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starpirateee · 15 days

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I saw a headcannon once that Curt and Owen both have very strong Texan and Cockney (London working class) accents respectively, but have to use toned-down generic American/British accents when on the job. Do you think you could write something of them drunk, injured, sleepy, or stressed (basically in a scenario where theyre not thinking too much about their accent) where it slips out, and either confuses or entertains the other? Thanks! (also i love your writing so much its insane :D)

I have bought into this headcanon before, both sides of it! Working class Owen is something that can be so personal, actually, and full on cowboy Curt is so goddamn fun! Certainly will be good respite from the last fic 👀

Curt was bleeding and barely capable of holding himself together. He'd forced himself to keep face, not looking down enough to be able to see it. It was bad enough that he could feel it, sticky and viscous against his hand. That alone was enough to make him feel nauseous, but he was a professional. He knew how to deal with wounds without feeling the need to pass out.

Owen did as he always did. For him, it was just another part of the job, be it his own blood or someone else's, it was all the same when it came down to it. He had been the one to patch Curt up often enough, it was practically routine. This instance was no different.

With Curt suitably positioned, leaning back against his hands, Owen found the kit he needed and got to work. Curt dug his hands into the sofa to avoid having any kind of reaction to the stitches.

"I think you're lucky..." Owen remarked, laying his hand either side of the wound. "A few inches further down and you could say goodbye to ever charming a lady to the bedroom again..."

Curt tried to huff a breath of laughter, but that did nothing for him except make everything hurt more. "Ugh, god, please don't try an' be funny, I can't handle it-!"

Owen knew that Curt had always had a certain lilt to his words, some kind of intonation lost to time, but he'd never quite heard it like that before. He said nothing, but thinking about it had made him falter. The needle slipped a little, and Curt cursed under his breath.

"Jeez, Owen, ya couldn't take it easy?" He hissed.

No, he hadn't been hearing things. Curt really had slipped into a far more prominent southern twang than was normally present in his voice. One that he never even thought he'd hear from him. "Of... Course, I'm sorry." However surprised he was by that, it didn't stop the task at hand, or the need to finish it before it became too hard to see through the blood that was pooling.

Curt raised an eyebrow. "What'cha lookin' at me like that for?"

"I knew you were a southerner, but I didn't know it was supposed to be that obvious..."

"Wha-? Oh, fuckin' hell." Disappointment and something close to annoyance lingered on his face. He sighed, brushing a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I grew up in Texas. I tell people Austin, but that's just cos it's easier than sayin' some nowhere town 'bout fifty miles out."

"What's wrong with it?"

"Huh?"

"You don't seem particularly happy about it."

"It's just, I spent weeks on tonin' this accent down so I wouldn't stand out so much when I was on the job, y'know? All that, then it just goes an' comes back when I'm not thinkin' 'bout it..."

Owen nodded, and pressed down a little harder to alleviate some of the sensation from the needle. "It's a stress response, reverting back to accents that don't take so much strain to uphold." He answered automatically, feeling Curt shift a little bit under his hand.

"Right. Yeah. Somethin' like that."

"You don't have to think about it at all— you presumably grew up sounding like that... So you're focusing on something like the pain of being shot, and suddenly-"

"I'm seventeen again, and I sure as hell sound it, too." This time, Curt did manage a chuckle that didn't seem to hurt so much. Maybe it was because Owen was almost done patching him up, and there was less cause for every alarm bell in his body to be blaring... "Yeah, that's pretty much spot on."

"Would it make you feel any better to know that I have exactly the same stress response?"

"I'm sorry, what now?"

Owen didn't elaborate. He worked on finishing up Curt's stitches, and then started cleaning the needle and packing up the kit. Completely baffled by not getting a response, Curt held up a hand to stop him before he could move away. "Woah, woah, hold on. You're tellin' me you don't sound like that either?"

"It seems we've both been lying about exactly the same thing." A soft smile crossed Owen's face, and he simply decided to discard the kit on the coffee table for the time being. He'd played right into Curt's curiosities there, he supposed, so he might as well play into them a little more...

"I wanna know now!" True to his person, Curt remained ever the curious one. He carefully replaced his shirt, and leaned forwards as much as the pain would allow. "What d'you sound like? Where are you from?"

Owen raised his hands. "Would you let me clean up before I told you that, please?"

Curt resigned with a nod, and followed Owen from the sofa with a glance as he wandered away to wash his hands of the blood that may have otherwise stained his fingertips. When he returned, he was waiting eagerly, intrigued to find out where Owen had come from and why it seemed both of them held sacred the exact same lie.

"I suppose I had the same problem as you," Owen started, as he took a seat next to Curt and shifted enough to look at him. "It was a matter of just... Wishing to be invisible among the men at the agency, and then it became something of a habit..."

"So, what about it, then? Where'd you grow up?"

"I grew up in Southwark. It's... Close enough to Peckham? You've been there."

He had. And he remembered how strong the accents were around there, too. To hear something like that coming from Owen would probably send him into shock, he supposed, especially since he was so used to what he was hearing now. He caught himself staring and shook his head. "No way..."

Owen took a breath. He had to think about dropping the accent he had now, it had become a subconscious effort to keep it up, and he hadn't actively heard his own, true voice in a long time.

"People don't— y'know— really ask for clarification when you tell 'em you're from London, so I tend not to bother givin' any better than that... Besides," he smiled, "I get foreigners thinkin' I'm right posh, and that's kinda fun, really."

Curt stared. He'd literally been gearing himself up for the sudden change, but hearing Owen sound so rough was not something he'd previously ever imagined. "Oh my god... You really never run outta ways to surprise me, huh?"

"Well, you asked..."

"Oh, and I'm not complainin'! 'S just unexpected when I've known you with that other voice for so long."

"I could say the same..."

"Why'd ya let people believe you're posh if you ain't?"

"... 'S easier. Most people just assume all of London is exactly the same, and who'm I to argue?" He leaned in a little, letting his gaze meet Curt's. "But, you wanna know the hardest part 'bout tryna keep that up?"

"Shoot."

"I used to swear like a sailor."

Curt laughed. When he realised Owen was being entirely serious, he laughed only harder. "Now that, I gotta hear!"

"Get me drunk enough, and you have yourself a deal."

#spies are forever #saf #curtwen #agent curt mega #owen carvour #void offering #star mail #tw blood #tw injury #nova's tags →#i've said it before and i'll say it again #working! class! owen! carvour!!!!#at this point i blatantly refuse to believe that hes actually posh #but again... thats the projection :)#let's get these idiots stressed and fuck around with their accents :)#btw southwark is 'suh-thuk'#don't ask... we have weird ways of pronouncing places that look like they should be pronounced completely differently

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smytherines · 2 months

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Fuck it, here's an Owen Carvour dissertation

We don't have canon ages for Curt & Owen, but personally I headcanon Owen as being born in 1928, making him 29 when the banana incident happens. This leads to a lot of thoughts that are fascinating to me, because growing up in London during WWII could inform so much of his character.

