Work Text:
When you’re gone I feel alone again
Owen stared up at the ceiling of his flat, muttering to himself and flexing his fingers in annoyance. Why did this have to affect him so much? He didn’t particularly like loneliness. It was a rather useless feeling, after all. What could he even do about it?
He used to prefer being alone. Had he really changed so completely? Or was it that Curt was the exception? That seemed stupid.
He should do something. Anything. Read, or train, or clean his weapons and check his security. But, instead, he simply continued to sit on his bed, ruminating.
The voices cannot hold my hand
How pathetic, to be so thoroughly wasting all of his time on absolutely nothing. He should be better than that; he was meant to be better than that. People always expected more from him, and he hated to let them down, but who could even see him, anyway? He wasn’t bothering anyone by being useless in private. He could waste every second of free time he was given on feeling despondent, and he would always be the only one affected.
He wasn’t even really the one who felt like this time was being squandered; it was the residual echoes of sentiments he’d often received, growing up. From parents, teachers, mentors. Everyone, really. Always telling him that he had so much potential, and acting like he was committing a crime by “wasting” it.
“You could be the perfect gentleman, if you only tried,” he recalled his mother saying on occasion.
“Will you ever grow a spine?” his father would groan with an eye roll.
“Such a bright boy, if only he’d apply himself,” a teacher would tell them.
They keep me company at very best
At least he wasn’t solely being berated by his own voice. That would be truly isolating. But no! He had the grand luxury of garnering insults from people he hadn’t seen in a decade or two. It only made him more pathetic, didn’t it?
“I always knew you’d never amount to anything,” he could imagine his father saying, even if it had never actually been said. At least, not in those exact words.
“Must you always be such a disappointment?” said the imaginary, more honest version of his mother that had never existed.
“To be frank, I don’t see much of a future for him.” Oh, that one was real. The words hadn’t been intended for his ears, as the teacher said them quietly to his parents in the next room over, but he’d heard anyway.
Distract me from my loneliness
To be more fair to these figments of memory, his parents might actually be proud of him if they could see him now. If they knew how much he excelled at spying. He supposed it was too bad that they’d never know, since he’d cut them off shortly before joining MI6.
Try as he might, though, he couldn’t picture their reactions to his successful career. Perhaps he’d gotten so used to disappointing them that the idea of actually making them proud was unfathomable. Was that unfair to them? Maybe he didn’t much care.
He wasn’t sure if thinking about this was making him feel more alone or less so. He could envision them watching him with judgment in their eyes, but, at the same time, he was only reminded of all the figures that most people had that he didn’t. Family, friends, a support network.
Maybe I’m just an anomaly
He had one friend. One friend that he was in love with, one friend who might just view him as a coworker and nothing else. One friend that he only saw every few months, if that. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised about being crushed by loneliness.
It felt like everyone he’d ever met had lives full of cheer and meaning. Parents, siblings, multiple friend groups, and so on. Positive relationships wherever you looked. No chance of being alone, no chance of being left without anyone to rely on. Was he the problem? Did people avoid him because they could somehow tell he was odd, different? Did he never quite master the art of pretending to be normal? Maybe it didn’t matter how good he was at acting; maybe there was something innate in him that would always let other people know that he wasn’t one of them.
Logically, he knew he couldn’t actually be the only person in the world without support. That didn’t help with how it felt. Like there was some tattoo covering his face, a warning label to not befriend this unnatural lunatic, only it didn’t show up in his reflection, so he himself was none the wiser. The only one who couldn’t heed the advice of staying away from him.
There was a knock at the door, and an agent handed over the details to his next mission. Thank fucking god for his job. It was the only thing keeping him sane.
Even my demons have their families
It was fairly simple, just eliminate everyone in a certain building that was being used to produce illegal weaponry that was then sold on the black market. Retrieve all the weapons, ideally no survivors, but if the workers called in backup, retreat. One thing that struck him, though, was that it was a seemingly a family business. Even dangerous criminals had support networks. Fucking figures.
Everyone who’d ever hurt him had friends. It really made him feel like the odd one out. At some point, one had to look at the common denominator and, by way of Occam’s Razor, conclude that he was unlovable.
