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[ McCree is, hilarious enough, on his way home from his bartending job when Hanzo literally runs into him. With his attention briefly on his phone — scoping the network for familiar faces, interesting people, and those that should be avoided at all costs — and the late hour of the night, he doesn't really expect it until the weight hits his shoulder.

A familiar voice whispers an insult. McCree stops, a hand on Hanzo's arm to steady him instinctively. ]

Whoa there. [ The smell of beer hits him and it somehow overpowers the scent of alcohol already covering him from head to toe. Honestly? Impressive. ] Rough night, darlin?

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