It Takes Two to Torture Tango
Keep your friends close, enemies closer, and partner at at least arm's length.
Owen gets to be on the receiving end on his favorite way to make fun during his missions with Curt.
Potential warnings: swearing, spy violence. Spies are Forever, Owen/Curt tickle fic.
A Squealing Santa gift for @bow-of-aros! Hope it brings you lots of joy 😁 Big thanks to @cantsaythetword for doing such a great job hosting us for 2025, and cheers to all my fellow participants and everyone who just had fun reading 😋 Hope everyone has an excellent new year ♥❄
Word count: 4,946
~*~
“Is it Christmas?!”
Owen’s head thumped against the back of the chair he was cuffed to. Of all the characters to enter the room in the past half hour–spies from a rival agency threatening him harm for information, grunts cracking their knuckles and snickering about him in a language they thought he didn’t understand, one fellow with a coat too small for his body and a mustache too big for his face pushing a cart laden with needles and scalpels and hammers rusted with dried blood–Owen thought the worst entrance came in the form of his longtime partner, Curt Mega, standing in the doorway with a grin on his face and his hands on his hips.
“It must be,” Curt insisted, glee plain on his face as he began toward where Owen sat.
“If you say so,” Owen said, not lifting his head. “Personally, I don’t find a floor littered with unconscious bodies to be all that festive.”
Curt scoffed, stepping over one of said bodies. “It’s gotta be my birthday, then.”
Owen looked at him then, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed. “What are you on about?”
“There’s a handsome man in a chair waiting for me,” Curt said with a shrug. “I assumed it was a gift-giving occasion.”
“Haha, so funny,” Owen sneered, hoping sarcasm would distract from the warmth suddenly in his cheeks, embarrassed and annoyingly flattered. “Can you let me out of here already?”
Curt pretended to ponder Owen’s request for a moment, then sighed exaggeratedly. “Fine, I guess I can bail you out, this time.”
Owen crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair as though his arms weren’t bound behind it, ever cool under pressure. With a wink, Curt turned to begin frisking the guards for a key or anything shiny. None of the bodies stirred as Curt searched them in turn. They’d been thoroughly incapacitated by the stun grenade Curt had thrown into the room moments prior. If he didn’t know Barb’s technical genius and foresight as well as he did, Owen would have been nervous or affronted at Curt’s readiness to use the device in a room his own partner occupied. The tool had worked flawlessly as anything she designed, taking down the eight unfriendlies in the room and leaving Owen unaffected. Somehow due to his DNA or a specific article of clothing he’d been instructed to wear on the mission? He couldn’t recall, and Curt definitely hadn’t offered much in the way of detail when he’d explained it secondhand.
With a small hoot of victory, Curt rose from the last guard he’d checked, a ring of keys dangling from his finger. At Owen’s lack of encouragement or praise (because when wasn’t an eye roll the pinnacle of enthusiasm?), Curt sauntered back to Owen, arms behind his back. He stood straddling Owen’s knee, gazing down at him with a tilt to his head and a warmth in his eyes. The look was so suddenly and markedly tender from Curt’s previous teasing that Owen almost expected him to say something romantic. But Curt was nowhere in place to unlock Owen’s hands, and that–and the terror and thrill at the prospect of being anything other than professional in the field–made him bristle. “What?” Owen said. “What are you looking at?”
“Oh, just enjoying the moment,” Curt hummed, his smile widening. “Because, you know, usually I’m the one who gets caught and beat up while waiting to be saved damsel-in-distress style. It’s a new perspective, to be on this side of things.”
Tempted to drive his knee upward, Owen only scowled. “So funny, so funny. You’ve had your moment; can you let me out now? We still have work to do here.”
Curt took a step back to open his jacket. “Oh, you mean finding those super important top secret files?” He produced said files from an inside pocket with a flourish. “No, yeah, I found them while you were getting slammed around, so thank you for being such a great distraction.”
Owen could take a few hits no problem, but Curt’s jabs to his ego were starting to smart. That, and his arms were beginning to ache. “Great. Well, we still need to get out of here without being shot, yeah?”
“Preferably.”
“So, can we speed this along then?” Owen shook his wrists for emphasis, making the cuff chains jangle.