Which did sound a little overdramatic, even within his own head, but what else was he supposed to think? What other conclusion could he possibly come to, with all of the evidence at hand? Any reasonable person would agree that he was the problem in every failed relationship; familial or otherwise.
Damn. The job wasn’t supposed to keep him spiralling.
Truly something must be wrong with me
Even so, it was hard to push away all such thoughts as he made his way to the place he was told to wait at. All he was good for was this. This, and he didn’t even like it. Sure, there were positive aspects to it, but he spent his time killing and silencing and destroying. It was enough to give someone some sort of complex. Like all he was good for was ruin. Some people would point out that, for the most part, he was ruining things that had the potential for harm, or had already done harm, and he was only acting on orders from the government. He would argue that no government in all of history had ever been trustworthy, and not every crime should receive the death penalty.
If he was made for this, as one of his superiors had once said (meant as a compliment), he was made to be a tool for others to wield. And since he didn’t trust those that pointed him and told him to shoot, he couldn’t trust himself or his own actions. How many innocent people had he murdered in his time, just because the government told him to? How many supposedly deadly schemes were really people just wanting better lives and going about it the best way they knew how? How many families had he personally ripped apart with grief and death and loss? Did any of his victims have young children that he’d scarred? Had he created orphans, to be neglected and abused by the system?
But this was all he was good for. It was this or nothing. It was this or death. It was being the monster that his government wanted him to be, or letting them kill him for failure. Or doing it himself, if he ever worked up the nerve.
To need you as much as I do
Then Curt walked up, offering a smile that was far too big for the run-of-the-mill mission they were here for. And, inexplicably, Owen felt himself relax, returning a smile far smaller and weaker.
Owen sighed softly, hoping it wouldn’t be noticed, and let himself stare for just a moment longer. His one friend. The only person he could remotely trust, the only one worth relying on when it counted.
“How do you always get to these things before I do?” Curt wondered, pretending to be offended.
“Punctuality is a virtue and a skill,” Owen replied, suddenly capable of humour again. That... Why could he only function like a person when Curt was around? It made him feel worse than pathetic. Like a fucking parasite. He needed someone else in order to be himself. What kind of friendship was that?
“I’m not late, I’m just also not freakishly early all the time,” Curt complained, still smiling, “If you keep mocking my punctuality, you’re gonna learn about my punch-uality.” He punched his palm to demonstrate. Owen couldn’t help snorting.
“I think that is the worst joke I have ever heard in my life,” he said mildly.
“Always with the dramatics,” Curt said with an over-exaggerated eye roll. “Are you forgetting the ‘I spy’ incident?”
“That’s different,” Owen dismissed, “The joke itself wasn’t the problem, it was that you were laughing too hard in anticipation to actually tell it.”
“It’s not my fault I’m so hilarious,” Curt said, as if it was some terrible plight to be entertaining.
“Well, we’d better get going, unless you want to actually make us late,” Owen mentioned, though he’d honestly rather just stay there and keep talking forever. Which was... a lot. He decided to ignore that feeling.
“Fine, fine,” Curt accepted with a sigh that was only half fake, “You take left, I’ve got right?”
Owen nodded and prepared his guns, already all loaded in advance. The anticipation was starting to build, the bit of anxiety that liked to appear just before a job, and would vanish once they actually got going. He took slow breaths to make sure he was entirely calm and in control, but he couldn’t entirely focus his mind.
Oh, I was never meant to win
If there was something innately wrong with him that kept others at bay, how unfair was that? He had to go through life alone, feeling scolded and shamed and shunned at every angle. No one welcoming him with open arms, no one even giving the bare minimum amount of acceptance towards him. MI6 tolerated him because he was effective in doing their dirty work. The moment he failed, he’d be disposable, cast aside, forgotten. His life and memory would be lost to history quickly, nothing about him even worth a footnote in the books. He had no loved ones to miss or mourn him. No one to even arrange a funeral, unless he died heroically in action and MI6 wanted to pretend they honoured all of their oh-so-valuable human tools.
Life wasn’t made for him. He wasn’t set up for it right. The education system and the job market were designed for normal people, and he was never going to be one of those. If he was meant to have friends, that had been ruined by him being the way that he was.
