Chapter Text
gingham : a plain-woven fabric typically dyed with a bright check pattern; in North America, most commonly associated with picnic blankets and 'country' style.
Standing in the middle of his dorm and still dripping from the shower, Cole goes over his checklist for the third time. Food? The dumplings were a disaster (only just good enough for Cole to consume himself) but the purchased menestra de verduras and calentita look fancy enough. He even found cheese and salami. Booze? He couldn’t get Hanzo’s favorite sake because it was made for people with more money than God, but he did get the kind he sees him usually drinking. And he's bringing his whiskey, which Hanzo has shared with him before. Supplies? There’s no room in the basket for plates alongside the consumables, forks, knives, napkins, and glasses, but he figures Hanzo won’t mind stabbing straight into the verduras .
Or maybe he would? In the two months they’ve known one another, Hanzo has shown that he isn’t quite the irascible snob Cole’d initially pegged him as, but the man still curls his lip at things Cole wouldn’t assume merited a lip-curl. And he still uses products that look expensive as shit; just last week, when Cole peeked inside Hanzo’s dorm for the first time (just to pick up Hanzo’s sunglasses), he saw a jar in his bathroom with what he’d swear was a solid-gold sculpture of a fish on the lid. It was alongside at least six other skincare(?) products that looked equally expensive—and as a former thief, Cole knows expensive when he sees it. It screwed with his head so bad, he almost forgot the sunglasses.
And Cole really doesn’t want to screw this up. That’s why they’ve gone on four dates and he hasn’t so much as initiated a peck on the lips. From their first meeting, Hanzo struck Cole as someone not only worth going slow for, but someone who wouldn’t have it any other way.
Thirty-eight is probably too late to learn how to make careful decisions after a lifetime of a more shoot-from-the-hip MO, but it’s just a picnic. How bad could he fuck it up?
Cole's mind screeches as he wheels it away from worst-case scenarios and onto whatever the hell he’s gonna wear.
*
He winds up going with an orange-red plaid shirt, jeans, serape, and his boots. Hanzo greets him with a smile and a hand on his arm, sliding down the folded sleeve to his wrist. The urge to hold hands strikes Cole hard but he settles for offering to carry Hanzo’s surprise contribution: a box of assorted pastries that Cole hopes aren’t speckled with 24k leaf or some shit.
They chat about the team’s progress with a new strike pattern as they stroll up the north cave path. It dips under rocky outcroppings before turning into the shelf itself, passing stalagmites and pretty green pools. Then it cuts alongside a cliff where they have to walk single-file and Cole wonders whether or not Hanzo is staring at his ass.
The path ends at a dirt platform meant for tourists but they keep going, past the fence and down a steep slope to a clearing of grass and wildflowers. A large olive tree provides more than enough shade for the spread-out serape. Hanzo remarks on the spot’s loveliness and Cole internally pats himself on the back; he’d come here three days prior to clear debris and verify that it wouldn’t be too hot around sunset.
He's still smiling when he unearths Hanzo’s sake. “Got your ol’ faithful.”
Hanzo blinks slowly at the bottle. “That is… what is it?”
After stalling out for a moment, Cole checks the label. “Isn’t this what you drink all the time?”
“Ah… no. It does look similar. The Kawahara brand has a green label.”
Cole’s heart plummets; this label is bright blue. He runs his metal fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to yank it out. “Well, shit. Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” Hanzo says, taking the bottle. “I will try it.”
With a sheepish laugh, Cole shows the second bottle. “I got whiskey, too, if you’re more into that.”
“On second thought,” Hanzo smiles, “I will take the whiskey.”
Cole breathes out long and slow while he pours. He’s only seen Hanzo with that bottle a dozen times—how could he get that wrong? What if Hanzo, known sake aficionado, is actually familiar with the sake he got instead, knows it’s terrible, and just doesn’t want to cringe in front of Cole?
He decides to avoid the verduras so as to not call attention to the lack of plates and instead talks about how he used to only come to these hills to smoke or drink himself into stupors and how this is much more pleasant. Then he thinks of the sad mood he’s setting and pulls a 180° into a story about he and Ana Amari driving up the coast after one of their junior agents decided to abscond with top secret equipment.
