Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One of the few constants in Curt Mega’s life had always been bars and drinks.
He was far from proud, of course, but every time he was confronted about how much he drinks, how often, or even just why, he found himself getting defensive, teeth bare and ready to attack as if that would heal his swollen pride.

Yet, despite this constant, it had been years (four, now) since he had set foot into a bar in a suit - kindly given to him by his agency - to work, of all things.
Today, he feels exactly like he did on his first ever mission - even if he carries years of experience heavy on his back and a beard on his face now, the bubbling excitement was still there.
It was almost… unrealistically perfect.
All it had taken for it to happen had been days of anxious hesitance that ended with a singular phone call to Cynthia, who barely spoke back or raised her voice, to tell her he wanted to come back into the field.
Barely days later, he had been sent the mission details to his mailbox, along with the new suit, which fit a little tighter than expected, and a new gun to hide under his jacket.

Curt Mega - Agent Curt Mega - steps inside the lively bar, blinded momentarily by the light contrast between the inside and the moonless night he came from, and walks up to the bartender with a very practiced yet rusty stride.

While he knew he couldn’t fall back into habit - glancing at all the bottles behind the counter made his heartbeat spike in anxiety and anticipation - in order to blend in at a bar, he knew ordering a drink was compulsory.
He used to be one of the best undercover agents, after all.
He was, however, lacking a plan - besides just finding the informant and leaving.
But that was completely fine! Mega was an expert improviser, a natural in the field, a–

Owen Carvour locks eyes with him from the other side of the establishment as he sweeps the place with his eyes; long, black hair pushed back and a dead look in his eye as he glares emptily, almost past him.
Then, a woman walks between them, blocking the view, and when Curt can look again, he’s gone, like nothing had happened at all.

Curt had hoped the hallucinations would stay home, a product of ebriety and emotions, but of course, Carvour was always there to prove him wrong.
Or, his image was, at the very least.
Hoping he didn’t look as shaken as he felt, he finally turned to the counter to ask the bartender for a glass of whiskey - he doubts the informant he was supposed to retrieve information from would be him, especially since he would have to tend to guests for hours until the agent arrived for the mission.

Grabbing the glass with a little too much strength after paying for it, the agent ventures into an empty table on the edge of the place.

With a now clearer view of the bar and its people, he watches for any sort of tell of who his informant could be; hoping this wouldn’t take hours like it used to in the past.
Even if he hadn’t minded back then.
Owen had always been there with him.

He had been zoned out for a while, scratching some itch on his jaw caused by all the new hair - the few sips of whiskey barely making a dent in the tolerance he had built up over the years - when he’s brought back to reality by a man sitting down across from him, mischief clear in his eyes.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asks in a soft British accent, leaning forwards in his chair as if to hear better, but Curt, in his experience, can easily tell by the way the other was checking him out that something is off about this situation.
It was too… forward, too rushed.
No man approaches another man so straight on, with intentions so clear, in public - something was up.

But then again, he could just be overthinking it, like he always does, and this could just be some guy, fresh out the closet with too much energy and very little awareness of reality to back it up.

“No, I’m not.” he answers, inviting the man to stay even if he shouldn’t. “What’s your name?”
“Hugh. And yours?” the other shoots back, pushing his dirty blond hair back with a flirty smirk.
Admittedly, he was good-looking, and he seemed to be aware of it.
“Henry.” Mega lies, like he always does in and out the job, and Hugh’s eyes seemed to brighten in excitement.

“I haven’t seen you around here before, Henry. What brings you here, alone, on a Thursday night?” There's an emphasis that makes Curt’s stomach twist.
That was a declaration of intentions if he’s ever seen one - the boldest of them, too, to make it in a man-only conversation.
“Stress from work that couldn’t wait until Friday.” he lies again, watching as Hugh’s fingers nervously tap the wood of the table between them.
Looks like someone’s impatient.

Curt can’t help but see himself in those actions, young and a bundle of nerves for a human. He’s… fond of this.
Of what he used to be until that person died along with Owen.
“And is the whiskey doing its job, or would you need me to help with that?” the blond says, leaning even closer across the table, managing to force Mega out of his melancholy.
“You’re eager.” the agent states, forcibly putting on a playful tone before taking a long sip of his drink and looking around, but nobody seemed to be looking their way.

“It’s too early and I’m still too sober, but later tonight I can come find you.” he offers, hoping he could finish the job before that.
If he were his past self - the one before Owen, that is - he would’ve agreed right there and then, but truth was, though, the present Curt needed to gather himself and his thoughts.
He has to weigh his options before risking getting fired - or worse - on his first day back.

However, the man frowns at the offer, pouting immaturely.
That alone made Curt hesitate on if he had made the right choice, but if he knew something about the other man already, was his straight-forwardness for everything.
“You know it’s for the best.” the agent tries to not sound defensive - and unluckily, it doesn’t quite work; Hugh sits back down correctly on the chair, crossing his arms over his chest.
This man did not look like he was a good loser - that makes him a lot more dangerous.
He could even - as little as the chance is - find out Mega’s real identity and get him, at best, jailed.

Trying to buy himself time to decide, Curt takes the edge of the whiskey glass to his lips, and drinks - his mustache keeping some drops of the liquid to itself.
This wasn’t the first time he had done any of this after Owen, not at all; but the hallucination still clung to the edges of his vision, and he had a mission to complete before he could allow himself freedom.

Then again, his old self would’ve gone with him with no questions asked, and later on he’d have the mission secured and done before midnight. Hopefully, he still had that in him.

He leaves the empty glass back on the table.
“Go to the bathroom.” he begins, before sweeping the bar once more with his eyes and making eye contact with a waiter who held a suspicious menu in their hands.
The informant.
Curt turns back to look at Hugh, who was standing up already. “I’ll join you after.”
Mega waits for the man to disappear into the crowd to stand up, but the waiter has already made their way to him, handing him the menu and forcing him to sit back down.

“Took you long enough.” He mutters as he nonchalantly slides the menu in a secret pocket in his suit jacket, almost unnoticeable at first sight.
“Sorry, I was working and you had company.” the waiter spits, emphasizing the last word in accusation. Curt only shrugs; his work was done, after all.

One stop at the bathroom, and then he could waltz out the bright, almost dizzying bar. He just needed this waiter to leave.
“‘S fine. Got it done easily.” he waves his hand dismissively.
“Careful, Mega; your reputation precedes you. Wouldn’t want your ‘friendly fire’ counter to grow.” And with that metaphorical stab and painful reminder of Owen, the informant goes back to his job for the night like nothing had happened at all.
What an asshole.

Curt Mega stands up, trying to casually walk towards the bathroom, the memory of Owen not leaving his mind, when a ginger haired woman - notably the same one that had walked between him and his hallucination right at the start - stops him, checking him out for what didn’t seem like the first time.

Great; nobody could take their eyes off Curt tonight.

“Excuse me, sir. May I know your name?” she asks sweetly, with a russian accent - not expected, but unsurprising.
Hopefully this won't get ugly.
“Henry. Pleasure to meet you, miss…?” he invites her to answer, even if all he wants is to reach the bathroom; he can’t let this woman suspect neither his job nor his orientation.

“Olga.” she replies with a smile “I trust you are alone tonight?”
“I’m afraid so, miss Olga. But if you’ll excuse me, I need to reach the bathroom.” her smile disappears.
“I’ll see you around then, Henry.” The ginger then says, and Curt can’t help but suspect even more that she may be a spy.

Worst case scenario, she could be onto him in both dangerous aspects of his life. Curt needed to please her to keep her quiet.

“Perhaps we can keep talking once I’m back?” he offers, out of sheer necessity rather than pleasure. She gains her smile, although visibly fake, back.
“And abandon your table?” she teases.
She was definitely onto him.
“For a lady like you, in a heartbeat. I’ll be right back.” he replies before finally managing to excuse himself and enter the bathroom.
If the night continued like this, he was never leaving the place.

Hugh was waiting for him, leaning back against the cold wall of the bathroom.
“Took you long enough.” he whispers, already approaching the agent and pulling him close by the flaps of his jacket - Curt manages to slip the lock on before getting too busy to forget.

They stare into each other’s eyes for a few seconds, only their quick breaths breaking the silence of the bathroom.
“Don’t make your wait longer, then.” Mega teases, and as their lips clash and connect, he can’t help but be surprised at how… forceful, yet pleasant, it is.
Admittedly, he hasn’t had much luck in the past four years; but then again, all these attempts - this one was included in the count - had been desperate and unsuccessful.
Trying to get over Owen was pretty much a herculean task, and definitely not something he was going to succeed in tonight with Hugh - but it was a welcome experience nonetheless.

Minutes pass slowly as the two men engage, disheveling each other until Curt pulls away, deeming it enough time for a gentleman to spend in a bathroom as he counts on Olga waiting for him outside.
“I trust you’ll come back around here another day?” Hugh asks, looking severely more shy than before, as Curt goes to the mirror in an attempt to fix his hair, shirt, and, somehow, his beard.
He needed a trim.

“I’m a busy man.” is the only thing he says back, truthfully for once, before he turns around to lie to him one last time. “But I will try my best. This was good - just be careful with who you approach like that in the future.”
Truth was, even if Curt wanted to meet Hugh again, he couldn’t allow himself that risk - the point of his job was to be unrecognizable.
Hugh gives him an also uncharacteristically sad smile that will end up stuck in Mega’s memory as he exits the bathroom.

Once outside, he finds Olga again by the bar, chatting idly with a black-haired man whose back was turned away from him.
She makes eye contact, and after mouthing her company something Curt can’t decipher, the stranger gets up and leaves, not once facing the agent.
He sits next to her, and before he can catch the other man’s face, she grabs his attention.
“Had business to attend?” she asks, guiding his attention towards the bathroom, where Hugh was leaving, his hair a mess and a frown on his face.
“No, nothing like that.” he assures.

They spend a minute in awkward silence after that, the woman idly sipping her glass as Curt just fakes interest in watching the crowd at the bar.

“So… what brings a lady such as yourself here on a Thursday evening, England?” He asks, trying to hide the bounce of his knee under the table.
She just smiles, reason unknown.
“I had some free time, and nobody to spend it with.” she explains as she takes a cigarette from her purse, arching her eyebrows to ask if he wanted one too - he shakes his head, and she saves it again.

“What about the man you were just with? Was he not good company?” Curt asks genuinely, the mystery of why he'd leave the table not leaving his mind.
“...Not particularly. British men aren't as… fun, as Americans.” She then proceeds to give him bedroom eyes.

If Mega had learnt something in his short life, it was that he was popular with women, much to his dismay.
It gave him easy covers, but it was otherwise quite useless to him. So, as he sees the look Olga gives him, he can only repress a sigh.
How to politely decline this…

“First time I hear that, truth be told. I’ll consider myself flattered.” He smiles wide, feeling like she can tell it's forced.
“Tell me about yourself. Was your company acceptable, or was he just another British man?”
Curt studies her face for a few seconds, trying to figure out what she meant by ‘company’ and how to reply correctly undercover.

After nothing about her expression implies anything, he decides to take the risk.
“He was drunk. Seemed like his friends had already left and tried to pester me to invite him to one more round. Indeed, just another British man.”
It's strange to speak this rudely of something Owen was proud of being - at least in feigned seriousness.
Curt always used to make fun of him for his nationality, of course, but he never truly meant it.

He really needs to get Owen out of his head.
“A shame. I heard so much about them, but… they're nothing remarkable.” she ponders out loud, her eyes scanning the room for a second.
Mega nods, and she sips her glass one more time. Her face morphs into pity before she manages to hide it.

“You’re a busy man, are you not?” she then asks suddenly, tracing the edge of her glass with her finger.
“I’m afraid so.” he replies back, taking her hint - she was going to let him free, it seemed.
“I wouldn’t want to keep you from your business. Thursdays can be the worst.” she comments; Curt decides to take her invitation to leave and stands up.
Before he leaves, he courteously gives his goodbye by kissing the back of her hand and leaves the bar triumphantly.

He mingled, had fun and did his job?
That was the best possible outcome for the first mission back Cynthia could ever ask for!

Unaware of the shadows morphing in corners, Mega returns to his hotel room to pack his bags and go home.

Chapter Text

It’s Friday when Agent Curt Mega proudly walks into the American Secret Service’s Headquarters for the first time in four years, folder in hand and wide stride.

This ends somewhat abruptly when he takes in the changes around him - everything was impossibly modernized, wires and machines anywhere Curt could look - and the eeriest thing of all, the echoes of clicks, electricity and whirring, coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Trying to ignore how shocking the change is to him, he puts on a smug smile and ventures towards the labs, both to give Barb the pleasure of seeing him and to hopefully figure out what had happened in his absence.

Barbara Lavernor, in all her nerdy lab coat glory, was pacing up and down the lab, which was even bigger than Curt remembered it being, until her eyes finally lock with his; her face lights up, running towards him for a hug he manages to give her back without falling over.
“You’re back! Oh, Curt, you’ve missed so much!” She essentially shouts, still squeezing him in what would've been a deathly hug if she wasn't as small as she was.
“Barb Larvernor! How’ve you been, hm? Pretty busy, I see?” He gestures around, and her eyes brighten dangerously.

“Let me show you everything!” she squeaks, dragging him right back out of the lab; they rush through hallways as she babbles about some ‘new archival system’ until they reach a staircase - they descend and she beams at him before opening the door.
Behind it and the guards posted at each side, there’s an archive.
No, not an archive - there’s shelves, but they’re not filled with books, papers or even drawers.
It’s electronic, the walls are covered with them - the heat of the room now hitting him, and the mechanical noises reaching his ears.
A computer - they had existed before, yes, but… this one looked so… advanced. Confusing.

She starts to show off the computer, explaining everything in words he doesn’t even understand; Curt’s attention is grabbed by a physical paper folder on one of the electronic surfaces - it seemed to be a new printer - with yesterday’s date on it, while Barb’s words keep filling in the room.

“We brought a revolution to espionage, Curt! Now, we can send and receive information from countries across the globe in a matter of seconds!
Well, we only have communications with the United Kingdom and France so far, but it’s heading towards world communication before the end of the century!” she’s saying, rushing all around the room as she both checks and shows off the components.
Almost like a child on Christmas Day.

“It’s divine! Information gets packed and sent electronically between computers; after the Sputnik scare back in ‘57, we knew we had to secure our information channels, and now we finally have it!
Ah, we’re also working on infiltration, and while we're lagging behind on that, so far we have these hyper-realistic masks, and-” she stops to breathe, and only then she notices his frown, eyes fixed on the folder.

“What’s in this folder?” He asks the second there’s silence, pointing a finger at the subject, titled along with the date, some letters he couldn’t find immediate meaning to: ‘SP:E-ASSCLM’

Barb turns to face him, and to his surprise, she looks like a deer in headlights for a few seconds before she manages to recover with a very obviously fake smile, taking the folder in her hands and out of reach from him.
Then, she directs her attention to the documents Curt has brought back from his mission for the first time since he stepped foot in the headquarters.
“Don’t you have a meeting with Cynthia?” she asks, trying to lead him away and out of the room now - but his feet are bolted to the floor, anxiety rising and pressing against his chest.

He knew A.S.S., and he knew those were his full name initials - Curt Lawrence Mega - but what is the subject of the folder? If Barb is not showing him, it can’t be just his mission reports.
He can’t help but think of the worst.

“What’s in that folder, Barb?” he asks again, his voice almost cracking.
Her face doesn’t ease his feelings - she looks… like she’s grieving.
“It’s classified, Curt. Sorry.”
“It's about me.”

Barb turns away, not making a sound.
And that is something he can’t argue with.

–

In silence, he leaves the lab with some answers and new, worse questions that keep taunting him, not leaving his thoughts until he reaches to knock on his boss’ office door.
After a few seconds, Susan opens, and their eyes betray their blank face for a second - the only thing Curt gets to see in that little time is pity.

Pity.

He’s let in, the grim lighting of the cloudy morning being the only thing illuminating the room - coming from behind Cynthia’s office chair only made it worse - and it makes Curt feel like this was the place his grave was waiting for him in, the mechanical clicking echoing making it haunting.
Cynthia herself doesn’t look much better.

She wears a heavy look on her face, and reluctance is clear as day in her eyes.
He sits down in front of her, as custom, but she doesn’t start shouting, or even move for what feels like eternity.
Curt slides the folder with the documents across the desk, and all she does is slide him back an envelope. He takes it, but she interrupts when he makes the attempt to open it.

“Not here. Open it when you’re alone.” and just like that, Curt’s blood runs cold.
He glares back at her, demanding an explanation.
Whatever this was - because who even knew at this point - it couldn’t be just giving him a letter in person.
There was something else.
Cynthia looked... mournful. She never looked mournful, not even when-

“The British communicated a week ago that thanks to the new technology we’ve lent them, they’ve been able to make further investigations.” she says plainly, like she was reciting it from memory.

“About the soviets?” Mega ventures, using hope he didn’t even realize he still had.
“Internal investigations.” she exhales “They’ve investigated MI5 and MI6 agents, even those deemed deceased and M.I.A.”

His world, already fallen apart, had now gone and disintegrated completely under his feet.
MI6 had gone and found out about Owen’s inclination after he died, as if that wasn’t the most disrespectful thing imaginable, they did it to all their own agents?
To their best agent ever?
Hell, what about him?

Curt can feel terror creep up to his face, but it all collapses when Cynthia leans in, frowning in a more angry fashion, more natural to her.
“Go home, Mega. Don’t let anyone else know you set foot in this building.”
Without another word, the man stands up, and with a contained nod, he says what he hopes isn’t his last goodbye to Cynthia before he walks out the door, letter gripped tight in his hand.

He hears his now ex-boss mutter ‘Fuck’ a little too loud to herself behind the door, and that’s enough to tell him she had just spared his life.
They couldn’t hold a trial for Owen, so they would for Curt.

–

It takes him around twenty minutes to find a bar - empty, since nobody went drinking on a Friday morning - and carefully, with a few sips of whiskey in his system for good luck, he opens the envelope to find two papers; a simple profile, and a written letter - he decides to start with the facts first.

Looking back at him was his own picture from years ago, a twinkle in his eye that was now gone, and his personal data; name, age, height, weight - it isn’t until he reaches the notes at the bottom of the page that things get ugly.

Next to ‘On Indefinite Leave’, there was new information, in a different, bold computerized lettering: ‘SUSPECTED SEXUAL PERVERSION - see MI6: Owen Carvour’ then, under it, ‘Confirmed’ and that was it, no matter how many times Curt reread it.
No descriptions, no nothing.
How? Cynthia had said they investigated Owen last week.

That is when his mind pushes forward the memory of Hugh and his sad, hurt smile.
Of Olga, suspicious of his trip to the bathroom.

They were how Curt was found out, then.
Either she figured out what he was doing and tipped him off, or he lured him to gain proof of the very same thing.
As much as he wanted to be angry, he just felt… stupid.
But before he starts to drown in self-pity, he takes out the letter to start reading what Cynthia has to say.

‘Dear Ex-Agent Curt Mega:
I’m regretful to inform you this way, but anything I would’ve liked to discuss with you would’ve been picked up by the cameras and microphones in my office.
Thus, I’m left to write this fucking letter in what I hope is the privacy of my own home.

First of all, I’m sorry; to both Owen and you.
Since you left, technology has progressed so much, so fast, that the ones in charge of the A.S.S. are now scientists - as much as Lavernor acts like it’s not, she’s now officially a higher rank than me after developing so many advancements all on her own.
I’m proud of said achievements, of course, but we’ve seen so many not-so-good changes because of them that I can’t bring myself to congratulate her, or even talk to her at all anymore.

Like I hope I got to tell you, Owen was investigated by MI6 (yes, after death; they’re that fucking sick) and they found evidence that pointed he was romantically and/or sexually involved with men - said evidence surfacing later brought you up, of course, as his unofficial ‘international work partner’.

Thus, they were “kind” enough to lend this information to my superiors. I’m sure you yourself can imagine what kind of evidence this is.
I will tell you that it wasn’t enough to confirm you in A.S.S.’ eyes, and that was the reason for your mission back.
I really wish I had never received your phone call.

Please, Mega, listen to me for once in your life, and hide.
Do your best work yet and disappear from our radars - live a good life.
I can only wish you good luck.

Regretfully,
Director Cynthia Houston, A.S.S.’

And just like that, with his eyes stinging from the threat of tears, he was alone.
Quickly, he saves the envelope again and pockets it, hoping to keep with him the kindest yet hardest words Cynthia has ever sent his way.

—

In so little time, the emptiness of the bar he had hidden in begins to feel eerie.
He feels watched, spied on, his every move recorded and kept track of. Was this product of a new era of computers? Was this how it would be from now on?

Curt gets up, the cherished yet damning letter in his inner breast pocket, and pays for his drink before leaving as quickly as he can through the front door.

Where to go? He'd rather not stay in this city, not with all of A.S.S. as his neighbors.
But how to run from something that was everywhere?
How to run from everything?

That left him a single place to feel (feel, because he'd never really be again) safe in this world; as fast as he manages to, he packs his bags, and gets into the first plane available to Guadeloupe, to his mother’s safehouse.
He tries to ignore how, eventually, she'd have to learn he had been fired - hopefully, she'd never learn the reason why.
His life and dignity were on the line at the moment - his mother could handle some secretiveness from his part.

Hours feel like they drag on for ages as he travels - anyone around him could be a spy, there could be a price on his head already for all he knew - until the plane finally lands.

He swiftly gets off and flees the airport and into, much to his frustration, a taxi.
Renting a car would prove to be more trouble in the long run, so really, was having someone take you close to your safehouse that dangerous?

Yes, it was.
So Curt ends up walking the last few minutes, double and triple checking he wasn't being followed.

He knocks on the front door, and a few seconds later, his dear mother is at the other side; her face morphs into pleased surprise to see her son one more time.
She ushers him inside, sitting him down on the couch as she dashes by to put the kettle on the stove and make some tea.

She didn't even like tea.
She only bought some just in case, when she noticed some (hell, if not most) of his ‘friends’ or ‘drinking buddies’, as she called them, were British, and she felt like she was being rude for not having any in her house.
None ever came around a second time, so Curt had been drinking some, when he felt himself in need of a drink and felt too ashamed to ask his mother for alcohol.
When memories of Owen - one of the faceless, British drinking buddies to his mother - didn't become too painful, of course.
She says he could have a problem with drinking; he’d rather not think about it.

“I’m so glad to see you again, Curtis! Tell me, how'd the mission go? Easy peasy, right?” the lady comes back into the living room, going to wait by standing idly until the kettle whistles - when does a mother ever sit down and rest, really?

Now, it was time to make a decision, and an important one at that - should he lie? Or should he tell (some of) the truth?

His heart tells him he's already lied to her enough.
She never knew what Owen had meant to him - she never would.
But how could he explain he went from the best spy in the world to… this? How much ignorance could she bare?
It was best to keep things simple.

“...I got fired.” her face drops, clearly not expecting such terrible news.
That only makes him feel more guilty.
“What? Why?! Oh, take me over to the states and I'll have a word with your boss!” she exclaims, probably too loudly for the time of day it was. Curt only sighs.
“...It's okay, mom. I think… It's probably for the best.” Without the probably, but of course, he does want to think he has some skill left from his old days that an agency would find useful.

If only he was… normal. But he can't tell her that.
“After these past few years… I’m really out of shape. I’m not fit to work for the agency anymore.”
Ms. Mega doesn't say anything else, which surprises him.
Searching to break the silence, he makes eye contact - but he regrets it immediately; her eyes shone with tears, with heartbreak for her only son.

She knew he had lost his only passion in life. She knew he had nothing else left to do.
The least she would give him was her empathy, really.
“Are there other jobs you can do? I’m sure you’ll be wanted somewhere. Maybe MI6?” she eventually tries, finally sitting next to him on the soft couch, the cushion sinking beneath them.
“I’m afraid that MI6 wants me even less than the Americans do.” he tries to say with a light tone, but it just sounds as bitter as he felt.
MI6 had been the ones to sell him so inhumanly.
They had been the ones to, essentially, execute him and leave him to die.

Deep down, he’d rather this happen to him than to Owen - the only reason he accepted such fate was because of that.

If Ms. Mega is going to reply, she doesn't get to, for the kettle starts to whistle loudly from the kitchen. She excuses herself and gets up, disappearing through the threshold of the door, and leaving Curt alone for a few minutes that can’t help but feel eternal.
He has to seriously consider what he can do now that he’s on the run from the A.S.S. and likely other international secret services.
But surely, he could afford to spend the night free of planning to be with his mother for a little bit. Just… as always, likely to be the last time.

When Ms. Mega comes back with two scalding cups of tea on a tray, the man can’t help but smile fondly.

This felt like those bad days when he was in highschool; where they tried to ignore their troubles for a little, just until they felt better to get back up again and fight them back.
He takes one of the cups before she sets them down, quickly feeling his fingertips burn and leaving the drink back on the coffee table as quick as he can to avoid further pain.
His mother just giggles at his impatience.

A few hours pass by in bliss like that, the family reunited and engaging in conversations about everything and nothing at the same time - dancing around topics like romance or work or family and avoiding silence.
Choking, deadly silence.
It’s not long until Ms. Mega starts yawning, so Curt takes that as the signal to go to bed too, ending their talk officially.

He goes up the staircase to find his old room, a place he finds himself in less often than not, but always eventually returning to.
Nothing had changed significantly since he first left it - perhaps just the clothes in it, old but work appropriate - and he never quite knew how to feel every time he set foot in the place.
So, he’d rather not think about it.

He opens the window, letting the lukewarm Caribbean breeze freshen up the air of the room that had been left closed for too long, and leaves minutely to visit the bathroom.

He stares himself down in the mirror, his eyes so insecure and his beard so out of place - such a horrible sight.
He decides, if he's going to try hiding at all, to shave his beard and to take the gel out of his hair.
Once he does that, he looks again; he looks so much older now, with his eyebags and other wrinkles beginning to show due to stress.
His face so exposed, feelings so clear without something to hide it behind.

He’ll have time to worry about his appearance being neat when he's safer.
He drags his feet back to the bedroom, and in the same clothes he arrived in, he drops into bed to fall into deep sleep mere minutes after.

It comes easy after spending more than a day without it - the plane he took from England to Washington nor the one to Guadeloupe comfortable enough to get some shut eye - in constant stress from running from what may as well be ghosts in the shadows, everywhere, anywhere.

Sleep comes easy, and so does lowering his guard for the night.

And he didn’t know it, he wasn’t aware; but once a spy, always a spy.

Chapter Text

The cold is the first thing he notices when he wakes up.
Which is strange, for he’s never witnessed a cold morning in that safehouse in the middle of the Caribbean.

Of course, there could be two reasons for this cold he was feeling: one was that this was an anomaly, broken rules that happen all the time; the other was that he wasn’t where he thought he was.

He tries moving, his eyes too heavy to open them and his head still swimming - he can’t.
Specifically, he can’t move his limbs, tied to the origin of the cold.
He feels his chest heavy, his lungs unable to expand enough to breathe comfortably.

He can feel, though, that he’s sitting on a chair.
Slowly, almost painfully, his awareness comes back to him until his eyelids obey; he’s greeted by a dull, gray, cubical room, made of concrete and illuminated by a single lightbulb on top of his head - it was safe to assume he was underground, in some sort of basement.
He was alone in the room, tied to a metallic chair and his back turned to the door.
Great.
With no other furniture in the room, Curt’s gonna have to think hard to get himself out of wherever he is.

But, was it worth it?
The question catches him off guard.
He should have his guard up, really, especially in a place and situation such as this - but he doesn’t, and thus, he’s left to wonder.

Was it worth surviving this next torture? Being honest, anyone would torture an American spy who’s been left to rot if they had as good of a chance as they did with him.
Curt knows he has the training to resist and survive if he wanted to - but after four years out of the field, getting fired and having any secret he thought he had hidden discovered, there was really nothing to resist for anymore.
He couldn’t be a spy anymore.

Except… he still has his mother.
But would she blame him for letting himself die?

Before he dwells into the issue further, the door behind him hisses open, making him sit up, snapping him out of his thoughts and raising his guard against whatever awaited him.
While he may not have the will to live, he still felt the need to survive.

The man walks around until he’s in Curt’s field of vision, allowing him to analyze everything about him: a dark uniform, but not thick enough for snow; blond, short hair that didn’t narrow down the country of precedence, except for the fact that he was western; clear eyes, a mix of green and blue that Curt could only define as gray; clean shaven and with still soft wrinkles, likely new, that made the hostage guess his age was in around his 50s - but with the lack of gray hairs he could see, he’d have to push it down to at least 45.

What gives him away is the accent.
“Hello, Ex-Agent Mega. It’s a pleasure to meet once again.”

English, the neutral one - Received Pronunciation, was it? - so he couldn’t guess what part of the island he was from.
Well, no matter. It’s enough that he now knows he was, almost confirmed, in the hands of MI6.
It was not cause for celebration, to say the least.

He has to bite his tongue before he says what he feels instead of thinking about his words carefully, but nothing sounds good even in his head.
He stays quiet.
If his orientation wasn’t public information, he could’ve retorted back with his usually uncomfortable flirting to throw him off - that wasn’t an advantage he could play with anymore.
The man raises an eyebrow, his hands in the pockets of his coat.

“It’s been four years since you killed an agent of ours; you could at least say hello back.”
Nothing. He can’t betray himself.
Not until he knew what awaited him.

“We are waiting for A.S.S. to answer us. I’m sure you know, but there’s a price on your head - dead or alive. Your life has no value here, so make it easy or we will just kill you.”
Which only brings up the question he decides there would be no harm in asking.
“Why keep me alive then?”
The captor smiles when he hears Mega’s voice, rough and dry.
“It’s simply not our place to decide what should be done with you. We care about our partnership with the A.S.S., enough to let them apply their own laws to their own people.”

Right, of course. He was just delaying his death so it’d be more painful - at least that’s how it felt to Curt.
“So you’re bootlickers. Got it.” he mutters. And the second those words leave his mouth, regret manages to sip in his gut just before he gets his jaw punched by brass knuckles.

The power of the punch makes the chair topple over to the side, taking the captee to crash to the floor.
His face crushed against the cold concrete, expression frozen in shock, he spits out a bloody tooth.
How many teeth had he lost by now in this job? He wasn’t even a spy anymore - A.S.S. wouldn’t cover this implant.
Now forced to swallow every time blood pools in his mouth, he avoids the sight of it on the floor by looking up and back at the officer, who was now wearing a smug smile.

That smile turns sinister.
“Don’t get cocky, Mega. I know you appreciate your life, so I recommend you shut up before you lose it.”
Curt manages to swallow blood exactly once before the MI6 agent crouches in front of him, studying him for a second before grabbing his hair painfully and pulling his head up.
The captee hisses, and taking advantage of that, his torturer puts two fingers into his mouth, prying it open.

The gap where his tooth had been was now visible, blood flowing into his mouth steadily.
Curt does his best to swallow while not biting the man’s fingers off.
He’d rather not lose another one.

“That’s more like it. Used to having others in your mouth, aren’t you?” the officer mocks, but this time there’s no effect on Curt - he was too concentrated in not throwing up to care.
“If A.S.S. hasn’t replied by tonight, we may have some fun here at the base with you. How does a couple less teeth sound?” he laughs to himself, somewhat dryly, not waiting for an answer before walking out of the hostage’s vision.

The only other hint of movement is the creaking of the door opening and closing, and then locking, that tells him he’s been left alone.
He’s never had high hopes for A.S.S. helping him in any way, much less now, but he does pray he gets to their quarters in one piece as soon as possible.
He swallows the blood that keeps pooling in his mouth.
He feels nauseous.

—

He doesn’t know how much time passes after the MI6 officer left him.

Curt had decided to use his vital time to study the cracks on the floor and wall in front of him.
It didn’t look like he had been the first person to be kept there, some dark stains and scratches telling him as such.
He was jealous of the man that was left free enough to scratch, to even move - his legs were heavy and sore, and he couldn’t feel his arms behind his back anymore.
His mouth tastes of iron, and the lost tooth was still somewhere next to him on the floor.

Before he can continue mentally complaining, there’s a loud, muffled thud to interrupt him.
Then, Curt can hear weapons firing that stop as suddenly as they began.
He tries his best to turn his head and see the unbothered door, from where all the sound was coming from.
From where he hopes it does, anyway.

To confirm his theory, there’s a bang on the metal door, and soon after, red liquid begins to seep in the room from the small slot between the floor and the door.
The American can’t help but hold his breath without thinking, preparing for the worst case scenario.

Who was this savior? Were they still okay, or were they defeated?
There’s a metal jingle, and the lock starts shifting loudly.
Maybe life smiled at him after all.
Or maybe he was just in the eye of a hurricane.

The door unlocks, but there’s some hesitation - the door doesn’t open.
Curt presses his lips, his breath caught in his throat, preparing himself to meet whoever was at the other side of it.

Was it an A.S.S. agent, trying to get him back without paying MI6 the bounty on his head?
Maybe it was Barb, ready to save him!
Maybe Cynthia had moved some strings for him?
Maybe he would get his brains blown out of his skull the second the door opened.

The door creaks open, bringing him back to the present.
The silhouette of a man obstructed the white light of the hallway, so bright it takes Curt a few seconds to adjust.
And he believes he still hasn’t adjusted, because his eyes had to be deceiving him.

In front of him, the newcomer had straight, raven black hair pushed behind his ears and out of his forehead by gel; a black bomber jacket over a tucked-in off-white polo shirt; some high-waisted black slacks and leather boots, and some weapons strapped to his body, like a handgun or a trusted knife.

Curt’s eyes focus on his savior’s face.
Those whiskey-colored eyes, slim face, 5 o’clock shadow he knew all too well and the crooked jaw that got accentuated when he smirked.
A face he’d seen so many times before, and a face he never thought he’d see again - but just as he was the same, he was also different.

