nowhere for now; Dorado's lights aren't that far off which makes for only moderate stargazing. He doesn't have much time to get too pensive about it, thankfully.

It's thanks to his incredibly quick reflexes and hand-eye coordination that he catches the face mask despite only paying half attention. He frowns as 76 finds new and creative ways to boss him around and McCree thinks about throwing it right back at him entirely out of spite.

But. He kinda broke it in the first place.]

Can't do it yourself?

[Half-asked and mostly grumbled begrudgingly. He'd figure Jack as the resourceful type--the frighteningly resourceful type with all his military background--but if he's on the run he might be lacking in some or the other of that. Maybe that's why he followed McCree out here in the first place. He's not about to ask and instead relents to the mask. He did a number on it for sure. By contrast the hands that did the most damage are now handling it with great care as he turns it over.

McCree's resourcefulness shouldn't be underestimated either, especially not when he has his own bionic arm to take care of. Still, he's already made an assessment before it was ever in his hands.]

This ain't fixable here and now, you know that?

[Sharing a cigar is not his preference, but he'll take what he can get. 76 takes a long drag before passing it back, hoping that even the little hit will help get his nerves under control. The adrenaline of their fight is starting to ebb, and the repercussions of being outed are finally starting to sink in. He watches McCree turn the mask over in his hands. He'd tossed it to him in the first place, but 76 doesn't like having it off. He feels exposed, and--as loath as he is to admit it--vulnerable, for reasons he's not going to admit to McCree.

Who is smart, and observant, and will probably figure it out on his own, eventually. People don't walk out of explosions like the one that rocked HQ with everything intact.

Suffice to say he needs that visor functional, and even if they were able to repair the mask portion between the two of them, that does nothing about the shards of red glass scattered in the dirt.

He has an idea. He doesn't exactly like it, but given certain factors, he's not sure he has a choice. 76 just has to be particular about how he frames it.]

Then I guess we're going to get it fixed.

[The we feels kind of awful in his mouth, but he'll tell himself it's payback for McCree breaking the equipment in the first place. He deserves this.]

[We? That sure sounds awful coming out of his mouth, mostly because he's making an accomplice of McCree without explaining much in the way of how.

He can't say he's not at least a little interested--if it's a resource to be gained that's always a positive thing for fugitive bounty hunter types as much as it would fugitive vigilante types.

Still, McCree leans forward, one arm on his knee with his lips pulling into a dissatisfied and confused frown. Years of practice keeps the cigar right where it belongs even when he speaks.]

Come again?

We're going to get it fixed.

[He repeats it slowly, like McCree is stupid. Really, 76 would have the exact same reaction and then promptly reject the plan, so he can't really blame the guy. This probably sounds crazy or ridiculous, or both.

Instead, 76 levels a flat stare at him, completely, one-hundred-percent serious about this proposal.]

You got something better to do?

[He say's like 76 has actually given him a plan he can rightly reject. He's given him no such thing, just an order. He's done taking orders.]

Maybe!

[He blurts out, raising both his hands in the air a little before clapping his knees and giving 76 a hard stare of his own, albeit not with the same kind of serious bite. He's disgruntled because this has been a long night, and the better thing he had to do was, you know, catch viejo soldado.

He can't believe he's even entertaining this idea. Something close enough to ten million'd better come of it! He leans back, still holding his knees like an anchor so he can roll his eyes that hard.]

Where?

[To be fair, 76 doesn't really have much of a plan yet, seeing as he's just kind of making this up as he goes. McCree doesn't seem too hot on the idea, but why would he be?

Still, he hasn't said no. Maybe he can swing this after all, and hope that McCree doesn't stab him in the back halfway to--]

There's a old Overwatch outpost across the border. Outside San Diego. Hit it a while back.

[They are going to cross like most of Mexico for this. 76 is still entirely serious.]

[McCree'd be a fool if he also didn't keep tabs on the old outposts but that's not the point of surprise that has him rearing back a little. His eyes narrow and he replies in a low, slowly-spoken drawl.]

San Diego ain't exactly close by.

[Not close at all. He supposed all good things worth doing weren't easy to to come by. Damn it, 76 was entirely serious about this, wasn't he...]

And how do you suppose we're supposed to get there?

[McCree had a few ideas of course, being the resourceful guy he was. This part of the states (and borders of said states) were usual roaming grounds for him. 76 couldn't have picked a better guy to strong arm into a gig like this, frankly.]

