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Owen Carvour was a man of great strength. A man who knew he was great and didn’t hesitate to flaunt it. Some people may call it showing off- being full of themselves- but Owen? He called it resourcefulness.


He wasn’t one of the greatest spies of his time for no reason. He was MI6’s favourite asset, his mission success rate flying above everyone else’s and being the role model for aspiring agents. And, of course, that meant that he got cocky. It was no surprise that Carvour’s ego was rather… vast. There wasn’t a humble bone in the man’s body, and he rarely ever felt shame for it, either. 


Not to say that he wasn’t compassionate, though. Though often being somewhat of a lone wolf, the things he cared for he cared about deeply. He tended to keep to himself a lot of the time, not wanting to let himself too attached in the fear of getting terribly hurt further down the line, but he had links to friends dotted around the globe; an old childhood friend down in rural Wales that, as far as she was aware, knew Owen as the charmingly witty office worker for a big city radio company; the baker in Paris that he got pally with on a rather laid back mission who only knew him as a lone tourist looking to photograph as many sights as he could; the Canadian that Owen had spent a few nights with during a snowstorm that had actually shown him kindness rather than hostility. 


Of course, none of his friends knew the real him. The real Owen Carvour who spent his days hunched over a table surrounded by maps and enemy intel and spent his nights guns ablaze stepping over bodies. These were simply familiar faces, warm smiles who always welcomed Owen with open arms and a “how have you been?”. The wonderful positive to wanting to be an actor was that Owen was extremely good at improv- he could rattle on for hours about how his boss was getting on his last nerve requesting statistics reports, about the latest camera model he had acquired that was much better at taking panoramic photographs, how he’d bought a thicker, warmer coat ready for his next hike through the snowy mountains. And, hell, what was a little improvisation if you could spend the night over a glass of wine with someone that doesn’t want you dead?


He hadn’t had a true friend since accepting the job at MI6. He couldn’t . Telling anyone would put them in danger. It was almost a blessing that he wasn’t in contact with any of his family anymore. Less innocent people’s blood on his hands. Though it wasn’t as if Owen didn’t want friends- no, no he definitely did. He wasn’t heartless. No matter how much he liked to convince himself and everyone around him that he was perfectly fine on his own and no, he doesn’t need to ask anyone for help, thank you- somewhere inside of him he longed for a companion. Someone who just understood him, plain and simple. His wants, his desires, his feelings- Lord knows he needed to talk about those- just someone who knew him more than ‘Owen, that man I meet up with every few months for pleasantries’. 


What he really wanted was intimacy. Domestic, platonic, or otherwise.


Enter Curt Mega, stage left. 


The man that Owen may or may not be falling head over heels for.


You could almost say that it was fate. Really, how often did you find the person that you just so happen to be falling in love with a little bit more every day in a career that doesn’t often make room for love? And how often do you regularly get paired with said person, claiming hours upon hours of alone time with them to really get to know them? And how often do they show interest in you?


It must be fate.


Owen rarely considered himself that lucky.


However, if Owen just happened to be in the same city as Curt on a mission that had just happened to go completely tits up that just happened to leave Owen in desperate need of medical attention, then maybe, just this once, Owen had a bit of luck.


Maybe it was the blood loss, but the trek up to Curt’s flat felt much more like climbing Mount Everest than it did a few flights of stairs. He wasn’t quite sure how much blood he’d lost, but he did know that there were a lot more holes in him than there were before. His right hand had been clutching at his side the entire time, desperately hoping that he would be applying enough pressure to stem any bleeding that was most likely happening at the most prominent source of pain. That allowed his left hand free to do the tedious tasks such as opening doors, ringing doorbells, knocking desperately on doors. You know, the important things.


Owen had mostly lost track of time whilst on his journey across the city, watch forgotten on his wrist as he focused on not collapsing in the middle of the street. Even if he did spare a glance at it, it would be pointless- the face was covered with stains. So, Owen figured, if he didn’t know what time it was, thus not knowing how late it was, he didn’t have to feel any guilt for banging and slamming his fist on Curt’s front door when the man on the other side could very well be sleeping. 


