Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cole stands back, wiping his forehead and whistling a long, low note of satisfaction. “I believe we done some good here Mz. Oxton,” he grins, and takes no offence when she steals the hat from his head and begins fanning him with it.

Pine boughs twined into a rough garland crisscross the room, sprinkled with red and gold tinsel and in an hour or so, once the sun has set they’ll sparkle with the fairy lights Cole has just painstakingly hung. The main entrance to the common room fairly glows ruby with the holly springs curved around the arch of it's door. Tables covered in soft evergreen tablecloths ready to be heaped with food and drink line one side of the room next to a few bench tables carted in from the mess hall. But the bulk of the space is left open for mingling, dancing or whatever other hijinks or shenanigans the team will bring in.

“You were right, I’m glad we waited until everyone was back on base for this,” Lena sighs happily, “but, are you sure about…” she bobs her head in a comically obvious gesture towards the other doorway, smaller and tucked in the back of the room. Wiggles her eyebrows, tongue in cheek.

“Best keep the fun. Y’know, for those that want it,” he winks.

Promising to see her in an hour or so he heads off to get gussied up. Clean clothes and a trimmed beard may not win him much in the long run, but it’ll help his attitude if nothing else.

(Though Cole’s also sure to keep an eye on how short he goes. The last time he'd decided to try for a more roguish, shadowed look he'd been sorely disappointed with the carefully neutral face masking displeasure he'd received for his efforts. Far from the assessing, appreciative glance he'd come to expect when he cleans himself up.)

See, the more things change, the more they stay the same. For instance: Lena Oxton, being reunited with those she once called family, in a place she once called home during a holiday which at its roots is a celebration of both those things will want to have a party. So Cole, taking on the role of the prodigal son, has helped her issue invitations, gather party favors, cater and yes, even decorate. And now, as he leans back not under but very near the secondary entrance over which three festive, delicate, innocent bundles of mistletoe preside...he has no doubt that every single person at this party knows the game he’s running.

Being fair to them, it’s a small Watchpoint, and Cole has a noted history of wearing his heart on his sleeve. Being even more fair — it’s not like he’s been especially subtle in the development of his affections.

Cole bites back a sigh, allowing himself a moment to slump more than lean. It’s been hours since the last of the weary travellers arrived, filling the Watchpoint once more. Hours since the party started, even. No amount of looking is going to find a man who isn't there, no matter the keenness of the eye. But Cole's done his hosting, greeting the familiar faces and mixed drinks, toasting the years past and to come, spoken with significant others in person and through coms. Even tipped his hat to some distant relation of Lucio's who he 'Just have to say Hi to, man, please, I will beg if you want me to.'

(The little girl's long hair stuck out in messy curls under a straw hat shaped like a lopsided stetson. She gaped at him with a mouth full of gapped and missing teeth before she very dramatically gritted what teeth were left and narrowed her eyes. "The name of the cemetery is Sam Hill," she spat, like a challenge. Cole's eyebrows shot for his hairline before he grinned back, "The name on the grave is Arch Stanton," to the kid's hooting, hollering joy. They bartered quotes from their favourite westerns for a good ten minutes before Lucio came back to reclaim his com.)

Still, the face he wants to see has not appeared in the crowd.

“Disgusting!” Genji declares gleefully, his back hitting the wall Cole's leaning against with a hollow clang that rattles his teeth. He has two cups in hand which, judging by the smell, has gone from being eggnog spiked with a little rum to rum spiked with a little eggnog.

Cole doesn't bother asking if one of the glasses is meant for him, relieving Genji of the vile mix and throwing it back in one smooth gesture while flipping the cyborg off before he can do much more than blink. "Something I can help you with?" He makes sure to drawl as slow as he can, deepening his accent from a mild twang to a full on hick because he knows Genji has trouble with it sober, let alone drunk.

Sure enough, Genji blinks at him blearily before the words soak in and his grin goes from 'puckish' to 'shit disturbing.' "Waiting for someone special?"

"Could be," he says, careful not to let Genji see him riled. Guy's like a dog with a bone, always has been. Give him an inch and he'll take it and everything attached. "Don't see it being any business of yours."

"Just making conversation as the party winds down," Genji near croons, beginning to vibrate with excitement. "Winston's planning fireworks, so we will all be heading up to the observatory soon."

A short chill runs down Cole's spine. He darts a quick glance through the assembled crowd and bites back a vicious curse. He’d noticed Winston, Satya, and Jamie head off sometime ago. Hadn’t really thought about why. Those three can be the worst enablers of one another and Cole isn’t dumb enough not to get out of dodge when they really get going.