I was never meant to win
He glanced over at Curt for a lingering moment as the other man pushed open the side door they were instructed to use as an entry point. The coast was clear for the time being, so he was free to keep looking. And to keep thinking.
Curt thought that being a spy was noble. He loved it, he thrived on it. Owen couldn’t help but envy that, somewhat. Why couldn’t he find fulfilment in the one thing he could actually do right? Why couldn’t this job mean something to him? Why couldn’t he ignore all of the atrocities in favour of the perceived good that he and his coworkers accomplished?
No matter how well he performed, he was never going to be promoted. This was the highest tier of espionage work that he was ever going to reach. This was where he belonged, and where he’d remain until he died. No amount of excellence would be appreciated by the higher-ups. He either did his job well, or he’d have no job whatsoever. There was no room for negotiations.
Even the one place where he fit in the world didn’t feel right for him. It was made for people who had blind optimism and loyalty, like Curt. People who always looked for silver linings in the middle of natural disasters. People who wanted the action, the thrills, the responsibility. Owen never wanted any of this. Maybe when he was a child, he’d liked the idea of action, but such desires had long since abandoned him. Right around the time that he’d reached his teenage years and realized that life had no meaning, so everything was pointless.
I was never meant to win
None of that was even taking into account the fact that he was gay. The world was stacked against him, and that only made it worse. Because now he had a secret to conceal, an aspect of himself so damning that he couldn’t just ignore it, but had to actively cover it up and bury it down.
So, maybe the fault laid with him when it came to friendships and familial ties always falling through, but romance? That wasn’t on him. He didn’t choose to be queer, and the fact that the world needed a scapegoat in the form of queer people had nothing to do with him, really. He’d given up on romance a long time ago, simply because it would be impossible to seek. To find someone that would not only put up with his presence in their life, but somehow love him in return? A man, no less. It was more far-fetched than a wild goose chase, less believable than elves and dwarves. He was doomed to be alone, for more reasons than he cared to keep track of.
And, sure, he did love someone. Someone that he was currently still looking at, as they’d only made it a few steps into the building, so far. He wasn’t sure if this counted as a real friendship, when they only ever interacted because of their jobs. Did Curt enjoy his company? It felt unbelievable, yet there were some small signs in support of the idea. The easy banter and laughter between them, the downtime they shared, full of smiles and a sense of safety that was hard to achieve elsewhere. Something was mutual there, but what?
But it was pointless to want for anything, because wanting would only ever let you down. Whatever it was that they had, Owen was not willing to risk it for the sake of romance. That would be self-sabotage of the highest degree.
(Shut up!)
Taking a shorter breath, he tore his eyes away from Curt and actually scanned the doors lining the hall, carefully noting the ones that were open. He and Curt both kept their footsteps as light as possible, guns at the ready.
Curt locked eyes with him for a second with a questioning gaze. What’s the plan when we find them?
Normally, Owen would advise him to avoid larger groupings of enemies and attempt to pick them off one-by-one, if possible. That was always the sensible thing to do, after all.
But, the thing was, he found that he was tired of being so sensible all the time. Tired of being on top of things, tired of being the best at this fucking job that he never wanted in the first place. Tired of burying himself under layers of manufactured charm and carefully copied charisma to try to be more likeable to everyone he encountered (it never worked, anyway).
So, you know what? Fuck it.
Here’s the reins
Take ahold of me
Owen squared his shoulders and conveyed his silent reply: Do whatever you think is best, I’ll follow your lead.
Curt was clearly surprised by that, but accepted it anyway and nodded, returning to watching their surroundings.
Despite everything, Owen found that he was actually kind of... excited, about this. Sure, Curt was impulsive to a fault, and might endanger both of their lives, but he usually got them back out of trouble, in the end. It was easy for meticulous plans to fall through, from the smallest of details going awry. Improvisation was a vital skill to have in this field, even if one tended to rely on it too heavily.
So, why not throw caution to the wind and have some fun? Why not get the blood pumping with the fear of death and make things more exciting? Why not tell responsibility to fuck off and take a break from sense and reason? That all sounded pretty good to Owen.
