Can't Lose with the Dress I Use

mataglap gave me the prompt "McHanzo role reversal," with the added permission to interpret it as loosely as I wanted to. This is definitely a loose interpretation but hopefully a lot of fun! Featuring drunkenness, humor, and UST, this one's just over 3,000 words and somewhere in the Teen+ to Mature rating range. (And yes, that title is a line from ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man" because I refuse to be stopped.)

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It started, as so many bad ideas did, with an argument and too much alcohol. McCree was teasing him again about his more traditional attire, asking if he got cold, asking about tan lines, and finally, Hanzo suggested that if he was so curious, he should try wearing it himself.

McCree took it as a challenge and it… escalated.

Now Hanzo was in McCree’s room, holding a pair of McCree’s pants, and not even for the sort of reason he might want to. McCree, of course, was in his room, no doubt pawing at far too many of his things. 

Hanzo spoke, perhaps too loudly, into the comm he’d tossed onto McCree’s bed, which he otherwise dutifully pretended did not exist. “This does not include underwear too, does it?”

A faint wheezing sound rattled through the speaker. “No. Why would you even⁠ ask that?”

“I am simply trying to understand the parameters of our arrangement.” He was very proud of how precisely the words came out, in spite of the way the sake coated his tongue and tried to make it clumsy.

“No underwear!” Another wheeze. “I mean, not my underwear. Not no underwear. Christ, Hanzo, keep your underwear on.” His voice seemed to climb higher with every word, ending nearly on a crack when he added, “Please.”

Hanzo snorted. “So modest,” was what he said, but what he felt was gratitude.

It took him a moment to commit, but he finally stepped into the pants. He had considered that he may have imagined how tight they were on McCree, mostly because his brain enjoyed supplying fuel for his torment. This confirmed that his perception had been right all along: they were snug even on him. Fitted as these were, at least they still looked like pants on Hanzo, rather than the paint job they appeared to be when McCree wore them.

He may have been standing on part of the hem. His toes only just peeked out of the ends. Briefly, he considered whether it would be more humiliating to let McCree see him like this, or to roll the ends so he could walk properly. 

Pragmatism won out, but only barely. It took four folds to get them to an appropriate length, and now he was sure to be cursed with the inability to forget how very long McCree’s legs had to be. 

“How the hell do you tie this thing?” McCree’s voice grumbled through the comm as Hanzo was revisiting the roll-or-flop dilemma with McCree’s chaps. Those were shorter than the pants, at least. Perhaps if left undone, they would hide that he’d had to roll the others. Rather than help him choose, his brain supplied a distinctly unhelpful image of McCree wearing only the chaps. 

“Like a knot.”

“Thank you so much.”

“I don’t think I can describe it. I would have to show you.” 

McCree’s shirt fit him well enough. It fit quite nicely, actually. Perhaps even so well as to be mildly distressing. And despite Hanzo’s certainty that he had picked a clean one ⁠— unless McCree intentionally folded his dirty clothes ⁠— it smelled like him. Like… cologne or deodorant or whatever it was that made McCree smell stupidly wonderful in spite of the lingering whiff of smoke. Which was a problem that Hanzo did not need to dwell on at the moment, especially while wearing McCree’s snug pants.

“Done,” McCree announced. 

Hanzo had not even begun with the body armor, much less any of the accessories. Why were there so many layers? And what were these tubes supposed to do? “I’m not.”

There was a long sigh through the comm. Hanzo pictured McCree rifling through his drawers, and he willed himself to move faster. “Well, just head my way when you’re done, I guess.”

Hanzo had not, until this very moment, considered the possibility that someone else might see them doing this foolish thing. “You’re coming over here.”

“I look like an idiot, and I’m cold, just like I thought I’d be. No.”

Hanzo had no idea how to wrap the serape, if there was some sort of trick to it or if he just threw it on like a scarf. He did his best. “I am sure we both look like idiots.” He had, in fact, avoided McCree’s mirror based on exactly this suspicion.

