Chapter Text
Curt Mega was an impossible man, but that was what made him so irresistible. He was charming, but incredibly goofy, he was smart but dopey. Owen had tried very hard not to get attached to anyone or anything after the death of his parents, but Curt had wormed his way into his heart against Owen's will. Against his better judgment, and his heart's approval, he had fallen for that man.
Owen loved him. He loved the twinkle in his eyes, he loved the curve of his lips as a smile crept onto his face. He loved his sense of humor, his snark, his terrible attempts at being suave. He loved Curt's passion for the Yankees (even if Owen had absolutely no interest in American Baseball) and how much he cared for his mother. He was a kind hearted asshole, a soft but snarky jackass. How could Owen Carvour resist him?
He had nothing but his job, not really. That was what made him such a perfect applicant for becoming a spy. Owen had no living family left, a strong loyalty to his country, and an interest in international politics. The fact that he was an amazing actor certainly didn't hurt either. Still, his isolation that made him an excellent spy led him to be a cold and lonely person before he'd met Curt on that mission. Somehow Curt had managed to melt some of the ice inside him, and he had not truly been alone since. They could go through months without seeing or hearing from one another, but even so, they had each other to turn to.
It was one of those periods where they hadn't spoken in a while, so it was quite a surprise to run into each other on the job. Owen had been planted undercover in the Russian weapons facility almost 14 weeks ago, and had been out of contact with anyone but his handler. As such, he was quite startled when he recognized the man he was scheduled to torture for information. If the Americans were involved, then his mission was compromised and they would have to escape the situation as quickly as possible. His goal of obtaining the weapons plans was still possible, but the deeper investigation into the potential outside party responsible would have to wait.
Curt had no idea it was him that was leading this 'interrogation' and it amused Owen greatly. He wouldn't let his 'assistant' actually harm Curt of course, but it wasn't exactly uncommon for them to do similar things for fun in private. Personal history had its benefits, and in this particular case, the benefit was the knowledge of all the previous times they'd had intimate fun together in a very similar manner. He enjoyed the macho, cool guy persona Curt put on when he was on the job, if only because he knew exactly how to break it down. The feather did the trick, because of course it did, and Owen put it away.
"Hmm, well, personal history does have its benefits, Mega," he stated, pulling out his gun.
Curt paused and looked over, eyebrow raised with dawning realization. Owen tended to use that line to reveal himself to Curt without letting anyone else onto the truth. While Curt could be very observant, Owen was simply damn good at being undercover. The fact that Curt had a hard time recognizing him when he took up a role was not a mark against Curt. Rather it was evidence to Owen's skill that even the person closest to him in the world couldn't discern his true identity.
"Oleg, we're finished here," Owen said, shooting Oleg's knees. He pulled off his disguise as he switched back to his proper accent. "Sorry to cut you down, old boy. Thanks for a lovely afternoon of letting off some steam. It was the bees knees."
"Owen Carvour, you limey bastard. I knew it was you all along. The accent sure could use some work though," Curt teased as Owen released him from the cuffs.
"Oh sod off, it fooled twenty Russian security officers and our dear friend Oleg over here," Owen retorted, knowing damn well that Curt was lying. His Russian and Russian accent were quite good, he had infiltrated plenty of Russian groups in his years as a spy. This specific accent though was new for him and he slipped up a bit when teasing Curt.
"You sure let him go to town on me, didn't you?" Curt said as he stood and rubbed his wrists.
"Yeah, I thought it might be nice to knock you around a bit. Good for the ego. Plus, I figured his day was about to get a whole lot worse," Owen said with a shrug.
"Good point," Curt said, walking over to Oleg. "Well, I hope you at least had some fun. I know we sure did."
"What's happening?" Oleg asked as he panicked on the floor.
"Well, you've just been used for sport by two of the world's greatest spies," Owen explained.
"And I'm about to escape this compound with the blueprints that I've stolen," Curt added.
"Undoubtedly killing countless men along the way," Owen continued.
"And though we've obliterated your knees…" Curt said.
"You'll probably be one of the few lucky ones who survive," Owen concluded.
"So?" Oleg asked desperately.
"So you're welcome," Curt said, knocking the man out with his gun. "Next time you decide to start with the foreplay, let me know before someone starts attempting to break my fingers."