Personally, I believe DMA's accent is much closer to Owen's natural accent. I think the Owen Carvour accent is something he puts on to make himself sound neutrally British while working abroad, because he grew up working class. RP is how most people (at least in the US) assume British people speak. This also works with the Texan agent mega headcanon, like they both have to put on an act to be spies, just like they have to put on an act with their relationship.

And class is really really important to how you conceptualize this character, because your experience of the war could be radically different depending on how much money you had. Food rationing began in 1940, which in this case would make Owen 12. Rationing isn't fully lifted until 1954.

At Elizabeth II's wedding in 1947, the palace made a big deal about how she was saving ration coupons for the material for her wedding- a full two years after WWII ended.

Here's WWII London:

This is the city Owen would've grown up in. This is a war zone. A city where food is tightly rationed, where sirens were constantly going off and you had to draw down the blackout curtains and go sleep in the tube station with bombs dropping constantly overhead:

If Owen were upper middle class, he might have had a shelter at home, some people did. But I imagine him sleeping in dark, cramped, noisy stations. And he learns to keep his cool. He starts to enjoy the danger because he has to to survive it.

Maybe he has lost loved ones to the bombings. Maybe one morning he comes home from the tube station and half of his house is in rubble on the ground. Maybe he's used to hand me down clothes and simple homemade toys and not having enough to eat. He's used to having nothing, having nobody. That's a headcanon a lot of folks have, and I think it makes a lot of sense for his character.

Even if Owen were one of the kids evacuated to the countryside, maybe that happens when he's 15 or so, it wasn't a Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe situation. For a lot of those kids they were leaving their parents behind in a war zone, sleeping in barns or basements, and most importantly working almost non-stop on British farms because all the regular farmhands were fighting.

I think, if this happened, Owen would be itching to go off and fight in the war. My personal headcanon is that he's an intelligent guy, and he figures out how to forge some basic paperwork to claim he is older than he actually is, so he can go fight in WWII.

But by some fluke he couldn't account for, he gets discovered. And because of his skill and his ability to keep his cool under interrogation, he gets recruited to MI6. A lot of MI6 operatives are upper class men, recruited young from the top schools. He mimicks them.

I think many years later, when he and Curt are escaping a Russian weapons facility, Owen loves Curt and trusts in his capabilities (maybe a bit too much- especially when he's been drinking), but he also feels frustrated that Curt is impulsive and cocky and thinks he is untouchable.

Because Curt didn't grow up the way Owen did. He didn't grow up waiting for the bottom to fall out over and over again. He's certainly got his own shit from adolescence, but he doesn't have that survival impulse hardwired into him the way Owen does. So Owen is careful and cautious for the both of them, trying to keep them both safe and alive.

I think about Owen being trapped in the rubble a lot. He would almost certainly be critically injured. Maybe he has PTSD from the WWII bombings, and he's just trapped in an exploded building, trapped with his own memories of childhood until he's almost feral from it.

This also, btw, is why the AU of Owen as Eurydice from Hadestown is so so poignant to me. Someone who grew up cold and hungry and turned their collar to the world, and then suddenly they fall in love and everything is sunlight all around them. All I've Ever Known is such an important owen!Eurydice song to me

I could keep going from here, but I'll stop for now. This isn't as neat and concise as I wanted to present these thoughts, but I can't stop thinking them

#spies are forever #tin can bros #agent curt mega #owen carvour #curtwen #spytown #spytown renaissance #saf headcanon #saf #SAFtistic

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freshlypizza · 4 months

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@sun-anonn asked how I think Curt and Owen met (I can't find the ask for some reason), so here's how I think it would've went:

Curt Mega was on a mission in New York. His job was to infiltrate a high-class party and retrieve a file with some extremely confidential information (information that could lead to something really bad if anyone but A.S.S got their hands on it). The most classic spy mission.

He knew who had the files, a 29-year-old blonde haired, green eyed woman with the name Elizabeth Bancroft.

Getting into the exclusive party was easy, he had dressed in one of his best suits and had slipped his hand into a guests pocket, taking their invitation.

Once in the huge ballroom, he headed straight towards the bar. Thankfully, his target was there.

Curt swaggered towards her, his strategy was to seduce her.

Seduction was always the easy choice for spies. It was quick, it was convenient. For Curt, especially, it was okay. He never felt anything for any female target, anyway, so when he had to make his escape, he wouldn't feel bad about leaving.

Male targets were different - he couldn't seduce them (no matter how much he wanted to).

Elizabeth was not alone.

She was talking to a very tall and lanky man, whose hair was slicked back. He leaned on the bar, Curt couldn't see his face. She was twirling her hair, flustered.

Curt made it to the bar, standing next to Elizabeth, and ordered a drink for himself.

“Hello, stunning,” Curt almost winced at himself.

Elizabeth turned around, “hey!” Curt could tell she was drunk. He could finally see the man fully, and he looked annoyed.

“Is everything alright?” Curt asked.

“Yes, yes!” Her smile was wonky, “Mr Carvour, here,” she slapped his chest, “was just telling me about London!” She dissolved into a fit of giggles, “he says it's so pretty! Don't you think he's pretty?” The question was random, and very uncalled for. Carvour smiled.

“No,” was all Curt said.

“That's the first time somebody has said no to that question,” Carvour had a very thick British accent, “do you want to rethink that?”

“I'm good, thanks,” Curt downed his tequila. Elizabeth continued to giggle.

Carvour checked his watch, “well, I’d best be going. I'm travelling early in the morning and I can't miss my plane. See you around, Elizabeth,” he took her hand and kissed it, her face went bright red and her giggles grew into laughter.

He walked away, Curt could make his move.

He eventually managed to take her to her hotel room, where she passed out immediately, with her green sequin dress, and heels, still on. He sighed, and began to search the room for the files.

He didn't find them that night, and when he got back to HQ, he got a mouthful from Cynthia.

–

Curt saw Carvour again when he was placed on a mission in Venice.

And then again in Barcelona.

They ran into each other in almost every mission Curt was assigned on, and everytime Curt found his face growing redder and redder when he was around Carvour. Everytime, Curt would learn something about the Brit that would make him more endearing to Curt.

It was only when they ran into each other again in Paris, when Carvour grabbed Curt's wrist and dragged him into a five-star hotel bedroom.

He grabbed a gun from the bedside table, and pointed it to Curt's chest.

“Woah!” Curt raised his hands.

