Chapter Text
Your life does not get better by chance. It gets better by change.
Jim Rohn
It smells like a garden; damp and prevalent, existing forever in between the sun rising and setting. The growth and soil is almost as tangible as the flowers, and for one lost second, Hanzo imagines himself at home in his mother’s garden, surrounded by the perennials and hanging flower vines, in the shadow of the great weeping pillow his mother imported from the west.
Hanzo tried to connect the images in his mind, carefully constructing the before with the later into something that would resemble an answer. It was easier said than done; the confusion took a few minutes to clear out before Hanzo even realized his eyes weren’t open. His mother was dead and the garden was gone; underneath the earthly scent there was something chemical and cold.
He opened his eyes. They were creaky and dry, like he’d been sleeping far longer than necessary, and his vision swam in circles above him. The swirling mixture of whites and greys eventually straightened into a ceiling.
Not his ceiling.
When one moment the memory wasn’t there, the next moment it was. Hanzo’s hand darted up to his abdomen, where all he found was fresh bandages stiff and starchy against his ribcage. His hands were likewise bandaged. Hanzo held them out to examine them; they were wrapped tightly and neatly from wrist to fingertip, completely obscuring his fingers and cuts.
Hanzo dropped his hands on the bed and fisted them in the thin plastic blanket covering his body.
So he lived, then.
Hanzo turned his head to the side and sighed in defeat. Just like the Shimada-gumi hauled his body from underneath the tree, someone had likewise hauled his prone form from outside his room. Why did they not get it? Why could they not leave him be ? To what purpose was he still here?
The source of the floral scent from earlier was a bouquet of roses sat silently on his bedside. It was a small jar stuffed so full of red, yellow, and orange roses, lilies and gladiolus that it was alike to a bulbous head protruding from a thin body. Next to it was a stack of books forearm length tall. There was no card indicating who left it.
With a grunt of pain, Hanzo slowly pulled himself into an upright position. He reached over the bedside and pulled a book towards him with his fingers, scrabbling pathetically until he could grab it securely. It was a hardcover (a rarity in this time and age) with a deep red cover. On the spine in gold: Milk and Honey, Rupi Kaur. Interest piqued, Hanzo cracked it open.
How is it so easy for you
To be kind to people, he said
Milk and honey dripped from my lips
When i answered
Because people have not
Been kind to me
Hanzo swallowed and closed the book with a gentle snap . He put it down next to his legs and picked up the next one. It was a little battered but in nevertheless good shape with a sturdy spine. Howl and other poems .
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
Hanzo pursed his brow and delicately flipped to the next page. There was a part two that continued on the next page, in the same long verse that emphasized rhythm over rhyme. He recognized the first line; in fact, he could think of hundred different things that took inspiration from the first line. He had always been a little curious about the prose but had never had an instance to indulge. Hanzo put it on top of milk and honey .
The third one was thinner with a soft, thin paper cover. In plain black lettering: The Inferno of Dante . Each line was small in its typesetting, nearly illegible. Hanzo brought it closer to his face and squinted:
MIDWAY upon the journey of our life
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
Hanzo was somewhat familiar with this work, although he had never gotten the opportunity or the ability to get his hands on a copy. It was perhaps stereotypical of him to be interested in a poetry detailing the circles of hell, but it was an interest all the same. He closed it and laid it on his lap. He picked up the rest of the books and splayed them over his lap at all, looking at them all in question. Who had left them? How had they chosen them? He had never quite confided to Hana about his hobby, as he was worried she would find it too depressing and grow worried over him (she worried enough about him already).
The door to the infirmary slid open with a hiss of sterilized air. Dr. Ziegler strode in, dressed down in a casual gray t-shirt and jeans with her white lab coat thrown over it. She looked up from her tablet. She visibly startled at seeing Hanzo awake and sitting up. With lightning fast fingers, she opened another interface on her holotablet and sent out a message, and then she abandoned it on the side of the table.
Hanzo said nothing to her as she approached the bedside. She said nothing to him, but just took a seat on an abandoned spinny chair by his side. They sat there in tense, awkward silence as Hanzo tried his very best to ignore her existence and Zeigler tried her very best to come up with some sort of statement that would somehow address the complex situation before them.
Finally Ziegler said, “There was a scar there, where you cut. You have attempted suicide before.” There was a professional coldness to her tone that was sympathetic and comforting and more matter of fact. Hanzo’s hands tightened on his waxy blanket, and he made sure to turn his face away so that she could not see the way he ground his teeth.
“Yes,” he answered shortly.
“In addition, I found evidence of prior stress to the jugular and the cervical vertebrae reminiscent of someone who had tried to hang themselves. Is this another attempt?”
“ Yes ,” Hanzo snapped, shame reddening his neck and ears.
