Jesse McCres is many things. Outlaw, last of the cowboys, former Blackwatch member, and current Overwatch member. He was a crack shot with his Peacekeeper, always handy in a fight, and could make a mean tostado when given enough time and ingredients.

He was also not blind to people's actions.

As a man known for his quick draw, he knows the body's action. Doctor Ziegler might be a licensed and famed practitioner, but he could spot the tell of a gunman from the barest hint of movement.

Seeing his colleagues in Overwatch skirt around each other like some high school teenagers was way easy to the point of painful.

Which is why he finds himself starring in absolute bafflement when problems that could easily be seen and solved, are stalwartly ignored.

"Hanzo, partner, please remind me that everyone in 'ere is a trained individual and not some ranch greenhorn ," he droned. The Japanese man only grunted his part as he inspected his arrows. McCree only sighed.

Hanzo was also one of his "ranch greenhorns". Though he followed his brother's calling, the two had yet to actually exchange words in their off time. In fact, the most McCres has ever seen the two interact was when Genji was practicing one of his sword forms, and Hanzo "accidentally" entered the same room as him. He apologized and left. That was it.

Hands in his pockets, he went through the corridors of the Gibraltar HQ and saw some more green horns. Namely Soldier 76 and Reaper, or Jack Morrison and Gabriel Reyes.

McCres sighed as he saw the two "ex-friends" glare angrily at each other from their sides on the firing field. Though both wore their masks, it was very easy to tell that they still didn't "come to terms" with what became of the old Overwatch.

Then again... McCree's eyes glanced down as his cybernetic prosthetic arm. The large explosion that had "killed" both Morrison and Reyes, left him short of an arm.

"Get your disgusting tools of anarchy out of my space!"

"Love, see this line? That's my area, so you can buzz off before one me toys explode."

McCree made a beeline away from that area. Lord knows that area was a ticking time bomb, figuratively and literally. Between Junkrat's toys, Symetra's tools, or Torbjorn's turrets, he didn't know what would blow first.

McCree rolled out of the way from a flying pot. Looking up to see if it was safe, he mumbled something rude. Mother and daughter fighting was never a good thing to see.

And while he prided himself on his well traveled tendencies and his rather wide range of known languages, Arabic was not one of them. He could sweet talk a lady in Spanish, Chinese, Gallic, German, or Italian, but he wouldn't dare trying that with one the Amari ladies.

He didn't fancy being accidentally "blown up" or "pin pricked" on the next mission, no sir. He also knew that they were happy to see each other, just not after the current circumstance.

He was frankly happy that Ana was alive, that women saved his sorry hide on more than one occasion. He also knew that the women really didn't want her daughter to follow her path as a military women.

"C'mon love! Slow down! You gotta talk to me some time! You're free from Talon, you can talk to me!"

"..."

Someone roughly pushed past McCree in a hurried stride. A blue streak zoomed past his nose.

"Sorry Jesse!"

McCree felt like he should let this all slide. Let all their offish aggression to each other pan out. But it was just so pointless, the cowboy wondered if he should take Fremch leave. Or just simply quit the whole kit and caboodle and make for the dusty west again.

It was never confusing.

When he came upon the garden, he smiled pleasantly. Green was always a better sight to one's eyes than dusty brown. Especially so when the two resident Omnics, Zenyatta and Bastion, interacted with the bird folk around them.

Unlike most, McCree really didn't care for the whole "Murderus Omnic Rampages" most people have been yammering about since way back in the first crisis. As far as he was concerned, that was a job. Be it human, machine, drone, turret, or construct, if it got in his way, it was an enemy. If it didn't, he could care less.

"Ah, Mister McCree, it is nice to see you." McCree looked to see Zenyatta float over to him. He tipped his hat to the monk.

"Pleasure as well Zenyatta," he responded.

"I sense discord in your heart." McCree had to bite back some laughter. Of course, the only other person who would understand what he saw would be Zenyatta. The Omnic had all his "monk spiritual witchcraft" about him to help out.

"You could say that," he chuckled as he sat on a bench. A bird choose this time float onto the brim of his hat. "You could say that team dynamics, ain't the greatest since everyone started to grind axes."

"Yes. Much discord lies in the hearts of former friends and brothers. Some more than others." Zenyatta nodded sagely as a bird flew over onto his extended finger. "Bastion has questioned to why such things have not been resolved."

"Humans are stubborn folk, Zen," McCree lamented. "We get caught up with feuds, grudges, and spats, to the point that we forget what we really fought for in the begginin."

"An astute observation Mister McCree," Zenyatta nodded.

"Please, call me Jesse. Mister McCree is my old man, and he certainly didn't like it when anyone called 'im that."

"My apologize Jesse," Zenyatta affirmed. "But it seems that you are an individual who doesn't let such affect you?" McCree let out a small bark of laughter.

"Call it the, "Western Education", if you will." His hand tapped his head. "My old man would say that city slickers are too smart fer their own good. Too smart to see what's in front of 'em, and simply try and find a "better" trail to follow. 'Course, this is the same man who'd be soaked well into the evening."

"An interesting man, your father," Zenyatta noted. McCree smirked under his hat.

"Yeah, he was. Taught me how to shoot, how to drink, everything, including not to be stuck with a solvable difficulty."

Zenyatta only hummed as the two, and Bastion, rested in the garden. With his hat tipped over his brow, McCree was content with this easy atmosphere.

'Course... I could aid a fella or two out...

Bleh, when I play something, I can't help but do fanfiction. At the same time, I like to practice how to write as well. Basically, I'm going to write McCree as this whole "voice of reason" at Overwatch because of the West mentality he's got.

Let's be honest, every single lovable member of Overwatch as some major baggage they carry, except McCree. He could give less of shit to any problems of the past.

Favorite, follow, and comment if you enjoyed. I might add more chapters or not...