Work Text:
The world is spinning, Monty can’t keep his eyes fixed on any one spot for very long, his brain feels like it's full of sludge, and his hands never seem to go exactly where he wants them to. In a word, he’s hammered.
After a particularly frustrating day at work, Monty had gone to get drunk alone, since none of his new team wanted to accompany him. They were all competent and invested in the operation, which was great, but Monty wished they were a little more fun. He felt like the life of the party, which was great when other people wanted the party to have life. Instead, Monty was fairly sure he was getting on people’s nerves, no matter how much he helped in the long run.
Operation Mincemeat needed to work, or the four of them would be shot by Bevan behind the MI5 building. Well, maybe not Hester, who he seemed to fancy. Or Jean, the poor girl hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe not even Charlie, with his charming nerves and wild ideas. Really, it was Monty’s head and, more importantly, his reputation that was on the chopping block. He was the only one who had a reputation to lose, after all. Despite that, his three teammates seemed frantic in their need to get their plan to work. Really, all they needed was some faith.
That Hester Leggatt could certainly use some. She was a dragon, the fiercest woman Monty had ever met. She treated every detail of the operation like it could be the thing that lost her job, even the most insignificant. From Bill’s shoelaces to the politics of Spain, everything was a crucial detail to her. Monty was sure she’d have an aneurysm before they even found a body, if she kept going as she was. Plus she was still managing the typing pool – he had no clue how she did it.
Which brought him to Jean Leslie! The tiny yet fierce secretary they’d somehow picked up. She acted like every detail of the operation had personally wronged her, and made it her life’s mission to set it right. She had so much energy, so much drive, but none of the confidence Monty had, so it went everywhere. Jean seemed convinced that they would fail unless she threw everything she had at the operation, despite her not even being an intelligence officer. If there was one person who should be worried about their underperformance leading to failure, it was Charlie.
Good old Charlie. The recluse scientist, the bug boy, the man who’d been barred from being a pilot because his vision was just that bad…But it turned out he was a genius! Monty would never have guessed it from any prior interactions with the man, he’d always seemed a little bit like a mess. An oddball no one wanted to speak with, papers always flying everywhere and never able to raise his voice. Now that Monty had actually spent time with him, though, he could tell he was just a skittish fellow who cared a lot about his ideas. His work meant a lot to him and he had a magical ability to funnel that nervous energy into productivity.
Honestly, Monty found Charlie captivating. He was fretful and awkward, but when given the chance the man had countless hidden talents. Monty had been loving slowly peeling back the layers that made up Charles Cholmondeley, scrutinising all his secrets and facets. He discovered that he loved Charlie’s laugh and smile: they shone through like bright sunshine on a cloudy autumn day, just as unexpected and wonderful. He’d also been cataloguing all of Charlie’s little habits; the way he drummed his fingers or adjusted his glasses when he was trying to think, the fact that he’d make himself tea whenever he hit a dead end, as if to restart his brain.
Embarrassingly, Montagu also found himself enamoured with Charlie’s appearance. He’d known for a good while that he wasn’t solely drawn to the fairer sex, and had come to terms with that fact with magnanimity and grace by holing himself up in his flat for two days before finding as many men to sleep with in a week as he could. Ultimately, it had been a successful experiment: Monty was definitely bent. Still, he’d never found himself attracted to a colleague, female or – god forbid – male. There had been something in his brain that had understood the difference between work and leisure, and had refused to cross those wires. Until Charlie, apparently. There was nothing about him that spoke to Monty’s usual type: he was gangly and nervous with a brain that went a mile a minute, not the strong, cocky, and stupid type he’d usually go for. But he wasn’t unattractive, far from it. And something about his anxious stammering had drawn Monty in. He needed to see how far it would go, if Charlie would still be as awkward even when being wooed or kissed or—
Monty pushed himself away from the bar, having finished his glass of whiskey. That was well enough of that line of thinking. Charlie was his colleague and potentially his friend, and he’d do better than to let his mind run crazy with those sorts of ideas. The obvious solution was to find some handsome hunk to take home for the night and clear his mind of doing sordid things in that little basement, but instead Monty found himself hailing a cab and asking the driver to take him back to the MI5 building.
It was dark, obviously. Most people would have gone home hours ago except those few lunatics who worked until they could no longer feel their fingers and their eyes burned from squinting in the gloom. A group of lunatics he was sure Charlie was a part of.