Please don’t let me go
Besides, this was Curt. He’d never let Owen down before. There was no reason to doubt his methods when they’d ended up being so effective so many times in the past. If there was anyone Owen could trust with his life...
He liked to think that the trust went both ways, if nothing else. That they could rely on each other, and be a team of equals, at least in that. If he was just living in delusion.... maybe he preferred it that way.
And as the first target appeared and adrenaline spiked, Owen actually smiled at the danger. After the first gunshot, they dropped all stealth and secrecy, the speed of the operation picking up drastically. They went from sneaking to sprinting, footsteps pounding loudly through the area, a commotion already stirring up around them. It was easy enough to fatally shoot everyone in sight, though it became slightly more complex when they reached a more open room with a larger quantity of enemies. Luckily, there were plenty of boxes and shelves to hide behind, machinery and equipment that the workers here wouldn’t want to damage with bullets, if they could avoid it.
“Should I tell Cynthia I’ll be back in twenty minutes?” Curt asked.
“So long? I didn’t know you were getting so slow,” Owen returned.
“I figure it gives me ten minutes to relax before I have to give the report,” Curt replied easily. His smile was cocky, as always, but there was genuine affection in there that made Owen want to forget about the enemies surrounding them and just stay here with him forever.
You do the talking
Sew up my mouth if I can’t keep it closed
He wanted to respond, to keep the banter going, to not let the conversation end just yet, but he found the only thing he had to say was ‘I love you,’ and this seemed like a terrible time and place for such a confession.
So he said nothing, only peering around the side of the machine he was crouched behind, near the floor, analyzing where each opponent currently was and how easy it would be to take them out.
“Think you can get all four on your side?” Curt questioned.
“What kind of question is that?” Owen scoffed, “I’ll have them all dead, along with two from your side by the time you’ve killed three.”
“You’re on,” Curt said confidently. He immediately shot the nearest target, so Owen scrambled to catch up, killing two on his side and aiming for the next.
“That’s three!” Curt announced, “Keep up, Carvour!”
“Four for me,” Owen shot back, “I’m still ahead.”
“For now,” Curt said, as the last one in the room fell, pierced by two bullets from two different guns simultaneously.
“Fuck, it’s a tie,” Owen said.
“No, ‘cause you didn’t say you’d kill more than me,” Curt argued, “You specifically said you’d have killed six by the time I killed three. So clearly I’ve won this one.” Even if it was a bit silly, Owen couldn’t bring himself to oppose Curt’s triumph.
“If you say so,” he said, hoping all the affection in the words was hidden well enough.
There’s a dog barking right around the block
And a big ol’ whistle blow
“Back up’s here!” Someone shouted as they ran past the room in an adjoining hall, “Don’t retreat! Keep...” Their voice faded, and Owen exchanged a look with Curt.
They hastily began to grab the nearest illegal weapons, since that was the main objective, but there were too many. It was going to take too long to collect them all, and they were going to be cornered in here.
They each had duffel bags, but would it be enough? They could hear more footsteps approaching, along with shouting. They were already out of time.
Run for it
I’ll keep ‘em occupied for you
Owen shook his head, reaching for another gun, even as he spoke:
“Go,” he said.
“And let you be captured? I’m not going to-” Curt objected immediately.
“I’ll be fine,” Owen insisted, “Take the weapons and get out of here while I distract them. Meet me three blocks north of here and one block east.”
Curt looked unhappy about that plan, but there wasn’t any time to come up with anything different, so he did as Owen told him to. Even as he was leaving, more people charged into the room from the other side, guns ready.
Owen sprinted across the place right in front of them, to get all of their eyes on him, then shot two of them in the front. Them going down tripped up some of the others, causing enough confusion for Curt to disappear unscathed. Perfect.
‘Cause I love you, I love you so.
Even if Owen wasn’t fine, even if he was captured or killed or whatever by these people, he didn’t really mind. This was all for the sake of the man he loved. Wasn’t that a worthy cause? If anything was worth it.
