Chapter Text
“A partner? ”
Curt balked at Cynthia, his jaw agape and his brows scrunched together. Curt Mega did not do partners. He did not need partners! He was the best special agent America had to offer. Even good ol’ 007 would say the same. His track record blew everyone in the American Secret Service out of the water. He even helped foil tons of plots to kill both local and foreign dignitaries! None of that was with a partner. He did not need anyone to tell him how to do that.
If he did not know Cynthia any better, he’d think she was trying to insult him. Curt Mega with a partner. Pfft. He was more likely to drop everything and start kissing her than to accept having to go by someone else’s rules. It was not his style. And besides, how many times had he read or seen on TV or in plays a sidekick being the downfall of a leading man? He did not want that same fate. He deserved better. Shaking his head, he brushed Cynthia off with a flick of his hand.
“You’re not convincing me to get a partner. Sorry.”
“Quite fucking bold of you to assume you have a say in this, Mega.” Cynthia's voice bristled like a sharp gust of wind in winter. “You work for me, remember? The American fucking government? What orders we hand you, you must take. Right now, your orders are to suck up your pride for once in your goddamn life and accept a fucking partner.”
Curt snapped his head up. “It’s kind of hard to accept orders when I don’t understand why I need them! My record is spotless, Cynthia. I’ve destroyed more KBG agents and mobsters than any other spy you know. Hell, I practically had the entirety of Portugal eating out of the palm of my hands on my last mission! They still send thank you notes to headquarters for our service’s work!”
“Get a damn frame for them then, I don’t care.” She rolled her eyes. A middle finger met Curt, coupled with a glare. “Your past victories mean nothing, Mega. Not today. This mission is not like your others. If you do not have proper backup from an intelligent right hand, you will die a horrible bloody death I’ll have to do a shit ton of boring paperwork for. Not might, will. Consider yourself lucky the government agrees and is willing to not send you to an early grave.”
“As if Eisenhower and his puppets care about my grave.”
“Look, the choice is yours.” Cynthia lit a cigarette and placed her feet on her desk, each heel slamming the wood with force and causing Curt to jump. “Take the fucking partner, don’t burn the bridge you’ve somehow crafted with the White House, and live to see another day. Or, perish. I could care less.”
Curt huffed into the still air around them. Obviously, he did not want to die. No one did. He saw humanity as a species full of life, even if he did have to take it from time to time, and they as a species would always continue trying to survive. Curt would always try to survive. It was required of his career to do so.
However, something about the idea of a partner rubbed him worse than the thought of death. Perhaps it was his fear of letting someone in too deep. An aspect of partnerships was being on close terms with your partner. There could be no secrets, for secrets left room for weakness and weakness would lead to certain death nine times out of ten. Curt Mega was a man of many secrets. Some of his secrets were more dangerous than others to let out in the current climate he lived in. Cynthia did not know it, but one of his secrets could have him fired on the spot. Rejected by the very government she said loved him. Thrown out on the street like some petulant dog. To raise the stakes even higher, it just so happened to be the most integral secret to his personality and being. If any one of those got out, especially that one, he was just as good as dead. The resulting fear and shame that would come with them would be a fate worse than death.
Curt was not one to ever betray a colleague, but if secrets got out and desperate times called for measures...well, he would hardly bat an eye.
“Is there no other option?”
A large puff of smoke blew into his face, giving him about as much confirmation as Cynthia Houston was willing to divulge. Curt coughed as if he had never smelled the substance before, as if he had not had a cigarette minutes prior to stepping into her office. It agitated Cynthia. She huffed. “Make it work, pussy. Your partner’s been waiting for you at Olivero’s restaurant downtown.”
“Wait, one was already chosen?”
It was not that Curt was not relieved to have the burden of choosing his partner taken away. He hated handling semantics. Having that off his shoulder was nice and would free up time for more important thoughts. However, he thought he at least would have been allowed to throw some input into the matter. This person would after all work with him for no doubt a few months to a year, if the large file Cynthia had handed him earlier meant anything. A little suggestion listened to here or there could have been nice. Then again, what about his job was ever what he wanted? Curt sighed.
“How long has he been waiting?”