Indeed, there he was, sitting hunched over his desk, chewing on a pen and flipping through a book that Monty couldn’t even begin to parse the title of in his drunken state. Charlie’s head shot up when Monty stepped into the basement, eyes wide and shoulders visibly tensed. His hair, usually smoothed back against his head, had fallen into his face a little, and his lips had fallen slightly open around the pen. Monty couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Charlie, usually so put-together, looking even remotely messy. What he wouldn’t give to get him even more dishevelled.
“Monty?” Charlie said, quickly sitting up at his desk, futilely pushing his hair back. “It’s late, what are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Monty retorted, making his way towards Charlie’s desk.
“Are you drunk?”
“My genius.”
Monty perched on the side of Charlie’s desk, leaning closer. It wasn’t too unusual for Monty to invade the other man’s space, he’d made a habit of it, but he wasn’t usually doing it with intentions. At least, not consciously. Charlie seemed to have noticed, too, that something was different, because he scrambled to get his desk vaguely organised before standing up. Monty followed him with his eyes, angling his body upwards. There was something he wanted, and Monty wasn’t in the habit of not getting what he wanted. He just needed to make sure Charlie wouldn’t push him away and go to the higher ups.
The thing was, Monty had his suspicions about Charles. The way he never once joined in when people were talking about their partners, the fact that Monty had never once caught him eyeing a pretty girl or even mentioning one. Either Charlie was completely inept, which wouldn’t surprise him, or he had quite a big secret he was hiding, and Monty was pretty certain it was both.
“Do you need me to take you home?” Charlie asked, stepping around the desk so he was now facing Monty. “It’s late, you might not want to be out in this state.”
In one move, Monty hopped off the desk and right up into Charlie’s space, pressing one hand to his chest. “I think you should definitely take me home,” he murmured.
“Monty…” It was hard to see in the dim light, but he was fairly certain that Charlie’s cheeks were flushed as his hands hovered nervously between them. “I… You… You’re drunk, you don’t mean anything.”
“That depends,” Monty said, tilting his head to one side. It made the world spin pleasantly as his brain tried to catch up with the new angle of his eyes. He blinked lazily, letting it settle. “What do you think I mean?”
“It– Two men, you can’t– I’ll call you a cab, Monty.”
Quick as he could, Monty grabbed Charlie’s tie and held him in place. “If I meant what you think,” he said, smirking. “What would you do about it?”
“You’re… drunk. You’re drunk, Monty, don’t do this to me.”
For a second, they were breathing together, wrapped in the silence of the basement. Everything had become still except for the two of them as Charlie’s hands slowly, hesitantly, came to rest on Monty’s shoulders. Then, on an exhale, Monty suddenly pulled Charlie in by his tie and crashed their lips together. It wasn’t romantic, but it got his point across, and god, he’d needed it. Charlie’s lips were largely still against his, hardly reciprocating, and his glasses dug annoyingly into his face, but it was still exactly what he’d been craving. If it had gone perfectly, it simply wouldn’t have been Charlie.
Then, as quickly as it started, Charlie pulled away, easily freeing his tie from Monty’s drunken grasp. He took a few steps back, hands clenched at his sides.
“Come now, Charlie,” Monty said. “What’s the matter?”
“This is wrong. I can’t— We can’t— If anyone finds out, if we’re caught, if someone sees—” Charlie was breathing quickly, body entirely tensed. “It’s wrong. I didn’t think you… you were… like that.”
“Oh, I am.” Monty leaned back against Charlie’s desk, legs feeling wobbly. He would really love it if Charlie stopped talking now and went back to kissing him, but it seemed like that wouldn’t be happening unless he prompted it. “And I suspect so are you.”
“Me? No, I– I just– Well, I just haven’t had– That’s not important right now, Monty!”
“I rather think it is.” Monty clumsily tucked his hands into his pockets, trying to seem as casual as possible while quite sure he was slurring his words and swaying where he stood. “Look. I find you attractive, and want to kiss you. I’m certainly not going to tell anyone it happened, and I doubt you will, either, so why don’t we get past this moral panic of yours – as cute as it is – so we can get to the good stuff.”
After what felt like eternity, Charlie took a step closer to him. “Why me?” he asked so quietly and strained that Monty nearly missed it.
