#but the idea of Curt knowing that Owen is alive and being desperate to find him just speaks to me for whatever reason

[smytherines]

Someone made a "what if they both fell" post the other day, and I can't stop thinking about it but also I don't want to swarm someone's post with my own unhinged ranting. So here's my little idk wish fulfillment fantasy--

Owen falls, and Curt catches him. But he isn't anchored to anything, and the force of the fall drags him along as well. They both fall onto the partially-closed safety barricade

Owen lands in a much worse position, he's bleeding and unconscious and has several severe injuries. Curt somehow lands a little bit better, he has a broken leg and a broken arm, but he's still conscious. He drags himself over to Owen, not sure if he's even still alive, desperately feeling for a pulse and trying to get a response out of him. Owen opens his eyes and reaches out for Curt, and they have a brief moment together. They're facing certain death, and with that knowledge of their impending doom they tell each other the things they always meant to say

Curt holds onto Owen as the lab explodes beneath them, and they both lose consciousness

Curt wakes up in a Russian cell, badly injured and unable to walk but alive. In some distant part of the building he can hear someone screaming in agony, and he knows in his heart that it's Owen. But naturally, their captors aren't going to allow the two spies who just blew up their weapons facility to have any contact with each other. They're too valuable as prisoners

Curt thrashes and threatens, and tries and tries and tries to get to Owen. But he can't. His injuries and the guards on his door won't allow it. But he knows Owen is in that building, somewhere, alive

Eventually, the US makes a trade-- Curt for a Russian spy they've been holding. Curt is heavily sedated because he keeps trying to escape and worsening his injuries. He wakes up in a military hospital, with Cynthia standing over him. He asks about Owen, and she changes the subject. But he keeps asking, keeps telling Cynthia that Owen is alive and they have to get him out of there. Eventually, Cynthia tells him-- in the kindest way she can manage-- that according to MI6 Owen died from his injuries

But Curt refuses to believe it. He knows that Owen is alive, and nobody can convince him otherwise. Cynthia tries to reason with him, tells him they aren't going to put any resources towards rescuing a corpse. So Curt quits. And he heals up enough to be able to walk. And then he sets out on his own mission to find his partner

Curt busts down the door of every Russian facility he can find, but there is no trace of Owen. Barb is trying to help him on the side, not because she believes him but because she cares enough about him to not let him take on a suicide mission on his own. She gently tries to convince him that Owen is gone

And Curt starts to think maybe he really is losing his mind. That maybe Owen died months ago, and he just can't accept it because he feels responsible for it. He convinces Barb to support him in one more mission, one more facility, and if he doesn't find a lead on Owen then he will come home

There's nothing. No sign of him.

Curt starts to break down, smashing up the random Russian office he's in, sobbing on the floor, confronted with the reality that maybe Owen really is dead. That this feeling he's been carrying in his gut ever since he was freed was wrong

And then, at his absolute lowest, when he finally has to accept that the man he loves is gone, he sees a piece of paper in that wrecked office with a familiar name on it-- Carvour, O

And another name he doesn't recognize-- Chimera

[gentlemen-of-lies]

Gentlemen of Lies, chapter 10

Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu...

Previous chapter

Beginning

Next chapter

————

Curt managed to come round a few times, but each time was such a blur that it felt like part of a dream. One of those dreams you have when you’re half awake and you can’t figure out what’s real and what’s your mind playing tricks on you. It wasn’t until the following morning, when Curt was lying safely in a hospital bed, recovering from surgery he’d had on his foot, that he was able to string two coherent thoughts together and try and get his head around the idea that he’d somehow survived the previous evening.

There was certainly a lot for him to take in; Lawson, Owen, the entire plot itself and how much it backfired on the perpetrator. He supposed Lawson was dead, it was impossible for him not to be. He also wondered how much of Bletchley was destroyed, if not just hut 8. And then he wondered if Owen was alive, surprised it hadn’t been his first thought, but then his head was all over the place at the moment. He wondered whether Owen had made it to the hut in time or not and if he had got out alive, where he was, how he felt. Curt didn’t know what Owen’s relationship with Lawson had been, but there must have been something there judging by Owen’s desperation, and the man’s death couldn’t have been easy for him, especially under the preventable  circumstances. Or at least, Owen would think they were preventable, but Curt didn’t think so. Under the time limit, and with Curt out of action and needing assistance to get out of the compound, Owen had no choice. But Curt didn’t think that would be much of a comfort.