He had to keep moving, jumping from one hiding spot to another, heart pounding in his ears almost louder than the gunshots. But then, in between crates, he was struck. He made it to the next place, taking a moment to catch his breath rather than firing immediately as he had the other times, glancing down at the blood already starting to spread on his side. It was worse than a graze, but the bullet had gone straight through, at least, so that was good.
He’d wanted to get all of the enemies here killed, but this was going to hinder those plans quite drastically. He needed to get out of there.
Only problem was: he didn’t have someone to distract the people shooting at him while he ran for it. He just had to cross his fingers and hope that he didn’t get shot anywhere vital. A part of him wanted to keep sitting there until he bled out, but Curt was waiting for him. Curt was expecting him. He had to leave.
He shot three more people before charging for the exit, not bothering to stop behind cover, only going for speed. As he stumbled out the door and went to slam it closed, another bullet hit his forearm. He dropped the gun he was holding, but picked it up with the other hand once the door was closed. Then he kept running, towards the place he’d told Curt to meet up at.
He just had to be fast enough that they couldn’t chase him. Nevermind the agonizing pain in his side, the sweat, the panting for breath. He had to be faster. It didn’t matter if every footstep felt like someone punching him in the bullet wound. It perhaps did matter, just a little, that his eyes were watering from the pain, obscuring his vision a bit, but he could deal with it. For now. If it kept up, he might need to find some place to hide in for a moment.
But it was fine. And before he knew it (as the edges of his vision began to narrow), he reached the rendezvous point. He barely stopped himself from collapsing on the sidewalk.
Looking behind him, there was some blood on the ground where he’d come from, but it wasn’t a continuous trail, so there was a chance that it wouldn’t be that easy to find him.
Oh, who was he kidding? He was going to die here.
Left me hanging at the station
But you’ll be back for me soon
Why wasn’t Curt here? He’d left so long ago, surely he could have made it here by now. Had something held him up? Had he run into another group of backup? Was he injured somewhere else, bleeding out and wondering where Owen was?
Maybe he’d gone to deliver the weapons to MI6, and would be back any minute now. Which... might or might not be soon enough to save Owen.
He could try to find the nearest hospital, but this was where he’d told Curt he would be. He couldn’t make himself a liar in that way, not to Curt. He had to wait here.
I’m ‘bout to die
Yet the only thing I find I’m worried about is you
He woudn’t even care much about dying here, but Curt would be upset. Probably. If he’d been reading things correctly. Curt would be sad to lose a friend and coworker. Someone he worked well with, at the very least. He’d feel bad about not being there for him in his final moments, presumably. Maybe he’d just be sad because that was the kind of person that Curt was, to be sad when a “good guy” dies, even if he wasn’t close with them.
Would Curt care enough to give him a funeral? Would this be admirable enough to earn him one from MI6? Would Curt attend it? He found himself thinking that a funeral would be pointless if Curt wasn’t there. Who else could possibly miss him at all, if only for his presence in their life that had now been removed?
Something tells me you aren’t coming
Guess that I’m truly doomed
He could feel the seconds ticking by, the blood continuing to seep out of his body and stain his clothing. It wouldn’t take this long to drop off the weapons at MI6, would it.
Curt probably figured that Owen was competent and capable enough to escape that situation on his own. He probably overestimated Owen’s skill and speed. So there was no reason to go back for someone that didn’t need any help. It only made sense, right?
So, he was on his own. Dying here, alone. In an unfamiliar place, after a small mission with fairly low stakes, all things considered. It was fittingly pathetic, really. A sad, lonely death for a sad, lonely man.
The idea of never seeing Curt again hurt a lot more than the bullet wounds in his side and his arm. It hurt more than the threat of death, than the generic loneliness he always tended to have. He didn’t even need to talk with the man, but to just see him again, one last time...
I’m ‘bout to die
Yet the only thing I find I’m worried about is you
He was pretty certain Curt was safe, because it wouldn’t make any sense for him to have been captured, or anything. Still, if he was safe... that meant he chose not to go back for Owen. Even if that made sense, that didn’t mean it wasn’t hurtful.