“So impatient,” Curt shook his head. “I know you must be uncomfortable, not experienced having to sit there and be treated like an information piñata, but you don’t have to be so grumpy.”
“I wouldn’t even BE in this position if you’d kept watch like I TOLD you to.”
“I wouldn’t have needed to keep watch if SOMEONE hadn’t run off by himself like I said not to do,” Curt all but sang, unbothered by Owen’s sharp tone. “So, I know you’re mad about being in this situation, but–” and Curt spread his hands, stammering momentarily around a laugh, “–my hands are clean in this. Your bullheaded American compatriot wasn’t the one to screw this up.”
“For once,” replied Owen, rolling his eyes at Curt’s impression of him. Agent Mega has always been, frankly, horrendous at languages and accents, even one he heard so frequently.
Dismissing Owen’s comment with a wave of the file in his hand, Curt leaned forward until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Over Curt’s shoulder, Owen could see the file poking up like a sail where Curt held his arms behind him. Not a sail, no, Owen corrected himself; a sharklike fin, with all the confidence of a predator smelling blood in the water, or heat rising embarrassedly up to Owen’s ears. “Maybe try a ‘please’? Since I’m so not the one at fault here.” Curt drew back with a giggle, admiring the sight of Owen, blushing and bound in front of him, once more. “This is a new feeling for me; this is a feeling I don’t usually get to enjoy.”
“And it’s one you’re never going to get again,” Owen decided, “because you are far too smug about it. Can we please just get–”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Curt teased with another terrible attempt at an English accent. He took a knee, tugging open the front of Owen’s jacket and tucking the file safely into his pocket there. “Be a dear and hold this for me while I get you out.” Curt moved like he was going to stand up, but didn’t get farther than a squat. Before Owen could so much as scoff impatiently, Curt hummed. “You know what else I’m usually on the other side of?”
Owen was suddenly all too aware of Curt’s hand, between his jacket and shirt, fingers splaying to gently touch his side. “Curt,” Owen said through his teeth, cursing the anticipatory tingling feeling crawling up his ribcage, cursing his captors for binding him in a way that left him so defenseless, cursing Curt for being so easily distractible and vengeful, “don’t you dare.”
Curt’s lower lip puffed out and his brow furrowed. “Aw, come on,” he whined, resting his elbow on Owen’s knee and cradling his own stubbled chin with his free hand, his other hand still hovering at Owen’s side, fingertips ghosting over the fabric of his undershirt. “You would do it if our positions were reversed.”
That, Owen couldn’t debate, but that certainly didn’t mean he was going to condone his own comeuppance. “I swear–” “And you’re right there.”
“Curt– Curt–!” Owen would deny to his grave the yelp he let slip when Curt’s fingers curled against his lower ribs. “Can we– can we please have this conversation another time?”
Continuing to pout, Curt cast his gaze upward at Owen, all big brown pleading eyes. “But if you were me–”
“I know, but you’re so much kinder, more handsome, a better spy–” Owen’s rambling ceased as he bit down on a laugh. Curt’s fingers were beginning to wiggle now. “Please, please– not here–”
“Not here?” Curt repeated, pinching his way down from Owen’s side to his hip. “How about here then?”
The smug delight was audible in Curt’s voice even as Owen scrunched his eyes closed and pressed his lips together hard. He grunted offendedly in protest, but he didn’t trust any other embarrassing noises to stay underground if he dared to open his mouth.
The sound of approaching enemies proved to be Owen’s saving grace. Even Curt couldn’t deny that this wasn’t the place or the time for silliness if danger became imminent. He stood, withdrawing his teasing hands, and circled around to the back of the chair to undo Owen’s cuffs and bindings. Owen, meanwhile, loosed a mighty exhale, slumping back into his seat, suddenly exhausted. How could his own partner put him through worse resistance training than the operatives they’d been hired to steal from? Thank goodness, the adorable oaf had some common sense, even if he was lacking in mercy.