Speaking of Owen, to Curt’s surprise, and relief, he visited during the afternoon, which meant that he was indeed alive. He had a few stitches on his chin, and he was walking with a cane, but all in all he didn’t seem that injured. At least, not physically.

Curt was sitting up in bed, staring at the ceiling when Owen arrived. He couldn’t quite detach himself from his mind right now, any distraction from his thoughts never stuck, his mind would just wander so far back to the compound that he could barely even see what was in front of him, be it food or a book. So he gave up. The ceiling it was, with a large water stain on the paintwork the focus for his wandering. He didn’t notice Owen right away, until he heard someone clear their throat. Curt raised his head from the pillow, and stared directly at Owen. He noticed the man was once again sporting his brown cap, a sight which felt weirdly familiar, even though Curt had only seen it twice. He supposed the last time he’d seen it was near the beginning of the case, on his first few days in England. It felt like weeks ago now, a different lifetime, where he was just a second year spy staying in a mangy hostel. Now he was Agent Curt Mega, a mangy hospital and a strapped up leg replacing the broken bed frame of room 17.

“How, uh... how are you?” Asked Owen, his voice similar to that of a sibling who had been told to play nice by their mother.

“I’ve been better,” replied Curt. “You?”

“Likewise.” Owen glanced over the room and spotted a chair for him to sit down on, near to Curt’s bed. “The agency have marked Lawson as the culprit, I didn’t have any choice but to tell them who it was, otherwise the case would never have ended.”

“Why didn’t you want to tell them?” Asked Curt. Now that things were over, he was curious to finally find out why Owen was so caught up with Lawson. He supposed they must have been friends, but there was something odd about it. Curt couldn’t quite work out why.

“I suppose I didn’t want him to be blamed. To be forever marked as a traitor.” He stood up again, apparently leaving already, which looked slightly comical seeing as he had only sat down a second ago. “This job...” he began. “Has a dark side to it, Curt. Frankly, I was forced into it by the government itself, what with my expert aim and knowledge on foreign affairs.” Curt wasn’t sure why Owen was telling him all this, but he listened nonetheless. “I must admit, I have no real loyalty to MI6, and you shouldn’t have too much loyalty for your own agency. If anything, makes for a better spy. You take more risks, and the outcome doesn’t worry you.”

“No offence, Carvour, but... what you’re saying doesn’t really have to do with anything that’s happened.”

“Perhaps not.” Owen rested his hand on the end of Curt’s bed, and Curt didn’t know whether he was waiting for some sort of comment, or if he was going to start speaking again. Curt didn’t bother to wait and find out; he had too many questions.

“What was Lawson trying to achieve?” He didn’t know how to put all of his questions into one, and he hoped this one would be enough for a general overview.

“I think he was just trying to not get killed by the government.”

“But why would the government kill him for no reason? He gave them a reason.”

“Yes he did, but not the one you think he gave. He already had a reason, or they already had a reason, whichever way you want to see it.” Owen was making no sense. Was that his thing? Giving answers as vague as possible, and leaving the recipient more confused than before. Curt decided not to ponder on it.

“And who’s him? Lawson said it was over for him. In the hut, someone worked there. What was he talking about?” Owen didn’t reply right away, in fact he almost looked like he wasn’t going to reply at all; he was edging nearer and nearer to the door.

“You know what, Curt. There’s a lot you don’t know, and I can’t be bothered to explain it to you. You’re just going to have to forget about it all, fly back to America, solve any little cases that come your way, and hopefully we never meet again. Because, frankly, Mega, I don’t like you.” The finality of the statement felt weirdly hurtful, which annoyed Curt. Why should this bastard get to hurt him? But he supposed he understood. At the end of the day, if it wasn’t for Curt, Lawson may still be alive.

Curt didn’t know how he felt about that.

“You can’t hate me that much,” replied Curt, inexplicably in his opinion. Owen was about to leave. Let him. “You could’ve left me, saved Lawson.”