His right side was scarred by burns, the eyebrow thinner and the eye just half-lidded, tugged by the scars. His hair was longer, just above his shoulder, and more disheveled than it used to be.
He didn’t look as suave as he used to in missions, now he was less confident, and… frowning.

He was looking directly at Owen Carvour in the flesh.
Owen Carvour who was there, for him, and didn’t seem to be on MI6’s side of this conflict.
Or was he?

His mind helpfully recalls the vision, the body of his partner lying limp on the floor, all the way at the bottom of the stairs in that Russian facility.
The puddle of blood on the ground growing behind his head, dead on impact.
His mouth tastes like iron and nausea.
Thinking about it, this could be his mind tricking him once again.
He was different to all his other visions, yes, but this man could be someone with just some vague resemblance, and his head just sees whatever it wants. This could be some soviet breaking into MI6’s facility and just finding him by stroke of luck.

“Lov- Curt, are you even listening?” He's brought back to Earth by a familiar voice, physically closer than anyone had been last time he checked in with reality.
Familiar, he could recognise it anywhere.

Owen.

All Curt can say without his mind collapsing into itself is a soft “Huh?”.
This all felt so real, so unlike any other vision he’s ever had since the accident.

Before he knows it, his arms and legs are free - but he doesn’t move.
He had been so sure he was dying in that cubicle, and Owen of all people saving him from such a fate felt so fantastical, so unreal it didn’t make sense.
The weight of a hand on his shoulder makes him turn forward - when had he moved to be in front of him? - and their eyes meet again, now closer.

“...Owen.” Curt can’t help but mutter, afraid he’ll be heard. Afraid they’ll be torn away from each other after just reuniting.
The man in front of him seemed to feel the same - or at least a somewhat similar - way.

“You’re going to hate me for this.” the British man mutters, pressing his lips together as his eyes move to stare at the ground.
Curt can’t help but continue staring.
How couldn’t he?

The man he thought dead - had seen dead, even - was still there.

And because he can’t tear his eyes away from his face, he misses how the British man raises his arm, gun in hand, and hits him with the butt of it with a calculated blow.
In a matter of seconds, his vision goes black, and his body limps into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

It’s the second time Curt wakes up in a place he doesn’t recognise in, likely, less than 24 hours; which was by no means close to a new record, but a strange occurrence nonetheless.

To his surprise, he is not tied up to a chair like he was before, but the room he is in has no accessible window and the door does not seem to be open for him to cross.
Curt sits up, his head swimming - was he concussed?
What a joke, of course he was.

He reaches to hold his forehead, the pain making itself more and more obvious - and he touches cold.
His head is cold.

Next to him, now starting to cool down his side, was an ice bag made with a few kitchen cloths.
It must’ve fallen from his head when he sat up, then… that explains the cold.
Curt can’t help but thank the kindness - most people don’t bother giving their captees any sort of medical help.
Was he a captee?

He seems to be, although particularly empty, in a bedroom.
He is sitting up on a bed, and on the simple nightstand next to him, a lit lamp and a tablet of paracetamol - the box was immediately recognisable to someone with a job like his.
Curt groans, picking the bag of ice and holding it to his head once again, the cold weakly soothing him.
Captured or not, this was way better than whatever MI6 had available for him.
Who even had him captured now? He fails to recall.

Or… actually, his mind recalls a very faint image of his rescuer; no matter how faint, he recalls how Owen Carvour had been the man before him, the one to save him from a fate he thought certain - those whiskey eyes couldn’t belong to anyone else.

And of course, like clockwork, the door to the room hisses open.
Unlike the first time, the change wasn’t drastic enough to paint a halo of light behind the silhouette that was coming in; they were visible.

She has her ginger hair down to her chest, dressed with a comfortable, dark purple turtleneck and high waisted pants, long enough to cover most of her boots.
Curt does not remember her being at the MI6 headquarters.
Seeing her approach, he sits up in anticipation, ready to use his only weapon - the ice bag - if he has to.

She, however, puts on a tight-lipped smile, and stops at the feet of the bed somewhat awkwardly, almost dreading this exchange as much as him.
“How are you feeling?” She asks, her voice, her russian accent… familiar.
Mega has heard her voice before, and she seems to know this.
He watches her for a few seconds too long until he finally realizes where he knows her from.

The bar, back in England - was it Manchester? He doesn’t quite recall the city. But he did know her name - or what she said her name was; Olga.
“Didn’t expect it to be you.” he mutters, noticing his speech more slurred than he had expected it to be. Maybe the hit to the head had been worse than he thought.
“Me neither. This is not part of the mission.” she replies, dropping her attempt of a nice and warm facade to be, what he assumes, her normal expression; and while cold, it wasn’t as unwelcoming as he thought it would be for a spy.

“Then why am I here?” he pressed on, trying to level any sort of negative tone in his voice back to neutrality - it was not in his interest to make his… caregiver? Jailor? An enemy.

She seems to hesitate, her eyes darting to the door momentarily as if nothing about this was up to her - judging by her answers, it was true - before deciding upon an answer.

“My partner judged this to be necessary for our mission, and I couldn’t see a reason to be against it.” Her partner, huh.
Was he that man from the bar? Was it Owen? Someone else entirely?

Curt can’t shake the pang of bitter jealousy that strikes his heart. The world partner stung like none other.
“But he does not want to see you. I don’t know the reason why.”
She stops him from even opening his mouth, reading his mind.

But lack of permission has never stopped the great Agent Mega, so all he does is frown as he attempts to get up on his feet - this woman stops him, of course, and they begin to struggle.

Curt’s concussion was stealing his brute strength from him, and she was nothing close to weak - so they lasted a few seconds until he found his back against the mattress again.

“Let me see him.” he hisses, now trying to push her away from him as she expertly pins him down, not allowing much room for him to keep struggling.

“You’re going to get worse if you get up.” she struggles to say, Curt’s elbow digging into her ribs.
“I don’t care - I need to see Owen.” he exclaims now, perhaps too loud for his sensitive ears, as he wrestles to sit back up successfully.

They must’ve made too much noise to be ignored, because the creaking of the opening door makes the fight still.

At the threshold, Owen Carvour stands in silence, their gazes locking together into intense eye contact.
Neither of them know how long they stay in such a way until his partner clears her throat, standing back up straight and backing off.

“...You’re alive.” The American can’t help but mutter, sitting back up properly on the bed to see him more clearly.
“...You’re not dead.” Is all he replies, still frozen at the door - his voice is harsher than Curt remembered, raspier and barely retaining that sweet melodious tone he held so dear.
If Curt wasn’t too focused on the sole fact that he was still alive and kicking after so long, he’d say Owen was stressed, judging by the smell of cigarettes that came in with him.

It’s been four years since they last stood face to face, and suddenly, neither knows what to say.
“He wanted to know why you rescued him.” the woman breaks the silence, arms crossed but not impatient or amused - she seems to understand the gravity of such a reunion. Almost suspiciously so.

Owen turns to her for a second, his expression changing indescribably before he turns back to him. He seems to hesitate, his eyes darting around for the longest time to avoid looking at him directly.
He seemed… embarrassed, almost.
“It’s the least I could do.” he eventually settles with.
And, really, that was enough.

Curt had been found out because they had investigated Owen.
But was he to blame for anything?
He was, apparently just legally, dead. He wasn’t responsible for the witch hunt MI6 had done - hell, he was affected by it too, he just dodged the consequences.

Even if the grave had been dug because of Owen, Curt had been the one to step in it that night at the bar. He had been such a fool. Such a hopeful fool, to think he’d be back on the job like nothing had happened at all.

Mega ends up sighing, resting against the bed frame, uncomfortable under his already sore back.
“It wasn’t your fault.” he confesses, regret creeping up on him so strongly it forces him to face down - looking at his own hands as they play with the hem of his shirt, which had been pulled out of his pants at some point during the trouble with Olga.
His tongue goes to trace the spot where his tooth was missing, the smooth texture jarring.

Apparently, this isn’t what Owen wanted or needed to hear, because the growl he lets out snaps all the eyes in the room back to him in surprise.
“It’s taken you this long to realise that, Mega?” he hisses “Must feel like such an achievement to you.”
The American is stunned to silence, the two men holding the aggressive eye contact like their lives depend on it. Where had the anger come from?

It takes Curt a few seconds to realize they were talking about two entirely different events; suddenly, the angry reaction clicks in his mind when it goes back to that night.
That night - the first time the sight and smell of someone else’s blood had made him feel so sick.
And yet, 4 years later, Curt was still thinking about himself first.
It’s justified, part of his mind jumps to defend himself, but he knew better than to tell Owen that, his face scarred to forever remind him of whatever he endured.

God, neither of them must know what just happened to him, right?
Why he had been held by MI6 of all groups, isolated and hurt.
Even after all Curt had - or hadn’t - done, Owen came to his rescue anyway.

Strangely, the British man is the first to break away from eye contact - he was always the winner before, Curt never able to either stay mad or withstand the uncomfortableness of staring into an angry Owen’s eyes.

“Stop staring.” The British spits, his voice wavering with sudden insecurity; Curt had indeed been staring while his mind wandered.
“Are you even gonna say something? Apologise, for once in your life?” he then continues, badly contained fury clear in his eyes. Fury, hatred. Blame. All deserved.

Curt finally lowers his eyes, the never-fading feelings he’s held for Owen for years still heavy in his heart, bubbling up to choke him like it had so many times before.
He had been a hopeful man, but lately, nothing seemed to be going his way.
After all, he can't seem to understand why Owen is acting so… weirdly.

He saves him, nurses him - although that may have been his new… partner, he realises bitterly - and now he displays such pure hatred?
God, if it had been just one of them, he wouldn’t have any trouble accepting it, no matter what it had been.
But no, it had to be complicated, just like everything in his life, apparently.

The silence chokes them all for what must've been forever, the Brit muttering a ‘Right, of course.’ under his breath before the woman clears her throat.
“I believe we should let him know the plan. We could use the help.”

Owen snaps his head to glare at her now.
“We do not need to compromise ourselves further.” he spits, regardless of how formally he words it.
She stares anyway, impassive.
“You have already compromised our mission with this… detour.” and Curt listens intently, knowing very well this is him they're talking about, but not whatever the mission may actually be - or any other detail, for that matter.

Owen seems to take great offense to her words, and after another cold glance shot the American’s way, he exhales sharply, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“Tatiana,” he says, forcing his tone flat “tomorrow. We will discuss this tomorrow.”

And just like that, he leaves, closing the door behind him more gently than the man on the bed would’ve expected.
Sure, Owen had never been explosive when angry, but the gentleness was… strange.

They’re submerged in a pressing silence after that, the woman - Tatiana, her name was - and Curt.
He had so many questions he didn’t believe she had answers to, but she did seem to know more than he did currently. Did he lose anything by asking?

“What’s going on?” he mutters, sounding weaker than he meant to.
“I am… not sure.” she answers, her eyes not tearing away from the door.
Great.
“Do you know why he saved me?” he insists, the second part of his sentence - ‘if he hates me this much’ - gone unsaid. She did not need to know how he felt about this all more than she already did.

She takes a little longer to reply, her gaze lowering to a spot in the carpet - likely the one with the coffee stain, Curt thinks - until she sighs.
“No. I don't believe he knows that either.”

Great. Did anybody in this house know anything at all?
“...I imagine you’ll tell me about the mission you guys are in tomorrow, then.” he says, but he wants an answer despite not asking it directly as a question.
“That’s what we have to discuss - we need to agree on what you need to know.” she explains, her hands folding on themselves in front of her.
Curt cannot afford to be alone and defenseless.
“...But you want me in the team.” he tries, earning a smile and an exhalation out of her.

“Get some sleep, Mega. You're going to need it.”
And on cue, he presses the ice bag to his head differently, trying to use the cold still left in it.
“...I don't think Owen will want to hear me say this” he begins when Tatiana walks to the door “But thank you, Tatiana. To both of you.”

She watches him for a second, considering something in her head, before nodding and exiting the room - leaving Curt alone to drift into something akin to a feverish sleep.

Chapter Text

Curt jolts awake with a start, panting; his dirty hair stuck to his forehead by melted ice and sweat.
He blinks rapidly, trying to avoid tears - he’d just had a nightmare, one where Owen-
Where Owen…

Details slip through his fingers at a nauseating speed, leaving him completely clueless to the contents of his latest dream aside from the horrible feeling that still clung to his stomach.
He just knows that, like other times, he’d dreamt about Owen.
After a few deep breaths, he looks around to find the room completely untouched.
Next to where his head must’ve been, the ice had completely melted into a small puddle on the pillow and extended down to a part of the bed covers.
How much time had he spent asleep? It was probably not worth pondering about - he just knew he had to call this one number: his mother’s.

He'd been taken from her home, after all; he needed to tell her that he was safe - or rather, just alive - and that she had to move out immediately.

With a start, he gets up from the bed, having to stand still for a few seconds because his head swims in pain, and then turns the doorknob to step out of the room.
Immediately, he's met with a small living room, decently tidy and illuminated by the sun coming in through the window on the wall furthest from him, the one leading to a tiny balcony.
Tatiana sits on the couch, the motion of cleaning the gun frozen to look up at him; Owen was none the wiser, sitting outside with a lit cigarette in hand, looking seemingly out of it.

“...Good morning.” Curt tries, unsure if he should even take a place on the small couch or not.
“It’s three in the afternoon.” she argues, before going back to the gun in her hand “Good afternoon. How are you feeling?”
“...Good afternoon.” he corrects himself sheepishly “I, uh… my head still hurts, but at least it's bearable now.”
“You could use a painkiller, then. They're back in the bedroom.” She essentially instructs, and Curt goes back to take a pill and the glass of water next to it to down it before returning to the living room.

This time, Tatiana was standing, and Owen was inside the room, almost as - if not more - uncomfortable as Curt.
“Good, you're back.” Before he can argue that he had been gone less than a minute, she continues “We said yesterday that we would be discussing how this plan was going to go forward.”
Owen’s face scrunches up in apparent disgust as he takes a spot on the couch, laying back in a poor attempt to look calm - his tense jaw gave him away.
After all this time, Curt still knows some of his tells - maybe he hasn’t changed that much after all.

Tatiana takes the spot next to him, and Curt drags himself towards the small armchair, sitting down to one side in hopes to avoid facing Owen straight on.
It only works somewhat.

“Let’s get this straight first. You want to team up with an A.S.S. agent to execute a plan that involves them as our enemies.” he describes, not looking at anything but the floor in front of his feet.
He smells of tobacco - a smell Curt had very much grown fond of because of him.
“Not quite. We are teaming up with an ex-agent, which is very useful.” she corrects, and they both wonder alike how she knows.

Neither voice their confusion, but it's clear enough that she elaborates.
“Since when has MI6 been enemies of A.S.S.? They wouldn't hold an agent like so, unless said agent… wasn't an agent anymore.”
Owen makes eye contact with him, his glare still powerful, and once more, Curt is forced to keep it up, forced to not look as weak as he feels.
He was asking for an explanation, that much was clear.
He knew just as much as Curt how much of his life had revolved around spying since the beginning.

“...Smart.” the American mutters at her, unsure what else to do to avoid confessing the truth.
Should he disguise it? How to tell Owen what he deserved to know without accidentally having Tatiana find out?
“Well, I… was fired. Yeah. Thanks to the new computer network… thing.” he manages not to stammer enough to get… a part of the message across. There’s nothing more that needs to be known - not with her in the room.

Contrasting Tatiana’s undisturbed expression, Owen seemed to be miles away.
Eyes unfocused, lips parted just enough to breathe.
“I imagine you were held because, according to them, you ‘knew too much’?” she asks, and he nods.
“... Of course they would do such a thing.” he mutters to himself, visibly going into a spiral of thought.
“At least now we know why an American agent was in the middle of Canada.” the woman comments.

Canada…
MI6 managed to kidnap him and get him all the way from Guadeloupe to their nearest base.
“...Do you have a landline here I could use?” he asks, completely out of the blue to the rest of the room.

“...There is a payphone a street away. But first, we should get to the bottom of this.” she interrupts before Curt even dares to stand up.
“What else is there to say?” the American mumbles, itching to get up from his seat - the glare the other man throws his way doesn’t help it settle.
His tongue traces the empty space where his tooth used to be.
Tatiana, on her part, turns to Owen.
“Do you want his help in the mission?” she asks directly, as loaded as the question is.
He takes his time to come up with an answer - his eyes fixed on the corner of the coffee table as his eyes unfocus and his mind leaves the present.
He breathes.
“What does he bring to the table?” he questions, grunting, almost more to himself than the other two.

Curt doesn’t know what to reply - he’s not sure if he even wants to join this.
It’s nice to be wanted, but does he want to be here at all?

“What even is the mission about, first of all?” he interrupts before Tatiana gets to talk, glaring at them both to press for an answer that doesn’t arrive.
“You talk about if you want me in or not, but do you know what I want? Why would I possibly go back to espionage after all I’ve been through?” he now asserts, dancing around his insecurities on the topic - what else would he do if not espionage, how nobody would want him in the field anyway.
He has to stand his ground.

They both look at each other, speaking without words.
Strangely, they don’t seem to be eye to eye - she is trying to find an answer, but Owen already has it, his demeanor a lot more confident, almost as much as his old self.
“Revenge.” he replies like he’s saying the sky is blue, eye contact unwavering “Isn’t that what anyone would want?”

Curt can’t help but notice the double meaning.
Can he afford to ignore it? Is he seeing violence where there’s none?
After rescuing him, would he leave him to die?
With a furrowed brow, he dares to push forward.

“What’s the objective of the mission?” and by the look in the British man’s eye and his smirk, he’s fallen for his plan hook, line and sinker.
However, if he was making that face, Curt can’t help but momentarily not even mind.
“We’ve been tasked to infiltrate the A.S.S. and destroy the place where the computer is held.” and he frames it so beautifully, so perfectly, that Curt can’t help but forget how to breathe for a second, his imagination wild.
If the network ceases to exist, nobody would go through what he had to - no more thorough internal investigations, no more secrets uncovered.
It would all go back to how it was. How it all used to be.

Tatiana looks at him, a curious glint in her eye, while Owen just patiently waits for the answer he knew was coming.
“...I’m in. I’ll be part of the mission.” he speaks, voice barely louder than his heartbeat.

–

Now that the three spies were on the same page, they had to actually work on tracing a plan about how to move forward - Curt had never been too good at it, more used to making it up along the way, but Tatiana and Owen seem to think things through a bit more often.

Strangely, Owen isn’t as methodical nor as risky as he used to be in his years of partnership with Curt.
Even stranger, they’re trying to make the least violent plan possible.
Owen used to love the adrenaline of running from their enemies. Now, he’s explicit on how he wants someone to be a distraction so he can plant the bombs calmly and get out unseen.
And Tatiana doesn’t seem to even have an issue with the request.

“We need a way to go in and out of the headquarters - going undercover would be ideal, but I’m unsure how we would manage that.” she says, putting pen to paper to track all the ideas they’ve been discussing.
“Posing as guards is too common. And agents have ways to check each other’s identity.” Owen counters, the American nodding along in confirmation “We could pose as scientists. Nobody thinks a nerd in a lab coat can aim a gun.”

Curt’s mind goes back to Barb, in her nerdy glasses and her very own lab coat. How excited she seemed to be to see him arrive, and how distressed she seemed to send him away and see him go.
If he knew something, he knew that, usually, the woman wouldn’t hurt someone so dear to her like she did.
There had to be a reason why, and that escaped him.
“We could contact Barb.” he spurts out without really meaning to. The other two look back at him for a few seconds, until Owen’s face brightens up in inspiration.
“She would help us avoid any suspicion if we’re seen with her.” he words Curt’s thoughts.
“...Who’s Barb?” Tatiana chimes in, pen ready to write down this idea.

“She’s the Head Scientist at A.S.S. - we used to be very close. I… I believe we could get her to help us.” Curt explains briefly, still going over his own thoughts - trying not to feel his heart swelling at how Owen could still follow his somewhat scattered train of thought.

“...If this is possible, we could consider it. However, I believe there are more pressing matters to discuss: roles.” she switches topic smoothly, looking back at the two men “You both have a history with A.S.S., directly or not. You both will need a very good disguise or you will not go in. We cannot risk recognition.”
“...I was not counting on being the one infiltrating. They will be looking for me, since MI6 probably told them I escaped…” he trails off, the full story of it for another day “but I think… Owen could infiltrate. He’s legally dead, he’ll slip under the radar.”

Owen does not react well to any part of the sentence.
His left eye twitches when he hears his name, stare getting colder until any sort of connection they had regained feels like it freezes over.
“Didn’t even declare me M.I.A.? How nice of you.” he mutters bitterly, rolling his eyes and turning away to sit back on the couch.
The other man has to stop and even think for a few seconds, shocked.

“I did you a favor - it makes this mission easier now.” Curt then complains, unable to hide how the sudden change had stung. He didn’t mean to remind either of them of the incident they still had not discussed, but it was important information they could use for the plan to succeed!

Hell, even if Curt had been so incredibly hopeful and declared Owen M.I.A. instead of dead 4 years ago, MI6 would’ve declared him dead anyway not too long after.
That way, too, it had been better for Owen’s legacy that he didn’t share any details of the incident - his memory would be respected if they thought he went out as bravely as any other agent, and not because of his partner’s stupid string of mistakes.

Was protecting the two of them such a crime?
God, he doesn't even understand how Owen is even alive and in front of his very eyes - he knows what he saw, and he saw death on impact.
“That’s not the point.” the other grumbles, not elaborating further.
Curt just huffs, turning to Tatiana as she does her best to study the situation that had unfolded before her eyes.

“Look. I can contact Barb and get her to meet me so I can convince her to join - she is also likely to give us a few gadgets to work with as a plus.” he explains to her.
“That is a good idea.” she agrees, inviting Curt to continue.
“She could guide whoever is undercover to the room with the computer and then out - nobody would suspect a thing. And since someone insisted they wanted to plant the bombs, I was trying to think of a way to fulfill that wish.”

Sure, maybe he was being irrational by poking the bear, but in his opinion, Owen had to learn he was not the only one affected by that night.
Just the one affected the most.
The other man barely moves in response, just closing his eyes and furrowing his brow, as if concentrating on something.
The other two hold their breaths, expecting the argument to continue escalating.

“Three people together is too much. Tatiana should go alone with Barb.” The raven haired man finally says, still insisting despite the lack of energy in his words.
And while he certainly doesn’t end the argument, he takes any aggressiveness out of the conversation.
She turns to him, seemingly analyzing him before placing a hand on his shoulder.
“Owen” she calls - or warns, Curt can’t tell - and he exhales.
She waits for his shoulders to relax before continuing.

Meanwhile, Curt’s hands grab at his knees - both in guilt from causing him distress and in frustration from not being the one to help him.
Memories keep coming back to him, unwanted, haunting him as his eyes unfocus and his conscience sinks into the past.
If jealousy has any seat in this game, he won’t admit it.
“We need to think logically about this.” he hears Tatiana say, a little too far away “Barb and I will not trust each other. We have yet to even meet. I believe having a third person that knows both of us is important for communication. That can only be you, Owen.”

Curt blinks rapidly, forcing the mental fog to retreat as he begins to perceive the world around again, awoken by the mention of his… ex-partner’s name.
The man in question sits up, sighing loudly as he brings his elbows to rest on his knees.
“Fine. Fine, if you don’t believe 3 people will be too many, I’ll agree with it." He then takes the notepad and pen from Tatiana’s lap, turning a new page and writing down something.
“Tatiana and Owen infiltrate the building and go undercover as scientists to find Barb. She leads the two to the computer room, they set up the bombs and then she accompanies them to leave before it’s detonated.” he then reads out for the other two.

“We will need a map to choose entrances and exits, but I like this plan as long as we can count on this Barb person.” Tatiana agrees with a gentle nod.
“What am I gonna do?” Curt finally speaks up, sheepish but insecure, feeling like all his anxieties were exposed for the rest of the room to see.
They claimed to need him earlier, and now he wasn’t part of the plan at all?
Did they only use him to get to Barb?
What a waste of an agent he was.

“Could you act as a distraction without getting caught?” Tatiana asks, tone genuine. It still felt like a jab.
“...Depends.” he settles with, watching her intently, trying to catch the second any emotion betrays her blank expression.
He’s not sure what emotion he’s looking for.
“We need a distraction big enough to clear our way in case things go wrong, but not big enough that we have to break you out.” she elaborates, but to his thinking, she’s too vague to help him come up with any idea over what to do.

This is why he never plans things - he’s the expert at improvising, adrenaline would help him come up with a brilliant distraction plan, on the spot, when the moment asks for it.
“Something that isn’t running into the middle of an office and firing at the ceiling to catch people’s attention.” Owen adds. Hurtfully.
“Funny.” he breathes, pressing his lips to avoid saying anything hurtful back “I’ll just… think of something when I get to the scene.”
“And how did that turn out last time you did it?” the other man growls, the scarred side of his face getting hit by a ray of sunshine from the window. It almost seemed to be done on purpose, just to remind him.
It makes Curt momentarily sink in on himself, eyes beginning to sting and lip quivering after taking one too many hits.
The images of that bloody Russian facility floor come back to him one more time.

“Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re up to, but if you want me to help you in this mission, you better start shutting the fuck up.” Before he realises, he’s sprung out of the chair, index finger pointing accusingly at Owen; the man had steeled his expression and body language, simply glaring back at him coldly.
Owen then rises up from his seat to meet him, slowly, now looking down at him - Curt could swear he looked amused.
Something about it has his stomach turning, his legs feeling like jelly under him.
“Tone it down, Mega. You’re just plan B.” he mocks, ending the sentence with a condescending smile.

There’s a pause, cold and unforgiving, before words die in the American’s throat.
Tatiana then stands between the two, pushing Owen to sit back down.
“You should put on a coat and go to the phone down the street to do whatever you need it for. We’ll take a short break from planning.” She holds Curt’s shoulders, gently guiding him away from the living room.
He nods idly, letting himself be guided.
He could use a talk with his mom.

Once at the door, Tatiana gives him some money - the correct currency, thank goodness - before her serious expression starts to unnerve him enough to start talking.

“...Look, I didn’t wanna shout, but he’s being unreasonable.” he tries to justify himself, even if it sounds defensive.
“...I know.” she confirms, shooting back a glance.
“Then why do you just- allow it? How can you even work with him?” he grumbles, adjusting the coat he was lent - Owen’s coat, anyway.
A little too tight, a little too long.

He’ll ignore the faint smell of cologne and cigarettes so they don’t make him weep when he’s on the phone.

“You think it’s unreasonable because you don’t know the reason.” she says, opening up the door for him to exit.
“I tried asking,” Curt argues. “He didn’t tell me a single thing. Am I meant to read his mind? Try to guess why he’s being a dick after saving my life?”
She glares, warning him to lower his voice. He catches that message.

“Emotions aren’t logical, Mega.” she says, like he didn’t know this already “You two need to talk about what happened.”
“Don’t talk like you know about it.” he mumbles, closing his coat and ready to escape the safehouse for at least a few minutes.
“But I do. Owen and I are close enough for that.” She explains vaguely, and before Curt can turn to demand a better explanation, the door is shut behind him, leaving him alone in his journey towards the payphone.

Chapter Text

The two-minute walk down the street was enough time for Curt to get caught up in his own thoughts.

He knows why Owen didn’t like him anymore, of course, but why was he so confusing about it? He’s awfully mean to him in every chance he gets, but Curt’s alive and free thanks to him.
He absentmindedly traces the space his tooth used to be with his tongue as he keeps thinking.

What was the point of this?
Torture? Revenge?
Was there a difference?
And who does this Tatiana girl even think she is?

He arrives at the payphone, his breath visible in the cold air, and after figuring out the instructions with the little french he’s retained over the years, he introduces the coins the machine asks of him.
He knows he cannot tell his mother his location, company or anything of the sort - but he wants her to know he was… alive.

Even if the fear of being spied on through the phone bubbles up to his throat, he dials the number he has ingrained in his memory - he knows this is for the best.
It had been, what, 3 days…?

The phone doesn’t ring for long on the other side; the worried and even panic-ridden voice of his mother comes to his ear as he struggles to find words.
“Hello?!” she asks.
“H-Hey mom.” he begins, getting cut off instantly by his mother’s relief.
“Curtis! Oh, thank the Lord…! Are you okay?! What happened to you?” she exclaims, her sudden sobs audible through the line, tearing Curt’s heart apart.

“...I’m okay, Mom. I… I don’t know what happened, but some… friends rescued me, now I’m with them. Are you okay?” he lies through his teeth.
He knows what happened, he’s not with some ‘friends’, and he very much is not okay.
But whatever was necessary to keep her calm.
“I am, dear… I’m packing things up, like you told me in case this happened… Are you coming back soon? I can’t leave until I tell you where!” she asks, with all the logic in the world.

Is he coming back at all?
He couldn’t tell her he might not return, even if, just like in every mission he’s ever been, she has always known there’s a chance - he couldn’t bear to hear her reaction to that reality dawning on her with him to witness it.

“Uh… I’m not sure how long it’ll take me, but give me… a week? I’ll call you next… What day is it today?” he asks sheepishly.
“Curtis, It’s Monday…” She sounds like she wants to reprimand him, but the fear of what the question implies stops her.

“I’ll call you next Monday to confirm when I’m coming over, yeah?” He's quick to reply.
“...Fine, bub. As long as you come back.” she sighs through the phone.

How heartbreaking that sentence was, Curt couldn’t express it.
This is what his childhood dream was causing, and it was all pain.
Has his job ever caused any relief?
Maybe this last mission could redeem him?

“I will. Love you, mom.” he finally says, blinking repeatedly to try and avoid tears from falling; forcing his tone to flatten so a choked sob wouldn’t give him away.
“Love you too, Curtis.” she says.
Without waiting another second, he hangs up by slamming the phone a little too hard.

–

Curt arrives back at the safehouse, eyes still teary and the coat still invading his nose with Owen’s smell not helping the case.
He knocks on the door, and he’s met with deadly silence.
“...It’s me. I’m back.” He says, awkward.

The doorknob turns, and the door is left ajar without a sign of either person allegedly inside the house.
He pushes it, coming in silently - he’s defenseless, he realises - as he reaches towards his back and finds the usual space a gun would occupy, empty.

Closing behind him, growing worried, he walks into the living room before even taking off the coat; Tatiana is on the couch, her hands once again busy with the cloth and the gun.
She doesn’t move to acknowledge his presence.
“Welcome back. I trust you didn’t give us away?” she says nonchalantly.
Like she expects him to do so.

He clenches his fists in the coat’s pockets - he went away to blow off some steam between other things, and Tatiana has shown before that she doesn’t want to accuse him, she’s just… blunt, more than anyone he’s met.
“No. Unless they’ve been tracing me, tracked wherever I made the call from and found me out.” he replies humorlessly.

She looks at him through the corner of her eye, raising an eyebrow.
Almost amused, if he could have an opinion on it.
Now, he decides to glance around the room as he pulls off the coat and holds it, awkwardly.
There’s something - someone - missing.

“...Where’s Owen?” he hesitates before asking.
It hurts to be so careful about even mentioning the only person he could be himself with before.
Tatiana seems to pity him for a second.
“Bathroom, probably. He opened the door before going.” and that is enough to convince Curt to sit down next to her, Owen’s coat folded on his lap - the smell could still reach his nose.
It was still comforting.

“What did you need the phone for?” She asks after a short silence, gently putting down the gun on the coffee table and folding the cloth.
Curt will not admit whether he got the urge to grab the firearm and keep it or not.
“I, uh… I had to call… my mom. MI6… captured me from her house. I had to let her know I’m still alive…” he decides to tell the truth, thinking it would be best to have a positive bond with at least one of his ‘coworkers’ in this mission.

Tatiana’s expression softens notably, holding her own hands on her lap.
“I see. I am glad she’s safe.” she replies - even if Curt had been the one to show vulnerability by telling her sensitive information, she looked like her heart was fighting against her judgement.

“Yeah. She’s all I have left.” he says, even if he’s not sure how true that is anymore - Owen was still alive, by the looks of it.
“Take good care of her, Mega” she turns to look at him, sadness overwhelmingly visible in her eyes “you never know how long you have together.”

By the look on her face, she was begging him to let her open up.
Did Owen and her not talk about anything of the sort? Was their partnership more strictly professional than he thought?
“...What happened to yours?” he asks, careful.
“...My family is okay.” she replies, gaze switching to watch her own hands “but I can’t ever contact them if I want them to be safe.”

Safe to say, Curt knew the feeling - maybe his mom wasn’t in immediate danger, and maybe she would be safer if he cut contact with her, but he couldn’t bare make her go through that torture, as her only son.
“...If you don’t mind me asking… Why?” he continues to lead, to let her speak.
“...I fled the KGB when I was younger. If they ever find me, I fear what could happen to them back home.”

They were more similar than he thought - what a surprise.

…If they weren’t working for the Russians, who gave them this mission?
It was nothing he needed to know immediately.

Gentle, he puts a hand on her upper back, startling her enough to get her to make eye contact once again.
The silence invades the room for what feels a second too long.
“I know the feeling. My country is looking to kill me… and their allies are pretty keen on helping.” he begins, almost seeing the questions pop up in her mind. He waits for her to actually ask.

“So you were… more than fired?” she puts it nicely.
“...Yeah. My boss… told me MI6 had given them compromising information about Owen, and that it could tie to me. Then, she told me what was going to happen to me, and let me flee before the agency came looking for me.” he explains vaguely, not wanting to get into any unnecessary details that could give him - or Owen - away.
“All of this because of something… Owen did?” her eyes turn to the window next to Curt, eyebrows furrowed.
Clearly, she was aware of all the puzzle pieces missing.

“...Yeah, I guess. I think… MI6 took great offense when they found out he wasn’t… too fond of the Queen?” among other things, of course.
Like fancying men.

“And they… decided to do something about this… four years after he had been declared dead?” she questions, not looking like she buys the story just yet.
Curt takes his hand from her back, feeling his palm starting to sweat.
“Yeah, uh… they assumed he was a communist...” she raises an eyebrow “Not that- you know how it is in the west…”
She smiles at Curt’s poor attempts to both lie convincingly and not accidentally offend her.