[Yeah, he knows it's a hike, and it involves sneaking across the border, to boot. Not impossible, but certainly risky. The last thing McCree needs is to be spotted with the likes of him, and if word gets out that they're traveling together, who knows what kind of bounty hunters might come after them, to say nothing of actual authorities. It will be a very long, very hot, very dangerous trip across Mexico.

But 76 is of no use to anyone with a broken visor, and he's sure he can make this worth McCree's while. He's practically an expert at breaking into old Overwatch facilities at this point. If McCree can get them across the desert, he can handle the rest.]

Steal a car.

[He'd rather not, but walking is out of the question. It'll take far too long, and he doesn't want to waste any more time than he has to.]

Steal a car. [He parrots back, slow again and with every sarcastic emphasis like that's the best idea he's never ever ever thought of! No shit they were going to have to steal/borrow something. Trip was damn well 2,000 some miles at least between here and there. Already McCree's thinking about the best way to go about it and he hates that he is.]

Is that how you got all the way down here? Suppose we'll just steal fuel while we're at it too.

[Car or a bike or something a fine idea, really, just maybe not practical for the entire way.]

If we want to lay low on this we should take the hypertrain most of the way. Then we can see about liberating us something more personal once we're across the border.

[A beat, and then,]

You know how to ride a horse?

[There's a low noise in the back of his throat that migt be a laugh. It's not exactly a pleasant sound, and it seems he isn't going to confirm or deny his travel methods, but very likely they involved stealing one or more cars.

McCree, it seems, prefers hypertrains, but 76 knows there's quite a gap between Dorado and the nearest station. The mention of a horse explains it a little more.]

I can ride a horse.

[He certainly doesn't do it all the time, but he can.]

You got a horse?

[Or are we stealing a horse?]

Edited 2016-06-11 16:01 (UTC)

Got a horse. [He thumbs over his shoulder in the direction of a small stable detached from the barn.]

Over there. [Not that the stable would have made for a good sneaking outlet with its position anyway.] Unless you did something heinous to her in your sneaking around.

[It's probably meant to be a joke but McCree delivers it with a serious, vaguely warning inflection--either begrudged for this roadtrip they're apparently taking or as a reminder that 76 was still a stranger, and trust is a thing that's earned and not necessarily kept.

Mutually beneficial arrangements though, well, at least McCree is familiar enough in navigating those.]

I did not touch your horse.

[76 raises both hands in defense. Scout's honor.

He hasn't even seen this horse, but he guesses it's over there somewhere. He wants to say something about only one horse for two six-foot-plus-and-not-exactly-light men, but probably he has no right to complain. This was all his idea in the first place.]

I'll make this worth your while.

[Do you like experimental government technology, McCree?</small?]

[McCree takes a long considering draw on his cigar while staring straight at 76. He wasn't keen on this on account of it being a pretty extensive and unexpected operation, nevermind sussing out the feelings of being reunited with unexpected company and all that, but it wasn't like he had a fully booked calendar at the moment. In fact, he came down here and accomplished what he intended to do. He just wasn't about to get paid for it like he thought he would.

He wouldn't mind making up for lost time in that regard.]

Well, [He says finally, smoke pouring out his mouth and catching under the brim of his hat.]

Go on, sweet talk me.

I can break into our old facilities with my eyes closed.

[Quite literally. The "our" sounds just as terrible as "we", partially because it admits some kind of prior affiliation with Overwatch, mostly because it's further solidifying that this is some kind of team. A team that's about to embark on a 2,000-mile road trip.

Regardless, the ease with which he's able to infiltrate former Overwatch strongholds and run circles around freelance security details is the subject of much discussion in the media. McCree surely knows this.]

There's gotta be something in there that you want.

[McCree uses the cigar again as another stalling device while he mulls on that. His first thoughts go towards what Jack took from there; he was hitting them up systematically and with that frightening military precision of his to get what he wanted--that gun and the visor at the very least. All experimental technology from back in the day if he recalls, now being given new purpose in Jack's hands.

By compare, McCree was very anachronistic with his preference in weaponry and fashion, bionic arm withstanding. He liked his ways and they suited him fine. He didn't have any real inclination to change that or want anything more.

At least not for his own purposes.]

Fine.

[He stands with no inclination to tell 76 what's on his mind. He's going to know all he needs to know.]

We'll ride out in the morning, get some supplies and head for the next station.

[McCree moves for the barn, apparently comfortable enough, or confident enough, to think of the idea of sleep after all this.]

Get you a better mask at the least.