"You were never in any real danger, and you can't say it wasn't fun," Owen replied as he stood up. "I thought you'd like the baseball bit."
Curt chuckled. "You do know how to treat me," he said in a teasing tone. "I should have known it was you the moment you brought up baseball."
"You know it's not too late to quit being a spy and pursue a career in the sport," Owen joked.
"And leave you to handle these missions on your own? Never," Curt said, kissing him on his cheek quickly before grabbing ahold of Owen's jacket and dragging him from the room.
Owen gently pushed his hands off and took the lead because he knew the compound better. "Try to keep up, old boy," he said fondly as he headed up the ladder.
"Alright," Curt said, rolling his eyes before noticing a Russian worker on the catwalk with them. "Oh, shit!" Curt shot the man right as he set off the alarm. That would make the mission slightly more complicated, unfortunately, but nothing they couldn't handle.
Curt's watch began to alarm and he answered it to hear Cynthia's voice on the other side. "Mega! Where the hell are you? Quit your tom-fuckery and get me those nuclear weapon blueprints immediately."
Owen gently pulled Curt's wrist closer to himself. "Consider it done, Cynthia," he said with a smile. "You can expect those blueprints on the double."
"Is that Owen?" she asked fondly. "Thank God, someone who actually knows what the hell they're doing."
Owen stuck his tongue out at Curt and Curt just gave him an exasperated but warm expression in response. He enjoyed Cynthia quite a lot, she was totally different from his own handler and had a great sense of humor. The two of them enjoyed pretending to vie for her approval.
"MI6 didn't tell me you were on this mission," she added.
More often than not, if Owen was on a mission that intersected with Curt's, his handler would alert her of that so Curt could keep it in mind. It was highly unusual for her not to know Britain was also involved in a situation, simply for logistical reasons. Owen couldn't tell her why she wasn't told this time, because most of MI6 wasn't aware of it either and letting her know could jeopardize the investigation. It wasn't that he did not trust Cynthia or Curt, but rather that he didn't trust no one else was listening.
"Well, there's a reason it's called the Secret Service, love," he teased instead. When the time was right, his handler would let her in on what they knew about the organization unconnected to a country that they suspected was infiltrating every security organization in the world. Until then he would have to leave her in the dark. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement and aimed his gun. "Curt, behind you!" he said. Curt ducked and Owen shot the Russian down.
"Funny and focused. Listen, if you ever wanna leave those stuffed shirted red coats you work for-"
"Well I believe they call that treason, my dear," Owen said, cutting her off. He and Curt had discussed the idea of their eventual retirement, and had concluded that Owen would move to East Rutherford, New Jersey to live close to the Mega family, but Owen was totally loyal to his country when it came to work.
"Our door is always open," she finished quickly.
"Gotta go," Curt said, hanging up the call.
"Jeez, are you jealous? You know I'd never work for the Americans," Owen teased.
"Oh I do know… that you couldn't handle it," Curt teased back as he pulled out his flask.
"Oh, Curt, no. Not until we're out of here," Owen scolded. Curt had a habit of drinking more and more often than he should, and Owen really tried to moderate it out of concern. It wasn't exactly a problem, not yet anyway, he'd never done a mission drunk before. Curt just tended to rely on it to soothe his nerves more than made Owen comfortable, but he had little room to talk.
"Not until the job is done," Curt said in a terrible English accent, offering him the flask.
Owen sighed and took a swig. He missed whiskey after months of only having access to vodka and Curt knew it. Besides, it was just a sip, not enough to impact his senses. He didn't want to enable the behavior, but there wasn't much he could do at the moment. They could discuss it further later. The pair made it through the compound, taking down guards and workers as they went without much difficulty. Curt's watch suddenly alarmed again and they both sighed as he answered it.
"Curt, do you read me?" a high pitched voice asked.
"Barb," Curt replied, not sounding too annoyed yet. They both knew she had a crush on Curt, but luckily she'd always been fairly professional about it.
"I-... We've all been worried sick. What did I tell you about turning off your tracker?" Barb scolded.
"Every man deserves a little bit of privacy," Curt replied. They both had a habit of turning their trackers off when they were together so that they could take some time to themselves before being separated again for an unknown length of time. Of course they both got in trouble for it, but they were too good to face much. Turning off the trackers never impacted their work, so it never caused much trouble.