“I don’t believe myself a communist, Mega. Nor a capitalist.” she smirks.
“Anarchist?” he tries guessing.
“...Maybe.” she shrugs, smirk still not off her face.

They stay in silence for a few more seconds.
“So… what did you have to do with Owen not liking the Queen of England?” Tatiana then pushes him to finish the story, looking at him with amusement in her expression that Curt couldn’t help but feel nervous about.
Dammit, he almost got away with it.
“Well, since we… worked together a lot, they thought I might be one too.” he summarises.

She looks like she doesn’t believe a word.
“And what were you doing at a bar in England last Thursday?” she’s caught him.
“I- uh… leisure.” his ability to lie was decaying the longer the conversation went.
He is very aware of this.

“Mega. You crossed the Atlantic for a drink?”
Yeah, the lie sounded horrible.

“...I was sent on a mission so I would go to the HQ later.” he admits through his teeth.
But to his surprise, she doesn’t press further.
“What a funny coincidence.” she comments, “Owen and I were there on a mission as well. We had to get leads to find the compound where MI6 kept their network technology, since we found out they had some.”
“Owen?” Curt repeats, dumbfounded.

Her lips curve into a knowing smirk once again.
Which was not good for him.
“I thought you knew. Owen said you definitely saw him the second you came in.”
He did.

Jesus Christ, he did - the hallucination was not one at all.
The realisation of this fact must be written on his face, because she puts her hand on his shoulder now.
“He was that man.” he can only mutter. She just nods.

“He did not want to get distracted by your presence, so he sent me to… distract you while he focused on the mission until you left. As distracted as you were by yourself already.”
She keeps talking, but Curt can’t hear her anymore - he focuses on what he saw that night, the raven black hair of the man that never looked his way, or the so-called hallucination at the beginning of that night…
His side profile, facing Curt’s right…

“He didn’t have the scars.” he blurts out, turning back to her.
“He didn’t have any scars on his face. How?” He then has to repeat himself; to clarify his thoughts to Tatiana, who had been very much caught by surprise.
“...There is a trick men don’t seem to know about.” she smiles.
Curt must’ve made a very stupid face, because she giggles before elaborating.

“When I began working with Owen, he told me his strong suits were infiltration and… long range weapons, so to say.” Curt nods, knowing this information. She continues.

“But after the accident, his face was too… recognisable. So to allow him to continue his job, we went and got some make-up for him, to cover up the scars.”
Now that Tatiana had said it, it did feel like a fairly obvious answer.

“...I see. That’s… really nice of you, Tatiana.” he says, even if guilt makes his stomach sink - it wouldn’t have been necessary if he hadn’t been so selfish.
Owen’s face was disfigured because of him.

“It would be a tragedy otherwise.” she says, smiling softly.
“...It would. He’s… very admirable - I don’t think there’s a spy better at infiltration than him.” he agrees, as much as his chest had started to hurt.
He remembers glimpses of this, flashing in his memory like stars.
Sure, maybe Owen wasn’t as good at accents as Curt was, but he knew how to sell a performance regardless.
“Thank you, I know.” a third voice says; the other two turn towards the door, where it came from.

Owen was standing against the doorframe, arms crossed and an unamused look on his face.
Curt’s face heats up as he glances away.
He was wearing less clothes than before, standing in just a white shirt and pants.
God, his hair was wet and not combed back, some strands even falling on his face…

“Welcome back, Owen.” she greets, standing up and stepping away from the couch. “Now, we should think about having dinner before starting the plan.”
The plan… Ah, contacting Barb and getting her in.
They did have to think about that.

“There’s spaghetti we can make.” the British man offers, before having to stay silent to recall anything else.
“I believe we have eggs left, as well. We could make omelettes?” Tatiana counteroffers.
“...There’s a bar down the street.” Curt then mutters, regretting doing so the second both of them turn to him. “It was just an idea…”

“There’s 3 eggs left, if I remember correctly. I’ll make myself the pasta.” Owen says before disappearing towards the kitchen.
“...I guess that’s settled.” she mutters “Should we wait or are you hungry?”
“...I think I can wait until Owen is done.” Curt mutters back, not moving from his - Owen’s, really - spot on the couch.
Tatiana sits back down, and the two wait until it’s time to have dinner.

Once they’ve all eaten, Owen is back on his spot on the couch, with Curt on the armchair.
“We need to find a way to contact Barb. Any ideas?” Tatiana asks, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees.

“Could we use this… network to contact her? She would have access to it, I’m pretty sure.” Curt offers.
“How do we access that?” Owen counters - without any venom to his words for the first time in a while.
“...I didn’t think that far.” the other admits, trying to play off the shame that creeps up.
“I don’t believe the network to be safe to use. If it’s being used to breach the privacy of people, I’m not sure how private it is itself.”

Tatiana offers a good analysis - a network being used by the governments’ secret agencies must be as strict, if not more, than the offices themselves. If they were able to find out about Owen and him…

“What other options do we have? Mail?” Owen suggests.
“Barb is the Head Scientist, her mail will definitely get scanned.” Curt then informs - a bit bitterly.
They stay quiet for a few seconds before Tatiana turns to Curt, eyes wide.
“Curt, how close are you with Barb?” she asks.

Now, what she’s implying doesn’t make it through to him - he’s not sure if he should make something up and say that oh, yes, they’re exes in good terms, giving Owen the chance to make fun of him for such an obvious lie; or say the truth, as suspicious as it is, and confess that Barb has been crushing on him for nothing short of 5 years now, making it even more obvious - if possible at this point - that he doesn’t lean that way.
He looks at Owen as a last resort, a silent cry for help.

Sympathy makes its way in the man’s eyes.
“Old friends, us three. The kind to get a drink on Friday evenings. Barb is closer to Curt than she is to me, but I don’t know how that has evolved.” he explains for him - giving him a good base to elaborate on.

“We, uh… didn’t really talk the past 4 years, since I was… out of commission, so to speak - until last week.” he swallows, thinking hard about how to tell the story without giving himself away.
“...She must’ve known I was about to get fired, because she looked… sad to see me. I do think she would love to have a chat away from the headquarters.”
“Out of commission?” Owen mutters, asking the air.
Right. They were dancing around the line of the topic again.
“...I can explain later. She just didn’t see me during that time.” he tries to summarise. It’s good enough to keep them both quiet and back on the topic of Barb.

“I was thinking, if you were close you could know her home address - and deliver a letter of invitation personally.” Tatiana describes her idea, and it sounds plausible enough to not reject it immediately.
There was only one issue.

“I… knew her address. It’s been… at least 5 years since she’s invited me over.” he informs bitterly - he never accepted her invitations unless it was a special occasion, like her birthday, or when Owen would come with him. It would usually get awkward.
“...You’re saying you forgot it, then?” she questions.
He just nods.

“...I may have it written down.” Owen chimes in, getting up from the couch and disappearing past the threshold.
The other two just stare at each other, silent for a few seconds.
Why would he save something like Barb’s address, of all things?

He comes back with an open notebook, cover made of leather, and a small piece of paper between his index and middle fingers of his right hand.
He sits back down on his spot, handing the paper over to Tatiana - but as he walks past, Curt can’t help but notice something… strange.
Owen limps.

It’s not blatant, or violent, but it’s just not how he used to walk before.
Curt feels his heart sink to his feet, his eyes locked on the furniture Owen had walked past in front of him, until they shake him back to reality.

“Curt? Any thoughts?” she calls him.
“Hm? Sorry, I… was thinking about something.” he excuses himself.
“Evidently. How do you feel about the plan?” she questions further, crossing her arms.
“I, uh… I like it. I just have to write the letter, and we can head over to deliver it.” he describes, to make sure he didn’t actually miss anything while he was deep in thought.
“Well, that’s settled.” Owen closes the notebook with a snap, and the paper with the address written on it stays on the coffee table.

“We should get ready for the trip. It’ll be less than a full day, but still considerably long - we need to pack our things from here, and be on the road by tomorrow morning.” Tatiana says, standing up before turning to Curt.
“You will need to buy some clothes, we can lend you a gun. Start to write the letter, tell Barb to meet the day after tomorrow, wherever isn’t suspicious.”

And with those orders, they all begin to prepare for the first step of the mission, starting tomorrow morning.

Chapter Text

All three of them are en route by the time the sun is shining through their windows.

The day before, Curt went to a shop and bought himself two pairs of pants, shirts, a pair of shoes and a jacket, as well as socks and underwear. He’s been lent a small backpack to carry these, as well as a gun - soviet, he can’t help but notice - and ammo, all by Tatiana.

By 8am, they’re on their way to Washington, D.C., about an hour into the journey.
They aim to arrive in the city that evening and deliver the letter, hidden in the inner breast pocket of Curt’s new plain dark blue bomber jacket; reminiscent of his old grey one back home in Guadeloupe.

In the car - stolen, of course - Owen drives as Tatiana takes the first turn for a nap, laying down somewhat uncomfortably in the back seats. This leaves Curt on the copilot’s seat, hoping earth will swallow him.
Should he say something?
Is this the moment for the long awaited conversation?
Where does he start? What if Owen just throws him out the car?

Talk about Owen, he looked so… good, while driving.
Yes, Curt’s seen him this way many times, but it really never got old.
This time, he has make-up over the scars on his face and neck, hiding the odd discoloration and just leaving behind a less noticeable texture and less movement to that part.
Well, Owen notices him staring, and glares before turning back to the road.
He was fucking up this early. Good job, Mega.

“So, uh… You’re alive.” he starts, hesitant.
“Shut up, Mega.” The other is quick to try and cut him off, which only works to bother the first man.
“What? I’m trying to start a conversation!” he complains, even if shame creeps in when he realizes he probably sounded whiny like that.
Owen doesn’t even look back at him.

“Try again. Actually, don’t try - I don’t want to talk to you.”
So much for a conversation.
“I think there’s much to talk about.” Curt tries pushing again. He could see himself stranded at the side of the road already - Tatiana wasn’t awake to save him.

“Good for you.” Is the only answer he gets; the driver, now looking more pissed off than before, grabs at the wheel like he was going to make a sharp turn and crash them into a tree the second Curt annoyed him even more.
Curt knows (hopes) he won't, not even because of the mission, but because of Tatiana sleeping behind them pretty peacefully.
“...We've got like 12 hours of road ahead of us, are you really not going to talk to me?” he winces internally - he sounds more hurt than he had meant to show.

“Is it so hard to believe that I don't want to talk to my murderer?”
Images of the fall flash vividly in front of Curt’s eyes the second he calls him that.
Murderer.
That is what he was, wasn't it?

Mega reaches towards his inner pocket, but he only finds Cynthia’s letter and no trace of the flask he used to carry on missions.
Dammit, MI6 took it from him.
Surely, they'd stop eventually and he could get a drink.
Of whatever they could afford.
God, he wants to bite back so badly at Owen, complain that he’s not really dead so he’s not technically a murderer, that he never meant for that to even happen - but that doesn’t voice itself.
Instead, he stays quiet for a few seconds too long.

The man on the wheel is blatantly not looking at him, which makes it obvious he's just watching through his peripheral vision instead.
Feigning he's not interested in his reaction.

“...That's not fair.” the murderer mumbles, regretting ever trying to start the conversation - which seems to be precisely the other man’s goal.
Owen presses his lips into a thin line, taking a deep breath before replying.
He probably just repressed the need to crash the car, or shout at him until he was left deaf. Curt appreciates it.

“Look, Mega. You're in this car because you've managed to craft a plan that needed you in it. Now, can you overstay your welcome in silence until Tatiana wakes up?” he ends up saying, with a sweet tone that indeed meant he was a hair away from losing any sort of composure he was keeping up.

But really, knowing Owen can't do much about him, he decides to keep pushing his luck.
Because sure, he hates him, but not all his actions back this up.
“...I wouldn't be in this car if you hadn’t saved me.” he mutters barely above his breath.

The man seems to have a visceral reaction to this, which he manages to mask pretty well - Curt just sadly still knew him enough to read that.
It takes him around half a minute to control himself enough to speak, which is… notable.
“Having an A.S.S. Agent feeding us information for the mission was the best option. It just happened to be you that was there.”

It’s true.
Curt may not think ahead much, but he knew very well that was a good strategy.
Possibly the best opportunity they could’ve gotten, considering it was better to work with people you knew than with complete strangers.
He ignores how the small hope he had shatters deep in his heart - he had been saved because of his information, and nothing more.

He was the equivalent to a paper file.
Probably a bit less useful and more difficult to read or handle.

“...I was about to get sent back to DC to get killed. There’s a price on my head, dead or alive.”
Owen could anonymously hand him over, collect the price, and enjoy the money with Tatiana when their mission was over.
He could probably retire with it, really.

He does seem to be interested in the news, but he makes no comment on it.
Owen is notably pondering something, but what that could be was beyond him.
Probably considering whether he should hand him to A.S.S. after he’s done with the mission or not.
He likely will, judging just by the blank look on his face.

“I figured.” he says, like he was replying to some comment about the weather and not his very livelihood.

Except, it didn’t matter to him at all.
Owen Carvour as he was known was dead.
Whoever was sitting next to him was free to roam.
To do whatever he wanted as a new man, one without a name.
Curt can’t help but feel bitter about it. Maybe he’s even jealous.
Who knows.

“How empathetic, Carvour.” he mutters through his teeth, crossing his arms over his chest and sagging in the car seat.
He can still see his ex-partner roll his eyes.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, Mega, but they never wanted you there to begin with. Not for who you are.” the other man mocks once again, relentless.
Curt was starting to get fed up with him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do your new superiors support your lifestyle, then?” he retorts, and that seems to amuse the man on the wheel.
“They know better. They’re too smart to think It’ll make a difference.”

Right, Owen did still fancy women as well, Curt reminds himself.
There’s an odd feeling in his chest at the thought, one that intensifies when he turns to look at Tatiana, still sleeping in the same, curled up position as before.
Were they…?
No, it couldn’t be, right? It hadn’t looked like it at all.
But what if…?

“...Who do you even work for?” He decides to turn the conversation away from the topic of romance, knowing very well that this elephant in the room was not ready to be talked about just yet.
It was bad enough they were barely tolerating each other’s presence at the moment, he did not need to push that tension further by bringing up what they used to be.

“International independent group.” he answers vaguely, because of course he does. Getting a straight answer was a cause for celebration at this point. “You wouldn’t know the name.”
“Certainly not if you don’t tell me.” he snaps back.
“Glad we’re on the same page on that front.” the other simply smirks, victorious.
Just like he always was - even after the accident, he seems to be the one better off.

They finally quiet down, Curt deciding no other topic was worth trying to explore with him.
God, if it were up to him - and were he not mad at him right now - he’d still grab Owen’s face to kiss him senseless if he could.
Obviously, it wasn’t like that for his ex-partner, the one seemingly itching to jump and hurt him any chance he gets.

Tatiana stirs behind them, and that means the conversation is over.

“Morning.” she says, accent thicker than usual as she sits up in the middle back seat, adjusting her hair and clothes.
“Morning. Should we change seats?” Owen asks, glancing at her through the rearview mirror as his expression seems to relax.

“...I’m okay here. Do you need me to drive?” she asks back, starting to analyze the view in front of her - the aftermath of the conversation that had just taken place.
“No, not at all.” he rejects.
So Curt’s presence was that uncomfortable to him.
Great, good to know.
“...I could use a lay down.” he says, not missing the momentary surprise in the driver’s eyes before it quickly gets masked into neutrality.

Tatiana and Curt switch seats a bit later, when they reach a gas station - he didn’t dare ask for the drink he craves.
After he lays down, she and Owen remain in a more comfortable silence.
He doesn’t sleep, not after the amount of rest he had to get to recover from the still somewhat lingering concussion.

But, if he knew something, is how to pretend to be something he’s not - so, he pretends to sleep, eyes closed, belly-breathing, and limp.
He knows they want to talk, and he will both give them the opportunity to as he listens in on them.

It takes them what must be little under an hour to start talking.

“How did the conversation go?” she brings up the past conversation, making it known that she had not done like Curt.
Or so she says.
“...Could’ve been worse.” is all he replies - at least he was that dry with everyone.
“How come?” she still pushes.
“...Couple of things. But overall, he’s lost his confidence.” Why is he digging at him even when he’s allegedly asleep?
What an asshole.

“...Will that affect the mission?” she asks, professionally concerned.
“Not for his part. He’s supposed to be sensible when talking to Barb to get her to join.” the man explains, and while he is right that Curt should be truthful, he was not going to become a sobbing mess in front of her.

He doesn’t intend to, anyway.
He has to use her crush on him to their advantage.
There’s a bitter taste in his mouth.

“...I don’t know how well that part will work, if I’m honest.” Tatiana then comments.
“...Me neither. I have the theory that Barb was the one to sell him out - so there’s a plan B for a reason.”
Barb selling him out? Wow, first time Owen has said something that nonsensical.

“Really? Were they not friends?” she then questions - of course, she was suspicious of what she’s been told before, especially since Owen had to step in and lie for him (such a nice gesture, couldn’t he do those more often?).
“They were. But Barb has also been in love with him since forever. Probably since before I met either of them.” judging by the silence and the badly hidden bitterness to his tone, he was momentarily reminiscing.
Or Curt would like to hope so, before he continues speaking.

“Is it not suspicious that a man you’ve been making advances on for years never once returns them? True or not, it’s reason enough to get him fired in the eyes of some.”
Would Barb do that to him?
Does she even have a tangible reason not to?

However, that doubt biting into him aside, he can appreciate how Owen doesn’t tell Tatiana about his orientation, not directly - he leaves room for reasonable doubt, all without lying to her.
As bitter as that makes him feel.
“...I guess so. We have to hope he convinces her somehow. Finally… courting her could be a good idea.” she sounds a little more amused now - was she also making fun of him? No, right?
“If you’re implying what I think you are, trust me; it will not go that far.” Owen asserts then, and Curt is botheredly glad he’s right.

He’s not getting in bed with Barb in a million years - she’s not another target to seduce for information.
She is - or at least used to be, he’s not quite sure anymore - his friend.
One of the few he’s ever had.
“If you’re sure.”
“Pretty.” he then confirms, and the silence extends a little too long.

“So, what else did you say?” She keeps questioning.
“...The reason for the mission detour came up.” he suddenly sounds a lot colder - calculating. Sensible topic, even with Tatiana, huh…

“...And what did you explain to him?” she keeps prodding, her smile audible in her voice now.
“That we knew of an A.S.S. agent in the facility, but not their identity.” he replies, and Curt hears her scoff.

She’s too amused, and he was starting to get uncomfortable.
“Of course, nobody in an MI6 facility would gloat to their peers about catching the infamous Special Agent Curt Mega.”

Owen had lied to him about knowing he was captive.
This only brings up new questions he will definitely not get an answer to - he’s not supposed to know any of what he was hearing.
Why would he lie?
Did he not want Curt to know he cares?
Does he even care at all, and this was all a ruse?

“...It’s for the best. Look, I haven’t told you everything, but the less he stays with us, the better. You have to trust me on that.” the driver sounds suddenly bothered, and Tatiana backs down from her teasing.
“You’ve told me enough for me to understand. But you have to decide what you want to do. Getting him away will not fix it, and you know this.” she tells him, and the conversation turns to a more serious note.
Curt definitely feels like he’s intruding now.

“I don’t know what I want to do, Tatiana. I would mangle him if I had a chance, like he did to me…” Owen leaves the sentence unfinished, a ‘but’ left hanging in the air as his voice strains to stay firm - with what emotion, that’s unknown.
“And yet, he’s sleeping in the back of the car.”

A pause extends in the vehicle, silence only filled with the sound of the motor running, of the wheels on the road.
“You say all of this, insulting him to his face; but then, you don’t let him fall.” she finishes.

God, even Curt flinches at that - but luckily, nobody is actually paying attention to him.
“Look, Tatiana, I’m not in the mood.” Owen tries to cut off the conversation, but she’s insistent.
“I’m saying this because it could cost us our lives. You have to decide if your care or your hate is greater.”
“It’s all painful. Does it matter?” he sighs - and he does sound suddenly exhausted.
“It does. Your care gets in the way of your hate, and your hate does the same. Until you do something about this, you’ll stay stuck.”

So, it seems Owen was at a stalemate, upon a life-changing decision that was his choice to make.
And he seemed, suddenly, painfully aware of it.

“It’s not easy, you know.” he says after a pause.
“I never said it was.” she replies in the same flat tone.
“It’s… he’s moved on from me. He clearly doesn’t… care the same way I do.” Owen then mutters, suddenly quiet, and it’s heartbreaking.
“How do you know?” Tatiana asks in Curt’s place, because he’s wrong.
“...The bar is a good enough example.” is his only reply.

A pang of guilt hits Curt like a bullet.
That’s not a fair comparison.
He tried to move on, but he couldn’t. He’s never been able to - how could he?
How could he ever forget the taste of something so good?

“...I flirted with him first. He didn't even know you were there.” she answers, misguided, and he hears the man driving just sigh heavily, but after that nobody utters another word.
Of course, Tatiana doesn’t really know what Curt did with that man - whatever his name was - in that bathroom.
But Owen would know.
An experience they’re both familiar with, a situation they’ve both been part of so many times.
It’s not a surprise he’d think Curt has moved on from him, not when he’s done such an action in front of his very eyes.

The car was painfully silent for the longest time, the radio now playing softly as if that would help the choking atmosphere they had.
Curt is still faking being asleep, and the silence extends for such a long time he questions if he should fake waking up or actually fall asleep.

“...We’re close enough to Montreal.” Owen then says, and the car takes a turn before softly stopping.
“...Just think about what I told you.” she says, and that’s when Curt feels a hand start to shake him awake.
He quickly sits up, not having to fake the dizziness and disorientation before he can see they’ve stopped in some dirt path, not too far from the road and with a big city on the horizon.
Tatiana takes her hand back.

“Get in the boot, we don’t have ID for you.” he hears the man say already from outside the car, and he follows out as he stretches his arms and legs.
He had been already curled up for so long, and now he had to do it again. Great. Amazing move, Mega.

Owen opens the trunk of the car, not as empty as Curt had expected it to be, and then stares in expectation.
“There’s really no other way?” the American asks, eyes going back and forth between his ex-partner and the car.
“My ID says I’m English and Tatiana’s says she’s a woman. Plus, I’m taller, so it would be worse for me to get in here.” Owen explains, almost as if daring him to find another way.

He could argue that he’s lankier and that would be an advantage, but the stare he gets when he opens his mouth to voice this argument makes him decide against it.

With a sigh, Curt starts pushing the bags and things back to make himself some space before sitting down inside.
“How long do I have to do this for?” he asks to stall, dreading the answer already.
“Until we’re in Champlain.” the other replies, and goes to rest his hand on the trunk door to push the conversation to the end.

“I’m getting a drink in Champlain.” he asserts, even if it was more of a question when taking his lack of authority in the mission into account.
Owen’s left eyebrow raises, amused.
“We’ll see about that.”

And just like that, Curt is curled up in the trunk of a car to get through the border.
He almost wishes it doesn’t work to serve as revenge for Owen, but in the end, this is still an objective he too wants to succeed.
He still fucking hates this, though.

Chapter Text

Curt feels like he’s been trapped in there forever by the time the trunk opens.
He sits up, squinting to get used to the sunlight and noise suddenly around him, when the silhouette of Owen appears in his field of vision.
He’s offering him a bottle.

He takes it from him and towards his lips immediately, earning himself a suspicious look he doesn’t even see before he tastes the beer.
Not his favorite, but certainly the best option he can get cheaply that doesn’t get him wasted with a single bottle.

Once he's swallowed half of it in one go, he puts it down and gets out of the trunk, all under Owen’s impressed stare.
“Thirsty, I see.” he comments, trying to sound casual.
“I didn't think you'd actually get me a drink.” Curt answers, stretching his legs as he takes a few steps around.

“I tend to keep promises.” the other man says, acting nonchalantly.
“You didn't promise me anything.” he had just said ‘we’ll see’ which was no promise at all.
Was this the care Tatiana had talked about?

It was so hard to believe, even with the implication he had dropped when talking to her - ‘he doesn’t care like I do’ Owen had said.
It was so wrong! How could Curt have ever stopped caring? In any case, Owen losing his feelings would’ve been more than justified!

In a way, he still hopes that’s reality, that the care is all an act.
He doesn’t deserve a second chance like this.
And, well; Tatiana was a far better option for him.

Owen doesn't even reply - instead, he gets in the copilot’s seat.
Curt can only sigh, closing the trunk and getting in the back seat so Tatiana can continue driving them to their destination.
(Of course, only taking turns with Owen, because they didn't trust Curt. That totally didn't make him itch with the feeling of uselessness.)

–

After a single more stop to have lunch, by 9pm (or twenty-one-hundred hours, as they like to say in this car) they arrive in Washington D.C.
Long minutes later, they arrive at Barb’s apartment, gladly not too close to the more active streets of the city, and they park.
“This should be quick. Go, leave the letter on the floor, knock and run away.” Tatiana instructs, looking back at him through the rearview mirror.

Curt is aware he was the one meant to deliver the letter, yes, but seeing so many people out in the streets makes his hands begin to sweat.
What if any ex-coworker recognised him?
What if Barb catches him and calls the agency on him?
What if he fucks up this mission as well?

“...What if I’m seen?” he asks, almost begging her not to make him do it.
“That is the point, that you're not seen.” she answers, raising an eyebrow.
“By Barb, yes, but… what if someone else sees me? I’m wanted by the Secret Service, Tatiana.”
He pleads, taking out the letter from his pocket.
Her eyes express pity for a second, and then she takes it from his hand - she sighs, showing him a small, understanding smile before she opens the door and steps out.

Both men watch her slip in the building behind an elderly neighbor, and the car goes back to silence for a short time.
“Pussy.” Owen then comments, and while Curt couldn’t see his face, he knew very well he was rolling his eyes.

That throwaway word stings deeper than he cares to admit, but he decides against replying similarly.
He was doing right by not exposing himself to the city that held the main headquarters of the agency after him.
“Neither of us can show our faces around. You know that.” Curt mutters, a bit more bitterly than he intended.
“Sure, but this is rushing into a decently empty building and back out in two minutes.” the other argues, now turning back to face him.
He looked smug, in a non-attractive way.

“I’ve been on the run for less than a week; you’ve been dead for four years.” and it seems to hit hard once again, because he turns away with a scowl.
“It’s not comparable.” he says, voice a bit too weak.
“Exactly.” Curt agrees, glad to prove his point.

Tatiana comes back out of the building and slides into her seat, raising an eyebrow at the tense atmosphere that has generated in her absence - but comments nothing on it.
“She got the letter; I heard her open it.” she then informs, and Owen turns the engine back on to leave towards their next destination - their hotel of choice for the night.

They don’t get a room per person, but a single room with a double bed and a third one that could fold into a couch, all sharing a single bathroom.
This will get very awkward very quick, Curt immediately thinks.

Except, the other two seemed to have this all rehearsed.
Tatiana and Owen immediately agree, wordlessly, to share the double bed, unlike what the American had expected.
He thought she would claim the single bed and get herself as the little privacy she could get, leaving the other two to very uncomfortably share a bed again after so long.

Instead, Curt is left with the single bed.
And he should be relieved, but he can’t help but think about why this had happened.
Were they together like that? Couples share beds like that.
Was it because Owen was more comfortable with her than him?
Well, that’s not even up to debate.

He leaves his backpack on what will be his bed for the next three days, sighing before dropping himself on it as well.
“We should get dinner and prepare for both tomorrow and Friday.” Tatiana says, looking through one of the bags they brought calmly.

Owen is sitting down on his bed and against the frame of the bed, his mind miles away from this room.
What he could be thinking about, Curt couldn’t know, but his hands go to push on the meat above his knee, massaging it somewhat mindlessly.
Is the reason he limps in his knee?
What sort of injury had it been? Did it just heal wrong, was it not healed at all?
Questions and questions invade his mind to the point where he has to blink to shake them away.
Gladly, he hasn’t been noticed while staring this time.

“What do we have to do for tomorrow?” he asks Tatiana, seeing he wouldn't get an answer otherwise.
“I would like to go early to the diner so Owen and I can sit nearby before the plan begins - we would be there as support if needed be.” she explains, taking things out of bags a little more nervously and organising, once again, what they brought.

She seems… oddly restless.
“...Cool.” Curt replies again, hoping to not drown the room in silence “And when we get her on the team, is there anything to do before the day?”

“We have to revise and detail our plan with her, given she knows about the Headquarters the most. That should happen Wednesday afternoon, Thursday, or even during that same lunch.” she keeps explaining despite her rummaging through the bags, as if rehearsed.
She probably has it memorised.
What is she even looking for?

“And the hit… Do we have a time of… execution?” is the last question he can come up with that isn’t about what she’s doing at the moment.
“Not yet. I was hoping Barb could tell us when most staff are away or on break to strike then. I am assuming this will be during lunchtime or during the change from day shifts to night shifts, however.”

Tatiana was truly the perfect spy.
Something Curt could only ever dream of being.
He nods, starting to go back into his own world of thoughts.
This was starting to feel like a really long week.

Then, suddenly, she pulls out a little plushie - an orange cat - and she immediately relaxes, placing it on her pillow and starting to pack things back in place again.
Once it’s all back, she takes it and simply… sits with it, ignoring the two men looking at her with curiosity and fondness respectively.

“Should we go to a bar for dinner?” Owen suddenly speaks up, resting more comfortably against the headrest - no longer massaging any ache in his leg.
He was seemingly feeling a lot better.
Curt does, however, miss on how the man had echoed his own proposition from yesterday - and so the humor of it goes unnoticed.
“We don’t have any other options, I don’t believe.” Tatiana backs him, already on her feet and making her way to the door.

–

Curt wakes up the next morning before the alarm Tatiana had set - it was one of those travel alarm clocks, with a clean dark red sheath to store the clock in.
It was rather nice, especially compared to the one Owen used to carry - the clock radio that would turn on the radio along with the alarm noise - his model was rather old, by at least a decade, but it had aged like a loved toy.
It had been one of the many little things Curt had found himself missing these past four years.

Dinner had been okay; they had been back in the hotel room in less than an hour, the meal eaten in relative silence, and they had done similarly when showering and going to bed.

To his relief, he had witnessed how the two on the double bed had gone to sleep with a respectable distance between each other, Owen even turning away from her as she cuddled the cat plushie.
He felt bad immediately after relief, for being so… was protective an accurate description? Jealous? Possessive?

…Yeah, the word was definitely possessive.
He had no reason to feel like this, when Owen and him were nothing.
When he hated him, even if Tatiana had talked about care - hate was very much deserved and present.

Curt sits up, glancing around the room before checking on the double bed - he’s startled to find out only she is sleeping.
Owen is sitting up, watching him closely with his back and head resting against the bed frame.
The moonlight illuminated his pale skin, reflecting on his raven hair he wore tucked behind his ears - so beautiful.
He wears a neutral, tired expression on his face, his hand posed like he was holding an invisible cigarette.

They look at each other in silence for the longest time, before he breaks it.
“...We need to talk.”

Curt feels himself swallow hard, his eyes a little too wide, before nodding.
They had many things to talk about, really.
Their relationship, the accident, this mission… the list goes on.
“Yeah, we… we do.” he agrees, hoping Owen would take the chance to specify.
Instead, he breaks eye contact to stare out the only window in the room.

“To be clear, I don’t and will not forgive you for what happened in ‘57; anything we had back then is dead. But I think this is getting in the way of this mission - and that needs to be solved before it kills us, this time genuinely.” he explains, ending the sentence by looking back at him again.

…Anything they had was dead, huh.
Owen can’t be lying about it in a time like this.
As dumb and stupid as it is, Curt doesn’t feel his hope of going back to what they were die - it dims, yes, but it remains.
He hopes that spark revives in him, just like he did.

“...Yeah.” the American spy begins, raising his knees to rest his arms on top. A bit like hugging himself.
“You should begin by explaining yourself.” the other man suggests, but it comes off more like a demand.

Okay.
He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the images that surface back every time he dared think about that day.
“...I thought you died. The second you hit the floor and didn’t move again, I… thought you died right there.” his voice comes out wavy, doing its best to not crack with emotion.

“I thought I did as well.” Owen comments, seemingly nonchalantly - they both knew better than to believe that.
“I couldn’t deal with the thought that I killed you. So instead of fighting back for you, I… fled.” Curt feels his eyes sting, but he pushes through by blinking it away. “Since then, I spent every day wishing I had died with you.”

Judging by the silence coming from the other man, he had opened his heart too much too quickly.
They spend a few seconds waiting for either to speak up again.
“I had my sacrum, right femur, a few ribs and my left shoulder blade broken, and got a nasty hit to the back of my head. My vision was swimming - one second I saw you looking down at me, and the next you weren’t even there anymore. When I realized you left me behind, I prayed the building crumbling down around me would kill me right there.” Owen’s hand drifts to his knee, seemingly by reflex, to hold it closer.

What a misunderstanding.
Curt had thought it was too late to save his partner, and panic overtook him.
Owen hoped in vain to be rescued.
If he had only come back to get what he thought was his body, this wouldn’t have happened.

But of course, he didn’t - he can still recall the look on Barb’s face when he arrived at the rendezvous point after leaving Owen behind, the building behind him reduced to smithereens.

“...What the building did do” the other continued “was crush my left knee and stab me, pinning me to the floor with a metal bar. Fractured my femur, tibia and shattered my patella. None of them clean breaks. I bled so much I ended up severely anaemic." The more details he said, the less Curt could bear to listen, knowing he caused that to happen.
But he holds still, paying the attention he knew Owen deserved.

“...And you still survived.” he invites the other to continue his story.
“Against all odds,” he agrees “the Russians found me rather quickly, and decided to take me hostage. Having an MI6 Agent was beneficial for them, as information and leverage. Next time I woke up, about a week later, I wasn’t in Russian hands anymore.”