Zeigler seemed to take the cue. She didn’t speak for a few seconds and turned in her chair and began to examine the machines beeping coldly next to Hanzo’s bedside. “Vitals look normal,” she mused. “You were out for a while, but you had not fully recovered from extended exposure to the Caduceus staff from our last mission. I could not risk hitting you with it in such a short period of time, thus damning you to a coma or possibly non-injury related death. Thus,” Zeigler waved a hand to his bandages. “We had to do it the old-fashioned way.”
Hanzo looked down at his bandages and used one finger to pry it away from his sternum. Yes, there was a freshly stitched wound: irritated, puffy and red. “And my hands?” He queried coldly.
“You seem to pick. I could not risk infection. I thought it best to give you some sort of deterrent. It seems that you will scar, but that could have been avoided if I had known about it earlier,” Ziegler diverted her eyes and grimaced. Hanzo did not even need to hear her words to hear the unwelcome sass.
Hanzo sighed and rolled his eyes. Doctors . He slumped back down into the bed, back facing Zeigler as he tried his best to close his eyes and will away reality. He willed it to be a mistake, some grand sort of joke, and everything would end. What comes would come, be it a supernatural death with his morality being judged by some omnipotent entity (who would find him unworthy of eternal paradise and doom him to eternal damnation instead), a reincarnation as an unstained soul, or the sweet embrace of nothingness.
Alas, Zeigler’s eyes still bored into his back.
The door slid open again. Hanzo craned his neck to see Genji stumbling in, vents hissing steam and his posture sagged with visible relief. “Hanzo!” He cried. He took off his mask, discarded it on the same stand that Zeigler’s tablet was on, and made his way over to Hanzo’s bedside in large, quick steps. Zeigler hurriedly abandoned her chair for Genji to use. Genji plopped down in it and scooted in.
“Hanzo,” Genji said feverently once he had pushed himself in Hanzo’s face. Hanzo did not respond, too suddenly overwhelmed by a crushing weight on his chest at the sight of his very own brother so torn. He turned his face away.
“Hanzo,” Genji pled. Zeigler cleared her throat awkwardly from the front of the bed and said, “Pardon me.”
Zeigler left, her absence punctuated by the hissing of the door opening and closing.
Genji laid a hand on Hanzo’s shoulder. Hanzo shook it off. “Hanzo,” Genji mumbled, sounding hurt.
“Leave me be,” Hanzo grumbled.
“I just want to know if you are okay.”
“I am obviously still very much alive, so it seems that I am fine. You may leave now.”
Genji stalled uncomfortably, lost for words. He did not expect his brother’s brutish and standoffish attitude at the bedside. Truthfully, he was not sure what to expect. He had consulted Zenyatta on the subject but Zenyatta had remarkably little advice to offer besides “reflect on your actions”, which is what Genji did all the time anyway, but there was a certain amount of reflection to be done when his brother had just attempted a ritualistic suicide when he was only four doors down, and he had nearly not gotten there in time.
Genji silently looks at Hanzo’s haggard form-- his darkened undereyes, the thinning hair and deathliness in his cheeks. He held himself so delicately, protectively over his middle bandages were were already tinted pink.
He had been there when Hanzo needed him.
Genji inhaled anxiety, exhaled tranquility. “I cannot,” he said gently. “I have wronged you terribly; I am your brother, but when you needed me most I was not there.” Genji laid his head on the bed by Hanzo’s knee in an attempt to look his brother in the face. “I am sorry. I have spoken the most about us reconnecting but I was so overjoyed to have you back in my life that I reflected on you. I should have known you were not happy. It was not right of me to assume anything about you.”
Hanzo carefully analyzed the wall of medical equipment next to him in an attempt to tune out Genji’s words, but it was useless. He could still hear Genji loud and clear. “It is not your fault,” he mumbled.
“No, no. I should have noticed. You were alone, but you are not alone anymore.”
Silence.
“ Please , Hanzo. I cannot help you unless you talk to me,” Genji begged.
“So you have told me,” Hanzo said, but he still turned his head to look at Genji. Genji’s eyes, usually full of energy, were tired and sapped of strength. The deep purple bags under his eyes contrasted poorly with the scarred flesh of his face. Despite the fact that Genji was attempting to comfort Hanzo with the face that he recognized, Hanzo just felt a rise of despair.
Useless. Good for nothing. Kinslayer. Traitor. Look at how worried he is! He is not sleeping well. Fool. Should have done it right the first time.
“Is it… me? Are you still plagued by guilt?” Genji ventured again in the quiet, searching for an answer that Hanzo really did not have to give. He leaned forward and closer to Hanzo. “Hanzo, I want you to move on. I want you to live. I want you to be happy .”
