Chapter Text
Curt was sure he was meant to be feeling something. Anything. Crushing grief, or euphoric joy; his partner was dead, but so was the man who had tortured him. He figured, with almost childlike logic, that they might’ve canceled each other out.
Of course, that was staggeringly inaccurate, but hey. A guy could hope.
He ignored the little psychoanalyst voice in his head that said he was probably so emotionally drained that he couldn’t afford any emotion other than terrifying numbness.
When he went to bed, the pristine sheets felt wet with blood. He ignored it.
In the darkness, he could see faces everywhere. He ignored them.
Three times, on the edge of sleep, an ear-shattering gunshot rang just beside his head. He ignored it.
On the fourth attempt, he finally felt himself fall into nothing.
He kept falling.
Falling for minutes, hours, years maybe.
Endless blackness.
He wondered if that was death.
He wondered if this was where he’d sent Owen.
He wondered if he would find him there.
He hoped not.
Curt opened his eyes to a harsh white light. He’d lost count of how many times that had been his alarm clock and, quite frankly, he’d never kept said count in the first place. But being kidnapped was the last thing he needed. Ever, but especially at that moment.
He sighed heavily.
“Ah, he lives.” a voice said from behind him. Thick accent. Most likely Russian.
Curt felt a sudden surge of irritation because he really did not fucking need this. He really, really did not need this.
Here comes the condescending tone , he thought, nodding at the sheer fucking irony of fate: “Yeah, that’s the idea. Listen, sweetheart, I’d love to have a chat, but I gotta warn you that I haven’t had a great day and-”
He froze. The man had moved in front of him.
And that stupid hat was just as familiar as that stupid mustache and that stupid accent.
Curt didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The name, rebellious, formed on his lips anyway, barely even visible, but the man knew him well.
He nodded, ever so slightly, and brought a finger to his lips under the guise of scratching the slight scruff on his crooked jaw. And that was the moment Curt knew something was horribly wrong. Or it was a dream.
Something came over him then. A maelstrom of emotions with one single thought in its center.
I don’t want to be here .
He felt worse than the first time he’d been there. Oleg’s punches hurt more, because this time he knew for a fact that Owen was right there . And, if this was a dream and if Curt knew him at all, he knew what was going to happen. Nothing.
No one was coming to help him this time.
He laughed, bitterly.
“What’s so funny, Mr Mega?” the vision asked him, and he laughed more.
“Nothing, love .” he mocked, and he could swear the vision flinched slightly, “Go on.”
They moved away. He overheard a brief conversation in Russian, the usual things. What now, get the pliers, the usual things. Nothing. Nothing that mattered.
Curt figured he was going to wake up at the usual moment, with the sound of Owen’s gun still echoing in his ear. Sometimes it was Russia. Sometimes it was Montecarlo. Sometimes it was even earlier than that, at the very beginning, and soon it would be in a dingy cell, somewhere in the phantomatic dungeons of Chimera, Curt was sure. He knew he was going to have nightmares, because he always did.
He realized the two men were still conversing. He remembered that too. In his drunken haze, two days after the fall, he remembered thinking that Owen had been buying time. Time was the last thing he wanted.
“Hey!” he shouted, drawing their attention, “Get it over with already!!”
He was sure he’d caught Owen rolling his eyes. And then those same eyes stretched to the size of dinner plates when Curt laid back in the chair and started spouting information.
“My name is Curt Mega, I work for the A.S.S., I’m here to steal your nuclear weapon blueprints, anything else you need or…?”
Owen’s mouth twisted with disdain: what the fuck are you doing , he mouthed, indignantly. Curt’s only response was a grin.
Oleg, on his part, looked completely dumbfounded. “He… he’s lying! Liar!!” he blabbered.
Owen’s face contorted into a disapproving smile: “No.” he sighed, reaching into his pocket, “No, he’s not.”
Bang!
Bang!
The poor henchman collapsed with a cry of pain, cradling one of his probably shattered knees.
“Now, Curt, you know I love a challenge, but that was simply unnecessary.” Owen huffed, flicking his cap off his head with graceful hands. What a fucking joke. Curt laughed bitterly when his partner freed his hands: “Consider it payback for letting him punch me in the face.”
