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“Get in the fucking dresser, Mega. Move!” Owen spoke in a hissing whisper, hand pressed against Curt’s back as he pushed him into the small, cramped closet of their target's fancy home. If one had files on deadly weapons of mass destruction in their office for just a few more days before it was transferred to the Russian’s, you’d think you wouldn’t have a party at your home, let alone have it be so easy to forge an invite to. Yet, Curt and Owen had snuck their way in with ease.
And things had been going so fucking well, they really had been.
Then some bastard had to enter the room as well. Had to have a discussion in the owner's private chambers. And, of course, it was right after they were so close to leaving. And to top it off, Owen couldn’t get the damn window open for them to escape.
So he found himself snuggly fit into a wooden wardrobe, arms squeezed together, and Curt-fucking-Mega twisting to be comfortable while he balanced on his heels, their shared breath filling their wooden chamber, only the small crack between the doors being a way to tell who the new set of intruders were.
Owen glanced over at Curt, who had the files lay over his lap. Thank God, he grabbed them. Owen took a look out of the crack. All of them, it seemed. Damn good work, Mega, he wanted to say. Instead, he rested his hand firmly on Curt’s shoulder, a smile wandering over his face through the darkness.
Curt tensed. He glanced away. His breathing quickened, Owen could feel it. He shifted in the small space, and Owen knew he knew how close he was watching him. And damn it, something about the way he saw from the bit of light seeping in that Curt was biting down on his lower lip, it was just gorgeous.
But Owen couldn’t think that way. Not now. Not ever, truthfully. Not on the job, at the very least. Too risky. Yet, wasn’t his job to take risks? He was hiding in a closet from two people who likely had some sort of weapon on them, after all. A small closet that grew hotter with every exhale they tried to keep quiet as to not be found. As they tried to stay still. As Owen felt himself grow more uncomfortable with his twisted position, shifting his back against the wardrobe, closing his eyes and sucking in the hot air that engulfed the two of them.
He watched Curt shift as well, gripping the documents so tightly Owen was worried he’d ruin them. His leg lay over Curt’s foot and he watched as he squeezed himself tighter into his side of the dresser. Damn it, the way Owen could just barely see the tremble in his lips. Fucking hell.
“I just don’t think it’s worth it to go through with the transaction,” a soft French accent said, “I don’t trust you Russians,” the voice got smaller, but not closer to the door, instead going deeper into the quarters. Owen glanced at Curt again, hands falling to Curt’s arm for the most comfort. Curt’s breath hitched, beginning to shake at just a touch. It wasn’t even the scare of being caught that worried Curt, it seemed, but Owen’s constant reassurance through his fingers.
And it was so damn hot.
Slowly, he leaned to Curt’s ear, making sure not to make the closet creak, “Shhh,” he muttered, pressing his hand over Curt’s mouth. He clutched the documents, knuckles white, Owen’s finger rubbing his trembling lips as Owen pressed a soft kiss to his earlobe. He felt his partner wince as his tongue began to trail his skin, and Owen didn’t even want to think about how fucking stupid he was being. What he should’ve been worried about was the French man making a deal with some Russian, he should’ve been listening. He tried to, but they must’ve been further inside the room, likely by the same window Owen couldn’t unlock, the window that got them stuck here with the wet inside of Curt’s lips curling around his index finger, beckoning it into his mouth.
Damn it. God damn it, what was he doing? He pressed his face to Curt’s dark hair, the smell of the hot wood that surrounded them filling his lungs. Curt had one hand on his wrist now, their bodies melded together as they attempted stillness through their sudden intimacy. He pressed a kiss to Curt’s temple, worried he’d breathe too loudly and attract their unwanted visitors. The heat of the dresser had only grown with their closeness, Owen’s foot crushing Curt’s shoe as he pulled him closer, desperate for this strange moment he didn’t know how to process.
The voices returned, passed them, and they heard the door shut.
Owen separated from Curt, his finger removed from his mouth, as if it hadn’t happened at all. It hadn’t. It couldn’t have happened. What would cause that? Yet, Owen knew his finger was still coated in Curt’s saliva, and he knew the small space of the wardrobe wasn’t the only reason he was burning up.
He took a breath, “Two, three, four,” Owen muttered to Curt, making completely sure they were gone, before cracking the wardrobe open and peaking his head out. Silence. No one was there. The door was closed.
He untangled himself from Curt, feeling the chill air of the room return to him, yet his insides still warm as Curt removed himself from their previous enclosure. Holding the documents, he caught Owen’s eye, cheeks red, nodding.
“Get that damn window open this time, Carvour, because we’re not doing that again.”
Owen laughed, trying to catch a smile from Curt, who stood firm. He bit down on his tongue, and he made his way towards the window, and picked it open, coming to the conclusion as he and Curt made their jump, that they would never discuss their time in that wardrobe. Nothing good would come of it.
He was a damn fool.