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gabsyferreira · 5 years

Text

Everything’s gonna be okay

Angela began watching over both of them after a few moments, in distance. Hanzo had exhausted himself to sleep after Jesse’s life support having been turned off. His cheeks were swollen and red from crying, and he was tightly hugged to the cowboy’s body, as if hoping he’d come back, or that at least he would be with him soon, even if it was in his dreams. His dragons were surrounding both, as if protecting his master from more pain.

Lúcio hadn’t come for them yet, still waiting in the living room, just a little away from angela’s spot. Even being so positive and conforting about anything, known to be capable of lifting everyone’s spirits, himself couldn’t lift up Hanzo’s right now. The reformed criminal had lost the most important people in his life. The one who’d stay as his side and let a funny remark just to see a smile across Hanzo’s face. Not even the most uplifting beat in the world could help him right now, the best thing to do would wait for the grief to slowly fade.

While watching, the doctor got lost in thoughts. She began thinking about her ethics, then about the times she literally made miracles to save people’s lives. Then she looked at the corner of the room, her valkyrie armor. Still there, intact, almost looking holy. She remembered how many times she saved her comrades with that armor, doing things considered impossible for regular civilians. But she also remembered how she wore that in war times, meaning lots of kills... lots of blood of other people that she couldn’t have saved. She couldn’t. She tried everything she could in available medicine in the moment. But maybe... Maybe this time...

One of the dragons turned it’s head when heard the doctor approaching. In her full armor, like a guardian angel. And her inseparable caduceu’s staff. Even being a technologic device, it still felt like something that belonged rightfully to a holy being.

The dragons spread around to let her get closer. She looked at both of the men. If it wasn’t for the flatline sound, it could be assumed by Jesse's peaceful expression that was just asleep. Dreaming about his days in Deadlock Gang, his days in Blackwatch... or the days in the simple yet worthwhile life that he had built with Hanzo.

She carefully put a hand on the shoulder of sleeping Hanzo. “I’m sorry for being so harsh at you before. Everything is gonna be okay now, Mr. Shimada”. She spoke softly before taking a deep breath and concentrating herself, aiming her staff to Jesse’s chest, while placing a hand on his forehead. The light from the staff was strong enough for the dragons to look away, and to drag Lúcio’s attention, who rushed to the room, only to see the scene in surprise. What... what was she doing?

After finished, with the light slowly fading, She let out a soft smile of satisfaction after seeing the cowboy slowly regain his breath and the relieving sound of his heartbeats in the machine. He’d make it now. Her heart believed it. She quietly left to watch over them in distance. They’d just have to wait for a while...

Slowly, Jesse opened his eyes. His throat felt dry, and he had to blink a few times to adjust his sight. “What... what happened”, he thought. The last thing he remembered was facing the enemies while cradling a wounded and unconscious Hanzo in his lap, and then...a sharp pain in the back of his head—

“Hanzo!” He tried to call for him, worried, but his voice wouldnt come out yet. It was rusty, dry. He felt like he had been... sleeping... for too long. Maybe weeks. Maybe months. and then... he noticed the arms wrapped around him. Those strong arms, and the dragon tattoo that he could see even under the ex- assassin’s kimono. It was him. It was Hanzo. The most important person in his life was there, alive and apparently well... but... He was crying? He noticed the teartains in the man’s cheeks, and his expression softened a little before slowly getting his forces to carefully lift his arm to shake him awake.

“Hey” his voice was really rusty, but he forced it anyway. “Hey, sweetheart... come on, wake up.” he said carefully traveling his fingers through Hanzo's hair.

A shaky sigh let Hanzo’s lips as he slowly opened his eyes, feeling the slightly cold touch of Jesse's robotic arm through his hair. They were bloodshot, and he had some difficult to focus due that. But that confusion in his mind faded as he saw Jesse there. Alive. With that stupid and adorable smile.

“J...Jesse... h-how....” It was what he only managed to speak, after a few moments of shock and surprise, blinking and rubbing his eyes, daring to believe them.