“Fine.” McCree might have giggled. “Rock, paper, scissors for it.”

Hanzo paused in buckling his belt. “You can’t even see my hands.”

“Just say it. On three.”

He was not one to turn down a challenge ⁠— and yes, he knew that was what got him into this mess, but it did not mean he was ready to put the lesson to use ⁠— so when McCree counted down, Hanzo may have been too enthusiastic when he shouted, “Scissors!”

Of course, so did McCree. “Damn. Again.” They both chose scissors again. “Third time’s a charm.”

Hanzo considered what he knew of McCree. McCree would expect Hanzo to adapt here, perhaps gamble on McCree choosing scissors a third time. Or perhaps he knew that Hanzo would think of this and try to outmaneuver by playing rock, and so McCree would choose paper. Or perhaps⁠— oh, fuck it. “Paper,” Hanzo said this time. 

“Damn it. You better be decent. I’m not waitin’ in the hallway.”

The hat fit oddly over his topknot, so he had to take his hair down to make it work. The gun belt ⁠— sans gun, because he wasn’t going to touch McCree’s most prized possession without permission ⁠— was easy enough. All that was left was the glove, which took a minor struggle to get into. It was floppy at the ends where there was more fabric than he had fingers to fill it. But it was a tight fit otherwise, soft old leather straining around his thick fingers. 

He was curling a fist, trying to get the material to better conform, when the door hissed open and McCree barged through. 

There was no reaction more appropriate than the wild laughter Hanzo burst into. It nearly doubled him over. He had to sit on the bed to keep from falling. McCree laughed too, although perhaps not as intensely as Hanzo did.

It took several minutes to recover, to swipe a thumb over the corners of his eyes to catch the tears. He sputtered for a few false starts before he finally cleared his throat and really took McCree in.

McCree was mostly leg, so the hakama was far too short, a fact made more apparent because McCree certainly could not wear the boots to tuck the fabric into. He stood barefoot and shifting his weight. He had, like Hanzo, taken the opportunity to accessorize: he wore the archery brace on the right arm, and he’d even pulled back his hair into a tiny tuft of a ponytail, tied off with one of Hanzo’s silk scarves. 

The top mostly fit, but Hanzo’s eyes tripped over flesh, the big, naked shoulder and thick arm and chest, the glimpse of his side bared nearly to his hip. Pale, thin scars cut through sun darkened skin, and dark hair spread out from the center of his chest, thinning just before it reached a brown nipple. 

It had occurred to him while dressing that McCree often wore several layers. It had not occurred to him until now that this meant he’d never seen McCree in any particular state of undress. It was a shame, really. 

Hanzo was probably staring. He cleared his throat, hiding behind his previously amused sputters, and he looked at the obi. McCree had just shoved the sleeve into it, wadded the fabric instead of folding. 

“Surprisingly close,” Hanzo said finally, gesturing at the knot McCree had tied. Which was also a gesture more or less in the direction of McCree’s crotch. Hanzo could feel every ounce of stupid decision-making that had led to this point, and it all blended together to fuel the heat in his face. 

“I pay attention.” There was absolutely no reason for that to make his flush grow hotter. He could only hope McCree took it as an effect of the alcohol; McCree’s own cheeks were red enough from it. “You said you could show me.”

“Oh. Yes.” It was a stupid thing to agree to. Very, very stupid. The glove with its floppy fingertips didn’t help. Hanzo had to pull with his teeth and shove from the bottom with his other hand in order to get the glove off. McCree laughed more than he had any right to, looking as he did. 

Then Hanzo grabbed the obi and tugged, and McCree stopped laughing altogether. It was difficult to undo the first knot, shaky as Hanzo’s fingers were, and the way McCree’s hips seemed to sway forward whenever he pulled was thoroughly distracting. 

He kept his eyes intent on the task. He was too close to risk a glance upward; there was too much skin to see, radiating warmth even from here. The smell that had lingered in McCree’s room and in his clothes was here too, earth and spice and a hint of clean sweat. 

