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Pain.

A sharp-edged, though still somewhat dull, pain throbbed under his skin - shattering his hopes for the rest he had craved since his capture.

Groggily, the grey stallion opened his eyes. Yes, there it was - the relentless sting of the whip scars across his back. Even the comfort given by the warm, soft fabric of the makeshift blanket against his skin couldn't lessen the unbearable sensation. He let out an annoyed huff.

Why couldn't he be left to peacefully sleep for once?

Clenching his teeth together, trying to block out the pain, the mustang looked around him, took stock of his surroundings. Checking for anything he may have missed before, anything he may have missed through his exhausted haze.

He appeared to be standing in a round enclosure, similar to the corral before. Unlike that of Holt & Stansfield's, however, this one was lacking any sort of restraint. There was no wooden post to be seen, and he could feel no rough rope cruelly binding him. He had considerably more freedom than he had experienced in days, no doubt.

Even so, a fresh feeling of panic seized him.

The unfamiliar people who had rescued him from that hellish place had seemed kind, gentle, caring. He had learned that much. The man who brought him here in particular - the man who had gone to extra lengths to give him some form of comfort in his loneliness. But at the end of the day, they were still humans. Ordinary, non-shifter humans. Humans who, again, only saw him for the beast he was externally, and had no knowledge of the alternate form he carried within.

Who was he to judge? Who was he to say that they, too, wouldn't try and break him down like those he had encountered previously?

How could he possibly yet know that they were to be trusted? How -

An acute flare of agony through his hindquarters jolted him out of his thoughts.

No. Even if it was hard, he had to place his trust in them. He couldn't stand by and let the pain grow worse. Sure, he had heard his rescuers say that his scars would be looked over tomorrow, but what about until then? There was still time for something to happen, for them to uncomfortably swell, for an infection to take hold.

He couldn't risk it. He didn't know how he would get it this late at night, but he needed help. And fast.

The dark grey horse cast his eyes to the large farmhouse up the hill. All of the lights were turned out, and it did not seem as if a single soul was awake. If he could somehow get in there and find someone, anyone, to help...

He risked showing them what - who - he truly was, but that did not matter right now. He'd worry about the consequences later.

He knew what he had to do.

Come on, Hanzo. Fight the pain, and transform yourself.

He closed his eyes, and intently focused.

He knew it wouldn't be easy.

Change.

The horse willed images of his alternate state into his mind. Imagined, standing in his place, a middle-aged man of medium height and strong build. Tried to imagine muscle, bone and ligaments reforming themselves, shaping themselves into a completely different creature.

Sure enough, it happened. Quickly, too. He felt it in his hindquarters first, a fiery tingle which snaked along his spine like a needle under skin. The agony did nothing to help the pain already present. The unbearable feeling continued heedless, his legs shifting, stretching, moulding themselves into human limbs. His face retracting, his tail shrinking, his quadruped body morphing into that of a biped. Slowly, one by one, his bones flexed and twisted themselves into shape. Muscles knotted beneath his skin, straining and contorting. He clenched his teeth more firmly, wincing as the loud crack of his bones reached his ears. He would never quite get used to that.

It was all he could do not to let out a yell of agony. Shape-shifting was a normal part of his life, but that simple fact was never enough to save his body from feeling as if it were afire. He braced himself. Passing out from the pain was a usual occurrence, but tonight, he was determined for it not to happen. Nevertheless, he could feel the inevitable blackout coming upon him, and he knew that when it had passed, he would find himself in an exhausted, shaking heap upon the ground. As usual.

It didn't take long before the earth seemed to swallow him whole. His legs gave out from beneath him, his vision fading to black.

Mercifully, the process was brief. Before he knew it, the worst of the agonising sensation had ceased. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was that he now lay, in foetal position, on the dry, lightly-grassed soil. With the excruciating pain of the shift, he had only barely registered that he had indeed collapsed. At least, he thought, he had managed to remain semi-conscious. He stretched an arm out in front of him, and carefully pulled himself up. The muscle protested with a fierce throb. He winced. There it was, the familiar ache in his bones, the strain in his muscles. He took a deep breath, then another, focusing himself. Deep breath, in, then out. Gradually, he found the strength to lift himself off the ground. He stood upright and dusted himself down.

The entire process had taken a mere minute. Here he, Hanzo Shimada, now stood, fully transformed. Human.

Human... and quite naked.

He sighed. If there was anything he hated about shape-shifting - well, besides the insufferable agony, of course - it had to be this.

Thankfully, the night was mild. Apart from the lightest breeze, the air was warm around him, and he did not feel cold in the slightest. The feeling of the breeze against his bare skin and the grassy earth beneath his feet was, truthfully, one he quite enjoyed. Still, gifted with such an ability, modesty was an issue. An embarrassing one, at that. His only reassurance was that no one would be awake to see him at this hour of the night.

Despite himself, Hanzo couldn't help but smile a little.

He had been denied transforming for days on end. It felt good to be human again.

His smile quickly vanished as the sting and throb of his injuries once more made itself present. He stiffened, inhaling a deep breath. Despite their age, they felt more sensitive and raw than ever.

There appeared to be something else, too - hunger. He had been deprived of food for several days on end, but in his human form the empty-bellied feeling was only amplified. A low growl escaped his stomach as he slowly walked over to the food trough. The feed put out just a few hours ago had gone practically untouched, the container still full. It had been a most kind gesture of his rescuers to provide him with food, and he would be wrong if he said he didn't appreciate their kindness. But, put bluntly, soaked hay had a bland taste; one mouthful, and he had decided against finishing. Though it was completely digestible, he could never quite force himself to enjoy the taste.

He reminded himself to seek out an alternative later.

That wasn't to say that he hadn't touched the freshly-refilled water, though. Oh no. That was perhaps even more of a gift in his weary, dehydrated state, and he couldn't have been more grateful. He had drank litres of the stuff, leaving behind a fraction of the original volume. The dry, parched feeling at the back of his throat had, thankfully, all but vanished.

Perhaps he could take another small drink, try and take the edge off his hunger just a little. He walked over to the neighbouring trough - then paused. A sudden realisation hit him like a tidal wave. He paced over to the large container, slowly. Apprehensively. Vanity was not a trait for which he was known, but he knew full well that the cruel actions of his former captors would more than leave their mark on his present form.

He stared into the dark depths of the container. The gentle moonlight was just bright enough to give him back a clear reflection.

It wasn't his own. Instead, a weary-looking man, with rings under his eyes and short, choppy dark hair stared back at him.

He sighed, and placed a hand quickly into the reflection, causing it to dissipate. He knew it. Grimacing, he brought his right hand to his head. A mess of dull, irregularly-cut strands could be felt beneath his fingers.

He shrugged. It was not important right now. It would grow out eventually. Right now, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

He needed relief.

Another sharp spike of agony shot through his back as he moved away from the water trough. He tried his best to ignore it. Instead, he returned to his location of shifting and bent down to the ground. The heavy red serape the cowboy had left with him earlier had been shrugged off in the shape-shifting process, and it now lay in a crumpled heap. He picked it up. He didn't know why, but somehow he felt that its owner would be most annoyed if it were to get stained with mud.

It appeared clean enough. Clean enough for an impromptu body covering, at least. He wrinkled his nose as he slid the thick garment over his shoulders. Okay, it did, on further inspection, give off a strong, unpleasant odour of gunpowder and whiskey, but he couldn't complain. Like his kindly rescuer had said earlier, it was better than nothing. He shrugged, and folded it so it mostly covered his front.

He didn't even bother with the corral gate. Instead, in spite of the lingering pain, he opted for a quick over-the-fence vault. He took a few steps back. Took a deep breath, then another. Then, with all the grace and athletic prowess he had been forced to suppress, he sprinted forward, leapt into the air, and effortlessly pulled himself over the top of the railing.

Hanzo smirked as he landed cleanly on the other side. He still had it in him.

Now, he was free. Free to seek the help he so urgently required.

Still smiling, pulling the serape closer around his body, he walked up the hill towards the house.

................................................................................

It was an unusual, muffled tap-tapping on his window which woke Jesse McCree out of his deep slumber.

Tap tap. Clunk. Crrreak.

What in tarnation...?

Groaning, McCree opened his eyes, and slowly lifted his head. His vision still blurry, he could only barely make out the time on his bedside clock. 3.15 am. He rubbed his eyes. The ache in his bones only felt worse; such a lack of sleep was not enough to relax his tired body, let alone his mind.

He flopped back down onto his pillow. Probably just an animal, or a bird, he mused. He closed his eyes once more.

Crrreak. Thud.

Hang on. That didn't seem right.

That was not just the sound of the usual night wildlife. Though in quite the weary state, he knew exactly what it sounded like.

A break-in.

McCree's eyes snapped wide open. A new sense of purpose flooded through his tired body. In a trice, before he even knew what he was doing, he had thrown back the covers, grabbed Peacekeeper from her place on the bedside table, and leapt from the bed.

Alright, now who's -

His thoughts stopped short in their tracks.

Beneath his window, on the opposite side of the bed, stood a stranger. A stranger with short dark hair, wearing nothing but a tattered red serape which bore a startling similarity to his own.

McCree froze. The strange man was looking right at him, almost unashamedly. With a strange hesitation, the American lifted his gun and pointed it in the direction of the intruder.

"Now, I don' wanna hurt ya." His voice was calm, controlled. Surprisingly, the man did not react, did not so much as flinch at the sight of his weapon. "Jus' tell me why -"

"I am in need of assistance."

...What?

McCree did not expect to hear those words - much less the voice which spoke them. The stranger's voice was quite soft, yet masculine, with a moderate Japanese accent. It had a pleasing sound, truthfully. To his surprise, something about it caused his heart to stir just a little.

Whatever reason this man had for showing up here, he certainly didn't seem a threat. Slowly, McCree lowered his gun.

"...Assistance?" he asked, uncertain. "With what, exactly?"

The cowboy walked over to his bedside table and returned Peacekeeper to her resting place. The stranger did not move, though McCree could feel his gaze on him as he moved across the room. McCree turned and looked at him, intently. He was certain he had never seen him in his life, but nevertheless something about him seemed... familiar.

Though the room was quite dark, the look of discomfort on the man's face was evident. He was silent for a few more moments, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

"...I am hurt," was the eventual reply, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

McCree froze.

Hurt.

