so I had a dream where Owen is drunk and outs himself to Curt...
do with that what you will.
Oh god 👀
Okay that could go a number of different ways, but fortunately, we all know how fruity Curt is, so let me try and take this in the least(?) Angsty direction that I possibly can...
Owen woke up on the morning of a bleak Sunday, with a headache perfectly tuned to the grey morning it had turned out to be, and a weight against his chest. At first, he thought it was a strange way the sheets had fallen over him, but then he came to realise that he wasn't actually in bed at all, but draped across the couch in the place he was temporarily sharing with his American operative partner.
And the weight on his chest?
Well… That was the American in question.
Laying on top of him. Fast asleep.
Owen startled, shifting so quickly out of this position— that was evidently comfortable for the both of them— that he managed to wake his partner up in the process. His eyes were wide, and he looked down towards Curt for an explanation, hoping to god that there was some way to rationalise how they had clearly slept the entire night.
"Mega? What the… hell are you doing?!"
He was beyond the point of words. There was something in the back of his mind that said he had done something last night that had led to Curt waking up on top of him, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what. They were talking last night, weren't they? Trying to get to know each other a little better…. And there was alcohol involved, as far as the headache revealed, anyway.
But he'd always been so controlled. Ever since figuring himself out, and figuring out for himself the reason his agency would want to hunt him down if ever they found out, he'd made sure not to drink in the company of anyone he wasn't comfortable with. While Curt was a nice man, as far as these things went, and while the two of them had been professional partners on more than one occasion, Owen wasn't entirely sure whether he'd go as far as saying he trusted him enough to get drunk in his presence.
But apparently, that very thing had happened the night before, and it had left them here.
The two of them resumed a position on the couch that separated them, and Curt shot him an apologetic glance. "Must've gotten late…" He excused quickly, lacing one of his hands within the other and trying his hardest to avert his gaze. It was hard to do that, though, after what the two of them had gone through last night… He was making excuses for himself, of course, because it was clear that Owen didn't remember what they'd talked about, at least not in the immediate moment.
He tried to offer a kind of peace. There was little he could do to explain the fact that he'd woken up— and had, in fact, fallen asleep— leaning against his chest, without Owen having the proper context as to why. Once the blur of sleep had passed and he'd woken up a little bit more, they'd talk it over then, but there was really only one thing he could do while the tension was still this high. "I need to wake up before we dive into… That. Coffee?"
Owen scrubbed a hand over his face and nodded blearily. "Please." And god only knows he was going to need it, too. How had he let himself make a mistake of this weight? How had he let himself slip, if indeed that was what had happened… There was no other explanation for it, and it was barely something he could blame on the alcohol.
He stared at the mostly empty bottle of liquor that was sitting on the coffee table as if the two of them had only just finished their late night of boozing, wondering what had been said and what he'd done to end up asleep… with another man… on a couch.
===
"Nah, c'mon. I barely know anything about you! sure, the first couple times we've worked together was nothing more than a coincidence, but damn, they're making us do it again, and I think there's a point this stops just being chance…" Curt pointed out, leaning against the counter in his kitchen. Owen had been assigned to the states, and because he'd worked with Curt a few times before, Curt had offered to put him up for the duration of his stay, instead of spending the time in some cheap, shitty hotel room, where he'd have to break his back just to get a good night's sleep.
But then he'd insisted that they talk, and that was fine as far as these things were concerned, but it was when he suggested bringing out the booze that Owen got a little worried. Sure, his assignment wasn't until the Monday, so he had the whole weekend to sort himself out (since he'd arrived early), but the thought of participating in such an activity with a man who he'd previously only worked with sparked a little concern. "I'm not sure…"
"You don't hafta work till Monday, that's on you for getting here this early…"
"Yes, but—"
"What? You don't drink?" Curt looked him up and down, and shrugged. "I mean, that's fine and all…"
"No, I… Do drink, but—" He couldn't think of a good enough protest in time, because the moment that he admitted that he was, in fact, partial to a good drink, Curt lit up a little bit more.