He did realise that all of this noise could draw attention to him, and he very much knew that a deranged looking man covered in blood and gashes and bruises violently bashing against a door was probably not the best look, but his quick thinking gave him a wonderful plan if anyone happened to turn a corner into the corridor: act drunk. 


Britain’s best spy, I remind you.


So good, in fact, that when the door mere centimetres away from his face opened unexpectedly, he fell head first into the man’s chest on the other side.


Curt caught Owen with a grunt, strong arms wrapping around him as he dragged him into the safety of his flat. Though Owen’s vision was blurring, he could definitely make out the furrowed brows on his friend’s face. 


Oh dear.


“What the hell!?” Curt hissed, face darting out of his door once more as he checked that no one was in the corridor to witness anything. He quickly slammed the door shut again, picking Owen up in both of his arms to move him to the sofa sitting in the middle of the room. He not so carefully placed him down, instantly moving to check over all of Owen’s injuries as fast as he could. Gotta make sure the man wasn’t dying.


“The hell are you doing here, Carvour?” Owen couldn’t quite tell the tone of his voice, and that’s how he knew that he was out of it- he could usually read Curt like a book. “All the damn banging on my door, I thought it was a hit trying to distract me or something!”


Owen then noticed the gun that was in Curt’s hand, his fingers holding it in a death grip. 




Definitely oh dear.


“I’m-” Owen’s voice was scratchy. He took a second to clear his throat, trying to remedy the dryness. “Sorry, love.”


“Yeah, thanks,” Curt quickly brushed off the apology, choosing instead to crouch down in front of Owen to peel his hand away from his side. He hissed when he saw the wound, thinking it over for a second before placing Owen’s hand back. “The hell happened to you? And why are you here?”


Owen grimaced as he shifted himself on the sofa, trying to find himself a comfortable position. He knew Curt wasn’t angry at him. He could tell that he was asking out of concern. If Curt had shown up randomly to Owen’s home covered in blood, Owen knew he would have the exact same reaction.


“Extremely unprofessional, I know--”


“Shut up, dummy. I’m glad you came for help.” Curt stood up once more, moving to help Owen take off his jacket without aggravating anything- he’d need it gone to get better access to the wounds. “But, uh.. Shouldn’t you have your own med team? Y’know, MI6 provided? Not the American on his one day off?”


Owen moved with Curt, allowing the other man to manoeuvre his arms out of his jacket sleeves. He hissed in pain as he caught his side slightly, Curt rubbing his arm lightly in apology. “My comm broke.” He said simply. “And there was no way I could’ve gotten back to them without collapsing in the street.”


“Well, good thing you remembered my address.” Curt tried to lighten the situation, taking Owen’s bloodied jacket and tossing it in the dirty laundry basket nearby. 


Owen flashed him a toothy grin, despite the pain. “MI6’s best.”


Curt huffed a small laugh, his lips turning into a small smile. It quickly faded, though, his features becoming a lot more serious. He turned back to Owen, kneeling on the floor next to Owen’s head on the sofa. 


“I gotta ask… Was anyone following you?”


Owen shook his head, eyes drooping shut as he rested his head back. He hadn’t realised quite how exhausted he was. “All dead.”


Curt shook Owen’s shoulders gently, his hand sending a wave of comforting warmth through Owen. “Eyes open, buddy, don’t want you going unconscious on me. As long as we aren’t expecting any more guests, you can stay the night. There’s no way you’re getting wherever you need to be right now.”


“But I--”


“Ah!” Curt pressed a finger to Owen’s lips to shut him up, and the Brit could do nothing but comply. He just sighed, somehow managing to flop his head back further than it already was. Curt just rolled his eyes. “Dramatic ass.”


Owen just gave Curt a thumbs up that quickly turned into a middle finger. Curt playfully flicked it away, flipping the bird back at Owen. 


“I don’t suppose you have any bandages, do you?” 


“Lucky for you I have a whole med kit. Maybe I subconsciously planned for you to come. Wouldn’t that be something?”