A stranger he may have been, but he was not going to stand by idly with an injured man in his midst.

He moved over to the stranger. Now closer, he could see the visible fatigue on his face, the gaunt look of a man who had not slept in days. Coupled with the pained grimace he was trying his hardest to bite back, it made for a pitiful picture indeed.

McCree felt his heart clench.

"Well..."

The cowboy rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, mentally searching for a solution.

He wasn't about to try and wake the others. They deserved their sleep. Seeking their advice was not an option. However, there was a first-aid kit in the bathroom...

"...Why don't ya come with me, an' I'll get ya fixed up?"

McCree smiled, encouragingly. The man only narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious of his offer.

"Don' worry," he soothed, his voice hushed. "I ain't gonna hurt ya."

The stranger's expression softened somewhat. He closed his eyes, obviously trying to push away the pain. Slowly, after a few moments, he opened them, and let out a sigh.

"...Fine."

McCree gave a nod in acknowledgement.

"'Kay then, jus' follow me."

He extended a hand. The stranger made no movement to accept it. Mildly upset, the cowboy withdrew his hand, and instead started walking in the direction of the hallway.

McCree's ground-floor bedroom was mercifully right next door to their bathroom. Waking the others, sound asleep at this ungodly hour of the morning, would not be a problem. Even in the darkness, McCree didn't even fumble with the light switch; he knew its precise location by now. His fingers found it easily, and clicked it on with an impressive precision.

The American smirked, satisfied. He cast a glance over his shoulder. The bedraggled man followed closely behind him, serape wrapped around him in a seemingly futile attempt to preserve his modesty.

"Right this way." He opened the door, careful not to make any noise, and gestured inside. The stranger obligingly followed his lead. McCree shut the door behind him, and locked it.

It didn't take long for the experienced cowboy to locate the first aid kit. He had had far too much reason to use it in the past, no thanks to his stubborn Huckleberry's antics. He smiled, recalling all the fond memories, as he unlocked the medicine cabinet and lifted the kit from the shelf.

"This'll do the job," he cheerfully said, glancing at the tired man. His smile faded a little. The stranger was standing over the sink, looking intently into the mirror. McCree looked on silently as he lifted his hand to the mess of choppy dark hair atop his head, and gave the short strands a frustrated tug. Evidently, it had been much longer at one point. The American saw him grimace. His hand then moved to the left side of his neck, where he scratched at the skin with such ferocity McCree feared he would make himself bleed.

"Hey, hey." Making sure he kept his voice soft, he placed the first aid box down and stepped over to the man. "Don' do that. You'll hurt yourself."

The stranger's scratching ceased. He whipped his head around and looked the cowboy directly in the eye. There was such a startling intensity to his glare that McCree shifted on his feet, feeling more than a little unnerved.

"You would not understand," he growled. His eyes narrowed as he frowned at the cowboy. "You do not know - "

The stranger stopped himself. The faintest whine of agony escaped his lips as he closed his eyes once more. McCree didn't hesitate to ever so gently place a hand on his shoulder.

"Never mind that," he softly said. The stranger opened his eyes. The burning intensity which had startled McCree had vanished, and now all he could see was the same look of desperation he had seen in the horse's eyes the night before. "Right now, ya need help. You're hurt."

The man let out a sigh.

"Very well."

Relinquishing himself to McCree's care, the man walked over to the cowboy. McCree gave him a gentle smile. Grabbing a white fluffy towel from a nearby shelf, he folded it, cushion-like, and placed it down in front of him. There were none spare for him, regrettably, but the needs of the other man came first. He would simply have to make do with kneeling on the cold, hard tiles of the floor.

He gestured to the towel. "You can kneel on that if you'd like. 'S more comfortable."

The other man had fallen silent once more. He said nothing, only nodded in response. He lowered himself to the floor, and slowly set himself down on the plush towel, shifting around a few times, making himself comfortable. Hesitantly, he pulled the serape closer around his bedraggled form.

"Y'know, it might be easier if ya remove the serape," McCree softly said. He, too, knelt down on the tiles, behind the man. He placed a hand on the folds of the garment's neck, only for the stranger to shoot another sharp glare over his shoulder. The American removed his hand. Instead, he watched as the man lifted his own hands to the folds, parting them. As he unfolded the top, a faint white mark on the right side of the stranger's neck caught McCree's eye. A tattoo of some sort, maybe, or perhaps a scar. So that was what had warranted the vicious scratching. Whatever it was, the stranger had seemed keen to rid himself of it. A flash of inked skin also caught the bright bathroom lights as the man's left arm became visible. McCree couldn't help but stare.

An impressive-looking tattoo sleeve covered the man's muscular arm. At his wrist, a fiery-maned horse threw up its head defiantly. At his shoulder, the outline of another horse's tail was barely visible. He couldn't see it from here, but McCree guessed that the inked animal curled its way towards the man's chest, coming to an end on his left pectoral. Several swirly cloud patterns also adorned the sleeve, accompanied by golden bolts of lightning.

The cowboy let out a low, soft whistle. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't help but marvel.

"That's, uh... some serious ink ya got there," he said cheerfully, still entranced by the intricate design. Again, the man before him made no reply. As he hastily pulled the red garment over his head, a flash of dull crimson caught McCree's eye.

He took a deep breath.

He had bore witness to much, much worse in his lifetime - his job was, at times, dangerous - but truthfully, the sight of any injury, big or small, still made him wince. This case was no different. The removal of the serape had revealed to him a set of small, yet painful-looking lacerations across the small of the man's back. McCree grimaced. The wounds did not look to be fresh, maybe a few days old at most. What little blood had escaped had visibly congealed, and luckily they did not appear to be infected. However, judging by the stranger's discomfort, they clearly still hurt.
A thorough cleaning-out and antiseptic was what they needed.

McCree didn't waste any more time. With a renewed sense of purpose, he flipped off the lid to the first-aid box and grabbed a pack of alcohol wipes. The strong pungent scent of ethanol permeated through the room as he carefully ripped open the packet.

“Do ya... do ya mind tellin' me how recent they are?” the American carefully asked. Slowly, ever so gently, he pressed his left hand to the man's lower back, steadying the area to be cleaned. The stranger's skin twitched beneath his hand. An indication of discomfort, perhaps, but he had to ignore it.

There was no reply for several long seconds. At first, McCree assumed his companion would make no answer. He was almost surprised when he heard the man's quiet reply pierce the silence.

"Three days."

The stranger's voice was subdued; broken, even. McCree couldn't help but wonder whether or not it had always been this way.

"Three days, hmm? You should consider yourself lucky that nothin's happened to 'em."

"...Perhaps."

The stranger's shoulders heaved as he let out a long sigh. The too-familiar feeling of pity once more rose within the cowboy. He paused, hand poised awkwardly over the area to be disinfected.

Three days was not long by any stretch, but even so, it was a damn miracle that the wounds were not yet infected.

"Now if ya don' mind, I'm gonna go ahead an' clean these out," he said, softly. "Might sting a bit, so just lemme know if it hurts in any way."

The stranger only nodded.

"Very well," he answered. He sighed again.

McCree also heaved out a sigh.

He never did like tending to wounds of any sort, but it was a responsibility he had to take all too often. He shrugged off his discomfort.

Focus, Jesse.

Steadying his right hand, he gently placed the antiseptic wipe over the largest wound.

The alcohol had barely touched the man's skin before a loud, pitiful whimper escaped him. McCree saw his back muscles tense, his skin seizing up beneath his hand.

"Shh..." McCree kept his voice low, soothing; the same as he had used with the wild horse. "I'm tryin' my best. Has to be done, 'm afraid. Jus' keep still for me."

The man sighed again. Gradually, the tension beneath the gentle American's hand lessened.

"I understand," he said quietly, the faintest hint of discomfort still tinging his voice. He straightened his back. "Keep going."

McCree smiled weakly. He was trying so hard. At least, it seemed, he was opening up.

The stranger's tenacity proved useful. The next few moments passed by easily, without fuss. More easily than the cowboy had expected, actually. His new companion was so strong, so trusting. Despite the faintest pained whines which still occasionally escaped as he cleaned out the angry wounds, McCree could tell that he was trying to remain resilient.

Resilient he may have been, but McCree really had to wonder about this man. Who was he, exactly? Why was he here, in his own house, at such an ungodly hour of the night? Was there a reason at all for any of this?

Wiping clean the last of the reddish-pink wounds, he opened his mouth to speak, then promptly closed it. Asking any personal questions would seem unwarranted, intrusive even.

...No, he had to know.

"So, uh..." McCree rose from his kneeling position and walked over to the waste bin, where he swiftly discarded the used antiseptic wipes. He carefully ran his hands under the hot tap for a few moments. "I don' believe we've been properly introduced. If ya don' mind me askin', what's your name?"

Drying his hands, he shot a smile over his shoulder. The stranger looked up at his casual statement. His mouth was set in a line, his features harsh under the bright bathroom lights. The heavy serape he had removed from his shoulders was now held firmly in his hands, at waist level, modestly concealing his lower body from McCree's view. From this angle, McCree could not deny the visible gauntness to his face and bare body. The muscle visible across his chest and arms appeared shrunken somehow, unnatural. He looked to have been strong and healthily-muscled at one point, but whatever strength he had once sustained now seemed all but gone.

The American's smile faded. The familiar feeling of pity reared its ugly head once more. Despite himself, he swore he could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes.

Just what had happened to this poor man, just who had hurt him in this way?

The other man let out a sigh, as he looked away from the cowboy.

"How am I to know if you can be trusted?" he asked, quietly. McCree saw his body tense. "What are your intentions?

McCree paused.

"Ya don't need to worry," he softly said. He continued walking, until he was again positioned behind the man. "I won't do anythin' with the info. I just wanna know who you are. 'S only polite."

The stranger did not look up, but the American saw him relax his posture. He took a deep breath.

"...My name is Hanzo." Like before, his voice was soft, subdued. "Hanzo Shimada."

"...Hanzo."

McCree couldn't resist testing out the name himself. He smiled. It sounded unquestionably foreign, but it rolled naturally off the tongue. It was... pleasant. Beautiful, even. He liked it.

"'S a nice name." Once more he knelt down behind his companion. He still had his head bowed, as if he were trying to memorise the pattern of the tiled floor before him. "Unusual. Traditional, is it?"

Hanzo did not lift his head. "Yes."