“I’m not sure,” Monty said. “You’re handsome, and I want to see how much your nerves can take before you just let go.”
“Aren’t you… married?”
“She doesn’t have to know. I sent her out of the city for her protection, she hasn’t been involved in my business for a while.” Monty could see Charlie deliberating, weighing all the pros and cons like he was planning a military strike. “Oh, live a little. Just once, just tonight, and then you can pretend it never happened, if you want.” He came another step closer. “I’m drunk, after all, I may not even remember this.” Finally, Charlie was back in Monty’s reach, and he grabbed him by the braces first, pulling him closer, before reclaiming his grip on his tie. “Come on, Charlie, my genius. I know you want to.”
Like magnets being held apart, they suddenly snapped together. It was smoother than the first time, with Charlie reciprocating the kiss. He broke it off momentarily to remove his glasses, for which Monty was thankful. Kissing Charlie was exactly how he would’ve dreamed it to be, and it felt frankly perfect that it was happening in the little basement where they spent all their time. Not that Monty would mind it if Charlie took him home, like he’d said he’d do earlier, but he was glad their first kiss was in their space, against Charlie’s desk.
When they pulled apart again, it wasn’t the decision of one singular party but a unanimous need to breathe. Monty smiled widely and patted Charlie’s chest. He’d need to fix his hair – Charlie’s hands had made their way there and pulled his neat hairdo loose – but that could wait a minute.
“See? I knew you would like it.”
Charlie was uncharacteristically silent, just staring at Monty. That was alright, he was known to have that effect. He was happy to do all the talking, if need be. He took a step towards the door to the office, peering back at Charlie. “You might want to grab your coat, Charles. It’s cold out there, you know.”
He watched as Charlie numbly followed his instructions, somewhat dreading the moment when they’d have to leave the little basement and he’d have to make his way back up all those stairs. At least he’d have Charlie to lean on. The man would surely not leave him to struggle his way home, not after offering to take him home and certainly not after that kiss.
“Chop chop,” he called. “I’d love to get some sleep tonight.”
Charles stepped back into the basement, and everything was normal. Of course it was. Why would anything have changed? Still something felt off. Since the night before, the world had felt like it had tilted slightly, and he was scrambling to try and right it again.
It wasn’t that Charles hadn’t known about that part of himself – the part he tried to push down as much as possible, insisting he was just too busy or tired or awkward to go on a proper date with a woman – he’d just never properly indulged it before. Kissing Monty had been… Well, it had been good. Great. He’d loved it. He just wished it had felt more like Monty wanted him for more than kissing and sex. Not that Charles had let it get that far. He’d taken Monty back to his flat before heading to his own with a definite “Good night.”
Some mushy, romantic part of Charles wanted to settle down with someone, to eventually retire together and move out of London and into the countryside. He wanted to spend weekends together, to tell each other about their days. To get married. To love, and to not have to worry about the morals or legality of it. Most of the time, Charles ignored this part of him, but it had been keening painfully since Monty first pulled him in for a kiss.
When Monty eventually turned up, he’d be hungover and grumpy and unproductive, and Charles would just work around him as usual. It would all go back to normal, and he’d bury those feelings and desires deep down again, somewhere he nor anyone else would ever find them. One passionate kiss with Monty wasn’t enough to ruin the careful ignorance he’d trained into himself, he wouldn’t let it get out of control.
Of course, it happened again. And again, and again. When Monty was drunk – and even occasionally when he was perfectly sober – he’d find Charles and pull him in for a deep kiss, sometimes even going for more. Often, Charles went along with it.
Every time, Monty would tell him it was just that night, just that moment, and then they’d never have to think about it again.
Every time, Charles would come into work the next day feeling unstable, like the ground had shifted below him. Monty would rummage around in his heart, throw all his repression to the wind, then leave like it was nothing. To him it was nothing. It was an exciting fling, a fun pass-time to defuse the stress of the war. And if it meant more to Charles, then he’d keep that to himself.
Every time, Charles threw himself even harder into his work, as if getting his operation to succeed would solve his emotional turmoils. He ignored his feelings and focused on the facts and it all worked out perfectly well until the next time Monty knocked on his door or cornered him in the office late at night. He never slept those nights, instead spending the hours rebuilding his emotional walls stronger than before. It never seemed to work.