“Now, don’t tell me you have secret powers. Would’ve been useful on a couple of missions.”


“Nah, I gotta keep you on your toes somehow. Besides, it wouldn’t be a secret power if I told you, huh?”


Owen just chuckled. “Suppose not.”


Curt smiled at him before pushing himself up off the ground and moving towards what Owen remembered as the bathroom. Owen let the smile fade off his lips once Curt was gone, a small moan of pain slipping out. His side felt like it was burning . Not to mention the countless other injuries littered over his skin; gashes, bruises, maybe even fractured bones. He definitely felt broken.


He knew the side of his waist was messy right now. He’d somehow just dodged a bullet in his standoff, but the tiny thing still managed to scrape along his skin. He hadn’t looked at the damage, and he quite frankly didn’t want to. He knew it would be bad, and that was good enough for him. Curt would deal with it. Or at least patch it up enough for him to get to actual medical help tomorrow. Or today, depending on what time it was.


He looked around the room, scanning the walls for the clock. Ten past two in the morning. Sorry, Curt.


He gave a sad glance to the poor watch sitting on his wrist, mind thinking through all the ways in which he could clean the stains off it and get it back to normal. He knew it was a bad idea to keep wearing his favourite watch on missions. Maybe a wet wipe would get the worst of it off. Then hot soapy water for the rest. But what about the leather- -


He was returned back to the situation at hand when Curt came back into the main room, gun no longer in his hand and instead holding a decent looking box of medical supplies. Due to the natures of their careers, they often kept much more in stock in their homes than most people- you never knew when your partner would come crashing into your flat at 2AM covered in blood.


Curt gave Owen a small smile as he knelt back on the floor beside him, putting the box next to him and opening it up. There were only a few lamps turned on in the room and, combined with Owen’s blood loss, it made Curt look almost heavenly. He was practically glowing. His saviour. 


He looked pretty. Very pretty. The warmth of the lights made his skin the colour of honey, and Owen bet he’d be just as sweet, too. And his eyes. God, his eyes. A warm, homey brown, deep enough for Owen to get lost in, but familiar enough that he could always find his way again. They looked tired- they always did- but that didn’t make them any less beautiful. They always had a way of sparkling, even in the dark, and Owen could rarely take his eyes off them. Whenever Curt smiled Owen always noticed the little wrinkles near the corners of his eyes forming, growing deeper as he got older, and he could never deny that they were endearing. His slight dimples in his cheeks when he smiled caught Owen’s heart, too. He could take in every detail of the other man and never grow tired of them. He was just perfect.


“Wow.” Curt was rooting through the box of supplies, and Owen noticed that the tips of his ears were red. And his cheeks. And the part of his chest he could see above his shirt. “You really think all that about lil ol’ me?”


Owen blinked.


“Oh, buggar--”


Curt just laughed, a warm grin plastered over his face. “Didn’t mean to say all that out loud, huh? You’re cute.”


“It’s- it was the blood loss, I’m not thinking very straight--”


“Nah, I can tell that much. You’re rarely a mushy person out loud, Carvour, y’know that?”


“I tend to try and keep it to myself.” He mumbled, covering his hand with a face. He was beyond embarrassed. Why did he say all of that! Prattling on about how head over heels he was for the man- he should be more careful. He’d never let that slip normally.


But Curt hadn’t reacted negatively. He blushed. That surely meant he didn’t mind it, right? That he.. Enjoyed it? The grin on his face afterwards must have meant that he liked it. That wasn’t the type of grin he flashed at his marks at the bar over a drink- no, that was the type of grin he’d have when they had a good mission run. When they were celebrating. A gleeful grin. 


“I can hear the cogs in your brain from here.” Curt joked, carefully pushing Owen’s shirt up so that he could reach his side. He tucked it under itself so that it wouldn’t unravel while he was working on Owen, his well worked hands unexpectedly gentle. Owen gasped when they brushed against his stomach, though- they were just a tad cold. “Practically steam coming from your ears, too. Don’t worry about it! You know I like a compliment.”