"Sure you don't wanna?"
And after that, he'd lost most of the fight that may or may not have been present in him. It had been a long flight and a longer journey, and the lag was starting to catch up to him. He couldn't deny the fact that the warm flood of whiskey in his system would've made the deep tiredness settling into his very bones a little more manageable. He conceded with a sigh, and an all too naive declaration of "I suppose a drink or two won't hurt," to which Curt grinned.
"That's the spirit!"
===
Curt returned to the couch in a matter of minutes with two mugs of fresh coffee, and as soon as Owen had his in his hands, he was absently tapping his fingernails against the warm porcelain. Part of him didn't dare to ask what had gone down, in case Curt had a perfect recollection of what he'd said, and it was something he'd rather not hear. But, at the same time, he was curious as to how the two of them had ended up as they had been.
First port of call was coffee. That was a necessary step in both waking him up, and trying to jog his short term memory even slightly. Last night, he had arrived in America, and he'd taken up the offer to drink with a man who barely crossed the 'friend' boundary, and then a series of unknowable somethings led to the two of them falling asleep together. And he was a little unnerved in knowing those events happened in that order, because that likely meant they'd made mistakes, where mistakes shouldn't have been made.
It woke him up a little more than he expected, and it dawned on him that he wasn't entirely sure when the last time he'd had coffee was, given that it was often far too strong for his tastes, especially first thing on a morning. This was necessary, though. He needed the rush to better explain the happenings of last night.
Curt seemed a little more relaxed than he was. At least he was able to sink a little into the sofa as he nursed his own mug. The only difference was that he looked a little more uncertain, as if it was him who had set into motion this series of mistakes, and he was the one with something to say about it.
"Where do we start?" It was the only question that really mattered, the only one he could think to ask that made any semblance of sense. Owen felt the tension in his shoulders, resting dormant and adding that annoying slight of strain to his every move.
"How much do you remember?" Curt asked cautiously, turning so that the two of them were better facing one another.
This was a question to which Owen tried to genuinely find an answer. He was trying to assimilate his memories, and what little remained beyond the haze of everything, but there wasn't a lot that he would consider useful. "Not… As much as I'd like to, I'm afraid. I made it here around seven, perhaps later… And I'd barely been here an hour when you suggested we… How'd you put it, 'get to know each other'. You suggested bringing out the spirits, and after the flight I'd had, there was little in the way of argument, so… I took you up on the offer."
"That's… Awfully specific." Curt hummed. "Thought you said you didn't remember a lot."
"That's not a lot."
"What time was your flight in the morning? Where from?"
"Six thirty, from the fourth terminal at Heathrow," Owen answered automatically, without having to think about it. Curt laughed, and it was in that moment that Owen realised that their definitions of 'not a lot' were likely vastly different from each other.
"Good god."
"Okay… I see your point… Other than the specifics, I don't remember what we talked about all too well… It's a little blurred, I'm afraid."
Curt hummed, trying to think about this in a way that made sense to him. He didn't remember a great deal either, but it seemed Owen had him outmatched for exactly how much. He remembered a little of their conversation, and what had gone down that night, but it was clearly something that was going to take the both of them to figure out. "Okay, well, I'm not exactly clear either. We got to drinking, right? Must've had a few, I swear that bottle was nearly full when we started…"
"Really?"
"I think so… Anyway, it was all casual at first. I mean, the two of us are barely friends, right? And I just wanted to get to know you a little better, like you said. So, we just started talking about ourselves… Y'know, how we got into spying, why you were in America…"
"Oh, right. Of course." Owen nodded, following along. How the two of them had gotten into the industry made sense, that was a good place to start. It was always a decent point of conversation in a professional matter, and especially among two who were so similar in nature after all was said and done. "I remember you saying something about… wanting to do something for the people that wasn't what everyone else was doing. Wanting to stand out a little from the crowd, is that right?"
"Yeah, that's pretty much the exact reason I got into all of this… It's less about wanting to make that kinda impact that everyone else is making, when there's the option for me to do something better."
"Makes sense, I can't say I blame you for that."