“You don’t have to do this,” Cole feels as though he should remind him. Even though the smothered laughter and unsubtle looks of his co-workers and friends say otherwise. Saying very clearly that not only does Genji have to do this, he planned this. The bastard.

“You’re under the mistletoe, I’m just following the rules,” Genji says, pointing at it like Cole don't know exactly where he’s standing. “Although, I don’t know how I will collect on my good luck when I know who’s lips you are really wishing for,” he sighs, forlorn and utterly fake. Quicker than a snake bite, he flicks the brim of Cole’s hat, up and near off his head entirely.

“Aw, baby don’t be like that,” Cole snipes, and reaches to fix it only to be distracted by a flash of blue out of the corner of his eye. Irrationally, he’s disappointed when it is only Fareeha, eyeing the much depleted desert spread with a judgmental look. As she should. All night, Cole has watched hand pies and brownies, cookies and tarts disappear from that table. He's kept an eye on it through dancing with Mei and trying to out eat Roadhog. There is still a selection of bars, fruit and cupcakes left — chocolate, red velvet, even some vanilla topped with glazed strawberries, because those are Hanzo's favourite and Cole made sure to have them stocked — but they’re in short supply now.

There isn't a point to asking Genji about the whereabouts of his brother — he likely has as much information as Cole does, if not less. And he'd be giving confirmation to the little shit's suspicions which at the moment have no concrete evidence to support them.

But the plain facts of the matter are: Through careful suggestion and some light manipulation of Lena's soft heart, Cole planned for this party to be held when Hanzo returned from his latest mission; a long running surveillance in the Polish countryside that necessitated radio silence for the past two weeks. Cole planned for the mistletoe, and planned to be waiting patiently for Hanzo to show his stupid, handsome face.

Fact is: Cole hadn't realized how much he would miss that fucker.

Fact is: Cole's never been so scared of losing something he won't try for it in the first place.

Fact is: Every single one of his coworkers are beginning to gravitate toward the wreathed archway Cole is stood just to the side of, all chatting amiably and making obvious overtures, smirking and giggling.

Fact is: Cole is fucked. And not in the way he was hoping for.

Out of pure spite, he steals Genji's other drink as well, throwing the awful mix of rum, cream and nutmeg back before it can linger too long on his tongue.

He's turning to face the music when two small hands cup his jaw and pull him down with surprising strength into warm, wet lips that mash against his in a big, smacking kiss the likes of which Cole has only seen from the outside in. Old pre-millennium cartoons flash to the forefront of his mind, all bright colours and outrageous sounds. He feels appropriately dazed when Lena, of course it's Lena, lets him go, finishing the comical 'kiss' off with a loud "Mmmm-uwah!"

"Thanks for the luck, cowboy!" Lena winks, "You're up, babe."

Cole has just the time to blink and feel the empty cup be grabbed from his slack grip before he's reeled back in.

Emily's...everything is softer than Lena is.

Her hands, her lips, her body and...!

He rears back, sputtering, to the loud cheers of his assembled friends. Judas' and Iago's the lot of them.

"Ugh," Emily, he is almost spitefully glad to see, is also sputtering. "Why did you have to drink rum?"

"Why'd you have to use tongue?" Cole demands in turn.

"Aw what? No fair, my turn!" Lena says, laughing, reeling the redhead away from where she is still pressed up against Cole's chest and into her arms. Cole's almost annoyed to see how much nicer Lena kisses her while his teeth still ache in his skull, but his attention is quickly pulled away from the giggling, nuzzling kisses when a shock of green invades his vision and, like the ninja he is, Genji fair steals a quick, near chaste kiss.

Brotherly, Cole would almost call it, if he'd ever had brothers.

But he had a mother, once upon a time, and a cartload of uncles, aunts and cousins, all work worn and loving. And he remembers birthdays and holidays and warm, dry kisses at his cheeks and the corners of his mouth.

So maybe he don't know 'brotherly,' but 'familial' definitely fits.

"Was it everything you dreamed of?" Genji bats his eyes, overly flirtatious and, as always, utterly fake.

"I saw the stars, darlin', you took me to the moon," Cole snipes back, and would follow it up but for the armful of laughing blonde angel he ends up with.

A drunken angel, will wonders never cease.

Cole winces preemptively. He can already smell the deep, dry red wine she prefers on her breath and his stomach lurches. His memory reels him back nearly twenty years to a closet and a stolen bottle of tequila. Being lean and gangly and so very drunk with an equally drunken angel in his lap, edging toward something they would both surely regret in the morning. They'd been too young and too jaded and had taken the weight of the whole world on their skinny fucking shoulders. He remembers trying to stroke her back and her swaying on top of him, and the singular most awkward, clumsy kiss Cole’d ever had abruptly broken off when she shuddered and threw herself to the side, emptying her stomach of the stolen alcohol.