Hanzo just shook his head mutely. The more that Genji pried and begged, blamed himself, the hotter the tears behind Hanzo’s eyed burned. “No, Genji,” he managed through a watery throat. “It is not your fault. It was never your fault. It is me. Again, I was too weak.” They both knew they were not thinking of recent events.
Genji’s hand reached up to hold Hanzo’s. His mechanical fingers were far from cold, instead warmed by the constant surges of electricity and blood underneath the titanium plating. He squeezed very gently to encourage Hanzo to continue on.
“I have failed, and instead of my failure punishing only me and pushing me from all I have ever known, it nearly took Hana’s life. It nearly took your life.” Hanzo’s voice broke in two, like delicate china, and Hanzo cleared his throat desperately in an attempt to sound strong and sure despite how small he felt. “What use am I, if not for a blade?”
Genji laid his other hand on their joined hands.
“I am not a hero regardless of how hard you disagree, I am just a ghost that is haunting you. I am bound to you now, do you not understand?” Hanzo cleared his throat again. But it did little when he began to speak again. “I am trapped here as I have always been trapped here , and--- and any attempt I have to leave is foiled. It was almost simpler when you dead.” At the final word, tears finally broke past the dam Hanzo had painstakingly built inside of himself and streamed silently down his cheeks.
Genji made a sound almost like a flower wilting, if such a thing could be heard by mortal ears. “Hanzo,” he said sympathetically.
“I killed you. I watched you die, and yet I even went so far as to bond with Hana as if I deserve such a thing and I-- I. She is just a child-- and I--- I saw you in her, and I just---. I have already thrown away my chance.” He paused. “Yet the Gods---or, or whatever . Left me here. Left me here to die a natural death, it seems.”
Hanzo’s voice was already raw from talking so much in one time period. He stopped, cleared it. Suddenly it seemed like those few sentences took all of his energy out of him.
“I do not want you to die,” Genj whispered beside him.
Hanzo closed his eyes. “I know,” he replied. “Perhaps this is the one time I do what I wish to do.”
Genji said nothing more. He reached up and gently pet Hanzo’s hair, even if Hanzo protested to such a thing, but all of a sudden his eyelids were so heavy.
...
When Hanzo woke again, the room was dark, empty and silent. The sun had set it seemed, leaving the entire medical wing feeling cold and lonely despite the sparse and somewhat unwelcome company. Hanzo sighed a breath of relief.
At the heaving of his chest, someone made a displeased huff. Hanzo stopped completely and looked down.
Sleeping on his chest, squeezed into the tiny space affording by the bed was Hana, her hand cushioning her admittedly chubby cheek. Her hair was strewn all over, messily gathered in some way so that she would not lay on it. She was still in her battlesuit, like she had come straight from practice. Belatedly, Hanzo realized that it was the battlesuit he had repaired with the small blue patch on the shoulder.
Hanzo turned his head. On the other side, Genji was sleeping with his head in his arms. He snoozed peacefully, softly, not a noise to be made beside the low hum of his internal motors. His two guests slept soundly, unaware of Hanzo’s awakening. He reached out to unsurely hold his hand over Hana’s back; he hesitated. Watched the rising and falling of her ribs. He sighed in defeat and dropped his hand to his side again.
Hanzo tried to sleep again, but he was no longer tired. Who knows how long he had slept? Hanzo leaned back into his pillow and looked to the side forlornly. The flowers still sat undisturbed on his bedside, healthy and vibrant and so unlike the person they were here for. Someone had moved the books from the bed to the bedside again. Hanzo half-thought about reading, but it was too dark to truly see the words and Hanzo did not want to risk turning on a light and waking up his guests. That was a conversation he did not want to have.
Hanzo sighed again. Should have gone for the neck.
The mechanical door to the hallway opened up with a quiet woosh. A figure stood in the doorway, illuminated by the yellow light of the hallway, a dark enigma. Hanzo squinted in an attempt to recognize the figure. As they approached, Hanzo’s eyes adjusted to the light and soon he could make out shaggy brown hair, a messy beard, a tacky country t shirt and baggy sweats… Mccree.
He seemed surprised to see Hanzo awake. He looked the side, rubbed his neck, cleared his throat. Hanzo raised his eyebrows impatiently. “I uh,” Mccree stammered. “Came to pick up Hana. Angie told me she fell asleep here.”
“I have noticed,” Hanzo replied dryly, motioning to Hana’s sleeping figure.
Mccree made his way over the bedside and hovered unsurely by Hana, eyes darting up to ask permission. Hanzo lifted his arms in the universal go ahead symbol. Mccree proceeded to tuck his hands under Hana’s side and knees and lift her up princess style. He then shifted Hana so her head was on his shoulder and he was holding her under her butt as if she was a toddler, and a thin one at that: but Hanzo knew she was not so thin and not so young. Mccree was just strong .