“I... guess I can’t be gone that easily. Couldn’t leave such a gentleman waiting for me behind, all alone”. He spoke in his usual rugged farmboy tone, still weak due not having used his muscles for a long time, but still keeping up his undoubtedly playful attitude.

Hanzo could say nothing else. The tears were back in his eyes, but this time they were of joy. He squeezed his eyes, letting them roll down on his face. A miracle happened to them. Jesse was back. He didn’t know how, didn’t know why...but he was there. It wasn’t a dream... his silly cowboy was back to him. He hugged Jesse tightly, making sure for good that he was actually there. The cowboy did the same, as before getting shot he wasn’t sure he’d see Hanzo again... but there he was. There were both of them. They’d need a lot of time to fully recover from the physical and emotional trauma... But as long as they had each other, they would be fine.

“...I... I don’t understand, Dr. Ziegler” Lúcio spoke to the doctor, confused. “If you could have done that since the beggining, why... did you wait so long?” There was a slight hint of upsetting in his voice, but still respectful.

“Life and death arent to be toyed with...” She spoke in her usual sweet tone. “Once someone’s mission is done in his world, its time for them to go... You can’t force it. I thought it would be the same for Jesse, but... just look at them.” Both Lucio and Angela took a look at Jesse and Hanzo holding each other, both sharing tears of joy”. Mr. Shimada did things in the past that he regrets, and still blames himself for them. Jesse also has a life of crime behind, and despite him doing a good job on going through the right path now, he still has memories haunting him.” she said it while focusing on Jesse’s robotic arm. “They still have a lot to learn with each other. And don’t you agree that everyone should be free to choose the better way to live their life?” She asked him, with a soft smile across her face.

The DJ and freedom fighter carefully listened to her words,and after a moment of thinking he agreed, with his usual smile. “Of course. And I’ll be there to lift them up. Any time they need.”

She left a chuckle. “Come on, are you hungry? Let’s go take a break at the cafeteria, they have amazing éclairs.” She invited him, clearly hinting to give Hanzo and Jesse privacy.

Lúcio nodded, before looking back at the two men and letting out a hopeful smile. They had each other back again. Better them not mess this up now.

Everything was gonna be okay now.

Everything.

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heyyyy sorry for bombing you with this but i tripped on @gunnslaughter painful (still amazing) mchanzo comic i decided to write something sweet with a happy ending so my mind would be in peace. Hope they wont mind :O Actually I wanted to draw it but i dont have the S K I L L S so i wasted kind of an hour on Word wroting this sorry k bye

#mchanzo #fanfic #overwatch #mccree #hanzo shimada #hanzo #angela ziegler #lucio correia dos santos #angst #fluff

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solivar · 8 years

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Fic Snippet:

aka Operation Get Hipsto A Leather Boyfriend

aka It’s Growing A Plot

aka this is all @gunnslaughter ‘s fault

And speaking of things you might like, Gunns, there’s also this:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/9705158

and this: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9342227

The cheapass rental car’s motivator sputtered and died for the last time on some officially unnamed, only dubiously mapped road in the hills southwest of Santa Fe. Fortunately, the antigrav batteries had just enough charge left in them that the whole thing didn’t just drop onto the cracked and weathered remains of the pavement, which probably would have done enough damage to render his life a miserable morass of insurance forms and impecunious college student special pleading for the foreseeable future. Unfortunately, when it did drop, once he got out and half-pushed, half-steered it to the side of the road, it promptly buried itself up to the axles in the drifted sand making up most of the verge, listing rather definitely to one side.

“Fuck,” Hanzo Shimada informed the universe at large and went to pop open the hood.

He was greeted by a malodorous cloud of steam that stank rather noticeably of vaporized coolants, accompanied by a deep and rather alarming bubblebubbleticktickpTANG from deep inside the motivator’s mechanical workings. To his admittedly untrained ear, it sounded like the thing was about to a) explode, b) rupture all its previously air/liquid-tight fittings, c) fall completely out of the compartment, or d) all of the above. He let the hood fall shut, gently, because he emphatically did not want to do anything to encourage any of those outcomes and got out his phone to call for help.

He had no bars of connection. In the distance, he heard the universe laughing in a rather distinctly malicious, mocking fashion.