Truth be told it hadn't taken him long to be thankful for Angie's weak stomach. Cole'd caught her eye the next day and near broke his head open laughing at how red she'd turned.

He blinks back just as Angie claims a quick, wine soaked kiss, giggling almost too hard to really seal their lips together. Cole catches her quick as she bounces on her tiptoes, pressing her luck for a little bit more 'holiday magic.' She's still laughing, carefree and joyful, the worry-crease between her brows nowhere to be seen and crows feet and laugh lines deepened to their fullest extent. It’s a sight so rare Cole can’t help but duck in and glance his lips off the hot curve of her cheek.

"Aww, mein freund," Angie sighs, patting his chest.

She allows herself to be moved into Genji's arms easily enough and Cole gets to watch her accept a bottle of water before another body inserts itself against his, strong arms wrapping around his neck and drawing him into a rough hug. He grins, wrapping his own arms around Fareeha, crushing her to him and swaying them back and forth. Try as she might, and he knows she tried, especially tonight, she can never really rid herself of the unique scent of oil and fuel that comes with using and maintaining her Raptora suit.

"And why are you going along with this?" Cole grouses quietly in her ear.

"I'm the distraction," Fareeha whispers back, pulling back just enough to lay two barely there kisses on his cheeks, first right and then left.

Cole refrains from scoffing in her ear, having just enough sense to return the kisses as they were given. He can still vividly picture the fearsome scowl of her mother the first time she dragged Cole into such a greeting and he had frozen. Just — stock still like some prey animal trying not be caught. Awkwardly unsure about returning the gesture or what it meant. Ana was beautiful and deadly and Cole had been so sure she wasn't expressing interest but just as unsure of what she actually wanted from him. Embarrassingly, it took him a month of one-on-one lessons, invitations to dinner and comments on his health before he realized that she was trying to mother him.

"At this point I don't know how I can be surprised," he says, knowing the words to be a mistake even as he says them.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance. Cole cycles through all five stages of grief as Fareeha's arms tighten and spin him in place, leaving him only when an even larger pair can take their place on his shoulders.

"Ach! Mein leibling," Reinhardt booms, "thank you for sharing your luck with us!"

He bends over Cole, bringing their lips together in what is — honest and truly — the sweetest, most heartfelt kiss that Cole has ever experienced in his life. Rein's lips are smooth and they glide against Cole's own chapped ones with careful pressure. There's the slightest hint of bitters from the beer he favors but his hands are warm and soft on Cole's jaw. He kisses as though this is the last kiss he will ever get and all the more important for it. He kisses like he is falling in love and trying to convince Cole to love him back.

And for that brief moment in time, right before Rein pulls away with the ghost of a satisfied sigh, Cole does.

Still dazed, he bends down on instinct when Torb beckons him, and receives a quaint peck of a kiss from both the engineer and his wife for his troubles. Easy, thoughtless kisses, one after the other. The same kind of kiss Cole has witnessed between the couple for years on end.

“Thank you, Cole,” Torb nods, and Ingrid takes a second to pat his cheek before they pass through, already talking of something else.

“I’m not kissing you,” Jack’s gritty voice brings Cole abruptly back to Earth and he feels his entire body tense in a hot flash of annoyance.

It’s amazing how so many years later that voice can run down his spine like nails on a chalkboard.

“I’m under the mistletoe, partner. Them’s the rules,” his mouth throws down the challenge, further input from his brain apparently deemed unnecessary.

Now, Cole’s always had something of a chip on his shoulder when it comes to authority figures, and Captain America-knockoff, Superman-wannabe Jack Morrison looking at him like he’s being weighed, measured and found wanting has always got his back up like nothing else. Even now he finds himself gritting his teeth, shoulders rolling back and chin firming like he’s expecting a fight.

Over fucking mistletoe.

Jack grimaces. But, to his credit, steps up to the plate.

Cole’s got only a second to bite back a flinch before yet another pair of hands are cupping his jaw and tilting his face down, down, further down than it needs to be, what in the sam hell —

Jack’s lips don’t feel scarred. They graze over his forehead, pressing a solid, lingering kiss to the middle of it and staying. Cole counts four heartbeats drum-beating his suddenly too-warm ears before Jack pulls away, the apples of his cheeks almost as red as his visor.

“You’re not my dad!” He stutters the first thing that comes to mind, instinctively trying to pull on some bluster and distance himself from the Moment. Capital M, Moment.