Edited 2016-06-14 05:43 (UTC)

[76 keeps his eyes trained on McCree like he can discern the minute changes in his expression--like he's searching for anything untrustworthy. The truth is, he gets next to nothing out of out of it because he can't really see across the bonfire. There is a very large part of him that expects McCree to be gone the instant he dares to fall asleep.

Good thing he doesn't do much of that anymore. He's more than confident that he'll be able to thwart any attempts on McCree's part to desert this mission. 76 lets him go for now, but not before offering some caution.]

Jesse.

[He hopes the use of McCree's first name lends some seriousness to what he's about to say. 76 has spent a lot of time divorcing himself from the late Jack Morrison, but he knows that ex-agents will still cling to the memory of him. He's not letting his guard down just because they were, once upon a time, on the same team. McCree is a mercenary and money talks.]

I ain't who you knew. [Unlike Jack, Soldier: 76 doesn't give second chances.] Try and cross me and it'll be the last mistake you ever make.

Edited 2016-06-15 02:22 (UTC)

[The steady rhythmic jingles from his spurs stop at that name, though McCree doesn't turn around to face it. Been a long time since he hear his name said by that voice--old and rough as it was now, the word itself made the entire reality of it come together and he's hit with a sudden pang of nostalgia so hard it twists up in his gut like a flash of fire. It almost hurts.

So naturally he has to laugh. He half-turns, matching 76's seriousness with the casual easy-going smirk he'd find more than familiar.]

Easy--

[He tips his hat up politely.]

If I was plannin' on that we wouldn't be having this conversation, now would we?

[76 would have far more than a broken visor if that was the case, and McCree didn't doubt he'd not be walking away so casually from this, that was for sure. McCree continues that casual walk all the way into the barn, not that there's much in the way of fixtures inside. 76 will plainly hear him fall face-first into a pile of hay and kick off his boots. Better than sleeping on dirt.]

[AND SO...]

[Any preference on prompts?]

[No. I'm open to anything. All of them pretty much fit these two anyway.]

Reconnecting with his brother is difficult at best, and violent at worst. As such, Genji has chosen to remain fully armored within the gear that has been his public appearance for so long now. The distinct green glow is dimmed, but not completely out, making him easily visible to eyes adjusted to the dark. He has not had any difficulty sleeping fully armored for years, and it is not the source of his inability to sleep tonight.

Nor can he say it is a need to remain vigilant around Hanzo. Tonight he is merely restless, seated in a comfortable position with a view of the window and door. Genji is reluctant to move and wake his brother. Assuming he is actually asleep, and not likewise preoccupied.

Sleep was not an easy thing for Hanzo to find these days. His dreams were unease and so he spent most nights trying to find some sort of rest, enough that he could be ready to face another day and continue his quest, his search for some sort of redemption.

Tonight, he was not finding sleep easy at all. He knew Genji was close and though things were tense between them he did not expect his brother to slit his throat while he slept. Genji had more honor than that. He gave up on pretending to sleep. He folded one arm behind his head and stared at the ceiling.

"Do you see anything?"

The movement drew Genji's attention, but he remained still until Hanzo spoke. Then the only movement was a slight turn of his head to indicate a change in his focus. "I do not see anything outside to be concerned with," He answered. There was so much to see in the world, too much to dismiss it all as 'nothing', but none of it was worth immediate mention. "You have not been sleeping. Is it always so?"

In the early days of his recovery and subsequent process to become a cyborg, he had often been too drugged not to sleep. But before he had come to accept himself, all of himself, he had often found quiet moments to be the most difficult. When it had been impossible not to be painfully aware of the mechanical parts of himself.

Hanzo rankled under his brother's concern. He was the elder. It was his responsibility to look after the clan but he had walked away from that hadn't he? He grunted so his brother knew he was paying attention and not deliberately ignoring him. This was trying after years of being alone and filled with bitterness.

"It's nothing. My mind is restless, that's all." He tried not to dismiss Genji's concern. His brother meant well. He had to accept that it did not make him weak to say so and to have his brother hear him admit such a thing. "Why are you awake?"

He thought Genji had found inner peace with himself. He should not be restless.

The thought crossed his mind to pry further, but he decided not to press the issue. Hanzo would sometimes try to be his older brother again, and other times it seemed like they could only be at odds. Finding balance and a new relationship between them was a delicate matter.

"My mind will not be still enough to sleep." It seemed when he finally had his life in order the world was preparing to fall apart again. How unfortunate that all the peace Overwatch fought for should dissolve, but he was determined to find some good amidst it. There was an edge of restlessness he couldn't rid himself of entirely. It would have had him up and pacing when he was younger, or even a few years ago. Genji did not need to do so now.