"...Hm. Suits ya."

He wasn't sure, but McCree could've sworn he heard the faintest breathy chuckle from the man. Could've just been another tired sigh, though. The American again intently scanned the contents of the first-aid kit, before locating the small white tube of ointment. It appeared to be down to the last dregs, but he assured himself there would be enough for this occasion. He could always get more tomorrow. Placing a pair of latex gloves over his hands, he squeezed the white salve out onto a finger.

He steadied the wounded area in his left hand. This time, Hanzo did not flinch.

"Again, jus' lemme know if this hurts ya," he calmly said, as he delicately rubbed his finger along the surface of the largest wound.

Hanzo surprised him with his calmness. Once again, if the American really was causing him any discomfort, he certainly wasn't showing it. Whether that was a good thing or not, McCree wasn't sure, but it certainly helped in this instance.

In fact, he was so focused on his task that he was stunned when he heard his new companion speak up.

"You have not yet told me your name," he said.

Having gently rubbed the ointment into each sore, McCree paused. He let out a low chuckle. Of course. He had been so distracted, so fascinated, by the stranger's own name, that any introduction on his part had completely slipped his mind.

"Heh. Of course. Silly me." He carefully examined each wound. The antiseptic ointment would hopefully accelerate their healing. Satisfied, he pulled off his latex gloves. "The name's McCree. Jesse McCree. Answer to both, I don' mind."

"Jesse." The man hesitantly tested out the name on his tongue. McCree could tell he was somewhat unaccustomed to Western names. He saw Hanzo pause, then straighten himself. "Hmm. Thank you, Jesse."

McCree smiled sheepishly, walking over to the waste bin once more and discarding of his gloves.

"Shucks. Was nothin' really." He returned to his original position.

Hanzo shook his head. Again, he gave an audible sigh.

"No," he said. "Thank you for saving me."

Saving? What on earth could that mean? A look of bewilderment came over McCree's face. He narrowed his eyes, carefully scrutinising the stranger.

There was something familiar about him, alright, and if he didn't find out why very soon, he swore it would drive him mad.

"'M sorry." He knelt on the floor, and again turned to the kit beside him. This time, he extracted a roll of sterile gauze and medical tape. "I don' get whatcha mean."

Hanzo said nothing. Another sigh was all McCree heard from him. Slowly, he turned and looked over his left shoulder, and looked McCree deep in the eye.

The cowboy's eyes only narrowed even further. There was that strange pale mark again, the one he had had but the briefest glimpse of earlier. Now in his full view, it was almost painfully stark against the stranger's ivory skin. The pattern was strange at first glance; too regular for a scar, but too pale and muted for a tattoo. The more the confused American examined the design, however, the more it seemed hauntingly familiar.

Several white, geometric patterns, arranged in a neat line, running vertically down his neck. Alpha-numeric angles. McCree squinted, focusing intently. Deciphered, they read "Property of US Government, '63, New Mexico, 2071"...

McCree's eyes shot wide open. He let out a loud gasp. The equipment fell from his hand, landing on the tiles with a muted thud.

It can't be.

The mark - a freeze-mark, in all likelihood - corresponded perfectly with that of the tormented mustang he had rescued mere hours ago.

His heart leapt to his throat, pounding anxiously. His eyes flew to the array of scars on Hanzo's lower back. This couldn't, just could not, be a bizarre coincidence. Nobody sane would ever brand a man in such a way. He cast his gaze back to Hanzo's neck, then to the scars, then back again.

Everything matched up.

No way...

He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Aaah -"

Hearing his panicked gasp, a startled look came across the stranger's features. His eyes widened, his body suddenly tense. He raised his left hand in McCree's direction as he tried frantically to ease the American's panic.

"Shh! Do not be afraid."

"It - that - you're -"

A faint creak of the floorboards above them reminded him of the need to be quiet. In his flurry of confused emotion, McCree hadn't realised he had been so loud. Furiously, he tried to calm himself. He paused, and took in a deep breath.

This can't be real.

"You're - you're that horse we rescued last night -"

"Yes," the man answered, quite calmly. "I am."

"But - but how - "

"It's okay. I know you will have some... questions." Hanzo lowered his arm. His eyes did not leave McCree's. Now, there was a calmness to be found within them, a look which seemed to say, Stay calm, I will explain.

McCree sighed. His mind was afire, burning with question after unanswered question. He inhaled another deep breath, and released it slowly.

"How - how is any of this even possible?" he began. Try as he may, he still could not curb the uneasy stutter to his voice. "Who - what - are you exactly?"

He saw Hanzo shift around awkwardly.

"...I come from a long line of horse shape-shifters," he hesitantly began. His eyes narrowed. "My family before me has always been gifted with the ability to change shape at will."

McCree heard him let out yet another sigh. He closed his eyes, and turned away from the American.

"It was a dangerous secret, one which had to be kept under close guard. No one could ever know who, and what, we really were."

Hanzo paused. Now calmer, McCree retrieved the forgotten gauze and tape. He dusted them off with a careful finger. Then he swiftly cut a strip large enough to cover the largest wound, and gently secured it over Hanzo's tender skin.

"Go on," he softly urged, his curiosity not yet satisfied.

"But then... something... happened."

The cowboy saw the man stiffen.

McCree simply continued with the task at hand, delicately placing another covering. "Y'know, it's okay. I understand. Ya don' have to tell me everythin', not if it makes ya uncomfortable."

Hanzo sighed again.

"Thank you."

"No problem." Deftly, the American finished his task. He leaned back, surveying his work. The treated scarlet wounds no longer showed, now concealed beneath the snowy-white gauze strips. McCree couldn't help but smile, just a little. Hanzo's was simply a story for another time, he supposed. It was early yet, and he knew how uncomfortable he would feel disclosing anything personal to a stranger. His curiosity was far from sated, but he would have to leave it aside for now.

Still, he had learned enough. At least now, Hanzo did not seem such an... an anomaly.

McCree let out a yawn. Still sleep-deprived as ever, it seemed. Between the rescue mission and this - the continuation - he had not yet given his body the rest it deserved. He securely fastened the first-aid box beside him and took it in his hands. Slowly, he rose to his feet, wincing slightly at the ache in his knees. Hanzo really was lucky to have the folded bath rug beneath him. He swiftly replaced the kit, placing it on its original perch in the medicine cabinet.

"Well." He stretched his arms out in front of him, and lazily dragged his right hand through his sleep-tangled hair. He tried not to grimace as his fingers tugged out a knot. "Guess that's you, uh, patched up for now."

He smiled apologetically. "Sorry if it's rough, but I tried my best."

His new companion, without a word, rose from his mat, again throwing the cowboy's red serape around his upper body. As he did so, McCree could've sworn he saw his body shiver.

"No. It will do." Hastily, he set foot towards the door. A loud, resounding rumble emanated from his stomach. Promptly, he stopped walking.

McCree tilted his head, confused. He had set out food for his starved, dehydrated mustang friend last night, he was sure of it. Proper food, for this time of year at least. How was he still hungry?

He calmly approached the other man.

"Ya sound pretty hungry," he said, gently placing a hand on Hanzo's shoulder. Promptly, it was shrugged off. McCree pinned it to his side, dejectedly. "When was the last time you ate, if ya don' mind me askin'?"

Hanzo turned to face him. Briefly, he met his gaze, before once more facing the closed door.

"...I haven't eaten in three days." He let out a faint sigh, another growl of hunger closely following.

"I left food for ya last night, Hanzo," McCree said. "Ya didn't even eat that?"

Another rumble of hunger. McCree saw Hanzo place a hand over his stomach, as if he were willing away the growling.

"No." He turned to face the cowboy. "I am afraid I do not much care for hay. It tastes quite... bland."

Well damn.

McCree looked away in shame. He rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Well, how in the hell was I supposed to know ya weren't really a horse?" he asked. "Ya looked jus' like one... I mean, until tonight I thought that shape-shifters couldn' possibly exist."

Hanzo gave a small smirk.

"It is strange if you are not used to it, I suppose." He turned away from the cowboy, and placed a hand on the door handle. "You will have to get used to it.... But, please, just show me to the kitchen."

McCree smiled.

"Of course."

Between one heavy day of farm work and the next, McCree had never really had the time to consider quite how well-laid out the large house was. He had always taken the convenience of the ground floor bedroom, and its proximity to the kitchen, for granted. Tonight, it seemed, he was to be shown the true usefulness of such a design.

Closing the bathroom door quietly behind him, McCree carefully surveyed the dark hallway. He listened. No creaks in the floorboards, no footsteps from above.

Good.

He smiled. It would take them mere footsteps to reach the kitchen, and if they were lucky, it would be unoccupied. If they were lucky, it would not be one of those nights where Lena or Lucio had sought out a midnight snack.

"Come on, Hanzo," he whispered, walking ahead of the man. "It's this way."

Stealthily he crept into the darkened kitchen, and flicked on the light switch.

Hmm, now what food did they have...

A thousand new questions suddenly sprung into McCree's mind. With his newly-acquired knowledge of Hanzo's... interesting ability, he found himself wondering. What kind of food would he not eat? Could he not eat? Considering the man's alternate form, what could he digest?

"Hmm..." McCree swiftly pulled a cupboard door open, and scanned the various shelves. Several tins, boxes and packets of varying size and shapes stood lined up neatly. It was a lot of food, yes. The others, especially Ana, would never stand for an empty food store. But just how much of it would be useful...

"If ya don' mind me askin', is there anything ya absolutely can't have? Ya know, anything you wouldn' give a horse?"

He looked over his shoulder. A smile tugged on his lips. Hanzo's face, though stoic and gaunt, showed the merest spark of amusement.

"If it helps," he began, in a quiet voice, "I can, in this form, eat anything a normal human could. It is only as a horse that I can not digest meat."

He paused. So that was solved. McCree returned to his task, riffling through the assortment of products.

"I would still prefer not to eat it whenever possible," he heard Hanzo continue.

McCree nodded.

"I see."

Searching the fridge, always packed full of meat products, evidently wasn't an option then. He continued nudging boxes and packets out of his way. Biscuits, rice packets, pasta, sauces... there appeared to be nothing which would satisfy Hanzo's hunger in any way. Not right now, anyway. Nothing, he could see, which could be prepared quickly and quietly.

"Hmm..."

The cowboy hastily pulled the cupboard closed, and turned, his eyes frantically scanning the small room. There had to be something, anything...