Jack scoffs. “I’m the closest thing you’ve had for years, Cassidy.” He has the audacity to reach out and flick Cole’s metal arm, making it ring as Cole sputters, choking on his offense and yanking his arm out of reach.

It’s the closest either of them have ever gotten to talking about it and Cole would be just fine if they never got further, thanks.

“Out of the way!” Ana’s command startles them both out of their stagnant and repressed emotions.

Cole bends to her, eagerly accepting her crushing hug and returning the rough kisses she presses into his beard. Her cheek is weathered under his lips, wrinkled from smiling and stress and sun, but she still smells like rosewater. “Can’t believe you’re going along with this nonsense,” he teases, even though he can and he’s more surprised she wasn’t leading the charge.

“And leave you sitting here, disappointed? I could never!” Ana says squeezing the air out of him once more.

Inspired, and a little spiteful, Cole swings Ana from side to side, using the bear hug to disguise the way he reaches, breaking off one of the bundles of leaves and berries around the door. Sweeping his hand up and down her back, he tucks it into one of the large pockets on her shawl. Not especially sneakily, and winks when she pulls back to eye him something fierce. “Just, speakin’ of disappointment, Fareeha seemed mighty put out when Miss Vaswani left, don’t you think?”

Ana cackles wildly before grabbing Jack and Rein on each arm and sweeping them through the doorway. Suddenly so much more eager to view the fireworks.

Some petty part of him feels as though he should catch them out, insist on them acting out the even older mistletoe tradition. If just to see Jack squirm. Hell, Rein would probably participate enthusiastically. But then, If it was awkward receiving a kiss from the mountain of a man, Cole doesn't want to think about how awkward it would be to see him sweep Jack, of all people, off his feet.

Oh well, begin as you mean to go on, Ana always says, and Cole squares his shoulders, turning back to face the destiny thrust up on him.

Floating, actually, peacefully in front of him. Zenyatta.

Huh.

Uh...

“Wouldn’t of thought you in need of luck,” he says, when it becomes apparent that the monk isn’t going explain himself.

“You are correct, but it is not the desire for luck which drives me, my friend. Rather, I would like to experience this with you, if you are willing to share it with me.”

“I’m not rightly sure what you’re going to get out of it, but a rule’s a rule,” Cole says, smiling easy. He expects to plant one on the line etched into Zenyatta’s faceplate, the sweeping one that Cole, perhaps unfairly, sometimes thinks of as his mouth. Catches himself watching when Zenyatta speaks, as if it will move like lips for him to read. But Zen stops him, reaching around to cup the back of his head and bring his forehead to rest against the cool middle line of dots in the center of his plate. Leaving Cole staring into the slotted holes in the faceplate which protect the cameras that serve as his ‘eyes.’

For one moment, maybe two, Cole just stares. Waiting. He’s not sure what he’s expecting, a spark maybe, but what he gets instead is the obvious motion of Zen’s chassis and shoulders moving in a mimicry of a deep, relaxing breath. Without meaning to, Cole matches him.

The lights, already softened for the party, seem to dim. To Cole, between one shared breath and the next, it's like the world falls away. Jack’s quiet grumbling, Ana’s teasing, and their footsteps all fading. The chatter of the few stilled queued up, waiting for their turn for some luck, settle in the background like rain falling, like ocean waves, the type of comforting white noise spas can only wish for.

For a second, Cole thinks he can hear bells.

Then the whirring of Zen's internal cooling reaches his ears, and one thing after another, sound filters back into his awareness.

“Whoa,” Cole says and has to blink hard as his eyes water, wincing in the dim light of the room.

“A vague, if accurate assessment,” Zenyatta hums, bowing low. “I'm glad to have shared that experience with you. It was…”

More than one word pops into Cole’s mind. Intimate. Humbling. Soulful.

He feels as though something inside him, deeper than skin and muscle is humming, like a plucked string.

"Thank you," Cole interrupts gently, not waiting for whatever word Zen is searching his memory banks for.

"Thank you," Zenyatta returns, in kind "for the experience."

He floats on, and Cole doesn't bother hiding the way he wipes his eyes, taking a second to get back on an even tilt. "Alright, who's up next," he claps his hands and rubbing them together. "let's get this show on the road."

"Hmph," Roadhog huffs.

Fuck.

Cole spares himself a moment, just one whole second, shutting his eyes to thank his lucky stars that Jamie left before Genji made his round up. Roadhog either doesn’t view Satya or Winston as threats, or is just supremely uninterested in the art of making things explode into colours and shapes. Either way, Cole is spared the certain death that would be his lips getting anywhere near the Junker’s.

