#anyways can I just say how fucking wild it is to write a curtwen first flirtation scene without internalized homophobia??

[smytherines]

I've been so fully invested in this spies are forever x severance au that I just had to write something for it. I'm not sure if I'll post it on ao3, all four people who are into spyverance are already beloved mutuals, but here's a little drabble based on this conversation between @szollibisz and @missholloween that I haven't been able to stop thinking about

"Curt... what are you doing?"

Shit. Curt glanced up at the mirror, but he didn't need to see Owen lingering in the doorway to know it was him. That strange lilting accent had been rattling around in Curt's head ever since he'd first heard it crackling over the intercom.

Curt scrambled to figure out something else-- anything else-- to tell him, but he had a dull pair of office scissors in one hand and half his beard was in the bathroom sink, so he figured he was already busted.

"I just-- uhhh--" And what could he say? That three days ago the new hire, fresh off another failed escape attempt, had mockingly told Curt that he'd be handsome if it wasn't for the beard? That he'd spent three days just thinking the word shave over and over again, hoping his outie would somehow get the message? That for some fucking reason he cared about the opinion of a man who had been nothing but trouble ever since he arrived on Chimera's severed floor?

He couldn't say that. So instead Curt silently watched in the mirror as Owen removed his dark brown suit jacket and folded it carefully over the top of a bathroom stall, unbuttoning the sleeves of his crisp white shirt to roll them up to just below his elbows.

"Alright, let's see it then."

Curt sighed and finally turned to face him. 

Owen's brow furrowed. His lips made a tight line, one finger pressed up against them like he thought it might be enough to hide that smirk on his face.

"We don't have any razors here..." Curt heard the whine in his voice as he trailed off, staring at a spot on Owen's collar to avoid meeting his eyes.

"Mm." Owen nodded, stepping in toward him until Curt was practically leaning up against the sink. "May I?"

God, he was close. Close enough that Curt could smell his aftershave, or cologne, or whatever he wore that smelled so good.

Curt managed to look up at him, and the bathroom felt smaller somehow.

Owen's eyes traveled down to Curt's hand, his palm outstretched, those long, slender fingers wiggling expectantly until Curt finally figured out what he wanted.

"Y'know, last time I gave you something you almost split my head open with it," Curt said, placing the handle of the scissors in Owen's hand, "So if you could do me a favor and--"

Owen held his free hand up in front of him, "I will try my level best not to break the skin this time."

"You get one," Curt warned, only half-joking. He still had a scar on his forehead from the mug Owen had launched at him. "Next time I hit back."

"Noted." 

Suddenly Owen's fingers were tipping Curt's jaw up, his thumb pinching onto Curt's chin to tilt his head.

Curt tried to remember the last time another person had touched him. There had been a handshake with Cynthia a few weeks earlier. But Curt had to formally request it, and it had been every bit as uncomfortable as he expected. 

Tatiana hugged him once, not long before her unexpected departure. And thinking back on it, that was the only other time Curt could remember someone touching him on purpose.

With his chin tilted up, and Owen hovering over him with pursed lips and those dull scissors, it was hard to avoid looking directly at Owen's face. 

And that wasn't a problem for him, really. Because Curt found that he liked looking at Owen's face. The crooked grin that peeked through on the rare occasion where he wasn't scowling. Large, deep-set amber eyes that always seemed to be looking for an exit. Eyebrows that twisted and wriggled almost as much as Owen's hands did when he spoke. 

Owen made him feel... something. Which was unnerving, because most of the time Curt couldn't feel anything but numb. Numb and nauseous, sweating and shaking more and more as the hours ticked by. His mouth was dry and his head was sore, and every day was the same boring bullshit in the same boring place.

And when Owen moved his hand away to begin cutting, Curt desperately wanted to pull it back down and press it against his skin. To feel that churning in his gut, that pressure in his chest. Feel the way his heart raced and he could hardly catch his breath. Feel��something.

Owen's eyes narrowed, and he wasn't looking at Curt's jaw anymore, and just for a second Curt wondered if Owen felt something too. 

But it was just a flicker, so brief that it might have been a trick of the light. 

"We could--" Curt jolted out of his thoughts as Owen spoke again, "Do try and stay still, love," he tutted.

"Sorry, I was..." Curt didn't know what he was doing anymore. "What were you going to say?"

Owen glanced up, scanning Curt's face quickly and uncertainly before getting back to work. 

"I was going to say that if you're really that desperate for a change, we could always botch this. Give him--" Owen flicked his eyes toward the ceiling, "no choice but to shave it all off."

"Does it really look that bad? I thought it looked kinda... cool?" Curt said hopefully. His hands were shaking, but he tried to keep his voice even.

Owen's head bent down, tilted low enough that Curt couldn't see his eyes. His skin prickled as he braced himself for Owen to laugh at him or insult him. But instead Owen's voice came out unexpectedly soft and quiet.

"I think it would be an awful shame for you to hide yourself away."

That felt like something too. But before Curt could comment on it (not that he could think of anything to say), Owen had resumed cutting. 

"So that was a 'no,' on the sabotage idea, I take it?" Owen said lightly, like nothing had happened. So maybe nothing had happened, at least not for him. 

Curt took a breath, louder and more ragged than he intended. "Nah. He grew this beard, so he's probably already lost the will to live--" Owen chuckled at that, "I don't want to push him over the edge."

"You're far more merciful than I."

"Clearly." Curt laughed. Owen had threatened to chop his own fingers off as a threat to his outie, so the bar was admittedly pretty low.

"Well, if you won't allow me to take chunks out of it, I suppose my work is done here." Owen smiled, just slightly. His hand returned to Curt's face, brushing off the hair he had just trimmed. 

Owen's hand lingered on Curt's chin, two fingertips barely touching Curt's cheek, and Curt's heart was beating so loudly that he could hardly hear himself think. They were only a couple of inches apart now, and he wondered if Owen could hear it too.

Owen swallowed thickly. There was something in his eyes. Something more than a flicker. Something definite.

That was when Curt realized that his hand was on Owen's hip. 

He quickly snatched his hand away, his mouth already trying to form an apology that his mind hadn't come up with yet. He tried to put space between them, but Owen had backed him up into the sink and there was no place left to go.

Owen stumbled backwards. His face contorted painfully as his back connected with the far wall of the bathroom. 

"Owen, I--"

But he was out the door before Curt could finish. 

And there he was, alone again, shaking, with nothing but the blue tile walls and the blue tile floors, and one dark brown jacket.