“Will you take Genji?” Hanzo queried.
“Naw, ‘less you want me too,” Mccree answered. “He can sleep anywhere, anytime. Figured he won’t wake up to regret it. ‘Lso, weighs a literal ton.”
Perhaps I do not want Genji fussing over me. Hanzo hid his sour thoughts with a nod; he would not burden Mccree with his brother as well. He closed his eyes and waited for Mccree to leave with Hana, but Mccree did not leave. He stood awkwardly by the bed side, cradling Hana and saying nothing.
“Do not feel like it is necessary to offer comforting words to the poor sickly man who committed suicide, Mccree,” Hanzo snapped harshly. “I do not want your pity.”
“Damn bedbound after a suicide attempt and you’re still mean as hell,” Mccree snipped back-- he stopped at the end like he regretted it and reeled in a deep breath; exhaled, voice softer this time: “I mean… you feelin’ ok?”
Hanzo rolled his eyes. “Take a guess,” he answered. “Are you here to blather on endlessly and interrupt my sleep or fetch Hana and go?”
Mcree shuffled his feet and shifted Hana in his grip. “I figured you’d want company, but I’m awful poor at talkin’ on demand.”
“How surprising,” Hanzi answered dryly.
Mccree stilled. “Truthfully, I don’t see the point in fillin’ moments like this with empty talk,” he answered more seriously. He hooked his foot under a chair off to the side and dragged it over to sit in it. He adjusted Hana on his lap to a more comfortable position and reclined.
Hanzo could not deny the wisdom of his words. It seemed that now that Hanzo took his fate into his own hands that everyone had something to say; all of it unappreciated and uninvited. They asked whose fault it was, who was to blame, as if this was truly a reflection of themselves rather than Hanzo’s relentless weakness. He had failed. He had failed in the one way he could not and he had to pay for it.
Mccree’s words from the party rang in his head. You just have a big heart . Hanzo could not help but to deny it; he killed his brother, abandoned his family, struggled to make the most basic of connections. What heart did he claim to own? Only a cold one.
Mccree still did not say anything. He just reclined in the chair with Hana perched uncomfortably on his lap, hat tipped to cover his eyes. Hanzo observed him while he was not looking. Scruffy, tired looking, had a smell like a wildfire and cigarello smoke hazard. Mccree and Hanzo got along on a basic level after their very awkward reconciliation, but the man was nevertheless a symbol of how truly unwelcome Hanzo was here. He was aware that they had similar pasts; one of crime, and duty, and necessity but Mccree was still so different from him. What was the difference between them?
For starters, the people Mccree killed are not around bothering them .
Hanzo threw away all cares and reaches over to turn on his lamp. Genji did not even stir, though Hana let out a grunt that went ignored. Hanzo reached out for the first book on his bedside and surfaced with Dante. Hanzo pulled it open again and tried to drown again in the sweet safety of literature.
Unfortunately, he was not alone.
“I see you got my gifts!” Mccree said from his bedside. Hanzo send him a look under his eyebrows.
“What,” Hanzo replied very eloquently.
“When I caught wind of what happened, I was like, well shit, how does one deal with this in a socially acceptable way , an’ Hana was talkin’ about gifts,” Mccree nodded to the flowers. Hanzo wondered at their color and wondered why Hana picked something so vivacious for him. “An’ I said, ‘well, the dude likes poetry,’ so I popped down to that old shop in Gibraltar an’ told the grandpa workin’ there to point me to some poetry and this is just the first things I picked up,” Mccree motioned humbly to the pile of books next to the bedside. Hanzo peered down at the book in his hands, partly awed by Mccree’s thoughtfulness and partially shamed by his own weakness. Three hardcover books in this time were not cheap.
“Mccree, I am sorry,” Hanzo mumbled. “I have been a great burden. I will repay you in full the first chance I can. I did not mean to bother you,” Hanzo closed the book and leaned his upper body forward, doing the best he could to bow with Genji still slumbering on his legs like a deadweight.
“Bother me? Shit, Hanzo, probably needed the fresh air. Things were gettin’ stressful at base,” Mccree waved Hanzo off. Hanzo peered at him under his mop of hair, a question on his lips that he won’t say.
Mccree heard it regardless. “Everyone’s real torn up about ya.”
Hanzo huffed. “Try again.”
“Nah, nah,” Mccree insisted as he pulled out his cigarellos and zippo. He lights it, takes a huff, and removes it again. “They feel responsible; like, only so many people in Overwatch right now and you just… Yeah. That stuff.”