“Just pretend I never said anything.” Owen was never going to live this down. Ever. 


“No..” Curt pretended to think it over. He once again smiled at Owen as he came to his conclusion. “I think I’d like to remember it.”


Curt held up a wad of dressings before Owen could say anything. What was that supposed to mean? He’d like to remember it as in, I’m gonna make fun of you for this forever, or, I actually really liked it and oh by the way I feel the same way about you--


“I’m gonna start cleaning this, is that okay?” Curt interrupted Owen, gesturing to his side. He hadn’t noticed before, but Owen saw a small bowl of warm water with some soap in sitting next to Curt on the floor. He really was out of it.


Owen nodded, resting his head back and clutching onto a pillow with one of his hands. He knew this might sting. 


“Alright. Tell me if it gets too much and I can stop for a sec.” Curt got to work. His hands were careful as he started cleaning away the blood and grime from Owen’s skin, but he was still rubbing and pulling at a sore wound. Owen kept grunting, biting on his bottom lip to get through the pain. No matter how many times he’d done this, it never got easier.


Damn bullets.


His fingers were digging into the pillow as his body went taut, trying to take the pain in any way he knew how. He was clutching the cushion so hard that it was almost hurting his hand, and everything hurt and he just wanted it over.


“Hey, it’s alright.” Curt’s voice was soft, his soothing tone washing over Owen. “Nearly done. Just one more tiny little part, I know it hurts.”


Owen nodded. All he could do was nod. He didn’t want to be vulnerable in front of Curt, and he didn’t know what would come out of his mouth if he tried to speak again. Grimacing in pain was bad enough, God forbid if he cried or something.


He felt Curt pat his wrist, and looked down to see the other man’s hand extended towards his. “Hold it, if you want.”


Owen blinked. It was there. Curt was offering it. Simply, nonchalantly, as if it was something he did all the time. 


Owen would be an idiot to pass it up.


He slowly moved his hand, almost crawling into Curt’s, until he felt the well worked skin of his palm. Owen assumed that he’d just be clutching onto him, as if they were shaking hands, but Curt instantly moved so that his fingers were snaking in between Owen’s. Laced together. Intertwined. 


Curt squeezed Owen’s hand lightly, a small way to show comfort, and held on firmly to Owen’s hand, not shying away at all. 


Owen felt like he was going to have a heart attack.


Curt was holding his hand as if that was normal and he wasn’t doing it flimsily either he was properly holding on and his hand is so comforting and he’s running his thumb up and down the back of Owen’s hand over his knuckles and Christ he’s--


Curt softly kissed the back of Owen’s hand.


“All cleaned up.” He said simply.


Owen would blame his heavy breathing on the pain.


Curt turned back to the box on the floor before Owen could say anything to him. 


“So,” Curt started, rooting through the box, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he searched for something. It probably would’ve helped if he’d turned the big light in the room on. “I think that’s gonna need stitches. It’s not too deep, but it’s big enough that a bandage won’t do the trick. Lucky for you, you won’t have to sit through me fumbling through giving you stitches- I don’t have any needles. But as soon as you get to your med team or whatever, point ‘em in that direction. Don’t want you getting an infection.”


He grinned as he found what Owen assumed he’d been looking for- a small tube of something and a packet of something else. Owen wasn’t going to trouble himself in figuring out what they were. 


“So I’m just gonna patch you up as best I can. Your own personal nurse, dare I say. I’d hope I’m more entertaining than those stuffy MI6 medics. And attractive, too.” Curt added with a playful wink.


It took everything for Owen to not nod eagerly. 


“Thank you, love. I really do appreciate it.”


“Hey, it’s nothin’! Just as long as I can pull a favour from you on one of your days off, too. Maybe I’ll request a mission in London for the shits and giggles. Make you my personal tour guide.”


Owen tiredly smiled, a small huff of a laugh escaping him. “I’d even take you to the shops and buy you some of that gaudy tourist tat.”


