Work Text:
In their clandestine booth in the back corner of what must be the eighth establishment of the evening, Charles takes a swig of his shaken vodka martini that their server must have delivered while he was out with Ewen on the dance floor. They’d danced at a few other clubs they’d attended, but hadn’t much together, which was the proper thing to do after all. Here, however, there wasn’t an abundance of young women without partners and Charles certainly wasn’t going to sit idly by when “La cumparsita” was playing, which he’d convinced Monty to join him for.
While it wasn’t his most elegant time dancing, given he and Monty had already been stepping on the other’s toes all evening and that was before they started dancing, once they had found their footing, it became Charles’s favorite by far. Monty had surprisingly conceded the lead to him, allowing Charles to guide him on the dance floor. It was awkward, at first, the both of them had been more than familiar with casual touch given how Monty was with Charles, but neither had experienced something quite as sensual by deliberate nature.
Not entirely sure if it was the alcohol or the intimacy of it, it was as if all the tension the Lieutenant Commander held in his body dissipated with the support of one of Charles’s hands on the small of his back and the other entwined in his. While the Flight Lieutenant had more experience with this particular form of partner dance, Ewen was more than capable in his department, so much so that every time he dragged his leg across and around Charles’s the other man was cautious of accidentally letting a hitch of the breath —or even more embarrassingly, a moan— slip out. It’s moments like this that Charles is positive that this is a mistake. Monty was an exceedingly handsome man, and being pressed up that close to him —so much so that he could feel the man’s pulse and breathy whispers on set his neck hairs alight— was not making that information about his coworker and closest friend harder to corroborate. And they fit so well together and moved in such hard-earned harmony, as a result of recent days.
God.
Why did his drunken brain believe dancing the tango was going to help the Operation which had priority second only to Mincemeat: dismissing and getting over his affections for Ewen. He wasn’t thinking straight, in any semblance of the term, which is only further evidenced by the fact they’d ordered yet another round of drinks in the face of the plethora of spirits they’d already downed along the bar crawl that Monty insisted upon. Still, it was sweet, in a queer sort of way, that Monty had wanted to grant him this male homosocial bonding experience that he’d missed out on at university and in the RAF, even if the precarity of the Operation made Charles more nauseous than the exorbitant amount of liquor he’d downed this evening.
It wasn’t as if he’d ever been invited out with ‘the boys’ for this sort of thing; people didn’t want to deal with his incessant rambling when he was sober, let alone when alcohol would loosen his tongue and make him all the more annoying. Monty, however, didn’t seem to mind though, even encouraged him, in fact. Two pubs ago, when he’d gotten rather dismal about Bill again, Ewen encouraged him to disclose all he knew about newts when they were crowded up a little too close together on barstools in the overcrowded place. Normally the claustrophobia and overstimulation of it all would have sent his mind ablaze, especially when it’s harder to regulate amidst intoxicants, but Monty’s steady interest —be it actual or just performative to get him to calm down— and the gentle pressure of affirming touches on his forearm helped ground Charles amidst it all.
When they’d ended up in other pubs and gentleman’s clubs, whether it be arm wrestling with Tommies, playing roulette with the gents, or almost losing his fingers in a game that was supposed to be fun, Monty was always at his side with a firm clap on the back or a friendly arm strewn around his shoulders. Ewen had always been a rather touchy person with him, for what reason he can hardly tell; perhaps the entitlement? That had to be it and not… well, other reasons. Charles, in general, happened to be rather touch-starved —by virtue of his terminal loneliness and own aversions— and never one to truly initiate it. And Monty’s forwardness had irked him some before, but he’d become habituated to it in these days past and the absence of casual touch from the man was more foreign to Charles than its presence. Some of it was new, however , such as the way Ewen held onto his wrist once they’d left the Milky Pig to get onto the Tube so that he wouldn’t lose Charles amidst the evening’s mobs of denizens enjoying their evenings out in London. And the fact he did it each time they needed to head out into the cold to find wherever the Lieutenant Commander would lead them next.
It meant nothing.
It was perfect.
Still, the evening wasn’t without its downsides, namely attending the Gargoyle Club where he felt wildly out of place considering he’s more of a distant descendant of the English peerage who was born in Australia instead of the heartland, as opposed to being the second son of a Baron like Monty. For all Monty’s talk of his younger brother, the communist, the man still showed up to the club dressed to the nines in furs that were indicative of the bourgeoisie and not the proletariat, but he certainly wasn’t going to start that argument. While Monty, could, at times be utterly insufferable his brother surpassed him in every way; he’s unsure if it is because the man was one of this self-proclaimed ‘enlightened artist’ types or if it was the aristocratic condescension, but they couldn’t get out of there faster, quite frankly. The one thing it’d been good for was learning of Monty’s affinity for film via his and Ivor’s conversation over a beer about the filmmaker’s latest endeavor, as the cinema could be a suggestion for a non-bar crawl outing together. Not that they’d have time for that and Ewen would agree to begin with. Still, it was a thought.
