Chapter Text
Owen doesn't remember much. He recalls slipping on the banana peel, the jump in his stomach as he fell, landing on a half-opened safety barricade and feeling terrible, sharp pains everywhere in his body, moments before the blast. Arguably, there probably wasn't much to remember at all.
The explosion happened, leaving a small hill of rubble piled on top of him. His breaths turned shallow as the pressure was exerted on his chest. He felt blood, seeping out of him and into his jacket. Not the first time Owen’s felt himself bleeding out. He’s been shot before, he's dealt with it. The feeling of being lightheaded becomes rather normal on the job. As excruciating as it was, Owen reminded himself that it was fine. Curt would come back for him and once he regains enough energy, he’ll yell in his ear about how irresponsible this whole thing was. Maybe in a couple years time, it could be something they shared a laugh about. But in this moment, God, he’s grateful he managed to at least save himself with the barricades, no thanks to his partner. Oh, Curt's going to get an earful from him once they’re out of here. Of course Curt was stubborn enough to set the timers for only 3 minutes, when is he not?
His vision’s starting to get a little blurry as he slips in and out of consciousness, barely aware of what's going on around him. The next thing he remembers is feeling his breathing start to slow as the rubble’s pushed off of him. Someone's here to get him. It's probably Curt, but Owen can't really tell as the pain takes him under.
The next time Owen wakes up, the pain in his body only gets worse, accentuated by the pounding in his head that makes him nearly groan as his eyes slowly open, the light–albeit dim–blinding him, looking around what seems to be another warehouse. His hands are tied behind his back, producing friction against the rough rope. His legs are also cuffed to the chair, great. Owen barely turns his head to count how many men are in the room, from what he can see, around 6, maybe more behind him.
One of the men starts speaking in Russian, “The prisoner is awake.” Prisoner, really? Owen pretends he doesn't understand a thing, acting clueless around the men who seem to crowd around him. One of the men–presumably the one with the highest position–stands at the back, ordering his men to ask him questions. He shows off various scars on his bare arms and his face. The men nod attentively at his orders, and Owen can feel that they're scared of their.. boss?
“Who do you work for?” one of them asks, and what a typical first question that is. He’s definitely never heard that one before. Bold of them to assume he’ll give up information that easily, he’ll take his secrets with him to the grave.
“I’d rather die than tell you.”
The same man lands a fist onto his face, it almost stings as bad as everything else, but Owen’s learned to take a punch or two. “You want to think of better answer?” Their boss orders them around, asking the man to threaten Owen for more information. The man obliges, “You listen here, we will give you time to talk, yes? By end of day is good. If you do not want to tell us, we will keep you at the edge of your life until you are begging us to kill you. You will feel pain every second of your life until your body gives up. Is that good deal for you?” Good deal? That? Pathetic, really. What Owen has absorbed after years of being a spy is that these men are all bark, no bite. They threaten people in hopes that fear becomes their ally. Not with Owen. It won’t happen with Owen.
Owen doesn't reply, figuring he’s better off if he doesn’t. “Oh, no answer? We will take it as ‘yes’,” the same man says. A few of the other henchmen walk around him. One takes notice of his watch, telling the others about it. The boss tells him to take it off and destroy it, so he does. The watch is taken off his wrist and thrown on the ground. At first, it looks like it’s already been broken–from the fall, presumably–but upon the harsh impact on the ground, Owen sees something change, as if it works for the slightest moment before turning off again. None of the men notice, but Owen does. If Curt can't find him, someone from MI6 might. It's a good plan. Owen doesn't keep his hopes up, but he prays that someone notices something with his tracker.
— — — — —
At the MI6 headquarters in London, one of Owen’s supervisors knocked on the door of the director’s office, before being let in. The man didn't start with any formalities, just straight to the point, “Sir, while tracking an ongoing mission, Agent Carvour’s tracker intercepted, we heard something from his end.”
The director interrupts near immediately, “Carvour is dead, that is what A.S.S. reported to us. Sending more assets there will only end up with more dead,” he says, simply, expecting the other to just agree and move on, that’s how it always is. If an agent’s death on the field is reported, it is to be believed as the truth.
“We have his last known location, if he’s alive, he won't be far, considering the blast. Carvour’s one of our best, if he’s dead, we’re losing one of our greatest assets. It’s worth looking for him, he’s not expendable.” The director groans, no matter how good an agent is, some things are not worth it. They’ve lost one, the number of actually competent MI6 agents will only go down if they go through with this.
“And if we lose more by looking? The Russians already have it out for us. It’s suicide to try. Even if he is alive, recovering from a fall like that would take years.”
The supervisor sighs, “Agent Carvour is worth looking for, most of his past missions have gone perfectly. Even if it takes years, better late than never, MI6 needs this.”
The director tenses up, giving up. Carvour is a great asset, he lets himself agree. “We can send out a few, but if you’re wrong about your hunch, you will be the one who’s dead.”
