Chapter Text
December 18th, 2009.
It's nearing the end of December, and Owen's partner is going stir-crazy.
“What is this?”
Owen had entered the living room, intending to have a relaxing night watching the telly, only to find Curt actively ripping apart his armchair.
His partner slowly looks up from his spot on the floor, knowing he's been caught.
“Um.”
Owen sighs.
In the past, Curt would always visit his mother for the holidays, but ever since her death a decade back, he tends to get a bit melancholy as the end of the year approaches.
Hating to see Curt like that, ever since her passing Owen has made a point to set up gatherings with their friends each year. He invites their old friends like Tatiana and Barb, as well as newer friends, to celebrate at their home. It's worth all the preparation and overwhelm to see the way Curt's face lights up when their house is full of their loved ones. He gets like an excited puppy, full of joyful energy.
That still leaves the days leading up to the holidays, such as today, where Curt needs something to take his mind off of things. Through trial and error, Owen has found that the best way to accomplish this is to set him on a task.
For the past few years, he's taken to telling his partner that they need to clean the whole house in preparation. This usually results in one of two things: either Curt procrastinates for a week and then obsessively cleans the entire house the day before the event, or he does unrelated odd tasks around the place, creates a massive mess, and never ends up cleaning a thing. Either way, Owen gets a distracted Curt out of it, and sometimes a clean house.
This year, it seems Curt has decided on the latter of the two options.
“Really, Curt, the one place I sit in this room.”
“I can explain.”
Owen shakes his head, mourning the loss of his chair. He was never all that attached to the print, but he didn't hate it this much.
Across the room, Curt grabs onto the side of the chair, attempting to pull himself to his feet. He struggles, wobbling in place. Owen quickly heads over to help him.
“You're going to break a hip one of these days,” Owen scolds, clasping Curt's forearm with his hand and pulling him up.
“And you never let me hear the end of it,” Curt grumbles.
“I'm serious, Curt. Are you certain we can't get you something to help? It doesn't have to be a wheelchair, we can get you a cane like I have–”
“I'm fine, O. Please drop it.”
Owen sighs, studying Curt's face for a moment before letting go of his arm. “Ok.”
Curt takes his fallen hand and winds their fingers together in apology. “I'm sorry, old boy. I know I probably should, but…” he trails off.
“It's alright, love.” Owen gives him a peck on the forehead. “I know.”
One of these days, Owen will whittle him down. If not for his own health, Curt will likely end up getting a mobility aid for Owen's sake. Owen worries about him, but he knows how difficult it is for anyone to accept a decline in independence, let alone someone like Curt.
He pulls Curt to him gently, tapping their heads together. “So. Tell me about the chair?”
Curt pats Owen's arm in excitement.
“You're always complaining about how worn down it's getting, but you won't let me buy another one, so I decided to do the next best thing!”
“The next best thing is reupholstering it a week before the holidays?” Owen asks, incredulous.
“Well, when you put it like that…”
Owen groans. “You know what, knowing you, you'll probably get it done.”
He takes in the massive pile of fabric in the center of their floor.
“Somehow.”
Curt grins at him. “See, that's the spirit!”
Owen kisses him, because Curt is a stupid American but he’s Owen’s stupid American, before releasing Curt's hand and turning back the way he came. He can't watch this.
“I'm going to bed.”
“Night, love you!”
“Love you too,” he murmurs.
Four days before Christmas, Owen is sitting in his newly-reupholstered armchair when he receives a series of texts from Barb.
looks like a snowstorm is going to hit soon. all the airports are closed :-(
don't think I can make it this year </3
tell Curt I'm sorry for me!
Owen frowns. It's disappointing– he was really looking forward to catching up with Barb– but he supposes it can't be helped. He makes note to call her at some point when they're free. He begins to text back.
That's a shame, we were looking forward to seeing you. Hopefully the weather clears up in time for your family Christmas. I'll be sure to give Curt your regards.