Mccree pops his cigarello back into his mouth, leaving his big paw of a hand over his face. He sucks in a deep drag and exhales it through his nose. “So,” he continues, less energized than before. “You know, everyone’s feelin’ real bad because you were just beginnin’ to fit in too.” His eyes are staring straight ahead, empty, reciting the story like an automaton. “Findin’ the alcohol and the letter jus’ knocked our boots right off.”
“Jisei,” Hanzo provides.
“Jee-say, whatever. Point is, no one really saw it comin’. Usually you can jus’ tell if someone has depression, y’know? Thinkin I shoulda been able to peg you from day one, but,” Mccree chews on his cigarello. “Jus’ blindsided us real good, is’all.”
Hanzo sighs through his nose. He holds out a hand to Mccree, which puzzles him for a minute until he finally hands over his cigarillos. Hanzo fishes one out, puts it proper in his mouth, and retrieves the zippo. Lights up.
A filthy habit. One he picked up and dropped over the years. He was currently on a drop until he picked it up. The cigarillo is at least sweeter than the usual cheap cigarettes that Hanzo allowed himself to smoke. He tilts his head back and blows smoke into the air. The hospital room is perforated with the heady smell of cigar and the damp atmosphere of death. The sun goes to peek through the shuttered windows, bathing the previously dark room in orange light like the hellfire burning in the rings of Dante's hell.
Hanzo carefully detangles his legs from Genji’s head and scoots to the edge of the bed. Mccree begins to squawk in protest, but before he can stop him, Hanzo is putting his feet on the ground and going through the laborious process of standing up. It hurts, sharp and cruel in his chest, but he’s suddenly full of the feeling of needing to go. Where? He is bound to an IV drip that Hanzo is too wise to rip out, so he’s most likely doomed to a humiliating stumble around the hallways to work out the frantic energy.
Depression. Entire base worked up. Real worried. This is the opposite of what he wanted.
Mccree is still protesting, but Hanzo has tuned him out. He takes hold of his IV drip and lugs it along like some sort of unfortunate suitcase. Hana stirs at his Mccree’s yelling, and she begins to yell too, and to add to that ruckus is Genji’s own confusion the previously silent visiting area is suddenly full of two yelling adults and one very determined invalid. Genji begins to shout too. The three of them generally make a huge fuss at Hanzo leaving, but he’s not really listening.
He has to get out of here.
“Hanzo, you know y’can’t really go anywhere right now, you’re messed up right proper--,”
“Han, stop being stupid and just get back into bed! You’re even still in the hospital uniform--,”
“Anija, you know that this is not wise, come on, Angela will be so mad--,”
Hana finally gets the courage and wakefulness to dart ahead of the stumbling Hanzo and block his path. “Hanzo, where you going? Come on, you’re in no state to move around,” Hana says. She reaches out to steer Hanzo by his elbow, but he throws her off. Hana stutters, so unused to this side of Hanzo that she can do little but stall. Likewise, Genji and Mccree quiet. And so the prey knows the predator .
“I am not disabled !” Hanzo spits.
Hana seems to regain her confidence at the ugly head of his hydratic bitterness. “Uh, yeah , you totally are right now!” She shouts back, motioning with a sweeping hand to all of his bandages and drips and ugly hospital clothing.
Touche .
But he won’t be stopped. He moves past her and towards the door. Instead of being face-to-face with the automated door, Angela Ziegler is standing akimbo in the doorway. She is absolutely fuming , her hair only seems to halo her red face and her downturned eyebrows.
Genji groans, loud and long. He is familiar with this particular beast of the Watchpoint. “Now look what you’ve done! You’ve gone and woken the cops!” He crows miserably.
…
One hour later sees Hanzo sat on the edge of his hospital bed like a scolded child.
Winston, Ziegler and Oxton stand before them, looking everything between sheepish, mildly irritated and very uncomfortable. The other three (Mccree, Hana and Genji) were banished out of Hanzo’s room the moment Ziegler saw he was up and awake. She ushered him back into bed, attempted to take the cigarello from him and called the Strike Commander. So Winston strolled in about twenty minutes later, Oxton hot on his feet.
“Hanzo,” Winston says.
Hanzo’s cigarillo is almost gone. He eyes it with a sort of displeased annoyance, as if it was its fault for running out after being nursed for an hour and a half. “What,” he snaps.
“You have got to understand that my hands are tied here,” Winston managed.
“I understand no such thing.”
“Usually, well--,” Winston rubbed his neck sheepishly. “Usually if this happens to personnel we send them home with an honorable discharge, with the offer of full support for them and their dependents. But in this case,” Winston stopped off.
“I have no home to return to, all of my ties are in the organization, this is not an official military organization, and yet you do not have the ability to keep me.”