“Who do you work for?” Carvour hissed.

“What?”

“Who the fuck do you work for? Why are you following me? Who are you?"

“Could you put the gun down, maybe?” Curt moved his hands up and down, gesturing to lower the gun.

“Not until you answer me.”

Curt sighed, he was definitely going to be getting a lecture from Cynthia later, but it was going to help him avoid death, so it was worth it. “I am agent Curt Mega of the American Secret Service.”

“A.S.S?” He pronounced it weirdly (“arse”).

Curt nodded, and Carvour lowered his gun. “Okay, now who are you?”

“Agent Owen Carvour. MI6."

“So, we are both spies?”

“Seems that way, love.” That made Curt’s face grow red. “Are you okay?”

“Yes!” He said way too quickly, “yes, I am! Now that this is all over, I'm gonna go and finish the mission.” He inched towards the door.

“Wait,” Owen said, “don't you think it'd be easier for us to, I don't know, work together? We are after the same thing, aren't we?"

Curt agreed.

The mission was done in record time. They had enough time to drink.

They found a spare table at the party they had infiltrated, and began to talk about everything and anything. Family, work, their respective home countries.

Curt took a sip of his tequila, and then he woke up in a bed. He was shirtless. There was another person under the covers with him.

He quickly got out of the bed, ignoring the headache that caused, realising very fast that Owen Carvour was the one in bed next to him.

“Fuck, shit, fuck-” he grabbed his shirt from the floor, fastening the buttons as hastily as he could.

Owen sat up, rubbing his eyes, he was also shirtless. “What's going on?” He opened his eyes, putting the pieces together in his mind, his eyes opened wider, “oh god.”

“I'm so sorry- we shouldn't have- oh god, we are going to lose our jobs- shit, shit, shit..”

Owen hushed him from the bed, “nobody's going to find out, love.”

“They're always watching, Owen. We are spies, Owen! We work for the damn government! They know everything!"

“It's going to be fine.”

Curt had finally finished getting dressed, “I'm leaving.”

“Will I see you again?” Owen smiled, it was a smile of several emotions.

Curt knew the safe answer, no. What happened was a one night thing and would never happen again, they were drunk, for fucks sake!

But Curt's heart wanted it's turn to speak, and it said, “I hope so.” He walked out the room.

#agent curt mega #owen carvour #curtwen #spies are forever #did not mean for this to be as long as it was #oopsie

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lichfucker · 1 year

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it's the 1950s. your name is owen carvour. you're a spy with mi6. you are gay. this is a secret that could end your career.

you frequently are partnered on dangerous missions with an american named curt mega. he's handsome and charming and cocky to the point of recklessness. sure, it makes the work all the more dangerous, but it also makes it fun. it's... playful, the rapport you have. if you didn't know any better you might even call it flirtatious.

but you do know better. that's not what's happening. that can't be what's happening... can it? no, no, of course not. curt would never.

... would he?

you're staying in a nameless inn, you and curt, somewhere in the european countryside-- curt can never tell all the little countries apart, the names change too fast and they're all the same anyway-- and you've had a bit to drink. curt's had a bit to drink. curt's had a lot to drink, actually, he must have had far more than you thought, because there's no other explanation for the way he leans in close and says, "can I tell you a secret?"

and you say yes, of course, of course he can tell you a secret-- the two of you experts in the field of secrecy, who know more about trust and paranoia and confidentiality and the value of information than anyone else in the world. if there's anyone he can tell, he can tell you. so yes, you say, he can tell you a secret. you say this knowing you have your own secret, a secret you haven't told him, and maybe that's cruel and maybe that's unfair, but you're a spy. you have the capacity to be cruel and to be unfair and to be greedy, you feel greedy, but whatever his secret is, you want to know it. you want to hoard it, to keep it as preciously as you keep your own. he is offering to give you something of himself; you will gladly take whatever piece of curt mega he will allow to be yours.

and then he tells you his secret. and his secret is the same as your secret.

you feel like you can breathe-- maybe for the first time in your life. you can breathe. you tell him your secret in return and there's such unadulterated hope in his eyes, such adoration, such joy. you kiss curt mega and you are alive.

your secret, singular, becomes your secret, plural. its danger does not abate for being shared; if anything, it increases. now it isn't just the thoughts and proclivities that lie hidden in your head-- now it's demonstrable actions you and curt are taking, things people might hear, things people may see. it's dangerous.

it's dangerous, yes, but everything you do is dangerous, and you always do it better when you do it with him. he makes it more dangerous by being curt mega, the overconfident. he makes it less dangerous by being curt mega, the man you trust, the man you love.

you love him. oh, fuck, you love him. and he loves you. and you're so happy.

it's going to get you killed. you know it. you know that this cannot end any other way. it's too good, too good to keep. you can't hold a gun and a case file and his hand at the same time. you're going to have to let one of them drop.

for a world-class spy, curt can be shockingly naive sometimes. you raise these concerns with him and he brushes them aside. after all, you two are the best spies in the world. people have been trying to take you down for years. nobody's succeeded yet. and they're never going to. you'll have some close calls, maybe, but you always get away clean.

and you do have some close calls. there are nights while traveling you can't keep as quiet as you should. another agent notices a hickey on your neck and spends two days grilling you about your mystery girl. the worst, though, comes when an arms dealer shoots out curt's kneecap. you don't remember anything in between the sound of curt's scream and the feeling of blood going sticky on your face and neck as you carry him to the car. in the reaming you receive from your boss the next day, you're told it was a fucking massacre. you're put on a month's probation for causing such a scene.

there's talk of reassigning you. they're worried you and curt can't be trusted together, that you've grown reckless, that you've grown sloppy, that you're not the agent you used to be. if you can't control yourself, they'll find a partner who will do it for you.

and you can't control yourself. curt doesn't see it, but you do, fuck, it's plain as day. you love him too much. it's superseding all else. it's impairing your judgment. the longer this continues, you risk losing your job, losing him, losing yourself. probably all three at once.

he doesn't understand when you tell him. he just doesn't. "I thought you were happy," he says. you were. you are. it doesn't matter. it's not sustainable. this happiness now won't be of any consolation in the face of grieving each other later. better to weather the small, brief pain now to save yourselves the large anguish later. he doesn't understand. he cries, though he tries to pretend he isn't. the apologies taste like tar in your mouth.

it's easier to keep the secret this way, when it isn't an unbearable weight pressing at your shoulders. it stings, a bit, not reaching for his hand while he drives, swallowing down the urge to kiss him while your blood is singing with the adrenaline of a job well done. the little agonies of little secrets are easier borne than the big delights of big secrets.

you're still the best spies in the world. you still do your best work together. you still get to be with him, even if you cannot be with him. he's still a cocky bastard. he still riles you up.