Hanzo is listening, but Cole isn’t glancing at him every two seconds to check if he's listening. He’s making sure he’s enjoying the food, the drink, the atmosphere. It’s a fool’s errand—Cole knows that Hanzo’s feelings don’t always show on the surface—but he can’t help himself. It feels like the first time he gave a demonstration in Blackwatch, seeing Gabe's head from behind the crowd of recruits.
Eventually, he figures there’s no harm in asking. “How d’you like the grub?”
Hanzo takes a moment to respond and Cole tells himself it’s because he’s translating the term ‘grub’ and not because he’s formulating a lie. “It’s good,” Hanzo says, stabbing more artichoke. “Did you get it at the Bistró d'Azure?”
Cole shrugs, “Yeah, they covered me good. Tried to make pork dumplings, since you liked the ones in Chengdu so much. Couldn’t get the dough right.”
Hanzo’s brows lift. “You cooked?”
“Tried to,” Cole chuckles. “Turns out my twenty-plus years of microwave and campfire experience don’t quite translate to the stove.”
Hanzo looks back down at his calentita , seemingly searching for something to say, but then he just continues his meal. He’s already finished half the pie, which Cole might take as another show of politeness if he wasn’t already familiar with Hanzo’s enormous appetite.
That’s the thing—Hanzo’s bone-deep politeness makes it impossible to figure out what the man actually does or doesn’t like. He’s refused a couple times, like when Cole tried to take him to the latest movie about the superheroes and the aliens or when Cole suggested a trip to a beach that Hanzo knew was going to be crowded. But for the most part, Cole’s small attempts to please Hanzo are met with either cryptic smiles or nothing at all.
Of course, if Hanzo doesn’t like what Cole’s putting out, Cole knows he’ll find out eventually. The man never wastes one second doing something he’d rather not do. It’s just that Cole wants so badly to be the thing Hanzo wants to do.
They chat about inconsequential things until Hanzo reaches for the pastry box and holds it open for Cole to select first. He tries reaching for something he thinks wouldn’t be Hanzo’s first choice—a chocolate eclair—only for Hanzo to tell him that he tried their eclairs last week and how ‘exquisite’ they were.
Cole lunges for a second glass of whiskey before realizing that he hasn’t touched his water; the last thing he needs is to get too drunk too fast. “Don’t know why I didn’t try them before now. Always thought their stuff looked too pretty to eat in the windows.”
“You mentioned not having much free time during your stays here.”
“Yeah. Gibraltar’s always been more of a stop-on-the-way than a long-term base. S’why we had to make dorms out of the old labs.”
“That explains the smell.”
Cole chuckles. “Used to be when the main barracks was full, we’d just spread our rolls out on the cliff and sleep under the stars. Listen to the ocean. Always a nice breeze. Might be a better deal than what we got now.”
He hasn’t checked in on Hanzo’s expression for several minutes but he does so now; Hanzo is looking at him with that same focused intensity, but there’s nothing to indicate how he feels about sea breezes or the stars or sleeping under them.
That’s another thing: if Hanzo doesn’t like simple booze, or simple food cooked by simple locals, or that Cole can’t remember details so good, or that he’s a little thicker around the middle than Hanzo, or that his plaid shirt is missing a button at the top… Cole doesn’t know if he can change his mind. And deep down, past the powerful attraction and how good he thinks they could be together, he knows he doesn’t want to try.
As much as it would hurt, he'd rather be alone.
“Almost forgot,” Cole grunts, giving up on presentation and just rummaging loudly through the picnic basket. “Saw this in a weird tourist shop. Reminded me of you.”
He gives Hanzo a tiny figurine of a bobble-headed man holding a fishing pole in one hand and a huge fish in the other. The base of the figurine is messily engraved: ‘fish fear me, men fear me.’