If there was an afterlife, maybe Owen could still be a part of Curt’s life, in some small way. A ghost haunting in the background, barely a breeze of nothing. Or maybe he’d prefer the void, the eternity of nothingness. It was the most likely answer, anyway, to the question of what happens after death. Nothing. No more consciousness, no more soul. The idea of the soul being separate from the brain was completely unfounded.
He really wished he could perish with Curt by his side. It was perhaps more than he’d earned, but that wouldn’t stop him from longing. Just another thing to let him down. He should know better than to want for anything, by now. He only had himself to blame, here.
I’m ‘bout to die
Yet the thing on my mind seems to nearly be nothing but you
He could barely see his surroundings at all, through the haze of fuzziness that was engulfing him. He could faintly hear footsteps approaching with haste, but not sprinting. Had the enemies found him? Would they grant him the mercy of a quicker death? Or would they leave him there, to keep dying alone, without Curt, without anything?
“Owen!” Curt called, his voice sounding like it was on the other side of glass.
“...Curt?” Owen said, frowning, confused. Was he hallucinating in his last moments? That was rather nice of his subconscious, in that case. Giving himself this one last bit of solace and comfort, since he couldn’t have it in reality.
“Jesus, what happened? Are you...” The footsteps had stopped, and Curt’s voice was a little closer now. “Hey, don’t fall asleep on the job, now, Mr. Professional.” It sounded like he was trying to seem light-hearted, but was really very worried about something.
“Curt, you... came back,” Owen stated, almost hoping this could actually be real.
“Of course I did,” Curt said immediately, and Owen felt Curt grab his wrist. It. It was real. Oh. Oh...
“I thought you left me,” Owen mumbled, feeling overwhelmed and dizzy. Curt put a hand on his shoulder to help steady him.
“No, I- I would never,” Curt said quietly, sincerely. More sincerely than he almost ever was. “Do you think you can walk with me back to the headquarters? It’s not too far, and they’ll heal you there.”
“It is too far,” Owen objected numbly, “I’ll be dead before we get there.”
“Okay,” Curt said, sounding anxious to the extreme, “The- the safehouse nearby, there’s medical supplies there. I can... Yeah.”
“Okay,” Owen accepted. He felt Curt try to help him take a step, but he stumbled and nearly fell, his vision still incomprehensible, his head still whirling. His side was throbbing now.
“I’ll carry you,” Curt said, carefully scooping him up. Owen clung to his neck, feeling much better at the prospect of dying this way.
I overhear your brain
When it’s close to mine
“We’re always in sync,” Owen muttered, wondering if he was delirious at all, “Can you read my mind? I feel like I can hear yours right now.”
“Oh?” Curt responded curiously, “What’s it saying?”
Owen would have shrugged if he felt capable of it at the moment.
“You don’t want me to die,” he said, “But it’s okay. You’ll find someone better to work with.”
“What?!” Curt exclaimed, alarmed, “No, it is not okay, you are not going to die, and there’s no one better at this than you, anyway.”
“Alright,” Owen said with a small sigh. He didn’t want to argue.
Oh, I know we’re not the same
My heart’s on the line
It was probably a good thing that there wasn’t actually any telepathy going on, since Owen would have far more to lose in such a situation. In this state, all he could think about was how much he loved and appreciated Curt.
He’d known for a long, long time that these feelings would never be reciprocated. Curt was straight, and, even if he wasn’t, no one ever liked Owen, much less loved him. He just wasn’t the kind of person that anyone could love. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. It was just the way things were.
It was good, also, that their fates weren’t switched. Owen would never be able to handle Curt’s death, whereas Curt could surely find a way to move on, move forward. It was easy to imagine.
I’m just a pawn in your game
Not your partner in crime
Dimly, Owen could hear a door open and shut, and, much more presently, he felt Curt set him down on a sofa.
“You probably need stitches,” Curt said, mostly under his breath, shuffling through medical supplies. It was nice of him to do this. Especially considering the way he usually treated life like a game, and people like non-player characters. It wasn’t personal, the fact that he saw Owen as a pawn. No, he saw everyone that way. If he didn’t, he certainly acted like he did. He never took anything seriously, always joking, always laughing everything off. No stakes were too high for him to make a joke out of it.
“Do you care about me?” Owen asked, too tired and done and in pain to keep the question in.