“There was too big a risk that I couldn’t save him, and I wasn’t going to let two people die. I wasn’t going to let you drag me under. There was nothing personal about it, don’t for a second believe there was.”

“Fine. I wasn’t going to.”

“I take it you’ll be flying home as soon as possible?” Asked Owen, for no discernible reason that Curt could see, except to make small talk, which didn’t seem to be his style.

“Soon as my leg’s fixed, sure.” He knocked on his metal splint for effect.

“Well then, I suppose this is a goodbye.” Owen didn’t smile at him, in fact his expression remained entirely blank. Disconnected. Owen wouldn’t miss Curt for a moment.

“I suppose it is.” Curt wouldn’t miss him either.

————

Curt was back in his hostel for the last time. His leg was on the mend; all he needed now was a walking cane, which the doctors assured he’d only need for another few weeks, then his leg would be good as new. His injury hadn’t been career ending, which was a relief. He’d almost be ready to jump back immediately into the field. And jump back in was what he was intending to do. He was worried that after his experience in England, he would be reluctant to get back in the field, a worry which he dealt with by putting it out of his mind entirely, determined to throw himself back into his job and work himself away from any hesitation he felt. His fears would manifest themselves at night, during his fitful few hours of sleep, and that was where they would stay. Curt could do nothing about them, but he refused to let his daytime be tainted.

Packing was easy, there wasn’t much to pack after all, so he was out of the hostel within an hour, after a quick goodbye to Bill of course. He found himself being a little sad to leave Bill. He had been walking past him every day for the last week, and the man let him read the newspapers he bought for himself when he was finished with them. Curt appreciated that enough to give him a fair tip on his way out. He wouldn’t miss the hostel though, by any means, and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t miss Earl’s Court either. But he still had one last coffee and terrible ham and cheese sandwich from the café near the hostel, for old times sake.

As for Owen, Curt hadn’t seen him since he visited that one time in the hospital. He supposed that was a good thing, there was no need for him to keep Owen playing on his mind, and he was sure Owen had forgotten him the moment he’d stepped out of the hospital. Curt had no intention of saying a proper goodbye. Owen wasn’t worth missing his flight over.

Curt didn’t have to take a normal flight back this time, least of all economy class. Cynthia had arranged a proper private jet back for him, which was certainly an upgrade, although he wasn’t sure why Cynthia had decided to let him finally use the benefits that the A.S.S had to offer. It was hardly an assumption that she knew what had happened, and perhaps she felt sorry for him.

Jeez, Curt, you’ve been away for too long. Cynthia never felt sorry for anyone, least of all him. She probably just wanted him back faster so she could get straight round to telling him off for fucking up the case so badly, because at the end of the day, there was really no denying that he had fucked up. A preventable death had happened on his watch and he’d got injured in the process.

But don’t think about that Curt. Nighttime only, remember?

And at least he could let himself enjoy the free champagne that came with the private jet.

“One glass only,” the flight attendant said when Curt had asked for another. “Cynthia’s orders.” Curt sighed. Typical Cynthia controlling every single thing he did. A puppeteer hanging over its puppet.

“Why does Cynthia have to know?” He tried, raising his eyebrow and smirking, a vaguely flirtatious tone in his voice. The flight attendant kept as stoic as ever, simply repeated her order not to give Curt any more champagne, and left him rolling his eyes with only the view of clouds outside the window to keep him entertained, as he made his journey back to America. Away from England, away from MI6 and its stupid abandoned huts for people to blow up. Away from Owen, and away from the nightmares of exploding buildings, the look on Lawson’s face, on Owen’s. The hands grabbing Curt as he fell to the ground outside the compound.

He locked it away, as was his duty. His career was just beginning, and this was by no means the last time he’d experience traumatic events like these. If he let himself think about any of them for even a second, he’d crumble immediately.

A spy is a spy. That’s the only motto he needed, the only thing that mattered. You’re a spy, Curt. And a spy keeps himself hidden from his job, for protection. And you don’t let reality touch you. Otherwise, what would be the point of getting out of bed at all?

England was swept out of his mind along with the clouds beside him, and he was focused now on America. Next case he received- if Cynthia permitted it- would be better. He was sure of it. He wouldn’t screw it up at all. And he’d do it alone, with no one there to drag him down.

————

End of Act 1