The gleam of polished chrome, across the room, caught his eye. He smiled.

Of course.

Sometimes, moments like these simply called for some nice warm tea and toast. Not a lot, by any means. For a brief moment, McCree doubted it would be enough. Hanzo had been damn near starved, after all, and who knew just how much more maltreatment he had been dealt?

It wasn't much, McCree thought to himself, as he walked across the kitchen, but it was all he could give. Besides, he didn't know anything a good old-fashioned mug of hot tea couldn't fix.

"I, um, hope it's alright if all I have to give ya is tea and toast," McCree said apologetically, as he placed two generous slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster. He set the kettle to boil, and reached for the tea cupboard above. "It's all I have for now, 'm afraid. Herbal any good to ya?"

"Yes. It will do." McCree turned. Hanzo was now standing right beside him, eyes fixed intently on the counter. McCree didn't blame him. He tapped a finger impatiently on the granite countertop - then abruptly, he stopped. The man's stomach had given yet another loud yowl of hunger, and it sent nothing but fresh pity through McCree's veins.

C'mon, hurry up!

"This'll only take a few minutes," the American said to Hanzo. A click from the kettle switch told him that it had boiled, and he poured out the steaming liquid into the prepared mug of herbal tea. The ensuing sweet, pungent scent of herbs which filled the room was almost enough to bring out his lingering sleepiness. He yawned, and stretched out his hands.

Focus on Hanzo first, Jesse. Then bed.

If he ever got back to bed.

"Why don'tcha go an' make yourself comfortable?" he said. He gestured in the direction of the adjacent dining room, Hanzo's eye's following his hand. Slowly, the tired man walked over to one of the well-cushioned dining chairs, and promptly sat down. McCree noticed a look of scrutiny form on his face. His eyes were narrow, his mouth set in a slight frown, as he examined the furniture. He only took a moment. Not wasting any more time, he simply stretched his arms across the dark surface of the table - only after he had folded the serape across his body to preserve his modesty, the cowboy noted - and laid his head against them. He closed his eyes.

McCree's heart softened. A strange feeling rose in his chest. Hanzo looked so... peaceful. In spite of all the hardship he had endured, he exuded a surprising air of grace. Despite himself, McCree couldn't help but admire his sleepy companion. Though somewhat marred by his gaunt pallor and the dark rings of exhaustion beneath his eyes, there was still an undeniable beauty to be found in his fine features. The sharp cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips, the short dark beard...

A familiar clack from behind him brought him back to reality. He quickly shook his head, dispelling his thoughts. There was no time for fantasising. He turned to the counter. Hanzo's toast was ready, perfectly golden and crisp-looking. Accompanied by the herbal tea, the American only hoped it could bring some relief to his troubled companion. Retrieving a plate, he placed the warm bread on its surface and returned to Hanzo, steaming mug in his spare hand.

"Here ya go." McCree gently set both items before the resting man. The sweet scent of the tea beside him caused Hanzo to open his eyes. McCree thought he saw them light up just a little.

"Thank you." Promptly, Hanzo unfolded his arms, and eagerly pulled the plate closer to him. Not wasting any more time, he tore into the crispy bread, eating for all he was worth. Quickly, too. The cowboy couldn't tell if he even bothered to chew it properly before swallowing.

He didn't have the heart to slow him down.

Instead, he remained silent, and simply looked on as Hanzo polished off both slices. Within two minutes flat, they were reduced to crumbs. Having had his fill, the man reached for the mug of herbal tea. He left his hands on its surface, warming them, before lifting it and taking several large gulps.

McCree found himself smiling.

"That feels better now, don't it?"

Hanzo only looked at him, still intently drinking the warm tea. Clearly, he did not intend to answer. McCree swore he felt his heart skip a beat as the man's piercing brown eyes met his own. There was such a fiery intensity to them, yet also a dark undercurrent far beyond his comprehension.

Perhaps he would never understand why.

Uncomfortable once more, McCree turned his head. He ran a hand through his untidy hair, and rubbed his neck. He grimaced. There was a tension in the muscle, his fingers finding a new knot at its base.

"So," he began. He placed his hands on the table before him, and slowly turned in Hanzo's direction. The mug, now drained, had been replaced on the table. Now the other man sat upright, his hands once more clutching the red fabric of his serape across his chest. "If you ain't a full-blooded horse, what in the hell am I s'posed to feed ya?"

The other man shrugged, frowning.

"...Anything I can eat, I suppose," he eventually replied. He furrowed his brow, thinking. "What do you feed the other horses?"

"Oh, ya know. The usual. Oats, flax, molasses..." McCree glanced upwards, deep in thought, then looked at Hanzo again. "Though those mightn't appeal much to ya, either... I s'pose you'd eat stuff like carrots an' apples though, would ya?"

The American saw a small frown tug at the corner of Hanzo's lips, then disappear quickly.

"Maybe." He anxiously hugged McCree's serape closer, his fingers tightly curled around its folds. "If that is all you can manage."

McCree let out a soft chuckle, leaning back casually in his chair.

"Well, it's the least I can give ya. I can hardly feed ya anythin' else, not when you're a horse. Can't have the others growin' suspicious..."

He trailed off as a sudden realisation planted itself in his head.

Should he even tell the others? Would they believe him? What would they think of Hanzo then? Would they see him as an aberration, an abnormality with which they wouldn't be seen dead?

McCree frowned, casting his gaze downwards. Anxiously, he pulled at a piece of loose skin.

"...I can't let them know, can I?"

He turned slightly. He didn't dare making eye contact with the other man. From the corner of his vision, he could just make out his steady glare, his disapproval evident. McCree felt almost stifled by the thick silence which grew between them.

Hanzo sighed. The cowboy saw him rise from the table, still careful to keep a hand around his body covering.

"No," he replied, after an uncomfortable silence. With one hand, he neatly pushed the chair back into place. "Not yet. I am afraid of what others will think."

"So am I, to be fair." The American, still sitting, looked him in the eye. "But if it makes ya happy, I'll keep your little secret."

"...Very well. Thank you." With no further words, he strode past McCree's seat and headed for the doorway.

"Shouldn' be hard for ya to blend in with the other horses, anyways," McCree responded.

Hanzo paused.

"And blend in I will." He continued walking.

McCree shivered, suddenly on edge. Hanzo's statement was not threatening, but nonetheless, it had an icy, impersonal tone to it.

"Don't worry 'bout it." He gave a slightly shaky smile. "Ya can stay a horse as long as ya need to. I'll even toss a good few carrots into your feed in the mornin', jus' for you."

Hanzo only continued walking.

Inwardly, McCree sighed. Looking after the other horses was never difficult, but Hanzo... he was turning out to be a horse of a different colour. Technically speaking, he wasn't even an animal at all. Even so, the cowboy could already tell Hanzo was going to be very fussy about his new living conditions.

He couldn't yet be sure if that was a good thing or not.

"...Thank you." Hanzo didn't turn his head, didn't look at the American as he entered the hallway. The American watched him. He did not continue in the direction of the front door. Rather, he swiftly turned to the right, towards McCree's bedroom. Evidently, he intended to leave the way he came.

"Hanzo, wait." McCree practically jumped from his seat, as it were covered in burning coals. He rushed to the man's side. "Where are ya goin'?"

"Back to the corral. I can't risk staying."

"Yeah, guess you're right." The American scratched at the back of his neck. How nice it would've been, really, if he could stay, rather than face the elements alone...

It wasn't going to happen. If Hanzo wanted his identity kept a secret, he would sure as hell keep it.

All he could do at that moment was look on, as the other man walked into his bedroom, stopping at the window. He paused, then took a few steps back. McCree saw his muscles tense.

McCree's eyes widened.

No.

"You're still healin'!" the cowboy exclaimed, still careful not to raise his voice. "Are you sure that-"

He didn't even have time to blink before Hanzo had launched himself at the window, pulled himself up onto its lip single-handedly, and vaulted effortlessly through the opening. Landing cleanly on his feet, too. McCree felt his jaw drop.

...Huh. Impressive.

Something in that wound ointment must've worked.

The cool summer breeze against his bare skin was scarcely felt, as he simply continued marvelling at Hanzo's grace. There was a refined, almost feline finesse to his every movement. Straightening his body, he simply stalked off, briskly, into the night. The cowboy couldn't help staring at his retreating back, even when he had long vanished from view.

Hanzo simply was something else.

The lone hooting of an owl, distant and eerie, suddenly grounded him. McCree shook his head. Damn it, what did he think he was doing? He didn't need this in his life right now. Goodness knows he had enough on his plate already; with his busy life on the ranch, there was never an idle moment.

So why, just why, did a strange, warm feeling now creep through his veins?

He lifted a hand to his cheek, feeling the undeniable warmth. Was he blushing? He sure hoped not. Furiously, he rubbed at his unshaven skin.

He didn't need this right now. He had to ignore it. Trying his best to push down the curious feeling, he pulled himself away from the window and ambled over to his bed. Once more, he flung himself down onto its surface and pulled the quilts closer to his uncovered body. After all the... bizarre events of the night, the downy sheets and plush duvet against his skin were such a relief he could've almost cried.

Finally, finally, he could catch up on the sleep he had missed....or so he thought.

His mind, still rather unsatisfied, would not leave him to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of Hanzo's face, his appealing, human face, greeted him. It did nothing to ease the confusion he still felt within. Hanzo was beautiful, of course - but he was not quite human. Somehow, McCree felt, the sighting of his human form would be a rare occurrence. Rare, and wonderful. But it would not happen often.

He had no way of knowing if Hanzo would ever show his human side again.

The American gave a frustrated sigh. Sleep was clearly not on his side. Not tonight, anyway. He opened his eyes. Flipping himself onto his back, he gazed at the gently-illuminated ceiling. The moonlight now seemed a little weaker; outside, he swore he could catch the faintest strains of birdsong.

He glanced at the bedside alarm clock. 4.15 am. Letting out a loud yawn, he again closed his eyes. He rubbed at them, irritated, with his right hand, and brought it to rest on the bridge of his nose.

As if sleep was even worth it when he would be up again at seven o'clock sharp...

He gave another sigh.

Seems like there ain't no rest for the wicked.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

Pain.

A sharp-edged, though still somewhat dull, pain throbbed under his skin - shattering his hopes for the rest he had craved since his capture.

