Fingertips ghosting over his cheek, lips brushing over his own; the remainders of the night lingered over him. Eyes that held so much sorrow, unbefitting of a man that cared. He loved too much.
And it cost him.
Curt will do him one better, he would love him just as much or if not, more. He would shoulder his burden for him and he’ll start by doing his part in dealing with his nuisance of a client.
"Well? Did you find anything substantial in your investigation?"
The photograph of Owen lies sitting on the desk between him and his client. "Not much, I'm afraid." He lied through his teeth. "He's a grieving man for all I know, lost his wife when he went off to war. Been drowning his sorrows in giggle water since."
His client looked befuddled before annoyance overtook its place. "I don't believe a single word you said. I know there is something more to Carvour than being half-seas over liquour." He jabbed an accusing finger at him, "You're withholding information from me, aren't you?"
Curt stoically stared him down. "Are you accusing me, sir ?"
"I'm saying you're keeping information from me when I hired you and paid you a good sum to extract that information for me!" He spat, abruptly standing up causing the chair to scrape noisily across the ground.
"I know Carvour didn't fight in the war and I sure as hell don't remember him having a wife. It was always Whigham who he spent time with after work, hell, every waking minute of his life he wasn't working, he was with that damned Whigham. I thought nothing of it at first," his voice dripped maliciously. "Till I saw them hugging round the block from our office all those years ago. Chums don't hug that way; they don't linger for more than a few seconds, they don't nuzzle their faces in their friend's neck.”
Curt was very close to stabbing him with a letter opener.
"I’ve never been more glad in my life to learn that Whigham left for war and never returned. I was doggone joyous. And my suspicions didn’t end there when Carvour fell into a depressive stupor for a few years before he disappeared nightly to indulge in his shameless past time behaviour. Because, you know what I think they are?"
His expression turned an endless black.
" Bloody sex perverts. Fags , the lot of them."
He slammed his hand down on his desk in anger, causing the stationery to tremble. He stood up, facing him eye to eye.
"Sir, if you utter that word again in my vicinity, I will have you regret it for weeks to come."
The man scoffed before a realisation struck him, eyes widened in understanding.
“You’re protecting Carvour, aren’t you? Because you’re one of them perverts as well.” His face twisted in disgust, stumbling backwards as a means to further himself from Curt. “I’m leaving and I'm telling folks about the nature of Carvour and you'll see how'd you like it!"
“I don’t think you’d want to do that after I leak this out.”
The man turned back to see a case file being placed on the desk, it was plain on the front, innocent looking, but when Curt opened it, fear choked him. Within the folder lies a couple of photographs of him dancing with a man, hands clasped, bodies flushed, head peeking over to look at someone not within the photograph. “Now, listen here, I was trying to catch Carvour out. I had to blend in, I’m not one of you. Could never be!” He spat, albeit his voice a little unsure and shaky.
Curt chuckled humourlessly, he knows he got him cornered in a spot with no way out. It's a victory unlike others. " Are you though? These photographs seem to suggest otherwise. And you know photographic evidence is the strongest evidence there is." He smirked at him, gesturing at the photos that now spilled over the desk.
The man glanced at him nervously before glancing back down at the photographs then back at him. In a split second, he lunged for them across the table and failed miserably as they were swiped up by Curt and tucked into his coat. He grasped at thin air before seeing defeat, slumped against the desk, seething in petty rage. "You can't do this, it's unethical. It'll ruin my life."
He felt pity for his client. He who had nothing meaningful in his life to invest his attention in, in turn deciding to ruin someone else’s instead in hopes of feeling something. Piteous.
"You had no problem ruining mine a few minutes ago. If I'm going to Hell, you’re coming along with me. But, you leave Carvour out of this. I won't ask twice. So, are you still determined to spread the good word about me?"
The man swore a great amount of profanity before unwillingly spitting out a "Christ on a bike, No!" To which Curt smiled, satisfied with the answer.
"It was a swell opportunity to take on your case, thank you for allowing me to be your P.I.”
The man gathered the last of his dignity and left Curt’s office, slamming the door shut in his wake. Curt sighed as the adrenaline left his system. That was a tiring feat, it could’ve easily gone flipside on him if he hadn’t maneuvered the situation right.
He deserved a break.
Drained, he slumped back down on his chair as he massaged his temples in circular motions. Peeking an eye open, he caught onto the forgotten photograph of Owen which laid on his desk. Leaning forward, he clasped his hand around the picture and brought it backwards with him into the comfort of the chair, letting it rest in his hold.
Worth the fight.