"Sure, but you're not a man. You're property of the United States Government," Barb huffed. They may be property, but at least they were more handsome than other government property like a stapler, or perhaps a tank. Yes, Owen preferred Curt to a tank in most situations.
"Focus, Barb, what's the plan?" Curt said, rolling his eyes.
"Sorry, simply photograph the blueprints with the camera in your watch and they'll be broadcast to my location," Barb said cheerfully.
"That sounds boring. Isn't there some cool gizmo I can use instead?" Curt asked. Owen smirked at him, knowing he was pulling her chain.
"Fine, are you wearing the brown shoes I gave you?" she huffed.
"Uh, sure," Curt said as he ate a banana. Why the hell did he bring a banana? It didn't matter, Owen focused on dismantling the security system.
"The left one is equipped with a rocket launcher," Barb stated.
"Yesss," Curt said.
"Your shoes are black, love," Owen said, looking up for a moment before looking back at his work.
"Oh shit, no go on the shoes, Barb, they didn't match my outfit," Curt said.
"Criminey!" Barb huffed. "Well, it won't be too hard to walk you through how to use the watch-"
"We gotta blow this whole facility," Curt interrupted.
"But the watch!"
"Barb, send me the coordinates of the plane and we'll rendezvous in thirty," Curt said as he hung up the call.
"Really? You're eating now?" Owen scolded as he finished rewiring the security system, causing doors to unlock and railings to drop. It made things more dangerous but it made getting what they came there for easier. They would have plenty of time to reinstate it and play it safe as they left.
"You worry too much, Old Man," Curt teased as he finished the banana and tossed the peel on the ground.
"And now you're littering," Owen sighed.
"It's not like it'll make a difference when we blow this place up!" Curt said, patting Owen's chest.
Owen just rolled his eyes and led the way down the stairs to where he knew information was stored. He'd certainly been there long enough to know his way around, and had been slowly discovering where specific information was stored. As Curt set up the destruction of the facility, Owen focused on grabbing as much paperwork as possible and shoving it in the inner pockets of his jacket. They'd give the Americans copies of the information. Probably. That wasn't really his concern. His worry was his mission which was imploding and the two of them getting out in one piece.
"What was our record? Last year in Berlin? Six minutes?" Curt called as he began to set up the explosives charges.
"I don't like the look in your eye, Mega, yes six minutes," Owen said, handing Curt a piece he needed before going over to what he was tasked to do.
"You love it. Do you think we can do it in five?" Curt called with a sneaky grin.
Owen did some quick math about how long it would theoretically take them to get out of the place. "Make it in four," he stated.
"Three it is," Curt said, finishing up.
"Three?! Damn it, Curt, four would be cutting it close," Owen huffed as he shoved the last of the important papers in his pockets.
"And we're the best, don't bother with the papers anymore and let's go!" Curt said, gently pushing Owen towards the door.
Owen stopped by the door to put the security back in place. If they were going to be rushing to get out, they needed to be safe about it. They weren't going to have time to risk assess as they went, they needed the security there to help them leave faster. It would also limit the blast and give them extra time to leave, it was necessary.
"What are you doing?! We need to go!" Curt said, pulling him.
"I'm reinstating the security barricades. If we do that it will limit the blast-"
"We don't have time for that!"
"No, Curt, listen, you're going to want to do this, alright?" Owen said, gently placing a hand on Curt’s chest to soothe his impulsive nature. They were a balance, Curt was reckless, Owen was careful. Unfortunately the situation seemed to be leaning more towards the reckless side than the careful side and that lack of balance could only spell trouble.
"N-" Before Curt could fully protest, Russians were at the door they were about to leave. Owen quickly got on Curt’s other side as more of them came in the side entrances of the room. They didn't have time for this. Owen grabbed Curt’s hand and pulled him past the Russians, running down the hall as quickly as they could. They could have beaten the lot of them, that was certain, but they didn't have the time to do it and escape.
Owen led as he knew the facility better, and Curt followed close behind giving him cover. Soon they were at the stairs they had been on previously and as Owen turned to go up the next flight, he noticed Curt slip. It was as though everything was suddenly in slow motion. Curt had stepped on the banana peel he'd left. The security measures hadn't been reinstated so the guard rails were down. He slipped. He slipped and as if time had slowed to a snail's pace, Curt lost his balance and fell off the side of the stairs. Owen reached out to grab his hand but only managed to pull his watch free as Curt fell to the ground below. How tall was it? How tall was it?! Two stories? Three?
