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From the beginning, the thought comes to Owen much more often than he'd like to admit.
The first few years on the job, he hates it. It's a coward's thought, after all, the kind of thing you bury in shame the moment it enters your head.
That feeling only lasts for as long as he's foolish enough to believe what his agency tells him to.
And really, of course MI6 would tell its agents that running away from the job is a cowardly thought, like how questioning your superiors is a fool's thought, and feeling remorse for killing targets is a poofter's thought, and informing MI6 that you've realized they're wrong is a dead man's thought.
So, Owen keeps his damn mouth shut, keeps his head down like a good little lapdog, and plans.
He plays the role of a brainless, ruthless killer, and the more he shows he's trustworthy, the more trust he's given in return.
Slowly, he moves up in rank, more and more confidential information being piled onto him, and as he learns just how horrific his life's work has been for years, he tries his best not to buckle under the weight.
He learns what happens to agents that try to run, what happens to spies who get cold feet, who betray their country, as they like to put it, and finds out exactly where the loopholes are and how to access them.
He discovers what happens to the agents that actually make it out, the ones they swore didn't exist, and Owen starts preparing to make a quick getaway, because if there's one thing MI6 has taught him that isn't complete and utter rubbish, it's that in this world, it's catch or be caught.
Then, Agent Curt Mega enters the scene, and everything is thrown off its axis.
Suddenly, there's something government is good for. Suddenly, there's someone worth killing for. Suddenly, there's a reason to stay.
And really, maybe those bastards in the church are right, if one look at a man can cause him to completely toss his own morals out the window.
But, a sappy, soft part of him protests, It's not just "a man", it's Curt Mega.
It's wonderful, beautiful, blind Curt, who's so knee-deep in the bullshit being fed to him by his own agency that he's practically swimming in it, clogging his ears so that he can't hear Owen screaming the truth in his face.
It's Curt, who listens to Owen explain how corrupt MI6 is, and replies that Cynthia is always looking for new agents and would be happy to have him, as if that's not the whole bloody problem, we're all expendable, it doesn't matter who you're working for if they're all trying to do the same fucking thing.
It's Curt, who shakes his head everytime Owen shares his plans, explains that they can leave right here, right now, and no one will ever find them, and they'll be safe, and they'll be free, and they'll be people again.
"But what about other people, O? We have a job to do. Who's going to keep them safe, if we don't?"
And Owen has to fight the urge to slap Curt, to grab him by the shoulders and shake him and scream in his ear, "They're in more danger with us than they are by themselves!"
So, no, Curt isn't going to run away, no matter how much Owen begs, and eventually, Owen comes to the conclusion that he isn't going to leave Curt, no matter how much of an idiot it makes him, no matter how it hurts to hear Curt's coworkers joke that he's government property, only to have Curt do no more than roll his eyes.
Still, it's during certain moments like these, when it's just the two of them, that Owen can't convince himself not to try just one more time, even if he knows it's hopeless.
The day's mission had been rougher than usual, leaving them both bruised and bleeding from every curve of their bodies.
Owen had taken up the standard role of cleaning and bandaging both of their injuries, fighting a frown at a particularly nasty-looking wound in Curt's thigh. "This one's going to need stitches."
"Stitch it, then."
"Curt," Owen glares, "It needs to be stitched up by a professional. We should find a hospital."
"It's fine," Curt says easily, "I trust you."
"Then trust me when I tell you the wound is too deep-"
"Owen, it's fine-"
"Curt, you could bleed out!"
Curt huffs, shrugging his shoulders. "And? I'm just as likely to bleed out if we drive two hours to find a hospital in the middle of nowhere. I'd rather die in a motel bed with you than in the backseat of my shitty Triumph Mayflower rental."
Owen's face hardens, everything from the joke itself to the casual tone leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.
Curt's thigh is stitched in silence, Owen's hand gripping the needle with more force than necessary. Once or twice he looks up, ensuring Curt isn't looking, but he can't stand to do more than that.
"Curt, you could bleed out!"
"And?"
Owen growls under his breath, unable to help it.
"Owen?"
He doesn't respond.
After another minute or so, the needle is pulled one final time, and Owen cuts the thread. "There," Owen says quietly. "You'll have to lay on your back. Try not to lean on it or jostle it too much."
Curt nods. "Owen?"
Ignoring Curt, Owen grabs him, careful to avoid any sore areas, and lays him down on the bed, fluffing pillows and arranging them underneath him.
