Chapter Text
“A new world awaits us, Curt. A world without agencies, a world without spies, a world without secrets.”
Curt had slumped back against the wall of the weapons facility, eyes trained on the steps below him. Tears that had been building behind his eyes since the moment Owen had stepped out from behind that curtain and ripped apart his world still threatened to fall if he didn’t keep his composure. Curt couldn’t look at him, but he knew what he would find if he did. He had heard the gun cock during Owen’s tirade, knew that it was aimed to kill. Something at the back of his mind whispered that Owen would never go through with it, that there was still a semblance of the man he once knew keeping him from firing, but he couldn’t risk his life—the fate of the world—on a passing hope.
“Some secrets aren’t yours to share.” Curt steeled himself before finally forcing himself to look back at Owen, but his voice still shook despite himself. He was right, Owen’s gun was pointed at his head, moonlight glinting off the black metal. His face was still partially hidden in shadows, the only source of light being the moon behind him. Fog from the cool night air wrapped around him, making him look more like the ghost Curt had seen in every dark corner for the past four years than a human man of flesh and blood.
“What about our secret? The time we shared. The feelings we had,” he continued, willing every bone in his body for the strength to take another step forward, “ for each other.” The height change as he moved up the stairs had caused Owen’s gun to now aim at his heart, but Curt swore he saw his arm falter just slightly. “Are you ready to share that with the world?”
There was a pause, silent save for the ragged sound of Curt’s breath. He studied Owen’s face, searching for a sign that he was getting through to him—that he was still him. Something flickered in his eye, a soft look from their past slipping through, gone in an instant. Probably a trick of the light. Owen raised his gun back to Curt’s head.
“That secret died the night you left me for dead.”
Curt shook his head, letting out a bitter laugh. “Clearly.” Curt stepped down, looking away once again. He was quickly losing whatever shred of bravery he had been desperately hanging on to all night. He was failing. There were only two ways the night could end—with him dead, or Owen. Not Owen, he reminded himself, just a stranger in his body.
But he hasn’t fired. He’s had every chance to kill you and yet he hasn’t. There has to be something holding him back. The traitorous voice was back, but Curt shoved it down. Wishful thinking wouldn’t save the world.
“Here’s some advice, Curt.” Owen’s cold voice brought Curt out of his head. “It’s called moving on, do give it a try.”
Curt knew what he had to do. He turned, and before Owen could react, shot the gun out of his hand. He climbed up the stairs, leaving only a step between them. Curt glanced at the gun in his hand, now firmly trained on Owen’s head, then back at Owen’s face.
“You know killing me won’t take the system offline,” Owen huffed, hands balling into fists, “so what are you doing?” The defeat in his voice was evident, he could barely look in Curt’s eyes as he spoke. An inch closer and the barrel of Curt’s gun would dig into his skull. Curt summoned whatever willpower he had left.
“Taking your advice.”
He fired, praying to whatever god was out there that his hands would remain steady. The shot echoed around him as he watched Owen’s now lifeless body fall back on the steps. The sight made his resolve crumble. His gun fell from his hand, clattering down the several stories of stairs beneath him. He rushed forward, stumbling as he reached for Owen. His hands betrayed him, wrapping around to cradle the back of Owen’s head. He felt the bullet hole, the blood, warm and sticky, seeping over his fingers. It pooled on the landing beneath them, dripping down between the gaps of the cold, metal staircase.
Sobs racked his body. He could barely hold himself up, limbs shaking too much to support his weight. When his head slumped to Owen’s chest, memories of all the nights they had spent together ran through his head. He almost expected to hear the familiar beat of his heart underneath his ear.
Curt didn’t know how long he stayed there, Owen’s body cradled in his arms, but eventually, the warmth had seeped from him, cementing him back in reality. He lifted himself up, daring one last look at Owen’s face. He looked almost peaceful, if not for the still leaking bullet wound through his forehead.
He had killed him. The man he once loved, killed by his own hand. He had foolishly thought that maybe this time it wouldn’t hurt as much. He had already lived four years thinking he was dead, blaming himself for what had happened—and it was his fault. He had been the one who lied, set the timer for three minutes instead of four. He had been the one who carelessly left the banana peel on the steps. He had been the one who left, running away as Owen’s crumpled body lay stories below him. Sure, he thought it was impossible for Owen to have survived the fall, but he had still left him there to rot.