“I do have the ability,” Winston insisted. “I just don’t have the heart for it. You clearly aren’t suited for combat---,”
“---I am still able---,”
“-- Without undue stress, and I can’t in the right mind allow you to do that. You are now a non combatant.” Noncombatant . The word stings more than the rebuttal does. “And we don’t have the room for noncombatants right now.”
“Then dismiss me,” Hanzo insists. At that point, a rather sick sort of jokes causes his lips to curl humorlessly. “Or, a better alternative, escort me to the nearest cliff and allow me to… how is it said? Finish the job .”
Winston ‘vaguely uncomfortable’ look skyrockets to straight unbearable. Oxton goes to rub the back of her friend, while Ziegler only purses her lips and pulls out her tablet.
“From our brief interview I was able to form a diagnosis; though I pressure you to retrieve a second opinion, as I am not a psychiatrist,” Ziegler says. Before the two leaders arrived, Ziegler had sat Hanzo down and asked all sort of strange and invasive questions.
In the past two weeks, how often have you felt down, depressed, or hopeless?
The majority of those two weeks.
Have you had any thoughts of suicide? If so, how often?
Yes, every day.
How is your sleep?
Poor. I sleep little, often woken by nightmares or restlessness.
Do you often have nightmares?
Yes.
Can you remember them?
They are all the same. I only wake up afraid.
What about day-to-day triggers, considering audio and visual?
Often.
Hanzo had attempted to clam up, but something about her short and official questioning made it easy for Hanzo to reply. There was no emotion in them.
“Hanzo has chronic depression and what looks like severe PTSD on top of that. I did not screen for other mood disorders or personality disorders understandably,” Ziegler puts her tablet down.
“I do not have a mood disorder or a personality disorder!” Hanzo protested.
“That I know of, yes , that is what I just said. I am not a psychiatrist or anything like it. Hanzo needs a doctor,” Ziegler said, mostly to Winston and less to Hanzo himself. She flushes when she realized that she was the doctor. “A different doctor. We cannot in good conscience keep him here, especially considering it exacerbated his depression.”
“ Exacerbated my --,” Hanzo blurts.
“We can’t,” Winston agreed. “But we can’t just send him away. He has nowhere to go!”
I’m going to the grave , Hanzo thinks bitterly.
“Alright, alright, let’s lower the volume a couple decibels. Here’s an alternative, loves,” Oxton chimed in, unsurely trying her best to quiet the charged atmosphere of the room. “Situation in King’s Row is still a little tense, yeah? We set him up in London as an agent to monitor the stress levels. Rendezvous when we have missions there. He can pursue some help in the meantime, and rejoin with the rest of us when he’s feelin’ up to it.” For the first time in the conversation, Oxton turned and addressed Hanzo.
“That sound okay, big guy?” She asked.
Hanzo felt a little thankful at her interference, but more steamed by the fact three near strangers stood in front of him debating his future without so much demanding input from Hanzo. They had never even considered that--
“I do not need help,” Hanzo spat. The three agents looked to each other in confusion, as if to say of course you do . “I have always been like this,” Hanzo supplies a bit quieter.
“ Always? ” Oxton croaks.
“As long as I can remember,” Hanzo confirms. Ziegler drops her head into her hands, shaking her head mournfully, and she has to briefly turn her back on the company as she mutters into her hands. “ Always ?” She echoes. “Mein gott, where was your doctor ? Where was your family ?”
Unamused, Hanzo replied, “You know where Genji went. Nevertheless, I do not need help. It is… It is a reflection of myself. It is a reflection of my poor discipline. I allowed myself to become lenient while I was stationed here, and I can nothing about that than apologize for how much trouble I have caused you and your organization.” The words were bitter, the apology insincere, eked forth by habit and upbringing.
The three of them exchanged another look. Being out of the loop only made Hanzo more irritated, which he wasn’t sure was physically possible at this point.
“We’ll give you time,” Winston concluded awkwardly. The three of them filed out, although Ziegler lingered to give Hanzo a neutral face of disappoint that clearly grounded him to his room. Hanzo fell back onto his uncomfortable plastic pillows and sighed deeply.
Noncombatant.
Hanzo turns over and buries his face in his pillow in some attempt to quell the rising panic in his chest. Noncombatant . He has not been a noncombatant since he was a preteen. The dismissal from Overwatch did not bother him, truly, as he had been without a home for nearing ten years and it would not be so taxing to simply pick up the assassination business again. However the offer of a station in London tugged at his consciousness. He could still be useful. Still see Genji.
But Hanzo did not need help.
Whatever they spoke of with their diagnoses went over Hanzo’s head; what he did not understand is that there was nothing wrong with him. He had been this way the entirety of his life, or leastwise what he could remember of it. Feelings of hopelessness. Hanzo is just pessimistic. Lack of or surplus of sleep. Hanzo had to recover from various injuries, drinking binges and sleepless nights. Who is surprised that his sleeping schedule is a bit haywire? Suicidal thoughts. It was just what he deserved.