Owen seems to be too deep in his own memories to stop himself from telling his tale to Curt of all people, but he was not going to complain. He needed to know.
“My current agency had taken me from them and actually had doctors in their ranks to take care of me. I was alive.” the man almost laughs, an ironic tone in his voice “Needless to say, my loyalty to them has been… strong, since then.” The story ends.

What could he even say? ‘I’m sorry’?
Nothing he could say was enough.

At least now Owen knew why he didn't come back.
As stupid of a reason as it was.
However, there’s a question that still wouldn’t leave his mind.
“...Why did you never contact me? Tell me you were alive?” he mutters, his hands fidgeting with the covers under him.
“...Why would I?” the other replies, but there was not as much heat in his voice as one would expect.
He doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing at all.

Curt’s eyes move towards Tatiana, still asleep with her plushie and none the wiser.
God, he'd love to ask about her, but it was such an embarrassing question he couldn't bring himself to.
He couldn't just go ‘so, are you guys dating?’ and not expect Owen to laugh at him no matter the answer.

“...She’s oddly comfortable around someone like me.” The man begins unprompted, as if reading his mind - he probably just followed his eyes “I’ve confessed to her my experiences in romance, to a degree, and she doesn't seem to care for it.”

“She knows about…?” Curt asks, because he really thought she didn't know - she acted like she didn't, anyway.
“...To a degree. I've told her… about my part. She doesn't know… you were the other.”
Gay, people like him liked to call themselves - he can only hope to one day understand the reason for such joy.

So, she knows Owen’s attractions; she doesn't know he was… involved with Curt, nor does she know about Curt himself.
Well, he can work with that comfortably, to a degree.

“But it’s likely she suspects you as well.” Owen continues a sentence the American had thought ended, surprising him and filling him with dread all the same.
What did that mean?

“How?” he asks, changing from sitting down to getting on his knees, leaning forward as a different kind of dread invades him.
“...The bar, mainly, with that other man. The beard. My story and the recent developments certainly didn’t help.”
Now, Curt hopes he wasn’t hallucinating the bitter tone in his voice during that first part, because it makes his heart race.
Was Owen jealous? Was this real?
“Oh.” Is all he manages to reply, too deep in the fantasy of a possible love until he manages to come back. “Well, shit.”
“She won’t say anything.” he then assures him “Not like that’s your biggest worry.”

And truthfully, it was not.
He had the entirety of America’s Secret Service, MI6 and likely even more chasing him; having a teammate - who has already shown she doesn’t even have a problem with it - know shouldn’t be a big deal at all.
But to Curt, who’s never told anyone directly, who was happy to let his secret with Owen die with him, this was as big of a deal as the price on his head.

“Curt.” Owen calls him back to reality, a tone so unnaturally soft it felt like those four years never happened for just a second.
“I know it’s… scary. But you can trust her.” he assures, and God, if Owen trusts her with his inclination, he feels like he should trust her with his own too.
Not too long ago, she had trusted him with information about herself and her vulnerable family.
She is closer to him than many others already.

“...I guess I won't lose anything by trying.” he tries to comment with a light tone, but it doesn’t come out as carefree as he wanted it to - he was anything but carefree. He probably cared too much.

That’s when he realises that Owen had called him by his first name, for the first time since that day.
He tries to swallow down the excitement, the rapid beating of his heart too loud to his ears all of a sudden.
He may be being foolish right now, but the thought of going back to a positive relationship with Owen had him feeling high.

That’s when the alarm clock on Tatiana’s bedside table starts ringing, startling both men as she awakens quickly but peacefully.
She sits up, witnessing the situation for the first time and raising an eyebrow even if her eyes were still half-closed.

“Were you two already awake?” she asks after a second, turning to Owen.
“Just woke up a little before the alarm.” he then lies.
Owen had already been wide awake by the time Curt opened his eyes - and that must’ve been a good while ago.
It makes him suspect that the man had barely slept at all.

Tatiana shrugs it off, getting out of bed.
“Come on, we have a mission to continue.” she says, not waiting for the other two to follow before starting the new day.

Chapter Text

It’s 1pm, and Curt is sitting at a table at the diner by himself.

He’s not alone, no, Tatiana and Owen are sitting at a nearby table; but this was a diner he always had gone to with friends, whether that had been Barb, Owen or any other old friendships he had lost by now didn’t matter.

He turns his glass of water in his hands - Tatiana hadn’t allowed him to order any drink with alcohol in it, saying it was so he kept his faculties intact. Hell, if only she knew he worked better with some alcohol in his system…

Where is Barb?

As if summoned, a blonde bob breaches through the double doors, stopping for a second before Curt makes eye contact with his old friend.

She rushes through to sit in front of him - just like he had specified in the letter, she was dressed pretty formally, not unlike what she wears to work, but her face was… telling, to say the least.

Her eyes were red and still a little glassy, her smile insecure and her lip quivering.
She had strong feelings about this meeting, that much was clear.
“...Hello, Barb.” he starts, deciding to try and ease the situation first before getting to the multiple elephants in the room.
The first step was usually ice breakers.

“...Hi, Curt.” she greets back, holding her own hands on the table pretty tightly. It was strange, really, to see how she looked more of a wreck than he did.
She looked like guilt was eating her away.

“How have you been?” he continues, getting through the first step with a bit more effort than he thought - he was itching to move forward.
“Work’s been fine. We’ve been developing those masks I told you about, we have the third prototype and so far it looks like it works fine-” she starts to ramble, directing the question to whatever she was comfortable talking about - which was clearly not herself.

“I asked about you, Barb. How are you?” Curt then corrects her, maybe a little too aggressively than he meant to - work was a sore topic still, in his heart.
She seems to have no words.

For the longest time, she stares at her own hands on the table, eyes becoming glassy.
“...I’m so sorry, Curt.” she eventually mutters, her knuckles white.
“I didn’t mean for that to happen. It was never meant to be used by the A.S.S., it was… we wanted to connect the scientific community; investigate and invent together from different places at the same time, send each other information quickly…”

She lets go of her own hands for a second to gesticulate, clearly passionate still about this original idea, before it had been tainted.
“But we couldn’t do anything without funding. And to get funded by the government, we… had to allow the Secret Service to use it to exchange their information before we could.”

This was certainly welcome context to the computer network, but it now posed a problem for their plan: would Barb be on board to destroy her very creation? Her project with such a noble cause?
He can only ask.

“...I didn’t know, I’m sorry.” he begins, hoping to genuinely restore the friendship, before she cuts him off.
“No, don’t apologise, it’s all my fault… I caused something so horrible for you, and I even tried to hide it from you…” she mourns, pouting and blinking rapidly - she can’t make eye contact.
She seems to take the responsibility of it, and that leaves her guilt-ridden.

“Barb.” he calls “It’s… It’s not your fault.” and he reaches to rest his hand on her forearm, all he could reach that wasn’t as intimate as holding her hand.
The dam finally breaks for her, and the first silent tears begin to roll.
“But if I hadn’t-” she starts, but he can’t let her reaffirm her guilt more than it was already ingrained in her heart.

“You can do something to help.” He begins the offer right away - to hell with pacing.
She looks back at him, light in her eyes for the first time since she walked in - he takes this as a signal to continue.
“We want to destroy this network, take this from the government so they can’t keep hurting people. But with you, maybe we can just… steal it from them, and have it for yourself?”

He tries to suggest changes to the plan, unsure how destroying her work would make her feel. She shakes her head.
“No, it… it needs to be destroyed. If I see it fit, I can always… build it again, but it shouldn’t have existed in the first place.”
Curt smiles at her, and her smile gets a little more confident.

“Thank you, Barb.” he whispers, a weight in his heart that he hadn’t even realised was there disappearing; Barb had been one of the only people that had stayed in his life, closer or further from him but staying all the same - losing her had been a fear that had been forced to take the background with all the chaos Owen had brought to his life.

A waiter comes by, and they order their usual - welcomed after such a long time.
Suddenly, the mood has improved at the table, and Curt is almost back in time - only catching sight of Owen from behind her brings him back to what he was meant to be doing.
He has his hair in a low, small ponytail, and his scars have been covered with makeup.
Mega ignores how the man looks… sad at their table.
No, not sad; he looked… nostalgic.

“So, uh…” Barb breaks the silence, now looking more awkward than not. She still seems to be nervous.
“Yeah?” he prompts, raising an eyebrow at the sudden situation - or maybe it wasn’t sudden, but he had been in his own thoughts for too long.

“I know it’s private and all, but… about your… situation…” she tries clarifying, making it all even more confusing.
“What situation?” Being on the run? Being gay? The mission?
“The, uh… I didn’t know you were… homosexual.” she whispers to him, the word sounding a little… alien, from her mouth.
“...I tried very hard to hide it.” he shrugs, trying to ignore how he clearly hadn’t hidden it well enough.

“I’m sorry, it’s just… I never realised. Thinking back… it makes a lot of sense.” contrary to what Curt would have expected, she’s not… negative. Confused, a bit shy about such a taboo topic, but she’s not angry, or… not even disgusted. Just awkward, like she tends to be.
He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face, and she mirrors it.

“Yeah, well… at least now you understand why I never flirted back.” he shrugs, and he realises a little too late how straightforward he had been about it - of course, he had always known she had the hots for him, but they’ve never… talked about that either.

Barb is red in the face when he looks back at her.
“I, uh… yes! I do understand now…! Sorry about that too…” she strains a smile, even more awkward.
She did seem sad to be reminded of that, but she too shrugs.
“Now I know I can only… get over it.” Even so, she still smiles warmly.

“...At least now you know.” In another world, a freer one, he would’ve liked to tell Barb himself, with his own words and his choice of time and place.
Back then, if it had been a better world, he could’ve introduced Owen more straightforwardly, instead of having to hide behind the “work” specification everyone assumed the word “partner” had in front.
Even if they could've never been work partners anyway - not from different agencies.

She nods, but silence invades the table after that - for some reason, the cogs in Barb’s head were turning at incredible speeds, thinking hard - until the metaphorical light bulb lights up on top of her head, and she looks back at him with wide eyes.
“Wait a second. Did you…?” she starts, figuring out how to word her new question.

Curt has a bad feeling that she might be onto him even more than she was before.
“Okay, wait.” she rephrases “Were you and-”
“Oh, food is here! How nice.” He cuts her off a little too loudly.
And there is in fact a waiter coming with their plates and Barb’s drink, which interrupts the conversation for too short of a while.

She waits patiently for the waiter to leave to continue the question, even if during that short pause she tries to find the answer by studying his face. He panics internally as he tries to look for a distraction.
…Not the best, but he had no other options to avoid further questioning.

Curt glances at the other table in alarm; the second he does so more than once, Owen is up on his feet with Tatiana hot on his heels and approaching their table.
He had a scowl on his face, and suddenly Curt feels guilty for calling backup for such a silly thing - it was not worth the heat Barb was about to catch for nearly no reason.

“So, were you and Owen-” she tries again, but a bang to the table interrupts her one final time.
Owen’s fist shakes the wooden surface it just hit, the man towering over her; his intimidation skills have improved since the accident.

Her jaw falls, but she’s too shocked to even make a sound.
“What were you saying about me?” he asks, voice low, and Curt has to ignore how his stomach flips on itself, his face hot.
Oh wow.

“I-I… I, um… Owen? You’re…?” she stammers finally.
“...Yes, I’m still alive and kicking.” he says with dramatic nonchalance - clearly acting, he could see it, but she must be too terrified to realize it as well when there’s a dead man walking in front of her.

Barb turns to Curt, eyes wide like she had indeed just faced death itself.
Honestly, this was probably a near-death experience for her.
He can’t help neither the amusement nor the pity that invades him, but he does manage to mask it.
“...It’s a long story, but… I’m with them. Do you mind if they sit down…?” he asks, and Barb just wordlessly nods.

Tatiana sits next to her, but the blonde doesn’t take her eyes off Owen, who sits next to Curt - the furthest away from the scientist he could to not intimidate her more than he wants to.
On the other hand, the scientist in question was terrified, eyes still wide behind her glasses.

“My name is Tatiana, it is a pleasure to meet you.” she begins, clearly just to get it out of the way and to the point.
Curt doesn’t miss Owen taking a fry from his plate, and for a second, they’re in a time where they’re partners again. His heart aches, longing.

“I’m sure Curt has told you we plan to destroy the computer. He said you could help us.” she states, looking at her for confirmation.
She nods shakily again.
“Y-yeah, I could help… I could… give you information, be a distraction…!” She slowly warms up to the plan, a small smile forming on her lips - she had always wanted in on some of the action, after all, and this was her chance.
“You will be in danger by helping us.” the dead man walking chimes in, biting the fry with feigned casualty.

Her smile drops, likely for more than one reason.
“Oh, uh… well, I… if I don’t get caught…?” she tries.
“If you do, the best that could happen to you is getting fired.” and while he must be trying not to look intimidating right now, it doesn’t work.
She frowns, pouting as she considers this deeply.
“...I think it’s worth the risk. That network… it’s in the wrong hands.” Barb then sighs, deflating.

Tatiana and Owen exchange looks, pleased surprise in their eyes.
“We need you to help us infiltrate as scientists. Owen and I would go with you, plant bombs in the computer room and then out.” she explains, whispering.

“Okay. Okay! Yes, I can… do that.” she brightens up for a few seconds, before turning to Curt with a raised eyebrow.
“...Is that the entire plan? What's Curt gonna do?” she asks, curious tone in her voice, and he can't help feeling himself deflate - any sort of success he had gotten in this mission so far feels unimportant compared to what was yet to come in the plan.
The part he had no part in.
“I, uh… will be there to cause a distraction, if needed.” he explains, eyes now locked on his plate to avoid feeling observed.

“...By yourself?” she asks, worry seeping in her expression when she doesn't get corrected - then, she hisses.
“Curt, you’ll get caught! The HQ is still on high alert looking for you! You're already in danger just being in the city!”

“How probable is it that we need a distraction?” Tatiana asks, taking out the notepad and pen from days ago, scratching out their previous bullet points to start anew.
“I’d say… 80% chance. The computer room is visited constantly - it's the new archive - and it's very guarded. With a distraction, guards won’t show up, and then I can easily tell scientists to leave the room.” the blonde explains, concentrated frown on her face as she details.

“So a distraction is a wise investment.” Owen comments.
“Mandatory, I'd say…” the scientist corrects, but he doesn't look like he even heard that at all.
He looks… focused, a strong idea in his mind.
That has proven dangerous before, but Curt knows very well these kinds of ideas have kept them alive before.
Those barricades in ‘57…
“One of us infiltrates as a guard and pretends to hand in Curt Mega, who will then try to escape and cause a ruckus. Meanwhile, the bombs are planted and detonated. In the end, the guard helps Mega escape and we all rendezvous somewhere hidden.” he describes, judging everyone's faces while doing so.

“I can be the guard.” Tatiana offers immediately, but the man glares.
“I've been in the building before, love, it'll be easier if I do it.” he rejects, and everyone’s eyes widen.
Tatiana’s, because he was being ridiculous; the Americans, however, could only focus on the pet name.
Barb looks back at Curt to see his reaction, and Curt feels like his heart has been crushed.

He had noticed the lack of pet names and other nicknames from Owen, of course, but he knew they didn’t have that kind of relationship anymore.
But to hear it towards someone else was sobering - a bucket of ice cold water dumped on him.
Yes, he did use them with everyone before, but it was special when it was about him…
Barb reaches a hand towards him, but he shakes his head to reject it.

“You may be familiar with the place, but we both know it’s… safer if I do it.” Tatiana was saying, her words chosen carefully.
“Knowing the place will be more important than anything else - the point is to break out, not kill the entire floor.” he argues back, mocking and ironic.
“Curt will know the place anyway, there’s more to think about than orientation.” she answers back, and the man mentioned finally realises what’s going on, coming out of the stupor the pet name had driven him into.

Owen now wants the role that requires adrenaline, action.
After that knee injury he described and judging by how hard Tatiana is fighting back the idea, even running must be a very bad idea for him.
God, he limps when walking, how will that be when he has to dodge bullets of all things?

“I think Tatiana should be the guard.” he interrupts the argument.
This gets him the coldest glare thrown his way, but he does his best not to shrink himself in response to feeling threatened.
“Stay out of this.” his ex-partner hisses at him.

But no, he was more worried for Owen than he was about his own pride and shame.
“No, I can’t just let you risk your life like that.” he says softly, turning his body to face him.
“Don’t act like you care now.” the other rolls his eyes, looking away from him.

But Owen should know he cares by now, right?
He always has.

…As little as that could show sometimes.

“Of course I care!” he argues, even if he has no proof he could come up with.
Maybe logic could do the job of convincing him - maybe he needed blunt words instead of dancing around the topic.
The man is watching him expectantly, unimpressed.
“You limp, Owen. Your leg hurts. Tatiana is the safer option for this.”

Honestly, it’s a miracle he hasn’t been benched and locked into doing paperwork forever by his agency, and Curt is unsure how he’s still in the field at all.
Owen looks back at him like he’s been shot, but aside from pressing his lips, he doesn’t say anything else.

“...That settles it, I guess…” Barb finally speaks up, her voice a little too high, and they fall into awkward silence short after that.

They had a plan to discuss, yes, but going into detail should probably happen in more… private places.
And yet, the tension in the air was uncomfortable enough to keep them all quiet.
Curt takes the chance to finish his food, not without positioning the plate to give Owen access to his fries.
He doesn’t take any.
Even worse, he stays still the entire time, eyes fixed on his own hands, resting on the table.

Tatiana clears her throat, taking a look around the room for the millionth time.
Curt can very much empathize with that feeling - his knee has been bouncing under the table like an earthquake, forcing himself to focus on the plate he ordered.

Also, Owen sitting right next to him didn’t help that anxiety.
No matter how many times he’s looked back at him to try and ask, or just talk, his lack of acknowledgement made him back down.
Barb seems to want to talk to Curt, but never tries to start the conversation - it’s likely the same as before, seeking a confirmation to her theory. Her correct theory, anyway.

“We should go to the hotel to discuss this. I don’t know how private Barb’s house is.” Tatiana suddenly speaks up, straightening her back and clearly itching to get moving.
“Well, I think my house is as safe as it gets…!” the blonde says, a nervous smile on her face.
“The hotel is a lot more compromisable and a lot easier to bug.” Curt finally chimes in “Barb’s is our best option.”

Tatiana nods before standing up, gesturing with her hand to the other three to stay put.
“I’ll go pay.” and she leaves them to wait at the table.

Silence invades one more time before Barb braves up and opens her mouth.
Maybe bravery isn’t the word, however, and rashness was a better fit.
“So, Curt… about before… can I ask if you and-”
“Yes. The answer is yes.” the man rushes to answer before she finishes the question, which makes Owen finally acknowledge them - looking back at them in suspicion.
“Oh. Oh!” she says, and Mega gives her a look to shut her up before she speaks more.

She catches on, eyes widening as she looks between the two men.
The British one does not seem to enjoy this at all.
“What’s going on here?” he asks, raising an eyebrow to fake casualty - his shoulders were tense.
“Nothing. Catching up, and stuff.” the other man lies, and she backs him up with a nervous nod.
“...Right.” Owen agrees, clearly not believing it. “On what?”

“Let’s go.” Tatiana then appears, car keys in her hand and gesturing towards the door.
Barb and Curt stand up quickly, relieved by being able to avoid the conversation.
The last man doesn’t, taking his time as his knee clearly protests against him - but he follows out and to the car.
They have plans to discuss in detail, and no time to waste.

Chapter Text

The four sit around the small dining table in Barb’s house, with papers of badly recreated maps, lists and bullet points wild all over it.
The sun was setting behind the nearest window, and the remaining warm light it sheds accompanies the small lamps they had turned on to see with the dwindling light.

“To summarize,” Tatiana calls for attention, and they all raise their heads from the map “We will divide ourselves into two teams: Owen and Barb, and Curt and me.”

They all nod, and she leans forwards to reach the map.
“Owen and Barb will begin the work shift like normal - he will follow her as her new assistant tomorrow and Friday.” her finger sets on the drawn box labelled ‘Lab’ before sliding it through a few hallways and towards the arrow labelled ‘Back Door.’

“On Friday, Curt and I will knock out the two guards at the door at quarter past ten, and I will get the uniform from one of them. Curt going undercover when he’s easily recognisable would prove a problem and higher alert between guards, so we will not do that.”

Her finger slides back to the box labelled ‘Lab’, and taps it.
“Once dressed, I will then bring the bag of explosives to the lab, and will hand it to Barb before going back to my station at the back door. On the way back, I will run into Curt, who is trying to sneak in towards his boss’ office to supposedly destroy his documents, and I will apprehend him.”
“Meanwhile, Barb and Owen go to the Computer Room.” she slides her finger to point at a box further away, labelled accordingly.
“They will be pretending to work with the computer until half past ten, when the scientists go on a thirty-minute break - that’s when the bombs will be set.”
“Guards are also rotating positions at this time.” Barb chimes in as a reminder.

“Yes. In that time window, Curt and I should have every guard’s attention and they should not notice the two that have been knocked out missing. We will go to the holding cells, and I will watch until we receive your signal that the bombs have been set up.”
She keeps describing, her other index finger pointing at a box in a different paper - the basement floor plan, a lot less detailed than the other due to having Curt’s old memories of it as the only source for the drawing, Barb only knowing the path to the computer room.

“When the bombs are in place, Owen and Barb will leave for their supposed break and will get the car to park it at the back door; once there, the bombs should go off - I’d calculate 5 minutes for this, just in case.” She traces the pathing from the Computer Room to the front door and then around to the back.

“The bombs going off will be our signal - I will break out Curt after knocking out whoever stays around, and we will rush to the back door, get in the car, and drive away and out of the city.” Tatiana finishes explaining.

They all stay quiet for a moment, considering the plan in their heads, before Owen speaks up - his face unamused.
“How well can you do an American accent, Tatiana?” he asks, but it sounds like he knows the answer already.
“Not very well. But I shouldn’t have to speak enough to be noticeable.” she replies, and Curt can tell he’s not satisfied with her answer.

“If not, I could try to intervene.” he says, but the first man just turns his unamused look his way.
“You really think that’s going to work?” he mocks.
Wow, okay; rude Owen is back again.

“It’s not like your American accent is passable either.” Curt replies in her defense, leaning back in his chair in feigned casualty.
“Better than Tatiana’s, at least.” the other man defends.
“You’re not going to be the guard, Owen. That is final.” Tatiana asserts, arms crossed and her eyes daring the man in question to challenge her.

He doesn’t fight back, leaning back with a huff, and they all stay quiet.
“Any other questions?” the ginger woman asks, but the tone of her voice was not inviting.
Despite this, Barb doesn’t keep quiet.
“After we’re out, where are we going? Is that planned?” she asks, given she was leaving her home behind for who knew how long.
Perhaps forever.
He knows the feeling.

Tatiana turns to Owen, inviting him to answer.
“It’s not planned. We will likely flee to the nearest state, and then to another country, likely Mexico or further south.” he says, and she nods as if to back him up.
That strikes Mega as suspicious - how could they not have a plan for this? It must be the most important part of the plan to people as meticulous as them!
…But, he decides to let it go and trust; an equal goal united them, after all.

Silence involves them once again.
It was starting to feel like a tradition.

“I’m going out back to smoke.” Owen then announces, getting up from his chair with a scandalous noise, and reaches towards his jacket pocket; he produces the pack and the lighter, showing it off to the table before leaving through the door.
That inspires an itch within Curt to come back to the foreground of his mind - he turns to Barb.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got beer, or something?” he asks sweetly, and she smiles before going to get them all a bottle.

Tatiana spares him an unimpressed glance and stands up the second the other woman leaves.
“I’ll go check on him.” she announces to him, and in the blink of an eye, Curt finds himself alone in the living room; his leg bounces, itching to go see what the other two were going to be up to.
What will they talk about?

Barb comes back with four bottles, shocked to find the table emptier.
“She went with Owen.” he simply says, taking the bottle and a big sip out of it.
She takes her seat, leaving the extra bottles on the table and taking a short sip of her own.
“I guessed so. Owen doesn’t seem to be in a good place.” she comments, voice soft.
“He used to be the structure of the team, funnily enough. The ‘voice of reason’. You wouldn’t be able to tell today.” Curt follows, his senses scanning the liquid inside - a bit sweeter than the one he had in Champlain, which he didn’t mind.

“What happened to him, Curt?” she asks, even softer.
She knew Owen had - just allegedly - died that day in Russia. He never told her how it happened, not even who’s fault it had been.
Maybe it’s time for a little change.

Of course, he will not go into detail, but she should at least know something more than he had let anyone know in the past four years.

“...I failed him. I made a horrible mistake because I was careless, as always, but… he took the fall for me.” he does his best to control the strength of his grip on the bottle, but the images play so vividly in his mind it’s hard to even breathe at all.
Barb waits patiently, sadness and understanding on her face.

“He fell into the void in my place while escaping, and… well, I thought I killed him, but what I did turned out to be worse. He survived the fall, and… I left him to die."
This is the closest he’s told to the truth, to anyone.
Anything closer and it would be disrespectful to the memory of the agent Owen used to be.

“Oh, Curt.” she whispers, her heart clearly breaking.
In so little time, she has found out about so much - he doubts she even respects him anymore.
Nobody else would.

“Then, four years after I betrayed him, he saved me when he had every reason not to.” He takes another sip, this time smaller.
“After all I did to him, after how impossible I made his life every time we met, he still saved my life.”
He would keep going, but he feared his voice would break if he tried.
“Maybe you made him happy.” she says, and it catches him by surprise - he hadn’t expected her to say anything at all.

“...I don’t know how your relationship was, but from experience, I can say that your good parts outweigh the bad ones.” she starts, looking at the bottle as well.
“Maybe you’re egotistical, but you’re also kind. You’re forgetful, but you always find time to check on people you care about. Like, it’s hard to get you to pay attention to instructions for gadgets, but once you do, you show so much interest…” she smiles to herself, clearly remembering examples of what she mentions.
He won’t mention the blush on her cheeks. He feels too bad already having broken her heart.

“What I’m trying to say is… for every bad thing you’ve done to him, there must be at least one good memory he can recall. If not, he wouldn’t… act like that.” Barb finishes, cutting her rant short, likely in embarrassment.
“...I just wish he hated me more. Like I deserve.” he confesses, taking another sip and still not even trying to make eye contact.
“But he doesn’t.” She replies.
“He does, but it’s not the only thing he feels.” he corrects, but it doesn’t feel good to be right.
“Is that not a good thing?” She tries to cheer him up.

Is it?
In Curt’s eyes, it was divided.
Partly, yes, it was a second chance he could take; but he knew he didn’t deserve such a miracle - Owen deserves better than someone like him.
He deserves someone like Tatiana, for example.

“...Thank you.” he says, giving her a defeated smile.
She stands up, looking relieved before opening her arms, inviting him to a hug.
“Come on, big guy! It’ll all turn out okay, you’ll see. Once the computer is gone, it’ll all be just like it used to be.” she reassures, and suddenly she finds herself squished in his arms.
“I really owe you, Barb; for everything.” he mutters against her shoulder, and she hugs him back.

Back at the hotel, they bring back with them three walkie-talkies and three earphones connected to them with a cable.
They were already all adjusted to the same frequency, so all they needed to do was press a button on the earpiece to open the microphone and let go of it to stop speaking.

Of course, it couldn’t be seen, so they’d have to hide the device and cable under their clothes, and only put the earpiece on when alone.

Now that the communication was settled, all they had to do was lay low until Friday - except for Owen, who was going with Barb on Thursday to not look as suspicious as he would just showing up the day of.
Curt does not enjoy the idea of staying idle.

Maybe he would’ve, before the accident, when that meant he had time to spend with Owen doing nothing at all.
He remembers days where he would go visit a bar with him, or where they holed up in a room and away from prying eyes.
Just the two of them, free to be who they were behind closed doors.

Right now, however, Owen was out on the balcony smoking - apparently he goes outside because Tatiana doesn’t like the smell, as she says a room smelling of smoke could be used to trace them.

Curt was laying on his bed, forcing himself to sit still despite having to fidget to achieve it.
Tatiana was in the bathroom, drying her hair after a shower.
He could really use a drink.

He turns away from the balcony door, deciding he should not linger on memories that were not coming back.
Not right now, anyway.
But what if Barb was right?
What if there’s a second chance waiting for him to take it?

He dives his face into the pillow, hoping to drown the thoughts like he would a scream.
Evidently, it doesn’t work like that.
“Don’t choke yourself on the pillow, Curt, we have a mission to do.” Tatiana’s voice comes, and that’s how the man realises the hairdryer had stopped at all.
He groans, sitting up to sigh.
He turns to the balcony again, doubtful, but he doesn’t move.
“You know,” the woman says, “we have all of tomorrow free, you and I. What do you think we should do?”

Huh, he hadn’t thought about that.
“Uh… Get anything we might need for the mission?” he offers, but she gives him a look.
Okay, they have everything ready. Good to know.

“We could just… take the day to relax, then.” is his second option.
She seems to enjoy that idea a lot more.
“Did you say that first thing because you need more clothes?” she asks, raising her eyebrows, but he shakes his head.
“I got enough for this mission. I was just thinking we could be missing something. I dunno.” he shrugs, sitting up.
“I don’t believe we’re missing anything, no.” she confirms to him, sitting down on her bed across from him.

The little plushie was tucked into the bed covers behind her.
“I like your cat.” he says, gesturing towards it as he changes the topic. She frowns in confusion before turning around and understanding.
When she turns back, she’s smiling wide.
“Thank you. Her name is Tangerine.” she replies “Tangie, for short.”
“Looks really well kept.” he comments, theorizing if it could be a plushie from her childhood - the only thing she must've been able to hold onto.

“...It is new.” she looks back at it before exhaling. She didn’t seem to like the reminder.
“...Owen got it for me for my last birthday. I don’t even remember telling him when it is, but I guess he did…” she trails off, clearly getting in the memory.
That’s the Owen he knew.
The man that remembered the little details, charming and caring.
The one to banter with, to open up to.

It’s weird, but instead of just jealousy like he’s felt before, he feels… fond.
He doesn’t have to be a genius to guess Tatiana didn’t get a normal childhood - if anyone their age even had had the chance to during the war - and likely didn’t get her hands on a plushie until that moment. He smiles back at her.
“That’s really nice.” he finally says, leaning forward where he sits.
“Was he like that with you?” she then asks, and when he looks back at her, the stuffed cat is in her hands.
“...Yeah. Not a plushie, but he did get me stuff, sometimes. The one year we managed to meet up for Valentine’s, he managed to get me a chocolate box.” he retells, looking back fondly for once.
The grief follows him, yes, but for this moment, he won’t let it get to him.

She smiles back.
“I see.” is all she says, but they both know he just confirmed what she’s been suspicious about.
“...Figured I might as well just… not leave you in the dark anymore. Not like you didn’t know already.” he mutters now, glancing at the balcony to confirm he’s none the wiser.
“...I appreciate that, thank you.” she replies. Her hands were busy petting the plushie.

“You know,” she speaks up again after a few seconds “I never quite understood romance. Maybe it has to do with my… upbringing, but I never understood more than what I needed to to seduce a target.”
“You’ve never been in love, Tatiana?” he asks, with genuine curiosity in his voice.
“I don’t think so. I love my family, of course, but that’s not the same.” She smiles at the cat plushie, ‘combing’ the fake fur with her fingers in the appropriate direction.
“I thought, for a time, that I just hadn’t found the man like everyone said I would. Eventually, I met enough men to figure out that maybe it wasn’t a man I had to find, but a woman.”

Curt can’t help but keep his attention entirely on her.
He’s never had the pleasure to hear many stories of people like him, much less of something he hadn’t even heard of, like never liking anyone at all.
He can only imagine that this too, would bring as much trouble as his own.
He himself learnt about love when he was rather young - around the same time he figured out his kind of love was wrong.

“Finding the woman proved difficult, as you can probably guess. I haven’t quite given up yet, but I’m starting to think I don’t have to find anyone at all. My life can be my family and my friends, and be full.” she ends, looking even happier after opening up.
“Once this mission is over, you could go back to them, right?” he asks, hopefully with some tact.
She hesitates.
“That is my goal, yes. Once we’re all safe.” but this confirmation doesn’t sound… certain.
Curt decides not to prod, not wanting to sour her mood.
“You’ll see them in no time.” he promises.

–

They decide to go to sleep early and get rest before the mission doesn’t allow them to later on.
Except, apparently anxiety would not be a friend tonight, because Curt finds himself waking up in the middle of the night.

Something moves the air to his right, and his heart jumps up to his throat when he opens his eyes and finds Owen, backlit by the moon, standing next to his bed, staring right at him.
He steps back when Curt practically jumps, and walks away and to his own bed, where Tatiana sleeps peacefully with the cat next to her.

“What the fuck is your problem?” the man hisses, feeling himself struggle to breathe, his heartbeat nauseatingly fast.
Owen looks back at him, the moon illuminating his face now, before daring to shrug and turn away.
“Ignore that.” he says, getting under the covers like nothing had happened at all.
“No, I can’t fucking ignore getting woken up by you looming over me! Are you out of your mind?!” he hisses louder, resisting the need to get out of the bed.
“Look, I didn’t mean to do that. Go back to sleep.” the man mutters back, opening the first drawer in the nightstand and sliding something pretty big inside.
Black, pretty rectangular…

“Were you holding a gun?!” Curt asks, fear only intensifying in his heart.
“No. Now go to bed, Mega.” The other man has the balls to lie, lying down against his pillow.
But he’s livid, and he will not be able to sleep after this one without a reasonable explanation.
“No, you have some explaining to do! What the fuck were you doing?!” he demands now, setting a foot on the floor.

Owen sighs deep, audibly, and sits back up.
“Fine, since you’re so adamant.”
There’s a beat of silence.