it's so loud when the warehouse blows that you can't hear anything, so loud you can't hear yourself screaming for him. when you come to, some hours later, you're certain you're dead-- that is, until the pain sings high and sharp. no, you can't be dead; only life hurts this bad.

it's dark and quiet in the wreckage, and there's no sign of curt when you crawl your way out. he isn't coming for you. backup isn't coming for you. mi6 isn't coming for you. nobody is coming for you.

again, you'd been so taken with him and his charm that you let it cloud your judgment. again, he challenged you and you indulged him. again. because you love him. again, and again, and again, you risk life and limb for him, because you love him. all your years working in international espionage, and the most dangerous thing you ever did was love curt mega. and what has it gotten you? nothing. it never got you anything but paranoid and afraid and hurt and nearly dead.

you loved him, and you gave him up so you could both have your lives. you care if he has his life. clearly he cannot say the same. he doesn't care if you have your life. he's never cared if you have your life. he wanted to stay together despite the risk because it was fun and it made him feel good and he didn't care about the consequences that you would face-- that you had faced-- for it. and now he won't come back for you, won't try to save you, would happily have let you burn here with the rest of the building. well, fuck him. fuck him and fuck all the time you wasted caring for him.

conventional wisdom says two can keep a secret if one of them is dead. you can do better than that-- two can keep a secret if the secret is dead.

and it is. the secret is dead. the love owen carvour had for curt mega is dead. and the version of owen who felt that love is right there in the ground with it.

fucking secrets. the world is rotten with them. none of this would have happened if you hadn't been forced to live with this secret. if you never had to hide. if there were no such thing as information powerful enough to ruin you. if you had never been a fucking spy.

there is a cold, bleak chasm inside you where your love once lived. you will see curt again, someday. you're sure of it. he thinks he knows how it feels to hurt. he's been hurt before. what you'll show him is so much worse than hurt. you'll open up your chest and show him the emptiness he left in you. you'll show him all that's been eaten away by keeping his fucking secrets. you'll show him true despair.

owen: I've been waiting for this moment for such a long time.

owen: you're finally mine.

owen: that secret died the night you left me for dead.

curt: you know you broke my heart.

#spies are forever #bluh bluh #and I feel normal in this chili's tonight

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chaotic-goodsir · 3 months

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For the compliment drabble thing, 50 curtwen?

Thanks! Here you go - a bit shorter than the last one but once again not really a drabble 😅 I hope you like it!

Curt is sitting by the window of his Paris hotel room, listening to the traffic outside and trying to read over the briefing notes for tomorrow's mission. He's meant to be infiltrating some political function - something to do with the Russian ambassador and alleged mafia money. There's a lot of information in the file that's probably very important, but none of it is going in. He finds himself reading the same paragraph over and over, taking in exactly none of the words.

All he can think about is the call he got from Cynthia a few hours ago: 'Congratulations, Mega. Somehow despite your tendency for collosal fuck-ups you've managed to pass your assessment. Consider yourself a 'Special' Agent now. Just don't get too drunk celebrating - I need you at your best for this mission, understand?'

He should have been over the moon at the news. Special Agent is the highest rank you can reach without ending up behind a desk telling other people want to do. It's been Curt's ambition since he first became a spy. It's a badge of honour that means he's good at what he does, and recognised for it.

So why does he feel like he doesn't deserve it at all?

He knows he messed up on his last mission, and that wasn't the first time either. He tends to rush things and take unnecessary risks, or end up having to bluff because he's forgotten key information. Sure, he always finds a way out of it, but he gets himself captured far too much. Not exactly the habits of a world class spy. He has no idea how he passed this assessment, really. Maybe Cynthia likes him more than she lets on, beneath all the swearing and surprise poison drills. Maybe she pulled some strings.

She'll expect more from him now, though, with that extra word in his title. He's not sure he's ready for that kind of pressure. It's making him more nervous for tomorrow than he should be, which is why it's even harder than usual to focus on the briefing. He should be out celebrating, probably, but he's left this until the last minute yet again and he doesn't have the time - and anyway, he's working alone for this one. There's no one around to celebrate with.

He's reading that same paragraph for maybe the twentieth time when there's a knock at the door.

Quickly, he files the briefing notes away and hides them in the sideboard drawer. Cynthia gave strict instructions not to expect any visitors this evening, and to test anyone who did show up with a code phrase, so that's what he does.

'Sorry,' he calls in French. 'I don't take room service on a Friday.'

'Ah,' replies the visitor. 'But the complimentary drinks menu is excellent, monsieur. '

Even in a second language, with almost perfect pronunciation, he recognises that voice.

He answers the door to find none other than Owen Carvour waiting in the hallway, holding a bottle of champagne.

'Félicitations, old boy.' Owen says with a smile.

'Owen? What are you doing here?'

'Surprising you, obviously. May I come in?'

'Uh, yeah, sure.' Curt says, suddenly embarrassed by the half unpacked suitcase and clothes strewn over the bed. He hurries to pack them away, shoving the suitcase into a corner. 'I didn't know you were-' he almost says on this mission too, before catching himself. He shouldn't be giving out his reasons for being here so casually to someone from another agency, even if it is Owen. That's the kind of slip-up a Special Agent doesn't make. 'I didn't know you were in Paris.'

'Yes, well, that is how a surprise usually works.' Owen closes the door behind him, and sets the champagne down on the sideboard. 'Get dressed, love. We're going out for dinner.'

Curt blinks at him, confused. 'What? I can't. I have... work to do. Tomorrow.'

Owen grins, then pulls a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Sorry, I almost forgot. I'm to give you this - Cynthia's orders.'

Curt takes the note. It's in Cynthia's handwriting, and all it says is:

Mission's off.

Have fun, Special Agent.

As always, don't fuck this up.

- C

Curt stares at it. Reads it again, in case he's somehow misunderstood. 'What?'

Owen laughs.

'You passed that assessment a month ago, love.'

'I- what?' Curt says again, aware that he sounds like a broken record.

'Cynthia got in touch. Said she wanted to arrange something. Not every day you graduate to Special Agent.'

'Cynthia got in touch with you?' Curt says. He should be happy to see Owen - he is happy to see him - but this is all just a bit too weird.

'Wait. Does she know? About-'

'Us? Now, I believe her exact words were: 'I don't care what you two get up to, Carvour, just do not get caught. I will personally murder you both before I deal with that kind of scandal.''

Curt sits down on the bed, shaking his head at the note in disbelief. Then he folds the paper and tucks it into his trouser pocket, looking up at Owen.

