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The door to the hotel swings shut with a deafening thud. Curt’s barely in the room before he’s collapsing onto the shitty sofa, the one with springs poking out from the edges, clutching weakly at his side. He squeezes his eyes shut and voices a pathetic noise that’s somewhere between a moan and a groan: all whilst he prays that if there is a God out there, they’ll have mercy and take pity on his miserable soul.
“Stop being dramatic,” Owen instructs, kneeling at his side minutes later with a bowl of lukewarm water and an old dish towel. It’s one he’s found in the kitchen – which, Curt notes, is a nicer model than the ones inside the hotels they usually stay at. Working lights, a stove that gets hot enough to make Owen tea in a not-completely unreasonable amount of time, and Curt would even go as far as to say a pleasant colour scheme, the only exception being the eye-sore of an oven sitting in the corner of the kitchen; a sickening orange that couldn’t match anything in the country, let alone their kitchen.
Even so, after a mission like this, they’re lucky to get a bed for the evening, so to be treated by a reasonably nice hotel room and tea-towels? Curt has the feeling he’s being spoiled.
“I’m not being dramatic, I’ll have you know,” Curt grumbles, draping himself over the sofa, and Owen gives him a targeted look in response. He knows the look well. He’s oddly familiar with its meaning: ‘Bullshit, right now you could give Fred Astaire a run for his money.’
He makes a point to ignore it, simply holding out his hand for Owen to take. Owen chuckles, and wrings the towel out, before moving to gently dab at Curt’s cracked knuckles. The skin around them is flaring, raw and red, a pulsing deep beneath the skin. The blood’s only just dried – this was messier than most of his missions. He usually prefers to keep things distanced, tidy, a gun over his fists, but he’d been caught off guard.
(He very much does not think about the fact that this may be the closest Owen’s ever come to holding his hand, or the fact that Owen’s treating him with the same amount of care one would use to handle a precious china set.)
“How’s that?” Owen asks, taking Curt’s fingers between his own and just holding them there. His knuckles are clear now, there’s really no reason for Owen to keep holding on, but for some reason, he won’t let go. It’s quite rude, honestly, as it makes it incredibly difficult for Curt to think about anything besides how the rough scratch of Owen’s palm feels against his own; the comforting weight of his hand in Curt’s.
“Not too bad,” Curt mumbles, trying desperately to keep the tremble from his voice. His pulse thrums underneath his skin, heavy in his ears, and he tries to avoid the blush returning to his cheeks as Owen looks up at him.
“And this?” Owen shifts, and trails his hand down slowly – it follows the path of Curt’s side, his back pressed flat against the sofa. Curt can swear he falters for a moment, resting briefly over his hip, and it’s perhaps more of a comforting presence than it should be. Gingerly, he reaches to fidget with the edge of Curt’s shirt, where it’s stuck flush against his skin, stained with red. Curt imagines it’ll be a bitch to wash; which is a shame, really. It was a nice shirt.
“It’s not bleeding anymore, so I’d say it’s an improvement.”
“You need to get it looked at,” Owen starts, and then he’s staring up at Curt with wide eyes – a silent question, permission to begin unbuttoning his shirt. He needs to reach the bleeding, for starters. It’s an awkward situation, sure, but Curt imagines that accidentally dying out on some random sofa in front of him would make for a much more tense scenario. He nods his head quickly, and Owen unbuttons the lowest two buttons, letting Curt preserve some of his modesty, “-God, that’s really quite nasty.”
“I hadn’t noticed. I was a bit preoccupied, what with the knife in my side and all, but next time I’ll make sure to stop and think about how awful it is.”
There’s a pause. A brief respite from Curt’s commentary, before Owen reaches for one of the pillows, and smacks him across the head with it.
“Ow!”
“You were being sarky. You know what happens when you’re sarky.” Owen says, and Curt looks away, rubbing at the back of his head – Owen only rolls his eyes in response, mumbling unimportant comments about Curt’s persistent dramatics again.
“I’ve been stabbed! I think I’m allowed to be sarky!” Curt rushes, gesturing wildly to the gash covering a small portion of his side; nothing life-threatening, and in this field, he’s definitely had worse. They both know this doesn’t even crack the top five worst moments for Curt, and that after a few stitches and some painkillers, he’ll be right as reign. Maybe a nap. Breakfast in bed, too, if he can weasel it out of Owen.