“I have a recurring dream.” he says “It’s one where I’m stuck in a loop, back in 1957; and no matter what I do, you always end up killing me - you always let me fall. But today... Today was the first time you pushed me.” his voice breaks, in the end.
Curt gets up from the bed, silently making his way to him while he doesn’t seem to realize.
“And… I don’t know. This time, it felt… real. For a second, I believed that’s what really happened. What might as well have happened.” he continues, hate seeping into his tone, but it’s too late to back down. He keeps walking towards him.

“I woke up, and I didn’t even hesitate until I saw your face, sleeping so peacefully, so unaware.”
“Owen.” Curt calls, and the man looks up to find him standing right in front of him, a worried frown on his face.
They make eye contact, but it barely lasts a few seconds before the one sitting has to look away.
“...I know how it feels. To have dreams so real you believe them.” he tries to seek his eyes, but Owen doesn’t budge - his eyes fixed on the covers next to him.
There’s not enough light to tell what’s happening on his face.

Curt hesitates before sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, close but far enough for their legs to not touch yet.
“No matter what I did in my dreams, I always let you down. No matter where, or when, or how, your blood was always on my hands. When I woke up from those dreams, I could not live with myself, not sober.” he confesses, starting to fidget with the t-shirt he decided to use as pajamas.

Owen doesn’t make a sound next to him.
“I spent those four years clinging to a bottle like a lifeline.” he continues, hoping that pouring his heart out for him to see is the best choice.
He wants that second chance.
“So, I think… I can understand why you’d get the gun.” he finishes the sentence, and looks at him again.

“...Why do you keep trying, Curt?” the other asks in a whisper, still not looking back.
“...I could ask you. Why did you save me?”
“It’s not the same.” he cuts off, bothered.
“I think the answer is the same.”

Mega lets go of his own shirt, and with his remaining hesitation, he reaches to rest his hand on Owen’s shoulder, the one he has closest.
The man flinches upon contact, and his breathing gets momentarily heavier.
But he doesn’t pull away.

After that, nobody says a word for the longest time.
Curt can see Owen’s hand twitch, hesitant, but it doesn’t move towards anything.
Hopefully, he finally understands the answer he was talking about - love.
He keeps trying because of love, and he has to hope it's the same answer for him too.

“...This is my answer, at least.” he mutters, sliding his hand down to hold his upper back, between his shoulder blades - still not daring to get even close to his waist.
“Hm.” is all the raven-haired says, deep in thought.

The moonlight bathes them both, and Curt’s eyes eventually drift to stare at it.
He used to wonder, when they were apart, if they could be looking at it at the same time.
If they were close enough for them to share the night.

“...We should go to sleep, Mega.” he mutters eventually.
He agrees.

They had a mission to do, especially Owen, but Curt couldn’t help but feel selfish - he wanted to keep him in the hotel room all of tomorrow, relax in bed and go back to how it used to be that day they got before or after a mission.
Even if neither of them were who they were anymore, he can’t help but hold onto the newfound hope that it could work.
That they could work.

And while he hadn’t done anything back, Owen hadn’t pushed him away, so he considers tonight an odd victory.
A smile crosses his face as he lays back in his bed to sleep.

Chapter Text

When Curt wakes up on Thursday morning, it’s just Tatiana in the room, laying against the header of the bed and a magazine in her hands.

She turns a page, and a familiar face greets him - Marilyn Monroe herself was on the cover.
Tatiana takes a look at the contents before glancing around the room and finally finding him awake.
“Good morning.” he greets, sitting up more comfortably.
“Good morning.” she echoes, putting the magazine aside and getting on her feet.

“We have the entire morning free, and Owen should be back before six in the afternoon. I was thinking we could go have… what’s the name? Brunch?”
“Brunch? What time is it?” Curt asks, taken aback.

“It’s close to eleven. I didn’t wake you since I thought you could use the sleep.” she answers casually.
“How long have you been waiting for me to wake up?” the man gets out of the bed, unable to avoid stretching his back.
“...Well, I woke up at eight since Owen needed me to check that he did his make-up okay.” she smiles.

Curt can’t help but be grateful there’s no need to feel jealous anymore, now that he’s actually gotten to know her even better.
He smiles back.

After letting him get dressed, comb his hair, shave the fuzz that had started growing, and battle the dread the thought of getting seen brought him, they both step outside and find a nice cafe to sit and have a very late breakfast in.
Of course, they don’t touch any important topic in their chat, but they get to share a few fun stories.

They go back to the hotel after that, stomachs full and enjoying the rays of sun hitting them.
Almost normal people, just enjoying a free day out.

–

It’s about one in the afternoon when they’re both lying on their own beds - Tatiana has her notepad out, and Curt is eyeing the magazine she had that morning - it was mostly attractive women, so he’s sadly not too interested in it aside from pure aesthetics.

Suddenly, their walkie-talkies start to make a quiet noise through the earpieces connected to them, and Curt reaches to put it on and check what was happening.
“Is anyone there? God, please I need some advice…” Barb’s voice is whispering from the other side.
“Barb, it’s Curt. What is it?” he asks after pressing the earpiece button.

“Curt! Thank goodness, I thought I was going to die…!” she sobs in relief - this makes the man sit up.
He makes eye contact with Tatiana, who reaches towards her own device to listen in as well.

“Are you okay? Do you need us to go there?” he asks again, moving to locate the gun with his eyes.
“Yes, I’m okay, don’t worry…! It’s just… Owen. I think he hates me…!” she sobs into her microphone again.
Well, yes - Owen did not seem very friendly with her to start with, and he wasn’t particularly close with her before the accident either.
“...What makes you think so?” he asks, hoping to find out what tipped her off.

“Well, he barely talks to me, and he’s pretty mean when he does talk! It’s making people suspicious! How do I fix this?” she starts begging into the device, clearly desperate.
How to fix this indeed.
Curt knows why Owen could be acting like that, but Tatiana was there and he wasn’t supposed to know this information.

Luckily for him, she speaks up.
“Barb, it’s Tatiana. You have to prove to him that you are innocent.”
“What am I not innocent about?!” the other woman almost screams back.
She sighs.

“He thinks you tipped off your agency about Curt.” she explains it so bluntly the man in question can’t help but flinch for a second.
“Of course, we know you didn’t do it, but you have to prove it to him.” she then clarifies.
There’s a second of silence.
“How am I supposed to do that?!” the blonde cries from the other side.
The two in the hotel room exchange glances.

“He doesn’t know MI6 started the investigation.” Curt says, remembering the copy he was handed by Cynthia.
He opens his pocket, taking the letter and opening it in front of him to confirm his memory: ‘See Owen Carvour’ had been burnt into his brain, he wouldn’t be able to forget.
“If you have my file, show it to him. If not, tell him to talk to me. I have more proof.” he continues, sounding confident for the first time in a while despite how air felt like it was stuck in his lungs.
“O-okay, I’ll try… Thank you so much, you two…” Barb says, and the communication is over.

Tatiana is looking curiously at the papers in front of Curt when he takes the earpiece off, but she doesn't say a word.

–

Nothing notable happens until Owen returns, bringing tension to the atmosphere with him.
He locks eyes with Curt, and then down to the letter he hadn’t saved back in his pocket.
“Barb isn’t very good at hiding information.” the newcomer simply comments.
“What do you mean?” Tatiana asks, feigning casualty.

Curt, however, decides not to pretend, and stands up, papers in hand.
“Well, she suddenly brought up MI6 and told me to ‘contact Curt’ if I didn’t believe her.” the man says, giving the American time to approach and hand him Cynthia’s letter without saying a word.

Owen raises an eyebrow at Curt before reading the paper.
It’s quiet for what feels like an eternity.
They both watch as his face morphs, fighting between emotion and the trained neutrality a spy is accustomed to wear.
He folds the letter back to its original shape once he finishes.

“...You never told me MI6 was responsible.” he states, but he was clearly asking why.
“...I never thought it was important enough to bring up.” the man replies, a little shy.
“...I guess not.” he sighs “I wish you had, though.” there’s venom in his voice.
Now, they all sit, and Owen returns the letter.
“So, how did the work day go?” The ginger asks, hoping to change topic.

Owen retells without any amusement in his voice how the tour around the headquarters had gone - nothing interesting in his opinion, except for the haunting clicking Curt had witnessed when he had gone there.
Visited the computer, the new labs, and had to hide from Cynthia, the only person he believed would recognise him easily.

And so, the day is settled.
Past sundown, the three go to a different bar to have dinner, and Tatiana once again forbids Curt from getting a single beer.
According to her, nobody could be hungover on the mission, and he has no choice but to obey her reluctantly.

Owen is visibly more reserved tonight, seemingly more stuck in his own thoughts than normal - neither of the other two bother him, deciding he will tell them whatever it is when he feels like doing so.

–

The time comes at night, when Tatiana is showering and the two men sit on the balcony, that fresh air hits their faces.
Owen holds a cigarette in his hand, looking out into the city.

“Why did you tell Barb, Curt?” he suddenly asks, exhaling and letting the smoke mix with the atmosphere.
“...What do you mean?” the man blinks, unsure what even prompted the question.
“About your… secret. Why did you tell her?” he rephrases, eyes lost in the horizon.
It’s an odd question, given Curt believes he knows the answer to it already.

“...You know why. She already knew.” and it’s a bitter memory, the grieving look she gave him all those days ago.
“But you answered her questions later on, did you not?” The American tries to study his face, but there’s nothing he can get information from.
It’s just a pondering expression, tired from the day - and reddened nose and ears from the cold, making him look... pretty cute.
…Maybe not the time to think about that.

“...I did.” he nods.
“Why?”
Curt sits quietly for a short time, thinking about how to phrase his feelings of all things.
Something he’s never been particularly good at.
Hell, usually the less he thought about his emotions, the better.

“...She’s my friend. I wanted her to know my experience from me, as a person, not just… know me as someone who’s dangerous to the agency.” he chooses carefully.
He wanted to be a person, especially to someone who’s been close to him for so long.
If she devolved to think of him as just another threat to the country, he doesn’t know how he could cope with that.

“Wouldn’t it be nice if that was the standard?” Owen then asks rhetorically, taking a drag of his cigarette.
Curt stays quiet, waiting for him to elaborate one more time.
“If we saw each other as people before anything else; if we acknowledged we’re all unique in some way - wouldn’t it be nice to have no secrets to keep? If nothing of the sort mattered at all?”

In an ideal world, Curt can’t help but imagine it for a second.
If he were able to be with whoever he loved, if he could tell anyone he wished about it and nothing would come of it.
But after that thought, reality crashes in, and he has to shake that utopia out of his head.

“Well, we wouldn’t have a job, for a start.” he comments, attempting to make it sound humorous and not succeeding.
“We would all be spies, if you think about it that way. We’d all have other people’s secrets, but we wouldn’t even be aware of it, not when secrets themselves cease to exist as a concept.” Owen goes on, a sparkle shining brighter in his eye.

“And how would that come to happen?” Curt tries asking nicely, curious about it despite how he already rejects the idea as impossible.
It’s too… beautiful. Too different from reality for it to ever happen, especially in their lifetime.
“...I don’t know.” Owen mutters, the light in his expression dimming almost shockingly.
Like he too had reality crash into his ideal world.

“...Some day,” The American says, his eyes locking on the man next to him “Maybe not for us, but the ones that come after us. Maybe they’ll enjoy that world.”
His eyes then move down to look at his free hand, the one closest to him.
He doesn’t dare.

“Maybe this sounds selfish, but I want it to happen while I’m alive.” that free hand goes to comb his hair out of his face with his fingers - he hadn’t used gel that day as to not help people connect dots, and so the front strands were that perfect length that didn’t reach behind his ears, but covered his eyes if left alone.

“It might. But I don’t want to get disappointed if it doesn’t.”
“You used to be the dreamer of the two, Mega.” he teases, finally turning to him with a soft smirk.
“I guess I got hit by reality once too many times.” the other chuckles, a mix of genuine amusement and bitterness.

Owen’s smile disappears, and his eyes turn to the balcony’s handrail in front of him.
“Sometimes I forget you’ve changed too.” he comments, taking a second drag of his cigarette.
“...At least it’s been for the better, I hope.” Curt’s eyes are still hopeful as they follow every movement the other makes.
“...Mostly.” is the only reply he gets, but that’s more than enough.

Then, after the silence extends for a little too long, Owen puts out the cigarette, and leaves what was left of it in the tray the small table between them had.
“We should get some sleep, old boy.” he says, standing up and stretching his back subtly.
Curt follows him inside the room, a soft smile on his lips from the nickname coming back into his ex-partner’s vocabulary.

They all sleep unbothered until the alarm clock rings.

Chapter Text

It’s around ten in the morning when Curt and Tatiana are hiding in an abandoned building, their sights on the guarded door in the alley under them.
It’s an emergency exit by the looks of it, but any agency that respects themselves would be cautious enough to keep watch of it.

“Can’t we knock them out already? I’m bored.” Curt whisper-whines, to which he only receives an unimpressed side eye.
“We need them to be responsive so in case they get contacted, they can reply. Plus, getting in early means more time in the cell and that allows the panic to settle in the enemy. We go in at quarter past ten.” she explains anyway.

He huffs, turning to look at the door again.
Nothing has changed.
These remaining minutes are going to be hell on earth.

“So… Are you excited to destroy the computer?” He decides to change the topic.
“Please be quiet, Curt.” she replies, already sounding exasperated.
“We’ve got time to spare! A little conversation can’t hurt.” He pouts, but she doesn’t even look back at him.
“It can. We could be heard, for a start.”
Jeez, she really was a perfect spy. Too perfect for his taste.

The man huffs one more time, deciding to put on the silencer on the gun in advance - hoping to distract himself for at least a few more minutes until it was the time.
It entertains him enough; he wasn’t used to shooting unless he had already messed up badly, so by that point silence wasn’t really something he needed.
On the other hand, Tatiana seems very fond of them.
God, Curt hated having to adjust to different modus operandi to his own - even Owen had to adjust to his!

But of course, now he knows he can’t be that childish.
Not if he wants this plan to work.

“We will shoot at ten past ten. We need the time to drag them inside this building so nobody sees them - and for me to get changed.” Tatiana announces to him while whispering.
“Sure by me. How long until then?” the man asks.
“...Seven minutes.” and he groans a little too loudly for her comfort.

The time comes eventually, of course, where they both aim and take them out without a hitch.
As he sees the corpses go down almost silently, Curt hates to admit it, but he likes the silence for cases like these.
When he doesn’t have a mission to rescue from failure, when he doesn’t need the adrenaline overdose, it’s actually… nice.
Just a small thrill, enough to get to the next step.

The two of them rush down the stairs and pull the corpses into the main hall of the abandoned building, where Tatiana starts to undress the corpse to take their clothes.
“Shit, this one has blood on the coat.” she still whispers, laying it back on the deceased in a way that covers their face.
“This one doesn’t - take it.” Curt takes the other one’s coat, offering it.
Instead, she turns and puts it on as he holds it up for her.
He gently pulls her ponytail free from under it, and they smile at each other.

“Wait for me to signal you verbally. If I haven’t done so by ten past twenty five, you go anyway.” She instructs him, and he nods.
“I’ll see you on the other side.” he sees her off as she dedicates him a smile.
A second later, she disappears behind the metal door, adjusting the bag of bombs on her shoulder.

Mega, on the other hand, climbs back up to the first floor of the abandoned building to wait.
How long was it, ten minutes…? Until ten twenty five, if Tatiana doesn’t tell him to go before that.

He glances at his wrist, and his stomach drops.
He wasn’t wearing a watch.

Since when had his watch been missing?
Shit, MI6 must’ve taken it from him in case it had espionage technology (which it did, to their credit).
Curt tries to dry the sweat forming in the palms of his hands with his pants, but it was hardly useful.
What could he do now?
What if Tatiana couldn’t give him the signal?

How much time had even passed already? A minute?
For all he knew, he could have missed the time by now.
He decides to adjust his earpiece, making sure he could hear it, and he waits.

It feels like forever has passed, and yet no time at all.
The silence deafens him, and he couldn’t help but begin to fidget with the safety lock of the gun by clicking it on and off.
It was dangerous, yes, but it was either that or bashing his head against the nearest wall for being so careless.

Luckily for him, a voice pipes up in his earpiece.
Unluckily for him, it’s not who he hoped it would be.

“Owen? Where did you go?” Barb calls, her voice wavy in anxiety.
“Barb? Is Owen not with you?” Curt asks, worry making itself at home.
“No! Tatiana came to deliver the bag all according to plan, but I looked away for a second and next thing I know, I’m alone!” she whisper-yells.

A thought comes back to his mind as if prompted - the lack of escape route beyond the building. He had ignored it at the moment, but now he can’t help but fear the worst.
What if this was all a trap?
What if he was being led straight into the lion’s den?

He shakes the thoughts away, taking a deep breath.
Anything could have happened to them, and they could be completely fine for all they knew.

No matter what, he has to destroy the computer - for the greater good.
This was why he was a spy: to make the world a better place. One more time.
“Set up the bombs anyway. I’m going in now.” He decides, climbing down the stairs again.
“Wait! What if there’s nobody to break you out?” she asks.

Curt’s step falters, and he stops in the middle of the staircase.
What if?
“I just have to avoid getting caught, then.” he announces, sounding a lot more confident than he felt, before tugging the earpiece off and hiding it under his shirt.
Gun in hand, he steps in front of the door.

He was certain he was never going to see the light of day again once he crossed the threshold.
But if it meant that someone else like him would live a life in peace, he can’t help but feel like his sacrifice was necessary.
Like it would be worth giving his life for.

Holding his breath, he pushes the metal door ajar, enough to slip inside.
In front of him lies an empty corridor, the echoing of metal clicking and creaking enough to make his stomach twist.
All he has to do is distract everyone until Barb can safely set up and off the bombs.
And so, he starts making his way towards Cynthia’s office.

Easier said than done, of course, but Curt hadn’t expected to actually arrive unseen.
Stopping behind a corner every time he heard footsteps had proved enough, which was… disappointing. In the American Secret Service, he shouldn’t be able to get away with such a simple strategy.
Nevertheless, once the corridor is empty, he turns the doorknob and slips inside.

Curt holds his breath, closing the door behind him before looking forward - he makes eye contact with Cynthia herself, sitting behind her desk.
“...Why are you here?” she asks, but there’s no strength in her voice.
She looked sickly pale, and it looked harder than usual for her to breathe.
“...Are you okay?” he asks back, taking a couple steps forward before she raises a hand to stop him.
There’s a spark of anger in her eyes that hasn’t disappeared yet.

“I told you explicitly to never come back. What is this, Mega?” she now demands, standing up too slowly to look like she was doing okay.
He swallows, the gun heavy in his hand.
“...I’m here on one last mission,” he confesses, “to save the world.”

He braces for a mockery that never comes.
Instead, Cynthia had sat back on her chair again, taking a handkerchief to dry the sweat off her forehead. Her eyebags looked so deep.
Finally, Curt’s eyes spare the table a glance, and he feels how, finally, the other shoe drops.
There’s around 5 small glass bottles on the desk, all empty.
All clearly labelled bottles of poison.

He looks back at Cynthia, horrified.
“I’ve been stripped of any power I had left since the last time you came here. They even took my access to firearms, if you can believe it; all I have is this office, to remember what I used to be.” she chuckles humorlessly, her eyes not meeting him.

“I managed to hide the poison from them. Turns out, it’s not a good idea to try to overdose on something you’ve built resistance to - but it’s either in my own way, or theirs.” she comments, ending the sentence in a whisper.
Curt feels like he’s seeing a past self in the mirror.

The one that could only stay afloat with a bottle, or the one whose days would blend together until months passed in the blink of an eye.
The one who had felt so, so lonely.
He could see himself so clearly in her.
Someone who he had always looked up to, who cared for him despite the harshness, who had made sure he survived the field.

And in any other circumstance, he would've saved her, just like she did to him; throw that lifeline bottle away, take her hand and guide her to freedom despite how many times the drink would call back.
But he had arrived far too late.
The bottles on the table were already empty, and Cynthia was dying painfully slowly.

Proud as she was, she would not let anyone she didn't want to kill her.
Always doing everything her own way.

His lip trembles, his eyes sting - Curt raises his gun, aiming it at her sweat-slicked forehead.

Her eyes, on the other hand, soften, and her lips curl into a fond smile.
“You’ve always been too good for this line of work, Curt.” she says, sounding eerily relieved.
His hand trembles.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.” she says, relaxing her body, preparing- no, accepting her destiny.
She hadn’t been able to go out like she had wanted to, but she trusted Curt to do so for her.
“I owe you my life, multiple times over.” he replies “Thank you, Cynthia.”

A few seconds of silence pass, a single tear rolling down her cheek as she looks back at him to smile in defeat; he pulls the trigger.
The gun had the silencer still on, but his ears rang all the same.

Her body collapses backwards on the chair, the window behind her now covered in blood and brain.
She has a hole in between her eyebrows, and he sees a thin string of blood rolling down her face before he manages to tear his eyes away.
Swallowing hard, blinking away the tears, he goes around the table and reaches toward her.
Gently, as if afraid to startle her, he pushes her eyelids closed to let her rest in peace.

A tear of his own finally rolls down his face, and it takes him the strength of a titan to turn back to the exit.
Before he can consider leaving the room, however, the door opens. Behind it, there’s a man he doesn’t recognize, and his eyes travel from Curt’s face to Cynthia’s behind him, to the gun still smoking in the ex-agent’s hand.

Mega doesn’t put up any resistance when the man reaches to apprehend him, or when he takes away his weapon.
He’s pushed out of the room, and he faintly hears the man call for backup through the ringing in his ears.
He feels the cold of metal handcuffs surrounding his wrists in front of him, and just like that, they leave the office.

The halls quickly flood with guards and other agents - there’s familiar and new faces around Curt, all watching him as he’s pushed by.
Their faces show disgust, disdain, hate; but he doesn’t pay them any mind.
He knows he did what was right.
He knows it will haunt him all the same.

The man who originally apprehended him opens the door to his temporary cell and nudges him inside a lot gentler than one would expect.
Curt drops down on the makeshift bed, exhaling as he comes to himself - slowly, the silence begins to settle in his ears, the ringing turning muted but still not leaving him.
His hands suddenly feel… wet.
A bad, sticky wet.

Swallowing hard, he looks down as he takes in the blinding red liquid his hands are covered in.
The blood slowly drips down his wrists, touching and staining the handcuffs and splashing on the floor.

His eyes follow a drop that plummets to the cold concrete, and his breath catches in his chest at the sight.
Owen stares emptily back at him.
It’s not the real Owen, he can tell - the shorter hair and lack of scars give that away for him.
No, this is the man back in 1957.
The man that died by his hand.

At some point, the body turns into Cynthia smiling at him before he shuts his eyes tight.

Hallucinations had all but left him, that was painfully clear.
He takes a deep breath, then two - he tries reaching into his pocket, searching for his trusted flask in vain.
His hand touches the letter Cynthia had given him.

Feeling his stomach sinking, he has to hold on tight to the bed, eyes closed so tight they hurt, and breathe.
Or try to breathe.
He feels like he can't.

What was the strategy?
Five seconds breathing in, holding, breathing out?

His mind recalls a faint ritual, one that happened more often than either of the involved enjoyed.
Nightmares had never been kind to either Owen or him - when they came, on nights where they were lucky enough to be able to be near each other, they reached for the other.
Sitting close, they breathed.
No matter how many times Owen insisted they needed to reach a bunker, or how many times Curt needed to make sure they were both unharmed and present.
They breathed, hand in hand, until it all washed away.

His entire body shakes as he lets go of the makeshift bed he was sitting on, pulling his hands to rest on his lap and closing them into fists.
Curt starts to breathe in, counting the seconds with his fingers - he holds, counting another five, and then slowly lets go during a third count.

He repeats this a few times, emptying his mind, until he can feel himself think a little more clearly despite the trembling.
Opening his eyes, the cell brings him back to what he was doing there.
Okay, the plan - back to the plan.

He reaches to get the earpiece from under his t-shirt and puts it on as discreetly as he can, handcuffed and fighting off the tail end of the panic attack with claws and teeth.
He’s not sure if it’ll happen, but he hopes Barb sets the bombs and warns him through the comms - he could do with hearing a familiar voice.

Until then, he has to find a way out.
He's Curt Mega! He's done this and worse, and he’s always come out victorious!

He can do this.
He has to.

He eyes the guard in hopes to find another way to get himself back in the plan, to ground himself in the knowledge of how much time he has - but he can’t see a watch on the left wrist, the one arm he has a visual of.
Dammit.

He blinks, taking a deep breath.
There must be another option he could use.
Any other way to get out of the cell.
He can see a gun strapped to his belt on his left hip.
Left handed and not hiding it? Interesting.
Could he steal it from him?

“Okay, I’m setting off the bombs…! I don’t know if anyone’s hearing me, but you’ve got five minutes… I’m going to get the car to the back door now...” Barb then announces hesitantly, the click of the door closing behind her audible through the comms.
Curt has five minutes until he can try and break out during the chaos.

Needless to say, there wasn’t much he could do until the distraction happened, could he?
Looking around and out of his cell, he can see two other guards, not counting the one guarding him.

Even if he could take the gun before the explosion, there's two other armed guards in the room ready to put a bullet between his eyes.
It'll be a miracle if he makes it out.

…He doesn't even want to think about what could've happened to Tatiana or Owen.
That reminder gets him feeling choked up again, the pressure on his chest bone-crushing.
What will he do with himself if Owen dies by his hand a second time?
How will he live with himself knowing he killed his friends?

…Curt decides that, once he escapes the cell, he’ll sweep the building to look for them.
He's not leaving anyone behind again.

“Uh- Tatiana’s unconscious in the car.” Barb says through his earpiece, and he sits up, surprised, before slouching again to not alert the guards.
Unconscious… They can work with that.
That's more than good news.
Now, he just has to find Owen again.

“God, I really wish one of you would answer me!” the blonde sighs, “The car is parked. The bombs should go off in about two minutes…”

…Okay.
Curt takes a deep breath, mentally trying to prepare.
To get the guards distracted enough to take the gun, he should probably start a conversation, right?
That's what Owen would do.
That's what they used to do.

“Hey, is my execution method death by boredom?” he asks uncomfortably loudly.
Nobody spares him more than a glance.
“I don't mean to bother, but really? Don't I deserve something cooler than that?”

“Will you shut up?” Wow, those are the quickest results he’s ever gotten. One of the guards was already staring daggers into him.
“Can't I ask for entertainment? Or a last meal?” he jokes as he stands up, but the realisation sinks in; if he didn't escape the cell, he was going to get executed.
He does his best to not let that show on his face.

“You don't even deserve to eat the dirt on our shoes.” the same guy replies. The second man across the room gestures at him to calm down, but all he gets is an eye-roll.
Mega takes a few disinterested steps forward, until the cell door is casually at arm’s reach.
“How kind.” Curt comments, tone sarcastic, “You know, at least you guys treat me better than MI6 did. Those wanna-be dentists were really rude. Or maybe you guys are just pussies?”

The void in his gums makes itself present at the reminder of its existence.

The first guy pulls out his gun, pointing it at him as the click of the safety turning off echoes in the room.
The prisoner can't help but swallow, unsure how to proceed.
This man had even less patience than him, how can he stall?

Suddenly, both guards across him fall limp, the echo of gunshots ringing through. The guard in front of his cell door blows on the canon of the gun before saving it back in its place.
Curt blinks in disbelief, turning to the guard and back to the corpses a couple of times.
“They were really getting on my nerves, I have to apologise.” a familiar accent comes from the guard, and Mega feels his jaw slack, managing to not open his mouth in surprise like a fool.
The guard raises a hand to his short hair, grabbing a fistful of it, and pulls what turns out to be a mask off.

Owen appears underneath this hyper-realistic costume, folding and saving it in his pocket before combing his hair back in its place with his fingers.
God, he looked so good with his cheekbones subtly marked under the light, his whiskey eyes locking him frozen in place…

Curt must've been staring for ages (or rather, a second too long), because his savior quirks an eyebrow and gives him a knowing smirk; he pulls him out of his prison cell, and saves the handcuffs - when did those come off? - in a different pocket of his guard jacket.
“Come on, old boy, close your mouth or your last meal’s gonna be the fly that goes in.”

The second he takes a step out of his confine, there’s a rumble that shakes the building to its core. Both men lose their footing, but manage to stay standing by holding onto each other’s arms or shoulders.
“...Bomb’s gone off.” Owen then comments, nonchalantly, looking at how the ceiling was starting to leak dust between the cracks.

Curt reaches to turn on his microphone.
“Barb, Owen and I are on our way.” he informs, the words feeling so right to say.
Not wasting another second, the British man pulls his partner by the wrist, and they both run out.

Chapter Text

The two men rush through copies of what feels like the same corridor, orientation proving to be a tougher task than it originally felt.
All Curt knew was that they needed to get upstairs, to the main floor - once there, he’d be able to get oriented accurately and get them both out.
On their way, nobody pays them enough attention to stop them, but they leave shouts in their wake.
At least until they start hearing gunshots and bullets hitting the walls next to them.

They turn a corner, then another, and they're facing some stairs that would take them up to the ground floor.

Immediately, Owen’s step falters, and he seems to try and stop running – to try to find a different way up that wasn’t a bland metal staircase.
Curt’s breath catches in his chest as well, the vision of the day so clear before him it makes his blood run cold; but this time, instead, he manages to pull his partner forward, his grip on his wrist painful, and rushes the two of them upstairs.
Once there, however, they don’t have the time to catch their breaths just yet.

The ground floor was chaos incarnate.
Agents, guards, scientists and the like rush in all directions, running for their lives in hazed panic.
The few that tried to put some order were not very successful at it.
Curt knew how to thrive in this familiar chaos.

He pulls Owen towards the back door he came in from, not caring to look back when freedom was so, so close.
Not when gunshots had followed them upstairs.
He charges the door to open it, not feeling the impact through the adrenaline coursing in his blood.
They reach the car where Barb was nervously waiting in - Tatiana was indeed sitting unconscious in the copilot’s seat - and the two men dive into the backseat.
“Drive!” the American shouts, and what else can she do but just that?
Barb floors the accelerator, and the car comes to life with a roar and a screech.
They narrowly avoid the rain of bullets hitting them by closing the door and then turning a corner.

Gathering their breaths, they both sit up and pull off their earpieces.
“What the hell happened?!” Barb now shouts, glancing at them through the rearview mirror before managing to dodge a truck in front of them.
“Don’t know, Owen was under- cover–.” Curt says between gasps before turning to his partner, expecting him to elaborate.
Owen was not in condition to elaborate.

He was clutching his left knee so hard his knuckles had gone white; he was curled in on himself, and he didn't seem to be catching his breath as quickly as Curt was. His eyes shone with tears and he was shaking like a leaf.
“Owen.” Mega tries to call him, extending his hand, but he only turns away, his hair falling on his face and hiding it.

“Barb, to Baltimore.” he then manages to choke out, ignoring him completely.
“Owen.” he calls again, his tone more forceful.
But Owen seems to be miles away.

Curt bites his tongue, aware that he was most likely unable to listen or pay attention to him, and presses two fingers against the side of his partner’s neck.
Under his skin, the man’s heartbeat is nauseatingly fast, his chest rising and falling just the same way.

He’s not sure how to help him through this.
He’s almost certain the stairs had caused this reaction, and he doesn’t think that Owen seeing him will help in the slightest.
Mega’s lucky they had to go up and not down - that would’ve messed him up too.
He’s sure he would’ve seen the body at the bottom again.

Hesitant, he raises his hand from his partner’s neck to his cheek, turning his head towards him.
Owen doesn’t fight it, his eyes shut tight and his hands gripping his own knee tightly.

Maybe he could help.
Maybe Owen was allowing him to help.

Curt hesitantly reaches to cup his face, a hand to each cheek, hoping this can help him focus his attention away from everything else.
He feels the man’s sweat-slicked skin under his fingertips, the shakiness of his rapid breathing, the trembling of his limbs.
He doesn’t give it a second thought, just like he ignores the feeling of familiarity bubbling up in his chest.

“Five seconds, Owen, breathe with me.” he whispers before softly counting up to five.
The man follows.
“Hold, five seconds.” he guides, doing so for the other to use as guidance.
“Now exhale, five seconds.” is the last step they do together.
Of course, once is nowhere close to enough, so Curt follows the process a few more times; until Owen isn’t shaking violently under his hands anymore. Once that happens, he lets go - unsure if he’d appreciate the contact any longer.

They both sit back up correctly on the car seats, and Curt turns to face forward - he makes eye contact with Barb through the rearview mirror, who quickly looks back to the road with a flush to her cheeks.
He looks back at Owen, and he sees how his ears are also bright red - shame, he recognises - as he sighs.
At least, his knuckles had regained their color, even if they still held tight.

Now, the silence was making it all even more awkward.

“...Stairs get me like that too, sometimes.” Curt mutters, lowering his gaze to the gun left on his lap. He should pocket it.
“...You seemed fine.” Owen replies in the same volume, rubbing his knee as if that eased the pain much.
“...It's usually when going down them.” his voice gets quieter, knowing he shouldn't be as embarrassed of it as he feels.
He just feels undeserving of having such a reaction, especially when Owen was right there.

“...Me too, usually.” the brit keeps matching his volume, and Curt turns to look at him - he doesn’t meet him on that.
Instead, he seems focused on getting his sentence out.
“Usually, I can… get through going up. Never think too much about it. But going up with you…”

He understands.
Of course he understands.

The situation had been so eerily similar to the accident that he too had been affected, but the adrenaline had pushed him forward and out this time. Escaping, the bombs going off, Owen saving him from the enemy by disguising himself, the stairs…
And yet, he’s never felt prouder - he had struggled with gaining back control of his life for years since that day, and he still does, but this had been a major win for him.
Hopefully, the first of many.

“...But we pushed through it.” Curt says, giving him a small smile.
The tension in Owen’s face eases significantly.
“You pulled me through it.” he corrects, with a softness in his voice.
‘I just did what was right.’ he thinks, not for the first time today.