Finally, Hanzo sat up so that he could see his brother. Genji had no expressions now, only the metal mask that he wore at all times to hide his face. The face Hanzo had destroyed. Yet, he tried to read his body language, to remember how his brother acted and held himself to get a hint of his thoughts.

"Your mediations aren't helping you tonight?" He asked as he folded his legs underneath himself. He did not expect his brother to have the troubled mind. He was a student of that Zenyatta who kept offering to teach Hanzo the same lessons. Those lessons he continued to refused.

He would find his own peace in his own time. It would not come from stepping away from the world and mediating for days on end. It would come from avenging what he had done.

If talking about Genji's lack of sleep was more comfortable for Hanzo than his own, Genji did not mind continuing the conversation. He inclined his head a little at the mention of meditation, his gestures and mannerisms more restrained than they ever had been when he'd been wholly flesh or in that turbulent period after Dr. Ziegler saved him.

"They do help, they do not entirely resolve my restlessness this night." A little lost sleep here and there was hardly a great matter. He'd lost more to changing timezones and Overwatch missions that did not take into account the human mind's need for sleep. If he were truly determined, he could likely get some sleep, but attempting it was even less appealing now that his brother was speaking with him. It was progress. "But it is a nice enough night."

It was a pleasant evening. The air was pleasantly warm and besides the crickets there wasn't a single sound except perhaps some occasional traffic in the distance. He was certain most of their allies were sleeping peacefully.

"You do not have to sit watch," he offered. It was easier to do something when he was restless. There were times they could not stand to be in the same room as each other when tension ran high between them and they were more likely to fight each other than their enemies. If Genji could not sleep he was free to go and take care of himself.

He picked up his bow from where it rested next to his bed. "I am awake and can keep guard."

"You also do not need to," Genji noted. Between the automated defenses set up and the number of experienced combatants sleeping lightly nearby there were very low odds anyone would get the drop on them. While he appreciated the sentiment that had his brother reaching for his bow, things tended to go poorly between them whenever they had weapons in their hands and no enemy to point them at. Occasionally even when they had enemies more deserving of their wrath.

But there was always time to change. Genji unfolded his legs from his current seated position and made his way to Hanzo in near silence despite the metal to flesh ratio in his legs. "But sitting here not sleeping is doing neither of us any good."

Instinctively Hanzo's fingers tightened on his bow as his brother made his way over. They might not be enemies anymore but they had fought too often for him to forget the threat Genji posed. He was a very gifted warrior and his robotic enhancements had only made him stronger. With a very deliberate breath he relaxed his fingers. His bother was not here to kill him. This time.

"What do you propose we do instead?" If Genji suggested a spar Hanzo would refuse. That way only led to more fighting and in no way would relax either of them for sleep. He couldn't predict what his brother was thinking. Not that he could as a young man either. He had never expected Genji's betrayal of their clan. What did he know of his bother now?

The slight tightening of Hanzo's grip didn't escape Genji's notice, but he did not react to it. Instead, he held out his right hand to pull his brother up from his seated position. It was the arm that had been most damaged, and was now artificial up to his shoulder. The sensations he receives are far different from those of his flesh and blood parts, but they are not strange to him after so many years.

"Nothing that would wake everyone else," Genji assured him. If pressed, he would answer, but he did hope his brother would go with him without arguing.

"None of them would wake unless we wanted them to." They were, after all, ninja.

It used to be when they were younger and Genji more wild he could on a rare occasion talk Hanzo into some wild scheme that usually had them running away from the authorities. He felt the same sort of resigned exception as he followed his brother.

They might not wake the others but he still imagined nothing but trouble when they were through with whatever madness Genji would suggest. Older and wiser his brother might be yet Hanzo doubted he had changed so fundamentally. He still had much to learn.

Genji learned just how light sleepers some of the others were in unfortunate ways. But he was not going to argue with his brother on that fact, partly because he didn't want to argue. Partly because they could have the argument without waking anyone and that wouldn't help his point.

He also recognized that look Hanzo gave him before he stood up. That look that took him back to their childhood when he'd gone to great lengths to get his brother to 'go have fun' with him. The look that said Hanzo knew how it was going to end but he'd do it anyway because they were brothers. Back then seeing that look meant he'd won. Now it meant that he had a lot of work to do to get his brother to recognize that he had changed.