“Thirty,” she said. “Didn’t know I’d have to brief the poor sap of an impending meltdown from you when I set it up. Might want to stop and get him an apology. Maybe wine, who the fuck knows.”
“Always the thoughtful one, you are.”
Cynthia blinked, unimpressed. It was not the first time Curt had tried to use humor to deflect her sarcasm and irritability, and it certainly would not be the last. At this point, he wondered if it even made her feel anything to hear him bite back anymore. “It’s a talent. Now get out of my sight and don’t return until the mission is completed or you’re in a body bag. Either way.”
“Yes, Cynthia.”
“And Curt?” Curt, who had made his way to the door, turned before his hand reached the knob. Carrying a hefty sigh with her, Cynthia dragged her legs off of her desk, crossed the room, and returned to his side with a pamphlet. It was smaller than his mission briefing and, instead of holding the plain beige covering his folders usually did, it was a deep maroon color. He looked at it, confused. “His name is Owen Carvour. I thought you’d like to know a little about the guy before you barreled into Olivero’s unannounced like some rabid bull.”
An act of kindness. Interesting. One nod Cynthia’s way and Curt was gone with his pamphlets, ready to head out on his mission and whatever adventure this ‘partner’ would bring him. He pushed through her office’s doors and began out to the parking lot.
Owen. That name was not familiar, Curt noticed. He did not like to interact much with the network of spies he shared a country with, but he knew many of their names. Unless he was a new spy, Curt had never come across him before. His blood ran a bit cold at that thought. New. The American government would not pin him against a newcomer for what Cynthia said otherwise was a death wish, would they? Was this some setup? Was that why Cynthia was being the way she was being, or was he reading too much into the whole thing? Curt swallowed. He walked out to his car, tossed his mission info on the passenger seat, and took a second to dive into all things Owen in hopes it would ease his mind of the subject.
The first thing he came face-to-face with was a pair of brown eyes.
Not just any brown eyes. No, Curt had seen plenty of brown eyes through interrogations and galas, and these ones were not the same. These eyes were deeper. Fierce. The kind of eyes one could both get lost in but also feel impending dread upon seeing. Curt felt both in the moment Owen’s headshot stared him down. If he was coming into contact with those eyes, he would be in danger. One of his most guarded secrets would be in danger as well.
Curt shifted in his seat and pushed the photo aside.
A little light reading answered a few of his main questions about Owen up front. He had never met Owen before because Owen was not from the American Secret Service -- a more comforting situation, thank God. He was MI6 property. That Curt could handle. He also could handle that he was regarded as perhaps their most worthy and capable spy. A few clippings from internal memos sang his praises, calling him a ‘sharp-shooter with a sharp tongue’ and ‘a man with foresight beyond human capabilities.’ Curt wondered how much he paid the writers to say such things. He also wondered how it would be to sit in on an interrogation with such a man if it turned out those words were true. Just those eyes alone could compel him to share state secrets the moment their owner asked...
Curt shifted again, clearing his throat.
In addition to the look and the quotes, Owen had quite the track record to back himself up. Just a few months ago, he had single handedly stopped an entire underground plot to assassinate the young Queen Elizabeth II herself. An impressive feat, Curt noted. Even more impressive when considering he apparently had been cornered at one point in the mission by no less than ten armed individuals. Perhaps ‘sharp shooter’ really had not been an exaggeration. Perhaps that was why the secret service thrust them together on this mission. Curt made a quick note never to wrong the man, at least not intentionally, before tossing the file with its companion and starting up his car. He revved the engine and went right in the direction of the restaurant, shades covering his eyes.
Well, here goes nothing.
~~~~~~
Soft jazz played throughout the cozy brick restaurant. Olivero’s was known for its lively atmosphere, good food, and electric clientele. Families ate and laughed, couples needlessly shoved food at each other and divulged saucy secrets, individuals sat buried in books and bowls of pasta -- it was a right celebration of the mundane blessings of life. It made Curt’s hands clammy in his pockets as he entered. How was he supposed to find Owen, a man he had only seen in one photograph, in this bustling venue? Especially without him sitting in plain sight? His jaw clenched.