Damp palms and numb fingers made him fumble the first attempt; he had to start again. McCree was too quiet, and Hanzo’s shuddery breaths seemed to fill the space between them no matter how strictly he tried to regulate his breathing. Following a dip of his head, the brim of the hat brushed McCree and they both jumped. 

McCree’s stomach hitched when Hanzo’s knuckles brushed against him, then the knot was finished. He resisted the urge to smooth a hand over it, to fuss with the kyudo-gi until the spare sleeve was neatly folded and tucked behind McCree’s hip. 

McCree let out a strained-sounding laugh as Hanzo backed away. “Always thought you’d look goofy in that hat.” 

“I’m fairly certain I look goofy in all of this.”

“It’s not so bad.” McCree grinned and flicked the brim, which made Hanzo scowl and flinch away. The grin looked a little off, like his heart wasn’t fully in it, like he was distracted by something. 

That wouldn’t do. 

Hanzo tipped the hat and McCree’s smile widened. “Perhaps I will get my own, if you find the look so agreeable.” As soon as it was out of his mouth, he wanted it back. There was friendly flirting and then there was communicating genuine interest, and he was not sure this didn’t fall in the latter category. 

Not that McCree seemed to mind. If anything, he found it amusing, although he still had that hint of something off behind the eyes. Normally Hanzo rather liked how expressive McCree became when he drank. It usually made him much easier to read, but this look was confusing. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down.” McCree’s hand rose and fell again, slapping against his thigh. 

Hanzo did not know what to say to that, so he pulled the hat off. He could feel the mess his hair was just then, and he combed fingers through it a few times before he caught himself. McCree stared long enough that Hanzo felt his fingers itch to smooth out tangles again, or pull it back, or grab McCree’s hands and shove them into his hair. 

Suddenly McCree let out a quiet laugh, yanked the hat away and set it firmly back on Hanzo’s head. “That’s enough of that,” he said, which made very little sense, but what followed was perfectly clear. “Night’s still young. You want a beer?”

He was already gone enough that he thought he might regret it in the morning, but he said yes anyway. They sat on the floor at the end of the bed, mostly because Hanzo had deemed any more comfortable location too dangerous. Of course, it had not occurred to him that watching McCree drink beer straight from the bottle might give him reason to regret much sooner than tomorrow morning. 

McCree held the mouth of the bottle cushioned against his surprisingly pink bottom lip. It looked so soft and wet that it was unfair, and Hanzo thought he really should call it a night if he was getting jealous of a bottle. It took every ounce of discipline within him to tear his eyes away from the bob of McCree’s throat when he drank. He did not have enough discipline to leave though. 

Eventually Hanzo had to address the body armor. It wasn’t completely stiff, but where it was malleable, it was already molded to a torso with slightly different proportions than his own. He wrestled out of the serape and armor. 

It left him in the button down. McCree’s eyes raked over him in a way that made his blood run hot. A pity. Taking off the layers had cooled him by several degrees, and now this was ruining that effect. 

Hanzo froze as metal fingers brushed his neck, sliding with barely-there touches. McCree’s face was too close too, his eyes fixated just below Hanzo’s chin. Surely McCree was staring at the heavy pulsing of the vein there, or listening to how ragged Hanzo’s breath had become, collecting evidence of Hanzo’s utter inability to function in close quarters with him. 

Then the fingers smoothed over his collar, and McCree’s gaze rose again. “Sorry,” he said, still too close. “It was stickin’ up. Was gonna drive me nuts.” Hanzo could only nod and wet his dry lips. McCree turned quickly away, putting space between them again. He seemed to search the room with his gaze before they caught on Hanzo’s— McCree’s— the too-tight pants Hanzo was currently wearing. “You had to roll them!”

“Too long,” Hanzo muttered. 

“Yeah? Yours are pretty comfy, actually.” McCree chuckled, and something about the sound made Hanzo look at him again, even though he knew it was a mistake. McCree’s eyes were heavy and sly. “Not really how I imagined getting in your pants, if I’m bein’ honest.”