“Oh, you spoil me. ‘Tourist tat’,” Curt put on a British accent, awful as ever. “You know how to treat a man.”


“Anything for my personal nurse.”


Curt just rolled his eyes and looked to the side as he laughed loudly. There was definitely a faint blush on his cheeks. He looked back to Owen with a playful sparkle in his eyes. “Yeah. Yours.”


Owen’s stomach flipped at even the thought of ‘yours’. If only. Maybe one day. His. 


Owen’s heart ached for it.


“Gonna put this cream on. Antiseptic. It might be cold.”


Owen nodded.


He was in love and there was nothing he could do about it.


But right now, he could let himself enjoy this. The false sense of domesticity. The idea that this was normal, that they lived together, they had a home, a life. That Curt cared for him in more than a friendly way. That after tonight, Owen wouldn’t be leaving him once again with no idea when he’d meet him next. That Curt would gently kiss his hand and his lips. That he’d carefully hold him as he slept. That he’d whisper sweet nothings in his ear, and that Owen would smile and whisper back, and that Owen wouldn’t wake up in a cold and empty bed, alone and longing for someone to be laying next to him. 


He wanted Curt in every way he could. 


But right now, all he could do was nod. 


Nod, smile, and pretend that any over-affectionate glances at Curt were strictly platonic. 


“You’re taking this like a champ.” Curt commented, and Owen hadn’t even noticed that Curt had already begun rubbing in the very cold cream. “You always bitch about the cold.”


Owen just hummed. “My mind’s on other things.”


“Yeah? Like what?”


“It- just the, ah-” Whatever you do, don’t say ‘I love you’ . “..Everything hurts.”


“‘M sorry, bud. I’ve got some painkillers if you want those?”


Once again, Owen just nodded.


“Here, take these, then.” Curt reached the hand that wasn’t sticky with antiseptic back into his first aid kit, handing Owen a box of ibuprofen. “Need a drink?”


“No, I can take them dry, thank you.” 


Owen carefully moved his arms up so his hands were in front of his face, mindful of not agitating the wounds littered over his skin. He popped two tablets out, dropping the packet back into the first aid kit then swallowing the pills one after the other. He hoped they’d kick in soon. He really was in pain.


He sighed, laying his head back onto the soft cushioning of the sofa. He was ready to pass out and not wake up until next year. He was exhausted , all of the adrenaline of the mission worn off and the repercussions catching up to him. 


He shouldn’t be so reckless. The one thing he shouldn’t do is let his comm break. What if he hadn’t been so close to Curt! He could have been in any other city in the world- Hell, even just a few extra streets over and he would have been screwed. It was a stupid mistake. He knew he was done for when he got back to MI6- he hadn’t contacted his handlers in hours. For all he knew, they could have assumed Owen was dead. And he really wouldn’t blame them. He chastises Curt often enough for being careless on missions, yet here he was, bleeding out on his sofa. He was so angry at himself. And he couldn’t even do anything about it! Because he was stuck on this bloody sofa!


“Gonna start putting these on. That cool?” Curt was holding up some bland looking packets of something. Owen had no idea what they were, but he agreed anyway. His eyes were so tired that he wouldn’t be able to figure out what they were even if he wanted.


Curt started ripping open the packets, placing all the rubbish back into the first aid kit. He pushed Owen’s shirt up a little further, revealing some more scrapes and gashes on his skin. He held one of the mystery objects over his skin before sticking it in place, pressing firmly around the edges.


Oh. Adhesive bandages. That makes sense.


He felt Curt place them all around his body, making sure to take extra care when dressing the gash in his side from the bullet. Owen felt like Frankenstein’s monster with all the patches on him. 


Once Curt was seemingly done with placing the bandages over him, he tugged Owen’s shirt back down so it was covering him properly again. He pat his stomach before focusing back on the med kit, gathering all the rubbish together and pushing himself off the floor to put it in the bin. It was silent for a few seconds before he heard a tap starting to run, assuming Curt was washing his hands in the kitchen. 