“It’s all right,” Hanzo told himself, out loud, because the sound of his own voice on this dusty, not-particularly-traveled-at-all stretch of almost-road gave him an inordinate degree of comfort as the shadow of a circling vulture fell across him. “It is all right. It’s 3:42. If I’m not home by six, six-thirty at the absolute latest, Genji will call the state highway patrol and tell them that his idiot brother drove off into the desert that morning to draw pictures of the death of civilization and it’s Friday and and and Genji is going to spend the next seventy-two hours deeply chemically altered, slathered in psychotropic massage oil, and twisted into some kind of semi-Tantric love pretzel in his Yoga instructor’s lap and you are going to die of exposure and dehydration if you don’t start walking right now. I am such an idiot.”

The trunk contained his jacket, his backpack, a first aid kit, an emergency crank flashlight, a spare antigrav pod, a set of jumper cables, and four triangular road reflectors with onboard distress transponders that, when he tested them for charge, turned out to be as dead as the engine. He set them up, nonetheless, on the off chance that something might come along the road that would need to see his disabled vehicle well enough to avoid hitting it. The first aid kit contained a handful of loose biotic-impregnated bandages of various sizes, some sterile saline wound wipes, a pair of nitrile gloves, and, thankfully, an emergency shock blanket. That and the flashlight went into the backpack along with the remainder of his own supplies: three sketchbooks, a set of watercolor pencils, the highish quality camera he always carried to help with shot composition references back in the studio, a spare flannel shirt, one and a half bottles of water from the eight pack he’d carried into the desert that morning, and the apple and protein bar that he’d decided to save for later when he sat down to eat lunch in the shadow of a rusted out hulk of formerly intelligent and self-directed machinery. He put the flannel on over his tee-shirt and the jacket on over both, because the sun would be down in forty-five minutes, an hour at most, and once that happened it was going to be cold. And he, of course, did not have a single pair of gloves stashed in any of his pockets.

Still. Before the GPS had punked out, along with the engine, it had indicated following this road north would, eventually, lead back to the non-dead sort of civilization. The sort that contained reasonably accessible hot showers with which to wash away sandy grit still stained ashen and venti nonfat chai lattes with which to chase away various sorts of cold and also, in theory, people way, way more responsible than his brother, whom he passive-aggressively hoped was enjoying his tetrahydrocannabinol enhanced love-nest, the rotten little bastard.

After the first hour of walking, he stopped checking his phone every ten minutes to see if he had connection. Not only did he not have connection, glancing down at his screen killed his night vision, which made walking down even the middle of an untravelled stretch of highway an exercise in trying not to trip, break an ankle, or otherwise render himself incapable of moving effectively in the direction of his own rescue. The road surface hadn’t been maintained in years, possibly decades, maybe even before the Crisis, and it was zig-zagged with inches-deep cracks driven even deeper and further apart by endless cycles of freeze and thaw, parts of the roadbed lifted high enough to be a transit hazard for antigrav vehicles much less pedestrians walking in the near-total dark, others depressed in a way that suggested impact craters more than the natural erosion of time and indifference. As the last of the color bled off the western horizon, he paused long enough to give the emergency flashlight a good long cranking and found, even so, that its light was wan and dim, at best, but infinitely better than nothing, waiting for moonrise, or running his phone battery. After the second hour of walking, the darkness was no longer near-total, it was absolute in the way it could only be in the complete absence of all but the smallest traces of man-made light. On the one hand, it was stunning: the sky overhead was clear and cloudless, unmarred by light pollution, and the stars shone down on him from that velvety arch, a hundred million silvery eyes gazing benevolently down on him in their serene and distant celestial majesty. On the other hand, being the sole source of man-made light in the middle of the otherwise unrelieved blackness made him rather feel like he was being observed by things far less celestial and benevolent, considerably closer to the ground, and far more intent on running him to ground and gnawing the flesh off his bones. Occasionally, the flashlight imparted to him glimpses of sulfurous yellow-green eyes glittering just out of easy visibility, alarming enough in their predatory silence that only the chancy footing kept him from speeding up his stride. Not running. That would be bad. But walking with a bit more enthusiasm.