Scuffing his boot, Cole sizes up the man. Resisting the urge to roll up his sleeves, he decides to take the bull by the horns, as it were. “How d’you reckon you want to come at this?”

It’s not that Roadhog never takes off the mask. Cole is sure it must happen. It’s not attached to his skin. And Jamie has all but guaranteed that Roadhog has been without it at some unspecified point, but Cole’s never seen it. It’s almost comical, the way he’s caught Roadie just settling the filters back in place, or finishing with the straps, but not once, not ever, has seen the man’s bare face. Come to think of it, Cole ain’t sure anyone except Jamie and maybe Angie have. And that right there might say more about ‘hog than it does about Cole.

Roadhog snorts, loud enough to be heard through the mask and leans down. With one meaty finger he taps on the edge of his filter with a nail coated in chipped black polish.

And sparkles.

Well damn, Cole must have missed mani-pedi day last week.

He claims two kisses, in the end, on both filters. “One for me, one for Jamie.”

Now, he might be planning on passing on that mistletoe luck, or he may mean that he gets Jamie’s share on account of the man not being here. Cole doesn’t press too hard on it, preferring instead to bite his tongue. As his mama used to say It’s better to keep your mouth closed and look stupid than open it and prove you are.

When Mei takes his place, with Zarya looming behind her, Cole at first believes his earlier prediction to ring true. He is going to kiss the small, science loving one and be subsequently killed by the large, intimidating one behind them.

Then he notices the tears, barely hidden in Zarya’s eyes, and remembers that in this specific case, the large, intimidating one is Russian. All stereotypes aside, Cole can say one thing for every Russian he has ever met: they have the largest hearts, and some of the softest as well.

Mei starts and stops a couple of sentences, getting progressively redder as she stutters.

But for once, Cole isn’t listening. He’s thinking fast, flexing his toes in his boots and preparing to do-si-do like his life depends on it.

If he’s been unsubtle in the development of his crush, Zarya’s been positively obvious. She hangs on to Mei’s every word, looks at her like she hung the damn moon and takes every opportunity to compliment her. And Mei seems to return the attention and wonder, but neither of them have moved to bridge the gap between friendship and more.

Mei begins to rise up on her tiptoes, bracing herself on Cole’s arms to help herself reach.

Cole looks past her to where Zarya looks on with undisguised longing. Meets her eyes. Winks.

And moves, spinning them both around, using one arm to sweep her in a circle and kicking a leg out to, gently, tumble her into Zarya’s chest.

Job well done, Cole takes a leisurely step back, not worried at all about drawing their attention anymore. The world at large having shrunk down to just the two of them, completely absorbed in one another. Blushing and speaking over one another, the space between them getting scarcer by the second.

“Pog-champ!"

"What to the who now?"

"Play of the game there Cowboy, gg!” Hana cheers quietly, pounding him on the back with deceptive strength for her small frame.

“Thank you kindly,” Cole says, with what breath he still has. “you next in line?”

“Nah,” Hana shrugs, folding her hands in her huge mutli-coloured sweater. She and Lucio had both shown up in matching ugly holiday hoodies and Cole had been, for a brief moment, amazingly jealous of how comfortable they look.

“We were just waiting for your line to go down before we start clean up.”

Cole’s big mouth flaps open, ready to protest. The party cannot be over, the night is still young!

Hanzo hasn’t even gotten here yet.

But nothing comes out. Hana’s right, they’re all that’s left of the party. Especially now that Zarya and Mei have disappeared, still wrapped up tight and eyes only for the other. It’s just the three of them, crumbs, and scattered dishware.

“You’re not missing the fireworks are you?”

Hana shrugs. “Lu drew the short straw, and they defo won’t be as fun without him there.”

Cole bites back a sigh. At least one of them should have a good night.

“Tell you what, why don’t I stick around and clean up? You and Lucio head on up to the observatory with the others.”

Hana scowls. “But you helped set up!”

“And now I’m calling dibs on clean up,” He snaps back. “Obey your elders, girlie, and git gone.” He grabs another sprig of mistletoe, tossing it to her to soften the blow from mean to just this side of playful.

Hana pulls a face in protest, puffing out her cheeks, but gives in easy enough, tucking the plant away in her hoodie. “Oi! Lu! Come take a picture of the Cowboy and me for my stream!”

Convincing Lucio that he’s both serious about taking over and that he won’t need help takes a hot minute. At first, Lucio point blank refuses, and continues to stubbornly refuse until Cole pulls the Elder card once more. As a compromise, they make him pose for three pictures with Hana under the remaining mistletoe, one where they’re both looking shocked and dismayed, one where she pretends to yell at him while he protests his innocence, and finally, one where he lays a courtly kiss across her warpaint while she mugs it up, before they’re willing to get out of his hair.