Groggily, the grey stallion opened his eyes. Yes, there it was - the relentless sting of the whip scars across his back. Even the comfort given by the warm, soft fabric of the makeshift blanket against his skin couldn't lessen the unbearable sensation. He let out an annoyed huff.

Why couldn't he be left to peacefully sleep for once?

Clenching his teeth together, trying to block out the pain, the mustang looked around him, took stock of his surroundings. Checking for anything he may have missed before, anything he may have missed through his exhausted haze.

He appeared to be standing in a round enclosure, similar to the corral before. Unlike that of Holt & Stansfield's, however, this one was lacking any sort of restraint. There was no wooden post to be seen, and he could feel no rough rope cruelly binding him. He had considerably more freedom than he had experienced in days, no doubt.

Even so, a fresh feeling of panic seized him.

The unfamiliar people who had rescued him from that hellish place had seemed kind, gentle, caring. He had learned that much. The man who brought him here in particular - the man who had gone to extra lengths to give him some form of comfort in his loneliness. But at the end of the day, they were still humans. Ordinary, non-shifter humans. Humans who, again, only saw him for the beast he was externally, and had no knowledge of the alternate form he carried within.

Who was he to judge? Who was he to say that they, too, wouldn't try and break him down like those he had encountered previously?

How could he possibly yet know that they were to be trusted? How -

An acute flare of agony through his hindquarters jolted him out of his thoughts.

No. Even if it was hard, he had to place his trust in them. He couldn't stand by and let the pain grow worse. Sure, he had heard his rescuers say that his scars would be looked over tomorrow, but what about until then? There was still time for something to happen, for them to uncomfortably swell, for an infection to take hold.

He couldn't risk it. He didn't know how he would get it this late at night, but he needed help. And fast.

The dark grey horse cast his eyes to the large farmhouse up the hill. All of the lights were turned out, and it did not seem as if a single soul was awake. If he could somehow get in there and find someone, anyone, to help...

He risked showing them what - who - he truly was, but that did not matter right now. He'd worry about the consequences later.

He knew what he had to do.

Come on, Hanzo. Fight the pain, and transform yourself.

He closed his eyes, and intently focused.

He knew it wouldn't be easy.

Change.

The horse willed images of his alternate state into his mind. Imagined, standing in his place, a middle-aged man of medium height and strong build. Tried to imagine muscle, bone and ligaments reforming themselves, shaping themselves into a completely different creature.

Sure enough, it happened. Quickly, too. He felt it in his hindquarters first, a fiery tingle which snaked along his spine like a needle under skin. The agony did nothing to help the pain already present. The unbearable feeling continued heedless, his legs shifting, stretching, moulding themselves into human limbs. His face retracting, his tail shrinking, his quadruped body morphing into that of a biped. Slowly, one by one, his bones flexed and twisted themselves into shape. Muscles knotted beneath his skin, straining and contorting. He clenched his teeth more firmly, wincing as the loud crack of his bones reached his ears. He would never quite get used to that.

It was all he could do not to let out a yell of agony. Shape-shifting was a normal part of his life, but that simple fact was never enough to save his body from feeling as if it were afire. He braced himself. Passing out from the pain was a usual occurrence, but tonight, he was determined for it not to happen. Nevertheless, he could feel the inevitable blackout coming upon him, and he knew that when it had passed, he would find himself in an exhausted, shaking heap upon the ground. As usual.

It didn't take long before the earth seemed to swallow him whole. His legs gave out from beneath him, his vision fading to black.

Mercifully, the process was brief. Before he knew it, the worst of the agonising sensation had ceased. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

The first thing he noticed was that he now lay, in foetal position, on the dry, lightly-grassed soil. With the excruciating pain of the shift, he had only barely registered that he had indeed collapsed. At least, he thought, he had managed to remain semi-conscious. He stretched an arm out in front of him, and carefully pulled himself up. The muscle protested with a fierce throb. He winced. There it was, the familiar ache in his bones, the strain in his muscles. He took a deep breath, then another, focusing himself. Deep breath, in, then out. Gradually, he found the strength to lift himself off the ground. He stood upright and dusted himself down.

The entire process had taken a mere minute. Here he, Hanzo Shimada, now stood, fully transformed. Human.

Human... and quite naked.

He sighed. If there was anything he hated about shape-shifting - well, besides the insufferable agony, of course - it had to be this.

Thankfully, the night was mild. Apart from the lightest breeze, the air was warm around him, and he did not feel cold in the slightest. The feeling of the breeze against his bare skin and the grassy earth beneath his feet was, truthfully, one he quite enjoyed. Still, gifted with such an ability, modesty was an issue. An embarrassing one, at that. His only reassurance was that no one would be awake to see him at this hour of the night.

Despite himself, Hanzo couldn't help but smile a little.

He had been denied transforming for days on end. It felt good to be human again.

His smile quickly vanished as the sting and throb of his injuries once more made itself present. He stiffened, inhaling a deep breath. Despite their age, they felt more sensitive and raw than ever.

There appeared to be something else, too - hunger. He had been deprived of food for several days on end, but in his human form the empty-bellied feeling was only amplified. A low growl escaped his stomach as he slowly walked over to the food trough. The feed put out just a few hours ago had gone practically untouched, the container still full. It had been a most kind gesture of his rescuers to provide him with food, and he would be wrong if he said he didn't appreciate their kindness. But, put bluntly, soaked hay had a bland taste; one mouthful, and he had decided against finishing. Though it was completely digestible, he could never quite force himself to enjoy the taste.

He reminded himself to seek out an alternative later.

That wasn't to say that he hadn't touched the freshly-refilled water, though. Oh no. That was perhaps even more of a gift in his weary, dehydrated state, and he couldn't have been more grateful. He had drank litres of the stuff, leaving behind a fraction of the original volume. The dry, parched feeling at the back of his throat had, thankfully, all but vanished.

Perhaps he could take another small drink, try and take the edge off his hunger just a little. He walked over to the neighbouring trough - then paused. A sudden realisation hit him like a tidal wave. He paced over to the large container, slowly. Apprehensively. Vanity was not a trait for which he was known, but he knew full well that the cruel actions of his former captors would more than leave their mark on his present form.

He stared into the dark depths of the container. The gentle moonlight was just bright enough to give him back a clear reflection.

It wasn't his own. Instead, a weary-looking man, with rings under his eyes and short, choppy dark hair stared back at him.

He sighed, and placed a hand quickly into the reflection, causing it to dissipate. He knew it. Grimacing, he brought his right hand to his head. A mess of dull, irregularly-cut strands could be felt beneath his fingers.

He shrugged. It was not important right now. It would grow out eventually. Right now, he had more pressing matters to attend to.

He needed relief.

Another sharp spike of agony shot through his back as he moved away from the water trough. He tried his best to ignore it. Instead, he returned to his location of shifting and bent down to the ground. The heavy red serape the cowboy had left with him earlier had been shrugged off in the shape-shifting process, and it now lay in a crumpled heap. He picked it up. He didn't know why, but somehow he felt that its owner would be most annoyed if it were to get stained with mud.

It appeared clean enough. Clean enough for an impromptu body covering, at least. He wrinkled his nose as he slid the thick garment over his shoulders. Okay, it did, on further inspection, give off a strong, unpleasant odour of gunpowder and whiskey, but he couldn't complain. Like his kindly rescuer had said earlier, it was better than nothing. He shrugged, and folded it so it mostly covered his front.

He didn't even bother with the corral gate. Instead, in spite of the lingering pain, he opted for a quick over-the-fence vault. He took a few steps back. Took a deep breath, then another. Then, with all the grace and athletic prowess he had been forced to suppress, he sprinted forward, leapt into the air, and effortlessly pulled himself over the top of the railing.

Hanzo smirked as he landed cleanly on the other side. He still had it in him.

Now, he was free. Free to seek the help he so urgently required.

Still smiling, pulling the serape closer around his body, he walked up the hill towards the house.

................................................................................

It was an unusual, muffled tap-tapping on his window which woke Jesse McCree out of his deep slumber.

Tap tap. Clunk. Crrreak.

What in tarnation...?

Groaning, McCree opened his eyes, and slowly lifted his head. His vision still blurry, he could only barely make out the time on his bedside clock. 3.15 am. He rubbed his eyes. The ache in his bones only felt worse; such a lack of sleep was not enough to relax his tired body, let alone his mind.

He flopped back down onto his pillow. Probably just an animal, or a bird, he mused. He closed his eyes once more.

Crrreak. Thud.

Hang on. That didn't seem right.

That was not just the sound of the usual night wildlife. Though in quite the weary state, he knew exactly what it sounded like.

A break-in.

McCree's eyes snapped wide open. A new sense of purpose flooded through his tired body. In a trice, before he even knew what he was doing, he had thrown back the covers, grabbed Peacekeeper from her place on the bedside table, and leapt from the bed.

Alright, now who's -

His thoughts stopped short in their tracks.

Beneath his window, on the opposite side of the bed, stood a stranger. A stranger with short dark hair, wearing nothing but a tattered red serape which bore a startling similarity to his own.

McCree froze. The strange man was looking right at him, almost unashamedly. With a strange hesitation, the American lifted his gun and pointed it in the direction of the intruder.

"Now, I don' wanna hurt ya." His voice was calm, controlled. Surprisingly, the man did not react, did not so much as flinch at the sight of his weapon. "Jus' tell me why -"

"I am in need of assistance."

...What?

McCree did not expect to hear those words - much less the voice which spoke them. The stranger's voice was quite soft, yet masculine, with a moderate Japanese accent. It had a pleasing sound, truthfully. To his surprise, something about it caused his heart to stir just a little.

Whatever reason this man had for showing up here, he certainly didn't seem a threat. Slowly, McCree lowered his gun.

"...Assistance?" he asked, uncertain. "With what, exactly?"

The cowboy walked over to his bedside table and returned Peacekeeper to her resting place. The stranger did not move, though McCree could feel his gaze on him as he moved across the room. McCree turned and looked at him, intently. He was certain he had never seen him in his life, but nevertheless something about him seemed... familiar.

Though the room was quite dark, the look of discomfort on the man's face was evident. He was silent for a few more moments, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other.

"...I am hurt," was the eventual reply, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

McCree froze.

Hurt.

A stranger he may have been, but he was not going to stand by idly with an injured man in his midst.

