Chapter Text
"You sleep funny" is McCree's morning greeting.
Angela glares at him blearily. "You stayed up the whole night?"
McCree shrugs, and as Angela blinks sleep from her eyes, she realizes he's in full battle regalia—chest plate, chaps, and hat pulled low, nearly concealing his eyes.
"Told ya," he mutters, checking over his sidearm. "I did it all the time." Seemingly satisfied, he slides the weapon back in its holster, looking up to arch an incredulous eyebrow at her. "You comin' or what? There's a good chance these pricks'll gimme a hard time. I'm sure you'll wanna front row seat."
Angela rolls her eyes, pushing herself to her feet to begin packing up her supplies.
"Do not be stupid," she chides him, shaking out the blanket before neatly folding it away. "They will not dare speak to you in such a way."
McCree frowns, glancing up from his seated position to give her a look blended with skepticism and honest curiosity. "Yeah? And how's that?"
She shrugs lightly, crossing their camp to retrieve her Valkyrie suit where it's been packed away.
"You are a member of Overwatch," she lists off, giving him her back as she unlatches the case with a practiced air. "You are under the personal guardianship of Commander Gabriel Reyes. You have invaluable information regarding the Deadlock Gang. You are arguably one of the best shots in the United States. And," she looks over her shoulder to shoot him a self-satisfied smirk that—if not for the petty, confrontational nature of their relationship—McCree might almost call teasing.
"You are in the company of me."
McCree just rolls his eyes, looking away. "Right. How could I forget."
She shrugs, unruffled at his dismissal as she sheds her sweatshirt to don the black undergarment of her suit.
"You do not have to like me," she says, sweeping her hair up in a messy tie to keep it out of her face. McCree snorts at his, toeing at the long-dead embers with his boot. "But you can be assured that you will be shown appropriate respect while with me."
McCree lets the issue drop. She's Overwatch's angel. Let her think what she wants.
"Be ready in ten," he mutters, pushing to his feet. "I'll do a quick sweep."
Angela just nods to herself as she clips armor to her chest. McCree spares her a backwards glance—watching this ordinary woman transform into the formidable archangel—before he turns to leave.
-0-
"This ain't right," McCree mutters.
Mercy just sets her jaw, privately agreeing with him. This is definitely not right.
"There is a logical explanation," she assures him, though her instincts beg to differ. She reflexively finds the grip of her Caduceus blaster.
The pair is situated outside the entrance of the Overwatch base, which they had quite literally strolled up to—completely undisturbed.
"This place is deserted," McCree tells her, glancing around, eyes skimming their surroundings.
"It…it does seem that way," Mercy allows, nervously chewing on her lower lip. "I would think they would have some sort of secure—McCree!"
But she's thoroughly ignored as the gunslinger twists the handle and throws his shoulder against the door. It opens easily, and McCree almost stumbles, expecting resistance.
"Unlocked?" Mercy questions, stepping in behind him with a frown.
McCree knocks the tip of his hat up out of his eyes, giving her an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "Seems that way." He rises back to full height, looking around. "Empty, too."
"But they were expecting us…" Mercy explains with a frown. "I was with the Commander when he—"
She breaks off with a gasp as her gaze falls upon a pool of blood—dull and black-red, all across the floor and leaking out of a body lying still beside it. The Overwatch logo on his uniform is pristine white, with a few red specks splattered across it.
McCree crosses the room in a few quick strides, boots thumping loudly against the floor as he crouches beside the body. Mercy has half a mind to scold him away from it, but her thoughts are racing for an explanation—
"He's dead," McCree announces grimly. Mercy isn't looking, however, and McCree glances up as he hears the telltale click of her heels hurry down the hall. "Doc…?"
He hears a strangled gasp and hustles after her, drawing his weapon as he bursts into the room she'd vanished inside. "Doc, what—?" he breaks off, eyes going wide.
He stops short so as not to run into her as she hovers in the doorway of the first room.
Bodies cover the floor. Six corpses—all bearing the Overwatch insignia on their shoulders.
Mercy grits her teeth. McCree swears softly.
"Holy shit…" he whispers, dark eyes scanning the room. "Who coulda…?"
"Come on," Mercy takes hold of his arm. "We have to leave."
He gives her a look of bewilderment. "You ain't gonna inspect 'em?"
Her gaze hardens. "I do not need to inspect them," she tells him frostily. "This is fresh. The killers are doubtlessly still in the area."