If anyone was at fault for how Hanzo was, it was no one else to blame but Hanzo himself. Who had labored alone for ten years? Who betrayed his family? Who betrayed his brother? Who was blinded by power? Who lost? Who lived, still?
He sighed into the pillow and pulled out his communicator. Already it was blinking with a series of messages from the team, most of them singular get well wishes, the outliers being Genji and Hana’s paragraphs of talking and even Mccree’s three line attempt at conversation. Hanzo doesn’t open it aside from deleting the notifications from his notification bars, and painfully aware of the adolescent nature of his action, Hanzo opens Google and google's clinical depression. Hanzo scrolls past many disreputable medical sites. Nothing of interest shows up; clicking on news only serves to present news about the advancement of antidepressants and suicides. So Hanzo clicks on images.
He is immediately disgusted. Most of the pictures are black and white poorly put together image graphics made by teenagers lamenting their awful conditions with mascara streaked models and torn paper. It is very chuunibiyou . Hanzo rolls his eyes and continues flipping past pictures.
That is definitely not him.
But his fingers hesitate over a brain scan that compares the heat and activity in brains. While Hanzo may be considered old fashioned in several ways, but physical evidence is something he cannot deny. He clicks the link and is taken to a privately hosted website that was the pet project of a medical graduate student.
He reads.
And reads.
And reads.
Soon it becomes clear that it not just in his head. It is a weakness sitting latent in his chest, in his heart like a black growing cancer--- and just like that, Hanzo recalls the past years with a sort of detached rage. What should have been colorful was instead pitch black, colored only by bouts of emotional ups and downs and the people he’s killed along the way. Maybe he was one of the people he killed along the way.
Hanzo is many things, he will admit; a coward, a killer, a two-faced bastard, cold, thoughtless, calculating, a failure, a poor older brother, a disappointment to the family name, and perhaps the villain of someone’s story.
But he has never been weak. He will never allow himself to be weak.
With a few rapid taps, Hanzo’s message interface to Hana sits bright in front of him. The cursor blinks smugly at him, as if to taunt him with his speechlessness. The past seven months have felt like a hell blur whipping past him faster than he could process it; Hana and Genji just somehow latched on for the ride. He thinks of her smile and her gentle ribbing, the way she calls crowds from a computer, and Genji’s teasing and the way he insists he eats at dinner sometimes, and the awful electric sparks rising off a torn soldier.
Hana: so ya like im rlly worried abt u like i knew it was bad but i had no idea this was coming n i feel so bad for ignoring u
Hana: i mean not ignoring u but not like being more u know
Hana: not that it matters bc whats done is done and its obvs not about me but tracer told me about the thing she offered you and i really think you should take it
Hana: not even just from I Am Your Friend perspective, but as in tactics wise, kings rows is like super fucky rn and we do need eyes and ears on it on all times n we are so far away from it that its just not sensible to only go when theres an emergency
Hana: ur literally one of the best mid range anythings i have seen if there’s anyone for the job its u
Hana: knowing ur ass i knew that youd get all prickly when they suggested u getting help bc you’d b all like ‘but my honor and also i do not need help because i am a super tough damurai’ but like
Hana: *samurai
Hana: hanzo
Hana: please
Hana: getting help doesn’t mean you arent strong or anything like that or WHATEVER the hell is running thru ur head rn
Hana: (Angela has locked the medbay and we can’t get in, and believe me, we tried).
Hana: but like…
Hana: we need you out there.
Hana: and i need u 2.
Hana: and if u just talking 2 someone abt ur feelings and taking an antidepressant to fix ur fucky neurons is what u need
Hana: so that ur not in there and im out there
Hana: imgladhesinthereandimoutthere.jpg
Hana: sorry couldnt resist ANYWAY
Hana: just get some help please오빠
Hanzo’s fingers hover over his keyboard, unsure. He has never quite been this honest before; but before the dragon can wallow and swallow his pride, he types the message and sends it.
Hanzo: I want to be happy.
It still hurts to move.
Dr. Ziegler had cleared him for travel, but there was still an ache that sat deep in his ribs whenever he twisted or turned. Zeigler said it was because healing was slower the second time, and the scar tissue would be thicker than even before. But the stitches don’t tear, his wound doesn’t bleed, and with enough painkillers and perseverance he will be right as rain in a few short weeks.
The past month had been a blur of recovery and preparation. He had accepted Oxton’s offer, though begrudgingly. He was not sure about the course recommended by Dr. Ziegler, he did not understand the necessity for it, and although he sometimes weakly insisted that he was fine and had always been like that.