'This is insane. Paris, a fake mission, you... why would she arrange all that for me? This has to be some kind of test. Is that champagne poisoned? Shit, you're not gonna pull a gun, are you? My bulletproof vest's in the case, I swear I was gonna-'

Owen sits down on the bed beside him, sliding an arm around his shoulder. 'Calm down, love. I may be wrong, but I believe she simply thinks you should be proud of yourself. Celebrate your promotion. It was well deserved, after all.'

'Sure, but... really?'

'Yes, really,' Owen says, pulling him closer. 'I think so too. So, if you're done gaping like a fish, do hurry up and put something nice on. J'ai un reservation à vingt heures and I'd rather not arrive late.'

#thanks again for the ask!#i really love writing for these two #cynthia houston cares about her disaster surrogate son and her favourite surrogate son in law #spies are forever #tin can bros #curtwen #writing prompt ask #my writing

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abitofboth · 1 year

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UGH working class owen carvour makes my heart SOAR. that man grew up on a welsh council estate. he was a fiend for calling everyone ‘cariad’. his dad worked down the mines. if he was still alive when margaret thatcher became pm he’d have been there fuckin bricks at the ready, target locked. he trained himself to speak in the rp accent. the slang and accent slip ups only ever happen when he’s with curt. he gave himself shitty stick n pokes with his mates. he had his first kiss from the lad that lived in the next town over in a dark corner of the park when the sun was down low. his pet cat was a stray he found that, after a while, his mum just let him keep because it was sleeping on their sofa enough anyways and they’d already affectionately started calling him bilbo. owen! is! working! class!

#🫶#this is me merging all the different versions of his back story I made back in the old saf server #but number one most important hc to me- which exists in every single Owen story I’ve created-#is that that man is WELSH #💜💜💜#owen carvour #welsh owen carvour #spies are forever #saf #agent curt mega #tin can bros #tcb

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gentlemen-of-lies · 3 years

Text

Gentlemen of Lies, chapter 10

Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Adieu...

Previous chapter

Beginning

Next chapter

————

Curt managed to come round a few times, but each time was such a blur that it felt like part of a dream. One of those dreams you have when you’re half awake and you can’t figure out what’s real and what’s your mind playing tricks on you. It wasn’t until the following morning, when Curt was lying safely in a hospital bed, recovering from surgery he’d had on his foot, that he was able to string two coherent thoughts together and try and get his head around the idea that he’d somehow survived the previous evening.

There was certainly a lot for him to take in; Lawson, Owen, the entire plot itself and how much it backfired on the perpetrator. He supposed Lawson was dead, it was impossible for him not to be. He also wondered how much of Bletchley was destroyed, if not just hut 8. And then he wondered if Owen was alive, surprised it hadn’t been his first thought, but then his head was all over the place at the moment. He wondered whether Owen had made it to the hut in time or not and if he had got out alive, where he was, how he felt. Curt didn’t know what Owen’s relationship with Lawson had been, but there must have been something there judging by Owen’s desperation, and the man’s death couldn’t have been easy for him, especially under the preventable circumstances. Or at least, Owen would think they were preventable, but Curt didn’t think so. Under the time limit, and with Curt out of action and needing assistance to get out of the compound, Owen had no choice. But Curt didn’t think that would be much of a comfort.

Speaking of Owen, to Curt’s surprise, and relief, he visited during the afternoon, which meant that he was indeed alive. He had a few stitches on his chin, and he was walking with a cane, but all in all he didn’t seem that injured. At least, not physically.

Curt was sitting up in bed, staring at the ceiling when Owen arrived. He couldn’t quite detach himself from his mind right now, any distraction from his thoughts never stuck, his mind would just wander so far back to the compound that he could barely even see what was in front of him, be it food or a book. So he gave up. The ceiling it was, with a large water stain on the paintwork the focus for his wandering. He didn’t notice Owen right away, until he heard someone clear their throat. Curt raised his head from the pillow, and stared directly at Owen. He noticed the man was once again sporting his brown cap, a sight which felt weirdly familiar, even though Curt had only seen it twice. He supposed the last time he’d seen it was near the beginning of the case, on his first few days in England. It felt like weeks ago now, a different lifetime, where he was just a second year spy staying in a mangy hostel. Now he was Agent Curt Mega, a mangy hospital and a strapped up leg replacing the broken bed frame of room 17.

“How, uh... how are you?” Asked Owen, his voice similar to that of a sibling who had been told to play nice by their mother.

“I’ve been better,” replied Curt. “You?”

“Likewise.” Owen glanced over the room and spotted a chair for him to sit down on, near to Curt’s bed. “The agency have marked Lawson as the culprit, I didn’t have any choice but to tell them who it was, otherwise the case would never have ended.”

“Why didn’t you want to tell them?” Asked Curt. Now that things were over, he was curious to finally find out why Owen was so caught up with Lawson. He supposed they must have been friends, but there was something odd about it. Curt couldn’t quite work out why.

“I suppose I didn’t want him to be blamed. To be forever marked as a traitor.” He stood up again, apparently leaving already, which looked slightly comical seeing as he had only sat down a second ago. “This job...” he began. “Has a dark side to it, Curt. Frankly, I was forced into it by the government itself, what with my expert aim and knowledge on foreign affairs.” Curt wasn’t sure why Owen was telling him all this, but he listened nonetheless. “I must admit, I have no real loyalty to MI6, and you shouldn’t have too much loyalty for your own agency. If anything, makes for a better spy. You take more risks, and the outcome doesn’t worry you.”

“No offence, Carvour, but... what you’re saying doesn’t really have to do with anything that’s happened.”

“Perhaps not.” Owen rested his hand on the end of Curt’s bed, and Curt didn’t know whether he was waiting for some sort of comment, or if he was going to start speaking again. Curt didn’t bother to wait and find out; he had too many questions.

“What was Lawson trying to achieve?” He didn’t know how to put all of his questions into one, and he hoped this one would be enough for a general overview.

“I think he was just trying to not get killed by the government.”

“But why would the government kill him for no reason? He gave them a reason.”

“Yes he did, but not the one you think he gave. He already had a reason, or they already had a reason, whichever way you want to see it.” Owen was making no sense. Was that his thing? Giving answers as vague as possible, and leaving the recipient more confused than before. Curt decided not to ponder on it.

“And who’s him? Lawson said it was over for him. In the hut, someone worked there. What was he talking about?” Owen didn’t reply right away, in fact he almost looked like he wasn’t going to reply at all; he was edging nearer and nearer to the door.

“You know what, Curt. There’s a lot you don’t know, and I can’t be bothered to explain it to you. You’re just going to have to forget about it all, fly back to America, solve any little cases that come your way, and hopefully we never meet again. Because, frankly, Mega, I don’t like you.” The finality of the statement felt weirdly hurtful, which annoyed Curt. Why should this bastard get to hurt him? But he supposed he understood. At the end of the day, if it wasn’t for Curt, Lawson may still be alive.

