[give her socks and some carpet and his metal hand and that will change He won't fuss as she asks for his poncho, bringing attention to the fact clothes were still soaked and in need of drying. So long as no dangerous creatures also roamed this moon, he's content on not rushing to any destination unknown. Outer layers of clothes come off one by one; the chest armor, chaps, boots, socks, and shirt all get sloughed off with a similar indifference, only impeded by wetness making fabric cling to his skin. It was hard to be modest for too long in a para-militaryesque setting like Overwatch, and McCree was definitely not shy about his body back then nor now, even as time and his vices have left their marks on him. He's not as trim as he used to be, a little thicker in the middle but by no means out of shape. Broad chest and thick arms are mottled with scars and a permanent farmer's tan. The prosthetic arm fumbles with his belt only because seeing her peel out of the top half of her suit is incredibly distracting. It's hard to not stare. Eventually he manages to free his belt and so his holster and flash bangs, and they all find a safe place to dry.
What little modesty he does have is out of respect for her and so his pants stay on.
Oh right, his hat... he begrudgingly relinquishes that too, sitting it on top of a thin crystal jutting out of the ground like a stake. More than anything that made him feel naked so to compensate he's fishing a cigar out of some unseen place in his chest piece. He lights it with his fingers, to his delight and a small chuckle.
Not content to sit still he offers a hand with anything she needs additionally, moving some of her equipment and clothes closer to the fire so she can give her ankle some rest. He finds himself a bit fascinated with one of the wing pieces, smirking at it. All metal and mechanical up close, but the way she uses them looks completely natural, like real wings.]
Amazing how some things never change.
[Once he's satisfied everything is set to dry he'll finally settle, parking his wet rear-end near the fire and near her. He knows this conversation is coming and doens't necessarily mind, though he'd much rather hear her talk.]
no subject
give her socks and some carpet and his metal hand and that will changeHe won't fuss as she asks for his poncho, bringing attention to the fact clothes were still soaked and in need of drying. So long as no dangerous creatures also roamed this moon, he's content on not rushing to any destination unknown. Outer layers of clothes come off one by one; the chest armor, chaps, boots, socks, and shirt all get sloughed off with a similar indifference, only impeded by wetness making fabric cling to his skin. It was hard to be modest for too long in a para-militaryesque setting like Overwatch, and McCree was definitely not shy about his body back then nor now, even as time and his vices have left their marks on him. He's not as trim as he used to be, a little thicker in the middle but by no means out of shape. Broad chest and thick arms are mottled with scars and a permanent farmer's tan. The prosthetic arm fumbles with his belt only because seeing her peel out of the top half of her suit is incredibly distracting. It's hard to not stare. Eventually he manages to free his belt and so his holster and flash bangs, and they all find a safe place to dry.What little modesty he does have is out of respect for her and so his pants stay on.
Oh right, his hat... he begrudgingly relinquishes that too, sitting it on top of a thin crystal jutting out of the ground like a stake. More than anything that made him feel naked so to compensate he's fishing a cigar out of some unseen place in his chest piece. He lights it with his fingers, to his delight and a small chuckle.
Not content to sit still he offers a hand with anything she needs additionally, moving some of her equipment and clothes closer to the fire so she can give her ankle some rest. He finds himself a bit fascinated with one of the wing pieces, smirking at it. All metal and mechanical up close, but the way she uses them looks completely natural, like real wings.]
Amazing how some things never change.
[Once he's satisfied everything is set to dry he'll finally settle, parking his wet rear-end near the fire and near her. He knows this conversation is coming and doens't necessarily mind, though he'd much rather hear her talk.]