As is the way with these things, cleaning up takes Cole a fraction of the time it took to decorate. Cups, plates and silverware are emptied and placed in the dishpit. Tablecloths are thrown in a hamper to be taken to laundry.

Cole leaves the pine boughs up for now, too tired to get out the ladder needed to take them down and anyway, they’re festive. ‘Tis the season.

And all that rot.

On his way back from the kitchen, ready to box up the remains of the catering, Cole gives into a fit of pique and rips the last bundle of mistletoe from the apex of the archway. The innocent white berries sittin’ pretty in the protective curve of their dark green leaves. Cole blows out a breath, releasing all the bundled up hope and nerves and disappointment and longing into a deep and heartfelt sigh. It takes about that long for the first sounds of distant popping to reach him and he spares a moment to hope the others like their fireworks. That Fareeha and Hana use their mistletoe well, and with more luck than he’s had.

He tosses the boxes on the table and himself across one of the benches, pillowing his head on his arms and trying not to glare at the fruiting weed. Fails miserably.

It’s not their fault, not really.

As much as Genji joked about it, Cole wasn’t even really hoping to pin Hanzo underneath them, anyway. As if Hanzo would fall for a silly tradition like kissing under the mistletoe. Cole doesn't even have to close his eyes to vividly imagine the look he’d get for such a bold suggestion — the furrowed brow and the slightest curl of Hanzo’s upper lip. No, all Cole really hoped against hope for was the chance to share space with the man. Maybe even make a sly comment and be graced with an actual smile, or, gods forbid, a laugh.

Hanzo’s laugh, his real unabashed laugh, is awful. Just the ugliest damn thing Cole’s ever heard, hiccuping and snorting. And Cole’s fool heart leaps every time he gets to hear it.

His comm buzzes and Cole finally has to take his eyes off the sprig and his mind off his own disappointed hopes. He expects any number of things, pictures of the fireworks, of the others, of the shenanigans they got up to with the other bundles he gave away.

What he finds makes his traitorous heart begin to kick against his ribs.

>I missed your party (╥﹏╥)

Cole fights against a smile, wanting to hang on to his heartache and completely unable to. The emoticons were a challenge and punishment all in one after Hanzo hurt Mei’s feelings through curt, toneless texting. And a Shimada never backs down from a challenge.

<Yeah, everyone’s up on the roof watching the fireworks by now.

>Ah, that is what woke me up

>(◑_◑)

>Are you watching the fireworks too? (•︣ . •᷅)

<Nah, stayed behind to clean up.

>Is there still food? (.~̃ ▿°̃.)

Cole snaps a picture of the leftovers, making sure the cakes Hanzo likes are front and center.

> !!!

Before long, Cole hears the shuffling steps of a Shimada in house slippers.

“Just what did that plant do to you?”

“Tried to pick a fight, insulted my mama, laid one on my sister,” Cole rattles off immediately, mouth moving before his brain.

“The plant did?” Hanzo badly stifles a yawn.

Cole doesn’t want to look, he knows what he is going to find and it’s all around safer for his heart and soul if he keeps his eyes locked in front of him.

He looks up anyway, and his mouth goes drier than the desert he grew up in.

Hanzo is in thin sleep pants and a t-shirt that’s rucked up over one sharp hip, his hair is falling out of his ponytail in a hundred little wisps, and he just looks so warm and rumpled, as if he had just crawled out of a bed Cole would love to take him back to.

Cole can and has pictured tucking Hanzo away in his own bed, folding him safe between layers of soft cotton and wool. Keeping a careful distance between their bodies just so he could rest his fingertips along the strong curve of Hanzo’s spine and feel him breathe deep in sleep. Rest which he clearly needs, judging by the dark circles under his eyes and the fading bruise at the corner of his shadowed jaw.

“You okay, darlin’?” Cole frowns and carefully stays where he is, instead of reaching out to cup that prickly jaw or tuck a stray strand of trailing hair behind his ear or...any of the wishes on a star that he might have.

“Fine,” Hanzo grunts, raising his arms over his head and making Cole wince in sympathy as his spine and shoulders all crack and pop audibly.

“You know,” seemingly satisfied with his stretch, he heads over to the snack table, sparing Cole a small, strained smile when he follows with the lid of a leftover box on offer for the lack of plates. “you should burn it.”

“Hm?” Cole isn’t proud of the way he has to wrench his attention back from Hanzo’s body, eyes trailing intently over his arms and back, making sure he is whole and hale even as he knows Angie wouldn’t have allowed him out of medical or herself to let go if there was even the slightest chance he wasn’t within acceptable margin for natural healing.

