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1.
As soon as Owen's finally finished digging himself out from under all the rubble covering him, the first thing he sees is that stupid fucking banana peel, because of course it is. It's almost humorous, really- or at least, he thinks it would be, if it was happening to someone other than him. If you'd asked him even hours ago how a situation like this would end, Owen would be quick to reply that Curt would save him, of course, would throw his back out making sure his partner was okay. He wouldn't even hesitate to say it.
Instead, all he sees in front of him is the reminder of just how foolish he's been. Shaking with rage, he picks up the slimy thing and chucks it as far as he can. It flies across the warehouse, landing lazily in a pile of ash and causing a cloud to puff up.
It's not enough.
Slowly, Owen takes a small Polaroid of Curt out of his jacket, staring at it. It's never been kept in his pocket (too dangerous, too revealing), instead carefully tucked into a hidden seam on the inside sleeve to ensure no damage.
Now, he crumples it up and throws it. As always, his aim is perfect, and it lands right beside the peel, immediately sinking into the ash.
For a moment, a sharp, angry part of him thinks good, even as his still-sore arm throbs in pain. He places his other hand over it, trying to rub and soothe it, when it hits him.
That's where he and Curt used to hold onto each other.
Curt is never going to hold him like that again.
Pushing up off the floor, Owen drags himself across the facility and picks the photograph up. Frantically, he tries to smoothen it and brush off the ash, but it's too late; the more he tries to wipe it off, the more the ash smears over the picture, covering the face in it.
Letting out a sound between a yell and a sob, Owen clutches the last remnant of his partner to his chest, nails digging into the sides of the picture, and cries.
2.
The minute they hand him the uniform needed to become the Deadliest Alive, he practically yanks his own jacket off. Chimera facilities are always freezing for some reason (maybe heating units are a product of corrupt agencies, who the fuck knows-), so he's never been able to shed his jacket, but god does he hate wearing it. It's itchy and scorched in places (and it smells like Curt it smells like home it smells like the life he's never getting back), so it's a relief to finally take it off.
It's as Owen's throwing the jacket aside that the photo falls out.
In all honesty, he'd sort of forgotten it was there. Still, the same now-smudged face smiles back at him, wide and sincere and the slightest bit mischievous- Like getting his picture taken is a fun little game, because everything's always a game to Curt, isn't it?
Retrieving files for an important mission is a game.
Blowing up an entire facility is a game.
Telling his partner the he loves him and pretending that their relationship means something is a bloody game.
He growls low in his throat, and tears the photo in half.
Then, he stacks the two halves on top of each other and tears them again.
And again, and again, and again, and again, and once he's finished, he throws the pieces into the air and watches them fall to the ground. One piece lands face up, showing Curt's eye, crinkled to show the smile that the fragment doesn't.
Hurriedly, Owen gathers the tiny scraps together in one hand and shoves them into the drawer of the small nightstand next to his cot.
He'll... He'll tape them up later, when there's not a chance of someone walking in.
Not because he cares about the photo, of course. Just so that no one sees the pieces in a trash can somewhere and gets suspicious.
That's all.
When he finally tapes the picture back together, despite the dozens of ant-sized scraps, it only takes ten minute to do. After all, solving a puzzle is easy when you have the picture on it memorized.
3.
The first time Owen kills someone for Chimera, he has a cigarette.
It's not to calm his nerves or something childish like that- he's a big boy, after all, he's killed plenty of times before this. It's never fun, perse, but it's manageable.
And yet, there's something that feels different about killing for Chimera. Killing for MI6 was shit too, but at least they never denied that they were terrible people.
Chimera, on the other hand, exists on the principle of being better than other agencies.
So why the bloody fuck does it feel the exact damn same?
For a moment, he considers leaving, before he realizes there's nowhere for him to fucking go. The entire rest of the world thinks he's dead.
He's trapped.
"One day," Curt murmurs, three weeks after the first time they kiss, "We can get out of here and go somewhere where no one will ever even recognize us."
"Sounds lonely," Owen says loosely.
Curt hums, pressing a kiss to his chest, and says, "Not if we're together."
Owen plucks the cigarette from his mouth and puts it out on the photo in front of him.