The silence that forms doesn’t feel as oppressive as the one before, nor does it last as long.
Barb clears her throat, both of her hands tightly on the wheel - she spares them a glance through the mirror before going back to the road.
They’re leaving the city.

“Owen, if I can ask… where did you go?” she asks, her voice a little too high, even for her.
The man immediately straightens up, the grip on his knee getting stronger and his face going blank, unreadable.
One would think he had slipped into comfort when talking with Curt.
Or that’s what Curt himself wanted to think.

“I went to Cynthia’s while undercover.” he simply replies, tone flat.
The American swallows. Owen had been the one to catch him in her office. He’d rather not recall it.
He keeps watching the other, the metal of the gun on his lap making itself noticeable enough to get him to start fidgeting with it.
Dangerous, yes, so he decides to do his best to not touch near the safety lock just in case.

“Wasn’t… Tatiana meant to do that?” she questions further, choosing her phrasing carefully.
“...She was. I don’t know what happened to her.” he claims.

And, well.
Curt isn’t sure he believes that.
When Tatiana disappeared, Owen did as well.
He appeared where she was meant to, and it’s known for a fact that Barb was busy setting up the bombs and Curt was busy doing… busy.
How else would she wind up unconscious in their escape car if it hadn’t been thanks to anyone in the group?
Any other option would prove a lot more problematic for them and their escape.

“So, uh… Why did you leave…?” Barb’s voice went higher, clearly uncomfortable.
“You had it all under control.” he simply answers, so casually he may as well shrug.

It was clear why he left, why he didn’t follow the plan they had.
He did it because that’s what he wanted to do from the start. In a way, he acted like Curt would.
He doesn’t know what to think of that.

“Why did you want to be the guard?” he asks him now, and the man tenses further.
He didn’t seem to have been expecting Curt to question him as well.
“I don’t have anything to explain.” is the answer to that.
“You went against the plan on purpose! We could’ve died!” Curt insists, the euphoria of escaping finally wearing off to be replaced by the uneasiness of a near-death experience he hadn’t had any control over.
He could’ve died, all because Owen did what he wanted to.

“I know you’re not demanding an explanation after being known for not following plans, Curt Mega.” the other hisses, giving him a look that Curt took as a taunt. Somehow, it doesn't feel as hateful as it used to be earlier.
Owen must be feeling like he’s backed against a wall.
“Well, I am! I was going to get executed without Tatiana, and now your knee hurts when it didn’t need to!” he fights back, gesturing at the knee he had been clutching.

Owen moves his legs away, looking self-conscious of them.
“It’s your fault my leg hurts.” he grunts.

The silence makes a return yet again, and Curt just crosses his arms, trying to show he was angry instead of showing the worry and guilt that wouldn’t leave his features.
It was his fault, and that’s why he wanted to make sure Owen felt okay.
“...Sorry for asking.” Barb says, clearly feeling the most uncomfortable of the three.
“It’s fine.” She gets answered by both men at the same time.

Curt couldn’t leave it like this.
Not after this mission, not after Owen saving his life and him saving Owen’s. They worked well after so long, he wasn’t going to let pride get in the way.
“...It turned out fine, in the end. So I guess it doesn’t really matter.” he says, and he can see the other’s shoulders relax.
“Tatiana will still have my head once she wakes up.” he replies, a bitter attempt at a joke.

Curt turns to look out the window, watching the empty field go by in less than a blink.
Barb wasn’t speeding anymore, but she was still going fast.
They were being followed, they weren’t being chased down right now - they got at least that relief.
How strange.

Tatiana eventually stirs awake.
She sits up, blinking, and looks around as memories slowly come back to her.
She glances back at the two men through the rearview mirror, looking suddenly worried.
Curt notices this, making eye contact, but Owen is staring out the window and seemingly unaware of this new development.
“Barb, stop the car.” she asks, her tone forcefully neutral, and the girl pulls over immediately.

Was that wise?
Not really, no; A.S.S. could be on their heels and this could help them catch up.
But then again, nobody has the guts to tell an angry Tatiana no, and specially not Barb.
The car stops safely out of bounds, and the ginger opens the door, stepping outside.
Then, she knocks on Owen’s window, bringing him back to Earth as she gestures that he come outside.
He spares Curt a glance before following her outside, closing the door behind him.

Closing the door does nothing for privacy, of course.
The echo of a slap reaches the two in the car perfectly clear, and the spy sitting in the back seat leans forward to see the scene better through the windows.
The man’s face is turned away from them, and Tatiana already has her arms crossed.
Curt shares a glance with Barb before they both turn back to keep watching.

“You better have a good explanation for what you’ve done.” she says after a long silence, clearly expecting an answer.
Owen faces back at her; and while they couldn’t see his eyes from this angle, he was clearly not making eye contact.
He looked, strangely, like he was feeling guilty, instead of trying to sweep it under the rug and charm his way through, like he’s done so many times in the past.
He doesn’t reply out loud.

“You put all of our lives in a much greater danger than necessary, and you have nothing to say for yourself?” she demands again, her attitude getting more aggressive. That makes him answer.
“I wasn’t going to stand idle while you got all the action.” he says, hands curled into fists.
He doesn’t seem to be repressing any physical violence, at least.

Tatiana stays quiet now, raising her eyebrows as she somehow appears both impressed and unimpressed at the same time.
Then, she takes a blatant look down at his knee, then back at his face - questioning without saying a word.
“Nothing even happened differently in the end.” the man tries to justify.
“You drugged me.” she counters without missing a beat.
Owen sighs, having the nerve to sound annoyed.
“And you’re doing fine.”

Curt’s respect for Tatiana increases even more when she just takes a deep sigh to keep herself calm.
“Why did you do it, Owen?” she asks directly now, sounding less angry and more… worried.
He doesn’t respond well to that.

“Because! What’s the point of staying in the field if I never do anything? I never run, I barely go undercover, I don’t even get to be a sniper! You do everything, every time!” he starts, his voice getting louder.
He’s not quite shouting yet, but he’s definitely lost his composure.
“I do it because-” she starts, but is quickly interrupted.
“Because of my leg, yes! I know!” he now shouts - she squints at him, and he takes a deep breath.

“I can still do the job. That’s why I did it, Tatiana, Because I can.” Owen ends up declaring, waiting anxiously for her to do anything at all.
She stays still for the longest time, watching his face.
“...And you decided going behind our backs was your best option.” she states.
“Neither you nor Curt would listen to me when I protested.”
Tatiana looks away, pressing her lips.
“...I’m sorry for that.” she says, quiet.

Curt nibbles at the inside of his own cheek, guilty.
It was true - he’d rather Owen be as painless as possible, and doing so, neither he nor Tatiana had considered what his feelings on the matter may be.
He understands the feeling of being considered too weak for a job. Too unstable, too… broken.
He can’t believe he did that to Owen.

When he checks back with reality, both spies are back in the car, and they’re integrating back into the traffic towards Baltimore.
Silent. Always silent, this group.
Once they’re back on the road normally, Curt swallows any guilt that tries to stop him, and reaches to rest his hand on Owen’s leg.
The man flinches, clearly not expecting it, but he makes no move to push him away.
They make eye contact, and Mega can see the other’s hand clearly itching to reach back.
For some reason, he doesn’t.

–

They don’t ever get to Baltimore.
Once they could see the shape of the city in the horizon, Owen tells the driver to turn and take a different path.
Of course, she doesn't question it. Curt does.

“Where are we going?” he turns to the other man, the only one to seem to know the answer.
He was still holding his own knee, now massaging it somewhat absentmindedly.
“Airport.” Is all he says, in that accent of his.
They had missed the exit to the airport a few miles back.

“You're sure?” He gives him a second chance to say the truth.
“Well, we should ditch this car before that, so that's what we’re going to first.” he elaborates.
And while it didn't sound wrong anymore, Curt was certainly not happy about it.
It was… odd. Too odd.
But he wants to trust Owen so, so badly.

Eventually, they’re guided into a secluded parking lot by the man’s instructions, and they park.
Tatiana gets out of the car, and so does Owen - Barb turns to look at Curt, and they share, once again, a worried look.
The trunk is opened, and the other two start grabbing the few bags they brought with them from Canada.

“What’s going on, Curt?” she whispers, her eyes tracking the movement outside.
“...I think we’re at their agency’s facility.” he replies in the same tone, his chest feeling tight.
“...Are we welcome?” She follows up, her hand hovering on the door.
“...Only one way to find out.” he sighs, pulling out his gun and stepping out of the vehicle.

“No need to wave that around, love.” Owen calls him, walking around the car to stand in front of him as he gestures at the weapon with his chin.
His leg pain seems to have subsided into a manageable level, judging by the lack of tells in his body language.
He smirks playfully, and for a second, it’s like nothing had changed between them at all.

Curt saves the gun under his bomber jacket, trying to act like his face didn’t get at least three degrees hotter.
That’s the first time he has used a pet name towards him since the accident.
“...Are you taking us to meet your boss?” he asks, his hands now awkwardly hanging by his sides.
“Precisely.” is all the other says before leading the way.

The four walk towards the door, but they don't get very far.
Seemingly from thin air, guards appear all around them, pointing their guns at them.
Barb quickly holds her hands up, visibly terrified, and Curt hesitates for a second before deciding it was for the best and following suit.

They both witness how Tatiana has her brows knitted together, looking all around her, and Owen is just… calm.
He has a soft, effortless smile on his lips, and he turns to make eye contact with him.
An entire conversation happens in that silent couple of seconds; the American asks, his eyes showing the pain of what he felt as betrayal, if this was what he thought it was.
The British squints just enough to be noticeable, and like that, his smile turns smug; ‘yes, it is’.

He turns away, looking at all the guns and the men holding them, and nods.
The men take the signal and suddenly lunge towards them; that satisfied smile, that playful stare is the last thing Curt sees before he feels a sharp sting on his neck.

Not many thoughts manage to form in time, but the most prevalent one is the choking feeling of heartbreak.
He trusted Owen blindly.
Despite the attitude he’s been given, the many times they’ve clashed this past week; he thought that- well, that they could be on good terms again, one step at a time.
It seems like he’ll die a hopeful fool, all the way to the bitter end.

The world vanishes around him seconds later, and he drops on the floor with a deafening thud.

Chapter Text

There’s not enough room in this office for all of them, Owen catches himself thinking.
He and Tatiana sit uncomfortably close in their chairs, with their captees - Curt and Barb - on two other seats against the wall to his left.
The two sit unconscious, limbs restrained in case the drug wears off prematurely.

In front of them, and on the other side of the table, there’s a man sitting, with two others standing behind him; one with a lab coat, the other in a simple suit and tie. Neither pay the spies any more attention than they’d give a fly; they stare at them in boredom until anything else happens in the room.
The man at the desk was older, his short hair starting to gray by the sides, and his tired, green eyes still as sharp as they must’ve been in the battlefield.

Owen was acquainted with them three already, hell, he was even on the same level as the two standing up when it came to the chain of command; and yet, he still has to check in after a mission like this, presenting results to the boss while they watch.
He wants to think that it’s due to Tatiana, his… colleague, being newer in the system.
That all his contributions to their shared goal haven’t been appropriated and stolen from him, stripping him from his rightfully earned authority.

“Carvour, Slozhno; I have to congratulate you. Not just for the success of this mission, but for unknowingly completing the next mission we had for you.”
Truthfully, that brings pride and surprise to the man.
The woman beside him does not seem to share that positive emotion, and instead seems to brace herself.

“We were going to send you to look for Mega, among others affected, to reclute into our group next time - but you were already a step ahead. Congratulations.” the man sitting down continues, smiling professionally.
The two agents know better than to hope for a small break after this.
Owen turns to his left to glance at Curt next to him - his head hangs, with his wrists handcuffed on his lap.
There’s a stray strand of his beautiful jet black hair falling in front of his eyelids.

He looks back at the man at the desk, his boss.
“What does this mean for us?” Tatiana asks next to him, her hands laying on her lap in calculated casualty.
“We want to task you to instruct the new recruits. We were going to assign this to other agents, but seeing that you’re already acquaintanced with them, it feels appropriate to derive this to you two.” he says.
A wave of emotions surges through Owen in a second, unsteadying him in his seat. He cannot name any of them.

He had wanted Curt to join Chimera, yes; but the reality of working together again, even after today, made him uneasy.
Well, uneasy was putting it lightly.
He feels a sudden wave of nausea come as fast as it leaves, and he sits up again properly.

“We don’t know if they’d be willing to join to begin with, sir.” Tatiana then speaks up, looking as serene as always.
“That’s what you’re there for, Slozhno; sell it to them.” the boss replies, making it sound like he thought it was that simple.
The two agents glance at each other, but don’t speak another word.

The boss takes this as the end of that conversation.
“Take the two to the holding cells in the meantime, until they wake up. Carvour, I need a word with you.”

Ah.
That certainly did not sound good.
The two wait until the room is empty, not moving from their seats as the men standing drag the captees out and Tatiana follows, everything in deathly silence.
They stay quiet for a few seconds even after the door clicks closed.

“...Is there anything you need, sir?” he asks tentatively.
“No, no. I just wanted to congratulate you personally, Carvour; we didn’t think you’d be able to do it, with the objective hitting so close to home.”

Owen will never forgive himself for revealing so much about himself to his superiors.
It had all been going great until he woke up one night screaming Curt’s name, and they had… forced him to answer their further questions.
Now, he was… not trapped, because he was working there willingly, towards the same goal, but he just… had nowhere else to go. Nothing else to do.

Except for this.
Leaving Chimera was just not an option he had.
He wouldn’t even make it that far before he got shot clean through the head and neutralised because of how much he knew, anyway.
Not that he wants to.

“I’m proud of surpassing your expectations, sir.” he replies blankly.
“Yes, well… it’s somewhat troubling for us.” the boss says, picking up an expensive fountain pen from the table, turning it in his hands. The spy feels his stomach drop.

“...What do you mean, sir?” He tries to ask politely, but he doesn’t manage to quite mask the fear.
“Well, that was supposed to be your last job in the field!” the boss explains, like it was good news, “but after such a success, we’re torn.”
Owen has to blink multiple times, to make sure he was hearing this correctly. Last job?
“Did you send us on a suicide mission?” he asks dumbly, emotion reacting faster than logic.
He bites his tongue immediately after, but to his luck, there’s no consequence other than the taste of iron in his mouth.
“No, of course not. It was… more of a challenge for you, hoping it would go better this time than the last mission in Spain.”

He had been tasked to snipe this one politician in the dictator’s cabinet, a very close ally to the United States who had been working on implementing their technology in the country as a means to reinforce the oppression of the people.
Owen had failed to shoot accurately after figuring out his only escape route had involved a very steep staircase down from a very high roof, which he had looked down towards the street from; emotions had taken control of his thoughts, and thrown all logic out the window.

Another agent had to finish the job for him from the ground - which he could’ve done from there as well, instead of up in the bloody sky.

Owen doesn’t have a fear of heights.
That would be ridiculous for a spy to have.

“...What about the latest mission was the challenge, if I may ask, sir?” he questions, because nothing about the past week had struck him as odd in that way.
Except maybe running into Curt a couple times, but it could still be a coincidence. A very unfortunate one, but bound to happen at some point in time if they both had the same job. Even if Curt had just returned to the field after years of inactivity.
…Maybe there had been some odd things.
Owen decides not to correct himself, in case his boss had anything to add.

“Well, we thought that giving your old agency something to panic about would raise the stakes for you, especially if we remind them of your existence at the very same time.” he explains even more vaguely, but Owen’s eyes narrow, in worry.
What can cause an agency to panic, especially relating to him, a man who’s been dead for years?
What danger can his memory bring to them?
What about him has been considered dangerous, that wasn’t exclusive to him?

“It was mainly to set up the next mission, really, but it blew out of proportion too quickly. Either way, it served us to put agents in a vulnerable enough position to recruit them. What agent wouldn’t want the protection of Chimera against their government?” the boss is saying, but his voice is being tuned out by the loudest thoughts.

Cynthia’s letter comes to mind as the world freezes for a second.

MI6 had tipped off A.S.S. about his sexuality to make them inspect Curt.
The puzzle piece finally clicks in place.
Chimera had tipped off MI6 first.

They had caused all this chaos, just to make his already hard mission just a little tougher- to gather more recruits, more agents, more hostages.
They had put a price on Curt’s head.

Owen’s hand twitches, fingertips a mere hair away from his gun, but he manages to hold onto his own thighs and breathe instead.
“I see.” he can only mutter, holding onto his blank expression like a lifeline.
He shouldn’t even care.
It was for the greater good.

“Instead, that only helped you complete not only this mission, but the one we were going to send Tatiana on next, once we moved you to the tech department.” the boss sighs, as if his success is bad news to him. He then puts down the pen, combing his graying hair back with his fingers as if he was stressed. Stressed over success.
The agent stays quiet for the longest time, still digesting all the new revelations.
He doesn’t quite believe it.

Tech department… Such a disrespectful downgrade.
Sure, yes, he knew his way around a little more than the basics; but after being a Special Agent, was that all that was left for him to do? To be the man on the comms for the rest of his career?
Hear as the agents complete their goal from afar?

“...Why was this supposed to be my last mission on the field, sir?” he asks, unable to meet his eye.
He feels like he knows the answer.
“The doctors. They say your past injuries don’t allow you to do your work fully, and your condition is only getting worse with the exertion.” and by the looks of it, the boss seems to believe so too.

He takes another deep breath, knowing very well he cannot snap at him like he did Tatiana not a day ago, not without greater consequences.
“I do my work just fine.” he says between his teeth, to hide the tremble in his voice.
“You do, until you don’t. Trust me on this decision, Carvour, it’s for your health. You’ll do great things in tech.” the boss says solemnly.

They both knew his health was not the primary intention behind the decision to bench him. Not with all the new agents being recruited in front of his very eyes.
If Owen had been younger, naïve as he was, he would’ve shot up to his feet to shout at him, to demand he stays in the field, but the look he gets makes the current him swallow his pride.
He stays still, feeling a heavy knot in his throat as his eyes close shut.

They knew everything about him.
When they finally discovered his secret it all got… strange, as the power dynamic shifted; he had joined the group not only as a form of gratitude for saving his life, but because he could agree with their aim: the elimination of espionage.
The job that consumed his life, that destroyed any sort of relationship he could ever have. That job Curt was a living representation for.
Was it hypocritical to work as the thing he swears to destroy?
Well, he considers it the means to an end.

But, Chimera had assured themselves that he was kept there with the leverage they had found on him about Curt - unable to protest or complain, even if he didn’t want to leave in the first place.
It was the way around here; to hold each agent’s biggest secret over their heads to keep them within reach.
Owen himself contributed to this process with Tatiana.

He bites his tongue until he can taste the iron of blood in his mouth again.
“You’re excused. I suggest you prepare to instruct the newcomers before they wake; you’ll be with the scientist, given that you’ll share the space from now on.” the boss invites him to leave, and Owen doesn’t spend a second longer in that room than he has to.

Once the door clicks closed behind him, he exhales, beginning to wander around the facility without a set destination in mind.
How embarrassing.
He’d just been demoted.

…

When he wanted Curt to join the cause, he thought he’d make him company until it was all finally over.
He thought they too could push their differences, their past, all aside until they could achieve it.
Now, however, he sees that Chimera meant to replace him with Curt from the beginning. A man that, despite his years of inactivity, had his abilities untouched. A man still capable of the job. A man that could still run.

And Owen knows it’s ridiculous to feel this way, that emotions themselves are more of a hindrance than a virtue.
But he can’t help it.

A week ago, he could’ve taken this brutal news stoically, not even batting an eye as the boss spoke.
He would’ve saved his feelings for the privacy of his room, so kindly lent by the group.
Now, with Curt around, he’s lost in emotions he didn’t know he still had.

Chimera had sold his secret away.
He shouldn’t care, really.
That’s what he had been hoping for, that those secrets would turn meaningless.
But Chimera sold Curt out just to punish him for a butchered job.

–

Before he knows it, he’s at Tatiana’s dorm, knocking somewhat hurriedly on the metal door.
He only realises this once she opens the door, her hair down and her tired eyes blinking at him in expectation.
She must’ve been getting ready to go instruct Curt and Barb.
“...Can I come in?” he asks, sounding weaker than he meant to.
She steps aside without a word, and he slips inside before the door clicks closed.

The two settle on her bed - the room had that, a wardrobe and a desk, nothing more than the necessary - before she prompts him to speak.
“What happened?” she asks, knowing he’s not there for mere leisure - that was a rather rare occasion.
“...A couple things.” he replies vaguely, trying to organise the thoughts in his head first.
She respects this pause, deciding to instead fidget with the sleeve of her jacket.

“I’m getting moved to… the Tech division.” is the first thing he decides to announce, since it’s the one that affects their future.
She frowns, but waits for him to elaborate.
“...They say it’s my health. I think they want to get rid of me; they’ve been trying for a while.”

Anyone else in the facility would mock him for how paranoid he sounds, but she just nods solemnly. Unfounded or not, she knows better than to judge someone like them for their emotions.
“Why do you say this?” she prompts again, hoping to see his reasoning.

“...They’ve been harsher, lately.” Owen’s voice is quieter. “They know what… bothers me, and they’ve included that in the past few missions on purpose.” Pause. “From a rooftop? Really?” he continues, his feeling of weakness growing into bitter, yet still quiet anger.
“They might have been trying to get you… over it. Through exposure.” She tries, but it’s clear she doesn’t believe it either.

There’s another pause, but it doesn’t grow uncomfortable or long.
“I know they think I’m not fit for the job anymore, but this is my life’s goal. They can’t just… discard me. They can’t replace me like that.” ‘replace me with Curt’ he wants to say, but if he does she’ll too decide that he’s gone crazy.
“...You are not getting discarded, Owen. You are getting moved to a different division.” Tatiana then tries to reason, but she’s fighting an already lost battle.

He cards his fingers through his own hair, taking a deep breath.
“I’m really not so sure. They… They sold my secret out, too.” he continues, and that does get a stronger reaction from her.
“I didn’t know they knew.” She tries to reach for him, but he pulls away, looking away at the floor.
“...They know everything useful.” His defeated exhale comes out shaky. “They said it was to reclute the fleeing agents that would emerge from my… case getting exposed.”

He lets her stay quiet to digest all this information - as his only support, he can be, at least, as half as patient with her as she was with him every day.
She was no caregiver, but she’s… reliable. Supportive. She’s a friend.
He never thought that was a thing he’d have again.
Sure, he had coworkers, but they would never know him like she does. Like he did.

“...You’re free.” she says, instead, shattering any expectations he had like glass.
“...What do you mean?” he turns to her, finally making eye contact.
“They have nothing to hold over your head anymore, now that it’s public. You could leave.” She keeps encouraging him.

He doesn’t quite understand her stance, however.
It’s almost nonsensically ungrateful of her to say that leaving was an option he could choose - after all they’ve done for him.
He can work thanks to Chimera.
He can walk thanks to Chimera.
“...I don’t want to leave.” he replies, surprised he has to express this out loud.

Hell, even if he did want to leave, he’s legally dead - have been, for a long time.
If he left, Chimera will tell MI6 he’s still alive as retaliation for breaking their trust and he’ll get hunted, at best.
At worst… he’d rather not know.

“Why not?” she asks, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion.
The dorm feels a little too small, like the air was running thin.
“I believe in the goal, in what we’re doing. Don’t you?” he says, the volume of his voice growing louder as he grows agitated.
She should get it, really.
If Owen hadn’t had a secret to begin with; if there had been nothing to hide, Owen wouldn’t have died.
He would’ve never gotten close to Curt, and he’d be alive.
Something similar should occur in her situation - she’d be with her family if she hadn’t been taken as a spy.

“No, I don’t.”
He stands, pulling himself out of her reach.
He’s bewildered, aggressiveness growing from confusion - he can’t understand why she’d even propose to leave.
“Why not? You’d be free too, if we took down espionage. Is that not what you want?” he questions her, and she closes her eyes to take a deep breath.
As if losing patience, or something.
He’d rather not think that ill of her.

“No. I don’t think that is what Chimera wants to do, either.” Now, Owen feels himself grow offended, standing up and stepping away.
“What are you implying?”
She just looks back at him, pity clear in her eyes. It stings.
“They want to… monopolise information, Owen. They want to hold secrets over everyone, world domination. Their definition of ending espionage is winning.”

There’s a pause.

It makes sense.
It’s horrifyingly logical, so much that the thought has crossed his mind before, not just once - but hearing it said out loud, not just thought as a crazy theory he discards seconds later out of need, breaks something.
Whether that is his heart, brain, or anything else, he can’t tell.

He can’t allow this to be true.
He has to believe that the mission is to free the world.
How else will he be free too?

Before she can reach to touch him, he steps away, fists closed as the anger seeps in deeper.
How dare she? How can she think that’s all?
It’s a catch and release situation, can’t she see? It’s the means to the end! Secrets will be destroyed once they’re all known! There’s no hidden intention, no want to rule the world!
If his secret being revealed is necessary for this, then so be it!

“You don’t get it.” he mutters, struggling to keep his voice levelled, batting her helping hand away as she tries a second time.
“Owen.” she calls as she gets on her feet.
He just walks to the door, slamming it shut behind him as he leaves, all without even glancing her way in the process.

It must be a misunderstanding, all of this.
Surely, his displacement is just temporary.
Maybe they didn’t even sell him away either - maybe he even agreed to it and just… forgot.
Their goal was to end espionage, he knew so. He’s sure of it.
Chimera is all he knows it to be - he’s been there from the beginning, how could he not?
He’ll get back at Curt, at MI6, at everyone who’s wronged him in this wretched field by destroying everything they know.

He makes it to another door, but he reaches towards his pocket before he does the doorknob.
He may as well have some fun before meeting his new reality.

Chapter Text

Curt is starting to get tired of waking up in new places like this.
This time, his arms are restrained in front of him, thank goodness, but he’s still chained to the chair by his hips, in a way he couldn’t just slide out of.

The most surprising choice, however, is the gag that stops him from uttering anything coherent. It pulls at the corners of his lips, biting into the skin of his cheeks - it only brings questions.
Normally, a situation like this implies questioning, information tortured out of the captee.
Being unable to speak does not bring good news to him.

Feeling the gap his tooth left in his mouth with his tongue, Curt opens his eyes at the sound of a chair scraping against the floor - a chair that isn’t his.
He glances around, immediately finding a tall figure in front of him, towering menacingly with a tilted head and a smile. It’s a familiar face, one he’s seen before, not long ago.
It’s that mask Owen was wearing back in Washington.

“Curt! Are you okay?!” Barb’s voice echoes from somewhere behind this man, and when he goes to reply, the gag translates it to a muffled groan.
The man is visibly amused.

“Don’t worry, I’d say he’s doing just fine.” he says, his accent french.
It sounds half-believable, really, this could be a second-language french speaker.
But then again, everything else was too blatantly Owen.

Putting the mask aside, since he could’ve lent it to someone else, he knows Owen is most comfortable putting on a french accent after his native one, not good enough at doing any other; his clothes have barely changed - he’s ditched both the guard jacket he stole and the one he had on this morning, now only wearing a black t-shirt and the same light gray pants.
And yet, the most obvious clue is that he’s gagged Curt, but not Barb.

He must’ve been sure he’d catch on with his identity, but not her - too panicked and scared from being in a situation she’s never had to face before.
He glares at Owen, who gives him a knowing smirk back.

“We don’t want information from you two.” he continues in the accent, stepping to one side so the two could see each other.
She’s not wearing her glasses, her blonde hair disheveled and tugging against her restraints, shaking like a leaf.
She looks horrified to see him - he’d rather not catch sight of his reflection, then.

“You will join us here, and work towards our great cause.” their captor starts explaining, awfully dramatic - Owen must be having his fun, then. He can’t help but feel bitter about it.
“What’s that?” Barb asks, voice high with fear.
He turns to her, still smiling.
“We want to get rid of espionage from the inside. Secrets are simply outdated now! What’s the point of them? They’re nothing but weapons that those in power use against their own people, all for selfish benefit.”

Just like the last time they talked about this, just a night ago, Curt doesn’t hate the idea, no, quite the opposite.
It’s perfect, on a first glance - it’s freeing, euphoric to think that he could let go of the burden he’s carried ever since he knew.
But upon a simple inspection, the method starts to bring up questions.
How could one achieve such a utopia?
Is it even possible?

Curt tries to protest, again, but there’s nothing he can do.
“...How would that even be done?” Barb speaks for him, a worried pout on her face as she glances at him.
“It’s quite simple, really: make it impossible to hide. We start by infiltrating the government agencies, and we move down toward civilians until everyone is constantly under surveillance. Then, that information can be made public for everyone to see. Nobody will be hiding from anyone any longer.”

He chuckles at the face of horror she makes.
“Don’t be like that, Larvernor. This way, people will realize the truth! Secrets are trivial, information that doesn’t matter!” he announces, his voice then dropping into an amused tone “And well, if it did, true justice can right that wrong.”

By this point, he was starting to slip out of the french accent, driven by the pure euphoria this plan seemed to bring him; Barb seems to be none the wiser.
“That’s not fair!” she says, tugging against her restraints one more time, in vain.
“Hm? How so?” Owen replies, the smirk clear in his voice.
She turns to look at Curt, a brave, rebel glint to her eye shining as they make eye contact.
“Who is justice to you? Who gets to decide what’s right or wrong?” she asks, as if pleading for the man to see reason.

He stops, meditating for an answer.
“We do - the people.” is what he comes up with, which sounds undoubtedly smart - but equally as unreachable as his goal.

When did it all turn upside down? When did Owen become the dreamer, and when did Curt turn into the one to drag his feet on the ground? He tries to thrash against his own restraints, chains biting into his skin painfully, but something stops him in his tracks barely seconds in.
A sharp blade is pressed against his neck, grazing his skin intimately, and a hand is pulling his head back by his hair.

Looking up, he makes eye contact with what undoubtedly are Owen’s eyes.
An Owen who’s capable of slicing his neck, he knows so.
“You’re feisty, Curt Mega. Let’s relax a little, shall we?” he threatens, and Curt has no other option but to take a deep breath.
He’s never been the kind to, but this was the time to sit back and think how to get out of this before his throat is slit open.

Maybe Barb will be freed, and she can be his accomplice.
Maybe Owen will free him if he behaves and acts like he’s on board.
He would be, if there were another way.
What brings him most hope is the thought that Tatiana could save them.
Unlike at MI6, this time there were people he could lean on. He dares to call them friends.

“Good, you’ve learnt how to behave quick, it seems.” Owen mocks him, letting go of his hair but keeping the blade in place.
“Why do you want to recruit us?” Barb then asks, glancing between Owen and the knife still against his neck, like a hawk.

Curt looks back up at his captor, making eye contact as if that could make up for the thousands of words he wanted to tell him.
Scream at him, beg him for forgiveness, for a second chance together.
To tell him there’s never been and never will be someone like Owen in his life, that there’s a way out of all this
That whatever he wants is an impossible dream, a delusion of a man who’s too far gone.

There’s a pause, a flinch that manifests as a nick to the captee’s neck.
“The more, the merrier, is it not? You both arrived with Agents Slozhno and-”

Before he can finish, there’s a thud, followed by the man’s body behind him crumbling to the floor.
“Come on, we have another computer to blow up.” Tatiana says somewhere in the room - he’s too distracted by the sharp smell of blood that reaches his nostrils to figure out where.
He closes his eyes, hoping the sudden sting on his neck was fake. That it was the leftover feeling of the blade, just his skin breathing in relief.

“Curt!”
When he opens his eyes back again, both women are in front of him, and his body is free from chains.
There’s a siren blaring in the background, the lights replaced by a deep red from the alarm.
He reaches to touch his neck, his hand trembling as he makes contact with something… wet.

He has no time to react before Tatiana’s hand gets in the way, applying pressure against the wound - too late, because the liquid has seeped into his shirt, warm, soaking and sticky.
“Barb, take off the gag, we have to go - the fire alarm won’t last forever.” the spy orders, using all her strength to pull the American to his feet and out of his shock.

Of course, the nausea doesn’t take long to invade his senses, overwhelming him.
“But-!” The blonde tries to object once she takes off the handkerchief used as a makeshift gag off.
“It looks like a vein, a troublesome one at that, but not lethal. The cut would’ve had to be deeper for that.” she explains quickly, the three now on their feet.

Curt takes a deep breath, reaching to replace Tatiana’s hand with his own and apply pressure against the wound, squirming as he feels it all - the wetness, his neck pulsing under his fingers, the skin too warm.
God, he wants to throw up. Who let a man afraid of bleeding be a spy?

…But he can do this. Everything hurt like hell, but he could live with it.
There’s just one thing he can’t live without.

They start to walk, but they don’t make it far before Curt stops on his tracks, turning his neck - not without a spike of pain - to look at the man left on the floor.
Owen was blindly feeling the floor for the knife, one that looks to have been kicked away.
He was clearly terribly disoriented, his face showing pain even under the mask.

He couldn’t leave him behind a second time.

“Wait!” he shouts over the fire alarm, digging his heels on the floor to spin around and back into the room, running towards the man.
Curt hooks an arm under his armpit, struggling to pull him up with just one hand.
He turns back in search of help to the other two, who stay standing in the doorway looking perplexed.

He stops trying to pull the man up, and instead pulls the mask off to reveal Owen’s actual face, looking pale even under the red lights and fighting to stay conscious.
Tatiana is then at their side, and between her and Curt they prop the man up the best they can manage, which isn’t good at all.
His legs buckle under his own weight, and he’s putting all his strength in keeping his head up and his eyes open, alert.

As Owen drags his feet behind them, the four of them slowly make it out of the room with relative ease in the middle of the chaos.

–

Curt tries to argue against restraining Owen, but his pleas fall on deaf ears.
Barely conscious and with his hands in handcuffs in front of his body, Owen lays on his side on Tatiana’s bed.
Curt sits on the edge in front of him and gently brushes his hair back, his own neck now bandaged and appropriately taken care of.