“The mistletoe. If you wish to be with the person you kissed under the mistletoe, you need to burn it.”

“Is that so?” He could be imagining it. Misinterpreting. But Cole would like to think he is pretty damn good at reading people in general, and Hanzo specifically.

“Hn."

Cole feels his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. That cranky noise is one Cole is only used to hearing when something hasn’t gone quite his way, or when Hanzo is truly annoyed over a particular and isn’t ready to let it go yet.

Casually, Cole turns back and grabs the little bundle of mistletoe, considers it for a second and — yeets the fucking thing as far as he can. Straight through the doorway it used to decorate, down the hall and out of sight. “Actually, fuck that.”

“Wh-?” Hanzo sputters, coughing a little on the cake filling his cheeks. On a normal day, Hanzo's way too fastidious and conscious of the image he projects to try and fit a whole cake in his mouth all at once, and Cole tries not to let his eyes or his tender heart linger on the way the crumbs cling to Hanzo's bottom lip.

Or, on the crumbs he spits out in his shock.

“Thanks to that little shit you call a brother, I got a kiss from nearly every person on this base,” Cole explains, pretty as you please.

Pinning him with a scandalized look, Hanzo half covers his mouth with his hand. “Some of them are married.”

“Didn’t stop Torb — or his wife, lemme tell you.”

“Torbjorn does not like men,” Hanzo protests, brows well and truly knitted in petulance now.

Letting good humor steep into his tone, Cole says “Neither does Reinhardt and he still gave me what is, hands down, the most romantic kiss I have ever received, to this date. Ever.”

Doesn't try to pretend to himself that he isn't saying it as a challenge, either.

The dragon is not appeased. Hanzo’s face becomes carefully blank, masking what Cole knows is serious displeasure in the circumstances he has found.

Cole's smile falters, and he narrows his eyes in a reciprocal annoyance. “Don’t be mad at me,” he demands, almost nicely. “you slept through the party I threw for you.”

"For me?" The careful-blank look shatters in a flash of honest shock, widening Hanzo's dark eyes and pulling colour across the sharp of his previously pale cheeks.

Any residual annoyance melts away, along with whatever embarrassment Cole might have felt admitting that, leaving only the same soft fondness that pulses in his chest when Hanzo is near. "That I wanted you at," he shrugs, sliding his eyes away.

“Then,” Hanzo spits out the word and then hesitates, dragging out a pause, murderously slow, before rushing out like a runaway train: “then I am sorry I missed it.”

And all the hope Cole buried in his heart lurches up and out of that shallow grave to run circles in his stomach. Mocking him. See - what he’s got at the moment is a lot of circumstantial evidence and the answer he’s drawing from it is as far from unbiased as it’s possible to be. And while Cole’s been a lot of things in his life, he ain’t ever been a coward, and he definitely didn’t get to where he is by not recognizing opportunity when it knocks on his door.

“Answer me something, would you darlin’?” Cole tips his head up to meet Hanzo’s intense stare head on. His mouth feels dry, but he pushes past it when Hanzo nods his assent. “If I’d have been up on the observatory when you texted...would you’ve joined me?”

“Yes.” No bullshitting, no deflection.

Oh, Cole could burn up under that gaze.

Hanzo has a habit of planting himself in any social situation. It’s born of genuine awkwardness covered by a strict hierarchy of ingrained rules from his youth, Cole knows, but it manifests in a bullheaded unwillingness to be the one who bends. Without fail, Hanzo will find a defensible or supply stocked position, like a buffet table, or, say, the back wall of a party near a seldom used exit and post himself. Available to be sought out but an immovable object, otherwise.

He takes a daring step forward, bridging the short gap between them that all of a sudden feels like a chasm. And Hanzo steps to meet him. Cole’s hope starts to crawl up his throat and he grins, not bothering to check the awful, besotted look that’s surely pulling at his cheeks.

“If I wanted to kiss you, would you let me?”

Those gorgeous eyes flash. “Eager to complete the set?”

“Nope,” Cole knows it’s stupid to be giddy as a newborn foal over a little jealousy, but it’s so entirely out-of-left-field charming he can’t help it. “just eager to get me the one I actually wanted, is all.” He keeps his movements slow and obvious, clearly telegraphing as he reels Hanzo in against himself, the warm line of his body radiating heat all along Cole’s front.

There are more than a dozen ways Hanzo could get out of this if he didn’t want it, and he takes none of them. Instead, he melts in Cole’s arms like Cole never in a million years thought he would, trusting Cole to take his not inconsiderable weight. Tilts his head up, permission and invitation all in one simple gesture.

