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Cynthia is going to have his head for this, there's no doubt about that. She’d scheduled a meeting for five-thirty, which really meant five which means Curt probably should've been off his ass at four-forty. But he wasn't and now at the troubling time of five-forty-five, Curt was rushing out of his appointed office (really, this is the agency's fault he's late because who gives a field agent an office? This is just calling for an unexpected nap) and trying to not knock down any actual office or lab workers as he rushed down the halls towards Cynthia's official office. Oh god, he’d be the luckiest man ever if he came out of this room alive.
Coming up on the little entrance, Curt slows down his nearly sprinting run into a fast walk, running a hand through his hair and straightening the simple brown jacket he's wearing as he pushes open the large metal door with a grin. “Sorry, I’m late, you know how taxing this job-”
“Sit the fuck down, you absolute imbecile.” Cynthia hisses, pointing at the chair across from her. Curt plops down into it, man spreading like this is a second nature to him. As Curt reaches up to stretch out his shoulders, a minalia folder thrown from Cynthia hits him directly in the face and falls onto the ground.
Pulling his arms down, Curt swipes the folder from the floor with one hand as he rubs his nose with the other and huffs indignantly. “You didn't have to throw it. You could've handed it to me like a normal person.” This makes Cynthia laugh and Curt grumbles because she is definitely laughing at him and not at his joke. Opening the folder, Curt does a brief once over of the file and grimaces. “Another gala? Jesus, for your best man I thought I’d at least get something with a little action.”
Cynthia shoots him a ‘is he serious?’ look and Curt frowns dramatically. “You can get something with more action when you prove you can handle it.” The statement is said with another sharp look that makes Curt roll his eyes. Clearly, Cynthia hasn't let go of that one single time Curt had been on a mission and accidentally got their main informant wounded. It was just a measly bullet wound to the shoulder! Curt himself had dealt with worse and Cynthia didn't seem to care then! Before he can try to make an argument, Curt thinks better of it and bites his tongue because maybe if he doesn't argue with his boss, she’ll be nicer and give him what he wants sooner. So Curt lifts the little folder he's holding and grins. “I’ll put my all into it.”
Cynthia shoots him yet again an unimpressed look and shoos him away with the back of her hand. As Curt makes his way down the lab to see if Barb had already prepared his things (because somehow she always seemed to have bag packed and ready for his missions, and wasn't that she just such a dedicated worker?) he opens the folder and lets his eyes skim over the type. Blah, blah, important figure, blah, blah, fancy, blah, blah, there! A bit darker than the rest of the words, is the statement ‘plans unknown from target’. Now, this is what Curt wants. A boring party just made epic with the fact that he’s going to be uncovering information that no one else is aware of! He’ll be the first to report it and possibly increase his ever growing popularity with the A.S.S! With a pep in his step from the thought that his mission would be considerably less uneventful than previously planned, Curt shoves the folder under his arm and strolls into the lab.
——————
His travel is adequate, his hotel is mediocre and the mission is turning out to be significantly less thrilling than it seemed. Curt fiddles with the hem of his white suit jacket and really hopes that this gala ends up being the best fucking thing hes ever been to in his life. His target for information is supposedly some rich Russian dude who is close friends with the host, and no doubt is a part of the KGBs next big operation. Curt is supposed to find him and get that information out of him but he’s been here for at least an hour without any sort of lead.
The company is as expected, rich men with their wives hanging off their arms conversing around in polite conversations that Curt knows are all just long strung out metaphors and complications for ‘I am more rich than you’. He’s spent enough time around these sorts of parties to know what will happen next and right as he thought, a well dressed man stands up from a table and clanks his champagne glass to make a long speech about no doubt how grateful and delighted he is that so many people have attended his party. Curt has to suppress a groan as the man blabbers on about shit he couldn't care less about, choosing to rake his eyes over the other occupants of the room. Everyone else looks just about ready to peel over from boredom as well, except for two figures on the other side of the room standing by the open bar. A tall man talking happily to a woman. She's fanning her face as he clearly puts the moves on and Curt squints because… yes! The lady is most definitely the host's wife if from the way they'd been attached by the hip all night as any confirmation. Curt felt a smirk etch onto his face at the sight.
In the two hours he’d been here, no one had dared even entertain the idea of being that close to the host or his family, so clearly this man was some sort of friend. Very likely the exact friend Curt needed to find. The easy part of finding him was done, and now came the hard part. Getting him alone to get the plans he needed to know. Luckily, Curt is a very quick thinker. Or at least, very quick to make plans that might just be good enough to work. Swiping a glass of champagne from the nearest waiter, Curt weaves his way through the crowd and saddles up a little down the bar from his two targets. Leaning to his side to listen in, Curt sizes up his opponent. At least an inch or two taller, not much on the strong looking side, but looked lithe enough to make for a quick escape. And, if Curts hearing was picking it up right, that was an accent he heard! Curt Mega is about to get some sweet Russian intel!
Praying that the husband keeps on his lingering speech, Curt grips his glass and strolls lazily over to the two, pretending to trip over his own shoes just as he's feet away, letting the glass swish in his hand as he throws the contents of the liquid right onto the russian mans suit. The woman standing close gasps and the man goes still, turning slowly to see Curt who is just standing there like nothing has happened, now shifting upright and holding his glass as if it offended him. “I'm sorry! Just tripped over my own feet!” Curt laughs lightheartedly, playing the easy part of the silly American who doesn't know what he's doing.