The chain of the cuffs hit the floor with a clink clank, and Owen got to his feet, rubbing his wrists. Curt was at his side in an instant, offering him a grin, and pistol, and the goods that had been removed from his jacket and belt when he’d been captured. Owen accepted the effects but met the jovial expression with a glare. Only smiling all the wider, Curt readied his own weapon and adjusted his stance, strong and ready to spring, shoulder to shoulder with the spy who’d cover his six.
“Ready?” said Curt. “Or did that little bit of fun take too much out of you?”
Owen butted his shoulder against Curt’s, brushed his hair back from his forehead, and mirrored Curt’s stance. “I think you’ve played the hero enough for today. Reckon I can take out more of them than you, now that my hands aren’t tied behind my back.”
“That’s not usually how the saying goes.”
The footfalls faded to be replaced with the pounding of fists upon the door and shouting through the walls. Owen set his sights on the small window in the door, eye-level and four inches across. His first shot went through cleanly, shattering the glass and splattering the back wall with whatever grunt the bullet had caught the scent of. “I know,” said Owen, aiming once again after throwing a wink at Curt. “But I wouldn’t want to embarrass you by beating you with my hands behind my back, darling.”
~*~
Escaping with the files in hand had been the easiest part of the rest of the day. Then came the less fun part of the job. Shuttling back into the city to a secure location to rendezvous with their respective nation’s headquarters, reporting their success and receiving a tongue-lashing for not maintaining a stealthy end to an otherwise silent and shadowy mission. They each faxed a copy of the documents to their superiors and destroyed the evidence. Then they retired to the hotel they’d been put up in, sharing dinner from opposite ends of the lobby bar to avoid correlation from outside eyes, and then went upstairs to their bedroom, staggering departures from the common area to keep from arousing suspicion.
And it was, in fact, a bedroom, singular, because their two countries could be as tumultuous as divorced spouses but could reach an agreement on their best spies bunking together if it meant saving a few coins. Owen accepted this small unintentional blessing on their part.
When he followed Curt upstairs after a few minutes, the American had been so excited that he’d forgone removing his jacket or shoes in favor of shoving the two twin beds together into the center of the suite. Subtle, Owen wanted to admonish, they definitely wouldn’t have to separate the beds before the cleaning crew came the next day. But Curt turned to beam at him as he entered the room, and Owen could find no malice with which to utter the words, so he only scoffed and shook his head, a soft smile fondly and irresistibly spreading across his cheeks.
“Well, I’d say, despite a few hiccups,” Owen said, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it by the door, “that that mission did go off relatively well.” He and Curt had gotten so proficient at reading one another’s wordless signals that Curt’s jacket was tossed and hung up by Owen’s and Owen’s shoes were slid over and tucked under the bed beside Curt’s with just a discussion of a glance. Curt sat down on the end of the two beds, and Owen went for the cabinet by the mini-fridge. “And the day will even end well if we were sent a bottle of good-job whiskey before they knew we cocked up our mission. Aha!” Owen proudly held up a bottle glittering with amber liquor in one hand and two glasses in the other.
Curt clapped. “The day couldn’t end better.”
Owen turned from him, setting the glasses atop the cabinet and unstoppering the bottle. “Well, I could think of a few more things that could improve it.” He looked over his shoulder, smirking expectantly at how his comment would affect Curt, preferably fluster him or fuel his competitive flirtation--or both. It seemed, though, that Curt hadn't heard him at all, his gaze toward Owen but thoughtful and distant. Trying again to lighten the mood, Owen said, “What's the matter? Are you trying to find a nice way to tell me that they knocked my jaw sideways before you could rescue me?”
Curt blinked, his focus returning to the present. “No, no,” he said with a crooked smile, “handsome as ever.”
“You sure?” Owen poured the two drinks, handing one to Curt before sitting on the bed beside him. “You can tell me--you better tell me--if anything’s out of place. You'd know better than anyone if my jaw was crooked one way before the mission and the other way after.”
He'd expected that to get a chuckle out of Curt, but, just the opposite, his smile seemed to clench. He took a sip of his drink, then another, and the tension in his forehead smoothed somewhat. “I guess that's true. But… I guess I don't really want to be in that position again.”
Owen sipped his drink and waited for Curt to continue.