"And you're in the country to uncover some kinda arms deal, yeah?"
"One hundred and fifty grand's worth of explosives and arms. Quite the quarry, if I dare say so." Owen recalled that much from reading his briefing file in any spare moment he could while he was still alone. It needed revising when he was less hungover, but that was a problem for a few hours time. Right now, there was a more pressing matter at hand.
Curt whistled, impressed. "It'd take most people an age to make that much."
"Tell me about it."
The coffee was doing something to clear his mind enough that he was starting to see how the conversation played out last night. As a matter of fact, they had started the night seated in different places, and Curt kept subtly adjusting himself into different positions on the armchair as the time progressed. He was right, they had both taken several drinks each, and their conversations had taken a rather merrier turn. "We didn't stop at the professional, did we? I seem to recall bringing up things we'd done in the past, and you mentioned how much you hate getting intelligence jobs."
"Mhm," Curt nodded, Owen's phrasing bringing this to mind in exactly the right way. "Yeah, I do. God, they always make you get with some girl you've gotta charm all the way to the bedroom, and then you've gotta pretend like you enjoy that part of the job while she's taking your shirt off, and all you want to do is find out what her associates are getting up to behind closed doors."
That was mutual. Of course, there was a reason behind that hatred on Owen's end, but it wasn't like that was something he'd ever told anyone. He'd always taken Curt— so long as he'd known him— for the type who seemed happy to charm a woman and take those assignments in his stride. But the way he'd talked about it couldn't be denied… If he was more passionate about it, Owen would've said that he outright hated it. But, that only led to further speculation as to the reason why.
The penny dropped.
There was only one real reason why someone wouldn't enjoy the passionate part of the job, or the part that involved waking up next to a slew of different women all because information was needed out of them. There was only one reason why someone wouldn't enjoy the thrill of being with a woman, even just for a night.
The penny clattered to the metaphorical ground in Owen's mind. His face heated up furiously, to the point where Curt took notice.
"Owen?"
"… I think I know what I admitted to last night."
Curt sighed, a little out of it still. This progression didn't look good, especially not with the way that Owen had reacted to it. His brow furrowed, and he almost dared himself to ask him to continue. That, as it turned out, was an unnecessary step, since it seemed Owen had also figured out how they had ended up spending the night on top of each other.
"… Curt, if I may ask, there is a reason you don't like sleeping with women on the job, isn't there?"
It was just the two of them, as it had been the night before. There was nobody else around, and the whole reason this building was classified as a safehouse was because nobody could infiltrate, either. So, they had gotten drunk. Curt had admitted to the reason why he didn't like sleeping with women, and Owen must've agreed. The two of them had fallen asleep that night under the alarming pretense that they were just the same, when all came down to it, in the strangest and most sudden solidarity that one could hope to experience.
Curt seemed to want to freeze up, like someone had caught him out for something they really shouldn't know, but then remembered that they'd clearly gone over all of this the night before. He let the tension drop from his shoulders— something Owen really wished was that easy— and gave in with a resigning nod. "And you too, right? There's gotta be a reason we ended up…"
"Yes."
"So you're…"
"… Yes."
===
"Yeah, no it's never been my thing to get in with a lady… 'M not into 'em." Curt shook his head, emptying his glass with a single tilt of his wrist.
"Not into… Women?"
"No." Curt answered, a little too quickly. "Never was, don't think I ever will be…"
Owen nodded, for to a revelation like this, he had little in the way of a better answer. He was in exactly the same boat. The two of them were one and the same, cut from the same cloth. That made them more alike than he'd realised. "Me neither," He hummed, because his mind was clouded, and he didn't have the chance to think it through, but he didn't care because finally— finally— there was someone just like him.
Curt's eyes went wide, and he leaned forwards again to see whether he'd heard Owen correctly. "Wait, hol' on, you… You're… Y'know— like me? We're—?"
"I s'pose we are."
"What're the chances..?"
"Wouldn't 've bet on it, 's for sure. Not good odds, finding 'nother gay agent."
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