It was his fault back then, but nothing could compare to killing Owen with his own hand. With intent. No, he thought. Owen had died four years ago. The body lying in front of him was not the same, just a hollow shell of who he used to be. Whatever Chimera had done to him during the four years he’d been gone had killed Owen, not Curt. That’s what he kept telling himself as he finally stood up, going down the stairs in a daze. Leaving Owen behind once again, this time knowing with full certainty it was for good.
When he reached the ground, he knew he should call Tatiana and tell her what happened, get someone to clean up the body—remove every trace of his and Owen’s existence from the facility. But he didn’t.
He slumped to the ground yet again, exhaustion overtaking him like waves crashing against the shore. He let his face fall to his hands, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes, smearing Owen’s blood across his cheeks and brow before reeling back in horror at what he had just done. He let his eyes close, refusing to look down at his blood-coated hands. The night was cold and wet and far too quiet. An eerie calm shrouded the area. How could the world be so calm after what had just happened? Life was continuing on around him, oblivious to the horrors he had faced mere minutes before.
Owen was dead, but he was right. Killing him hadn’t taken the systems offline. Chimera’s surveillance network was still out there, databases filled with all the world’s secrets. Information that could destroy the world as they knew it. He wondered if Tatiana and Barb had succeeded in destroying the first island facility. Wondered if they had been trying to get through to him, if he had just missed the calls as he cried over Owen’s body. They were probably looking for him. They might even think their mission was over—after all, only he knew about the wealth of other Chimera compounds they had yet to locate.
He knew he needed to tell them. They needed to destroy Chimera once and for all, but he couldn’t will himself to move from his spot beneath the stairs. Owen’s body, bleeding out stories above him, tethered him in place. He knew there was no changing what had happened, what’s done was done. He would have to live with the consequences. But, foolishly, he wished he could go back in time, to before that godforsaken mission four years ago. Back to when Owen was his Owen, not whatever Chimera had molded him into. In that moment, Curt wished he could have kissed him one last time.
…
Curt’s eyes blinked open, the beginnings of daylight shocking him awake. His exhaustion must have gotten the better of him, he couldn’t even remember falling asleep. His throat was dry and sore, run ragged from crying, and every muscle in his body ached. His head was killing him, too. He screwed his eyes shut and turned his head away from the light, face meeting the threadbare fabric of a pillowcase—damn A.S.S. budget could afford to develop rocket shoes but not a decent hotel room for their best spy.
Wait.
Curt shot up, aching body be damned, and took in his surroundings. He was in a shabby hotel room, bare save for the bed, lamp, and a small dresser being used as a bedside table. It seemed distantly familiar, but then again most hotel rooms did after staying in enough of them. The familiarity, however, wasn’t important, because how the fuck was he in a hotel room?
The events of the last night, after he had shot Owen, were a bit of a blur in his mind, but he knew he had never left the weapons facility. Had Barb and Tatiana managed to find him after all? Surely he would remember them bringing him here. Part of him wondered if it had all been a dream, but it couldn’t have been. It was all too real—and even his worst nightmares since Owen’s “death” could never think up the horrors that he had gone through in the past few days. He could still hear the phantom of the gunshot ringing in his ears. He looked down at his hands, at Owen’s blood still caked under his fingernails, dried in the lines of his palms.
He forced himself to look away and his eyes fell to the communicator watch on his wrist. He could vaguely remember Barb talking about their new tracking technology, that must have been how they’d found him. But why weren’t they here?
He went to call them, but his voice came out in a hoarse whisper. He needed water. Stumbling out of bed, he quickly found the door to the small hotel bathroom. It took a minute for the water to run through the rusty sink faucet. Curt ignored the disgust at the thought of drinking from a hotel bathroom and dipped his head down anyway. The cold water soothed his throat and shocked the last hints of sleep out of his body. He stood back up, slumping against the grimy, tiled wall, letting his eyes fall closed once again.
When he opened them again, he dared a look in the mirror. He didn’t really know what he expected to find. Owen’s blood was still smeared across his face, some even caked in his hair. His eyes were dull, the dark bags under them contrasting his otherwise pale face. He hadn’t looked this bad since that first year without Owen. It made sense, it’s no easy task burying your ex-lover returned from the grave to kill you. He glanced down and noticed another splotch of blood on his lips, his knuckles turned white as he gripped the edges of the sink like a lifeline.