That is the true problem , they insisted.
When he was not in the medical bay being heavily monitored, he was packing or planning or rehashing mission details with Winston and Oxton. When he could spare the time, Hana would take him out shopping in demand that he needed more personal belongings so he could live ‘the cushy life’ in London. And thus he got a new wardrobe and his hair cut, and more D.VA merchandise than a full grown man can own in the right conscience.
The sun rises slowly over the heady traffic of Gibraltar International Airport without any sort of recognition of the archer standing silently in their terminals. His traditional clothes are packed tight in the sleek black suitcase on his side, and so is the cheap tank tops and singular pair of jeans he used to own. Now there is more name brand pair of jeans in his bag than he count, and button downs and t shirts and jackets and a shameful amount of hot pink I Play To Win! Shirts. Rather than being overwhelmed, the feeling of having too much to pick up and run grounded him to the situation. He felt real again, instead of incorporeal fleeing ghost who could pick up and disappear one way or another any given moment. With Hana and Genji’s constant and understanding presence, he even managed to keep his head relatively trimmed and his face relatively cared for. Stormbow was repaired free of charge by Torbjorn as a “get better soon” and “going away” present, and she was safely registered with the airport, unstringed and put away in a unassuming black cloth sack.
The alcohol was another situation altogether. Hanzo still itched for it sometimes, and snuck out to steal some from the cabinet when the need got bad, but it was the pride and shame that stopped it. If not that, Genji strategically entering the kitchen with the claim of “needing some water”. As if he “needed water” every single hour of the night that Hanzo needed alcohol.
Hanzo still was not sure about the whole function; why was London the answer when it was so far from where his duty lay?
But he was willing to try. And that was enough.
The employee yells that there is ten minutes until boarding, and Hanzo takes that as his cue to take a peek at his ticket. He is seated in the A group thankfully, so there would be less chance of having to sit between two strangers. When he was prince, he sat in a private jet. When he was pauper, he only took a plane to cross oceans and no other reason, and that was with a fake I.D. Now he sits with the rest of the plane. It is strange.
Hana stands by his side, strategically disguised with a pair of pink reflective sunglasses and her hair pulled into double buns that render her unrecognizable to anyone not looking closely. She frowns uncomfortably at the announcement and shifts. “Do you really have to go?” She whines, despite being one of the number one supports of Hanzo going.
“Yeah, do you really gotta?” Genji insists from behind Hanzo. He’s dressed impeccably to the nines in tight fitting, flattering high-rise jeans and a black tank top that says too thug to live, too kawaii to die with an image of a cutesy Yakuza girl on it. It is ironic because no Yakuza girl in her right mind would have worn that if she wished to be truly successful in crime, and no yakuza girl actually looks like that.
Genji slurps on his Starbucks and shuffles around just so his light up sneakers flash. Genji was the most supportive about the relocation than anyone.
“I will be glad to turn around and join Gibraltar’s ranks again,” Hanzo drawls.
“No!” Genji and Hana retort. Genji leans over and tugs on Hanzo’s shirt. “All of our effort at dressing you would be wasted,” He adds somberly. Hana hums her agreement.
Hanzo looks down. He does not think he dressed in any particular way. His jeans are new and so are his black boots, and the black shirt with it is also new. The most striking thing is the dark blue jacket slung over his shoulders. “I can dress myself,” Hanzo insists.
Genji takes another loud slurp of his coffee. “Can you though.”
“Can you though.” Hana agrees.
The employee calls for A group to board, and Hanzo is glad to be rid of the pests that follow him. “I am leaving,” he calls brusquely and hikes up his suitcase and goes to stand in line. Hana grabs his sleeve to stop him before he can merge though, and he’s pulled into a bone crushing hug before he can stop it.
Hanzo huffs into her hair and obediently wraps his arms around her. “I will miss you,” Hana mumbles into his chest.
“I as well,” Hanzo replies. He disentangles himself from Hana just to be tugged into a truly bone creaking hug from Genji.
“You take care of yourself,” Genji mumbles in his ear. “We will visit. I will write, and email, and call, and--and, I will show up with no warning so you better have the good junk food at all times. Keep me updated about that therapist we found, if you like her, okay? Make sure to eat, and be careful on the streets,” Hanzo has to squeeze Genji’s ribcage threateningly tight in order to get him to stop.
“Now,” Hanzo says lightly, “Who is the older brother here?”
Genji rolls his eyes. “Text me,” he insists.
“I will.”
The hostess waits impatiently for Hanzo’s ticket behind him, so Hanzo hands it to her, shoulders his suitcase and bow case, and disappears into the tunnel to the plane. He does not know if going to London will truly help him any. But for them?
For them, he is willing to try being happy.