Owen peered over the edge at his beloved's broken body on the ground so far below. He wanted to get to him. He needed to get to him. He couldn't. If he attempted to get to him he would die in the explosion too. Both of them would die. Curt was dead. Even if the fall hadn't killed him, the explosion that they didn't have time to avoid would. If Owen went to him he would die too. There would be no one to mourn him, there would be no one to explain what happened. But he couldn't leave him, he couldn't leave his love broken and alone at the bottom of a building about to explode, how could he? How could he?
"Curt, I'm sorry!" Owen screamed as he began to bolt up the stairs before his mind caught up. Self preservation had been his only driving force for so long that in that moment of deep emotional distress it took over. He ran, just like he had when he was struggling as a teen alone in London during the war. The image of Curt’s body stuck in his mind as the force of the explosion knocked him down into the grass, it was all he could see as he shook from the adrenaline and horror that filled him. He laid there in shock for a period of time he couldn't name, struggling to remember how to be alive when his heart just died in a fiery explosion.
Owen was good at many things. He was a great shot, an amazing actor, good at charm and manipulation alike. But, what he might be best at was the survival instinct he'd gained growing up in such a traumatic time: compartmentalization. Pain and grief and horror would do him no good at the moment. He was still in danger. There were still Russians around, and he wouldn't be safe until he got to the pick up point. He couldn't shut down yet. He couldn't grieve yet. Those emotions would get him killed. Owen packed up that grief, that horror, that torment into a little box and locked it away where it couldn't hurt him.
He stood up, still shaking from the adrenaline, and zipped his coat back up as he began to make his way forward. Thank God for the watch, or else he would have no idea where the Americans were parked in wait. The voyage to the meeting point was a blur, but he supposed that he couldn't lock the shock up inside given that it was a biological response and would instead simply have to deal with it. It was lucky that it was too warm for snow to be on the ground, and that it hadn't rained in several days so his footprints weren't leaving marks on the ground as he went.
Owen kept his gun drawn and focused on taking measured breaths to calm his biological reactions to the situation he had just experienced. Shaking would weaken his aim, and if he was caught that wouldn't do. The hyperventilating would only exhaust him and was unhelpful, the tears that wanted to fall were only making it more difficult to see and provided no help in the current scenario.
There was shouting in the distance, Russians arguing with each other about what happened and attempting to figure out what to do. Someone probably knew that at least one of the people responsible had escaped, they were going to be hunting him if they hadn't already started. Owen did his best to remain quiet as he rushed towards the meeting spot. He dreaded explaining what happened to Curt when he got there. It was all going to be a mess. His handler wasn't expecting this disruption of his mission, certainly, there was no plan of escape in this instance. They weren't anticipating any of this, it would take a bit to get everything sorted.
Slowly the sounds of the Russians diminished as he got closer to the meeting point. He began to notice he was slowing down, and realized his adrenaline had kept him from noticing the large wound on the back of his left leg. As it had begun to wear off, he'd started to limp more it seemed. He'd been so focused on escaping that he hadn't felt the shrapnel hit him in the explosion. Fascinating, the things shock and adrenaline could do to a person. The gash wasn't a concern for the moment though, he just needed to focus on getting to safety.
"Mega?" a man standing beside the plane called. Owen couldn't place this person's identity, he didn't know every American agent by name, but he knew this man definitely was an A.S.S. agent. Safety.
"Just Carvour," Owen called back. "Mega didn't make it."
"Shit, Cynthia is going to be pissed," he sighed, wrapping an arm around Owen’s shoulder and helping him onto the small plane.
Owen just nodded as he sat in one of the few seats on the plane and took stock of the situation. He had all his limbs, all his fingers and toes, no concussion as far as he could tell. The haziness could easily be attributed as a biological response to his emotions rather than a head injury. There was a wound on his left leg but it wasn't bleeding too quickly, and wasn't bothering him too much as far as he was aware. That was likely due to the total numbness he was feeling though, rather than anything connected to the injury itself.
Curt's watch that he was still holding onto tightly began to ring and Owen answered it on instinct. "Mega?" Cynthia's voice called from the watch.