“Don't get me wrong, it was fun, getting to be the one to swoop in and save you and be smug about it, but I don't want to get used to it.” Curt leaned his shoulder against Owen’s and chuckled, but the sound was forced and soured with poorly hidden sentiment. “I wear bruised and battered better than you do. I didn't like seeing you like that at all.”
“No?” said Owen, slipping an arm around Curt’s back and resting his hand on the bedspread, holding him as his tone grew teasing. “You didn't like the feeling of having to chase after your partner who did something stupid and had to face the consequences of his actions? You didn't like feeling helpless and desperate to fix the situation?”
“No,” Curt sighed, downing his drink and setting the glass on the floor. “Because you’re supposed to be the responsible one. Like, I know how to look good fucking up, and I know I don't have to worry because you'll just come and save and berate me.” Curt swayed, his head falling gently upon Owen’s shoulder. If Owen didn't know how well Curt could hold his liquor, he might have thought the move was unintentional or clumsy, but there was a clarity in Curt’s eyes, a steadiness in his hands as he reached to rest his hand on Owen’s knee. His voice grew soft. “I'm not used to that. So… you better not make a habit of it.” Curt tilted his head to look up at Owen, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
Owen’s heartbeat kicked up to a canter. Somehow, this little cuddle felt more scandalous than when Curt on been on his leg in the torture chamber. The curtains were drawn, the door was locked, the hallway was quiet. It was just them, and they were safe. Well. A good spy knew to keep his guard up, and Owen was only a great spy. That was why his arm around Curt wasn’t tight, but ready to flee if the need arose. Owen didn't want it to, but he knew the time would come. This, them, it couldn't be but a fleeting moment, no matter how sweet. So Owen memorized it, tucked it away in his mind with the safety on. He hated how cautious he’d come to be, how he could settle for moments so few and far between. But that only encouraged him to treasure each one all the more, and to not let his own thoughts spoil the mood. They could exist together tonight, without fear and full of gaiety.
“I think,” Owen said, pursing his lips and swirling the whiskey in his glass before casting a sidelong glance at Curt, “you’re just mad that I branched out into being not only the cleverer spy, but the bolder one as well. I think you’re just jealous.” Owen finished his drink and set it down beside Curt’s. The liquor blazed a trail through his veins, burning away melancholy and inhibition to leave giddiness and mischief smoking in its wake. “I think you missed the chair,” Owen carried on. “Maybe I’ll keep the chair. Maybe I should be the one playing the distraction damsel more often.”
He nearly felt more than heard Curt’s growling reply. “You better not.” “You going to stop me?” Owen replied, unfazed. “I actually rather like the idea of switching up our roles a bit in the future, since, as you say, I did such a good job with yours.”
“You did,” Curt nodded, lifting his head and turning in Owen’s arm to face him. Something dangerous as a speeding bullet glinted in his warm eyes as he grinned. “But you didn’t get the full experience, remember? We were interrupted.”
Alarm bells sounded in Owen’s mind, ringing with an undercurrent of excitement. This was all the thrill he loved of espionage with none of the stakes, the adrenaline of clashing wills and a chase. Owen intended a chase, anyway, when he snatched his arm away from Curt, but the other spy had already braced an arm on the bed across Owen’s legs, keeping Owen from properly going anywhere. “Curt-- just hold on--”
Curt didn’t let him stumble further, having teased him enough on their earlier mission. But his ego necessitated he got the last word. “I think I’d like to resume that conversation now.”
Between the two of them, the spies had decades of experience, of honing skills of combat and charm to wield as well as any weapon. All such prowess vanished in the wrestling match that ensued. Curt was the stronger of the two, and Owen soon found himself with his back to the bedspread, grunting and giggling. With a forearm to Owen’s chest, Curt had him pinned, and Owen’s deft and dangerous hands slapped uselessly against him. Curt’s own hands had a clearer mission, and his wiggling fingers dug into and crawled down Owen’s side. Before, when Curt had threatened to undo him with something so silly as tickling, Owen had had his walls high for them being on a job. He could offer no such resistance now, exhausted from the day and warm from the alcohol and soft from the affectionate play. Once Curt’s fingers began to dance down his side, Owen bared his teeth on a grin and snickered. And when those wicked digits circled back up toward his ribs, Owen let his head fall back to the pillows, smile open to accommodate the high-pitched cackling that spilled from his lips.
