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Owen was better than Curt at almost everything. They always seemed to compete with each other on missions to piss the other off, and Owen would win a little more often than Curt.
But, one thing Curt was infinitely better than Owen at, was dancing.
The bastard had some sort of natural gift of dance. He swayed with precision and poise, and it always threw Owen off, considering his normally brash nature.
Now, on this particular mission, they infiltrated a gala. Curt danced with the wife of some official while Owen retrieved some documents from her hotel room. They completed it with ease, but Owen felt a little offended that he wasn't asked to dance with the woman. Obviously it wasn’t because of her, but more so that people knew Curt was better at dancing.
They went back to their hotel room, and Curt was being all cocky with his skills, and how the woman was so entranced by him.
“I mean, she basically cried when I said I had to leave.”
“I get it, love. You’re so superior at moving.” Owens' sarcasm was very clear.
“What, jealous that I can dance and you can’t?” Curt had a smirk on his face that Owen simultaneously despised and loved.
“I can dance! Better than you, that’s for sure.” He was lying through his teeth, and Curt could tell.
“Then show me.”
“What?”
“Show me. It’s a pretty simple request, Carvour.”
“What do you mean ‘show me’? What am I supposed to do, mount a one-man performance on the fly?”
“No. I can dance with you.”
“Really? Why?”
“Because I want you to show me you can dance better, dumbass.”
“You don’t have to do that. There's already so much proof that I’m better at everything, how can dancing be any different?”
“Maybe because they specifically asked me to dance. What are you Carvour, chicken?”
“Fine. But it seems there isn’t any music. What will we dooo?” Owen tried one last attempt at backing out, but Curt seemed prepared.
“I saw a radio back there. I’ll go get it.”
Curt came back, and turned it on to some slow, romantic song.
Owen suddenly realised what he was about to do.
Dance.
With Curt.
Oh god.
Curt took his hand and placed his own on Owen’s hip, and it suddenly all became far too real for Owen.
His hand felt too warm and too cold at the same time, and Owen might have leaned too far into his touch.
He quickly composed his pink expression. Just think of it as a competition, you aren’t actually dancing with Curt. It’s just a competition.
They began dancing with a simple chassé, and Curt took the lead.
“Careful there Owen, you might break a leg if you keep stumbling this way.” Curt was seemingly very entertained with Owens inadequacies.
“It’s just because you keep throwing me off with your terrible dancing.”
“Really? ‘Cause I don’t look that terrible.”
It felt nice, even counting with Owen falling on his feet multiple times. Then, Curt got a bit closer than before, and Owen had to once again convince himself that this was not really him dancing with Curt. Although he was. But not really. Right?
Owen got in a sort of flow state, and when he was at his most calm, he was caught completely off guard by Curt.
Curt had dipped him.
Owen immediately looked up at Curt with a very flustered face. He tried to say something, but all that came out were incoherent mumbles.
Curt looked equally as mesmerized and flustered as him.
He quickly got himself and Owen up.
“I’m sorry Owen, that was weird, I just went on autopilot, and since, you know, I usually only dance with girls- woman. I mean women, fuck. Yeah. Women.” Curt was stumbling on his words, each said faster than the previous.
“It’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“Okay.”
They stared at each other a few seconds more than they should have, and they quickly parted, each to take care of whatever they needed to finish from the mission.
An hour or so later, while Owen passed by a hallway to go to sleep, Curt stopped him.
“You’re a shit dancer, you know that?”
“Oh, shut up. Dancing isn’t even important to our job.”
“So you didn’t see how flawlessly I performed today? You had so much spare time after giving those documents.” There was that smirk again. Fuck.
“Okay, sure, you might be slightly better at dancing.”
“The Great Owen Carvour, admitting defeat? How rare.” Curt promptly laughed at his comment, and Owen had to resist doing the same.
“Sod off, arsehole.” Owen hid his smile from Curt, and made it to bed.
Although, his whole night was filled with images of him and Curt dancing.
Damn, he was a pretty good dancer.