— — — — —
Owen was wrong. The Russians were in fact also all bite. Time became a blur to Owen, he couldn't remember much of his experience with the Russians, drunk with pain, only enhanced by the cold air on the burns all over his body. He felt so much everywhere to the point it just made him numb, he knew that it hurt, it was just so overwhelming that he could barely feel it. The Russians seemed to take turns, each getting their fair share of torturing him. It was practically the only way to figure out what time it was, even that was a stretch. Some would take what felt like half a day, while others were gone in merely an hour. He tried to count, make sense of it all to tether himself to the world around him again, but they seemed to quite enjoy tormenting him psychologically, too.
Everything felt like forever as he waited, and waited, and waited. For what? Death? Rescue? Owen stopped being sure, maybe he never was. Maybe it had only been a few days, maybe even a few hours, but to Owen, months had passed by. They’d give him water, just to keep him from dehydration. They don't bother with food, but Owen stopped feeling hungry after maybe the 4th time the Russians switched places. Owen used all his free time to take note which specific groups of men liked messing with him the most, learning the rotation and knowing what to expect. Some liked to tease him and build it up before delivering whatever their finishing blow would be. Some liked getting straight to the point if he wasn't going to say anything. Others would do both, keep him on edge. The worst would be the ones who momentarily kill him, just to shock him back to life. The pain always feels the worst when it just about hits him, eventually, it blends back into everything else and Owen’s numb again. He doesn't have much time to think, his dazed thought process often being cut short by more pain.
Maybe no one at MI6 noticed. Maybe they brushed it off as nothing. How long will he be stuck here, dying over and over again until his heart finally gives out? Until no external shock is enough to bring him back to life? He’s been through a million situations similar to this, he’s gotten familiar with the horror of staying alive, still, it never fails to get to him. What if someone finds him when he’s nothing but another body to bury? What if that's the last thing Curt sees of him? Bruised and bloody, eyes dark and empty, clear signs that death knocked on his door more than once. He doesn't even know where he is, how is anyone else supposed to? Usually, Owen’s not exactly in a fragile physical state when he's held captive. It doesn't scare him. This time, however, that was not the case.
He lets his thoughts spiral as much as the Russians let them before deciding to beat him out of it. Once the sensations come to an end, Owen lets his eyes slowly close as his ragged breaths begin to calm. Angling his head downward with whatever strength he has left, he lets the exhaustion take over him. He knows that once they notice, he’ll be tortured until he wakes up again, but it's worth it. Owen’s so tired, and he prays that God lets him rest just this once. It would be enough.
God does not listen. Owen knew He wouldn't. Never has, in his experience. His eyes only stay closed for at most 10 seconds before his body flinches awake at the sudden sound of gunshots, too many to count. The Russians don’t use guns with him, saying it’d kill him too fast, even if non lethal, mixed in with his injuries, he’d be dead soon enough. Someone was in the warehouse, and Owen hoped with all that was left in his heart that it was someone who would get him the hell out of here. He hears the footsteps of the ones guarding him as they leave the room, rushing out. A few more shots. Then, silence.
The intruders walk in rather fast, scattered footsteps all around. Owen holds his breath. If they aren't here for him, put him out of his misery, please. Owen would take anything over this slow, agonizing death the Russians had planned out for him. Again, he prays that God lets him rest, forever, this time. He’s so tired. Owen just wants this to end. He hears familiar voices, other agents from MI6, ones he’s worked with many times before. Their words make it into his right ear, only to leave the left. He doesn't really comprehend much. Owen tries to say something, but only a pathetic croak leaves his aching throat. The agents untie his hands and find the keys to the cuffs around his legs. His body slumps forward. He’s not dead yet. They found him. He probably looks miserable, but he's here, he’s alive, breathing, everything’s fine. Owen repeats it in his head. Everything's fine. The smallest part of him wonders if Curt’s still looking for him. It's fine. He’s quite sure MI6 will tell Cynthia, which means Cynthia will probably let it slip to Curt. After all, they're two of the greatest spies, no? Always partnered together for various missions simply because of how well they work together. This is but a minor setback. Eventually, he lets his eyes flutter closed as his breathing slows.
— — — — —
Owen wakes up again in a bed, it's rather uncomfortable, but it’ll do. It’s familiar, he’s been here many times in the past for any serious injuries on the job. Still, it’s never felt this uncomfortable. Owen leans forward to take a look at the state he’s in. There’s multiple casts all over practically each one of his limbs. He was definitely dosed with painkillers, something that made him feel a little out of it. Good, he isn't sure he’d be able to handle all the pain if they didn't blend together. He wonders if Curt knows yet, Owen wouldn’t want to keep him worrying, though it would be somewhat of a logical thing to do considering his idiotic stunt in the warehouse. For now, though, Owen thinks about himself more than anyone else. He’ll be out of here soon enough, and Curt will be waiting for him. Curt always would wait, Owen knew that, he held onto it more than anything else in the world.