Four years. Four long years of grieving over his partner, four long years of drinking and misery. Yet, it turned out the agent was alive after all. Curt never wanted to reunite with Owen like this, his shaking hand holding a gun mere inches away from the British man's temple. The way he seemed to accept his death, staring straight into Curt's eyes as he waited for the bullet to enter his skull.
...
But it never did. Curt still loved him, never stopped loving him, even if he really was being a sleazeball at this point in time. Maybe Owen was able to kill him, the cold blooded bastard, but the look on his face? The sorrowful and guilty but blank expression in his eyes? This wasn't the spy he had spent so many months with, it was just the empty shell of him. So, in a last minute rash decision, he aimed the gun at Owen's thigh, and pulled the trigger.
Owen let out a sharp cry of pain, obviously not anticipating the pain that shot through his leg. He toppled over, and Curt instinctively held out his arms, holding the man in a tight grip. "Sh, it's okay." he whispered, putting a hand on Owen's chest and shoving him down backwards with an audible thud. He didn't bother being gentle. He placed his foot on the other man's chest, and bent down, wrapping his hands around Owen's throat.
He let out a choked noise and pried at Curt's hands, body thrashing as he tried to get the American off him. It hurt to see him like this, but he had to do what he had to do. Tightening the hold on his neck, it took only a few more minutes for Owen to shut his eyes, stop moving. A pool of blood was forming under him.
Poor kid. The wiggling probably didn't help with the pain from the bullet. He propped Owen up, and slid the jacket off of him, then ripped off a length of fabric from the sleeve. Curt glanced down at the bullet wound, which was still steadily bleeding. He wrapped it around his thigh, tightening it up real good as a makeshift tourniquet.
Unbuckling the ex-spy's belt, he grabbed his wrists and held them together, wrapping the belt around his wrists. Tight enough to the point he wouldn't be able to slip out, but loose enough so no circulation was cut off. "Okay, darling. Let's do this."
Curt got up, hauling the unconscious body up with him and tossing him over his shoulder. For his height, he was concerningly lightweight. He thought he looked skinnier, but didn't know if it was just the lighting or whatever. "We're gonna fix you right up, okay? You can count on it."
-
Everything went by like a blur. He knew he had been asleep, but every now and then, he caught quick glimpses of other faces, a faint background noise, and occasionally, a prick- what felt like a needle digging into his skin. Owen's head pounded, and every time he tried to open his eyes, they drooped back down. After what was way too much effort to perform a basic human function, he managed to open his eyes. The bright lights from the ceiling were blinding. Everything was blurry, but he knew that there was definitely one person in the room. He tried to get up, but quickly realized that his arms and legs were bound to the chair. Hell, even if he weren't tied up, he assumed that whatever in his system would prevent him from being awake enough to stand.
A few minutes later, and his vision was starting to clear up. He could now slightly make out the details of something, provided they be close enough, like the table and chair sitting in front of him. Otherwise, it all looked like a blob. Owen knew that someone was standing in the the upper right corner of the room, could see a human shaped figure that was leaning against the wall with their arms crossed.
Once they had noticed him staring directly at them, they strode over. Whoever it was, they pulled the empty seat away from the table, the legs of the furniture making a horrible noise on the cement floor.