Hanzo felt his whole body stiffen in surprise. It could have only been a joke. McCree was full of bad ones; it was part of his charm. But there was an edge to it that said if it was a joke, it was the kind meant to test the waters. “Ridiculous,” he said, half to himself.

McCree only smirked, turned almost fully toward him now. “What about it?”

“Only that it took you so long to say it. Why not, ‘this is not how I imagined getting your clothes on my floor’ or ‘when I pictured myself half naked in front of you, this isn’t quite how it went’?”

McCree’s smile turned as sly as his eyes. “At least you’re admitting it definitely doesn’t count as fully clothed when you do this. That’s progress.”

Hanzo laughed, but the conversation pulled his attention back to all that bare skin. He swallowed, and it did nothing to get rid of the lump in his throat. “Is it really so absurd to you?”

“No.” McCree’s eyes slid over him, over lips and neck and chest and they just kept slipping downward. Blood pumped just beneath the surface of Hanzo’s skin, like it was reaching for McCree the way the rest of Hanzo wanted to. Suspended by alcohol's time-warping magic, the look felt like it lasted hours. Hours in which Hanzo’s body underwent a number of changes: breaths going quick and shallow, throat drying out, a trickle of sweat rolling between his shoulder blades. Then the gaze trailed back up, and time seemed to speed up again. “It’s… distracting.”

Hanzo didn’t realize he was leaning until he was so close he could no longer see McCree’s whole face, until he swore their breaths were mingling, until the brim of the hat hit McCree on the forehead. He jerked back and McCree swayed forward with an uncomfortable-sounding chuckle.

McCree’s eyes were a fascinating color. A rich brown, of course, but lightened to an amber close to the center, with flecks of gold throughout, although both the lighter shades were quickly being swallowed by rapidly dilating pupils. His lashes were longer than Hanzo had previously realized, a near-translucent blond at the tips, and Hanzo was well and truly fucked if he was waxing poetic about McCree’s eyelashes. 

“I’m…” Not sorry. That would be an admission he’d had some sort of intent. “I’m drunk.” The word came out with a little bubble of a laugh. “You’re drunk.”

“Yeah,” McCree breathed. 

The syllable seemed to shiver in the air between them. The tip of McCree’s tongue slipped out, a quick flash of pink to wet his lips, and it forced a trembling breath out of Hanzo. 

Then McCree ducked his head, tipped Hanzo’s hat back and kissed him. Well before Hanzo’s brain could catch up, his mouth was already responding, molding softly to McCree’s before parting for his tongue. His scalp felt suddenly cool as the hat fell off. His head spun, which he’d like to think was the kiss but which was probably mostly sake and beer. 

He wasn’t entirely sure how he ended up tipped back and balanced on one elbow, but the hand gripping the back of McCree’s neck suggested it was at least partly his own doing. McCree broke off, breathing hard between them, and he teetered for a second above Hanzo. “Drunk,” McCree muttered again. 

Hanzo felt his fingers go lifeless, no longer dragging McCree closer but unsure where they should go now. “Right. Is this⁠— Have you considered this sober?”

McCree laughed, and really his mouth was just stupid and pretty and would look nice wrapped around⁠— “You think I’d do something this dumb for just anybody?” He reared back just a bit, plucking at the kyudo-gi he still wore. 

“No,” Hanzo lied. “I wouldn’t either.” That at least was not a lie. 

“Good to know.” 

“I will try very hard to pretend this didn’t happen, if you wish.” 

McCree looked startled. “No! No, I just. Maybe we should, uh. Wait.”

“Well, you have already kissed me. And you can’t unkiss me. So maybe we should not do more than that, but I don’t see a difference between one drunk kiss and several, under these circumstances.”

McCree snorted, but he seemed to have made up his mind, because he pressed his laughing mouth against Hanzo’s again. It was very difficult not to be smug about it, although he did manage to eventually forget to think altogether.