“If you want to continue being able to do anything, let alone be sarky, you need to hold still,” Owen advises (and by ‘advises’ Curt means he instructs with a very threatening voice) and he reaches for the small needle and a spool of suture thread he’d managed to acquire by grovelling for Cynthia, the last time he’d been in America. Which Curt can’t fault, given that it’s rather helpful now. The needle’s undoubtedly sterilised too, because Owen’s always been a stickler for the proper treatment regarding injuries.
Owen brushes his hand over the portion of Curt’s skin on show, and Curt can feel the goosebumps raise – Owen’s touch is gentle. Far gentler than he was expecting, far gentler than he deserves. Owen always insists on treating Curt with the utmost of care, which Curt is eternally grateful for. However, it does mean that Curt’s imagination is given the go-ahead to run wild, and so he’s caught up in his own head with the thought of Owen’s mouth on his when the needle sinks into his skin.
“This is worse than I remember,” He chokes out through gritted teeth, his own nails digging into his leg. Owen gives a reassuring squeeze to his thigh, and a comforting smile, because he knows how awful this can be. Curt tips his head back against the edge of the sofa, and allows one of his arms to rest lazily along the back. Owen slows with his stitching briefly, before picking up the pace, avoiding staring at Curt’s face.
“Good. Maybe it’ll be an incentive to stop throwing yourself into the way of oncoming knives.”
“Oh come on,” Curt starts, wincing slightly as Owen pulls the needle out, “-you have to admit it was pretty cool.”
“It was cool,” Owen gives in, finally. “I’d just prefer it if you didn’t try and get yourself killed every time we head out on a mission together. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to get away from me.”
“Who says I’m not just trying to impress you?” Curt tries desperately to make it sound like he’s lying.
“Then I’d say that your way of impressing me is a little strange. Do the normal thing, and just ask me out to dinner,” Owen mutters, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. It stumps Curt, stunted breaths coming fast and heavy as he considers the possibility of just going for it. Taking the plunge. Asking him out, consequences be damned. Luckily, it’s around the time that Owen finishes the final knot, tying it up enough so that it won’t come undone easily, and Curt can pass his small panic off as just a natural response to the pain. They’re both quiet for a while after that.
It almost feels as though they're creeping towards something. The biting remarks and the flirty words do not come unwelcome to either of them, but they never truly mean anything; just utterances mentioned on missions, never discussed when they return home. Questions left unanswered, honest words left unspoken. It's different, this time, though. It feels more real. Curt can't pinpoint why, but he knows that they've changed their footing; they're finally on equal ground, and Curt intends to push whatever this is between them as far as it can go.
“..do you make a habit of this, then?”
“Hm?” Owen asks, distracted – his eyes remain on the sliver of skin peeking out from beneath Curt’s shirt, glancing over the size of the cut. Stitched up, now, and Owen moves to softly push the dish towel against it, cleaning it slowly.
“Bringing a pretty boy back to your hotel room.” Owen’s mouth drops, his face flushes a deep red, and he scrambles for something to say. His left hand still rests on Curt’s thigh, but for the first time in the entire process, Curt believes that Owen is just as flustered as he is. The press of Owen’s fingers against his skin barely phases him now. In fact, he’s not thinking about it. Not at all. He’s doing a very good job at not thinking about it, really. He should get an award for it, or something.
“I don’t quite think that’s what’s happening here, Mega.” Is the first coherent thing Owen can manage, and Curt attempts to prop himself up, glancing down at Owen, still kneeling – and Curt raises an eyebrow in mock inquisition.
“What, you don’t think I’m pretty?”
Owen goes silent.
“I didn’t say that.”
“So you do think I’m pretty?” Curt prompts, and leans even closer. Daring. Owen drops the abandoned needle into the bowl of water, and moves the dish towel into a heap beside it.
It’s a strange game of push-and-pull that’s prolonged between them. Exhilarating, and a little frightening at times. Curt works hard to toe the very edge of the line, and then Owen vaults himself as far over it as he can manage, until a new line for the pair is drawn; and then they’ll toe that one, too.
“Owen? Owen, I’m almost certain that I asked you a question-”
“-this will leave a cool scar, I’m sure,” Owen speaks over him, voices mingling in the silence of the room, and Curt wonders whether or not the people in the next room over are judging them. They’d fumbled in at an ungodly hour, all of the lights in the hall had remained firmly off, and as far as successful evenings go, all they’d done is trade increasingly loud insults with each other. They can’t have garnered the best reputation amongst their neighbours.