“Yeah, I figured I’d let him kick you around a bit. Good for the ego.”
Curt felt a shiver run up his spine. This wasn’t working. This wasn’t how his dreams usually went. Owen wasn’t supposed to shoot Oleg, he was supposed to-
“W… what is happening?”
Ah.
Speak of the devil .
Owen turned to the fallen henchman with a look of almost sadistic glee: “Well, you’ve just been used for sport by two of the greatest spies in the world.”
Curt knew his line. He never said it. Owen kneeled in front of the poor man, still holding the gun: “And though we’ve obliterated your knees, you will probably be one of the few who survive.”
Oleg looked confused. As always: “So?” he asked.
Owen’s smile had always been weird. Crooked quality aside, it looked so strange to Curt. Angelic and devilish. Innocent and mischievous. Sweet and cruel. All at the same time. That was Owen’s smile.
“So you’re welcome.” smiled the handsome Brit, and knocked Oleg out cold.
Curt felt his head lighten and his stomach sink like lead. He wasn’t waking up. Why wasn’t he waking up? His heart sank even further down, into the depths of Hell, then fluttered like a snowflake when Owen turned to look at him. It was all so familiar.
Curt wished, more than anything, that he could feel the way he’d felt on that mission again. Cocky, careless, safe . There was no way this could end well. And yet, that feeling washed away when Owen extended his hand. Almost automatically, he grabbed his arm.
No, he realized with a surge of rage, no, this isn’t how it goes . This isn’t fair!
The rage melted like snow when Owen pulled him into a quick hug. Like he always did. Quick and chaste and not even remotely suspicious.
“You alright, Curt?” he heard him whisper, and it took everything he had to not break down then and there.
“Yeah.” he lied, “Just a couple bruises.”
Owen pulled away: “You know what I meant.”
“I’ll tell you later.” Curt cut the conversation short with yet another lie. He wasn’t going to tell him later. There was no later , because this was either a memory or a dream waiting to turn into a nightmare. Like all his good dreams.
Owen looked skeptical, but they both knew time was limited. The scene played out to a fault. The chat with Cynthia, the man sounding the alarm, the man behind Curt, and then that familiar phrase.
“Pass me one of the charges, love.”
Curt shuddered. Wordlessly, he passed Owen the charge.
“Ten minutes.” he said.
Owen turned around with an interrogative look on his face: “What?”
“Give it ten minutes.”
“Why?”
“Just to be safe.”
Owen scoffed, but he was smiling: “Huh. Well, this is new. New philosophy, Mega?”
“ Just fucking do it, Owen !” he yelled, and the room fell into silence. Dead silence.
“Okay…” Owen said, very quietly, and set the timer for ten minutes. But his piercing glare gave a different answer. It said we are going to address this later . It occurred to Curt that, for the first time in his fevered dreams, Owen wasn’t buying any of his bullshit. It was terrifyingly realistic, it was exactly what the Owen that had lived in his mind for four years would have done.
They left the room in silence.
He turned a corner to find a gun trained on him. Owen, fruitlessly, came to his aid, only to be stopped by another armed man; and soon they were surrounded. Curt remembered that part too. He killed every trace of fear in his heart. It was a dream, and soon it would be over. Whether he threw down that damned banana peel or not, it was always there in his dreams.
But Curt had forgotten one thing.
Namely, what had saved them the first time.
They stood surrounded, and Curt waited for the rumble of the first charges going off.
It never came.
The realization that the three-minute timer had ironically saved them from the hoarde of heavily armed crooks hit him like a bucket of ice water.
Ten minutes .
No one was coming for them.
Distantly, he heard the henchmen speak.
“ We only need one .” they whispered, and he heard it when the safety clicked off.
He felt Owen shift uncomfortably against his back. He felt… everything.
He felt the pulsing in his ears after the loud gunshots; he felt the bullets when they crashed like rain against his chest, and the pain of ruptured veins and shattered bones. Blood spilled from his mouth.
“ Oh …” he whispered, a ragged breath, and Owen screamed his name. He sounds so upset , he noticed, vaguely, as his legs trembled.
Curt fell back into the dark.