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Curt had never worked in London before. He'd been, of course, to visit Owen. They'd known each other for five years, and been together for nearly three. He'd never had a job there, though. But now there was an arms deal to bust in Camden, and technically, Curt didn't have time to see Owen. Which was why he hadn't told him he was there.
Curt shook his head to clear the thought. He needed to focus; a sip of bourbon and then he was back to business.
According to Curt himself, the arms deal went great. It wasn't his fault it went south, at least. His intel was wrong. Or something. Regardless, he got out of there, no bomb, arms deal gone through, no idea who'd been involved. Oh, and he had a knife in his side. Damn.
It was the middle of the night, he wasn't legally in the UK, technically, and he was far from any hospital. It wasn't a good look, and Cynthia would hate it. But he was two blocks from Owen's apartment, and while he didn't like the thought of bursting in to disturb him, it was the best option. And they'd get to see each other, which was always a bonus.
Owen was awake; Curt could see light in the apartment windows as he stumbled up to the building. The front door didn't lock right, and Owen didn't lock his front door, so Curt was in his living room before long.
"Hey there, old boy," Curt said when he saw Owen, leaned back in an armchair with his feet kicked up, reading.
He looked up at Curt. "Curt Mega! What the hell are you—" He appeared to notice the stab wound. "You're bleeding all over my carpet."
"What a welcome. Help a guy out, eh. I need a place to crash, and maybe a bandaid."
Owen shook his head, but put his book down and stood. "You'll need a lot more than a bandaid for that one, love. Come on, sit down, I'll get you cleaned up."
Curt nodded and sank down into the chair Owen had vacated. Now that he was safe, the desperate adrenaline had left him, and terror took its place.
Owen returned a minute later with water, cloth rags, and a first aid kit. "Take your shirt off, buddy, this one's gonna take a while."
"I'd rather not look at it, can you just... Uhh... I don't like the sight of blood."
"I know." Owen knelt and started unbuttoning Curt's shirt, pushing it aside to reveal the wound. "Look the other way, I'll try to make it quick." He started washing off the blood. "Hey, what are you doing in London? You could've given me a ring, you know, we could've taken a day off together."
"Didn't have time." Curt knew Owen was trying to distract him, and was grateful. "Cynthia's got me on a time crunch..." He started telling Owen about the whole operation, the arms deal, the things he knew and didn't know, what went right and what went wrong.
Meanwhile, Owen was stitching up the stab wound best as he could. He was no surgeon, but steady hands and a calm mind got him far enough, and he managed to at least get it clean, mostly patched up, and not bleeding much. It would have to do. "There," he said when he was done. "You can look now, it's all done. Good as new, my dear."
Curt looked. "Thank you, Owen."
"Oh, don't mention it." Owen stood up and, although the curtains weren't drawn, planted a quick kiss on Curt's hair. "I'm just glad you're safe. Come on, let's get you some clean clothes and a drink."
Curt nodded, stood, and discarded his bloodied and torn shirt. He reached past Owen to draw the curtains. "Hey, seriously, you saved my life today. I love you."
Owen sighed. "I love you too." He kissed him, quickly and carefully, on the lips. "Now come on, you've lost a lot of blood, you need water."