The man grimaces as the woman next to him frets over his outfit and just as Curt predicted would happen, points him the way of the mens restroom to tidy up. With a nod and a quick mumbled thank you, the stranger heads the way she’d pointed and Curt smiles as he walks past her following in the same direction. Dropping the glass onto the floor outside the bathroom door, Curt lays a hand under his suit jacket, gripping the base of his gun from its hollister. Pushing the door open and walking in he whips out the weapon when he hears the sound of the click of safety going off. And oh, that was not from his gun. Spinning on his heel Curt comes face to face with a barrel of a gun similar to his own, held by the man he spilt the drink on. His fucking supposed to be unsuspecting target has a goddamn gun! Curt clicks his own safety off and now the two are face to face, gun to gun in the fucking bathrom of some fancy ass gala and Curt really hopes this isnt how he goes out.
“Listen, man-” He starts slowly, “I don't want to kill you. I just need you to answer a few questions.”
The stranger scoffs. “I don't think you even know how to use that.” He nods at Curt's gun and what? Curt is feeling offended because how dare this random Russian asshole assume he doesn’t know how to use his own fucking gun? He's the best spy ever, thank you very much! “I'm more curious about what you could tell me.” The guy continues and Curt is still only mildly in shock as he answers back.
Curt shakes his head to get himself out of his shock. “I know you know about the weapons plan, and I don't want to hurt you, I just want you to tell me about-”
The stranger (rudely) cuts Curt off mid sentence. “The what plan?” He says, scrunching up his entire face in a way that if they’d met anywhere else but here, and like this, Curt probably would have thought was pretty darn cute. But they are pointing loaded and ready to shoot guns at each other so Curt just scrunches his nose up in return because thinking the enemy is cute is definitely not the way to get out of this situation.
“The Russians plan. Your friend out there, his big idea.” Curt jerks his head towards the bathroom door while he references the host of the gala.
This just seems to make the stranger even more confused. “My..” He starts, then drops his gun ever so slightly and Curt bites back a sigh of relief because this guy definitely didn't look like he’d hesitate about shooting at any point. “You don't know about the Russians' plan?” He asks, and Curt raises an eyebrow because what?
“I'm asking you if you know.” Curt points out, lowering his gun a few inches as well. “I think it's obvious I don't know?” Confusion is seeping into his voice because what is happening?
The man's eyes linger on Curts face before sweeping down over his body in a way that makes Curt feel flattered and no, he is not blushing like a freaking schoolgirl from this. Any feelings of flattery immediately disappear when the man huffs out in the same frustrated way Curt hears from Cynthia whenever he bothers her on the clock. “‘You're from the A.S.S, aren't you?” He asks and he suddenly sounds much less interested in this conversation than a few minutes ago.
“Um…” Curt lowers his gun completely and clicks the safety back on, watching as the guy, apparently not his target, does the same across from him. “I take it you're not Oleg?”
“I thought you were Oleg.”
Curt looks at him with confusion written over his face. “But I’m American??”
The man shrugs and uses the hand holding the gun to gesture at himself. “Well, you thought I was Oleg! And I'm not Russian!”
Curt takes a second to respond, his voice small and very confused. “You're not?”
Tall, dark, handsome and not Oleg sighs. He uses the fingertips of his free hand to rub at his forehead in a very ‘what the hell’-esque way. “God, you lot really are incompetent. I'm from MI6.”
Fuck. Curt groans. He should've expected this. The A.S.S being the only ones after such crucial information was too good to be true. “I wasn’t told other agencies were after this as well.”
MI6 man rolls his eyes. “Cause you never think ahead. God, now the plan is all ruined!’ His jaw clenches as he lets his frustration out and Curt bites his tongue because hey, if this isn’t the enemy of Oleg, it's technically okay to start thinking he looks pretty damn good for a spy.
“Well, if I’m not Oleg and you're not Oleg, then the real Oleg is still out there.”
The British spy looks at Curt questiongly, catching the scheming glint in his eye. He straightens up and gives a sly smirk, quirking an eyebrow up at Curt. “Are you proposing what I think you are?”
Curt shrugs innocently, acting as if he is unaware of the implications behind his request. “A little friendly competition, Agent..?” He eyes the man across from him.
“Carvour.” Said with such definite simplicity that Curt is sure this is the Agents real name and not some alias.
Curt grins. “Well, Agent Carvour. Get ready to get your ass beat by Agent Mega.” He shoves his gun back into the hollister under his suit jacket and Agent Carvour mirrors the action.
“Curt Mega?” The Agent asks, looking somewhat impressed and Curt puffs out his chest in pride.
“You know of me?” He sounds so smug even to his own ears but hey! Apperly even the agencies across the pond are familiar with his awesome skills!
“I've heard things.” Cavour answers, clearly unimpressed with Curts preening.
This doesn't stop Curt from putting his hand on his chest teasingly and gasping out; “Glad to know I'm universally loved.” in the way one may after winning some award.
This gets the first little grin out of Carvour and Curt feels his heart skip a beat because damn. If he looked good while holding a gun, seeing him smiling is a hundred times better. “I didn't say they were good things, love.” Curt grounds his heels back into the tile beneath his feet because if that gun under his jacket isn't the death of him, Cavours words will be. “Now, Agent Mega.” He states, seemingly unaware of Curts internal battle with his stupid heart; “May the best man win.” he clicks his tongue and then is off, leaving the door slammed behind in his wake.
Curt lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and dusts imaginary lint off his jacket, following the other Agent out of the restroom.
——————
He doesn’t end up finding Oleg but from what he sees of the other agent making his rounds of the room, it doesn't seem he did either. Clearly the man was either never here or left when they were confronting each other in the bathroom but Curt can’t care either way. Because even if he is destined to get a glass of poison or two from Cynthia when he gets back to DC for fucking this up, he still gets to ask for a brief on a MI6 agent Carvour when he gets back and hopefully, he’ll get to England soon enough to make use of his new information about a certain Londoner.