“I- of course,” Curt said, “We’re partners, right?” But were they?
“Really?” Owen said skeptically, “You have so many people in your life. I have no one.”
“I only really have my mom,” Curt objected, beginning to clean the blood away from Owen’s side.
“That’s more than I have,” Owen stated. Why did he wish he could be the exception to Curt, that he could be an equal? Well, he knew the answer, he just wanted to stop wishing it, because it was futile. “I wish we were partners in all the ways.” There was a beat of silence, so he added: “I wish we never had to part ever again.” He heard Curt take a slow, deep breath, then the needle stabbed his side, and he had to stop talking.
That... hm. He’d said too much, that was for sure. Rambled too far in his delirium. Now he’d given himself away. So why didn’t he care? Why wasn’t he concerned for his safety, for his security, his reputation? Sure, he was about to die, but shouldn’t he still care about hiding his identity?
His vision finally began to clear, and he watched Curt’s face, focused entirely on his side. Not letting anything distract him from such a vital task. But was it really that important, since it was Owen?
Then, the stitches were done, and his side and his arm were bandaged, and there was nothing else to do. And Curt sat there, not saying anything.
And you’re slowly killing me
Taking your time
“Curt?” Owen said, because he was worried now. He still didn’t give a shit what the government would do to him, or what anyone thought, but... he cared what Curt thought. “You’re not... are you disgusted? Do you hate me now? Don’t keep me in suspense. If I’m dying, can’t you at least pretend you love me back, just until I’m gone?”
“I- I...” Curt’s eyes were wide, which made sense, since he’d been put on the spot. “I don’t think I love you. I’m so sorry. But I do like you. A lot. Like, romantically. And I really, desperately don’t want to lose you. And I miss you all the time. But... I don’t know if it would be fair to either of us to get into a relationship that I’m not ready for.” He looked scared, now. Or at least nervous, on edge.
That was... fair. Entirely fair. It wasn’t like Curt could just choose to love him back. This was worlds better than he’d been expecting. He’d take it. Of course he would.
You’re slowly killing me
Taking your time
Owen did not die, from the bullet or from the blood loss. Recovery took some time, and Curt was able to see him for most of it, which made things better. Still, neither of them brought up what had been said. Curt seemed to be pretending like it had never happened.
There was a week where they didn’t see each other, but then, they were given another shared assignment. Owen was relieved that he didn’t have to spend a longer time apart from Curt, but he wondered if Curt shared the sentiment. “I miss you all the time,” he’d said, which might apply to this. Potentially. Unless he’d only said all of that because Owen had been dying at the time, and he didn’t really mean any of it, and the reason he was pretending like it hadn’t happened was because he wanted to take it all back.
Because Owen wasn’t dying anymore, so maybe Curt actually didn’t like him like that, at least not anymore. But Owen was too afraid to actually ask and find out for certain. He was a fucking coward.
“Hey, before we, uh, head in,” Curt said, before they left their hotel room they’d just set up in, “I just wanted to say that everything I said before still stands. Um. Sorry.” He looked embarrassed about it, his eyes on the floor, his face tinged slightly red.
That was good. That was great, even! Yes, it was... great. The confirmation he’d been wanting. The confirmation that Curt still didn’t want a relationship with him (who fucking would?), that nothing between them was ever going to change. That he was just going to be waiting indefinitely, with gradually dwindling hope, for something that would probably never actually happen. Being strung along forever.
Well... that was better than nothing...
You’re slowly killing me
Taking your... (I was never meant to win)
He should probably just give up all hope now, rather than letting himself wish for something that he was never going to get. After all, life wasn’t made for him. Happiness wasn’t meant for him. Love definitely wasn’t for him, that was for certain.
Holding onto an impossible future would only bring him more pain in the long run.
The current mission was a much slower one, more focused on gathering intelligence, a bit every day, ingratiating themselves into a group. So they had plenty of free time to themselves, in the hotel room, thinking and talking. Returning to easy banter that covered up the real, deeper feelings. Still avoiding one topic.
