Work Text:
8 minutes.
New Year's Eve parties roared in the New York City streets, crowded and cramped as always, as Curt and Owen stood on their hotel rooms balcony, overlooking the chaos of the city that never sleeps. Their mission was another easy one, and they had finished it quick enough, little to no scars to clean when they arrived back to safety. So now, in the winter cold, they stood together, yet mentally thousands of miles apart, Owen with a cigarette between his lips, and Curt’s eyes wandering the streets below.
“Well, I think it’s been a good year,” Curt muttered, Owen nodding beside him, “1953 is upon us. Hopefully it doesn’t suck.”
“Yeah well, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see,” Owen sighed, glancing towards Curt, his hands holding his arms, hunched over above the railing, watching him shiver, “You look like you’re freezing your ass off.”
Curt turned to him, eyes wide for a moment, getting caught in his gaze, before shrugging, attempting to brush it all away as nothing, “Nah, I’ll be fine.”
7 minutes.
Knowing he wasn’t going to get anywhere saying another again, Owen allowed his cigarette to die out and dropped it to the concrete floor, squashing it under his heel, before opening the balcony door and going inside, “Wait there.” Curt stayed put, Owen coming back out with two glasses of whiskey and a smile, handing one to Curt, “Got any resolutions for the new year you’d like to toast to, Mega?”
Curt took a sip of his whiskey, “Don’t get killed,” his breath touched the glass, Owen smirking, faintly chuckling, knowing how similar their humor could be.
“We can all toast to that,” he grinned, leaning himself against the railing, “I’ve got a few for myself.”
6 minutes.
“Care to share, Mr. Carvour?” Curt pressed his glass out to Owen, expecting him to place them together.
Owen caught his gaze, face going blank for a short moment, face almost going red for a moment, likely from the cold, before he composed himself, “If you tell someone your resolution, it won’t happen.”
“So, I’m going to die then? Damn, I guess I’ve sealed my fate,” Curt grinned, as Owen pressed his glass to his, “Cheers, Carvour.”
“Cheers. To us not getting killed.”
“To not fucking dying,” Curt finished his whiskey, heading towards the door, before Owen grabbed his arm, “What?”
“Don’t go.”
“It’s cold, and I’m tired.”
5 minutes.
“Stay out here, don’t they usually set off fireworks?”
Curt turned to him, finding that whiskey gaze that made him feel like he was weightless, forcing him to rejoin him next to him with just a small look, “Yeah, yeah, I think so. Why?”
“Well, no one likes watching the fireworks alone, and being alone when the clock strikes midnight? No fun in that,” Owen shrugged, feeling Curt’s arm shift in his touch, their limbs linking, as he smiled, “Thanks, Mega.”
Curt placed the whiskey glass down on the small table outside on the balcony, and Owen did the same, “No problem. Although, I’ve always hated fireworks. Too loud for me. I don’t know how anyone could like all that noise.”
“Curt, you work with guns, how the fuck are fireworks too loud for you? And besides, don’t Americans love fireworks? That seems very unpatriotic of you,” he laughed at his own crappy joke, and Curt couldn’t help but chuckle with him for a moment, his smile radiating into the cool night.
4 minutes.
“Yeah, well guns are different. When you hear a gunshot, you know you’re fucked. Fireworks just come out of nowhere and make you piss yourself,” he chuckled, throat burning for a bit more whiskey, now that he had it on his mind.
Owen’s eyes closed, moving himself a bit closer to Curt on the balcony, discreet as can be, footsteps silent against the concrete, “I take it you don’t enjoy loud noises.”
“Not unless there’s a distraction. If I have something else to focus on, I’m fine. But if not? I’m a nervous wreck the rest of the day.”
Owen nodded, “Well, focus on me then. No need to care about anything else in the world but our little conversation, right, love?”
3 minutes.
With a laugh, Curt softly hit into his shoulder, “Give me a cigarette.”
“Yes, sir,” Owen took two out of the pack, giving one to Curt and the other for himself. Next, he took out his lighter, pressing his face closer to Curt’s, able to feel his chilly breath on his nose, shaking in that simple feeling, before igniting the cigarettes, closing his eyes as Curt met his whiskey gaze. They stood for a moment, Owen’s hand lingering near Curt’s cheek, soft and gentle, a tired flame against a raging storm.
2 minutes.
Curt moved himself away from Owen, smoke drifting from his lips, floating solemnly up to the sky, “We might not make it to next new year's.”
“Don’t talk like that, Mega. It ruins the mood,” Owen released the cigarette from his lips, watching Curt ponder as he stared down at the streets, “We’ll make it. I swear. Maybe next year we won’t be on a mission, and we’ll be able to go out dancing.”
“Dancing?”
“Yeah, go to one of those parties down there. Isn’t it a whole thing where people go and get drunk and then kiss the nearest person when the clock strikes 12?” Owen chuckled, turning his way to Curt, checking his watch. “Not much time left. Damn, I feel like I’m going to collapse,” Owen laughed, clearing the tension in the air, watching Curt play with the edges of his sleeves, “Stop that,” Owen grabbed his wrist, staring at him, “You feeling ok?”
Curt nodded, pushing Owen’s hand away, nodding towards the streets, missing the fingers he shoved away, “Just cold.”
1 minute.
“Zip your damn jacket up then,” Owen chuckled, turning Curt around and bringing the zipper up on his jacket, bringing it to his chin, softly smiling at his partner. His hands held Curt’s shoulder, watching him, as if looking for something, some hidden sign.
“You’re staring, Carvour.”
“Something wrong with staring?”
Curt shook his head.
Owen’s fingers gently crawled towards Curt’s neck, laughing softly, “Almost midnight. It took long enough.”
10
9
“Yeah, took ages,” Curt's speech slowed as he leaned his head against Owen’s wrist, hands shoved into his pockets, legs shifting closer to Owen’s, slowly and barely noticeable.
8
7
“Well, let's hope this won’t be our last year.”
6
5
“What if it is?”
4
3
Owen smiled, “Make the most of it, I guess.”
2
1
Curt moved his hands out of his pockets and grabbed Owen’s face, going up onto his toes and touching his lips, fingers crawling into his hair, desperate for the touch he may never get again. Owen pressed his lips back against his, the first round of fireworks exploding into the sky about them. He felt Curt flinch in his arms, before he pulled him tighter against his chest, refusing to let him go, as if telling him to ignore everything else but him.
After some time, roaring crowds outside celebrating, they released each other from their grasps, Curt softly laying his head on Owen’s shoulder.
“What if we never get to go dancing next year?” He asked, voice soft, genuine worry in his tone, as if this was all that mattered anymore.
“Life’s always a dance with you, Mega.”
“Mushy bastard.”
“You caught me.”
“Happy New Year, Owen.”
“Happy New Year, let's make it a good one.”