Of course the other guy hadn't told her, let the Brit feel her wrath instead. "It's Owen. Curt’s dead," Owen said flatly.
There was a pause on the other end as Cynthia processed that. "Are you sure?"
"I watched him fall several stories, land in a bloody, broken heap, then was forced to abandon him in a building that exploded. I didn't exactly get to check his heartbeat to be certain, but given what happened I doubt there's anything left of him but a mangled corpse that was burned beyond recognition," Owen stated. The fact that he could say that the same way he could speak about the weather was noteworthy, though he couldn't feel any concern about it. His numbness was a godsend at the moment.
Cynthia took a long breath and Owen realized he might have said too much. Just because that was how he was coping with what happened didn't mean it was helpful for others. A simple 'yes' would have done fine. He also couldn't help but feel like his cover was blown and that she would see through his cold mask at how broken up he was inside. "Fuck, okay," she sighed. "Are you physically hurt?"
"My leg might need stitches but it isn't bothering me much," Owen started, looking at it again. "It's hard to tell because it's on the back of my thigh."
"You'll get patched up once you two land. I'll tell your handler what's going on. Did you get the information Curt was looking for?" Cynthia asked.
"I have what I was looking for. You'll have to ask my boss for access to it though, I'm afraid. I still don't work for you," Owen stated. It was easier to talk about work, it was so much easier to talk about work.
"Fine, fine. The offer for you to come work for us instead is still on the table," Cynthia offered.
"And it is still treason," Owen replied. "I mostly managed to complete my mission, I will say that."
"That's good at least. I'll let your handler know," Cynthia said. "He's a fucking tight ass but at least he's damn good at his job."
Owen paused, realizing that she was attempting to distract him from the emotional distress he was Not feeling. It could never be said that Cynthia Houston wasn't damn good at her job too. Distracting him in a way she knew would work though, it was a kindness he didn't expect from her. "Thank you. I'll have to debrief with you once my leg is patched up. I'll explain what happened in Curt’s stead."
"We'll get there when we get there, just don't fucking bleed out in the meantime," Cynthia said.
"I'll do my best not to," Owen sighed, hanging up the call.
Time blurred again as he dozed a bit on the plane ride. Exhaustion had replaced the adrenaline, making it difficult to keep his eyes open. It wasn't until the plane jolted into the ground that he awoke with a groan and oh, he probably should have at least tried to bandage his leg, shouldn't he? Oh well, a bit late now. They were in… West Germany most likely. Maybe Finland? He couldn't pinpoint which was closer to the facility at the moment, where exactly the facility was on the map escaped him in his haze.
Several people entered the plane and assisted him out. Part of him wanted to resist the strangers in his growing delirium but he was too weak from his wound being left unchecked for at least two hours, maybe three. Thankfully the wound hadn't hit anything important, but without any treatment it had been free to bleed for quite some time. His lack of action could only be partly attributed to his exhaustion though, Owen knew. The numbness was making it hard to care about that sort of thing. Why bother to stop the bleeding if it meant-
He was assisted into a stretcher and taken into what he assumed was a hospital. This was probably an American base hospital, somewhere they wouldn't ask questions. It couldn't be a normal hospital for whatever country this was, because all of the medical staff around him had American accents. More likely than not it was West Germany. If they were in Finland, the sun would be lower in the sky by roughly an hour. Owen was nothing if not observant, even in his mental state.
Time blurred again. He was in a room. They were stitching his leg. He was in a hospital gown. His face was cleaned. The lights were off. The lights were on. A doctor checked on him. The lights were off again. The lights were on, a nurse brought him food he didn't bother to eat. The food was taken away and the lights were turned back off. It was all a blur. All he could think of, when he was awake, was that they'd stolen the last clothes of his that Curt had touched. The last clothes Curt had seen him wear. They were gone and so was Curt and nothing was going to be okay ever again.
But it was fine. He was numb. He wasn't grieving, he wasn't suffering. He was numb. The grief bubbled under the surface where he couldn't see or feel it. Owen was still entirely functional, aside from managing the blood loss and exhaustion. Once he rested he would be fine. It would be fine. He didn't need Curt. He didn't need anyone. He could spend the rest of his life entirely alone, as he had for years prior, and it would be fine.