Sincerely,
Owen Carvour.
Barb immediately begins typing.
thank you!! :-)
and you don't need to sign your messages, silly!
Owen smirks.
I had no idea.
Insincerely,
Owen Carvour.
Placing his phone down on the arm of the couch, Owen looks around in case Curt’s activities happened to bring him to the living room. The room is empty.
“Curt, love?” he calls out. Lord knows where his partner is at the moment, but Owen is fairly certain he hasn't left the house.
“Yeah?” Comes the muffled response from somewhere.
Owen waits patiently for a moment, listening for footsteps coming towards him. He hears none.
Owen groans in annoyance, reaching down to grab his cane and hauling himself up. He makes his way over to the hallway heading the direction Curt's voice came from.
“Where are you?”
There's a faint crash from somewhere.
“Garage!”
Owen sighs, wondering what mess he's going to see in there. Ideally their car will still be intact, but that's about as high as Owen is getting his hopes up.
Making his way to the entryway, Owen takes a moment to brace himself before pulling open the side door.
Initially he doesn't even see Curt, but when he looks to his left his partner is standing right next to the entrance, fiddling with something on the wall. Owen peeks around the doorframe to see what he's doing, hand on the door handle for balance.
“What on earth are you up to?”
Curt has a screwdriver out and is fiddling with the switch that opens their garage door. He's taken the entire panel off the wall and is messing around with the wires as if he has any idea what he's doing.
Curt looks up from his mess and shoots Owen a beaming smile.
“I'm fixing the garage door.”
Owen looks to the wall and back at Curt, brow furrowed.
“Curt, the garage door isn't broken?” It's more of a question than a statement. He's pretty confident it isn't broken– it was working fine when he used it yesterday.
“Oh, no, I know,” Curt says. “It was really slow, though, so I’m making it faster.”
Owen stares. “You're… Making it faster.”
“Mhm.”
For a second, Owen considers asking Curt if he knows what he's doing, until he remembers he knows for a fact Curt does not.
“Please don't break our garage door,” he settles on instead.
“I'm not, I'm making it faster.”
“Right.” Owen sighs and begins mentally calculating the cost of calling a mechanic. Curt pulls out a handful of wires and stares at them.
“What did you want to talk to me about?” he asks Owen.
“Oh, I got a text from Barb. Apparently there's going to be a snowstorm down in Ohio over the next few days, and all the airports are closed. She's not going to be able to make it. Told me to tell you she's really sorry.”
Curt drops everything in his hands with a gasp. The wires hang in a tangled heap in the air and the screwdriver clatters to the floor.
“What? No!” he cries. “I even got her that– that– what's it called. The gadget. From the show.”
“Sonic screwdriver?”
“The sonic screwdriver!”
Owen and Barb have been working their way through Doctor Who together for the better part of the year. Every few days they watch an episode at the same time and then call each other to talk about it. Curt does his best to follow along, but usually his attention wanders about halfway through.
Getting Barb a sonic screwdriver for a Christmas present had been Curt's idea, surprisingly enough. Owen, however, was the one to help him operate the computer and place the order. Curt is no longer allowed to use the computer unattended, lest there be a repeat of The Great Virus Incident of ‘02.
“Well, we can always just ship it to her,” Owen soothes. “I'm sure she'd love to meet up with us sometime in January, too. We could head down there for a change.”
Curt groans. “If we ship it to her, we won't be able to wrap it.”
Curt loves wrapping paper.
“I love wrapping paper.”
“I know you do, love.”
Owen watches as his partner’s face shifts into a dramatic pout. He sighs.
“It's probably small enough that we can wrap one box and ship it in a bigger box.”
Curt beams, springing up to plant a kiss on Owen's lips. Owen holds him steady.
“You're the best, O.”
“I try,” he replies dryly.