Curt didn’t know how he felt about that.

“You can’t hate me that much,” replied Curt, inexplicably in his opinion. Owen was about to leave. Let him. “You could’ve left me, saved Lawson.”

“There was too big a risk that I couldn’t save him, and I wasn’t going to let two people die. I wasn’t going to let you drag me under. There was nothing personal about it, don’t for a second believe there was.”

“Fine. I wasn’t going to.”

“I take it you’ll be flying home as soon as possible?” Asked Owen, for no discernible reason that Curt could see, except to make small talk, which didn’t seem to be his style.

“Soon as my leg’s fixed, sure.” He knocked on his metal splint for effect.

“Well then, I suppose this is a goodbye.” Owen didn’t smile at him, in fact his expression remained entirely blank. Disconnected. Owen wouldn’t miss Curt for a moment.

“I suppose it is.” Curt wouldn’t miss him either.

————

Curt was back in his hostel for the last time. His leg was on the mend; all he needed now was a walking cane, which the doctors assured he’d only need for another few weeks, then his leg would be good as new. His injury hadn’t been career ending, which was a relief. He’d almost be ready to jump back immediately into the field. And jump back in was what he was intending to do. He was worried that after his experience in England, he would be reluctant to get back in the field, a worry which he dealt with by putting it out of his mind entirely, determined to throw himself back into his job and work himself away from any hesitation he felt. His fears would manifest themselves at night, during his fitful few hours of sleep, and that was where they would stay. Curt could do nothing about them, but he refused to let his daytime be tainted.

Packing was easy, there wasn’t much to pack after all, so he was out of the hostel within an hour, after a quick goodbye to Bill of course. He found himself being a little sad to leave Bill. He had been walking past him every day for the last week, and the man let him read the newspapers he bought for himself when he was finished with them. Curt appreciated that enough to give him a fair tip on his way out. He wouldn’t miss the hostel though, by any means, and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t miss Earl’s Court either. But he still had one last coffee and terrible ham and cheese sandwich from the café near the hostel, for old times sake.

As for Owen, Curt hadn’t seen him since he visited that one time in the hospital. He supposed that was a good thing, there was no need for him to keep Owen playing on his mind, and he was sure Owen had forgotten him the moment he’d stepped out of the hospital. Curt had no intention of saying a proper goodbye. Owen wasn’t worth missing his flight over.

Curt didn’t have to take a normal flight back this time, least of all economy class. Cynthia had arranged a proper private jet back for him, which was certainly an upgrade, although he wasn’t sure why Cynthia had decided to let him finally use the benefits that the A.S.S had to offer. It was hardly an assumption that she knew what had happened, and perhaps she felt sorry for him.

Jeez, Curt, you’ve been away for too long. Cynthia never felt sorry for anyone, least of all him. She probably just wanted him back faster so she could get straight round to telling him off for fucking up the case so badly, because at the end of the day, there was really no denying that he had fucked up. A preventable death had happened on his watch and he’d got injured in the process.

But don’t think about that Curt. Nighttime only, remember?

And at least he could let himself enjoy the free champagne that came with the private jet.

“One glass only,” the flight attendant said when Curt had asked for another. “Cynthia’s orders.” Curt sighed. Typical Cynthia controlling every single thing he did. A puppeteer hanging over its puppet.

“Why does Cynthia have to know?” He tried, raising his eyebrow and smirking, a vaguely flirtatious tone in his voice. The flight attendant kept as stoic as ever, simply repeated her order not to give Curt any more champagne, and left him rolling his eyes with only the view of clouds outside the window to keep him entertained, as he made his journey back to America. Away from England, away from MI6 and its stupid abandoned huts for people to blow up. Away from Owen, and away from the nightmares of exploding buildings, the look on Lawson’s face, on Owen’s. The hands grabbing Curt as he fell to the ground outside the compound.

He locked it away, as was his duty. His career was just beginning, and this was by no means the last time he’d experience traumatic events like these. If he let himself think about any of them for even a second, he’d crumble immediately.

A spy is a spy. That’s the only motto he needed, the only thing that mattered. You’re a spy, Curt. And a spy keeps himself hidden from his job, for protection. And you don’t let reality touch you. Otherwise, what would be the point of getting out of bed at all?

England was swept out of his mind along with the clouds beside him, and he was focused now on America. Next case he received- if Cynthia permitted it- would be better. He was sure of it. He wouldn’t screw it up at all. And he’d do it alone, with no one there to drag him down.

————

End of Act 1

#gentlemen of lies #spies are forever prequel #spies are forever fanfiction #tin can bros #tcb #starkid #curt x owen #curtwen #spies are forever

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and-muses · 4 years

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Character Bios: Starkid/TCB

These are the character bios for characters from musicals/plays by the above people. They’re based off some facts from the stories but also a lot of my own headcanons. Put under a read more/keep reading because it is long.

-Ethan Green (Black Friday)

Ethan is an 18 year old, nonbinary (he/they). Lives on their own (mostly. Technically lives with their father but their dad isn’t around much except to keep the apartment so they take care of themself), grew up with a closer relationship to teachers than their parents. Very good at shop class, not much else. Dyslexic and sucks at English because of it (and doesn’t know how to ask for help with it). Very protective but not much of a fighter. Really, if anything, he prefers to distract to get people out of a fight, and is willing to draw the attention to him instead. Has ADHD

-Paul Matthews (The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals + Black Friday)

Early thirties (verse depending), male (he/him), bi and ace. He works very much in routines and gets anxious when those are disrupted. Stims verbally (the “okay okay okay okay”s for example) when stressed out. Hates musicals. Has a connection to the Black and White (that’s for a different hc post lol). Good at math and organizing things. Also protective of friends but definitely not a fighter. He’ll talk his way out. Not good at social cues. At all. Does not and likely will not wear a watch

-General John McNamara (The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals + Black Friday)

Mid thirties (verse depending), trans male (he/him), gay. Also very much a routine guy, but that’s more due to the military than due to anxiety relief. He’s smart but he does tend to talk in a way that it’s almost confusing to try to understand, even for himself. He knows what he’s saying and what he’s trying to say but he is aware that others may not pick up on every part and thus is perfectly fine with it when people ask him to clarify or he has to explain he’s joking. He absolutely is the type of person to never baby talk anything. He talks to animals like they’re human and has several at PEIP convinced he can talk to animals due to the Black and White (he finds it hilarious and will not correct them). Always wearing a watch. Fully believes in love.