Perhaps such a goofy evening was unbefitting of such worldly gentlemen. But Owen couldn’t deny (not to say that he would ever verbally admit such a thing) that it was exhilarating and just fun to release himself from his professional persona, ever suave and in-control, and just be. To exist in the present, in such a sensation that relieved the mind of effort or coherence. Ecstatic electricity coursing through the bloodstream of joy and spirits, the warmth of Curt’s body on his, the administrator of his torture and the shield from any of the world that wanted to touch and tear him to pieces. Only Curt’s hands had that privilege, and he did it in such a lovely way. He knew the power trip Curt would be on, it was addictive to make a strong man crumble and a dear man smile with such abandon. Between that and his earlier smug attitude, Curt was in danger of getting too big a head to fit into his dashing suit if Owen didn’t remind him how easily the tide could shift.
Owen made the tactical decision to leave himself open to be able to wriggle his fingers up Curt’s neck and behind his ears. Curt jolted like he’d been struck by lightning, wild laughter startled from him that Owen had come to know so well. Even with his worst spot attacked, Curt chortled but didn’t relent, fortifying himself enough to deploy his hands beneath Owen’s arms and scribble his fingers there. A tactical retreat, Owen assured himself as his arms rocketed to his sides to protect himself from Curt’s villainous fingers and his head fell back with the strength of his open-mouthed cackling.
It was perhaps embarrassingly easy for Curt to twist his hands free. Owen gave him more trouble when Curt tried to grab his hands to keep them out of his way. So Curt dropped Owen’s hands and spidered his fingers upon Owen’s stomach instead. Instinctively and with a squawk, Owen’s hand jumped down to try and block Curt’s newest barrage. Which made for a very short distance for Curt to capture Owen’s hands and trap them under his knees. Owen might have appreciated such a dirty trick, if he weren’t otherwise distracted.
Curt’s agent persona wasn’t as proper and neat as Owen’s, complimentarily handsome and daredevillish, but still quite polished and put-together. Kneeling over Owen’s thighs, hair mussed and collar unbuttoned and smile so wide on his face that his dimples beamed like they’d been etched there--Curt looked so incredibly different and still so damn pretty. At such a sight, Owen would have even forgiven Curt for taking another moment to enjoy the sight of him in return, of decidedly having the upper hand. Maybe even forgiven him for digging his thumbs into Owen’s hips and making him chortle.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Curt chuckled, leaning in to behold and be heard, “we’re gonna have to work on your tolerance before we let you get captured and interrogated again. If you’re laughing this hard already, you’ll spill anything they ask when they go a little longer.”
“You--!” Owen stammered, trying to weave a retort through his happy howling. “You’re one to talk! Mister Oh please not the feather--!”
Holding a hand offendedly to his chest, Curt reeled back, jaw slack. “Oh, now you’re in for it…” His hands were only shocked to stillness for a beat before they got back to work, yanking the hem of Owen’s shirt from his waistband to reveal a strip of bare stomach.
Owen couldn’t begin to form a protest or a plea before new peals of laughter burst from him, mighty in cartoonish juxtaposition to the gentle kisses Curt peppered along his heaving abdomen. Since Curt had insisted on trying to grow out his facial hair earlier that year, Owen was under the assault of both featherlight kisses and brutal whiskers scratching his sensitive skin; the reaction was dramatic but appropriate. There was minute relief as Curt moved upward, his stubble having less effect through rucked fabric, but Curt made up for that by turning his kisses to nibbling and his hands into claws that scratched between Owen’s ribs. While he wailed merrily, Owen tried to feel affronted; sure, he’d made Curt’s ticklishness an adorable spectacle for enemy spies once or twice, but he’d always killed any witnesses after blessing them with such a sight. Where did Curt get off using Owen’s sensitivity against him and then also killing him with it?
Curt’s nails lingered rudely in Owen’s ribcage, but his lips continued their upward trek, hopscotching from Owen’s stomach to chest to collarbone to jaw. “You know, you’re right,” Curt said, the hum of his voice vibrating straight through Owen’s nerves and causing him to keen. “I think they did knock you a little off kilter. Let me just kiss that better.”