Then, Curt's hand takes his, and finally, Owen looks up.
"What's wrong?"
Owen grits his teeth. "God, the fact that you have to ask, that you don't even know-"
"Well," Curt says hotly, "I don't know, and I'm not a mindreader, and clearly, you weren't planning on telling me, so what would you like me to do besides ask?"
Silence.
Owen at least has the decency to look guilty. "Right. Sorry."
"Don't apologize," Curt sighs, "Just tell me."
"You're too... You're too casual about things."
Curt looks confused. "What, the wound?"
"The possibility of you dying!"
An unknown emotion flickers across Curt's face, disappearing before Owen can place it. "I was just joking."
"Well, it's not funny to me, Curt! It's bloody terrifying, and the fact that you just want to laugh it off-"
"Oh, I'm sorry, next time should I break down crying? If I don't joke about shit, I'm just going to be miserable, and that doesn't help anything! What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to leave," Owen yells, "Fucking listen to me for once in your life and let's go!"
Immediately, Curt groans. "Of course that's what all this is about."
"Oh, of course, like it's not a good bloody idea!"
"We have a job to do, O."
"God, screw the job, Curt, who gives a damn about the job?!"
Curt scowls. "I do! We're saving the world-"
"And who the bloody hell is saving us, huh? Who do you think will be saving you, Curt, because it won't be your bloody agency!"
"God, Owen, I don't want to hear you shit-talking A.S.S.-"
"And I don't want to watch you die!"
Curt's eyes go wide.
Owen steps back, startled by himself.
"Curt, I-"
Curt shakes his head. "Let's just... Can we please just drop this?"
"I don't want to drop it," Owen exclaims, voice breaking, "I mean it! You could've gotten killed today, and you don't even care!"
"It's part of the job," Curt says quietly.
"God, you even sound like you're trying to convince yourself," Owen spits. "Why are you so insistent on screwing yourself over?"
"Because what I do matters, Owen," Curt says desperately. "I'm saving lives here!"
"You're killing more people than you're ever going to save."
Curt blinks, tears building. "You think I don't know that?! At least I'm helping someone."
"And you think that's worth all the lives you've taken? You think it's all for the greater good?"
"I have to! Because if it's not," Curt's voice cracks, "Then I..."
For a moment, Curt just lays there, tears silently streaming down his face. Then, he swallows roughly, rubbing a fist over his watering eyes.
Owen looks down, guilt tearing into him.
Why can't you ever leave well enough alone?
"I'm sorry," Owen says weakly.
Sniffing, Curt shrugs. "I'm the one that should be sorry."
"That's not..." Owen sighs. "I shouldn't have pushed."
"Well, you weren't wrong. I'm not a good person," Curt says quietly. "I'm never going to be."
"There aren't good or bad people, Curt," He murmurs tiredly. "Just... People."
Curt eyes flit down. "Yeah. I guess so."
Owen turns, watching him with a frown. Trust Curt to get upset about something like this, but still refuse to listen to what Owen's saying. If it were anyone else, Owen thinks he would be agreeing. Yeah, you're a shit person, we both are, so why don't you stop this rubbish and listen to me when I ask you to leave with me?
"There's no such thing as good people and bad people, Curt," Owen says again. "It's not like in the movies. Life is more nuanced than that."
Curt gives a small nod, looking lost in thought.
"But," Owen continues, considering his words carefully, "If there were such a thing... You'd be one of the good ones, love."
Slowly, Curt looks at him, something young and desperate in his eyes. "You think so?"
"Yeah," Owen says, voice rough. "I do."
The smile Curt gives him is small and sad, but genuine. Slowly, Curt reaches out to take Owen's hand, rubbing his finger over Owen's palm. "You'd be one of the good ones too, you know."
"Hm."
Owen doesn't elaborate any farther.
Curt, seemingly satisfied, presses a chaste kiss to Owen's cheek and settles into the bed. When Owen doesn't move to follow him, Curt tugs at his uninjured arm. "Owen," He whines, "Grant a dying man his final wish and cuddle."
It's not funny, Owen wants to protest again, but he doesn't. Instead, he allows himself to be pulled down and tucked into Curt's side, merely huffing through his nose in contentment.
Within minutes, Curt's asleep, snores echoing across the room.
Owen turns, watching him carefully.
He doesn't fall asleep that night.