-Owen Carvour (Spies are Forever)

Mid thirties (again, verse/timeline depending). Trans male (he/him). Gay. (Does not mention either of these unless he’s very close with the person. He lives in a time where that is illegal to be gay and he’s too self protective to risk bringing harm to himself for something like that.) Very meticulous. He plans everything out as close to a T as he possibly can and he’s usually pretty good at making sure that those plans do actually work. He has a short temper and not much tolerance for bullshit, when dealing with people who should know better, but he’s better about it with those who would have no way of knowing better (like Gordon Ramsey is working with kids compared to adults), or people he cares deeply about. He’s fiercely loyal but damn does he hold a grudge. He’s fucking good at his job and he is more than willing to make sure you don’t forget it.

#ooc #character bios #starkid bios #headcanons

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lex-ically-batman · 5 years

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I AM 100% DOWN FOR COLLEGE PROFESSOR AU HEADCANONS

I made that post, promptly fell asleep, and forgot about it until seeing this ask. SO, here’s more headcannons:

-The reason no one put it together that they’re married for so long is because they don’t carpool to school. Owen likes to get up extra early and use the gym on campus, so he arrives around 6AM, works out, then is early to his 8AM lecture to set up and answer emails. Curt, on the other hand, is usually 10 minutes late to his 10AM lecture with a coffee and his shirt untucked.

-Curt puts memes in his lecture slides, and he’s also started putting random, improperly used memes into Owen’s, so Owen’s students just think he has no idea how memes work, but that he’s trying his hardest. Owen DOESN’T know how memes work, so he just assumes that whatever Curt has added in is correct.

-Curt has a picture of him and Owen from their wedding (it’s the “kiss the groom” moment, pictured from where the officiant normally stands, so you can see all the guests cheering and throwing white rose petals. it’s baller) as his laptop background, and he usually plugs the hdmi in AFTER pulling up his lecture slides. One day, though, he doesn’t, and everyone is like “I love that picture! Do you have any more?” And he’s like “DO I?!” And that entire class period is spent looking through the wedding pictures while students send snaps of them to their friends currently sitting in Dr. Carvour’s class.

-Owen notices that everyone is taking their phones out at the same time and smiling, so he’s like “Alright, what’s so entertaining?” and everyone hides their phones.

-One time, their 6 year-old daughter had a snow day at school, but it was close to finals and neither could cancel their lectures that day to stay home, so they brought her to school with them and she spent the morning in Owen’s classes, and the afternoon in Curt’s. She sat in front of Owen’s desk and drew a picture of every student in the room, then passed out the pictures at the end like homework. The students all have their picture pinned up in their dorm.

~Liz~

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starpirateee · 28 days

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For drabbles, may i request an alternate universe where Curt fell instead of Owen in SAF?

Oh anon this one's MEAN, straight up. I'm more than happy to oblige, though!

tw for blood, injury and death (your canon typical act 1 part 1 nonsense 😔)

"Hands up, both of you!"

Owen subtly slipped his pistol into the inner pocket of his jacket as he and Curt backed off so far they ended up backing into each other, and raised his hands as a point of surrender. They had been on a rather impressive chase through the halls of the facility, to the point where there had been a second where Owen had thought they were going to get away.

But, typical to their luck, that wasn't the case. Someone was pissed about the plans that Curt was about to steal, and perhaps the fact that Owen had offloaded into a guy's kneecaps didn't exactly help their case…

Feeling Curt pressed against him brought a little bit of calm to the storm, he supposed. The two of them were in this together, after all, and it was a comfort to know that included going down together when something went wrong.

The Russian agents began to advance, forcing Curt and Owen that little bit closer to one another. Owen counted six on his end, all holding various firearms. They weren't messing around, one of them would likely shoot if they so much as moved in a way they didn't like. He felt Curt take a heavy breath against his back, his shoulder blades rising and falling like he was trying to pull himself together. He dared to try and shoot him a glance over his shoulder, and then the entire building shook beneath their feet.

"Curt?" Owen's eyes widened, watching the agents fall to the ground one by one. He and Curt had built such a sturdy support system by accident that they managed to remain the only ones upright.

Curt looked around frantically, eventually meeting Owen's gaze. "I lied! I set the timers for three minutes!"

Owen decided he would think about that at a later time, when there was less chance thay were going to be actively killed. "Oh god… Curt, you're gonna be the death of me, I swear to-"

"We don't have time! Kill me later, we gotta go!"

The pair of them started running again, Owen only a few steps ahead of Curt. he gripped the railing as tight as he could manage, pushing himself up and trying to work out their next move before it happened. They needed to stay ahead of the game, and it helped that he already knew the layout of this place a little.

Curt was trailing his path. His footsteps clattered against the metal staircase, keeping good pace-

Until they came to an abrupt stop.

"What're you doing, old boy?" He asked, slowing his pace a little.

No response.

Panicked, Owen glanced back, at the exact moment he heard a piercing scream rip through the air. When he turned around, he just about managed to catch Curt slip through the gap in the railing, caught on the tail end of…

Of the banana peel that he'd left on the ground not a quarter of an hour before.

Owen gasped, rushing forwards and reaching out for his hand. "Curt! Hold on!"

Their fingertips brushed together. Owen made an effort to lean forwards as much as he could, but he couldn't get there fast enough. Curt fell through his grasp, through the balcony…

Owen's body carried him away from the balcony until his back slammed against the wall. He breathed, his eyes wide, and then scrambled away from the scene. He didn't have the time.

He raced out of the facility, hearing the vague sound of pursuit behind him. There was one thing on his mind, and that was escape. Escape before the two of them succumbed to the same fate. Escape, so he still had the chance to go back and look for Curt after-

There was another violent rumble that shook the ground and forced Owen to sturdy himself against the nearest wall. God only knows he was powering himself on pure adrenaline alone, and he was well aware of the mere seconds he had left before the whole building caved in on itself.

This rush of adrenaline carried him out, and in the moment, he'd almost completely forgotten that he was running alone, that he was no longer clearing a path for another man.

As the blasts became more frequent, he turned, instinctively checking for Curt. But, there was nobody following him, neither Russian or American… What the hell did Curt think he was playing at? Where was he?

Oh.

Of course.

Curt had fallen from a sizeable height off the balcony, and he wasn't coming back. All logic dictated that he was already dead, though Owen's better instincts begged him to believe that wasn't the case. While there was nobody to blame for Curt's fall but Curt himself, it still hurt to think about how he was almost not the first one up the stairs, or that Owen had not bothered to protest when Curt refused to lock in the saftey barricades. He had set his timers for three minutes. He'd blatantly lied… Now look where he was.

Owen didn't have the time to curse him out, because just as he turned and went to carry on running, the building started to come down just beside him, and he was thrown back into the air. A sharp fracture of broken brick hit him square in the face, tearing the skin of his cheek, and he was unconscious before he hit the ground. He didn't know how long it was before he regained himself, but it was darker than he remembered when he finally opened his eyes again.