He moved over to the stranger. Now closer, he could see the visible fatigue on his face, the gaunt look of a man who had not slept in days. Coupled with the pained grimace he was trying his hardest to bite back, it made for a pitiful picture indeed.

McCree felt his heart clench.

"Well..."

The cowboy rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, mentally searching for a solution.

He wasn't about to try and wake the others. They deserved their sleep. Seeking their advice was not an option. However, there was a first-aid kit in the bathroom...

"...Why don't ya come with me, an' I'll get ya fixed up?"

McCree smiled, encouragingly. The man only narrowed his eyes, clearly suspicious of his offer.

"Don' worry," he soothed, his voice hushed. "I ain't gonna hurt ya."

The stranger's expression softened somewhat. He closed his eyes, obviously trying to push away the pain. Slowly, after a few moments, he opened them, and let out a sigh.

"...Fine."

McCree gave a nod in acknowledgement.

"'Kay then, jus' follow me."

He extended a hand. The stranger made no movement to accept it. Mildly upset, the cowboy withdrew his hand, and instead started walking in the direction of the hallway.

McCree's ground-floor bedroom was mercifully right next door to their bathroom. Waking the others, sound asleep at this ungodly hour of the morning, would not be a problem. Even in the darkness, McCree didn't even fumble with the light switch; he knew its precise location by now. His fingers found it easily, and clicked it on with an impressive precision.

The American smirked, satisfied. He cast a glance over his shoulder. The bedraggled man followed closely behind him, serape wrapped around him in a seemingly futile attempt to preserve his modesty.

"Right this way." He opened the door, careful not to make any noise, and gestured inside. The stranger obligingly followed his lead. McCree shut the door behind him, and locked it.

It didn't take long for the experienced cowboy to locate the first aid kit. He had had far too much reason to use it in the past, no thanks to his stubborn Huckleberry's antics. He smiled, recalling all the fond memories, as he unlocked the medicine cabinet and lifted the kit from the shelf.

"This'll do the job," he cheerfully said, glancing at the tired man. His smile faded a little. The stranger was standing over the sink, looking intently into the mirror. McCree looked on silently as he lifted his hand to the mess of choppy dark hair atop his head, and gave the short strands a frustrated tug. Evidently, it had been much longer at one point. The American saw him grimace. His hand then moved to the left side of his neck, where he scratched at the skin with such ferocity McCree feared he would make himself bleed.

"Hey, hey." Making sure he kept his voice soft, he placed the first aid box down and stepped over to the man. "Don' do that. You'll hurt yourself."

The stranger's scratching ceased. He whipped his head around and looked the cowboy directly in the eye. There was such a startling intensity to his glare that McCree shifted on his feet, feeling more than a little unnerved.

"You would not understand," he growled. His eyes narrowed as he frowned at the cowboy. "You do not know - "

The stranger stopped himself. The faintest whine of agony escaped his lips as he closed his eyes once more. McCree didn't hesitate to ever so gently place a hand on his shoulder.

"Never mind that," he softly said. The stranger opened his eyes. The burning intensity which had startled McCree had vanished, and now all he could see was the same look of desperation he had seen in the horse's eyes the night before. "Right now, ya need help. You're hurt."

The man let out a sigh.

"Very well."

Relinquishing himself to McCree's care, the man walked over to the cowboy. McCree gave him a gentle smile. Grabbing a white fluffy towel from a nearby shelf, he folded it, cushion-like, and placed it down in front of him. There were none spare for him, regrettably, but the needs of the other man came first. He would simply have to make do with kneeling on the cold, hard tiles of the floor.

He gestured to the towel. "You can kneel on that if you'd like. 'S more comfortable."

The other man had fallen silent once more. He said nothing, only nodded in response. He lowered himself to the floor, and slowly set himself down on the plush towel, shifting around a few times, making himself comfortable. Hesitantly, he pulled the serape closer around his bedraggled form.

"Y'know, it might be easier if ya remove the serape," McCree softly said. He, too, knelt down on the tiles, behind the man. He placed a hand on the folds of the garment's neck, only for the stranger to shoot another sharp glare over his shoulder. The American removed his hand. Instead, he watched as the man lifted his own hands to the folds, parting them. As he unfolded the top, a faint white mark on the right side of the stranger's neck caught McCree's eye. A tattoo of some sort, maybe, or perhaps a scar. So that was what had warranted the vicious scratching. Whatever it was, the stranger had seemed keen to rid himself of it. A flash of inked skin also caught the bright bathroom lights as the man's left arm became visible. McCree couldn't help but stare.

An impressive-looking tattoo sleeve covered the man's muscular arm. At his wrist, a fiery-maned horse threw up its head defiantly. At his shoulder, the outline of another horse's tail was barely visible. He couldn't see it from here, but McCree guessed that the inked animal curled its way towards the man's chest, coming to an end on his left pectoral. Several swirly cloud patterns also adorned the sleeve, accompanied by golden bolts of lightning.

The cowboy let out a low, soft whistle. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he couldn't help but marvel.

"That's, uh... some serious ink ya got there," he said cheerfully, still entranced by the intricate design. Again, the man before him made no reply. As he hastily pulled the red garment over his head, a flash of dull crimson caught McCree's eye.

He took a deep breath.

He had bore witness to much, much worse in his lifetime - his job was, at times, dangerous - but truthfully, the sight of any injury, big or small, still made him wince. This case was no different. The removal of the serape had revealed to him a set of small, yet painful-looking lacerations across the small of the man's back. McCree grimaced. The wounds did not look to be fresh, maybe a few days old at most. What little blood had escaped had visibly congealed, and luckily they did not appear to be infected. However, judging by the stranger's discomfort, they clearly still hurt.
A thorough cleaning-out and antiseptic was what they needed.

McCree didn't waste any more time. With a renewed sense of purpose, he flipped off the lid to the first-aid box and grabbed a pack of alcohol wipes. The strong pungent scent of ethanol permeated through the room as he carefully ripped open the packet.

“Do ya... do ya mind tellin' me how recent they are?” the American carefully asked. Slowly, ever so gently, he pressed his left hand to the man's lower back, steadying the area to be cleaned. The stranger's skin twitched beneath his hand. An indication of discomfort, perhaps, but he had to ignore it.

There was no reply for several long seconds. At first, McCree assumed his companion would make no answer. He was almost surprised when he heard the man's quiet reply pierce the silence.

"Three days."

The stranger's voice was subdued; broken, even. McCree couldn't help but wonder whether or not it had always been this way.

"Three days, hmm? You should consider yourself lucky that nothin's happened to 'em."

"...Perhaps."

The stranger's shoulders heaved as he let out a long sigh. The too-familiar feeling of pity once more rose within the cowboy. He paused, hand poised awkwardly over the area to be disinfected.

Three days was not long by any stretch, but even so, it was a damn miracle that the wounds were not yet infected.

"Now if ya don' mind, I'm gonna go ahead an' clean these out," he said, softly. "Might sting a bit, so just lemme know if it hurts in any way."

The stranger only nodded.

"Very well," he answered. He sighed again.

McCree also heaved out a sigh.

He never did like tending to wounds of any sort, but it was a responsibility he had to take all too often. He shrugged off his discomfort.

Focus, Jesse.

Steadying his right hand, he gently placed the antiseptic wipe over the largest wound.

The alcohol had barely touched the man's skin before a loud, pitiful whimper escaped him. McCree saw his back muscles tense, his skin seizing up beneath his hand.

"Shh..." McCree kept his voice low, soothing; the same as he had used with the wild horse. "I'm tryin' my best. Has to be done, 'm afraid. Jus' keep still for me."

The man sighed again. Gradually, the tension beneath the gentle American's hand lessened.

"I understand," he said quietly, the faintest hint of discomfort still tinging his voice. He straightened his back. "Keep going."

McCree smiled weakly. He was trying so hard. At least, it seemed, he was opening up.

The stranger's tenacity proved useful. The next few moments passed by easily, without fuss. More easily than the cowboy had expected, actually. His new companion was so strong, so trusting. Despite the faintest pained whines which still occasionally escaped as he cleaned out the angry wounds, McCree could tell that he was trying to remain resilient.

Resilient he may have been, but McCree really had to wonder about this man. Who was he, exactly? Why was he here, in his own house, at such an ungodly hour of the night? Was there a reason at all for any of this?

Wiping clean the last of the reddish-pink wounds, he opened his mouth to speak, then promptly closed it. Asking any personal questions would seem unwarranted, intrusive even.

...No, he had to know.

"So, uh..." McCree rose from his kneeling position and walked over to the waste bin, where he swiftly discarded the used antiseptic wipes. He carefully ran his hands under the hot tap for a few moments. "I don' believe we've been properly introduced. If ya don' mind me askin', what's your name?"

Drying his hands, he shot a smile over his shoulder. The stranger looked up at his casual statement. His mouth was set in a line, his features harsh under the bright bathroom lights. The heavy serape he had removed from his shoulders was now held firmly in his hands, at waist level, modestly concealing his lower body from McCree's view. From this angle, McCree could not deny the visible gauntness to his face and bare body. The muscle visible across his chest and arms appeared shrunken somehow, unnatural. He looked to have been strong and healthily-muscled at one point, but whatever strength he had once sustained now seemed all but gone.

The American's smile faded. The familiar feeling of pity reared its ugly head once more. Despite himself, he swore he could feel the sting of tears behind his eyes.

Just what had happened to this poor man, just who had hurt him in this way?

The other man let out a sigh, as he looked away from the cowboy.

"How am I to know if you can be trusted?" he asked, quietly. McCree saw his body tense. "What are your intentions?

McCree paused.

"Ya don't need to worry," he softly said. He continued walking, until he was again positioned behind the man. "I won't do anythin' with the info. I just wanna know who you are. 'S only polite."

The stranger did not look up, but the American saw him relax his posture. He took a deep breath.

"...My name is Hanzo." Like before, his voice was soft, subdued. "Hanzo Shimada."

"...Hanzo."

McCree couldn't resist testing out the name himself. He smiled. It sounded unquestionably foreign, but it rolled naturally off the tongue. It was... pleasant. Beautiful, even. He liked it.

"'S a nice name." Once more he knelt down behind his companion. He still had his head bowed, as if he were trying to memorise the pattern of the tiled floor before him. "Unusual. Traditional, is it?"

Hanzo did not lift his head. "Yes."