Owen felt better to say the least. He still felt like death walking, but at least he felt clean and looked after. Tomorrow he could get actual medical attention- after being killed by his boss, of course. He was really looking forward to that.


Curt came back into the living room, socked feet padding along the wooden floor. He sat next to the sofa instead of just kneeling this time, fiddling with the first aid kit before closing the lid, securing it shut. 


He grinned mischievously at Owen, raising his hand to show Owen what he was holding. “Hey- look. A band-aid.”


He unceremoniously stuck it on a cut on Owen’s cheek, almost slapping the tiny bandage on him. Owen blinked before letting himself burst into a fit of giggles. Curt was ridiculous .


“That’s called a bloody plaster and you know it.”


“Nope! Plaster’s the shit you put on walls. British people are weird.”


“Oh, ha ha. You’ll have to hold me at gunpoint to make me call it a band-aid. That name doesn’t even make sense!”


“Neither does plaster, dumbass! All words are made up!”


“Well.” Owen huffed. “Ours is better.”


“Uh huh. Whatever you say, Your Majesty.”


“Mm. I’m good friends with the Queen, you know.” 


Curt’s brow furrowed, eyes squinting suspiciously at the other man. “..Really?”


“Oh, yes. We meet up for tea and crumpets all the time. Talk of all the gossip around the palace.” 


Curt threw his head back as he laughed, shoving Owen’s arm as he got up off the floor. “Screw you!”


Owen just laughed along, batting him away and looking rather pleased with himself.


“And after all I’ve done for you. I’m hurt, Carvour. Really hurt.”


“There’s nothing stopping you from kicking me out. Just dump me outside under a lamppost like a stray cat..”


“God, you are so dramatic. Gimme your hand.”


“Hm?” Owen let his hand be taken by Curt anyway, quite frankly ready to do whatever the man told him. “Are you taking me to the lamppost? I’ll want my jacket back, but you can wash it first if you’d like--”


“Cracking jokes even after nearly bleeding out. You’re something, Carvour. I’m taking you to bed.”


Owen let the confusion show on his face. 


“You have a spare room?” He asked, so sure that Curt had only had one bedroom the last time he visited his flat. Curt pulled him up from the sofa, putting an arm around his waist so that Owen wouldn’t fall over. He started leading him out of the living room, careful not to go too fast so he wouldn’t fumble over his own feet.


“No. You’re sleeping in my bed. I’ll take the couch.” 


“No! No, I can’t- I’m not kicking you out of your own bed, Curt, come on. Let me sleep on the sofa. I’ve already caused enough hassle.” Owen tried to pull himself from Curt’s grip and back to the living room. He really had been enough trouble already, barging into his flat at two in the morning. Curt had already gone through the fuss of patching up, it wasn’t fair for him to have to sleep on a quite frankly lumpy sofa.


“It’s fine, honestly. You need the comfort more than I do. That couch is pretty cozy, anyway.”


“Really, Curt, I insist. I’m not letting you sleep on the sofa.”


“I-” Curt sighed. “Owen, please just take the bed?”


Owen was about to shake his head no when a bright idea came to him, like a lightbulb shining over his head like a halo. He was almost too bashful to say it out loud, not wanting to ruin any moment they might have been having. They were comfortable as friends. It was fine and they were good. But..


Owen mumbled out a reply.


Curt just squinted at him. “Huh?”


“Both?” Owen spoke up a little louder, ready to fall into the floor and never look back. “I mean- both take the bed?”


The few seconds of silence from Curt made Owen’s heart beat like a drum. Scratch that- a million drums. If he’d messed this up, ruined their friendship, he wouldn’t know what he’d do- sharing a bed! That’s fine, right? It’s not as if- nothing’s going to happen- it’s just- it’s practically the same as sleeping in two seperate beds next to each other like they’d done on past missions- it was fine-


“Yeah.” Curt’s voice cut through Owen’s worries. “Yeah, okay. Both take the bed.”


Curt smiled at Owen.


Owen smiled back.