As the sweat clings to his brow and his clothes stick to his body, still hot from the choreographed contact, the spirit goes down smoothly to provide a cool relief. Fleming was wrong about a lot of things, but Charles will give him the shaken martini; the chill of the melted ice and bubbly aeration are just the thing right now. As the cool liquid goes down his throat, Charles notices how suffocated his collar is making him feel and attempts to undo the top buttons with his unoccupied hand.
He soon realizes that he must be failing miserably when he feels the graze of Monty’s fingers at his throat. Ewen, having already undone a few of his own, slurs, “I’ve got it, my good man,” as he fiddles with Charles’s buttons in far too close proximity for propriety. As he sits rigid, feeling a blush creep up the neck that Monty is dangerously close to, Charles dares not breathe in lest the smell of Ewen’s Tabarome Millésime cologne —in all its sandalwood, tobacco, leather, and brandy scented glory— mingle with sweat, musk, and the sugary-sweet Brylcreem in his hair intoxicate the scientist were he not already far beyond that point this evening.
“Thank you, Monty,” He fumbles out with what few words he can muster given their proximity.
“Anything for you, my genius,” Ewen returns with a boyishly confident smile and tapping Charles on the chin for good measure. The scientist mildly panics, however, given it, isn’t the quick sort of chin tap that Monty has given him approvingly in the basement office when working on Mincemeat; no, the extra lingering second makes it feel more like a caress than a tap.
No.
This is Montagu he’s talking about. A comparatively senior officer who has been thoroughly enjoying going out to dinners with Jean to get the receipts for Bill’s wallet. The man who certainly wouldn’t be interested in a Bug Boy like him, beyond what he could offer to their partnership in this Operation. If —or rather when , as Monty had been pushing him to believe this evening— things were a success and they could redirect the Reich, then it’d all likely go back to it was before. Monty hadn’t noticed him for the six years he’d been here and without use to him, he’d just as likely fade into obscurity once more. Or if he didn’t, one of them would likely be reassigned to some other station or military operation MI5 was conducting so they’d not be spending their every waking and half-woken moment together anymore. It isn’t worth it.
It is also, for all intents and purposes, illegal and they could be prosecuted for gross indecency even if Montagu felt inclined towards Charles, which he doesn’t . He tries to ignore the nagging thought that they’d already broken the law a bit —well, a lot— with Mincemeat, so they might already be going to court, so what was another offense? After all, snatching a dead body without consent from a sketchy Knight with really wet hands and using said body as a prop in a military intelligence endeavor should be seen as admittedly worse than loving and physically expressing said love to another man. The thought that’s occurred doesn’t go away, it only frustratingly becomes more intrusive as he feels Monty’s gaze locked onto his now visible collarbone.
Charles narrows his gaze at Ewen who turns away with what appears to be a blush, unless he now has hyperopia in addition to his myopia. Taking a swig of his martini, Ewen then boldly brandishes it at the Flight Lieutenant and says with decisive confidence even amidst the drunken stupor, “Listen up, as I’m only going to say it once. I was wrong, Charlie.”
Cocking his head at Ewen’s remark, Charles hasn’t the foggiest what he’s referring to. Thankfully, he continues, “I am glad I got to see it.” When it still doesn’t register to Charles, his face flushed a red deeper than the one induced by the copious amount of alcohol he’d downed this evening, and trails off, “Your tango… you’re a rather good partner for it.”
Staring at him like a deer in headlights, Charles cannot find the words to speak. There’s an intimacy and endearment in the somewhat embarrassed admission of the Lieutenant Commander and Charles finds himself drawn into Monty’s personal space in the same sort of way the other man never seems to have qualms occupying his. Unless he’s misinterpreted things, he catches the way Ewen’s eyes flick downward as if to glance at his lips, before locking eyes with Charles for what feels like an eternity despite their already seemingly endless evening.
Immersed in the endless ocean of them, with no want to seek land, the spell is broken only with a stilted cough from Monty as if to disturb the charged silence before any more sparks fly or they do anything entirely rash. Taking another swig of his martini, he brandishes it at Charles and, without malice and with a nostalgic air, reminisces with a laugh, “Much better than your cock-up job dancing at the pitch meeting.”
Even if Ewen means it in good jest, Charles cannot help but cringe at the memory of their initial pitch. They were so terribly out of sync in every way and on almost every point. Now, well, they are much more of an actual well-oiled machine instead of a well-oiled ‘exactly.’ The more time they spent together on the assignment the more natural it felt, as riding a bike was and he imagines flying must be for those not plagued with his condition. “It was rather disastrous,” Charles concedes with a weak laugh, before vulnerably lamenting, “I’m surprised we got the job at all.”
“I’m not. The idea was bloody genius, and we pulled it off in the end,” Monty regales, throwing the currently unoccupied arm around Charles’s shoulder and squeezing him supportively. “We got it ‘cause of your brains.”
“And your everything else,” Charles retorts, which earns him a look from Monty who sets down his glass.
