Please Excuse My British But GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD DDDDYYYYAMMMMNNNN - Tumblr Posts

I don’t know if I’m ever going to actually write this into something, but tonight kinda sucks so this is how I’m choosing to shove my problems onto people

by making agent Curt mega punch a wall

Curt’s head burned, it burned more than it was supposed to. He yearned for touch, for a light that wasn’t going to blind him. What light did he deserve to see after wandering such a dark road, after running so far from that facility a few months back.

The facility. The vile Russian air. The field he collapsed in. The smell of smoke filling the air from a mile away. Owen’s body was in that fire, withering away.

Curt should’ve been the one burning, maybe the screaming headache was just a bit of that pain seeping into the person that deserved it. Owen didn’t deserve to die, Owen deserved none of it. How could Curt have been so foolish to let it happen?

Curt felt his body find its way to its familiar corner in his living room, figures of Owen dancing across his tear stained eyes, his vision blurry. The way he swayed, the way he hummed, held his hand out to Curt. He pulled Curt closer to his chest, hands resting gently on his hips. That was then. This is now.

Now the paint on the walls was chipped, just like those motels they found themselves going to after missions, after bars, getting so drunk they didn’t know what they were doing. Curt still didn’t know what he was doing, with his head pressed against the wall Owen would push him against and his hands wrapped around a bottle of whiskey he had run dry.

Curt looked at the whiskey, the was it reminded him of Owen, so addictive, so deadly, so delicious. He threw Owen away, and yet he held to this cold empty bottle.

Throwing it was a bad idea, and yet hearing it shatter on the other wall was so satisfying. It wasn’t what he needed though, a quick relief. Is that what it sounded like when Owen fell? When his bones snapped in half before he died? Before Curt let him die? A shattered bottle of whiskey, was that what Owen was?

Curt pulled his legs close to his chest, head burning, pounding, breaking. Owen. Owen. Owen. He felt his fist meet the wall behind him. Owen. Owen. Owen.

Curt was useless.

His knuckles ached, skin breaking.

He wasn’t good enough.

Owen. Where was Owen?

What type of a friend leaves the person they love to die?

His hand began to bleed as he broke through the wall, hand inside the dusty hole of his apartment, body shaky.

Curt pulled himself away from the hole he had created. Of course, he made another mess. He fucked up again. That’s what he was good at, right?

He buried his head on his knees, tears finally shedding, his bones snapping into pieces as he remembered the way Owen looked so scared as Curt ran away, the way he thought Curt could’ve come back.

Well, Curt thought he could’ve come back too. He could add that to the list of things he was wrong about, a list that grew by the day.

Maybe he just was never cut out for a job like that, for a job where losing people happens every day.