Sometime during the third hour, the wind picked up, scouring across the high desert floor and carrying with it hissing currents of sand and icy pellets that were neither snow nor sleet but a little bit of both. The sky clouded over, taking even the distant comfort of starlight, and he pulled out the emergency blanket and wrapped it around him to help retain some body heat. Somewhere in the middle of hour four, he pulled out his phone and, discovering himself still without connection, opened up his recording app and began dictating the please-don’t-blame-yourself message he’d been writing in his head for at least the last forty minutes so that, when his coyote-gnawed carcass was eventually found by the authorities, the hormones-and-namaste addled little dumbass he called his only family worth having would at least not feel bad about it.

By the time the lights wavered into view in the distance, he had officially stopped counting the hours. He had also officially stopped having any appreciable sensation in his hands, and his feet, and his legs were only making themselves known because his thighs hated him and wanted him to fall over and be eaten by coyotes so they could at least peacefully rest in the process of digestion. In fact, it took him quite some time to realize that he wasn’t hallucinating the vista before him which was, in fact, two strings of full-sized light bulbs strung between the side of the road, where they were attached to a pair of old fashioned utility poles, and from there to each side of an overhanging porch roof.

A house, Hanzo’s almost inexpressibly cold and weary brain realized after a long moment of staring dully, trying to make sense of what it was seeing. A house with lights. Actual working lights. There are lights on both inside and outside that house. It is a house. Lights. People. A PHONE.

He trudged slowly off the road and up the path -- the path which was lined in white-washed rocks and little beds of succulents which may or may not have been cared for, he couldn’t quite tell -- and from the path up the porch stairs, which extracted a price from his knees that he was sure he’d be hearing about for days, at least. Tucking the blanket under his arm in an effort to look slightly less pathetic, he raised a hand and knocked in what he hoped was a firm but non threatening manner on heavy old unwindowed door.

In his mind, the response seemed to take forever: movement, footsteps, the curtains in the window next to the door moving slightly while he locked his knees and wavered slightly on his feet, tired and cold and trying not to shiver too visibly. Then: the door cracked open, the light next to it came on, and he found himself gazing directly at someone’s collarbones, around the crack of a barely opened door. “Can I help you?”

Someone was tall -- taller than himself by a good head, eyes dark and narrowed slightly, expression not particularly welcoming. Well, he supposed he could hardly blame someone living in the middle of the desert miles from any other humans being particularly happy to have one turn up uninvited on his doorstep in the middle of the night.

“Hello -- my apologies, I saw your lights and -- “ The ability to think in coherent sentences momentarily skittered away, laughing mockingly. “Listen, my car broke down back that way and -- “ He gestured vaguely over his shoulder in the direction he had just come, “I’ve got no connection on my cell and I was really just wondering if you could just...borrow your phone for a minute to call a tow? I’ll just be on my way then and -- “

“That way.” The door opened more fully with a labored creak and Someone stepped out, glanced both ways, and then looked at him, expression going from moderately suspicious to moderately appalled between one breath in the next. “You’re from the city. Holy Hell.”

“How can you tell?” Hanzo asked, genuinely curious and borderline hypothermic all at once.

“Your student ID’s hanging out of your jacket pocket,” Someone observed perspicaciously and threw open the door. “Get in here before you freeze to death. How long have you been walking?”

“I...don’t know? A while.” The warmth inside enfolded him like an embrace and it was all he could do to control the urge to moan. A fire burned in an actual honest-to-gods fireplace and a gentle hand in the small of his back steered him toward it, and the couch sitting a safe distance back from the spark guard.

Those same hands divested him of his backpack and the emergency blanket, both of which went on a chair nearby, pushed him down into the couch’s soft cushions and spread a significantly heavier and warmer blanket over him. “You’re almost blue. Stay under the blanket and warm up while I get you something to drink. And don’t close your eyes, okay? Just until I’m sure you’re -- “

And that was, in fact, the last thing Hanzo heard before he totally closed his eyes and drifted off into a pleasingly warm darkness.

#Examples of things that are all Gunnslaughter's fault #Hipsto and BikerCree #Why an art student AU cousin?

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