He left their room and went for the stairs, hopping over the railing rather than descending them, and went for the door to the basement. The structure that was currently serving as their base was not meant for this purpose, and not as large as it should be for so many, but it served its purpose.

Hanzo did not have the robotic enhancements that Genji had and as such he could not simply jump down to basement level. He climbed instead, quickly leaping between levels with ease. Why take the stairs when there were quicker ways to descend? It wasn't as if the others didn't use their skills for other purposes.

"I am not sure what you intend down here." The assassin in Hanzo was not comfortable in such a closed in space with someone who had fought him before. He ignored this part of himself for the sake of his brother.

It was trying, a test, to set things right. Hanzo did not believe life was like the stories their father told him. They were not the dragons of legend, though they controlled them. They were bothers trying to make amends, nothing more.

"You are restless, yes?" Genji asked as he stepped into a long mostly empty storage room. He moved a little quicker now that there was more to shield what little noise he made from reaching and waking any of the others. "I used to engage in target practice when I could not sleep." Not that he needed it, and not that Hanzo did, but the repetitive motion of throwing and then retrieving helped.

Back when he'd been uncomfortable with himself. Hanzo was uncomfortable with him, and there was a level of cautious vigilance he felt around his brother. Particularly when he was armed. He stepped back out of the line of fire and also at a little further distance. There wasn't really enough room to get far enough away from Hanzo that Genji wouldn't be able to close the distance quickly, but it was a start at least.

It seem his instinct about his brother and his bad ideas was still holding true. Genji wanted to practice with weapons around each other? If they argued, if they fought, it could easily turn violent. Hanzo was more aware of his brother's skills these days and their fights were more equally matched but he did not fully trust his chances against Genji's cyborg body.

"Target practice is not... the worst idea you've ever had," he said after a moment. To become the level of warrior he was Hanzo spent hours practicing. He could not argue that the repeated, familiar motion of drawing the bow and taking a shot helped him mediate easier than incense and tea. "Certainly not as bad as that night in Tokyo."

Touching on their past was sometimes a terrible idea. They argued even before their father's death though not often as violently. He could easily bring up a painful memory instead of a good one. Navigating what they could talk about without fighting was like navigating unsteady rooftops.

His brother's reluctance about his idea was more than clear, but Genji wanted to get past this difficulty they had being armed around one another. Avoiding being armed around one another was simply not possible, and they needed to practice it to become better. Much as they had practiced their ninja skills. The mention of the night in Tokyo made Genji turn his head away.

"If that is the standard to which you are holding my ideas, I could suggest seeing how many arrows you could put into McCree's door without waking him and it would still not be worse than that night." As an adult now, Genji could admit that was not his best idea. In fact, thinking back he felt guilty for the trouble he'd gotten Hanzo in, even if he'd been entirely unrepentant at the time.

"You may go first, brother." Genji said, gesturing to the make-shift target he'd set up. Everything may not have gone according to plan that night in Tokyo but Genji would be lying if he said he hadn't thoroughly enjoyed himself.

Edited 2016-05-31 01:12 (UTC)

"I could tie bells to the arrows and McCree would not hear them over his snoring," Hanzo said dryly, in a rare moment of humor. He had flashes of it, less and less as he got older but when he was younger and more willing to rebel he was quite sarcastic. Genji had always had the better sense of humor.

He stepped forward, putting himself a fair distance from the target and drew his bow back. Hanzo imagined the shot first in his mind in a second before he released and the arrow landed with a satisfying thud in the center. Every shot was first made with the mind his first instructor had told him. Every shot he had taken since was done this way.

He did not miss his brother's slight embarassment. That night had been very wild and Hanzo came out of it not understanding the appeal of Genji's preferred lifestyle. Perhaps that was part of the problem. He had never bothered to try and see things from Genji's view because it was always wrong. Still, he thought much of it wrong but he didn't truly know how his brother thought now.

Genji seated himself on a nearby table, crossing his legs and getting comfortable to watch his brother shoot. The movement of his arms, the set of the muscles in his face. Thinking back on how he'd behaved back then, how much more social he'd been and his very active nightlife. There were times he felt a little lonely in comparison, but he knew it had been more about his money and skill, both as a ninja and in other areas, rather than any actual companionship.

"They weren't all bad," Genji said after further thought. "Do you remember that night out on the golf course?" Of course, they'd eventually been noticed and had the authorities after them but up until then Genji thought everything had been good. It was really his fault they'd been seen as well. Had they stuck to the golf course itself and not the club and bar for golfers they would have been fine.