It’s not the first kiss Cole’s initiated tonight. But of all the kisses he's given and received it’s the only one he’s man-on-a-wire nervous about. He isn’t slow about fitting them together, no Cole's almost embarrassingly eager to bring this dream into the waking world and give Hanzo what he’s wordlessly asking for. So he's not slow, but he is careful, so damn careful as he slots their mouths together. There are no crumbs left to be licked away, but his lips are still a little sticky and Cole can both smell and taste the sugar-vanilla-strawberry that clings to the sharp craigs of those lips. Patches of chapped skin catch and pull and Cole huffs a laugh into the kiss, pulling back just a touch to slide his mouth across Hanzo’s cheek, refusing to disconnect them but needing just a second to get his grin under control before he can go back to taking quick kisses, little sips at Hanzo’s mouth.

When Cole finally does force himself to back off, letting an inch of space in between their mouths, Hanzo makes that same small noise of upset from earlier and moves to follow him. Only to change course at the last second, muffling a jaw cracking yawn into the red and green flannel over Cole’s shoulder.

“When’d you get in, anyway?” Cole frowns. His transport was due in late last night, but not terribly late.

“Three,” Hanzo grumps, still muffled by the festive coloured cotton.

Emboldened, Cole presses a kiss to the mess of Hanzo’s hair, humming along. That’s not too late, though medical would have taken some time and — “Wait, d’you mean PM?”

Frequent periods of insomnia means that Hanzo, like Cole, takes sleep very seriously and will not sacrifice it unless he absolutely has to. Eight hours or bust, type of sleeping. Who cares about the sunrise, circadian rhythm be damned, kind of sleep.

Hanzo grumbles his assent, an incomprehensible mash of words Cole can't even tell the language of.

“Aw, baby, honey, darlin’ what are you doing awake?” Cole can’t help the way his voice thickens and sweetens like syrup on a cold day. Or the way he starts swaying them back and forth, rocking to a beat that exists only in his head.

Hanzo raises his head the bare minimum needed to glare. “You threw a party for me, I was not going to miss it.”

“You didn’t know it was for you.”

“You,” Hanzo interrupts himself, yawning.

“I’m glad you came, I really am,” Cole takes the opportunity to lavish kisses across his upturned face. Tiny pecks across his forehead, between his eyebrows, down the strong arch of his nose and to the tip of his chin. “but you should get back to bed. Lemme walk you back?”

Hanzo has Cole pack up the other three cakes before he allows himself to be guided away, staring in open amusement at the hand Cole cups around his elbow. But he doesn’t pull back or issue any type of punishment at all for the transgression. He sways closer instead, their shoulders and hips brushing together as they walk in step down the shadowed and empty halls.

He said he was going to walk Hanzo back and that is all he intends. Stopped at the door to Hanzo’s room, he hands over the box of cakes and stuffs his hands in his pockets in a mimicry of ease. There’s an idea of making breakfast on the tip of his tongue that is quickly forgotten about when Hanzo fists his free hand in Cole's shirt and yanks him in, sealing their mouths together more firmly than Cole had, licking along his lips and into his mouth with a casual possessiveness that has Cole curling his toes in his boots.

Hanzo says “Stay,” like a command against his lips.

Any other time, with any other man, that would get Cole’s back up like nothing else — but here, with this man, it just sends a frisson of heat down his spine.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on me if I stay,” Cole grins, but lets Hanzo pull him through the doorway anyway.

“Maybe, but I want you here anyway.”

Cole aches. His lips and cheeks and heart and dick all pulsing in sweet-sore agony and he couldn’t be any fucking happier about it. “Then you got me, darlin’.”

Simple as that.

Hanzo’s sheets are lighter than Cole prefers, linen or bamboo, but the man puts out heat like a woodstove, so Cole can’t really blame him. He orders Cole in first, tucking himself neatly against Cole’s back and as far as Cole can tell, is asleep before his head hits the pillow.

Cole himself has been rattling with nerves since his com went off, and he expects to lay awake in this unfamiliar bed, turning the situation over and over in his mind and processing the implications, marveling at his fortune. They’ll talk about it tomorrow, legs tangled together and trading kisses, mocking each other’s bad morning breath. Hanzo will know with absolute certainty what he wants. Cole will be more hesitant, cautious, but ultimately unwilling to not at least try.

But now, Hanzo’s breath whooshes in and out like a metronome against the short hairs on the back of his neck, his arm like a hot pack around Cole’s bare waist well making up for the lightness of the covers draws him down into comfortable sleep.