It tears through the bottom corner, slowly creeping up on the rest of the picture, devouring the edges of Curt's shirt, and, gritting his teeth, Owen shoves his palm towards the flame, putting it out.
He lifts his hand, ignoring the blistering already growing there, and stares at the photograph.
Curt's face is still visible.
Owen stares and stares, and wishes the sight made him feel sad, or angry, or guilty, or mournful, or vengeful.
He wishes it was like the old days, back when Curt could make him feel everything.
He wishes Curt could make him feel anything at all anymore.
He throws the cigarette away, tucks the Polaroid out of sight, and goes to bed.
The next day, he kills someone else.
As he drags the woman away, he feels for the picture through the fabric, not even bothering to try and figure out why the feeling brings him comfort.
4.
Midnight strikes, both hands on the clock moving in sync.
It feels like a noose tightening.
Sighing, Owen runs a thumb across Curt's cheek. The photograph is not almost entirely covered in tape, each piece stained with Owen's fingerprints. Usually, it's easy to ignore (or at least, to pretend to ignore), but it's a bit harder right now, with the ticking clock behind him practically screaming "happy anniversary".
Despite himself, he can't help but wonder what Curt's doing.
Is he thinking about him?
Is he missing him?
Is he tearing up like Owen is?
No.
No, of course not, because why would he?
Curt left him.
Owen plucks a knife from his belt and throws it at the wall, where the picture is hanging by a single thumbtack. It flies towards Curt's lips, landing less like a kill and more like a kiss.
Either way, it's a fatal blow.
He plucks the knife out and presses two fingers to the tear, ignoring the way it cuts into his skin. After a minute, a small droplet of blood drips onto Curt's cheek in a sick imitation of a hickey.
Owen tucks the knife back into the strap on his belt, then slides the photo behind it.
5.
"Everything was going smoothly, and then he showed up."
Von Nazi babbles something in reply, but frankly, Owen couldn't give less of a shit if he tried. He hangs the phone up right then and there, staring off at the disastrous scene before him.
Curt is alive.
Curt is back.
Curt is spying again.
Curt doesn't even recognize him.
Curt has the ugliest beard Owen has ever seen.
What the fuck.
God, what the actual fuck?
Honestly, most of the time, Owen likes to think of himself as extremely adaptable- the kind of person that can roll with whatever curveball is thrown his way. But Jesus Christ, Owen was not expecting this. Because all of this, it's...
No.
No, you know what?
It's good.
It's perfect, actually.
Owen's been wanting to get his revenge on his former "partner" for a while, now. And here Curt comes, like the absolute idiot he is, practically waltzing right into Owen's hands with a smile on his face.
It's perfect. Exactly what he's wanted for four years now.
Which is why he absolutely refuses to let these residual feelings of sentiment stop him from showing Curt the horror of being alive.
And if that means killing off the last bit of his own humanity, the last remnants of the old Owen Carvour? If it means taking the near-falling apart picture from his belt and throwing it in the rubbish? Well, that's just fine.
Or it would be, if it had actually worked.
Instead, mere days later, the Russian comes up to him with a balled-up scrap of paper in her hand, and gives it to him.
"This was in the trash," She says simply. "I was not sure if a file got thrown out on accident or something like that."
"It was no goddamn accident", Owen wants to say, but he is not Owen right now; He is the Deadliest Man Alive, and the Deadliest Man Alive has no strong feelings towards target 1,148, because why would he?
So, instead, he nods once, takes the item from her hand, and says, "Right. Thanks for the help, love."
She gives him a look, caught between sneering and staying civil, before walking away.
Owen sits the ball on his desk.
He doesn't try to throw it away again.
Clearly, something in this god-forsaken universe wants this photograph to stay.
+1.
About three months after what Owen can't stand to refer to as anything more than the "Staircase Incident", he's at a bar, nursing a rum and coke, when she slides into the stool next to him.
"Vodka martini," She tells the bartender, "Bone dry. Thank you."
The woman starts making the drink, and Tatiana looks back to him.
"You look like shit," She says simply.
Owen swivels his stool to face the other way. "Why are you here."
"I could ask you the same," Tatiana replies, grabbing the drink handed to her and taking a sip. "This is more Curt's scene than yours, is it not?"