They weren't all bad because their father doted on Genji and let him get away with everything while Hanzo endured lectures and punishments that his little brother did not. There was resentment back then which had helped fuel his anger when he tried to bring his brother back into line. It was still down there, deep under the surface.

"I remember you almost fell into a water hazard." He glanced away from the target to his brother with a slight smirk before he focused his attention once again. Hanzo took everything seriously but he was especially so about archery. Even this light conversation with his brother would not distract him. "You were too easily distracted."

Ah, there was the lecturing older brother he too frequently fell back into being around Genji. It was ingrained into him as surely as the tattoo on his arm. As it stood he had no intention of stopping that.

"It was only water." Although Hanzo would have scolded him if he had and he would have argued and then he might have jumped into a water hazard on purpose later just because he could. There was precious little common ground they could agree on back then, and their memories of that time still influenced Hanzo's view of him.

But there wasn't much they could talk about of the present either. Genji lowered his head a little, though he still kept his brother in his field of view as he flipped open the plate on his right fore-arm that concealed two-dozen shuriken and the mechanism that would rapidly supply them to him to be thrown. Genji took very good care of his mechanical parts, and had already checked everything earlier, but there was no harm in checking again.

Hanzo hesitated before his next shot. The sound of Genji's mechanical parts always reminded him of the damage he had done to his own brother in his rage and frustration. Hanzo had created this version of his brother as surely as the doctors and engineers that made the body had. He was the destruction, the death that caused the rebirth and it did not, never had, sat easily in him.

"Can you go in water now?" It was rare that Hanzo asked about Genji's condition. The guilt made his fingers tremble slightly on the bow string and his shot was an inch wide when he released, the only real outward sign that underneath the surface his emotions were rolling like a summer storm.

It would be his emotions that would lead to trouble between them. It usually was.

The question was progress, as far as Genji was concerned. He accepted and embraced what he was. It would help Hanzo to do so as well, he thought. "Yes. It would be quite a hindering weakness if a little water was all it took to stop me. I sink a little, but it is not a problem." The alloys that comprised the armor and the structural parts of his cybernetic limbs and suit were light. There was more open space than not in his right arm in particular. The varying buoyancy made being in water an unusual experience if he wished to remain upright. It was not pleasant, being submerged while he was armored, but stripped of the outer layer and with only the limbs and vital pieces attached it was not too bad.

The process of drying himself out fully, particularly the right arm, was tedious. It was one of the few times he had been accepting of assistance before he'd come to terms with being a cyborg.

Hanzo truly wanted to know just how much of Genji's body he had destroyed but knowing the answer would only make him feel guiltier. There had to be enough for the dragon to recognize him as Shimada and answer the call yet all he saw was robotics. He could not deal with more guilt at this point, not when there was so much for him to work through. Of course, he wasn't really working through it very quickly. He continued to refuse help dealing with it.

"It would have been short sighted of Overwatch to make a human anchor," he said dryly as he launched the last arrow at the target. He swung his bow over his shoulder and walked to the target to remove his arrows and inspect them one by one. "Some of their goals are short sighted but they are not complete fools."

He gestured to his brother. "You may have a turn if you wish."

"I would be a most attractive anchor, but I do not believe the fish would appreciate me," Genji said, rising from his seated position and closing the covering on his right fore-arm. He was not sure his brother's choice of word, human, rather than cyborg, was a positive sign or not. Genji wanted to help him accept this, but it was not something he could force or rush. Much of it was on Hanzo's end.

Genji waited for Hanzo to clear their make-shift target range before he began. A quick movement of his wrist and the mechanical components of his arm placed three shuriken between his fingers. Picking a spot just above where Hanzo had been aiming he launched all three faster than a human hand and wrist could have possibly moved, landing them in a neat row one above the other barely millimeters apart. Another flick of his wrist supplied him with more.

He did not really wish to have a turn at target practice, and would have rather continued to watch. But it was important that he do so.

Hanzo crossed his arms over his chest and watched his brother. It seemed like Genji did not have to make any sort of effort at all in the action. His aim seemed better and the arm he used to throw seemed to work more like a gun reloading than anything human. It bothered him. Genji had always been talented. He shouldn't need such things to help him.

Then again, he used specialized arrows. He could hardly throw stones about technological enhancements.

"You're still worried about that?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "Whether women find you pretty or not?"

Genji had a string of girlfriends and one night stands when he was younger. He had assumed as a cyborg that Genji would no longer care about those sorts of things. Omnics could love according to them. Perhaps he assumed too much when it came to the changes in Genji.