Pulling down his shades and sliding them into his coat, not too far from his gun, Curt approached the hostess. She was a smaller girl not unlike Barb, with bright red hair and shining emerald eyes. Her face lit up upon seeing him as if she had been waiting for him for years. He gave a closed-lip smile in return, not wanting to encourage anything. He had a partner to meet, not a desire to end up in a one-sided marriage.
“Sorry to bother you miss, but I’m meeting someone.” Curt did not think for one second that Owen would be dumb enough to alert someone, even a civilian, of his location, but it was worth a shot. It was not exactly like he had an array of other options. “Has a Mr. Owen Carvour been here?”
The once blinding smile of the girl faded to something more cordial. Reserved. Slightly disappointed. She nodded and dove right into her reservation papers, scanning the names and numbers listed. To his shock, his inquiry proved fruitful. Owen Carvour was in fact there, ready and waiting. Some secret agent, he is , Curt thought . Divulging a location is rookie material. Is he crazy? Holding her hand forward, the hostess ushered Curt back. She brought him just far enough through the restaurant for him to see Owen’s placement before hurrying back to her post, and Curt was grateful. He needed a moment to take in the sight before him, anyway.
The real Owen Carvour was dashing.
Not in a conventionally attractive way that one would see on a film in Hollywood. No, it was a way all his own. The golden hour of the sun hit his skin and chocolate-brown hair, admittedly styled longer than in his photo. It made him look like a god. Also godly was his outfit. He wore a long sleeve white shirt which clung close to his body in all the right places. It was matched with black suspenders and black slacks, giving him a simplistic yet demure appearance. Hanging off of his chair, a navy blue blazer dangled and gave the promise that such a sight could be made even better. A low, long breath escaped Curt at the thought. He was so happy Owen had not looked up from the crossword he was doing, or grabbed his glass of wine to take a sip, because the sort of sight he might have seen would have been shameful. It would have blown his cover for sure.
Collecting himself the best he could, Curt straightened his own tan blazer and walked forward. He went right to the edge of his soon-to-be chair and paused. Owen did not look phased, but Curt did notice a slight pause in his filling out of a word. An acknowledgement. Taking that as an acceptance of his presence, he cleared his throat. This did a bit more to rouse the man. Curt watched Owen pause, set his pen down, and gaze up right at him. To Curt’s dismay, those brown eyes were just as beautiful as he’d imagined. No, better. The glow the sun gave them took the breath right out of Curt’s lungs. He could have sworn he noticed a glimmer in them, but it quickly faded as a more professional aura took over the man. Back straightening, he gestured down at Curt’s chair and invited him to sit. Curt took it with a gulp.
This is going to be a long few months.
“Agent Mega,” he spoke evenly, gazing back down at his crossword. “I’m pleased you finally found me.”
“A-Agent Carvour.” Curt cursed himself for sounding so shaken. What was he, a giddy school girl with a crush? He needed to be a spy, dammit! “I’m, uh, surprised you gave the hostess your name.”
Owen hummed. “I feel I should be offended you needed to ask her. Are you not America’s greatest? A sharp-minded sleuth?”
“I-I am!” It came out like it would when he was twelve and getting his first few chest hairs, and it was enough to make Curt cringe. He prayed to any deity listening that Owen would not notice or care, but they knew he did. Anyone who was listening in nearby did. So much for a good first impression. The poor sap was probably contemplating how many ways he could kill his superiors for sticking them together by this point -- and that wasn’t even counting the rude lateness. “It’s a big place, ‘s all. Asking was most efficient, especially since I’m behind schedule. My apologies for that, by the way. My superiors are not always the best on time management.”
“Hmm.”
“So, you still never answered my question.”
“Simple sport, ol’ chap,” he said, finally pausing to give attention to his wine -- a deep red one. Was it a Merlot? Cabernet? Malbec? Curt was inclined to learn. “Any extra guests to dinner could prove a great training exercise for the two of us.”
“Or deadly for all these civilians.”
Owen gazed at Curt over his glass. “I would never allow that to happen, Mega. Unlike some, I have a reputation to uphold.”
In a moment of daring and unknown confidence, Curt challenged Owen’s gaze. His body unconsciously leaned in, practically begging a rise out of Owen. He noted Owen sizing him up, but the observation was quickly shoved aside in favor of words. “Can I not also worry about my reputation?”