"Oh, so Mega's got the market on being drunk, then? The rest of us aren't allowed to have a bloody glass when we need it?"
"Do not call him Mega as if you don't still care for him," She replies.
"I don't."
Tatiana raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Fine," She says, "If we're going to be lying today."
Owen scoffs. "How did you even know I was here?"
"You are not a hard man to find, Owen Carvour. You've been in the same town for two weeks from what I can tell."
"Fine," He says, crossing his arms, "How did you know I was alive?"
"Just because Curt is foolish enough to fall for a lack of body twice doesn't mean the rest of us are."
Owen scoffs at that. "Yes, well. He's never been the brightest, has he?"
"In some ways, maybe not," Tatiana replies, stirring the straw in her drink, "In others, yes."
"Says the woman who's known him for less than four months."
"He is an open book. Four months is all I need to know him. What I wonder, however, is why you've decided that you do not wish to know him at all anymore."
"He thinks I'm dead, if you haven't noticed," Owen snarks.
"And whose fault is that?"
"His, considering he tried to kill me."
"After you tried to kill him?"
"After he left me in the middle of a bloody burning building, yes," Owen hisses.
It's quiet for a moment.
Then, Tatiana hums. "I will not make excuses for his actions that day. And neither will he, I imagine."
"All Curt Mega knows how to do is make excuses."
"Perhaps the old Curt," Tatiana allows. "But he has changed quite a bit since you've last spoken."
"A few months ago, you mean?"
"Actually," She says, "I believe the last time the two of you truly spoke openly was more than four years ago."
Owen shakes his head at that, unable to think of a good reply.
"Talk to him," Tatiana says quietly. "Please."
"I have nothing to say to him."
"You," She scoffs, "Have so much to say to Curt that you could fill books with it all."
"I don't want to talk to him."
"I think you do."
"You don't know me, Slozhno."
"Hm. I think I do."
"God, can you just fuck off already," Owen finally snarls, "Or do you have nothing better to do?!"
"He misses you," Tatiana says quietly.
Owen swallows.
He looks away, taking a long sip of his drink.
"And you miss him."
"I don't," Owen says, and it even sounds fake to himself.
"Really? Show me the inside of your jacket, then."
Owen gulps. "Why?"
Tatiana crosses her arms. "I believe you know why."
Owen sighs heavily. Then, slowly, without making eye contact, he peels off his jacket, reaching into a seam inside the left sleeve and producing a smudged, torn, bloody, burned, crumpled photograph, as well-loved as it is despised.
Tatiana smiles sadly. "I thought so."
Flushing, Owen pulls the picture away from her line of sight and smoothes it out, regarding it with a fond, mournful look.
"Owen," Tatiana says, not unkindly, "You need to stop hiding in bars and talk to him."
"I..." He sighs, still staring at the Polaroid. "It's not that simple."
"Why not?"
"Because it's just NOT, Tatiana!"
Silence.
Owen ducks his head down, embarrassed. "Sorry."
Tatiana looks at him a moment, before sighing heavily and standing. "You need to talk to him, and soon. I will not continue to cover for you."
"Fine," Owen murmurs.
"Just... Try to trust him, Carvour. I am sure he would love to hear from you, regardless of what you decide to say."
"Yeah. Maybe."
Tatiana frowns. "I can see I will not change your mind right now. But please, at least think about it?"
"Yeah. Alright."
"Good. He... He really does miss you."
"Yeah, well." Owen looks down. "I miss him too," He mutters.
Tatiana merely nods. "I'd better get going. I'm sorry," She says, genuinely sounding regretful. "I will talk with you soon."
Owen hums.
Tatiana pauses, seemingly hesitating. "Before I go," She finally says, digging into her purse, "I wasn't sure, but..."
She pulls out a brand-new Polaroid of Curt, looking as if it was taken mere days ago.
"I figured you might like a new one."
Owen, speechless, takes it from her hand.
With that, she smiles at him as if already aware of what he's thinking, and leaves.
It's only once Tatiana is out of sight that Owen strokes the picture with a finger, admiring it for a moment before slipping it into his wallet.
This time, he's determined to keep it safe.