“They had a ton of other weird tchotchkes like that. Bunch of t-shirts with crazy shit on it,” Cole snickers, “Logos mashed with other logos, cartoon characters with the catch-phrases of completely different cartoon characters. Y’ever seen those? Y’know, they’re for tourists, but everything’s just a little bit… off…”
His rambling trails off as he realizes: Hanzo is looking at the figurine in his hands with his most inscrutable expression yet.
The discomfort settles in like a disease. Cole coughs and it feels as loud as gunfire. A real bullet would be a mercy.
If he hadn't fucked it up before, he definitely has now. Why did he think Hanzo would appreciate something this stupid? The man's probably been given artisanal chocolates on first dates. Diamond-encrusted watches on thirds. Now he’s sitting on a dirty serape, surrounded by inadequate fare, holding a piece of plastic that wasn’t even good enough for a proper tourist shop. And one of the eyes is half-melted from standing in the sun too long.
Cole tries not to let his whole-body cringe reach his voice and winds up sounding overly gruff. “Well… it’s dumb, I know… thought it was good for a chuckle, at least, but—”
“No,” Hanzo says, his voice dry. He clears it with even less grace than Cole. “I…”
He seems to be fighting for a way to resolve this disaster politely, so Cole laughs a little too sharply and leans forward with a wave of his hand, “It’s fine, Hanzo, y’don’t have to keep it, was just a joke—”
But Hanzo jerks away from Cole’s reach. “No.” He looks at the figurine again, this time with an expression closer to fury.
Utterly confused, Cole does the only thing he can think of and freezes.
“I am sorry, I…” Hanzo clears his throat again, apparently unable to look at anything other than the tiny fisherman. “I have never… no one has ever done something like this. For me.”
Cole blinks. “Buy you a tchotchke?”
“No. This.” Hanzo gestures to the spread before them, “All of it,” and he gestures to the sky where the sun is grazing the edge of brilliant orange clouds and sparkling water. His gaze lifts to the swaying brances of the olive tree and Cole can just make out a gleam on his eyes that wasn’t there before. “No one has done anything like this for me before.”
At first Cole thinks Hanzo means that it’s all very foreign and new to him, and that he needs time to get used to it. To appreciate it.
But then Cole realizes that the glow in Hanzo’s face is unrelated to the setting sun, sees the tightness with which he grips the figurine, notes the way he won’t meet Cole’s gaze and realizes—he means that it’s good. He means that he likes it.
Cole should clarify anyway, because there’s still room for doubt. “So I did good?”
Hanzo looks up. He seems to search Cole’s face as a slow smile spreads over his own. There’s only the breeze and the birds and the pump of Cole’s poor, stupid heart.
Then, pressing into the serape with the hand still holding the figurine, Hanzo leans over and takes Cole’s scruffy chin and eases them both into the gentlest kiss.
Even though he can’t believe what’s happening, Cole lets his eyes close. The accumulated tension of five enjoyable yet inscrutable dates (plus one whole month of will-we-won’t-we flirting) is amplifying the already delicious pleasure of Hanzo's soft, careful lips, making him feel like maybe all of his tendons will spontaneously sprain all on their own.
Then Hanzo lets them part, looks all over Cole's face, then kisses him a second time, holding Cole's hot cheek in his palm.
Now Cole’s softening. Melting, even. He breathes out against Hanzo in a huff and he feels Hanzo smile against his mouth. It’s over too fast, but also seems to last just long enough.
“Hoh,” is the only sound he can make as Hanzo leans back. Unable to tolerate the silence, he starts babbling through his stupid grin. “Well… I…”
“You did very good, cowboy.” Hanzo refills both of their glasses, still very much smiling. Somehow they’re now sitting much closer. “I will endeavor to make sure you know exactly how much I appreciate your...” Hanzo clears his throat again; it's a relief knowing he’s almost as flustered as Cole. “Actions. In the future.”
Burning even hotter, Cole scratches at his beard where Hanzo held him and lets out another cracking laugh. “Well. Just glad I didn’t screw it up.”
“You would have to try hard to screw up, Cole.” Hanzo taps their glasses together and, when he they lock eyes, Cole feels like he believes him. “I have very good taste.”