Chapter Text
In an A.S.S warehouse, approximately 78 hours and 24 minutes before the love of his life would die for the second time, Curt Mega ran his hand over the stubble where his beard used to be. It was rough to the touch and reminded him too much of another life. Of another man who used to love how his chin felt clean-shaven.
He glowered in the corner as Barb stalked around the floor of the lab, commanding her scientists with all the elegance and precise hand-gestures of an orchestra conductor. While she was leading the government-sanctioned construction of the kinds of weapons that would make Gengis Khan blush, Curt busied himself by aimlessly digging through a cardboard box labeled “Experimental prototypes: further testing required.”
He fiddled with the contents, which were mostly, to his disappointment, more guns shaped like household objects. He was just about to make a snippy comment about the labs’ lack of originality, when his hand tightened around the handle of– of all things– a plain black handgun, not unlike the semi automatic pistol already holstered at his side.
“Let me guess– this gun is actually a stapler.” Curt quipped flatly, running his fingers over the cold metal surface.
“Not quite.” Barb chirped, appearing with a familiar gleam in her eye.
“We studied retrograde amnesia in victims of head trauma– we were hoping to replicate the same effects through precise and targeted electrical shocks centered around the nervous system. Initial tests were inconclusive and held the risk of long-term brain damage, but we believe that if used in the field, we could essentially weaponize memory loss to- Curt, are you even listening to me?”
Though Curt had admittedly zoned out near the tail-end of Barb’s rambling explanation, he wasn’t stupid. He understood what amnesia was.
“So it’s basically like a brainwashing gun?” He held it up to the light admiringly.
“No, it’s not a brainwashing gun. Just- just– don’t touch that, Curt.”
Her tone was filled with a familiar patronizing ire that Curt had seen from almost every teacher he’d ever had, before he joined the A.S.S and his skill at killing people outweighed his deficits in attention or intelligence. The exasperation in her voice made his skin crawl and disintegrated the hypothetical clever response dancing at the tip of his tongue. Instead, he sat there hanging his head, a grown man being quietly chastised. Barb was, undeniably, a genius. And he was, well… Curt Mega. He knew she was right to be snippy with him, but still– it made him feel small.
Seemingly satisfied, Barb turned away back into the hustle and bustle of the lab. When she wasn’t looking, Curt silently slipped the non-brainwashing handgun into the holster at his hip.
He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling it just might prove useful later.
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Owen’s hand was shaking. He knew Mega like the back of his hand, the warm palm and each callous on each finger. Of the two of them, Owen was the better shot. Mega was the brute-force-guy, as he used to so elegantly put it, with enough drive and determination to crash and roll through the window of a soviet fort and keep running when he hit the ground. Owen, on the other hand, had cold calculation and a marksman’s aim. He could split a playing card at 30 yards with a single bullet. Why, then, was his hand shaking?
He was off his game. He had been off his game since the botched torture session where he had heard his name– his old name– and fired wildly in the air on instinct. A part of him thought maybe the shot had killed Mega once and for all. He rationalized that the pit in his stomach was just a product of missing out on the dramatic reveal while he had the chance.
Or, better yet, Owen had been off his game since he saw Mega’s face for the first time in 4 years. Well, what wasn’t hidden by that hideous beard. Owen had been off his game for four years prior, lying broken on that cold warehouse floor and waiting for the timer to count down. Or even better yet, Owen had been off his game since Mega kissed him for the first time in a safehouse in Peru, since he felt that warm arm around his waist.
“What about our secret? The time we shared? The feelings we had for each other? Are you ready to share that with the world?” There was something desperate in Mega’s voice.
Maybe a part of him still loved Curt Mega, but that love– once so big in his chest it choked him with pure desire– had atrophied into a deep, hot hate. He wasn't a fool. He had been there when McCarthy launched his lavender scare, transforming the US government into a place of paranoia. He had been there in the US, rubbing Curt’s back, whispering in his ear that they would be more careful from then on.
He knew what a world post-secrets could mean for men like him and Mega. But he also knew that the current system could not afford to continue in the way it was headed. And, at his most self aware, he knew that he was willing to do almost anything, incur any amount of pain or punishment or death, just to see Mega suffer even a fraction of the way he’d made Owen suffer.
Curt had abandoned him. After that, after everything, Owen was willing to do whatever it took to make sure he mattered to the man he once loved. To the government that had commanded him to kill innocents and then thrown him to the curb like a rusted knife. No matter who he had to hurt or kill to get there. It was nothing he hadn’t done before.
He lowered the gun to Curt’s chest, aiming the cold barrel at his warm, still-beating heart.
“That secret died the night you left me for dead.”
