ninjas and burritos

 McCree should have known, because Genji is a dirty sweatpants thief and some things run in families, but Hanzo hogs the blankets. McCree, preferring to solve problems rather than just bitch about them, grabbed a second blanket from the supply closet before bed, but all that did was give Hanzo something else to steal. A man shouldn’t have to wear a shirt to bed, but here he is, contemplating whether it’s worth it.

It’s a conundrum.

See, he can’t quite reach the nearest flannel on the floor from the bed, and if he wakes Hanzo up trying, one of two things will happen.

Option A goes: Hanzo will jack knife upright, on high alert, ready to fight or run. He probably won’t try to escape through the window, but he will absolutely not go back to sleep. He’ll insist that he’s gotten enough sleep and get up to put his wakefulness to use. McCree will no longer need the flannel, but he’ll still sleep like shit because he’ll be worrying about Hanzo practicing goddamned parkour sleep deprived and breaking his neck at three in the morning. That’s not some wild speculation, McCree has caught him scaling the scaffolding in the wee hours. It’s not like his own circadian rhythms aren’t just as fucked, but he sits his ass somewhere quiet and drinks, like a sensible man.

Option B goes: Hanzo only wakes enough to register McCree’s presence, claims a part of his person for himself, and nods back off. McCree will not regain the use of whatever Hanzo claimed, usually his right arm, until morning. Hanzo has a grip like a steel trap and McCree has yet to successfully wriggle free once caught. At least half of him will get some limited use of the blankets, so there’s that, but if Hanzo’s finally run himself that ragged, he won’t wake up properly until almost lunch, and that’s if McCree’s lucky. He could try to get him up sooner, but Hanzo makes some truly, heartbreakingly pathetic noises (that McCree will never tell a soul about because he values his life) whenever McCree’s tries that tack, and, old softie he’s becoming, McCree always gives up and lets him sleep. Lord knows he needs it.

Hanzo doesn’t do anything half way, so it’ll be one of those two extremes. McCree glares at the flannel, willing it to come closer. Maybe if he got a sleeping bag and zipped himself inside. Surely Hanzo couldn’t steal that. He might manage to get inside with him though. That’s not such a bad thought.

McCree files that away for future reference and refocuses on the current problem. He eases over to the edge of the bed, intending to roll out and, hopefully, right back in.

“Mwah?” Hanzo grumbles, rotating in place. His eyes opens a little, the bare minimum really, to look at McCree. Shit. McCree freezes. It looks like Option B.

Hanzo, somehow still quick as a flash despite being barely conscious, goes from beside McCree to mostly on top of him in an instant. He buries his face in the crook of McCree’s neck, reaches one blanket covered arm across his chest, and blows a long, contented sigh. Then he’s gone again, out cold.

It’s not what McCree expected, but it’s nice. Much warmer. Option C will do.