Charles hadn’t noticed how deflated, it must have sounded until Ewen responds, “You’re plenty confident when you aren’t so in your head, Charlie boy.” Playfully pushing up Charles’s glasses from where they’ve slid down, he adds self-contentedly “You proved as much this evening.”
Did he? He hardly thinks so. Even if Monty is just humoring him, which he hopes he’s not, his mind can’t help but drift to the mission in what has been the umpteenth anxious spiral of the evening. “Brains and confidence aren’t everything Monty. Besides, we still don’t know if we’ve pulled it—”
“Charlie, what did I say about hot air?” Monty interrupts with a chastising tone as he rolls his eyes. However, rubbing a soothing circle on Charles’s shoulder, Ewen’s voice softens and deepens soon after as he says with a tired yet caring resolve. “I’m trying to compliment you.”
Right. Monty is grounding him with more than the usual levels of kindness and dare he say sincerity. He has no control over the situation and shouldn’t dwell on being scared, especially when he does have control over whatever this situation is. He doesn’t know when he’ll next have the chance to be with Ewen like this, especially if things go amiss. Monty is here with him now and that’s what matters. With a mustered-up smile, he meets Monty’s gaze with a similar level of resolve. His voice unintentionally betrays him when he utters, “I appreciate it, Monty,” as it tacks on a “As I do you,” and dips to make the gratitude more coquettish than intended.
“Of course, you do,” Monty returns with the signature suave and self-assured confidence that he’s known for, despite Charles knowing where the cracks in its very foundation lie. Most people found it unbearable, and it is for Charles, albeit oftentimes for alternative reasons. Ones that clearly do not include how it makes it exceedingly difficult to not snog your coworker and dear friend on your desk. The man has a conductive electric charisma that elevates those around him and draws them in like moths to a very precarious flame. While he is not without his flaws, it is part of why Charles had been, nay, is still currently, so deeply enamored with him. Monty, could, like nobody else, ignite those small flashes of joy that are all any of them could hope for in this mess of the world. He makes them tangible, not just as something Charles could hold but as something he could claim for himself.
Mustering his courage, Charles scans the club to ensure they’re out of everyone’s eyeshot in their secluded booth and grabs Monty by the lapels of his slightly undone shirt to kiss him with the urgency and confidence that came with believing that just for tonight he was born to lead. While the thought occurs that he probably should have asked Ewen, Charles would hardly have the nerve to do it, and unless he drunkenly misread the situation —which was potentially likely— it seemed quasi-invited. It passes, however, when he feels the other man deepen the kiss and find their way to Charles’s waist. Monty tastes of their evening together —of shaken vodka martinis, cigarettes, and Gargoyle Club canapés— and grips him firmer than the corpse canteen is enveloping Bill on that submarine. Letting go of Monty’s lapels, one of Charles's hands drifts to the side of the other man’s face —caressing it properly, unlike Ewen’s finger tap— and the other runs down the arm of the Lieutenant Commander’s exceedingly well-tailored and subsequently attractive pinstripe dress shirt. When Charles finds Monty’s wrist to return the exchange from every finding of the Tube and subsequent ride that evening, the other man instead entwines their loose hands together, gripping the Flight Lieutenant’s with a gentle, yet firm intensity. It makes Charles’s head reel more than it was already and he needs air lest he drown in the moment.
With immediacy, Charles despises the newfound absence, especially as he removes his hand from where it’s entwined with Monty’s and feels the way his skin unsticks from the cool metal of the other man’s golden wedding band he had all but forgotten about in the moment. With how focused they all were on the mission, Ewen barely mentioned Iris and the children, but it didn’t mean that Charles wasn’t entirely overstepping because of a stupid lapse of alcohol-induced judgment. Monty had been fairly forward with him the whole evening, so he had assumed that it was fine but maybe it isn’t and he’s once again dead in the water and ruining everything.
Before he can apologize for presuming things and initiating this, Monty’s hand finds its way from Charles’s waist to his lips, chastising him with a whispered, “Hush, Charlie,” before pulling him instead in by the braces for another kiss with the force of the intended Sicilian invasion. It is so much so that Charles is thrown off kilter and ends up bracing himself on the booth behind Monty and practically pinning him up against it. Things only intensify from there and Charles knows neither how long they’ve been entangled nor how they haven’t managed to be found out, but instead of being paralyzed by fear he allows himself to embrace the moment and the man he’s with with all that he has.
He doesn’t know whether or not to pray they forget all about this —or from the implications of Ewen’s lips, whispers, and fingers, what they’ll likely do— in the morning. They’ve certainly had enough alcohol to let this flashbulb shatter so its light recedes into the darkness, shan’t its memory haunt them forevermore. But it’s not as if he forgets the memory of snogging —or potentially shagging— his best friend that the yearning for another brief flash amidst the mess of a world they live in will just go away. The outcomes are a double bind that there’s no way out of and, quite frankly, an MI5 Operation dedicated to it wouldn’t likely find a suitable strategy. Charles supposes he’ll learn of it tomorrow —or rather, in a few hours later today— but he still has tonight before it all goes dim. Besides, as Monty said, it’s no life if he’s forgetting to live. And this? This was living.