Owen had died that night. The man that remained– the supposed deadliest man alive– was nothing but a shell. The anger had burned away at Owen from the inside out, hollowed his flesh and left room only for pain and the fleeting grim satisfaction of a job well done.
Curt was talking to a corpse.
“Here’s some advice, Curt,” Owen heard himself purr. He felt out of his body, a silent audience member watching the scene unfurl. “It’s called moving on. Do give it a try.”
The sound of a gunshot permeated his dissociative dramatics. For a moment, he thought he’d pulled the trigger, putting Mega out of his old glory-relieving misery. A pang of utter and unspeakable despair wracked through his chest at the thought.
Then his brain caught up with his body. He looked down at his still-shaking hand, finding it empty– his gun shot off to the side. His eyes widened. He would have been almost impressed with Curt’s maneuver, had the American not then raised the cold barrel of his gun to Owen’s forehead.
“You know killing me won’t take the system offline,” There was something hysterical in Owen’s voice. “So… what are you doing?”
Curt wouldn’t kill him. Couldn’t kill him. He knew Curt, and, even now, couldn’t bring himself to be truly afraid of the man who held a gun to his head. If Owen, even in all his hate, still felt a spark of love for his impulsive, brash-hearted American— Curt must have felt something for Owen. If Curt had really drunk himself to near death over the past four years, he wasn’t about to kill his little spy friend now. Owen had nothing to worry about.
“Taking your advice.” Curt’s voice was steel.
And Owen realized he had made a grave miscalculation.
There was the click of a trigger, and everything went dark.
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A man opened his eyes. It took a moment for his sight to adjust to the blaring fluorescent lights overhead. His head hurt with a sharp and blazing pain that made it hard to hold his thoughts. Slowly, the contours of the room around him began to come into focus. The room was mostly plain, with a stray, unoccupied chair decorated with a rumpled blanket, next to a surprising amount of drained coffee cups scattered carelessly on a small table.
There was the singular, maintained beeping of some sort of machine. If the man had been able to muster the strength to lift his head and turn it to the side, he would have seen the source of the noise– the screen of a heart monitor, wired to his chest. The room itself was white, sanitary but eye-achingly so.
The man thought it looked like a hospital room. As he had this thought, it occurred to him that he couldn’t recall a single time he had been to a hospital. He tried to stretch his memory back into a linear shape, tried to recall the last few hours, last few days, whatever moment he remembered last– and came up blank. The realization that he couldn’t remember a single detail about himself should have filled him with fear, but instead he felt… Well, nothing.
A part of him, acting on muscle memory alone, mentally logged the contents of the room with a measured and precise indifference. He needed a logical next course of action– that felt deeply true to the man, though he couldn’t place why or how. His eyes locked on the only exit– a plain white door left slightly ajar.
From behind the door, the man could make out two voices– one feminine and higher pitched, one smooth and masculine. They seemed to be in the midst of some sort of argument, though the man couldn’t make out any of the words. From tone alone, the feminine voice seemed to be winning– tone angry and chastising, barely allowing the masculine voice to get a word in.
That voice… something about the masculine voice made the pain in the man’s head flare. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He wanted it to stop. The man gasped in pain, breath growing shallow and erratic, choking on the tears that came, unbidden, wetting his cheeks. The beeping of the monitor grew fast and hurried, only amplifying the man’s pure panic. He tried to sit up, tried to run, tried to do anything– but his limbs stubbornly refused to obey his commands, refusing to do anything but tremble and spasm under the thin hospital sheets.
He was only faintly aware of the door slamming open before a woman appeared at his side, figure swallowed in a pristine lab coat. Even through his panicked haze, the man was able to read the emotions written in her furrowed brow. Relief, excitement, caution, and– was that-?-- fear? Not for him, but of him. She was afraid of him.
“You’re awake!” She chirped, a bit of trepidation making it into the wavers of her voice. “Do you– What do you remember?”
“I-” He began, voice rough and painful in his throat from unuse. How long had he been out? “I- I don’t— I don’t know.”
Tears threatened to fight their way out of his eyes once more, but part of him– that muscle memory part of him still flexing untethered in the back of his mind– screamed at him not to cry in front of her. He was a grown man! At least– he thought he was.
“I don’t remember anything.” He whispered. He wished he could raise his hand to wipe away the unseemly tears, but his arm still hung weakly and limply at his side.
The woman’s gaze softened. The man hated that– hated the prospect of feeling pitied. And yet, something in the woman’s– doctor’s?--- eyes was incongruous with the gravity of the situation. Was that… excitement?
“It worked!” She cheered. “I mean– er… I’m sorry to tell you, sir, but you were in an accident. Our, erm, experimental diagnostic technologies deduced that you might have serious brain damage, even retrograde amnesia. Are you experiencing any other symptoms? How are you feeling?”