Just as quickly as Curt’s attention was pulled to him, it’s drawn back to the garage door opener. He takes the wires in his hands and pokes at a red one.
“So. Barb? January?” Owen prods.
Curt nods absentmindedly.
Owen shakes his head, leaving his partner to his tinkering.
“Maybe if Barb was coming she could fix the garage,” he mutters.
Three days before Christmas, Owen's phone buzzes again. He finishes loading his groceries into the back of the (thankfully not destroyed) car, closes the trunk, and fishes his phone out of his pocket.
This time the message is from Tatiana.
My mother is sick, so I am going to stay home this year to take care of her. I apologise for the short notice. Give Curt my best wishes.
Owen stares at the screen, taking a deep breath before putting his phone back in his pocket. He walks to the driver's side of the car and gets in, handing his cane to Curt who is in the passenger seat.
“Tatiana’s mom is sick,” he says by way of a greeting.
Curt takes a sharp inhale, blindly setting the cane at his feet. “Oh God, really?”
Owen nods. “She just texted me now.” He pulls his phone out and hands it to Curt.
Curt reads the text and slowly shakes his head. “She just said ‘sick’ without any specifics, but if she needs to take care of her it might be serious.”
“Well, any sickness at one hundred and three is likely cause for alarm.”
Curt nods, handing Owen’s phone back. “Tell her we’re sorry about her mom, and that we’re thinking of her.”
Owen types out a response.
That’s terrible, Tatiana. Curt and I are sorry about your mom, and we’ll be thinking of you. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.
Happy holidays,
Owen Carvour.
He presses send, handing his phone back to Curt. “Let me know if she texts back while I’m driving.”
“Am I allowed to reply?”
“If you can do it without accidentally calling emergency services or sending someone a photo of your foot, then yes.”
Curt holds the phone in the palm of his hand like it will bite him. “Maybe not, then.”
Owen turns the key in the ignition, starting the car. “That sounds like a good plan.”
On the ride home, Owen’s phone stays silent. Both of them are worried about Tatiana, lost in their own thoughts.
The silence is broken when Curt speaks. “Seems like we’re going to have a small Christmas this year.”
Owen nods, glancing away from the road for a moment to look at Curt. His expression is downcast, staring blankly at his hands where he fiddles with Owen’s phonecase.
“Just the two of us wouldn’t be the worst thing,” Owen murmurs, reaching over to run a thumb over Curt’s hand. “It would be like old times.”
In the corner of his eye, Owen catches Curt’s mouth twist into a bittersweet smile.
Early in their relationship, they had to spend most holidays apart out of necessity. Owen remembers the end of many years that he watched the clock tick down alone, fantasizing of stolen kisses and a hand to hold. Somewhere across the world, he’d imagine that Curt was doing the same, and whisper a happy new year to the open air.
Following their retirement, however, they’ve had all the time in the world. They’ve been slowly opening up as the world learns to accept their love, but for the longest time it was just the two of them, slow dancing together in their shitty apartment and learning to show their affection without fear of prying eyes.
“Yeah,” Curt says quietly. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”
That night– technically two days before Christmas, since it’s just past midnight– Owen lays in bed, reading The Painting of Dorian Gray by the warm light of their lamp.
As is typical to their nightly routine, Curt has abandoned his side of the bed to wrap himself around Owen like an octopus, his head resting on Owen’s chest and ear pressed to his heart. Owen has long since resigned himself to the fact that he’s just a glorified pillow.
Breaking through the peaceful silence, Owen’s phone vibrates from its place on the end table. He could have sworn that he put it on the do not disturb setting, but evidently not. Owen frowns at the disruption, marking his page and setting his book down in bed beside him.
Doing his best not to disturb Curt, who is an incredibly light sleeper, he carefully reaches over and takes his phone. Holding it to his face, he squints at the notification. It’s a text message from his niece, Joanne.
Owen’s heart stutters. He clicks on the notification.