“That’s not-- fuck--!” Owen laughed, weak but wrenching his hands free. He didn’t counterattack again, instead just holding onto Curt for dear life, one hand clinging to the back of his shirt and the other gripping his hair. “I’m sohohorry! Please--!”
Possibly sympathetic, Curt pulled back from Owen’s neck, brushing the tip of his nose against Owen’s cheek. “I might accept that apology, if you also promise not to act stupid and get caught. Otherwise, I’m out of a job.”
Owen snorted, but that could have been at Curt’s words or his hands still skimming up and down his ribcage. “Curt--” Owen tried and failed to send any more words through his croaking cackling. Curt’s hands grew slower and kinder, rubbing steadying circles up and down Owen’s sides. The fond smile he looked at Owen with was enough to make Owen’s mind short-circuit for a moment and forget what he was agreeing to. Curt gave an encouraging pinch to Owen’s flank, and Owen yelped, raising his hands partly in surrender and partly to push against Curt’s chest. “I- I promise!” said Owen, gulping air through the giggles still on his lips. “I promise, I’ll leave the being stupid and getting captured to the expert.”
Curt scoffed but accepted the admission of defeat, falling to one side to lay next to Owen. One eye half-open in self-preservation, Owen melted into the mattress, breathing deeply and gradually slower. So suddenly and thoroughly spent, he didn’t even jump when he felt Curt’s touch, brushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead behind his ear. Owen turned onto his side, facing Curt and catching his hand before it could fully depart.
“Thank you,” Curt said, giving Owen’s hand a squeeze. There was something unsaid but ready in his gaze. Words were hard enough without being a spy, who had to be painfully aware of how many ears could be hidden and listening. Owen could see, though, what Curt wanted to say without words, in the warm brown of Curt’s eyes, the soft crinkles at their corners, the dimple still adorning his cheek. I can take a lot; you don’t have to get hurt for me, because I can’t take that. His chest constricting with a feeling as deep and bright as when he’d been laughing with Curt’s body pressed to his, Owen understood. It was encompassing, naive, sweet, and beautiful. He couldn’t give voice to any of those things either, but he hoped that, even if he had to admit it upon pain of tickling that he won’t do it, that his willingness to be hurt for Curt--hell, even by Curt, if need be--was enough to show the mirrored strength of his own feelings.
Drink and laughter were making his thoughts wonderfully fuzzy. He and Curt were supposed to be celebrating another (mostly) successful mission, the greatest spy team in the world doing what they did best (pending approval). Sentimentality could wait for the small hours of the night, curled up and warm between them when neither could sleep. When they would just hold one another, wishing for those tiny moments to stay safe and dark and endless. In the depths of his heart, Owen longed for those moments to expand until they filled his days, but he was not an idealist. He could accept the pockets of peace with his partner as they were, knowing they were sweet and sacred and all the more special for their impermanence, with the two of them surely being flown to different countries in the coming days for their next assignments, apart. They were together in the now, and Owen would keep the now with happiness at the forefront.
Using the softness of the moment to catch Curt off guard, Owen used his hold on Curt’s hand to swing over and on top of him, straddling his hips. “I ought to see the master at work, hm?” Owen said, raising his eyebrows at a suddenly pink and tittering Curt Mega. Owen rested the heels of his hands on Curt’s shoulders, ghosting his fingertips along the shells of Curt’s ears and making him scrunch up like a turtle. “You can give me some tips, since you’re so good at lasting longer than I under such…” he wiggled a single finger behind each of Curt’s ears, making him squeal, “…torture.”
Curt shrieked with laughter, instinctively throwing his head back and forth but finding no relief from Owen’s featherlight touch for more than a second, one ear seeming to suffer enough for both. “Owen--! Ah-!” Curt didn’t use his free hands to fight back, only holding onto Owen’s waist and keeping him near. Owen’s grin widened.
“While I appreciate the opportunity to try both sides, I think I have decided.” Owen laid himself down on Curt’s chest, cuddled up and close enough to gently kiss his neck and relish in his elated screams. “You’re much better in this position than I am.”