"...Hm. Suits ya."

He wasn't sure, but McCree could've sworn he heard the faintest breathy chuckle from the man. Could've just been another tired sigh, though. The American again intently scanned the contents of the first-aid kit, before locating the small white tube of ointment. It appeared to be down to the last dregs, but he assured himself there would be enough for this occasion. He could always get more tomorrow. Placing a pair of latex gloves over his hands, he squeezed the white salve out onto a finger.

He steadied the wounded area in his left hand. This time, Hanzo did not flinch.

"Again, jus' lemme know if this hurts ya," he calmly said, as he delicately rubbed his finger along the surface of the largest wound.

Hanzo surprised him with his calmness. Once again, if the American really was causing him any discomfort, he certainly wasn't showing it. Whether that was a good thing or not, McCree wasn't sure, but it certainly helped in this instance.

In fact, he was so focused on his task that he was stunned when he heard his new companion speak up.

"You have not yet told me your name," he said.

Having gently rubbed the ointment into each sore, McCree paused. He let out a low chuckle. Of course. He had been so distracted, so fascinated, by the stranger's own name, that any introduction on his part had completely slipped his mind.

"Heh. Of course. Silly me." He carefully examined each wound. The antiseptic ointment would hopefully accelerate their healing. Satisfied, he pulled off his latex gloves. "The name's McCree. Jesse McCree. Answer to both, I don' mind."

"Jesse." The man hesitantly tested out the name on his tongue. McCree could tell he was somewhat unaccustomed to Western names. He saw Hanzo pause, then straighten himself. "Hmm. Thank you, Jesse."

McCree smiled sheepishly, walking over to the waste bin once more and discarding of his gloves.

"Shucks. Was nothin' really." He returned to his original position.

Hanzo shook his head. Again, he gave an audible sigh.

"No," he said. "Thank you for saving me."

Saving? What on earth could that mean? A look of bewilderment came over McCree's face. He narrowed his eyes, carefully scrutinising the stranger.

There was something familiar about him, alright, and if he didn't find out why very soon, he swore it would drive him mad.

"'M sorry." He knelt on the floor, and again turned to the kit beside him. This time, he extracted a roll of sterile gauze and medical tape. "I don' get whatcha mean."

Hanzo said nothing. Another sigh was all McCree heard from him. Slowly, he turned and looked over his left shoulder, and looked McCree deep in the eye.

The cowboy's eyes only narrowed even further. There was that strange pale mark again, the one he had had but the briefest glimpse of earlier. Now in his full view, it was almost painfully stark against the stranger's ivory skin. The pattern was strange at first glance; too regular for a scar, but too pale and muted for a tattoo. The more the confused American examined the design, however, the more it seemed hauntingly familiar.

Several white, geometric patterns, arranged in a neat line, running vertically down his neck. Alpha-numeric angles. McCree squinted, focusing intently. Deciphered, they read "Property of US Government, '63, New Mexico, 2071"...

McCree's eyes shot wide open. He let out a loud gasp. The equipment fell from his hand, landing on the tiles with a muted thud.

It can't be.

The mark - a freeze-mark, in all likelihood - corresponded perfectly with that of the tormented mustang he had rescued mere hours ago.

His heart leapt to his throat, pounding anxiously. His eyes flew to the array of scars on Hanzo's lower back. This couldn't, just could not, be a bizarre coincidence. Nobody sane would ever brand a man in such a way. He cast his gaze back to Hanzo's neck, then to the scars, then back again.

Everything matched up.

No way...

He felt like he was going to be sick.

"Aaah -"

Hearing his panicked gasp, a startled look came across the stranger's features. His eyes widened, his body suddenly tense. He raised his left hand in McCree's direction as he tried frantically to ease the American's panic.

"Shh! Do not be afraid."

"It - that - you're -"

A faint creak of the floorboards above them reminded him of the need to be quiet. In his flurry of confused emotion, McCree hadn't realised he had been so loud. Furiously, he tried to calm himself. He paused, and took in a deep breath.

This can't be real.

"You're - you're that horse we rescued last night -"

"Yes," the man answered, quite calmly. "I am."

"But - but how - "

"It's okay. I know you will have some... questions." Hanzo lowered his arm. His eyes did not leave McCree's. Now, there was a calmness to be found within them, a look which seemed to say, Stay calm, I will explain.

McCree sighed. His mind was afire, burning with question after unanswered question. He inhaled another deep breath, and released it slowly.

"How - how is any of this even possible?" he began. Try as he may, he still could not curb the uneasy stutter to his voice. "Who - what - are you exactly?"

He saw Hanzo shift around awkwardly.

"...I come from a long line of horse shape-shifters," he hesitantly began. His eyes narrowed. "My family before me has always been gifted with the ability to change shape at will."

McCree heard him let out yet another sigh. He closed his eyes, and turned away from the American.

"It was a dangerous secret, one which had to be kept under close guard. No one could ever know who, and what, we really were."

Hanzo paused. Now calmer, McCree retrieved the forgotten gauze and tape. He dusted them off with a careful finger. Then he swiftly cut a strip large enough to cover the largest wound, and gently secured it over Hanzo's tender skin.

"Go on," he softly urged, his curiosity not yet satisfied.

"But then... something... happened."

The cowboy saw the man stiffen.

McCree simply continued with the task at hand, delicately placing another covering. "Y'know, it's okay. I understand. Ya don' have to tell me everythin', not if it makes ya uncomfortable."

Hanzo sighed again.

"Thank you."

"No problem." Deftly, the American finished his task. He leaned back, surveying his work. The treated scarlet wounds no longer showed, now concealed beneath the snowy-white gauze strips. McCree couldn't help but smile, just a little. Hanzo's was simply a story for another time, he supposed. It was early yet, and he knew how uncomfortable he would feel disclosing anything personal to a stranger. His curiosity was far from sated, but he would have to leave it aside for now.

Still, he had learned enough. At least now, Hanzo did not seem such an... an anomaly.

McCree let out a yawn. Still sleep-deprived as ever, it seemed. Between the rescue mission and this - the continuation - he had not yet given his body the rest it deserved. He securely fastened the first-aid box beside him and took it in his hands. Slowly, he rose to his feet, wincing slightly at the ache in his knees. Hanzo really was lucky to have the folded bath rug beneath him. He swiftly replaced the kit, placing it on its original perch in the medicine cabinet.

"Well." He stretched his arms out in front of him, and lazily dragged his right hand through his sleep-tangled hair. He tried not to grimace as his fingers tugged out a knot. "Guess that's you, uh, patched up for now."

He smiled apologetically. "Sorry if it's rough, but I tried my best."

His new companion, without a word, rose from his mat, again throwing the cowboy's red serape around his upper body. As he did so, McCree could've sworn he saw his body shiver.

"No. It will do." Hastily, he set foot towards the door. A loud, resounding rumble emanated from his stomach. Promptly, he stopped walking.

McCree tilted his head, confused. He had set out food for his starved, dehydrated mustang friend last night, he was sure of it. Proper food, for this time of year at least. How was he still hungry?

He calmly approached the other man.

"Ya sound pretty hungry," he said, gently placing a hand on Hanzo's shoulder. Promptly, it was shrugged off. McCree pinned it to his side, dejectedly. "When was the last time you ate, if ya don' mind me askin'?"

Hanzo turned to face him. Briefly, he met his gaze, before once more facing the closed door.

"...I haven't eaten in three days." He let out a faint sigh, another growl of hunger closely following.

"I left food for ya last night, Hanzo," McCree said. "Ya didn't even eat that?"

Another rumble of hunger. McCree saw Hanzo place a hand over his stomach, as if he were willing away the growling.

"No." He turned to face the cowboy. "I am afraid I do not much care for hay. It tastes quite... bland."

Well damn.

McCree looked away in shame. He rubbed at the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Well, how in the hell was I supposed to know ya weren't really a horse?" he asked. "Ya looked jus' like one... I mean, until tonight I thought that shape-shifters couldn' possibly exist."

Hanzo gave a small smirk.

"It is strange if you are not used to it, I suppose." He turned away from the cowboy, and placed a hand on the door handle. "You will have to get used to it.... But, please, just show me to the kitchen."

McCree smiled.

"Of course."

Between one heavy day of farm work and the next, McCree had never really had the time to consider quite how well-laid out the large house was. He had always taken the convenience of the ground floor bedroom, and its proximity to the kitchen, for granted. Tonight, it seemed, he was to be shown the true usefulness of such a design.

Closing the bathroom door quietly behind him, McCree carefully surveyed the dark hallway. He listened. No creaks in the floorboards, no footsteps from above.

Good.

He smiled. It would take them mere footsteps to reach the kitchen, and if they were lucky, it would be unoccupied. If they were lucky, it would not be one of those nights where Lena or Lucio had sought out a midnight snack.

"Come on, Hanzo," he whispered, walking ahead of the man. "It's this way."

Stealthily he crept into the darkened kitchen, and flicked on the light switch.

Hmm, now what food did they have...

A thousand new questions suddenly sprung into McCree's mind. With his newly-acquired knowledge of Hanzo's... interesting ability, he found himself wondering. What kind of food would he not eat? Could he not eat? Considering the man's alternate form, what could he digest?

"Hmm..." McCree swiftly pulled a cupboard door open, and scanned the various shelves. Several tins, boxes and packets of varying size and shapes stood lined up neatly. It was a lot of food, yes. The others, especially Ana, would never stand for an empty food store. But just how much of it would be useful...

"If ya don' mind me askin', is there anything ya absolutely can't have? Ya know, anything you wouldn' give a horse?"

He looked over his shoulder. A smile tugged on his lips. Hanzo's face, though stoic and gaunt, showed the merest spark of amusement.

"If it helps," he began, in a quiet voice, "I can, in this form, eat anything a normal human could. It is only as a horse that I can not digest meat."

He paused. So that was solved. McCree returned to his task, riffling through the assortment of products.

"I would still prefer not to eat it whenever possible," he heard Hanzo continue.

McCree nodded.

"I see."

Searching the fridge, always packed full of meat products, evidently wasn't an option then. He continued nudging boxes and packets out of his way. Biscuits, rice packets, pasta, sauces... there appeared to be nothing which would satisfy Hanzo's hunger in any way. Not right now, anyway. Nothing, he could see, which could be prepared quickly and quietly.

"Hmm..."