“Will you think it’s cool?” Curt asks, voice low. Nearing timidity. Or something similar.
“What?” Owen looks as though he’s genuinely taken aback by the onslaught of vulnerability in Curt’s tone, and Curt internally congratulates himself. He’s successfully shifted the topic back to Owen’s opinion of him, and even better if Owen takes pity on him for a moment or so. It gives Curt more time to think about just how he’ll consider asking Owen to dinner.
(It doesn’t mean he can’t indulge in the dramatics, for a minute. He enjoys it. Sue him.)
“You heard me,” He mumbles, volume increasing until Owen’s jaw hangs open slightly, “-will you think my scar looks cool? Will you think I’m badass? The best agent Cynthia’s got?”
Curt pushes further, grin working itself onto his face. It’s a mix of unadulterated joy and childish glee, and Owen shakes his head, biting back a smile. Curt can see it starting to form, but Owen holds his ground, and returns his hand on the outside of Curt’s thigh. Curt stops breathing, temporarily, and hurriedly wills Owen not to notice.
“You’re an incorrigible bastard, that was ridiculous-” Owen rushes, “I thought you were upset!"
Owen turns himself away, shifting the bowl to one side as he tries to withhold a laugh. He doesn’t manage it in the slightest. Curt takes this lovely break to recover, away from Owen’s invasive eyes for a second, and allows his pulse to regulate, before responding.
“I am upset! The very notion you don’t consider me Cynthia’s best is devastating to me. You hear that? Devastating.”
“I think ‘best’ is a stretch. You’re flattering yourself a bit.” Owen eventually teases, skillfully dodging the question. He’s used to it; not just because of the interrogations, or the ruthless undercover missions, but from Curt’s relentless taunting. The incessant compliments, the prying questions, Owen’s become something of a veteran at avoiding them. Or at the very least, not acknowledging them directly. Curt only finds it mildly infuriating.
“That isn’t a no. Do you think I’m Cynthia’s best agent?” He narrows his eyes, tossing Owen an inquisitive glance – Owen responds with a coy look of his own.
“Humble as always, Mega. No, it isn’t a no.”
“Well that just makes it sound like you’re saying no, but in a polite and far-too-complicated way.” Curt says, and swings his legs around so he’s sitting up. It doesn’t take long for Owen’s hand to return to the outer of his leg.
“I’m not saying no.” Owen confirms, and Curt’s still so wrapped up in the way that Owen’s hand feels against his thigh that he can’t muster the self-control to avoid provoking him. In theory, he knows it’s a bad idea, poking a sleeping bear and all that, but in practice, he cannot avoid teasing him that little bit more.
“Could you say that again? Couldn’t quite hear you, I’m afraid. Head’s a bit fuzzy, and all.”
“I’m not saying no.” Owen solidifies, remaining stern with his answer. He looks slightly more fed up now, but his gaze still holds that unwavering affection for Curt. So much so, that Curt allows his thoughts to wander sometimes – he imagines what it would be like if his look held something more. Something like love.
(He banishes the thought instantly. Not while he’s got company, anyways. That’s the type of thought that he keeps to himself; his own personal collection of Owen’s built up affection, composed of whispered nothings between him and the bedsheets when he finds himself lonely in the night. When he can convince himself that Owen stares at him for just a fraction of a second too long. Where he mutters soft ‘I love you’s’ into the crook of Curt’s neck. When he presses his lips against the warm flesh of Curt’s cheek, and Curt is not forced to push him away. Those thoughts belong to Curt, and Curt alone.)
“Once more for good luck?” He pushes a final time, and Owen grasps at the pillow again, throwing it back up so it rests on top of Curt’s chest. He’s careful to avoid what remains of the crimson stain at his side, and Owen mumbles “shove over” under his breath. Curt promptly does, and Owen picks himself up off the ground, slumping next to Curt.
“That hurt,” Curt mutters, about a minute too late for it to be believable.
“See, there’s a really easy fix to this,” Owen starts, moving to stare at Curt; Owen’s gaze drags down to Curt’s exposed clavicle, and stays fixated there, “-and that’s to stop saying stupid things.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Curt jibes, beaming all the while. This time, Owen can’t stop it, and quickly joins him in smiling. He can’t ever really help it, if he’s being honest – constantly biting back a chuckle or attempting to stifle a giggle in Curt’s presence. It does wonders for Curt’s ego, truly.