I know I ask this every year, but are you sure you don't want to come to family Christmas? Pete's been asking about Uncle Owen for a while now.
Owen takes a shaky breath, staring at the message like it will kill him. Curt, disturbed by the movement, turns his head to look up at him.
He stares, tired and confused, taking in the phone in Owen’s hand.
“Who’sit?” He slurs sleepily.
“It's Joanne."
Curt blinks, trying to wake himself up. “Spankoffski?”
Owen nods, running a hand through Curt's mussed hair.
“Doesn’t her husband sell women's shoes?”
“That he does.”
His phone buzzes with another text.
You can bring Curt, of course. You're both always welcome here.
Owen stares.
“What’d she say?”
“She says…” He swallows the lump in his throat. “She says that we’re invited to family Christmas. And that we’re always welcome there.”
That wakes Curt up. “She said we’re invited? As in, me too?”
Owen nods mutely.
Curt climbs his way up Owen’s body and shoves his head in front of Owen’s, squinting at the phone. Owen holds it back a bit to let him see.
“Wow,” he murmurs. “I didn’t even know she still remembered me.”
“I didn’t know she’d assume we still knew each other.”
The years following Owen’s presumed death and subsequent revival had been very difficult to explain to his family. Only his sister, Helen, and her husband were left alive– their parents having passed long ago– but she took it hard. As a child, he was always rather close with her, but after he was recruited by MI6 they had largely lost contact.
Owen thinks she felt betrayed when he revealed he was alive all that time without letting her know. Their relationship, which had once been quiet but positive, twisted into something darker. Curt had once said that she treated Owen like he was still dead.
His niece was three months old when he learned of her existence. He never even knew Helen was pregnant.
Joanne and Owen had a better relationship. He did his best to come around when he could, bringing her gifts and kind words, trying to be someone present in her life. Owen wasn’t the best with children, but he tried for her, in whatever way her mother would let him.
As she grew up, he occasionally let Curt’s name slip, enough that by the age of ten she was begging for a visit from the mysterious man her uncle mentioned. When Curt heard of this, he also begged Owen to let him meet her.
With the combined strength of puppy dog eyes directed his way, Owen gave in and brought Curt to meet his family.
That was his mistake.
The moment she saw how Owen looked at Curt, Helen knew what they were to each other. She did not take kindly to having poofs around her child.
Owen didn’t see his sister or his niece after that. Helen and her husband passed away in ‘89 in a car accident, leaving their twenty-four year old daughter orphaned. Owen did not go to the funeral.
Years later, Owen got a message from an unknown number. It was Joanne, asking if he wanted to meet his great-nephew, a rowdy nine year old boy named Ted. Terrified as he was to mess up his chance, Owen accepted.
From then on, Owen was careful. He had learned from his mistake, and he was determined not to lose what little family he had again. He always visited the Spankoffskis alone and kept interactions brief, even as it killed him inside to stay distant. Most of all, he never once mentioned Curt.
Apparently, though, his niece remembered him from all those years ago.
Maybe it is enough.
Owen is pulled from his thoughts by Curt running a thumb over his cheek, drawing him back to reality.
“Hey.”
Owen blinks at him, staring into his eyes, the honey brown lit up by the golden lamp light.
“Hi.”
Curt is wearing what Owen thinks of as his concentration face, brows furrowed in an endearing mix of concern and determination.
“We don’t have to, O,” Curt says carefully, “but we can go.”
Owen’s eyes water. He looks away from Curt’s face and down to his phone, which lays open on his chest. The text cursor blinks up at him, waiting for his answer.
Owen sniffles, looking back up. “You think so?”
Curt smiles at him with the fondest look. He wipes away a tear with his thumb, cradling Owen’s face. “Yeah, I think so.”
Owen takes a deep breath. Shaking himself, he reaches for his phone.
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
He nods. “Ok.”
With trembling hands, Owen types out a reply.
We’ll be there.