The cowboy hastily pulled the cupboard closed, and turned, his eyes frantically scanning the small room. There had to be something, anything...

The gleam of polished chrome, across the room, caught his eye. He smiled.

Of course.

Sometimes, moments like these simply called for some nice warm tea and toast. Not a lot, by any means. For a brief moment, McCree doubted it would be enough. Hanzo had been damn near starved, after all, and who knew just how much more maltreatment he had been dealt?

It wasn't much, McCree thought to himself, as he walked across the kitchen, but it was all he could give. Besides, he didn't know anything a good old-fashioned mug of hot tea couldn't fix.

"I, um, hope it's alright if all I have to give ya is tea and toast," McCree said apologetically, as he placed two generous slices of wholemeal bread into the toaster. He set the kettle to boil, and reached for the tea cupboard above. "It's all I have for now, 'm afraid. Herbal any good to ya?"

"Yes. It will do." McCree turned. Hanzo was now standing right beside him, eyes fixed intently on the counter. McCree didn't blame him. He tapped a finger impatiently on the granite countertop - then abruptly, he stopped. The man's stomach had given yet another loud yowl of hunger, and it sent nothing but fresh pity through McCree's veins.

C'mon, hurry up!

"This'll only take a few minutes," the American said to Hanzo. A click from the kettle switch told him that it had boiled, and he poured out the steaming liquid into the prepared mug of herbal tea. The ensuing sweet, pungent scent of herbs which filled the room was almost enough to bring out his lingering sleepiness. He yawned, and stretched out his hands.

Focus on Hanzo first, Jesse. Then bed.

If he ever got back to bed.

"Why don'tcha go an' make yourself comfortable?" he said. He gestured in the direction of the adjacent dining room, Hanzo's eye's following his hand. Slowly, the tired man walked over to one of the well-cushioned dining chairs, and promptly sat down. McCree noticed a look of scrutiny form on his face. His eyes were narrow, his mouth set in a slight frown, as he examined the furniture. He only took a moment. Not wasting any more time, he simply stretched his arms across the dark surface of the table - only after he had folded the serape across his body to preserve his modesty, the cowboy noted - and laid his head against them. He closed his eyes.

McCree's heart softened. A strange feeling rose in his chest. Hanzo looked so... peaceful. In spite of all the hardship he had endured, he exuded a surprising air of grace. Despite himself, McCree couldn't help but admire his sleepy companion. Though somewhat marred by his gaunt pallor and the dark rings of exhaustion beneath his eyes, there was still an undeniable beauty to be found in his fine features. The sharp cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips, the short dark beard...

A familiar clack from behind him brought him back to reality. He quickly shook his head, dispelling his thoughts. There was no time for fantasising. He turned to the counter. Hanzo's toast was ready, perfectly golden and crisp-looking. Accompanied by the herbal tea, the American only hoped it could bring some relief to his troubled companion. Retrieving a plate, he placed the warm bread on its surface and returned to Hanzo, steaming mug in his spare hand.

"Here ya go." McCree gently set both items before the resting man. The sweet scent of the tea beside him caused Hanzo to open his eyes. McCree thought he saw them light up just a little.

"Thank you." Promptly, Hanzo unfolded his arms, and eagerly pulled the plate closer to him. Not wasting any more time, he tore into the crispy bread, eating for all he was worth. Quickly, too. The cowboy couldn't tell if he even bothered to chew it properly before swallowing.

He didn't have the heart to slow him down.

Instead, he remained silent, and simply looked on as Hanzo polished off both slices. Within two minutes flat, they were reduced to crumbs. Having had his fill, the man reached for the mug of herbal tea. He left his hands on its surface, warming them, before lifting it and taking several large gulps.

McCree found himself smiling.

"That feels better now, don't it?"

Hanzo only looked at him, still intently drinking the warm tea. Clearly, he did not intend to answer. McCree swore he felt his heart skip a beat as the man's piercing brown eyes met his own. There was such a fiery intensity to them, yet also a dark undercurrent far beyond his comprehension.

Perhaps he would never understand why.

Uncomfortable once more, McCree turned his head. He ran a hand through his untidy hair, and rubbed his neck. He grimaced. There was a tension in the muscle, his fingers finding a new knot at its base.

"So," he began. He placed his hands on the table before him, and slowly turned in Hanzo's direction. The mug, now drained, had been replaced on the table. Now the other man sat upright, his hands once more clutching the red fabric of his serape across his chest. "If you ain't a full-blooded horse, what in the hell am I s'posed to feed ya?"

The other man shrugged, frowning.

"...Anything I can eat, I suppose," he eventually replied. He furrowed his brow, thinking. "What do you feed the other horses?"

"Oh, ya know. The usual. Oats, flax, molasses..." McCree glanced upwards, deep in thought, then looked at Hanzo again. "Though those mightn't appeal much to ya, either... I s'pose you'd eat stuff like carrots an' apples though, would ya?"

The American saw a small frown tug at the corner of Hanzo's lips, then disappear quickly.

"Maybe." He anxiously hugged McCree's serape closer, his fingers tightly curled around its folds. "If that is all you can manage."

McCree let out a soft chuckle, leaning back casually in his chair.

"Well, it's the least I can give ya. I can hardly feed ya anythin' else, not when you're a horse. Can't have the others growin' suspicious..."

He trailed off as a sudden realisation planted itself in his head.

Should he even tell the others? Would they believe him? What would they think of Hanzo then? Would they see him as an aberration, an abnormality with which they wouldn't be seen dead?

McCree frowned, casting his gaze downwards. Anxiously, he pulled at a piece of loose skin.

"...I can't let them know, can I?"

He turned slightly. He didn't dare making eye contact with the other man. From the corner of his vision, he could just make out his steady glare, his disapproval evident. McCree felt almost stifled by the thick silence which grew between them.

Hanzo sighed. The cowboy saw him rise from the table, still careful to keep a hand around his body covering.

"No," he replied, after an uncomfortable silence. With one hand, he neatly pushed the chair back into place. "Not yet. I am afraid of what others will think."

"So am I, to be fair." The American, still sitting, looked him in the eye. "But if it makes ya happy, I'll keep your little secret."

"...Very well. Thank you." With no further words, he strode past McCree's seat and headed for the doorway.

"Shouldn' be hard for ya to blend in with the other horses, anyways," McCree responded.

Hanzo paused.

"And blend in I will." He continued walking.

McCree shivered, suddenly on edge. Hanzo's statement was not threatening, but nonetheless, it had an icy, impersonal tone to it.

"Don't worry 'bout it." He gave a slightly shaky smile. "Ya can stay a horse as long as ya need to. I'll even toss a good few carrots into your feed in the mornin', jus' for you."

Hanzo only continued walking.

Inwardly, McCree sighed. Looking after the other horses was never difficult, but Hanzo... he was turning out to be a horse of a different colour. Technically speaking, he wasn't even an animal at all. Even so, the cowboy could already tell Hanzo was going to be very fussy about his new living conditions.

He couldn't yet be sure if that was a good thing or not.

"...Thank you." Hanzo didn't turn his head, didn't look at the American as he entered the hallway. The American watched him. He did not continue in the direction of the front door. Rather, he swiftly turned to the right, towards McCree's bedroom. Evidently, he intended to leave the way he came.

"Hanzo, wait." McCree practically jumped from his seat, as it were covered in burning coals. He rushed to the man's side. "Where are ya goin'?"

"Back to the corral. I can't risk staying."

"Yeah, guess you're right." The American scratched at the back of his neck. How nice it would've been, really, if he could stay, rather than face the elements alone...

It wasn't going to happen. If Hanzo wanted his identity kept a secret, he would sure as hell keep it.

All he could do at that moment was look on, as the other man walked into his bedroom, stopping at the window. He paused, then took a few steps back. McCree saw his muscles tense.

McCree's eyes widened.

No.

"You're still healin'!" the cowboy exclaimed, still careful not to raise his voice. "Are you sure that-"

He didn't even have time to blink before Hanzo had launched himself at the window, pulled himself up onto its lip single-handedly, and vaulted effortlessly through the opening. Landing cleanly on his feet, too. McCree felt his jaw drop.

...Huh. Impressive.

Something in that wound ointment must've worked.

The cool summer breeze against his bare skin was scarcely felt, as he simply continued marvelling at Hanzo's grace. There was a refined, almost feline finesse to his every movement. Straightening his body, he simply stalked off, briskly, into the night. The cowboy couldn't help staring at his retreating back, even when he had long vanished from view.

Hanzo simply was something else.

The lone hooting of an owl, distant and eerie, suddenly grounded him. McCree shook his head. Damn it, what did he think he was doing? He didn't need this in his life right now. Goodness knows he had enough on his plate already; with his busy life on the ranch, there was never an idle moment.

So why, just why, did a strange, warm feeling now creep through his veins?

He lifted a hand to his cheek, feeling the undeniable warmth. Was he blushing? He sure hoped not. Furiously, he rubbed at his unshaven skin.

He didn't need this right now. He had to ignore it. Trying his best to push down the curious feeling, he pulled himself away from the window and ambled over to his bed. Once more, he flung himself down onto its surface and pulled the quilts closer to his uncovered body. After all the... bizarre events of the night, the downy sheets and plush duvet against his skin were such a relief he could've almost cried.

Finally, finally, he could catch up on the sleep he had missed....or so he thought.

His mind, still rather unsatisfied, would not leave him to rest. Every time he closed his eyes, the image of Hanzo's face, his appealing, human face, greeted him. It did nothing to ease the confusion he still felt within. Hanzo was beautiful, of course - but he was not quite human. Somehow, McCree felt, the sighting of his human form would be a rare occurrence. Rare, and wonderful. But it would not happen often.

He had no way of knowing if Hanzo would ever show his human side again.

The American gave a frustrated sigh. Sleep was clearly not on his side. Not tonight, anyway. He opened his eyes. Flipping himself onto his back, he gazed at the gently-illuminated ceiling. The moonlight now seemed a little weaker; outside, he swore he could catch the faintest strains of birdsong.

He glanced at the bedside alarm clock. 4.15 am. Letting out a loud yawn, he again closed his eyes. He rubbed at them, irritated, with his right hand, and brought it to rest on the bridge of his nose.

As if sleep was even worth it when he would be up again at seven o'clock sharp...

He gave another sigh.

Seems like there ain't no rest for the wicked.