“I’ll let you know after we complete our first task together.” His sass bit, and Curt found himself recalling Cynthia of all people. Of course she was who he had to think about while a handsome guy like Owen sat before him. Gritting his teeth, Curt chose to change the subject over his own pouring of wine. He did not give a damn if Owen paid for the bottle himself. He deserved it.
“So, you’re from across the pond?”
Owen blinked, and Curt realized that yes, his deflection was just as cheesy and stupid as he thought it had been when it left his mouth. Maybe he needed more than wine to calm his nerves. If only that hostess came around again...
“And you’re from the Midwest, no?”
“I feel a long way from the fields.”
“Yes, well, I would imagine organized crime would choose a busier location than fields to call home. More distractions. More targets.”
“But, not more places to hide,” Curt added. “A place like New York has plenty of hideouts and venues for crime, sure, but you try finding a criminal in the middle of fields and fields of corn and wheat and whatever the fuck they grow out in the country. Damn near impossible,” he shook his head, moving to take a sip. As he did, he was shocked to see the slightest of smirks on Owen’s face. It froze him in place. That only made it grow wider, to his dismay. The glass returned to the table, unused.
For the next half hour, the push and pull of Curt’s conversation with Owen continued. Small facts were exchanged, Owen grew amused at Curt’s fumblings, and Curt blew through his share of wine faster than he cared to admit. By the time their food came, he was grateful for the chance to stuff his mouth with something other than garbled words and way-too-honest information.
Through it all, though, Owen had thankfully remained cordial. He did not point out when Curt’s flustered emotions bubbled to the top. He did not bite back with as much sass as he did at the start. He merely sat back and let him go on, only offering the occasional smirk as their conversation dove through hoop after conversational hoop. Maybe it was his way of taking notes. After all, the more Curt spoke, the more he learned about him. His weaknesses. His advantages. Maybe Curt was losing out by not doing the same with him. There was a point where he felt like perhaps taking the leap or apologizing over his shrimp scampi, but by the time his mouth finally was vacant, Owen had something of his own to say that snatched the moment away. Figures.
“Curt, you work alone, no?”
A pause. “Yes. I-I think I work best when left to my own devices out in the field. Why?”
“We need to discuss the rules of our arrangement,” Owen said. His eyes flickered between his dish and Curt, finally setting on the dish -- chicken parmesan. It looked and smelled delicious from Curt’s point of view. “This venture may span across months, and since you’ve never worked with someone, I want to make sure we are on the same page, so to speak. Anywhere we are not, we are weak. Understand?”
Curt nodded. He twirled a bit of his spaghetti around his fork and nudged it in Owen’s direction. “Agreed. Have any ground rules in mind, Carvour?”
“Communication. If we do not have constant communication, it will be our downfall.” Owen ran a hand through his hair and stared outside. For a moment, Curt wondered if that touched a nerve -- if Owen had a reason that was his first rule other than typical spy partner protocol. “When not together, I expect hourly check-ins. If I do not hear from you, I will come find you, and if I find you anything other than held for ransom, I will kill you myself.”
Curt swallowed hard. Once again, Owen Carvour made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. “Understood.”
“Also, we are to act upon our agreed plans and those plans alone. Changes get agents killed. I know your file prides you on improvisation, but improv does not cut it for partnerships.”
“Really?”
Owen glared. “Try it for yourself, Mega. Watch what happens.”
He sat back in his seat, eyes cast down. He no longer felt any inclination to do anything of the sort.
“Anything else?”
“Most importantly,” Owen said, eyes so focused on Curt it hurt to avoid them, “no secrets. If either of us conceal information, it could get us killed, be it through interrogation or simple ignorance. I will not let something like that be what finally does me in. I expect you to feel the same. Can I trust that?”
Curt’s throat went dry. He could not trust that, as a matter of fact. No, if there was anything about Curt that Owen could trust, it would be that some secrets would remain withheld. If only he knew them! God, if only he knew. He would never ask something like this from Curt if he did. How could he ever convey that without generating unnecessary suspicion?
“Mega?”
Still looking away, Curt folded his hands on the table. “Anything that happens from here on out, I will tell you.”
“And from before?”