She turns to leave, hauling the gunslinger after her. Reluctantly, McCree offers a quick tip of his hat to the nearest body before he's back outside in the canyon, blinking in the bright sun.
"So," he mutters gruffly, squinting slightly. "What now?"
"We will return to our base." Mercy's voice leaves no room for argument. "Now."
McCree scowls at her from beneath the shadows cast by his hat. "What? And let the sons of bitches that did this jus' walk?"
Mercy grits her teeth. "We don't know who they are, McCree!"
His eyes glint like live embers. "I'll find 'em."
"And then what?" she demands. She waves a gloved hand at the building full of corpses. "You are a fair shot, but you are still only one man!"
"I'm more'n a fair shot—!"
An arrow sprouts in the ground directly between Mercy's feet.
Time stops. The whole canyon holds its breath. Mercy's eyes go wide while McCree's brow pulls down in confusion.
"Shimada," she whispers, the name fear-soaked and wretched.
A thousand thoughts flash through her mid: ambush, trap, miscommunication, bounty, betrayal, coincidence—
Sense slams back into her as she sees McCree reach for his sidearm, expression lacing tight with confusion and anger.
"Who the hell…?" he begins, scanning the horizon.
McCree doesn't know.
Mercy seizes the gunslinger by the back of his collar without thought, gunning her wings and propelling them out of the open space to the back of the building. Wordlessly, she hauls him out of sight and shoves him against the wall.
"The Shimada Clan." Mercy's voice shakes even if she doesn't.
McCree stares down at her, torn between the desire to put a bullet through the head of the responsible party and the common sense that tells him if the Angel is this worried, maybe he should be too.
"I don' know what that means." He answers honestly—if not begrudgingly—dropping his hand where it had been drifting towards his weapon.
"Assassins," she answers flatly. "Mercenaries. Murderers. The very worst of humanity, McCree, we do not stand a chance—"
He pulls away from the wall then, moving past her, a determined set to his jaw. "Pretty sure the Deadlock Gang held that title," he tells her. "I'll smoke 'em out."
"No."
Her hands—locked in the pearly-white gauntlets of her Valkyrie suit—latch onto his arm, tugging him back with more force than he anticipates. He cranes his neck to throw her an annoyed look over his shoulder.
"Let go."
"You will not pursue them," she hisses, and there's a tension in her voice that he's never heard. "McCree, you do not understand—"
"They tried to fuckin' kabob ya, Doc. It ain't that complicated." He gives his arm a tug, but she holds fast, digging her heels into the packed dirt.
He turns back to face her properly, frowning at the way her heeled boots break their height difference. They gaze steadily at each other, stubbornness against stubbornness.
"We cannot take on the entire Shimada Clan," she snaps at him. "They are the most vile—"
"It ain't all of 'em," McCree argues. He waves his free hand back in the direction the arrow had come from. "Jus' whoever did this."
Mercy's eyes catch fire. He's misspoken.
"This?" she repeats fiercely. "This? McCree, they slaughtered an entire OverwatchM base! These people were not civilians, they were highly trained—"
"So yer scared," he cuts her off, glaring—a challenge in his buckshot eyes. "Yer sayin' yer scared of this Shimada whatever."
If looks could kill, the gunslinger would be really impressively dead.
"I am not afraid." Mercy's words are clipped and sharpened and soaked with poison. "I am being practical."
"An' how many more people are gonna die 'casue of yer damned practicality?" McCree demands.
Mercy eyes go cold, fingers curling into his arm with a grip that could bruise.
"Mind yourself, McCree," she nearly growls, lips pulled back in a delicate snarl. "You are speaking far out of—"
"Look me in the eyes an' tell me you don' wanna help these people," he interrupts, jabbing a finger at the base. "If you can do that, we'll drop the whole thing right here an' now."
McCree holds her gaze ruthlessly, refusing to allow her to look away, dully reflecting how odd it is that a woman so cold and detached can name compassion as her biggest flaw.
Mercy can't not help people. She just doesn't know how.
She takes a breath, and lets it go with a rattling in her chest. "Just…just let me contact the Commander—"
"They'll be long gone by then and we both know it," McCree argues. He draws his weapon, Mercy still holding his other arm. "Nobody's forcin' you to do nothin', Doc. But this is why I left Deadlock."
Silence falls between them again, resuming their staring match.
The wind whistles through the canyon.
"They have not moved," she whispers tightly, voice low and stressed.
"I know," he mutters back gruffly.
Another moment rolls by. McCree slowly draws Peacekeeper.
"Cover me?" he asks lowly.