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The limousine smells like dust and cheap liquor. it's not a terrible scent, but it certainly reeks of "the least expensive option." Owen still breathes in the stuffy air deeply, though; maybe if he inhales enough of the fumes the alcohol will enter his bloodstream. That's the only way he sees it feasible to get through this death-march of a limo ride, at least. That and his view of his partner, who's currently drumming his fingers on his lap and staring out of the window. Appearing to feel the eyes burning into the side of his face, he glances over at Owen and gives him a tight smile.
“You excited?” he asks with an attempt at joviality. Excited? How can a man so charming be so utterly graceless? Owen's trying to hold back on sarcasm, but Curt is making it tremendously hard.
“This party might be the last we ever attend,” Owen replies in a monotone. “Thrilled.”
Ever the optimist, Curt frowns at that. “Are you serious? We've gotten out of way tighter spots before.” He's really smiling now, the corners of his eyes crinkling with that inexplicable look of hope he always gets before a mission. “We'll be fine. I'm sure of it.”
“That's not the comfort you think it is.”
Curt sticks his tongue out at Owen childishly and goes back to gazing out of the window. That's fine. Owen likes him better like that, anyway; he can stare all he wants without the issue of Curt staring back. He's completely unobserved in his adoration.
And God, he adores him. Curt, with his meticulously styled hair and features like a Greek statue, shirt pulled taut against his broad chest. As arrogant as the man is, he doesn't seem to realise his own beauty. Anyone who looks like that can use it to their advantage as easily as flashing a clearance badge, yet Curt never fails to pile on the charm for whichever pretty young mark he's been assigned that mission. All it would take is a flutter of his eyelashes and she'd be spilling state secrets. Why does he insist on such overkill?
Then again, though it pains Owen to admit, what comes off as a practiced affectation of suaveness might just be his natural state. He's always been so blindingly honest, after all. It's enviable, the way he can effortlessly talk his way into the most exclusive events, into the beds of heiresses and dames, and most frustratingly of all into the tightly locked safe of Owen's psyche. Owen's never quite had that knack, of getting into people's heads and staying put. It's no secret that Curt is always the one who does the talking on their missions; Owen couldn't dream of unraveling someone with words the way Curt does. He knows that first-hand.
Maybe that's a good thing, though. Curt is charming, sure, but he's flashy. Noticeable. Anyone could point him out in a crowd. Owen, on the other hand, slips out of people's memories the second they lose sight of him. Where Curt is a famous spy, instantly recognisable, who evades failure only by being fast and strong enough not to get caught, Owen is a good spy. As far as anyone knows, he was never there to begin with. He's a spectre, always in the dark, covering every track so that by the time he's noticed he's already gone. What does Curt have for Owen to envy? Charisma can only get you so far when you're a loaded gun without a silencer. Owen has no reason to be jealous, not when compared to Curt he's a concealed dagger, sharp and quiet and sudden. And anyway –
“Owen? You okay?”
Curt is looking at him with – not concern, but the tense curiosity of knowing something is up. Owen had been so lost in thought he hadn't noticed his gaze.
“I'm fine. Just... thinking.”
He curses himself for getting so lost in thought. Petty grievances and complicated feelings can wait for after the mission. Even from the steel trap of his mind his thoughts still risk showing on his face, in the way he looks at Curt. Childish rivalry is bad for their partnership, but the more worrying feelings he's been routinely tucking away could risk both it and his own career.
Thoughts of Curt as more than a friend and colleague are not for missions. When the two return to their hotel and turn out the light, and Owen is alone and unobserved, only then can he take these thoughts from their archive in his mind and flip through them like a photo album. He can allow himself time to indulge in ridiculous fantasy only when he can hear Curt's steady, quiet breathing in the bed beside his. When there's no way he could learn of the fragile secret Owen has guarded with his life for years, and crush it beneath his clumsy heel in seconds. Secrecy eats away at him, but it's the only way Owen can survive.
He only wishes Curt could slip from people's minds as easily as he can.