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“Personal history does have its benefits, Mega.” Owen said, knowing the familiar words would sting in Curt’s mind. Curt lowered his gun slightly, raising an eyebrow. He clearly knew the phrase but struggled to place it. Typical forgetful Curt.
Owen reached towards the base of his neck, slowly peeling away at the mask he had worn for the past 4 years. He maintained eye contact with Curt, ignoring the other two agents at his side. This wasn’t about them. Curt’s eyes grew wider with every inch of Owen’s face that he revealed. As he pulled the mask off his head fully, the woman to Curt’s left spoke.
“Owen?”
Interesting. Owen had worked with Tatiana and she never knew of his real identity, meaning Curt had been talking about him enough for her to know him by face and voice alone. How cute. Owen smirked, mouth open ready to make some comment about always being on Curt’s mind, how Curt had been on his mind too, for entirely different reasons, when the wind was knocked out of his chest. Something collided with him. Someone. Curt.
The American had wrapped his arms tightly around Owen with such a speed that he had no time to react. Curt gripped the back of Owen’s shirt, burying his face in his chest and shaking slightly. Owen’s hands instinctively found their way to the back of Curt’s head, to his soft hair. He had missed the feeling of Curt’s hair in his hands, he realised. He curled his hands tighter in his hair, pulling him closer and taking a deep breath to replace the one that Curt had knocked out of him. It didn’t surprise him, but Curt smelled the same as he had four years ago, if a little more of alcohol. He smiled at how familiar it all felt. He thought back to their missions together, how he would chide Curt’s drinking on the job, yet take a swig from his flask with him anyway.
Curt sighed as Owen pulled him closer. Their proximity reminded him of all the times they had ignored the second single bed in hotel rooms and opted to share, even if it ended in limbs hanging off the edges of it – not that they slept much in those hotel rooms anyway. He felt the rise and fall of Curt’s chest against his own and closed his eyes. How long had it been since he had felt like this?
“Y-you died.” Curt sobbed into Owen’s chest, breathing heavy and tears seeping into Owen’s shirt. Owen stared down at him for a moment, relishing in the closeness of the man he had once considered a lover. Curt broke the moment as he sniffed and looked up into Owen’s eyes.
“I thought you were dead. Owen, I-“
Then Owen saw it.
This wasn’t Curt: the man Owen had shared many nights with; the man who had once whispered his name like a secret under the sheets in hotel bedrooms; the man Owen had loved. This was Agent Curt Mega. The man who had caused him so much pain. The man who had left him to burn in that weapons facility, running to save his own hide. The man who had killed Owen Carvour as the world knew him.
It didn’t matter that Curt had left that stupid banana peel, or that he had set the bomb timers too short without asking, or that he hadn’t relatched the safety barricades to limit the blast. What mattered is that he didn’t even stop to check if Owen was alive. He did not even consider the possibility that he had survived the fall. Curt had run away. Curt had abandoned him.
All the warmth that had flooded him drained in an instant. He looked down at Curt, so vulnerable here in Owen’s hands again, tears staining his cheeks. Shame, he was so pretty when he cried. Owen moved one hand from the back of Curt’s head to cup his cheek, the American sinking into the touch. He pressed one last gentle kiss to Curt’s lips, soft and sincere, before reaching for a knife on his belt with his free hand.
He kept a hand on Curt’s cheek as he slowly stabbed it into his torso, watching the adoration and relief in Curt’s face turn to agony as he choked on his breath. As the colour drained from the American’s face, Owen’s smile grew. A growing patch of red appeared on Curt’s pale blue shirt, seeping out under his jacket – funny, Owen recalled that used to be his own jacket. Curt would have kept it all these years, sentimental prick.
Curt sobbed again, coughing and spluttering, blood leaking from the side of his mouth and dripping onto Owen’s shirt. Curt grabbed at Owen’s arm, his shoulder, his face. Owen twisted the knife, causing another breathless cry from the dying man in his arms.
Once Owen was satisfied that he had watched every last drop of life leave Curt’s eyes, he roughly pulled the knife out of his stomach and let him fall to the ground.
He turned to the other two agents in the room, bloody knife in hand. He raised it to his eyeline and inspected it, the crimson dripping down the blade’s handle and onto his fingers.
“I suggest you leave.”