“Have I not been incredibly honest up to now? Whatever you need to know, you’ll know,” he assured, his tone cool and not at all as panicked as his insides felt. “I promise.”
He promised, but Owen did not look convinced. Licking his lips, he leaned forward and gazed up at Curt with a piercing stare. Curt could not help flinching at it, but he soon recovered. At least, he thought he did. To Owen, it looked like he experienced brief pain, but like always, it was brushed off. “Your past can come to haunt me just as much as it might haunt you if I do not know about it.”
“Then why aren’t you telling me about yours? You sound like you have a few skeletons in your closet. Why don’t I hear about them?”
It was another deflection, but unlike the first one, this one truly stuck. The Owen Curt had come to know as an observant and slightly cocky fellow grew quiet. His gaze fell. He began rubbing the inside of his palm with his thumb, looking almost nervous if Curt did not know any better. It was like he needed to bolt out of the room in the seconds that followed, but could not figure out which door would open and was being consumed by some demon from within. When his gaze returned, it was a lot less confident. If anything, he looked hurt. Weary.
Oh, Curt had definitely touched a nerve.
“We’ll operate on a need-to-know basis then,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “Agreed?”
“Owen-”
“Agreed? ”
The pleading in the man’s voice before him melted Curt’s resolve. He felt compelled to agree. Owen had been right: their secrets could very well kill them both. But, if his secrets were any bit as demanding and dangerous as his, perhaps he had good reason to avoid them. Perhaps the day would come when they would come out. He did not know. What he did know was that the look of relief on Owen’s face as he stuck his hand out to agree was about the most wonderful sight he had seen in his few years of life, and that alone was enough to make him confident in dropping the subject for the time being. He offered a smile to diffuse the tension. Owen did, too. It was lesser and went away as fast as it came, but it was there. Curt was grateful.
“So, now that our rules are in place, where do we go next?”
Owen glanced around him before looking back at his food. He pushed his last piece of chicken around on it idly, most likely not wishing to draw much attention from passers by. “Tomorrow at noon, we fly out to Monaco. From there, we will meet with officials and our client for this mission at the capital. They will give us our next directions.”
“And until then?”
“We have a hotel prepared for us to rest at not far from here. Courtesy of MI6, if you were wondering.”
“How generous of them.”
Owen chuckled humorlessly. “Yes, how generous indeed.”
“Mmm.”
“We should move there soon to ensure all is proper before nightfall,” he continued, grabbing his coat. From it, he pulled out a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and placed it on the table. Curt blinked at it owlishly before turning his gaze up to Owen’s standing figure, now at his side. Wow, he looked tall. “Their surveillance is constant, but their help in procurement of better lodgings may be delayed and passed onto our backs if we wait too long.”
“We can’t have that.”
Owen shook his head and gestured for Curt to stand. When he did, rebuttoning his suit, he felt Owen’s eyes on him. Sure enough, the man was staring him down. Sharp. The gaze was almost predatory. It made Curt blush, despite himself. He rather liked that feeling, being watched like he was a prize to be won. He did not get it often, especially not from people he found even the slightest attractive. It often came from Barb. It felt nicer coming from Owen. Different. Electrifying.
“I’m going to have to charge if you keep watching me like that.”
It was said to diffuse the thickness of the air around them both, and it was offered with a small laugh afterward, but Owen did not laugh. He instead straightened his jacket, set his jaw, and watched Curt until he passed by him and was on his way to the door. Curt felt his blood run cold and south. A small whisper of fuck, and he was racing out the door after him.
Thankfully, Owen had not left by the time he made it out of the restaurant. One hand was on top of his car, a nice baby blue model. His other was buried in his pocket for what Curt assumed were his keys. He jogged up to him and waited once more to be acknowledged. Owen waited until the door was opened to give him such an honor.
“Can I help you?”
“You never told me the address,” he replied. “The hotel. I-I don’t know the room.”
Owen gave a singular nod. “The Floramont, about three miles south. Room 205.”
“Thank you,” Curt said. All he received from Owen was one more stiff nod before all six-foot-three of him ducked into his car and started the engine. Within moments, he was zooming out of the parking lot. Curt’s skin bristled in the wake of his revving engine as it sped down the highway.
Show off.