Against All Odds was gonna be a one-shot at first, but I changed my mind (obvs) so here have this excerpt that I’m no longer using
“Alright then,” says McCree. “Here’s a bet for you.”
McCree sets down his coffee. Leans across the table. Puts on the cockiest smile he can manage while his heart races and pounds.
“I bet,” he says, “that you won’t kiss me. Right now.”
Hanzo looks startled, and McCree thinks he’s got him cornered. Either he’ll win his first bet in two weeks, or he’ll get a smooch from the object of his affection, however reluctant. He expects the former, because as competitive as Hanzo is, McCree expects he would rather take the loss than kiss him. The thought stings a bit, but it’s par for the course.
Hanzo very carefully sets down his drink. His movements are deliberate, his expression shifting to cool, calculating evenness. The only thing that betrays him is the bob of his throat as he swallows once, hard. McCree watches, waiting, confident in his challenge.
Hanzo lifts a hand and reaches across the table. He curls a finger under McCree’s chin, thumb pressed under his bottom lip, and now it’s McCree’s turn to be surprised. He has barely enough time to think, Lost this one, too before Hanzo leans across the table.
McCree expects a quick, unpleasant thing–a dry, hard press of their lips to fulfill the letter of the law if not the spirit, but that’s not what he gets. No, what he gets is an honest-to-god kiss: soft lips molding to his, the delicate brush of his nose against Hanzo’s cheek, a hand settling warm and firm on the back of his neck with fingers weaving loosely in his hair. This isn’t a silly thing to settle a bet–this is something else entirely. This is genuine, something terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure. It’s the kind of thing he’s imagined on some of his lonelier nights, thinking (hoping) what if Hanzo actually liked me, and now that he has it, he doesn’t know what to do.
He lets his eyes drift closed, carefully purses his lips against Hanzo’s, and feels the other man smile.
Hanzo kisses him once more, then again for good measure, before he leans back. He tries to look smug, but the faint pink in his cheeks diminishes the effect. McCree is left speechless, nearly forgetting to breathe.
“So, uh,” he starts intelligently. He coughs, clears his throat, and tries again. “Guess I lost that one too, then.”
“So it would seem,” Hanzo replies. He takes back his hand, and McCree suddenly feels cold for his absence.
McCree starts to speak again, but has to stop himself. He traps the words behind his teeth before they can escape: what was that about, was that what I think it was, will you kiss me again, please god do that again.
It takes a moment to find something safer to say, but before McCree can open his mouth, Hanzo gets to his feet. His face is suddenly shuttered, unreadable. He picks up his tea cup and looks at it as he says, “You may pay me tomorrow. A bottle of sake will suffice.”
Then he leaves the room, his sash trailing behind him until it, too, disappears around the corner and out of sight with a little good-bye flick.
McCree sits at the table with his coffee and waits, but Hanzo does not come back.
Lena comes into the dining room the way Hanzo left. She takes one look at McCree, sighs, “Oh, poor luv,” and pats him on the shoulder before she goes for coffee.