Curt wordlessly started leading Owen towards the bedroom again, flicking off the lamps as he went past. The room was dark, the only light coming through the window reflected off the moon, giving the two men a faint glow around them. It made the whole situation feel so much more dreamy, almost unreal.


Curt pushed the door to his bedroom open, Owen’s eyes darting around to take everything in. Curt flicked the main light on, helping Owen to sit down on the bed before standing with his hands in his pockets. 


“I’m gonna go use the bathroom real quick, I’ll help you get settled soon as I get back, ‘kay?”


Owen hummed in agreement, Curt turning and leaving the room.


Curt’s room was very homey. Not small, but not huge either. The walls were a pale blue colour, a couple of photo frames dotted here and there. Some were just random art prints that Owen didn’t recognise, but there were some family photos too- Curt and his mother posing in front of their home. Curt was crouched down and stroking who Owen assumed to be his old dog from when he was a kid ( “Clark is not a dumb name for a dog! I liked Superman, alright?” ). Curt definitely looked a lot younger in the photograph, a big toothy grin plastered over his face and a youthful sparkle to his eyes, hair wild and almost curly. Owen couldn’t help the smile that creeped onto his lips.


Curt, however, had the ugliest curtains Owen had ever seen. It was a gaudy pattern in colours that definitely didn’t go together, and Owen gave Curt the benefit of the doubt that he didn’t choose them, but that they were gifted by his mum. There was a small pot of flowers on Curt’s desk too, a small bundle of carnations in a few different colours standing proudly next to a card that read ‘Love you! Mom. :)’ . The pot was as equally gaudy as the curtains. His mother obviously had a preference.


The nightstand was oddly bare, just a lamp and a bright red telephone with a battered looking book next to it. He picked it up with a shaky hand, flipping it over to look at the cover. Casino Royale. How perfectly on brand.


“Want a bedtime story, huh?” Curt walked back into the room, gesturing to the book in Owen’s hands. “My mom gave it to me. Thought I’d like reading about ‘people like me’. Jokes on her, I can barely concentrate on taking in books- it’s taken me weeks just to get through that much.”


Owen looked down and noticed a bookmark sitting just under halfway through the book, poking out between dog-eared pages. “As long as you’re enjoying it, I don’t think it matters how long it takes you to read it.”


Curt gave him a grateful smile, clicking the door shut behind him and moving fully into the room. He huffed a little laugh, taking the book from Owen and putting it on his desk out of the way. “Maybe you should read it to me, make things a hell of a lot quicker.”


“Mm, maybe.” He hummed tiredly, watching Curt open his wardrobe to place his haphazardly folded clothes onto a pile in there. He was wearing pyjama trousers now, having seemingly gotten changed in the bathroom, his chest bare. He was rummaging through one of his drawers, sifting through clothes that Owen couldn’t quite see, not finding what he wanted until he got to near the bottom of the pile. 


He left the messy drawer as is and turned around, showing another pair of pyjama trousers to Owen. “These should fit you! I think. I haven’t worn them in a while, they might be a little short on you.”


Owen took them gratefully anyway, moving to push himself off the bed.


“Hey, hey, careful, you don’t have to get up. Just lift yourself up a little.”


Owen looked at him with slightly furrowed brows, slowly sitting back down on the bed. Curt was going to help him get changed?


“Are you sure?” Owen’s hands were gripping almost nervously onto the trousers. He both loved and hated that Curt was helping him so much- it felt so good to be cared for, but the whole situation made him feel so pathetic. He should have been more careful, not making a stupid mistake that lead him to rely on the other man so much. He was Britain’s top agent for Christ’s sake! “I can manage, really.”


“It’s fine, honestly. I don’t want you annoying that gash on your side, it really does need stitches. Just push yourself up as much as you can.”


Owen hesitated for a second before nodding, putting the trousers on the bed for Curt to take back again. “Thank you, Curt.. Sorry for being a hassle.”


“Not at all.” He said simply. “On the count of three?”