“Jesus, you’ve got a busted lip too. How did you even manage that?” Owen notices, reaching up to press a hand against Curt’s jaw. He’s right, Curt’s lip has split, and it’s the stinging in his jaw that forces Curt to realise that there’s likely to be a bruise accompanying it in the next few days.
“Things got a bit rough. You know how it is, heat of the moment,” Curt jokes, and Owen thumbs at the edge of Curt’s lip. He tries not to wince. He fails.
The air thickens. It becomes infinitely harder to breathe, and Curt mulls over the several thousand ways this could play out sensibly. Then, of course, he ignores all of them.
“Kiss it better?” Curt offers, because for some reason, it’s the only string of words his woeful brain can shove together. It turns out to be the right set of words, though, because Owen starts to look like he’s considering it. Curt wonders if this is it – the precipice, the cliff to which they’d been approaching for longer than he could imagine. He wonders which one of them will take the dive first.
“I feel like you’re mocking me.” Owen settles on, barely a whisper. Voice low, rich, and warm - it's a comfort amidst the chill of the room. It’s more intense than Curt expects. Owen inches closer, and it’d be almost impossible to notice, had Curt not been watching him to a degree of scrutiny.
“I’d never.” Curt says, deadly serious. He means it. Not about something like this.
“You so would.” Owen smirks, and Curt waits for the tension to break. Snapping quickly, he imagines it, like a rubber band under pressure. Except it doesn’t snap, it just stays in a limbo-like state, surrounding the pair of them in a thick static and shutting out the rest of the world. Owen leans closer, smile slowly fading from his face.
“I wouldn’t.” Curt reaffirms, hoping Owen’s understanding what he’s laying down. He hopes it’s enough.
“Right,” Owen swallows, and Curt’s eyes drift to the curve of his throat, before flickering back up to his lips. They don’t move from his lips.
“Can I..?” Owen asks, and he doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Just sort of vaguely motions to Curt’s mouth. It’s so endearing that Curt fears his heart may try and give out. Curt takes initiative, as per usual; it’s oddly reminiscent of the way he’d stepped in front of Owen earlier, moving with a certain haste and precision that only really came from need – an innate desire to keep Owen safe.
He presses his lips against the very corner of Owen’s mouth, trying to keep his body from flinching as it twists against the knife-wound in his side. He can’t bring himself to care too much about it, because faster than he knows it, faster than he can even try to make sense of what’s happening, Owen’s kissing back ardently, pulling him closer. Curt tries to push against him, a brief desperation to continue; to push Owen further, to see just how far he’ll pull, before Owen hesitantly draws back.
Curt rushes to maintain his grasp on things, senses entirely overwhelmed with Owen. Every nerve in his body’s alight, a live wire, and for a second, he’s worried he’s done something wrong. Said something, let something slip without realising. Scared him off. Except Owen’s grinning wider than he’s ever seen before, and he seems just as rattled as Curt.
“Your lip,” He gestures, panting heavily, and Curt only realises when he tentatively touches his finger to it, that it’s split again. The metallic taste quickly fills his mouth, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been more irritated with the injuries sustained on a mission.
“Fuck.” Curt mutters, and he can’t keep the disappointment from flooding his tone. It’s a fruitless attempt. “Did you – are we okay?”
Owen pauses. Then he reaches across, brushing a hand quickly through Curt’s hair, pushing some of it back into place, and he nods.
“I think we’re better than okay, Mega.” And Curt can’t help the relief that crashes over him in waves, “Dinner?”
“What?”
“I figured you weren't likely to ask me out in a normal way anytime soon, so I may as well. Mega, would you like to get dinner with me at some point?” Owen asks, still attempting to stabilise the unsteady rising-and-falling of his chest. Curt grins, and presses a chaste kiss against Owen’s cheek, leaving a small red mark in his wake. Owen reaches a hand up to gently touch it, eyes wide and dilated. He’s looking at Curt with the same affection he always has, except now Curt’s able to recognise it for what it is – nothing with a name, yet, but he knows what it is, which is a vast improvement from before. He knows, and it’s like a ten-tonne weight levers itself from his chest. He knows, and although it’s not quite love yet, it could be.
(It will be, Curt thinks confidently.)
Without hesitation, Curt curls into Owen's chest. Owen's arms reach around him instinctively, resting easily at his waist. They talk, and they talk, and they talk; slowly wasting away the hours, small whispers pressed against the flush of skin – and when they eventually wake in the morning, a mess of tangled limbs, despite their inevitable backache, they'll be happy.