Another volley of three landed right beside the first with inhuman precision, adding another neat row. "I meant it as a joke," Genji admitted, turning his head to look at his brother even as he launched a third volley, just as precise as the first two. After that one he paused, the three shuriken resting easily between his fingers. "But perhaps it was in poor taste. Relationships based on the superficial no longer interest me."

When he'd been recently made a cyborg he could not have imagined allowing anyone to see the mix of scarred flesh and cybernetics that was his body. After, he was no longer interested in such shallow flings.

He was mildly surprised Genji was interested in relationships at all but he approved of the change. It would be a very... different sort of person who would have a one night stand with someone in Genji's condition. If his brother had accepted what he was, he needed someone who could equally accept him.

"Good. It is about time you matured." Neither of them would provide the Shimada Clan with children to take over anymore. Genji would never be allowed to return to the Clan and Hanzo had forsaken it from guilt. Relationships did not matter like they once had but Hanzo was still careful and closed off to others.

"Perhaps we need a better challenge, brother," he said. His brother looked bored with simple target practice. "This is too easy. We can both hit a target that does not move."

The remark about his maturity was allowed to pass without comment from Genji. All it would do is serve to remind how much he had changed in Hanzo's absence, and away from the Clan. But then Hanzo suggested a challenge and it was his turn to be concerned. There was no doubt that they could challenge one another, and that immobile targets were more for reinforcing their already acquired skills than keeping them entertained. Genji retrieved his shuriken, feeling he had failed to conceal the fact that he wasn't interested in practicing himself.

"We are meant to be calming down and preparing for sleep, not challenging ourselves," Genji said. He wasn't necessarily against the idea, but he didn't want a night that had been going so well to take a turn for the worse.

Hanzo snorted. "Did you truly believe we would be able to rest tonight?" Because Hanzo didn't. He recognized when sleep was not going to come and this was one of those nights. He was not going to fool himself or Genji with promises of rest and relaxation. There would be another time for rest and sleep.

"It is harder to hit a moving target, isn't it?" He readied an arrow and nodded to his brother. "Throw your shuriken and I will try to shoot them down. It will test my skills as an archer and yours to challenge me."

It was still target practice just slightly more advanced and more cooperative. He didn't want to start a fight between them. That would certainly not lead to rest and relaxation.

"I had hoped," Genji admitted. In that, he was more optimistic than his brother. But if Hanzo was not going to sleep, Genji would keep him company. At least as long as they weren't fighting. The challenge proposed wasn't as bad an idea as Genji feared.

"I can throw many more shuriken than you can shoot arrows, but if you wish a target, I shall give you one." The force and speed with which he threw shuriken was not something a human could have accomplished, as evidenced by the range he achieved with them. He waited, allowing the moment to stretch out before he threw a single shuriken at the upper left corner of the crate rather than where he had been throwing before.

Hope was something much better left to Genji. Bitterness was still too strong within Hanzo to be hopeful. He appreciated his brother's attempt but it was foolish at this point. He wouldn't be getting any real restful sleep tonight.

Robotics made Genji stronger and faster but Hanzo had years of training and paranoia born of assassins trying to kill him on his side. When his brother finally threw the shuriken he tracked it for a moment then let the arrow fly. The arrow tip tinked against the metal as it hit the edge and knocked the weapon off course.

It wasn't a perfect shot through the center, that might be impossible with Genji's speed but it was a better shot than anyone else could make. "Again."

When Hanzo was training he was a tad obsessive.

With the way Hanzo said 'again', Genji wondered if he would even agree to stop before he was satisfied with his progress attempting to shoot a shuriken out of the air. The angle made it difficult, even with Hanzo off to the side. The room was too short to offer much time to track and then the arrow had to catch up.

Genji nodded and threw another at the same spot rather than try to trip Hanzo up by putting it on a different path.

Hanzo was never truly satisfied with his skill. He always pushed himself farther, to be better than he was. He traveled the world learning more skills, more talents and practicing his own over and over obsessively. He would not be satisfied with his skill until many, many years later.

His second shot was better, much better. It helped that Genji did the same path which meant he didn't need to track quite as extensively as before.

Yet, he was partially here to talk with Genji, not ignore him. "You must be happy to travel with your Master again." Hanzo was making an effort.

"I am. It is always good to be around him," Genji said. There was a lot more he could say, but didn't really want to around Hanzo. It was likely to start an argument or stir up bad feelings, even if Hanzo wouldn't necessarily show them. Genji flicked his wrist and reloaded, and threw two shuriken this time.