“Aside from the fact my head hurts like bloody hell and I can barely move my arms? Just peachy.”
The man slipped into an easy, tongue-in-cheek sarcasm as naturally as slipping into a glove. He wondered what that meant about him, aside from just being a bit of an asshole. The doctor didn’t seem too put off by this.
“That’s promising.” She spoke carefully, like the man was a scared feral animal, likely to bite the hand that fed him at any moment. “We’ll have to put you through some physical therapy. But between that and resting up… you should be discharged in a few weeks. But I’ll have to check up with you every month after that– just to monitor your situation, make sure it doesn’t get any worse.”
The man nodded quietly, stoically processing this new wave of information. The pain in his head gently faded to a dull, throbbing ache. The uneasiness in his gut hadn’t really settled, but at least he wasn’t crying any more.
“I’m sorry, can you– could you tell me who I am? Please?” His voice was soft, pleading. It felt unfamiliar, this vulnerability. But not wrong.
“Of course. Well, for starters, you’re british.”
Amnesia aside, the man was capable of picking up on regional accents. From the moment he first opened his mouth, the sounds that came out were enunciated with the crisp vowels of a life-long brit. And, beyond that– him being British just felt right in some unnamable way, even though any attempt to conjure an image of ‘home’ resulted in a growing headache.
“I can tell that, love.” The term of endearment slipped out easily and naturally.
The doctor giggled. “Of course! Well, you were a… government employee. But just clerical stuff! Nothing that exciting, or thrilling, or-”
“Oh.” The realization left a foul taste in his mouth. Aside from the fact that ‘clerical stuff’ sounded bone-achingly dull, the idea of the government, any government, made him feel distinctly bitter. “Am I expected back at my job, or-?”
“No! No, that’s alright. He- I mean, we– wanted you to have a fresh start. Think of this as a second chance at life!”
“A second chance at life.” The man repeated, softly. “I like the sound of that.”
The two shared a moment of companionable, if a little uneasy, silence. The man couldn’t shake the impression that there was something the doctor wasn’t telling him, but then again, he was a total stranger to her– he couldn’t really fault her for that. He was, in fact, a total stranger to himself.
“I’ll let you rest.” The doctor slowly turned to leave, but not before the man stopped her.
“Pardon me, love– but I don’t think I managed to get your name. Or my name, for that matter.” He chuckled, lightly, but the fluttering of his heart–monitor betrayed his anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, if he could hear his name, everything would click into place.
“Oh! Of course, silly me!” The doctor fidgeted with her lab coat. If the man didn’t know better, he might think that she was nervous. “My name is Barb. Barb Larvenor! Your name is, um, Eliot Reed.”
Eliot. Not a bad name, of course, but it didn’t conjure anything in the man. Eliot tried to hide his disappointment.
“Barb…” Maybe knowing her name made him a bit more bold. “Is there– is there anyone waiting for me? Any family, any friends, anyone…?”
Her crestfallen expression told him everything he needed to know.
“Oh.” He whispered, feeling a deep and utter sinking sensation in his gut.
“Like I said, think of this as a second chance at life!” Her enthusiasm sounded a little forced, even to Eliot’s impressionable ears. “Once you’re released, you’re free to go anywhere, but I recommend you stay here, in New York, so I can keep monitoring you– in case your condition gets worse.”
“That won’t be a problem, love. I wouldn’t have anyone else to go home to, afterall.” Eliot’s voice sounded bitter.
Barb hovered in the doorway, hesitating, as if unsure whether to reach out and comfort him or leave him be. Eliot hated that, hated that she was pitying him again. He looked down, eyes boring holes into the paper-thin sheets draped over his legs. It was all too painful, too much.
“You should get some sleep.” Barb amended. As if Eliot hadn’t already been unconscious for heaven knows how long. And yet– he still felt weak. Helplessly so. Maybe rest would do him some good.
Eliot watched her leave, then closed his eyes, long eyelashes brushing the tops of his cheeks. Sleep didn’t come to him all at once, but in waves of semi-lucidity, washing over his broken, aching body. He fell in and out of sleep, abstract dreams with no start and no end.
At some point, he awoke briefly between his bouts of slumber to feel a body above him– not the nerves and constant movement of Barb, but a still figure sitting over his bed, solid and still and mournful. The figure was holding Eliot’s hand, warm and calloused and strangely familiar. Their hands fit together in a way that felt unnameable and right. The figure spoke in that same smooth and soulful voice Eliot had heard from the hall, painful and soothing at the same time.
“I’m sorry.” Said the figure.
Eliot slept. He dreamed of lying broken on a cold warehouse floor. Of hauntingly beautiful brown eyes looking down at him.