Immediately, he was hit with a wave of something that was in equal measures pain and nausea, and winced, bringing a hand up to his face. His forefinger brushed against his cheek and he winced, drawing back slightly. When he tried again, forcing himself through the pain, his fingertips came back bloody. Brilliant. One more thing to deal with… And he knew for a fine fact that he didn't bring the usual amount of supplies with him, because this was supposed to be an in-and-out job.

His gaze landed on the wreckage of the facility that he'd just escaped from. Part of him seemed to have some instinct to look for survivors, but he knew that, unless they'd escaped like him, there wasn't a chance they'd survive under that much debris. He hauled himself to his feet and started to run a survey to the best of his ability, while trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the way his face muscles were twitching in an attempt to alleviate the tension caused by the wound.

"No…"

A building in shambles, barely identifiable beyond the rubble. Owen could do nothing but stare at it, as he forced himself not to cave. His knees were shaking, his eyes stinging from the anger, the guilt and the grief that racked him all at once.

He was alone.

He was the only one to have made it out on time.

Upon the realisation of that fact, he screamed into the echoing mess of the old facility. His nerves won over, and he collapsed to his knees, gripping the sleeves of his jacket like his life depended on it. Nobody else survived. Nobody could see him right now, taking his pain out on a pile of broken bricks.

"NO! CURT!"

But still, there was no response to his cry. The world breathed in Owen's stead, for he was struggling to keep his in check. This wasn't like him at all. He was supposed to know how to keep himself together. He was supposed to stay composed; god forbid that's how everyone saw him anyway.

Owen Carvour, who never lost his cool under pressure. Owen Carvour, who had a comment for everything and a cool head to combat trouble. Owen Carvour, who didn't know how to break.

"Fuck-" A sob left him, desperate and torn. His eyes met the rubble, the facility that had blown from the ground up, the place where Curt was lying dead. "FUCK! Mega, you're such a FUCKING IDIOT!"

He felt the heat in his throat. He'd ran himself hoarse in complete futility, screaming at the air, over something that he still hadn't begun to process.

For god's sake, he had to pull himself together. Where could he go from here? How did he declare to the Americans that their mission was a total failure, not only because they lost the blueprints they were supposed to acquire, but because their best agent just died in the field? This wasn't his mission, thank god. He was here as backup, it wasn't even fully under MI6 jurisdiction. All that meant was that he was lucky it wasn't him in that rubble… He'd have to pray that the fall would've killed him, or he knew for a fact that his agency would.

Hadn't Curt's scientist associate said she wasn't far away? A few miles… What did that give him?

There was a port a few miles away…

Without trying to think about any other alternative there might be, he let himself start running. He ran down the street, knowing only the vague direction that the port was in. The only reason he'd known about it's existence at all was because he'd caught a glimpse of it as he came into town.

Eventually, the paved road gave way to something less level, and he paused, looking past the high walls and straight into the marina. That had taken… Longer than he'd expected, but he had never had the reason to fault his sense of direction before, and he'd been right in trusting at least that part of himself this time too.

Thing was, he only knew this woman by her surname. Apparently, he was driven enough that he didnt care, and he walked the length of the marina trying to call after her.

"… Agent Carvour?"

A voice drew him out of his search, and completely startled him in the process. He turned around, wide eyed, and laid eyes on a short, blonde woman standing a couple of feet away from him. But her voice sounded familiar enough that he was able to recognise her without ever having seen her face.

"Oh my-" He breathed, beyond the point of pretending that he wasn't afraid, or heartbroken in equal measure.

"You were asking after me?"

"Doctor Larvernor…"

Her brow furrowed. "What happened to you? You sound… Rough. And… where's Curt?"

"I sound what-" He blinked. Just saying those words out loud had made him realise exactly what she was talking about. "Shit. I didn't even realise…" But it was true. Through his hoarse voice and the absolute multitude of stress that had piled on his shoulders in the last minutes, he had barely noticed that he had slipped back into the accent he'd upheld until he was a teenager. He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It's fine… I'm fine- I'm still bleeding…"

"At least stay for long enough to let me look at that for you?"

"Oh- uh, you don't have to, doctor…"

"Call me Barb, Agent… Everyone else does," She smiled a little, maybe offering a slight of comfort along the way.

"Barb…" He nodded. Then he met her gaze, and in return, offered, "call me Owen. Please."

"Come with me, Owen."

She led him to where she'd been staying for the duration of Curt's mission. He had to duck to get through the door, but it was considerably roomier on the inside. She motioned for him to make himself comfortable, and he took a rather awkward seat on the first chair that he saw. Immediately, she busied herself with getting some supplies, and he brushed his hair back from his face so that she could have as much access as possible to the gash on his cheek.

"What happened there?"

"Debris, I think. Somethin' hit me in the face. I am fine, you- you needn't worry…"

She waved a hand dismissively. "You get used to patching up agents when you do it as a side job… It's nothing."

"You- uh- you asked about Curt… That's why I came looking for you, actually."

Barb stopped mid way through picking up her supplies from the table where she'd laid them, and frowned briefly. Her silence was a good indicator for him to continue, and he chose to do so as an ample distraction for the gravel he could feel delved into his skin.

"First of all, the blueprints are gone. They were- god" He winced involuntarily, and Barb's hand drew back.

"Sorry, sorry…"

He screwed his eyes shut. If he had a reaction after that, it wouldn't be so severe. "They were destroyed when the facility went up…"

Barb frowned. She knew that it had been a risky move to let Curt off with blowing up the facility, that man was too reckless for his own good sometimes…

"… Along with him."

The world went silent. Barb felt her chest ache, and realised she'd been holding her breath. "What?" She prayed he didn't mean what she thought he meant.

Owen hadn't come to terms with it yet, and at the rate things were going, he wasn't sure if he ever would. But, he had to admit it one way or another. It wouldn't be awfully fair if he was the only one who knew of Curt's fate, and then he went off the grid too… He heaved a sigh, trying not to let his reactions break the mask that hid his true feelings. He couldn't handle the weight of the world if they knew about them.

"Curt, he's… He's dead, Barb. He fell. I didn't- I couldn't- save him in time."

#spies are forever #saf #owen carvour #agent curt mega #tw blood #tw injury #tw death #void offering #star mail #nova's tags →#yep... i knew this one was coming...#eventually someone was gonna ask for some angsty spies shit #hey. who am i if not someone who provides serviceable angst to the people #catch owen screaming himself hoarse then losing the will to keep up his accent #oh yeah. hi btw i am one of those people who headcanons hard that owen grew up in working class london

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