"I was as unwilling to listen at first as you are now." It had taken a lot of persistence on Zenyatta's part to get through to him, and for that as much as anything else Genji was grateful. It would have been easy to leave him when he refused help, as he did for so long.

While he did not miss the second only the edge of the arrow hit the edge of the shuriken. Hanzo snorted with disgust at himself. That was not good enough for him. He nodded sharply to Genji for him to do it again. This time he was ready to draw a second arrow.

"Our past is between us," he said simply. "I do not feel your Master has a place in solving it for us."

While he did not feel peace was possible between the two factions he had no problems with Zenyatta besides his constant attempts to mentor Hanzo as well.

Genji readied enough shuriken again and tossed two, this time aiming each at a different edge of the crate. "The past is not something that needs to be solved, but I do believe he could help you come to peace with yourself." It had taken a long time for Genji to come to terms with everything that happened, to accept the past and move on from it. Hanzo was still a prisoner of his own actions.

But no one could force Hanzo to do anything, all they could do was show him the paths that were open to him.

The paths were there. He could clearly see them but Hanzo didn't want to take them, not yet. He still fully believed the differences between him and Genji could be solved without anyone lecturing him. His own problems, the guilt and anger he carried, were not something he would deal with. The face them was to admit weakness.

"Our differences come from our past," he said firmly as he continued to shoot arrows at the shurikens. It was easier, simpler to focus on the shots than any implication of what he still refused to face. "So things must be solved."

It was difficult for him to admit it to anyone other than his brother that he hoped they could be at least friendly with each other again. He was trying and that was more than he would've done years ago when their conflict was at its peak. However, it was not the best he could do.

"You and I are very different people, who value different things," Genji said. True, the things that were important to him now were very different from what they were back then, but he doubted he and his brother would ever have the same views. But he wanted to be able to get along with his brother, as different as they were and with all the things would would disagree on in the future.

"And we will have disagreements and arguments. I would like for us to be able to do so without it coming to violence." Genji did not pull out more Shuriken this time, instead lowering his hand and turning to face his brother.

They had always valued different things. At the time he killed his brother Hanzo only really valued the Clan's honor and making sure that it continued to be respected and feared. He had been raised to take over for their father, meaning he had to be better, stronger, and smarter than anyone else. His inability to bring his brother back into the Clan and make him behave had hurt his pride, made him furious and so he had lashed out.

His fingers flexed hard on his bow when he remembered the horrible realization of what he had done because he had loved his brother dearly and his death would always weigh on him. If he forgot the guilt then he could so easily make the same mistake as before.

"We have not fought in some time," he said as he slung his bow over his shoulder. "It may not be the progress others want for us but we are not dictated by their desires."

insomnia

anna of arendelle ( frozen ) ota

ren ( star wars )

wanda maximoff / mcu

simmons | red v blue

hunbry bc lol

snorts oh grif

the man has needs ok

shut up grif

leo | fe:f

Jack Frost | Rise of the Guardians | ota

Tony Stark / MCU

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my internet is still shit BUT I NEVER BREAK A PROMISE

IT'S OK, LOVE. I'm going to be swamped at work but I had to get this out, that tag killed me ;-;

i re-watched iron man 3 ok it's NOT MY FAULT THAT TONY BREEDS PAIN

And I rewatched CW so my Tony angst level is p high SORRY IN ADVANCE?

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wanda | age of ultron & civil war

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oc. • vampire: the masquerade/vampire: the masquerade - bloodlines. • ota.

Daisy Johnson | Agents of SHIELD | OTA

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chuya nakahara | bungou stray dogs.

Ethan Mars | Heavy Rain | ota

James "Rhodey" Rhodes / MCU

tekhartha zenyatta. • overwatch. • ota.

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set sometime during the later part of Genji learning from Zenyatta

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i like your keywords, also 3

my friend is a beautiful monster also yesss omnics bonding hour

omnic buddies best buddies

give them more interaction please blizzard

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charles xavier ( marvel | ota )

Carolina | Red vs Blue

Washington | Red vs Blue

North Dakota | Red vs Blue

rng gave me 7 - sadness

Re: rng gave me 7 - sadness

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Hayley Marshall | Vampire Diaries/Originals

Jax Teller | Sons of Anarchy

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Miles Matheson | Revolution

Tanaka | Tanaka-kun is Always Listless | ota

soldier 76 | overwatch

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