You’re slowly killing me
Taking your... (I was never meant to win)
Acting like it had never happened. Hanging out like normal. Owen had been expecting as much, so it really shouldn’t hurt as much as it did. Besides, what did he even have to feel hurt about? Why would Curt be willing to enter a relationship when it could risk everything in his life that he cared about? Even if he did love Owen (which was, of course, impossible), it made sense to be cautious. Love wasn’t everything. Love wouldn’t protect them from hatred and bigotry and persecution. It was safer this way, safer for them both.
You’re slowly killing me
And yet I don’t mind (You were never meant to win)
And you know what? Owen still got to see Curt. They still got to hang out like normal. He got to keep his friend, and they could still be side by side. It was far better than he’d ever dreamed of, in the past, so what was he so ungrateful for?
He’d come out to the person he trusted most, and nothing bad had happened in return. The world hadn’t ended. Someone knew his secret, and everything was okay. He was still a large part of Curt’s life.
And it was okay that it hurt. Curt almost certainly had no idea how much it hurt for Owen, so there was no reason to hold it against him.
It wasn’t like this was easy for Curt, either. He was also gay, as it turned out. He understood what it was like to feel like the world wasn’t made for you. To hide yourself in fear of your safety. To give up on love, because it was for other people. And Curt had to be struggling with his own feelings, as well. How much he liked Owen, and how that weighed against all the potential risks of a relationship. How much he longed for love, versus how much he feared discovery.
There was sure to be some pressure there, unintentional though it was, from Owen. Waiting for and wanting a more concrete answer. He would, of course, prefer a more definitive answer, but that was his problem to deal with, not Curt’s. If it was driving him crazy, it was his responsibility to figure out how to be normal, not Curt’s.
It was okay. Neither of them were ever going to get a perfect happy ending in life. This was plenty good enough. More than enough.
You’re slowly killing me-
“Hey,” Curt said one night of their mission, lying on his bed in the hotel, staring up at the ceiling. Owen turned to him from the other bed, listening. “I... still don’t know if I love you, exactly, but I... I’ve been thinking. A lot. About us, and... things. And I think I would like to try a relationship?” His voice got very quiet at the end, like it was hard for him to say.
Owen lay there for a moment, blinking, running back over the words in his head. Was... Was Curt saying what he thought Curt was saying??
“I know it’s a huge risk, and you might not want to date me if my feelings aren’t the same as yours, but... I really think it could be worth it,” Curt whispered, sounding hopeful, “Worth trying, at the very least.”
“You... you actually...” Owen couldn’t say it. He didn’t think this was possible. He’d assumed it would never happen. How could anyone want to be in a romantic relationship with him? How...??? “...Really?”
“Yes,” Curt said, sounding like he was holding his breath.
“How is this happening?” Owen whispered to himself, pinching his arm. Not dreaming. “I... I would love that.”
“Oh,” Curt said, letting out a breath, “That’s great!” He sat up, smiling, though it was a little hesitant, and Owen sat up, as well. They looked at each other for a long moment. Then, Curt patted the bed next to him in an unspoken invitation, so Owen sat next to him, suddenly nervous. What if he messed this up? He didn’t think he would get this chance, so he hadn’t thought through how to make sure he didn’t fuck it up. He’d ruined every relationship he’d ever had, and he’d never had a romantic relationship at all, before.
“I want to take things slow,” Curt said softly, still a bit unsure of himself, “If that’s okay with you. I just really don’t want to mess anything up. You mean too much to me for that.”
Oh.
Oh, he... Curt was also afraid of messing it up. But he wanted to try anyway.
Inexplicably, Owen felt tears form in his eyes, and he leaned his head on Curt’s shoulder.
“That sounds amazing,” he said, as Curt put an arm around his waist, “I love you.”
And, of course, he wasn’t expecting anything in response, but Curt’s smile felt perfect, anyway. An agreement to trying this, together, because it was worth it. And it was worth waiting for, and worth going slow. It felt a little too good to be true, but maybe that feeling would fade as Owen got used to it. Maybe someday he could accept this, and actually be happy with his life. And maybe, if it wasn’t too much to hope for, someday Curt would love him, and they’d be happy together for as long as they lived, no matter what else life threw their way.
But please, take your time.