Owen did as told, and when Curt announced ‘three’ he used all the strength he had left to push his arms down onto the bed, lifting his bottom half up as much as he could. Curt quickly swapped out his bloodied trousers for the soft pyjamas he had, the clean smelling fabric feeling like heaven to Owen’s tired legs. He let himself sit back down properly while Curt slung the dirty trousers over his desk chair, promising Owen he’d wash them in the morning before he left. 


“Lay back?” Curt asked Owen gently, waiting for him to get comfortable before letting himself get in the bed. Owen looked behind him before lying down, the duvet crumpled from where Curt had been sleeping before Owen had woken him up. He stiffly moved his legs up onto the bed, limbs aching from his earlier scrap and the walk (practically crawl) to Curt’s flat. His head touched the pillow, and it was like his body instantly relaxed. 


Every drop of exhaustion he’d been feeling came rushing back to him all at once, eyes drooping and his whole body practically melting into the bed. Compared to Curt’s lumpy sofa, his bed felt like a cloud. Comfortable mattress, soft bed sheets, marshmallow pillows, and a smell that was just so Curt. A mix of the aftershave he used and the fresh smell of linen making a scent that Owen could happily call homey. This might be the best night’s sleep he’d ever have.


“Incoming!” Curt joked, crawling into the bed next to Owen and flopping his head down on the pillow, snuggling into the duvet instantly. “God, I’m tired. Warn a guy before you knock on his door in the middle of the night.”


Owen’s laugh was lazy, almost a drawl as he spoke. “Makes it more fun.”


He felt Curt chuckle next to him, hearing him mumble, “Sure, ‘fun’..”


There was a small moment of silence between the two men, both of them relishing in how comfortable the bed felt. They both felt drained, ready to fall asleep at any moment. 


Owen took a second to appreciate everything that had happened. Yes, he’d had a nasty fight that could have ended very badly, and would probably end up with a grim looking scar on his side, but he rarely got to spend time with Curt without it being for a mission, danger around every corner. This was a little vignette just for them. A stolen moment for no one but the two of them. And Curt had been so kind to Owen, taking him in when he could have easily turned him away again. There was definitely no way that Owen could have known that the night would end up with him sharing a bed with Curt, and he was beyond grateful for the fact. Even just having someone there who understood him, who knew him for who he actually was and not some faux personality that he’d carefully crafted to keep his actual identity a secret, meant so much to him. 


Night times were the loneliest. An empty face staring back at itself in a mirror, lying in an empty bed and looking out to an empty room. But this- this was good. This wasn’t lonely.


The calm sound of Curt’s breathing was like a lullabye, soothing him to sleep with the promise of someone to wake up to in the morning. He could practically feel his warmth, the American rarely ever cold as evidenced by the lack of shirt over his chest. Everything just felt right.


Owen was practically already asleep as he nuzzled into the pillow, face squishing into the softness and eyes falling shut, his breathing evening out. He spoke like it took all the effort into the world, barely managing to mumble the words out. “Nos da, cariad.”


“Huh?” Curt’s equally tired voice rang out, almost too loud for the serene bedroom. “What’s that mean?”


Owen’s breathy laugh fanned over the pillow, a lopsided smile forming on his lips. “‘S Welsh. G’night, love.” 


“Ohh,” Curt murmured as if he understood, voice muffled as his face was firmly planted into the pillow. “Nose duh, or whatever y’ said..”


“Close ‘nuff..”


It went silent once more. 


Owen almost felt the sweetness of falling asleep, his mind drifting off into nothingness, but was rudely interrupted by shivering. A rush of cold swept through him, not constantly radiating body heat like the American. Before he could pull the duvet up over him more, he felt an arm snake around his waist and pull him closer to warmth.


Curt held him gently against his chest, wrapped protectively around him and running his fingers up and down his side. 


This, Owen thought, this feels like love.


He fell unconscious before he could even say thank you, body finally resting as he succumbed to sleep.


Curt softly pressed a kiss to the back of Owen’s neck, his lips curling into an affectionate smile as he looked at Owen’s finally calm face. He brushed a lock of hair behind Owen’s ears, arm resting back to around his waist.


“G’night, kid.”