Work Text:
With an undone white bow tie, a half-done-up white tuxedo shirt, and hairpins scattering the floor, Monty sits in his star trailer far later than he should be on set. Looking like utter shit, he nurses a half-finished brandy and smokes a fag while his chest rises and falls heavily. Usually, he’d worry about people popping into his trailer when he’s in this state, with the thin scars on his chest scars apparent for all to see and his hair undone from the bun that keeps it tightly wound, but he’s in too sorry of a state to care. Today had been an utter mess. It was Debra’s fault, to be fair, for making a pig’s ear of everything and trying to steal his spotlight. Then there was the issue with the rigging of the fly rail for the big finale and one would think that if Hollywood had figured out the bloody musical movie with Meet Me in St. Louis amongst others, they’d be able to do it for him. But no. Why would it be that easy for him?
And his co-star, Tub Johnson, was also absolutely getting on his nerves. The American actor was beginning to give him more lip about his directing, which wasn’t welcomed, especially when it came to his portrayal of the man legally distinct from Flight Lieutenant Charles Cholmondeley who wanted nothing to do with the film or being identifiable in it. Sure. Monty had been giving Tub a slew of tiny and specific notes, but he just wasn't doing it right. It is not his fault that there’s a smidge of an Australian lilt to Charlie’s voice that peeks out whenever the man is utterly hammered. Charlie also fiddled with his fingers incessantly when he was nervous, especially with his left hand and the tip of his right index, so the least Tub could do was faithfully follow the provided demonstrations in all their painstaking detail. The man was SAG for God’s sake. It isn’t exactly bomb diffusion.
The worst thing was how much of a spitting image of Charlie the man was once he put on those glasses. And it felt almost fated that his name was the very same that his genius had originally suggested for Bill, even if it wasn’t right for that specific part. It was selfish to have hired him, especially when Charles wanted nothing to do with the film, but Ewen had to do it for his own sanity. Even if Charlie didn’t want to be remembered, Monty wanted them to be remembered as they were. The truth of the mission and the altered identities of real individuals was all an open secret on set but the public, at least, could believe the editorializing. Monty had slowly been convinced of the error of his ways there and made to rectify it, both in the film treatment and behind the scenes with what legal power he still maintained as the Navy’s Judge Advocate of the Fleet when he wasn’t busy with his creative endeavours. It was easy enough to tell audiences they’d had legal permission to use the body from the family and that Charlie was Lieutenant George Acres, even if praises should be due to the real man, and not the one Monty had made up for his film just as they had Major William Martin. Thus, his fake partner-in-crime would at least look like Charlie even if he couldn’t be called Flight Lieutenant Cholmondeley on screen, so people could let the man know he reminded them of the charming sidekick in that famous film as a reminder that they weren’t lost to history. And if Charles was so pissed about it he could sue Monty himself; at least then Ewen could actually hear from him.
Tub also doesn’t buzz around correctly. Charles did like the insect that he so detested and was always simultaneously an inch too close and an inch too far away for Monty to properly function. The scientist’s touch was both necessary and maddening; too little or too much casual workplace affection would make the day unbearable and finding the perfect balance was the sort of delicate task that made him pay attention to the details for one of the only times in his life. To the little ways Charlie would sit up straighter when Monty entered a room or how instead of stiffening up whenever he flung an arm around the Flight Lieutenant’s shoulders, in time, Charlie didn’t flinch and instead accepted it, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Having a Charlie analog on set who couldn’t do any of that justice was frustrating become compare.
That being said, the days after he and Charlie snogged each other senseless during their fated bar crawl were the worst , as if Charlie was finally cognizant that their physical rapport with one another in the office was rather deeply homosexual instead of merely homosocial. Charlie had been more avoidant and hesitant, but in retrospect, he’s unsure if that’s because of what was between them or the whole fear of being seduced further by the enemy in his double-agent delusions. It’s like that now, save for the fact that then the mission’s success brought them together again in short order. Now ? Ha!
Taking a large swig of brandy, the filmmaker empties his cut crystal glass of the spirit and pours himself another. That was the reason for all this, this evening, wasn’t it? It was an innocent question from an annoyed actor: “What’s he doing instead?” God knows he’s tried to figure it out. It’d been four years, six months, twenty-seven days, and fourteen hours, give or take, with nothing but a few letters. They’d exchanged them, at first until Charlie ended up on some need-to-know mission in the ‘Anti-Locust Unit’ off in the Middle East that was code for some MI5 nonsense he wished he knew how to decipher. Monty pored through every entomological encyclopedia he could find to see if there was a bizarre locust fact that could crack the code to whatever on earth the operation was so he could be on the next flight to Arabia to track Charles down. Hester, Johnny, and Jean have all refused to tell him, but Monty suspects it’s more to do with the fact they don’t know themselves. They, in retrospect, understandably didn’t trust him as much post-Mincemeat, but his friends weren’t animals. They knew how much Charles needed—rather, how much Ewen needed Charlie, and that no punishment for his misbehavior was as unbearable as this one.
