Bad Name (McCree X Reader)

Chapter 2: Drink

You feel the plane touch down on the ground. Before the pilot can get out of his seat, you grab your luggage and hop out of the plane. It's about ten at night once you get there, but you have no idea how long the flight took. You immediately walk into the city and look for your apartment building. You spot an almost empty bar when you walk down the street. After finding the building, you go into your room and drop your bags. Hoping the bar is still open and ignoring your bags and weapons (aside from the knife you always have attached to your bra strap), you grab your wallet and rush to the bar.
You open the door to the establishment, the bell on the door tinkling. Sighing and sitting on a barstool, you lean on the counter. "Hoo, that was a long flight," you complain. "I am ready to get completely ossified." You summon the bartender. "I'll take a pint of the black schtuff," you say in your thick Irish accent. Correcting yourself, you say, "Sorry, I meant a Guinness." The bartender nods and grabs a glass. You hear the bell on the door go off and footsteps behind you. A man sits at the counter, a couple of seats away from you. The stirrups on his boots jingles with every step as he finds his seat. His crimson serape rests on his shoulders. His left arm, which appears to be a robotic prosthesis, rests on the table. He tilts his head down so his hat casts a shadow over his face, the only light being from the dimly lit cigar he holds between his teeth.  The silver revolver in the holster on his belt lets you know he's armed. You stare at him out of your peripheral vision, unable to tear your eyes away from his chiseled profile. He catches your gaze and you dart your eyes toward the large selection of alcohol behind the counter. The man turns to you, knowing you were staring. His golden belt buckle engraved with the letters "BAMF" gleams in the light. You feel the gaze from his chestnut brown eyes pierce the place where your soul should be (after about three years of killing, it just kinda stopped existing).
"Hey. You." His deep, gravelly voice breaks the awkward silence. To avoid suspicion, you put on your best innocent act.
"Me?" You turn on your stool to face him. He looks at your outfit.
"Haven't seen you 'round here before. I reckon you're new here."
"Y-yeah... I just moved here. From out of the country. Ireland, to be exact."
A flirty smile stretches across the man's face. "Well, as a sorta welcome gift, why don't I pay for your drink?" He grabs his wallet and pays for your drink and his own. You can't help but smile and thank him. He smiles a little more and tips his hat. The bartender hands you your Guinness and the man a Blue Moon still in the bottle. He must come here often, he didn't even tell the bartender what he wanted. The man stares semi-wide-eyed at your tall glass of beer. "Guinness? You kinda struck me as a 'Fancy Wines' kinda gal," he jokes as he takes a sip from his bottle.
You chuckle a little as you take a long sip of your drink. "Oh, I know my alcohol, boyo. I love the intense stuff. Besides," you say as you put your glass on the table, "Wine is gross." The man tilts his hat up so you can see his face with no shadow. You can already feel your face heating up.
He laughs a little. "I agree one hundred percent." You realize something.
"Oh! We're having a full on conversation, and I don't even know your name!" You use your fake name. "My name is {Y/N}. It's nice to meet you," you say as you extend your hand.
The man shakes your hand and replies, "The name's McCree."
"Got a first name, McCree?"
"Why?"
"I never liked being on a last name basis with people."
"Fine. It's Jesse."
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Jesse."
Suddenly, the doors burst open and three armed soldiers walk in.

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
They found me out.