Oh.
He thought he had imagined the metallic tang in his mouth.
He splashed water on his face before he could linger on the thought, scrubbing at his skin until his face was red and raw. He needed out of his body, needed to scrub himself free from the memories of the previous night. He stumbled over to the shower, carelessly flinging his clothes behind him—he should burn them later, he thought distantly.
He didn’t bother turning on the hot water, he knew it wouldn’t heat up anyway, these shitty hotel showers never did. The stream of ice-cold water numbed his body as he raked his fingers through his hair, untangling the knots that had been hardened with dried blood. He watched as the water washed down the drain, stained a light pink from Owen’s blood. He scraped his nails across his scalp until it hurt, scrubbed until he had rid himself of every last trace of Owen.
When he stepped out of the shower, he registered that he still only had his bloodstained clothes on hand. He pulled them on mindlessly, grimacing at the smell of stale blood and sweat. He looked at the light blue shirt now spattered with dark splotches of red, nearly black—a shame, it had been one of his favorites. He didn’t bother fixing his hair. Normally the feeling of it falling against his forehead would make his skin crawl, but he couldn’t be driven to care anymore. He needed to get his head on straight and figure out where the fuck he was—where Barb and Tatiana were.
“Barb? Tati? Are you there?” He tried his watch again but was met only with the crackle of static. He let out a groan of frustration. It had to have been nearly an hour since he had woken up and all he had was radio silence. They had to have some reason to not be there, they wouldn’t just leave him alone after all they had been through together.
Unless they weren’t the ones to bring him here.
He thought about it. Was it possible that Chimera had found him? Brought him here as some sort of trap? It was a ludicrous idea, if Chimera had been given a chance to kill him they would have. They had no reason to keep him alive. He was the sole person outside of their ranks who knew of the other warehouses—they wouldn’t hesitate to kill him to keep him quiet, but he was still here. It couldn’t have been Chimera, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t be looking for him. Or already have Barb and Tatiana. Fuck.
He finally dragged himself out of the bathroom, scanning his surroundings properly for the first time since waking up. The room was small, dark except for the sunlight filtering in through the open blinds. He searched for a light switch, blanketing the room in a soft yellow glow from the dusty overhead lights. He had to find some sort of sign that Tati or Barb had been here. He made his way over to the bedside dresser, hoping they could have left a note or something, and tripped over something on the floor.
A duffel bag. Strange, he couldn’t remember ever packing one before their mission. Maybe it was some gear left for him by Barb, or it actually was a trap from Chimera. He reached for it, a little hesitantly. Inside was his typical spy gear—some clothes, the brown rocket shoes he’d been begging Barb to let him try (if only they went with more of his outfits), and what looked to be some old case files. Huh. He must’ve just forgotten about packing the bag, the past few days had been a whirlwind, no wonder he couldn’t remember every minute detail.
He stood back up, resuming his search of the dresser. Before he could find anything else of use, his eyes caught on something on the wall—a calendar. He stopped dead in his tracks, heart jumping as he took in the date.
June, 1957.
It couldn’t be. That couldn’t be right. Surely, the calendar must be old, forgotten. It was just a coincidence it hadn’t been changed in four years. Just a sick, twisted coincidence. Curt rushed for the door, pushing out into the hallway. It took him a minute, but eventually, he found the right way to the front desk. The receptionist gave him a strange look as he came to stand in front of her, nearly out of breath.
“Can I help you, sir?” She quirked an eyebrow up at him.
“Yes. Can you tell me what day it is?” His voice sounded foreign to his own ears and he faintly registered that he had just run up to her in bloodstained clothes. That would explain the strange look, but whatever. He’d be long gone soon anyway.
“June 21st.”
“Okay, and the year?” His voice shook from the rising panic in his chest.
She gave him another concerned once over. “1957. Are you alright?”
His blood ran cold. June 21st, 1957.
“Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Thank you.” He numbly turned away, leaving the receptionist to stare after him. He stumbled back to his room. What in the ever-loving fuck? His mind was reeling. It couldn’t be.
June 21st, 1957.
The day before Owen fell.