Despite the lack of emotion that Owen portrayed in his fight with consciousness, Curt Mega can’t help but feel guilty for how the event had turned out.
He should’ve seen this coming from the start - a deeper meaning, the structure behind the mission, the motive - there had been so many things that could’ve given a second intention away, but he decided to trust.
He doesn’t quite regret it however, not yet.
There is something even deeper to this, something about Owen he doesn’t quite understand yet.

“What did you mean before, Tatiana?” Barb says, getting Curt out of his own thoughts. She sits on the chair next to the desk, rubbing at the angry marks left around her wrists.
“About?” the other woman replies - she’s going all around the tiny room, getting all her weapons and the little personal belongings she has and putting them into a duffle bag on the desk.
Someone is ready to leave.
“Uh, blowing up a computer.” she specifies.

Tatiana then goes to kneel before the bed next to his legs, reaching for something under it and pulling out a small suitcase.
A bomb suitcase. Curt sees where this is going.
“Yes, we will be doing that before leaving.” she says, handing him her only extra gun.
He takes it in his hands, studying it for a moment - it’s also soviet, unsurprisingly, but this is an older model.
He saves it in that spot behind his back, the comfort of its weight helping him greatly.

“Chimera - this group - is collecting secrets. They start with their own agents, as leverage against them, but they plan to go for governments later, and lastly, for civilians. They won’t stop until nobody has any privacy left.”
Her way of explaining this plan, contrary to Owen’s, really expresses how wrong it is - regardless of how good the intention may be painted as.
“They plan to gather this information with their new surveillance technology - they have been getting microphones and cameras installed all over. They’re almost impossible to avoid.” she continues.

So, Tatiana had been kept working for these people against her will, information about her family held over her head, like the strings on a puppet. She was merely cutting herself free.
“And they keep all that information in the computer.” Barb follows her train of thought, nodding as it sinks in for her.
This was just like back at A.S.S.
For better or for worse.

Curt swallows thickly, feeling pain shoot up from it but keeping quiet anyway.
How would Owen react if he heard this? If he learnt they plan to hinder the path to his goal?
Would he know it’s the right thing to do, to give up on this impossible dream?

“They aim to control the entire population to the best of their abilities, and impart their own justice. They want to rule the world like this.” the ginger then says, kneeling underneath the desk to unstick a knife that was there, for some reason.

“How come they haven’t barged in here yet?” Curt finally dares to speak, holding his own hands in his lap.
“I have destroyed every camera and microphone I could find in this room. They haven’t complained about it, so I figure they didn’t really check on me anyway. There is also a very loud fire alarm to distract them.” the spy simply explains, not even looking back in his direction as she keeps packing her things - the little amount she has, anyway.
“...So we could get ambushed any second now.” Barb then mutters, but the room was silent enough and her voice was still high-pitched enough to be hearable.

Tatiana spares her a glance as she goes back to the bomb suitcase.
“Then, we will act quickly. We can pretend you have both joined the group and that I am merely touring you around the base despite the alarm. Let’s get going.” She urges them, taking the case and giving it to Barb, who struggles to catch it before the ginger slides the duffle bag strap over her shoulder.
“...What about Owen?” he mumbles.

The two women turn to Curt before glancing at each other - a million words shared between them that he can still catch onto.
They think he shouldn’t care for Owen. That it’s getting in the way.
“He betrayed us, Curt.” Tatiana says, her tone colder than usual.

…Yeah.
In a way, he did.
But, in another way, he meant well. It was stupid, and impossible, but by the way he spoke of it, it was his most noble goal.
To be free of hiding, to live as one’s true self despite everything - he knows they all would enjoy that idea.
“He was betrayed.” he then counters. If he takes Tatiana’s version as fact, as the real intention behind Chimera, he can make this argument.

“He was misled at best. He knows very well how the method works - he’s an active participant in it. Now come on, before it’s too late.” she answers, her voice still leveled but clearly growing angry.
“That doesn’t mean we can leave him here.” and he can hear her suppress a sigh.
They both know they don’t have time to waste arguing.
“...Fine. I will be going to blow up that computer, and then I’m fleeing this facility. With or without any of you. Your choice.” Tatiana announces.

Really, Curt doesn’t have a choice - he’s not allowing himself one.
He is leaving, and he’s leaving with Owen.
After getting saved from MI6, he owes him at least this.
There’s no way of paying his debt, but the least he can do is not make it bigger.

Barb stands up, clutching the bomb suitcase, and gives Tatiana a determined glare.
Seems like Curt is alone in the task of carrying Owen across the entire building.
He hadn’t expected less.
It was time for him to finally save his partner.
“We will take less than ten minutes to leave. Make sure to be in the parking lot before then.” Tatiana informs, taking him out of his thoughts - there’s a click, and before he knows it, the door is closed and he’s alone in the room.
Or, well, alone with Owen, he consoles himself.
Even if the stench of iron that wouldn’t leave his nose was his fault.

Before he gets to turn his head to see him, however, the familiar coldness of metal surrounds his neck, and he freezes in place.
Curt holds his breath, taking a second to study the situation his carelessness had suddenly put him in.

Owen has the short chain of his handcuffs - the ones they stole from the A.S.S. guard’s jacket - pulled from behind against Curt’s neck, dangerously close to the cut he had bandaged.
He could feel the man’s chest pressed against his upper back, using his weight to push Curt forward and against the chain - he doesn’t have much strength in his arms, judging by how he rested his forearms on his shoulders.
His breath is warm to the back of his neck.
He tries to take a deep breath, but it comes out shaky.

“You’re going to take me to Tatiana, and you’re going to stop her from blowing that computer up. Am I clear?” he mutters against the shell of Curt’s ear, his speech somewhat slurred despite doing his best to pronounce everything clearly as part of his threat.
He hadn’t lost consciousness, no, but he definitely has a concussion.
This brings Curt an opportunity, he realises while fighting his contradicting feelings.
Owen will definitely be disoriented, and he can use that to his advantage - he can lead them to the parking lot instead, and have him be none the wiser until it's definitely too late to turn back.

He can do that. He has to try.
“...Okay. Okay, I will. Just… let go, please.” he mutters, not daring to speak louder than him.

The chain leaves his neck, and he takes a deep breath before standing up.
He turns around to face Owen, but the sight shocks him enough to make his heart skip a beat.
The man is sat up on the bed, wobbly, but holding onto and aiming the gun Tatiana had given Curt at him like a lifeline.
Of course he’d take his gun.

The American raises his arms in surrender, taking a step back as Owen takes his time to get to his feet.
“There’s no need to be so aggressive, I can take you there…” Curt tries, but the gun doesn’t stray away from his heart.
“I don’t trust you.” the other spits, and it’s a little more hurtful than it should’ve been.
“You’re gonna have to if you want to do this.” he replies in a similar manner, immediately biting his tongue in regret. Angering him is the last thing he needs.

Owen, instead, just huffs, finally steady on his feet, and hesitantly, lowers the gun. The American then turns to open the door and guide the two, hopefully, out of this facility.

Chapter Text

The second the door out of Tatiana’s dorm creaks open, he’s informed that Owen is following him by the cold metal that digs into his middle back before he’s able to turn back around.
Of course they weren’t done with the stupid gun.

Curt sighs shakily, trying to ignore the knot in his throat that made it harder to breathe.

He’s been in the way of guns since he can remember, Owen’s several guns included, but this was different.
Owen was not acting, or pretending, or undercover; he was, essentially, holding him hostage, submitting him into collaborating.
He was a hair away from death, a simple twitch of a finger from a man that was struggling to hold onto consciousness and he’d be dead.

The two make their way down one of many hallways, with Curt frantically searching for an exit sign, or anything that could suggest so, as they follow the echoes of shouting and footsteps - the building was being swiftly evacuated, and they could get trapped inside if they weren’t quick enough.

Owen holds onto his shoulder with his free hand, using him as a very awkward crutch to maintain his balance.
They walk close to each other, the captor’s breath hot against his neck.

He wouldn’t have minded the warmth of the contact on a different occasion.

They reach a staircase down soon after.
Curt’s about to make a turn, staying on what he believes is the ground-level floor, but Owen pulls on the neck of his coat harshly.
“Where do you think you’re going?” he hisses, pushing him towards the staircase and digging the gun into his back deep, to the point where he has to bite his tongue so as to not shout in pain - he just whines instead.

The American is pushed to rush down to the half point of the staircase, where the stairs turn to go down in a different direction; but before he's made to go down those stairs, he’s released.
He turns back and he finds Owen, breathing heavily, at the top.
He isn’t present, his eyes betray.

“Owen.” he tries calling, but it’s no use.
The man in question looks down at his own free hand in the handcuffs, almost through it; the other tries to climb back up the staircase, but he still has half a mind to aim the gun at him, making him stop just a few steps below.
The barrel of the firearm is aligned with his forehead.

“Owen, please listen to me.” he begs, and they finally make eye contact.
It’s painful, the kind of pain you feel when you leave your hand on a hot stove, in a fire. But he has to withstand it.

“Why would I?” the other asks, even if there’s not as much venom in his voice as he probably wanted there to be.
He sounds more lost than anything else.
“Because you have to open your eyes; this isn’t the way, you know this. I know you know this.” he insists, itching to move forward but the gun stopping him short of reaching his old partner.

“You don’t know anything.” Owen spits, slowly seeming to come back fully to reality.
That makes his grip on the gun tighten.
“Tell me, then. Tell me why this is what you want.” Curt begs, eye contact getting harder and harder to hold.

“Because I hate you, Curt.” he whispers, almost like a confession, “I despise you, and I need to prove that I’m better than you. It’s my life’s goal to take you apart, layer by layer, until your life has no meaning. Since that’s what you did to me.”
He can hear Owen’s voice fighting not to break, and yet his face is perfectly level, as if he was wearing a mask.

“I didn’t–” the other tries to reply.
“Oh, I know you didn’t ‘mean to’. You don’t mean a lot of the things you do. I have to wonder if there’s anything you’ve ever done that you did mean.” Owen mocks, a false amusement in his voice.
He was being harsher to defend himself because he felt vulnerable.

It’s strange, because Curt is the opposite - he fights against showing any emotion on his face, not managing it, but he knows he can speak clearly.
He knows he can get a message across, because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose this man again. For a final time.
And he won't allow that to happen.

“I love you.” he confesses after a thought.
Too forward, perhaps, but that was him.
He sees Owen’s face twitch, but the man stays quiet.
“We never told each other that, we were too scared to. But I loved you, Owen; I still do. And I mean every word.”

The air between them is tense, enough for them to feel like they can’t breathe.
The barrel of the gun is suddenly pressed against Curt’s forehead.
It’ll leave a dent on his skull, he thinks, as he hears the safety click off.

“I hope you don’t expect me to believe you.” Owen mutters again, a hint of sadness to his voice.
“...It’s merely wishful thinking.” the other agrees, his eyes fighting to flutter closed - to accept the bullet to his brain.
He fights to see the man before him.
Something in Owen’s eyes tells him that, despite everything, he does believe him.
There’s that part, the side he had confessed to Tatiana what felt like ages ago back in that car, that still cared.
The part that still wanted so badly to trust.

“Chimera won’t go down easily.” he says, the pressure of the firearm waning against the American’s forehead “This is merely one of the hundreds of facilities we store information in. In fact, this is such a risky location that I have to doubt there’s any information in here at all.”

Curt blinks, in disbelief.
He’s not sure why he’s giving him information, but he definitely understands the message: to give up.
He can’t save any more civilians, he knew so from the start, but to have it confirmed… It still hit.

There was, however, one final ‘mission’ he had before finally stepping out of the field for good.
A mission he had assigned himself, and one he couldn’t leave unfulfilled.
Because, despite this supposed win for him and his cause, there’s a sadness, a heartbreak that reflects in Owen’s eyes.
It’s the despair of a man that knows he’s dead.
It does make Curt want to give up in this very final mission - but he can’t.
He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he fails this time.

“That doesn’t mean you have to stay here. You know this is wrong; you know the ends don’t justify the means this time.” He tries, but he’s lost his strength.
“I need to. I have to destroy your life’s very meaning, even if it’s the last thing I do.” The gun presses hard against his forehead again, declaring the past loss of strength as a moment of weakness and not a point of inflection.
Curt’s gaze softens instead.
“You already have.”

The metal of the firearm had grown warm from his touch, and now it’s finally separated from him.
Owen stares at him in surprise, even bewilderment, waiting for him to elaborate.

“ I wanted to come back to the field so badly, but after… Cynthia dismissed me, I knew there was no place left for me here. You told me yourself, as well.” Curt takes a step up, one closer to his partner “Instead, I found a new goal.”

What Curt doesn’t specify is what this means - his last mission, one he’s had ever since he learnt his one weakness, his Achilles’ Heel, wasn’t killed by his own hand.
He couldn’t fix death, but he could fix the worst mistake of his life.
He could still save his partner.

He doesn’t need to specify what this goal is outloud, no.
Owen stares, quiet - he looks dizzy.
If he had to guess, he’d say the man has realized what he’s implying.

“You bastard.” He mutters, going to hold his temple in his hand - the gun pulled along in the other hand, his wrists still handcuffed. His face is somewhat hidden like this.
Curt takes another step upwards, trying to reach for him.
“Always the Messiah - you truly never learn.” the other keeps mumbling, shutting his eyes tight.

The American stills, worry spiking in his chest.
Owen raises the gun back to aim it at himself, resting the barrel up against the crevice between his head and his neck.
Aiming to explode his brain beyond recognition.
They make eye contact one more time.
“It’s too late, Curt. Accept it. Give up. There is nothing you can do.” he hisses, raising the volume of his voice as it becomes apparent that he’s doing whatever he can to keep the situation under his control.

Curt suddenly reaches to take the gun, aim it away from Owen before his finger twitches or worse.
This engages them in a struggle for the firearm - a push and pull that the American quickly gets an advantage on, before the trigger is suddenly pulled.

They still as the bang rings in their ears, deafening them momentarily until this is replaced by screaming and the never ending fire alarm.
It takes Curt a few seconds to realize it’s coming from Owen.
He glances down, and all he sees is red.
Not just the red of the alarm, no. Crimson, coming from his partner’s side, his shirt torn to trace the path the bullet had followed until it had lodged itself into the stairs.
The gun lay on the step, next to it, smoking.

Owen slumps against him, clutching at his own side as his hand stains in this same color, and that forces Curt to come back to himself - he holds him up, placing his hand on Owen’s to apply pressure on the bleeding wound correctly.
“Owen-” he calls in desperation, but the other man is too busy - his whines of pain are quiet against Curt’s shoulder.
They needed to get out of there, and fast.

He takes his injured partner’s arms to hang it over his own shoulders, holding him up with his own hand applying pressure to the injury; and after pocketing the firearm away from the Brit’s reach, he begins to walk them back up the stairs - towards an exit, through the eerily empty and red-lit corridors.

“Let go of me.” Owen mumbles, breathing heavy against him.
“No. We’re getting you out of here, Owen. No matter what you say.” he replies, unsure if he can even hear him at all.
“Always the Messiah.” the man comments to himself, chuckling painfully at his own words.

They make their way until they find what looks like a fire exit at the end of the hallway, and that’s when the building rumbles under their feet.

They were not going to make it in time at this pace, not to Tatiana.
Desperate, Curt starts rushing towards the door, ignoring the wordless complaints of pain his partner makes, and pushes it open roughly with his free shoulder - he has to ignore the sudden sting of pain that goes through it as well.
He needs to get to the car, and pain is not getting in his way.

In the distance, he spots the redhead standing next to a car and looking back at them in pleasant surprise, soon joined by the blonde bob next to her.
And maybe time was starting to blur for him, but he feels like it takes them forever to reach their side.

“What happened?” He hears Barb’s squeaky voice through the rushing of blood in his ears, and he feels the weight on him lighten as Tatiana joins him to carry Owen from the other side inside the vehicle.
“We struggled with a gun; one of us must’ve hit the trigger during it.” he says, out of breath.
He tries not to think how it had probably been him.

“He should be fine. It didn’t make it in, by the looks of it.” Tatiana then reassures him while she sits the bleeding man in the car.
Curt doesn't wait another second before getting into the vehicle, in the seat next to Owen’s, and the two women follow to sit in front.

They make it out of the parking lot and onto a road before anyone says another word.
The American spy checks for his partner’s breathing and pulse annoyingly often, and applies pressure to the wound until they can take better care of it.
Owen is out like a light, handcuffed, wounded and concussed. It wouldn't be a surprise if he doesn't wake up for the next 24 hours, even more.

“Where do we go?” Barb asks quietly, glancing back at the two men through the rearview mirror.
Tatiana keeps her eyes fixed on the road.
“We can figure that out on the way.” she replies, tone flat.

But Mega finally has a brilliant idea, or at least he thinks so - it’s up to the rest of the group to judge.
“We could go to Guadeloupe? It's where my safehouse is.” he offers.

The two women glance at each other, and not another word is said.
Why argue when there's no other option to consider?

Chapter Text

Their best option to get to the island of La Désirade, Guadeloupe, was a boat, of any sort.
An unconscious person wouldn't make it past the airport as easily, whereas here they could claim he's horrifyingly drunk.
They could also sneak in more easily than not.
And this last option is what they did.

So that’s where they find themselves, hiding between metal crates for the few days of travel they had left to endure before finally arriving home.

The idea before boarding was to hide and last without food or water until they arrived, but with the injuries they had - particularly Owen’s being the most severe, even if unconscious - they couldn’t afford to stay hidden like this.

Food and water was essential, and a med kit was not far behind in the list.
They had to hijack the boat before they keeled over dead.

–

Curt tries to get on his feet in silence, but when he tries pushing himself up with his arm, his shoulder protests loudly; it forces him to bite back a shout as he lands back on the cold, metal floor.

Around him, Tatiana and Barb turn to look at him in worry - Owen is passed out still, and Curt had lent his jacket for him to use as a makeshift pillow.
“What’s wrong?” the blonde asks as the man goes to hold his own arm up - it feels like it would fall otherwise, as if it’s hanging and barely attached to his body.
“Must’ve broken my arm.” he mutters, jaw tense as the pain intensifies after that struggle.

Tatiana observes for a few seconds.
“Can you show me your shoulder?” she says, voice a little too loud for his comfort, but he does as she asks.

Careful not to let his arm fall off (ridiculous thought, he knows) or make it hurt more, he slides it out of his t-shirt armhole and then his head, merely holding the cloth against his chest to cover himself as best as he can.
Both women hiss at the sight in empathetic pain, and that makes him look down at his injured shoulder as best as he can manage.

There’s no blood, but his skin was red, growing purple, and it was inflamed and warm.
Something was indeed broken, they all knew that much.
“You probably broke your…” Tatiana starts, struggling to find the word before pointing at her own - the collarbone.
He nods, taking a deep breath - it hurts to do.
Barb, meanwhile, is very pointedly looking away, and that makes Curt put the t-shirt back on before it gets uncomfortable.

“What do we do?” He asks, demotivated.
This was no state to go hijack the boat.
The ginger sits silently, thinking, as her eyes glance between the two men.

They looked a mess compared to her, who had barely a few scratches on her face and messy hair from all the action, or Barb, who'd managed to leave unscathed from the entire week.

Meanwhile, Curt sports a broken collarbone, the tail of a concussion from a week ago, and a cut to his neck, not even accounting for punches, kicks or the missing tooth. He can't help but feel the absence with his tongue.

He turns to look at his side, at Owen, and evaluate the damage one more time.
Recent injuries Owen had sustained were… a concussion, a bullet grazing his side, overexertion on his leg… at least that's all he knew.

“We cannot hijack the boat with me, by myself, on the offense” Tatiana says, resting her back against the metal wall of the container.
“I could help.” The other girl tries, but it takes a single look and silence to make her back down.
“So, I want to sneak in to steal whatever is necessary for us. Crew will survive.” the ginger continues, looking pointedly at Curt to see what he thinks of it.

At this point in their journey, acting as parasites was not below them.
No, it was one of the most noble things they could do - nobody gets hurt as long as they don't get caught.
He nods, but he doesn't make eye contact.

It's nothing against any of the two, at all.
The conversation he had with Owen just… has him thinking.
Had he done the right thing?
Could it have gone differently?

If Curt had been any more stubborn, if he had refused to acknowledge that spying was not him anymore, what would he have done?
If they had talked a little less, before that moment? If Curt had had a gun to hold?

“Curt” Barb calls him, dragging him back to reality.
He blinks, looking around - it was just them and Owen there, now.
“Where’s Tatiana?” he asks, trying not to kick himself for not noticing her leaving.
“She went to get the stuff from the boat crew.” the girl explains anyway, as obvious as it was.

He nods again, and his eyes drift back to the other man.
He looked so sickly, so… frail.
Has the moonlight always done that?
“Curt.” She calls again, and he looks back at her.
She looks at him with such pity, it's hard to digest.

“You've done the best you could to save him.” she whispers, “You never gave up on him, not even when we did.”
“I've done him worse. Lifetimes ago.”
To them, the betrayal must've been so unjustified.
But to Curt, it was barely what he had coming.
It was barely what he deserved to get in return.

There was, however, an aspect of such betrayal that had him nervous.
Chimera’s role in Owen’s survival and life…
There was more to it, that much was obvious.

But he didn't know where to look for information.
Not yet.

A few hours later, Curt’s arm is in a makeshift sling with Tatiana’s jacket, his neck rebandaged and his stomach not empty anymore.
Owen’s bullet wound has been sown shut, and has a wet cloth over his forehead to try and cool him down.

Curt’s not tired, however, after the boost of energy he got for quieting his hunger - thus, the similar silence of the dock invites him to roam and look out at the sea; he’s used to travelling by plane or otherwise land vehicles, so this is a welcome change.

He finds Tatiana leaning on the handrail, staring at the Caribbean Sea as her mind visibly travels.
The gentle breeze pushes her long hair away from her face, and it's warm enough for her to be comfortable in her sweater.

“Hey.” Curt approaches, breathing in the smell of algae the wind brought with it.
“Can you not sleep?” She asks, turning her head just enough to have him in her field of view.
“Not much.” He answers vaguely to continue the conversation “It’s been a while since we had the chance to chat like this.”
She nods, and he takes it as an invitation to stay.

The moon above them hides no detail with its light - Tatiana looks obviously tired, but there's a calmness to her that he's never seen before.
A freedom he's never seen her in before.
“It has. Since this morning. Or, well, yesterday morning. It is Saturday now.” She corrects as she spares her wrist a glance.

Curt finds himself missing his own watch - adjusting to time zones constantly was a pain, but having the little clock inside adjusted to London’s time always made him smile, imagining what Owen could be up to if he were to be home.
It had lived many missions with him, and now it was gone.
Nothing lasts forever, after all.
He’s learnt that much in his years of work.

“I promised my mom I'd be home on Monday. I can't believe I’m going to make it.” He continues, a soft smile on his face at the thought of her welcoming him with open arms - like she’s done every time.

“I only hope she is not displeased to see us come with you.” She says, copying his smile.
“Oh, she’d never. I’m actually worried she won't leave you alone. She begs any girl I let her meet to marry me, and she's already given up on Barb.” He tells her, the reminder of his mother wanting grandchildren and thinking of Barb for it making him shiver.
Nothing against the woman, but…
Well, he probably wouldn't like her in that way even if she was a man, if he has to be honest.
“Are you going to tell her?” Tatiana then asks.

Curt’s smile vanishes, turning to glance back at where Owen was still unconscious.
“...I don't know. I’m scared of losing her for it.” he mutters, turning back to stare at the water under them instead.
He can almost feel the pity on her face, but he doesn't dare look.

“It’s your right to choose if you do, for once.” she consoles him.
“And now that I can choose, I don’t know what to do.” he mutters to himself now, taking a deep breath.
The waves under them help him keep himself somewhat calm - concentrate on them, instead of the anxiety that bubbles up at the mere thought of his mother… rejecting him.
He can't stomach it.

He feels her hand on his shoulder, suddenly, and he turns to finally make the eye contact he’d been dodging.
Instead of the pity he thought she was giving him, she looks closer to… understanding, or empathetic.

Despite their differences, she too sees herself in a position where she has to tell her family that they’re not going to see her marry, or have children of her own.
He can only hope she gets that chance to even tell them - he’ll beg his mother to forge some passports for her.
It’s the least he can do.

“That’s something only you can decide. Just make sure you do it before you run out of time.” Her smile wavers at the reminder of their own mortality - of their humanity.
“...I think I have plenty of time, now that this… crazy week is over.” The waves under them keep breaking against the metal of the boat, gentle noise filling the silence.
“How do you mean?” she asks, taking her hand back now that the moment of weakness was over.

He glances at the sleeping man behind them first.
“I’m… leaving the field. I think spying isn’t meant for me anymore.” he confesses, “I’ve tried to come back, I’ve tried making it right by destroying the computers, but… I’ve learnt the lesson; technology like that is inevitable.”
“Is it inevitable?” she questions, not in a negative tone - just curiosity.

She doesn’t know about the several other Chimera computers, that much is clear.
She believes Chimera is gone, doesn’t she?

“...We’ve seen it; even if one group is destroyed, other groups are developing the same thing. It’s best to… flee, before we can’t escape. Maybe someone else can stop it, but… not me.” he reasons - it was also true, but it doesn’t shatter her hopes of freedom.
“I see.” she mutters - and while she looks a bit… down, she’s not downright miserable, or anything of the sort.
Her feelings have been spared.

And Curt wants to tell her more; tell her that the betrayal of his own country still stung - that they don't want him there anyway.
That he wishes he could help those like him, like them, but he can't.
He’s never been part of a community - he's alone, always has been.
Except for Owen.
And he finds he’s willing to give up the world for that man.

But he can make a few exceptions with that, too.

“My mom is good at forging documents.” Curt begins after a pause, “I can ask her to make you and your family some passports, and you can take them to a safer place.”
She looks at him, eyes wide.
“Really?” He can’t help the smile.
“Really. Once we arrive, I’ll ask her and then you can tell her any details you need.”

And before he knows it, Tatiana has wrapped her arms around him rather tightly; he, of course, immediately hugs her back.
“Thank you.” she whispers against his shoulder, quiet.
He has no need to be thanked for something of the sort, but he won't deny her it.
Not when he could tell her the truth - but was it so bad to want to see her happy?

The hug lasts a few minutes, if even more than one, before the woman pulls away - she looks lighter, like that worry had been weighing on her shoulders and she was finally free from it.

Has this been a good deed?
Curt can't help but think so.

“What will you do, now that you're out of the field?” she asks, leaning back against the handrail.
“...Haven't thought that far yet.” he mutters, an amused smile now crossing both their faces “probably move to a different country, first of all. One whose secret service doesn't hate my guts.”
“That doesn't leave you many places.” she says, smirking.
“Ugh, I know. Half of… No, I'd say almost all of Europe is off the table; so is North America…” he thinks out loud, inviting Tatiana to speak her mind with him.

“Australia?” she asks.
“I'd be so far away from my mom…” he laments - Mrs Mega has already gotten ready to move house, he doesn't dare try to move her across the world like that.
…At the same time, now’s the chance for it…

“You could stay in the Caribbean. Just not a government safehouse.” she replies, deciding to stop naming countries until she has the requirements Curt comes up with.
“Oh, no, uh… I bought her the house. The agency isn't in charge of that.” he instead corrects her “I’m moving her either way, since… I got abducted from there.”
She seems unimpressed.

Thinking of moving away, of starting a new life…
Such a nostalgic activity.
Hah, he used to do this all the time, lifetimes ago.
This time, he's lucky enough to see it through.

“Will you move in with your mother, then?” she keeps asking, the calm waves under them still providing a nice background noise.
“Well, I… essentially, I live with her. I have an apartment to crash into after missions in D.C., but I don't think I’ve spent a night there in… years.”
After all, he knew a few weeks into his grieving period that it wouldn't be ending anytime soon.
“I see. I thought you would move in with Owen.”

He pauses, taking a little too long to process the question.
The possibility of living with Owen sparks a burst of energy in his imagination, making him indulge in how it could be - ignoring completely how impossible that seems in reality.
And it breaks his heart.
“I… don't know if that can happen.”

She frowns, but doesn't seem confused.
“What happened?” Is all she says.
And Curt should tell her about what happened back at the stairs.
She of all people deserves to know at least a little bit.

“He… seems like he's too far gone. About Chimera.”
The peacefulness of the waves is gone - the noise they make when crashing against the ship is now agitating, at best - as they reach higher and higher in their break.
Like they were navigating towards a storm.
“Too far? That is what you think?” she asks, but this time her tone betrays her disbelief.
She’s clearly judging.

“...What are you implying?” He copies her frown.
“After everything you have done for him, you say you do not think he can be saved anymore?” She turns towards him, crossing her arms in front of her chest - standing upright, demanding an explanation.
He doesn't want this confrontation to happen; he crosses his arms as well, but he remains resting on the handrail and facing the sea.

“It's true, it's too late. He said he wanted to take me down, and when I said I gave up on spying, he tried to shoot himself. I had to wrestle the gun from him.” He tries to explain.
“You don't let him end it, but you give up on him; it seems you want him to pay for what he has done in a worse way than I do.” She states, her tone gone ice cold.
“You gave up on him as well! Why are you-” he begins, but is quickly interrupted.
“He betrayed me; I was merely leaving him where he wanted to be. You went further.”
Her sudden anger had turned defensive, and it was crystal clear.
“You knew he wasn't okay. You could've saved him as well, but you didn't.” He hisses, unable to stay leaning on the handrail any longer - he turns to her.

She's glaring at him.
“Leaving him to die with his cause was merciful compared to the hell you will make him go through.” She states again, and it pains Curt to realise she may be right.
Owen, as he has clearly stated, has no driving force, nothing in life he wants anymore with Chimera out of the picture.

He let him fall again, didn't he?

He finds himself frozen in time.
Curt sees his partner, laying at the bottom of the staircase - the pool of blood under him growing nauseatingly fast.
To his right, the exit door shines a morning sunshine light on him, and thus, he has two options.

He can go back down, pick Owen up, and rush back up the stairs towards freedom - the most difficult one, by far, given the building is collapsing on them at that very moment.
This option would mean to try, to leave behind the explosions, the guns, the pain. To manage their most risky escape yet.
To have a second chance - one that needs Owen's consent.

He can jump. Curt can pretend the floor gave in under him, and give up such an unhappy life alongside his partner.
But this wouldn't work. Owen would survive, even if Curt may not.
This option means telling him that he's unsalvageable, and on top of that, left to navigate his life alone.
As short as that may end up being, with no thirst for revenge.

He can turn and run outside, toward the sunlight.
This option means telling Owen that he's not worth any effort. That Curt is an idiot that never learns, and that his confession was a lie.
That nothing had changed at all.

In this situation, leaving alone is already discarded - he should've left Owen behind at Chimera for that - so that leaves him with a simple question to reach a decision: is life worth living?
Is Curt willing to struggle to stay alive?
Willing to do anything to help his partner?

No betrayal would've been able to change that want. That need.
Curt still needs to save Owen from himself.
Not only to right his wrongs, but for love.
There'll never be someone like Owen, someone willing to love him despite and including those things that make him so ugly.

He hopes Owen feels the same way about him, too.

“I can't give up on him.” He mutters after a short while.
“Good, you figured that out.” Tatiana replies sarcastically, sounding a little too much like the subject of the conversation himself.
The waves under them now start to reach them, water sprinkling on their clothes.
“I couldn't allow myself to leave him behind again. After all I’ve done to him.”
She seems to untense, but her brow remains furrowed.
“Guilt can only take you so far, Curt. What he did in Chimera, most was out of his own will. You have nothing to do with that.” She explains.

Whatever happened in Chimera.
Curt would be happy to know as much as he would be never knowing.
“Chimera or not, he went out of his way to save me from MI6. When he had every reason to go in and kill me instead.”
She settles back on the handrail with a sigh.
Her eyebrows are still furrowed, and her glare angry - but not at Curt, anymore.
“I guess… We’ve all done the impossible to try to find something to belong to.”

She doesn't elaborate on what she means by this, but there's no need to.
Curt can imagine Chimera was the only thing Owen found he could cling to - that he could trust.
A group that holds so much power over your life requires a level of dependency from you, and saving that life was more than enough for someone as abandoned as he’d been.
Whether or not the plan to get rid of secrets was real, it was enough.
He can't help but be glad Tatiana saw right through it, trying to find her way back to her family.
The least he can do is give her a helping hand, now.

The two go back to the small corner they had settled down in, where Barb was sound asleep against the wall during her turn of keeping watch.
Curt sits down next to the still unconscious man, and gentle as a feather, he dries a tear from his cheek with his thumb.

Chapter Text

The voyage home, contrary to what’s custom, goes by incredibly fast for Curt.
He spends the hours next to Owen, spaced out and thinking.
Hunger isn't a serious concern, and his injuries are looked after by Barb regardless of protests.
The small amount of luggage that survived their travel is what Tatiana had packed from her room, which amounted to her weapons and personal belongings (like the plushie, Tangie, that despite her words about the betrayal, she still took with her.)

Owen isn't unconscious all the time, either - but when he wakes up, he barely opens his eyes, and limits himself to accept food brought near his mouth and grunt in pain until he inevitably passes out again.
Other than that, he doesn’t acknowledge anything that happened recently, or any of them at all.
It may be one of the few times both men have ended up the mission this beaten up, and despite being alive to tell the tale, the Brit’s state doesn't help Curt breathe calmly at all.

The four - with the two Americans doing their best to carry the man, using Curt’s good shoulder - sneak out of the cargo ship at sundown, when the crew is resting and gathering resources for the trip back.
It’s fortunate that Mrs. Mega lives in the town that has the port, as they don't take long to find the house after a bit of a struggle walking with a man weighing on their backs.

It’s night by the time they ring the doorbell.
The four of them hear the sudden rustling behind the door, a faint ‘Coming!’ and a few seconds of further silence before it opens.
Behind the wooden door, a small woman with a big, flowery dress down to her ankles, comfortable slippers and her hair up messily appears, smiling wide for a second before jumping to hug Curt by the neck - he leans down for this to happen.