It was harder to keep in contact with them with how much he’d been juggling work-wise and how much the rest of them seemingly moved on with their lives. Sure, he gets the Christmas cards and dinner invites from Hester and Johnny and the lunches with Jean when his legal cases for the Navy have crossovers with her work there, but it's not the same as when they were all hunkered down in a dilapidated basement with the fire of war up their arses to thrust responsibility for victory upon them. Since then, however, things have become more domestic as people kept up with their jobs under the calming cover of peacetime and could focus on the important things like life, love, relationships, and all that. And he was happy for everyone. He was . Johnny and Hester’s wedding had been a grand affair and Jean made for a rather fit Maid of Honor with the rest of the typing pool, including the girl she was seeing, Bella, in tow. After giving his rousing yet sentimental toast to Johnny ‘King of the World’ Bevan and his new Queen as Best Man, he and Charlie danced until their oxfords left blisters on their feet and they couldn’t stand from the inebriation that came from a well-attended open bar. He got the band to play “La cumparsita” again so he could show his genius just how much better he’d gotten at the tango —given the abundance of hours practicing with Jean so she could better dance with her girl— and the memories of that night they don’t talk about when they sent Bill off to war flooded back. The wedding was half a decade ago and the bar crawl even further couched in the past, but he can still envision the sensation of Charles’s lips on his, the smell of his Acqua di Parma Colonia cologne in its sandalwood and sweet orange glory, and the feeling of being pulled by the braces into utter bliss like it was yesterday. But he hadn’t seen him since. Nobody had.
And it was fine. He was fine. He had a best-selling novel flying off the shelves, a film in production, and a respectable career. He didn’t need a partner or to run the International Table Tennis Federation or the family Barony to feel important, he is important. He is a member of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire for God’s sake and history will remember him at the end of the day and that’s what really matters, isn’t it? He wasn’t trying to compensate for anything like Jean so rudely suggested. Johnny, Jean, Charlie, and Hester could put a sock in it for all he cares for thinking they need to stay behind the scenes and keep quiet after everything, if he wanted to find solace in this, so be it.
Staring in the mirror of his trailer, looking a fate worse than death, Monty puts the kettle on for himself, the tea from before now cold from lack of consumption. He cleanses his face so the tear marks that disturb the eyeliner and foundation caked onto his face to look dashing in close-ups are all but washed away. As he does that warm salty water clashes with the coolness of the tap until the kettle’s whistle sounds like a piercing wail. He pours the boiling water over the bag of Earl Grey into a nondescript white mug, unconscious of what is on the other side until he’s struck by the sight of Charlie’s visage. He’d returned those files when he was found out, so the ridiculously sentimental mug was the only thing he truly stole from MI5, in the end.
He wonders what his little genius would think if he could see Ewen now, in his trailer like this. Would he come back from wherever the hell he was and be the small flash of joy he so desperately needed to grab hold of? Would he ask what the filmmaker was trying to prove by doing this and seek to understand why while using a gentle hand to brush the tears off his face and dirtying his fingers with the runny makeup? Would he make Ewen forget about his attention-seeking and fame-finding tendencies that were leaving him empty and instead drown him in the very rarely spoken and even seldomer acted upon affection between them with a passion that carried the full force of all this time? Would he let Monty follow him on whatever Operation he was busy with or even decide to drop things altogether so they could move to the West Country and take day trips to see the Adonis Blue in Salisbury?
Unsure of how long he’s been there, until the light of morning peeks in through the blinds he’d meticulously closed in all but one area. His early morning call time would be upon him all too quickly and his makeup and wardrobe team would be here in short order. He’d need to act as if he’d not spent the night in complete and utter disarray here, but it’s hardly the first time and will likely not be the last, so it shouldn’t be difficult. He has been performing in one way or another his whole life, it's about time he is paid and celebrated for it, even if his friends criticize him for it. He asks the mug one more question before he needs to bottle it all back up: what was this all leading to and would it be worth it? All that remains is it smiling back up at him. It haunts him, missing its old owner just as much as its new one does, and in dark and oppressive silence, he finds no answers.