“Oh, Curtis! I was getting so worried! You weren't calling and I couldn't do anything but wait! I have everything in boxes already because I didn't know what else to do! What happened to your arm?!”
She starts to ramble, only stopping to kiss his forehead.
“Nothing serious, I promise…” he mumbles to her, but she’s moved onto a different topic. She seems to realise for the first time that her son hadn't arrived alone.

“Oh, Barbara! It's been ages since I've seen your face! How are you, honey?” But before the blond can reply, the woman has moved on to look at Tatiana, who looks more moved to see Mrs. Mega than anyone else would be in this situation.
Curt knows but to judge, of course. Anyone who’s lost any of their parents can understand the feeling.

“And who are you?” Mrs. Mega asks a little too enthusiastically as she examines the spy.
“Tatiana. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Mega.” She answers warmly, giving her a smile.
“Oh, Russian? Did you meet Curtis on the job?” The woman keeps asking, but before anyone can open her mouth, she steps aside and starts walking down the hallway, guiding them all inside.
“But where are my manners! Come in, all of you! Come on, do any of you want some water? Or tea? I don't know if we have beds for all of you, if I’m honest, but we’ll have to make do!”

The four step inside, the door closed behind them, and stop right before reaching the living room.
The two Americans instead go up the stairs towards the bedroom - Curt’s one, since it's closest, instead of the guest one that would never get used.
Carefully, Barb and Curt lay Owen down on the bed and over the cover, head comfortably on the pillow, and take a step back.
If he didn't know better, Mega would say he looked at peace.

“Where does your mother keep the med kit? We’ll need to rebandage both of you soon.” The woman asks, holding her own hands in front of her as she witnesses his longing staring.
“Must be in some box. We can ask.” Is his only reply.
“...I’m sure he’ll wake up soon, Curt.” She instead changes topic to try and comfort him, glancing around the room that’s definitely not grown with the owner of it.
He doesn’t reply.

Back downstairs, the four sit on the couch, cups of tea served and silence uncomfortable.
Silent except for Mrs. Mega, a hurricane of chatter not even close to being rivaled by Barb.
“Curtis, tomorrow I’m taking you to the hospital here to get that arm at least looked at! And if any of you also need anything cured you’re welcome to come, of course! Oh, as I was saying, Tati, how did you meet my son? I need details!”

Curt just sighs, his heart still upstairs and sitting next to Owen.

“We’re fine, Mrs. Mega. Owen would need looking at, but I am… unsure if that is possible. In any way, I believe his injuries can heal by themselves.” the last mentioned answers.
“Ah, Owen! Gosh, I could swear I’ve met him before, but that… scar on his face, I can’t say I’ve seen that…” the woman continues, holding her hand to her cheek in worry.
“...He didn't have the scar when you met us, Mrs. Mega.” Barb chimes in, although shyly. She’s glancing at Curt over and over.
They are entering dangerous territory.

“Oh, really? Wait, I do remember him! Such a lovely gentleman he was! Oh, what happened to him, Curtis?” Mrs. Mega turns to him to ask, and he can feel his heart sink to his stomach.
He doesn't look at any of the three women.
“...I don't know. A bomb, probably.” He mutters, lying through his teeth.
He can see Barb and Tatiana look at each other, and he has to bite his tongue.
Is it really so bad that he didn't tell his mother about the incident? They have no place to judge, anyway.

“That’s such a shame. What happened to him now? He can’t seem to catch a break!”
“A concussion, Mrs. Mega. He should be on his feet by tomorrow.” The ginger answers, and her voice seems to prompt a topic change.
“Oh, right! How did you meet this little group?”

If Curt had to rank his entire career by mission difficulty, he’d say telling his mother a sanitised, civilian-friendly summary of the events that had gone down the past week is firmly in the top three.
They excluded Curt’s tortures, Owen’s overall attitude, sexuality in its entirety, and changed the betrayal to be an unfortunate misunderstanding.
Tatiana was glaring daggers at Curt by the end of it, but Mrs. Mega still seemed devastated for them.

Shortly after, they all agreed to go to sleep.
After some debating, and accounting for Owen already taking Curt’s single bed, they decided that Barb would take the guest room, Tatiana insisted she wouldn’t mind the couch and Curt would have to share the double bed with his mother.
He was not thrilled by this outcome, but sharing beds in any other arrangement would get suspicious or uncomfortable rather fast.
So, they all settle with it for the night.

Curt is suddenly intercepted by Tatiana at the bottom of the staircase, when the two other women had already moved upstairs to their rooms. She pulls him by the arm when he has a foot on the first step.
“Tatiana?” he asks, confused over what this could be about.
“Does your mother not know about Owen?” she questions, in disbelief.
“Of course she doesn’t.” He can only reply, not sure if he understands her confusion.
Tatiana knew he couldn’t tell his mom about who Owen had been to him. What is this question?

“Not like that. Does she not know him at all? As your friend?” and this clarification makes it impossible for Curt to go around it.
He swallows, hesitating for a second.
“They met once.” he clarifies “I didn’t want her to… Notice something.”

He doesn’t want to admit more.
He doesn’t want to admit that when Owen came to the house, Curt was already into him.
That he brought Barb over with them just to see if he could hide his attraction for the British spy by shoving her in front of his mother’s eyes.
Curt is proud to say it worked, to an extent.

“And you didn’t tell her about the accident.” she presses further, her tone still giving nothing away.
“No. I didn’t.” he just confirms, avoiding any possible detail she could be looking for.
“You are a man full of fear.” she says, “Your mother would be happy to know you have friends.”
Before he gets to answer, her face just relaxes, exhaustion framing her eyes. She seems to have given up on the interrogation, or perhaps she was just satisfied enough.
“Good night, Curt.”
And they part ways.

Once in bed, neither member of the Mega family speaks for long, but not for that are their words less important.
“I’m really happy you made it back, Curtis” the woman says, sitting down on the bed and the thin covers over her lap.
“Of course, mom. I always do.” he replies in a similar pose, smiling in hopes to appease her.
“I know, I know… I just had the feeling that… this time would be different. This time… I was almost sure you weren’t coming back.”
Curt doesn’t say another word - instead, he turns to hug her tightly, hiding his face on her shoulder.
She takes a second to hug him back, a sniffle escaping her.
“I’m here.” He mutters, blinking back tears of his own.
“I know you are…” she replies again, managing to hold herself back as well.

He feels guilty for leaving her to this agony for so long - but at least, that’s behind them now.
“I’m not leaving again. I promise you that.”
And he intends to keep it this time.

–

Morning comes around, and while Curt can't say he slept badly, he also didn't have a good night’s sleep either.
His mother’s snoring hadn't been the most pleasant lullaby to hear next to him, and so it had taken him a little too long to fall asleep.
Once that was overcome, however, he had slept as soundly as a puppy.

It’s 8 in the morning when Curt walks into the kitchen, looking for something warm to fill his stomach with.
At the table was Barb, holding her glass of orange juice in her hands and her hair still as messy as last night, if not more.
She doesn't seem to have had a good night, or a good week, anyway.
Understandably so.

“Morning” he says, walking past her and towards the counter with the coffee maker.
She’s startled out of her own thoughts, smiling nervously.
“Good morning! How'd you sleep?” she says, voice as high-pitched as always, but not as strong.
“Better than this past week, at least. You?” comes the easy reply, taking the filter and the coffee granules out.

Barb rubs her eyelid and adjusts her glasses on her nose, clearly still tired.
“...I’ve slept better. I’m just… wondering what I’ll do now.”
Curt leaves the water to boil and sits across the woman to listen properly, even if his eyes focus on the pieces of pulp in the juice, and not her face.
She takes a sip of her drink.

“It’s just… I left my house, my job, and… everything behind. I don't have anything anymore.”
Oh. Barb is in the same situation he'd found himself at the start of all of this.
She belongs to nowhere.

“...Are you sure? Maybe you could go back. Maybe they don't know you're part of this.” he tries, but she sits up straight and shakes her head no.
“I don't… want to go back. Not after… learning how much they don't care…”
“They care. But not about everyone.” Curt says sternly, turning to check how the water is boiling.
Still not done.

Barb can only sigh.
“...I might go back to my house once things… calm down, but… I’ll definitely look for a different job. Maybe one to do with healthcare, or something more…. beneficial for everyone.”
“That sounds great, Barb.” he comments sincerely, “You can stay here for the time being. My mom always enjoys the company.”
She looks up to him, and they share a smile.

“Good morning!” Mrs. Mega makes her appearance, happily walking in with the sliding of her slippers and towards the kettle the same way Curt had.
The two echo her words, and they watch as she dances all around the kitchen to make herself breakfast.
“Y’know Curtis, I’m gonna need you to come with me for groceries! I had enough for just us two for a bit but to think there’d be five of us…! I don’t mind of course, more arms to move the boxes, but I don’t want these sweet guests to starve!”
Barb smiles in amusement, finally finishing her orange juice.

“Okay, mom.” is all he says - he is responsible for the amount of people in the house, after all.
“Ah, but your arm!” the woman exclaims, clearly just remembering the key detail the second she sets her eyes on him “We have to go to the doctor’s first! C’mon, get dressed, we’re leaving after I have breakfast.”
Then, she turns to Barb, seeing her with her single glass of juice.
“Oh, dear, Barbara! Are you not hungry? Come on, I’ll toast you some bread! Would you like strawberry jam with it? Do I fry you an egg? Ham?” She continues, taking the bread and dropping some slices into the toaster, never turning to look at either person in the room as she speaks.
Curt smiles apologetically to the blonde, who just shrugs with a smile of her own.

It’s not long before the three of them have a plate of toast in front of them, the Megas with a steaming cup of tea each.
Nobody bothers them during this breakfast, and it starts to make Curt nervous.
Did Tatiana need the sleep that bad? She always struck him as the kind of spy that never slept more than necessary, the kind to never be able to oversleep no matter how free her schedule was.
Perhaps, like him, she too was human in that way.

When he goes to the living room to check on her, the couch is empty, and there’s no sign of the woman.
She must be in the bathroom, right? That’s a normal thing to happen.
He forces himself not to worry that much. Why is he even worried? That she’d be upset to learn that he had lied to her? She had no way of knowing.
Once Mrs. Mega made the passports, she should be free to go wherever she wants, and she’d be safe and fine.
This feeling of uneasiness between the two should disappear soon. Hopefully.

Owen has not moved an inch in the bed, either.
Curt has checked multiple times since he’s woken up.

–

A trip to the hospital later, Curt’s arm is properly, professionally taken care of and immobilized to let it heal.
The fracture had been in the middle of the clavicle, and he’d been lucky enough to have no displacement of any part.
In a few months, he should be back to normal.
As normal as it can be in this new situation, one where he’s no spy anymore.

They go get some groceries later, Barb, Mrs. Mega and him.
Barb is by far the weakest of the guests, but she could still carry with both arms the same amount of bags Curt could with one - so they eventually manage to move it all.
Once home, Mrs. Mega insists she doesn’t need help to put it all in its place, but the blonde insists on helping anyway.
Curt meant to help, too, but after a small trip to the bathroom, he stands in the hallway as he watches Tatiana exit the bedroom Owen was sleeping in.

Chapter Text

When Owen wakes up, there’s a shadow sitting in the furthest away corner of the room.
He can’t quite make out their identity, his eyes trying to fight the blur and the darkness that surrounded him.
It doesn’t take long for this person to notice he’s awake, either way - because they sit up, looking in his direction.

“You’re awake.” Tatiana says, her tone somewhat somber, but her face remains undecipherable otherwise.
He tries sitting up as best as he’s able to, but his newest wound reminds him of its existence the moment he pulls on it by accident.
“Don’t pull the stitches.” She reminds him a little too late.

His throat is parched, like he’d gone and crossed a desert on foot; his head still ached, his mind still not feeling as sharp as he’s used to; and, of course, the gash on his side, that he assumes Tatiana knows more than him about.
He’s not under the bedcovers, and his shirt seems to have gone missing.
“Where are we?” he asks, looking around the room as his eyes get used to the poor lighting of it.
“Mega’s house, in the Caribbean.” she replies, and that is enough for faint memories to come to him.

Yes, he’s been here before, what feels like ages ago.
This room looks like it’s been frozen in time - a time where a 20 year old Curt would sleep here every night.
There’s something strangely endearing about that fact.

But he’s getting distracted.
He can see the annoyance on Tatiana’s face now.
“...About yesterday…” Owen tries to start, doing his best to recover memories through the fog that clouded his brain.
“Today is Tuesday. I assume you mean Friday?” she corrects, making him stop to let the information sink in.
Four days completely knocked out? Must be a new record.
…One he’s not particularly proud of.
He’s losing his skill, that much is clear. Or did he just get beat that bad?

“What do you want to say about Friday, Owen?” Tatiana prompts him again, bringing his mind back to the present.
“...That I don’t remember half of it, for a start.” he breathes “But I know you’re upset. And I think Curt is as well.”
“Good deduction.” she sarcastically compliments him “Do you remember your meeting with the boss?”
He stays quiet for a second, recalling his feelings on it first, and then the objective aspect of it.
He turns back to look at her, eyebrows knit together in disbelief.

…Moved to the tech division.
Made to struggle in missions on purpose.
Tipping off MI6 and A.S.S. about Curt and him.

“Chimera lied to you, Owen. Or you just did not want to see it.” She mutters, but the deathly silence of the room makes her voice echo all the same.
…He recalls a conversation like this, yes.
It’s hard not to let shame overcome his expression.

“...I didn’t want to see it. As obvious as it was, I had… goals I wanted to reach.” he admits, finally.
“Such as?” she questions further.
“Such as getting revenge on Curt.” he looks down at his stitches again, seeing the panic and rush it must’ve been done in. It must’ve been from a gun.
There’s a glass of water on the nightstand next to him, and he hesitates for a single second before bringing it to his lips.
There was a lot of talking left to do.

“I’m sorry, Tatiana. I dragged you into Chimera knowing what they did to their agents.” Owen says, forcing himself to look back at her to apologise.
Her expression twitches, but he’s unsure what that could mean.
“I destroyed the computer there, luckily. I managed to undo your damage." He can almost hear her say ‘once more’, but he decides not to question her tone like that. He deserves to be chewed out much more than what he’s receiving at the moment.
“...I’m glad.” He says, but he can’t manage to feel relieved for her - he knows that that wouldn’t be enough to disappear from Chimera’s database, especially since she’s been an employee for a while.
But he doesn’t correct her on this belief.

“Why did you want to end espionage?” She asks after a pause, crossing her legs as they both ease into each other’s company, even if begrudgingly.
He takes a bit to decide how truthful he wants to be on this - to her.
“I wanted to get back at Curt, to sever the ties that joined us together.” he inhales, finding the words.” I wanted to destroy the thing he loved the most, the thing always above me.”
He isn’t sure how he arrived at this conclusion, but he finds that yes, it… fits.
Spying was more important to Curt than it was to Owen, at least back then.

The last conversation he had before passing out is starting to clear up, and the echo of his partner’s voice echoes in his head, choking and leaving him breathless.
‘I love you’ he had admitted, and Owen had forced himself to not believe it.
…Had he made it? Had he finally achieved his purpose?
And then, what?

“Why did I get dragged into that?” Tatiana snaps him out of his thoughts, making him notice that his eyes stung with unshed tears. Of relief, perhaps?
They make eye contact, and she looks… upset, almost childishly broken-hearted.
She was searching for a meaning to her pain, a justification for such a betrayal.
A reason for their aching friendship.
“...I didn’t want to feel alone.” he mutters.

A creak echoes in the room, and Tatiana steps closer, stopping right next to the bed.
She has a gloomy look on her face, still, but there’s peace.
“I don’t forgive you.” She swallows hard, as if there was a knot in her throat “But I understand it. A little too well.”
Then, despite his flinching, she rests her hand on his shoulder.
“We will see each other around this house while I wait for Ms. Mega to make me passports. You can make it up to me. And if not, we may cross paths some time in the future. Get well soon.”

In the blink of an eye, he’s alone in the room, with no trace of the woman.
Perhaps he’s not completely cured from what he assumes is a concussion if his perception of time is still shaky, but he can’t do anything else now that isn’t staying in bed.
Guadeloupe, huh… He thought he’d never set foot in this house ever again.
He can’t help the relief in knowing he was wrong.

Time passes, Owen is not sure how long.
There’s a knock on the door eventually, and before he gives permission, the doorknob turns, and Curt’s head peeks inside, almost shocked to see him awake.
“May I come in?” he asks nicely, unusual in him, and the Brit simply nods.
This all keeps feeling terribly uneasy, he can’t help the thought.
Owen can’t recall their last conversation completely, but he knows the ending, and that doesn’t bring him any hope.

Curt comes into the room wearing a fresh change of t-shirt and trousers with a makeshift icebag and a jar of water.
Door closed behind him, he leaves the latter on the nightstand, pulls the curtains open to let some light come in - enough to see each other’s faces - and lastly hesitates before sitting next to Owen’s legs on the bed.

They’re quiet, too.
There’s much to say, and even more fear to do so than with Tatiana.
They take a minute - Curt stares at him, at his bandages and injuries, a gentle pout on his face.
He seems to be checking on him.

“Tatiana told me you were awake.” he starts, pausing to think about what he’s saying next “And that you were being reasonable.”
Yes, she’d say that.
“I don’t remember much of these past few days.” Owen then warns, not wanting to disappoint the man.
“...She said that too.” Curt’s eyes seem to focus on his stitches now, at how they pulled the injury closed.
He has to resist the need to hide, to cross his arms over his chest or to turn away - and keeps his arms stiffly still.
This was far from the first time he’s been seen by this man without a shirt, but it was the first time he couldn’t decide to be vulnerable in his company.
It was the first time he had this much scarring covering his body.

“...I remember you saying you… give up on spying?” the Brit asks, seeking to recover the conversation.
He gets a nod and a fleeting glance at his hand.
Owen closes his hands into weak fists, afraid it could mean something.
“I joined you against the A.S.S. because I felt… hurt, and vengeful. I’m ready to leave that way of life behind now.”
A thought flashes through Owen’s mind, unwanted; it implies Owen himself is part of that way of life.
That Curt was leaving him behind. Again.
But that confession… that had to have meant something, right?
Everything Curt’s said these past few days. There had to be some truth to it all.
To that love.

“What will you do from now on, then?” he tries, hoping to prove that insecure thought wrong.
Curt smiles to himself, shyly.
“I’m not sure. I have to help my mom find a new house and move into it, so I haven’t thought ahead of that…”
And then, what? He doesn’t ask that out loud.
“One step at a time.” he mumbles instead, badly hiding the anxiety he had no reason to be feeling.
He used to be able to read Curt like an open book, know him better than the back of his hand; now, that ability is atrophied, and he can’t figure out who’s at fault for this change.
Did Curt want him around? Was this one last pleasantry before parting forever?
Was this his way to tell him to stay?
Owen knew better than to ask.

“And… if you have no plans, you could… stay with us.”
They make eye contact, and Owen can see his own hope revive, reflected in Curt’s eyes.
His mouth feels dry.
“...Stay?” he questions, trying not to let that hope cloud his judgement.
It was proving to be a difficult mission to accomplish.

The American visibly hesitates for a second, finally.
“Well, just for the time being, if you want, until you find yourself some other place… My mom liked you, so I thought that… since the new house will have enough space for you to come along, even if just for a while….” he starts to ramble senselessly with his eyes fixed on the wrinkled covers next to him, looking a little… ashamed.

It would be nice to accept the offer.
But Owen finds himself fearing he’d never want to leave.

He has nowhere else he’d rather be in this world; and he’d love to lie about it - say he doesn’t want Curt near him - but not even he believes that anymore.
He’s changed. Both of them had.
In a world where those in charge wanted them dead and gone, he can bring himself to… look away from their past grievances.
Their connections, each other; they happen to be the last thing they’re able to hold onto.

“I don’t believe I’ll be going anywhere for the time being.” he informs, unable to help the small smile that forms on his face.
Curt looks back up at him, unrealistically shocked.
“Really? You’d… you’d stay?” he asks for confirmation, brought swiftly to him with a nod.
“...I find I’m comfortable here.” he mutters, the two having moved close enough to bring that sense of privacy into the conversation “I want to think that we’d be even that way.”
“Are we not even yet?” the American whispers, but his tone is somewhat playful, especially when he betrays himself by smiling - it’s contagious.
“Just a bit in my favour.” he answers, mirroring him helplessly.

Curt then sighs, his eyes looking all around Owen’s face and body - evaluating the damage one more time.
They pause, making eye contact again, and their smiles melt back into insecurity.
“I’m… really glad you’re alive, Owen.”
“...I’m glad I survived.”
A hand reaches for his.

Their skins make contact, feather-soft, as their fingertips merely brush against the other’s skin.
Curt’s slowly migrates towards the other’s wrist, to where the texture is rougher with scarring.
He seems… mesmerised? Interested? Emotional?
He can’t quite tell beyond that.

“...Do you like my scars, Curt Mega?” Owen asks, amused, as he allows it almost enthusiastically.
Curt grows shy again, facing away to the other side, at the floor, but he doesn't pull his hand away.
It takes a few seconds for him to give a response.
“...You look… really pretty with them.”
There's a pause, one where their breaths are all that's audible.

It’s an odd compliment to receive about such a horrible memory. To call the reminder of that day ‘pretty’.
To imply there’s any beauty left in him.

But, he hopes, Curt has learnt his lesson - and he’s telling no lie.
Curt must see something beautiful left in Owen for him to say so.
Or perhaps, it’s a new kind of beauty, one he’s earned during the hardship - with his growth.

Owen can understand that - rather, he believes Curt also has a new kind of beauty to him that he lacked before.

“Sorry, did I…?” he starts, awkward, as the man had been waiting for an answer, or a topic change.
Except- wait.
The Brit blinks, inhaling a bit sharply. Was that…?
How stupid, of course it was.
The first time Curt has apologised to him, at least since the start of this all, and it’s for something this trivial.
“It’s fine, Mega.” he smiles, even if he looks a little hurt.

The man in question just stares back, trying to figure out the answer, the truth.
Instead, his eyes detour to his face, his scars - and his hand follows to trace the ones on his arm.
Like that, Owen can’t help but confess, even if bitterly.
“That’s the first time you’ve said you’re sorry to me.” The specifics are more than understood in the silence.
Their eyes meet.

“...I didn’t think you’d want to hear that.” he visibly swallows, something he used to do when feeling guilty, if memory serves Owen right “I just thought that… you’d rather see that I… regret it. And that I’ve changed.”
…And it’s true. Words usually have no meaning to people like them.
They, however, happen to be each other’s exception.
“...I’d like to hear it, still.” he confesses, his eyes sliding to look at the floor instead.
He feels even more vulnerable admitting such a thing, something a special agent like he used to be would never need.
“...Then, I’ll say it.”

Curt, once again, brings Owen’s attention back to him.
“I’m sorry, Owen. I was cocky, so much that I lied to you about the time we had left; I put us in a lot more danger than we needed, and there hasn’t been a day since where I haven’t regretted that with all my heart.” his eyes shine, even with the little light that came through the curtains - he was close to tears.
“I don’t and won’t ever expect you to forgive me, but… I hope we can grow to… be at peace.”

The scarred is the one to place his own hand over the other’s, this time.
It’s close enough to where his heart still beats.
“I’ll need… time, to warm up to you again. But thank you, Curt. For all you’ve done for me.” he smiles, the pain gone from it.
Now, there’s just a single thing left to say.
“And… I’m sorry for all I’ve caused you, too. I’m sure I haven’t been the easiest to… coexist with.” he continues after a pause, his eyes inevitably going to the bandaged neck his partner sported.
His hand goes to hold onto his knee.

Safe to say, he knows he lost his mind back at Chimera despite not quite remembering it, and he knows he was bad even before that.
He doesn’t exactly regret his anger and rejection towards the man’s advancements for a truce or a friendship during their mission, no - he had every right to be like that, or so he believes - but he’s ashamed he let himself get controlled by his emotions like that.

“...Thank you. I didn’t… realize how much I needed to hear that.” Curt says, bringing the attention back to him.
He looks… calm. Relieved.
They breathe, feeling their shoulders lighter.
No Chimera, no betrayal, no hiding to save their lives. All of that is being left behind.
A new chapter.

“...So, you're staying?” Curt mutters, slowly inching forwards - it doesn’t look like he’s aware of it.
Owen can only hold his breath, allowing himself the soft smile.
“...I guess I’ve been convinced to.”

And his heart melts when he sees the man smile so wide.
Then, it stutters, skipping a beat as he witnesses Curt swiftly break the distance between them.
As Curt kisses him.

It’s nothing too explosive, or crazy.
But if there’s a way to describe it, it's like coming home.

The American’s hand jumps from his arm to his jaw, his fingers reaching to tangle with Owen’s raven hair as he holds his scarred cheek in his palm.
Owen, barely a second later, reaches to pull on the collar of his shirt, bringing him as close as he can.
Damned be the stitches he pulls on, or the dizziness that returns to him as his heart beats out of his chest.
He feels so… alive.
He didn’t think that was something someone like him could feel anymore.

The kiss itself doesn’t last long, but not for that was it worth less.
Once they break away, Owen finds his partner (can he call him that again?) staring back in awe, his eyes shining like the night sky.
There’s no better moment to say it.
“I love you too, Curt.”

The American stares back, in shock.
“You remembered?” It makes him laugh.
“I do. Even then, it wasn’t that hard to figure out.”
That earns Owen a playful tap-punch on the arm and a peck to his lips.

The Brit goes to chase him, but the forgotten stitches protest and it makes him freeze in place, eyes shut tight as he takes a slow breath.
He feels how Curt takes and holds his shoulders, pushing him back to rest against the pillow.

“...You warmed up quickly.” the American tries to joke, worry still present in his voice.
“I just wanted to be clear with what the end goal is.” he smiles, leaving his eyes closed as Curt gently cards his finger though his hair.
He breathes, calm, and he can see Curt feels the same way.

Owen finally has everything he ever wanted.
He just hadn’t admitted that he wanted it, until very recently.

Chapter Text

They move house, Ms. Mega and Curt.
Barb, Tatiana and Owen all come along, helping as much as each is able to.
Tatiana receives the fake passports as a gift in gratitude for her help - she notes down the house’s phone number, and in a blink, she’s gone.
Curt’s never been very religious - or rather, not very practicing - but he finds himself hoping she’s safe wherever she is.
Hoping she gets to be with her family.

She hugged them all - including Owen - before leaving, saying she’d stay in touch as much as she could.

Barb sticks around a little longer.
Curt understands, of course, that building a life back up isn’t the fastest thing to do in the world.
Even Ms. Mega seems to be getting reminded of it, as she almost bends herself backwards to help in anything she could be needed for.
Different job, different house, different city. She gets a fake passport as well, just in case the A.S.S. is looking for her.
Barb also promises to come back to visit, and writes the phone number down.
Barb is gone.

Curt catches himself thinking of Cynthia, sometimes.
Her sacrifice had meant nothing to hinder the progress of spy technology - if it could be called a sacrifice at all - but it had meant everything to him and his life.
A wake up call that he couldn’t save everyone, no matter what he tried.

He’s grateful, despite the loss, that he had been forced to choose - she knew him better than himself at times, and one of those times was when to stop.
He hopes she’s proud of him.
He saves the letter in a drawer, for easy access in case he finds himself needing some… comforting words from her.

And then, there’s three.
Owen and Curt have been doing their best to share a bed at night without getting caught, to slowly build themselves a new relationship - one where the word ‘partner’ has one single meaning.
It’s difficult, and not just because of their differences and past grievances.

There are times where Curt finds himself frozen, afraid to make his mother even the slightest bit suspicious of them, and it makes them act like they’re allergic to each other.
Owen had no plans on leaving him, not after all they’ve gone through, and they find themselves at a stalemate.

At the moment, both of them sit on the bed in Curt’s bedroom - the owner against the wall next to the foot, and his partner against the headrest, momentarily quiet.
“I understand your fear, Curt” Owen is saying, reaching to hold his forearm - like they used to back in the day “but I need you to choose.”

They had arrived at a rather uncomfortable conclusion, the two.
Either Curt told his mother about who he really was, and what their partnership really meant, or they moved out of the house in order to be safe and have the privacy Owen knows they both ache for.
“You don’t have to tell her. But we can’t stay like this forever.”
“I know, Owen. But… I think I want to tell her.” he confesses, looking at how his lover’s hand wrapped around his arm.

It squeezes momentarily, bringing his attention back to his lover’s face.
“Are you sure?” he asks, looking a little surprised.
“Of course I’m not!” he almost whines, finding it upsetting that Owen questions him the second he says he’ll go with the option he's afraid of.
The option he wants to do.

“...Okay, okay. Just… should I go with you, or…?” the man offers, clearly.
He gets an enthusiastic nod. Curt could very well use the company.
“Okay, then. Let's go.” he says, getting up.
Wait, what?
“Right now?” he asks, fearful.
“Yes. I thought that's what you meant?” he turns back to him, extending him a hand to pull him up to his feet.
Curt hesitates, but ends up using that help and getting up.

They face each other, taking in their presence next to the other for a second.
“Kiss for good luck?” the American asks.
The kiss is received.

Curt and Owen exit the room together, and the former already feels his nerves doing a number to his stomach.
He can't hold onto Owen yet, he's barely made it to the target! Come on, he can do this!

Ms. Mega is happily sewing, attaching a button that had fallen off one of Curt’s shirts, as there’s a radio faintly playing music in the background.
They enter the room, and she only hears them when they sit down in front of her, further away enough from each other to not look weird.
But maybe that was weird, too.
Dammit, he's got to stop overthinking this.

“Oh, my boys! Finally made it out of the rumpus room, are you? Oh, Curtis, I’m fixing up your shirt, if you have anything else to patch up give it to me now that I have the things out. Owen that goes for you too; I know your clothes are all new now but you just never know!” she rambles, perfectly in fashion for her.
She folds the shirt on her lap, now mended, and leaves it on the table before turning to the two men with a smile.
She has her hair up a little messily with a flowery headband, matching her similarly patterned dress and her house slippers.

Curt feels like the air he was breathing got caught in his throat, but he manages to smile back.
“It's all good, mom. Actually, I… wanted to tell you something.”
Owen gives him an approving glance, which helps greatly in contrast to his mother's smile shrinking.
Every mother fears the worst when a conversation sounds serious, don’t they?

“Is it all ok, honey? Did something happen?” she leans forward, reaching to rest her hand on his arm, giving him her full attention and comfort at the same time.
He’s scared to begin, but he can’t just ‘nevermind’ his way out of this any longer, can he?
Owen is watching him, quiet.

“...Do you remember… when I got fired?” he asks, unable to look at her as his hand fidgets with the sleeve of his shirt.
“I sadly do, yes.” she confirms, reassuring him.
“I wasn't… fired because I was out of shape, or… nothing like what I told you.” he swallows, feeling like she is seeing right through him.
But she can't be, she doesn't know yet.
He has to keep going.
“...I was fired because I was found out.” he manages to mutter, anxiety seizing his throat and making him feel as if he can’t breathe.

She stares at him, eyebrows knit together as she can only wait for him to continue.
“While I was gone, they discovered that…” he tries to continue, but he doesn't… want to phrase it like that.
Like it's something he has to be ashamed of.
He's scared, not ashamed - he could never be when Owen was by his side, sitting in a similarly tense pose to him.
He has no reason to, really, this isn’t something that would affect him were it to go south.

“...I don’t like girls, mom. I never have. And I was scared to tell you before, because… I know you want me to have a family, and… I didn't want to let you down. But I… I can’t bring myself to take pretending that far, either, and…” he bites his tongue before he dares to apologise.
And just like that, the secret is completely out.
He has the guts to look back up at her, witness how she spares Owen a glance, before her mind visibly lets the information sink in.

“...Oh. I… I see. And he…?” she asks, pointing at the Brit to have the action finish the question for her, seemingly at a loss for words for the moment.
“...The man I love.” he answers before Owen tries to.
There’s a pause, then.
One that feels like it could kill.

“...I really wish you would've told me before, Curtis. I feel…I feel a little like an idiot.” she says, to their surprise.
“...Are you… okay with it?” he can't help but ask, the uncertainty making him nauseous.
Then, she smiles - a little tired, a little… sad.
He understands.

“I’ve always known my son was a little bit of an odd one. I guess… I should've expected you to be a little… more odd than I knew you to be. But I love you, Curtis, of course I do. Above any other wish of mine, I wish for you to be happy.”
Her eyes shine, tears threatening to fall before she tries to dry them with her hand.
Curt stands up, his own eyes stinging, and dashes to hug his mother.
She follows, with his help, and returns the hug, giving him gentle pats on his back - as high as she can reach.
“Thank you, mom. I love you too.” he mutters, his voice shaky as the first tears fall down.
“Of course, dear. I’ll always love you.” she replies, simply.
Like it’s the most common thing in the world.

They stand, both brought to tears as they finally get to know each other fully, until she steps away with a soft smile and clear tear tracks down her cheeks.
She turns to Owen, who stands up a little awkwardly - keeping his weight off his bad leg as best as he can without the cane he now used when outside the house - and her smile grows a little wider.
“You’re a kind young man, Owen. I’m very happy it's you he chose.” she says, approaching him to give him a hug now.

He looks surprised for a second before he smiles, face softening.
He even looks a little teary himself as he embraces her back.
“I’m very happy too.”

–

Even with the threat of new, impossible technology designed against them, Curt can't help but exhale, as if he can finally breathe.

In the end, no machine was able to feel, to create, or to think.
It runs numbers, it catches patterns, but it can’t judge, or decide, or believe.
No computer is able to connect with people like a person does.

There is nothing like the relations and connections between humans, either - nothing as complex, or resistant, or as important.

Humanity is built on love of every kind.
That's something that'll be unique to us, irreplaceable, forever.