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John Bevan had a problem; his name was Ewen Montagu, and he was irresponsible, short-sighted, unfortunately, devilishly handsome, and somehow responsible for assembling the plan that would snatch Europe from the jaws of the Axis powers. And, now, somehow, he had missed submitting the weekly report on his activities he was meant to provide—the activities that all three branches of the armed forced were breathing down Bevan’s own neck about.
Bevan sighed, rifling through his in-tray to make sure he hadn’t misplaced it. It was absurdly late; nearly everyone else in the office had already gone home, the whole place silent and unmoving save the handful of staff hired for overnight emergencies. He’d gotten accustomed to working long hours, though—there was a war on. If he couldn’t do his part for his country on the front lines, he’d do it from his desk.
Bevan came up empty-handed, a familiar wave of anger rushing in like the tide. He should have seen this coming.
“Get me Lieutenant Commander Montagu,” he barked at nobody in particular. One of the night clerks screeched to a halt outside his office, startled, and saluted.
“Pardon me for asking, sir, but are you sure? It’s extremely unlikely he’s even awake at this hour—”
“If I’ve ever known Lieutenant Commander Montagu, he absolutely is.” Bevan said darkly. “Just call him. If he’s not at home, try every pub in a five-mile radius.”
“Y–yes, sir.” the clerk stammered out, rushing to take care of it.
Bevan didn’t know how long it took, lost in his haze of files and paperwork—every time he did this, he inevitably came to the conclusion that the War Office ought to pay Hester more—but he was oddly relieved when Montagu stumbled in, the feeling brief and shining. The flare died, though, when he realised that Montagu was very, very drunk.
“Johnny!” Montagu exclaimed, holding onto the doorframe to steady himself a moment. Bevan sprung from his office chair and drew nearer, intending to start berating him, but was thrown entirely off-track when Montagu looped an arm around Bevan’s shoulder. Bevan was pulled alarmingly close—he was surprised to find that Montagu smelled like cigarettes and expensive cologne. Predictable, maybe, but Bevan had never really thought about it before. It felt far too intimate—like Bevan had learned something he was never meant to know.
“You can’t get mad at me for this one, Johnny,” Montagu continued, finally letting go of Bevan. He stumbled over to Bevan’s desk and boosted himself onto it, coltish limbs swinging freely. “It’s entirely above-board. His Majesty is merely funding a little excursion for Bill and Pam—matter of national security, you know.”
“Get off my desk, Montagu,” Bevan ordered him, not expecting him to listen.
Bevan was right—Montagu didn’t. “So, whatever did you call me in here for?” he inquired, wearing a stupid grin like he was about to start laughing.
Bevan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the headache he knew was coming. “I asked for weekly reports on the preparations for Operation Mincemeat.”
“And?”
“And this week’s report is, notably, not in my in-tray.”
Montagu groaned, letting his head loll back; he’d jammed a cigarette behind his ear at some point during the night, and it tumbled down into his lap now. He retrieved it, looking for all the world like he’d won the lottery, and lit it then and there.
“Don’t smoke in my office, thanks.” Bevan jammed his clenched fists into his pockets; he wanted so badly to give Montagu what-for, seize his collar and get right in his face, just to make him go quiet for once. Christ, he didn’t know what it was that aggravated him so badly, how just a little bit of needling from Montagu could produce the kind of reaction anyone else would struggle to get out of him—Bevan wished very much he knew what it was. Maybe then, he’d be capable of getting a damn handle on it.
“Good Lord, Johnny. You’re not nearly this hard on anyone else.” Montagu lowered his voice, doing what could have passed as a very shoddy impression of Bevan if not for the gravel that lingered in his lower register. "Oh, Monty, you need to turn in that report. Don’t sit on the desk, don’t smoke in my office—you want to know what I think?”
Montagu had gotten himself going, now; it was probably best just to tune out and wait until he got sick of the sound of his own voice. Bevan rolled his eyes, waiting, but Montagu merely blinked at him. Christ, the man was really going to make him ask! “Fine, Montagu. I’d love nothing more than to hear your assessment of why I do the things I do; it’s not like I have anything else to get to tonight.”
“If you’re done throwing your little temper tantrum, I think you’re in love with me.” Montagu chirped, swinging his feet like an overgrown man-child. “Consciously or not, I think you called me in here because you know yelling at me about the operation is the only real time you get with me in the day. So you maximize it; go over our plans with a fine-tooth comb, find a million excuses, and wring what little joy you’re capable of experiencing out of berating me. It’s textbook psychology, Johnny. I’ll bet you yanked girls’ pigtails when you had crushes on them, too.”
And somehow, that was the last straw. Bevan yanked Montagu forward by the tie, dragging him off Bevan’s desk and sending papers flying. Montagu found his footing just in time, stumbling towards Bevan until their faces were only a few centimetres apart.
“When,” Bevan hissed through gritted teeth, “are you ever going to get it through your thick skull? You are one of the most difficult officers I’ve ever had the displeasure of commanding. You are also,” Bevan continued, before Montagu could once again open his G-dforsaken mouth, “shockingly creative. Your attention to detail needs work—I’ll give you that one for free—but the bones of the things you come up with are good, and I don’t need to supervise you constantly to make sure your work gets done. You have the makings of a good officer, Montagu. I wish you would try harder, because His Majesty’s Armed Forces, G-d help us all, needs people like—“
The last words were muffled, cut off by Montagu pressing his lips to Bevan’s.
Bevan’s whole body locked up, his nervous system sure that if he just didn’t move, whatever the hell was happening to him would go away. It didn’t, though. Instead, when Bevan finally found the wherewithal to pull back, Montagu brought one of his hands to gently cradle Bevan’s jaw, tilting his face just that slightest bit upward.
“What—what in the name of—“
“You were telling me how great I am.” Monty said, as though that explained anything. “I think you should do some more of that, it was sexy.”
Bevan’s brain was moving at a crawl, none of his neurons quite sure how to proceed. Finally, he managed to get his wits about him, pressing the heel of his hand to his mouth as though Montagu had hit him. That kiss felt like it had knocked something loose; he was aware of every part of his body, in startling, excruciating detail.
“Good Lord,” Montagu murmured under his breath, sounding almost triumphant. “I’ve finally rendered you speechless.”
Bevan hated to admit it, but Montagu had. He tacked his shoulders back, ready to—what? Admonish Montagu? Kick him out of the office? G-d forbid, kiss him back?
Montagu checked his watch and hopped down from Bevan’s desk; Bevan flinched as an errant elbow knocked over a stack of papers, sending them flying. “Well Johnny, this has been lovely, but I must get back before Charlie drives everyone at the pub insane talking about newts.”
Don’t go, Bevan’s traitorous brain hissed. Don’t go, I—
Somehow, somehow, Bevan managed to gather up the wherewithal to cross the room, closing his hand around the doorknob before Montagu could touch it. The pair of them froze, suspended in time for just a moment; and then they were kissing again, more intense than the first time, holding on to one another as if for dear life.
Montagu arched one blond eyebrow as he pulled away, smirking. “Snogging in the office, are we? That’s not very sensible of you, Colonel.”
Bevan sighed. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him—of everyone it could be, it really had to be Ewen Montagu? He’d be disappointed in himself if it didn’t make so much awful, revelatory sense. “You make it very difficult to be sensible.”
Now it was Montagu’s turn to fall silent; he regarded Bevan with those inscrutable blue eyes, unreadable. Bevan frequently wondered what the man was thinking, but it was in such a different context now. Good Lord, how in the world had they gotten here? What the hell did he mean by all of this?
Such is the problem with Ewen Montagu, Bevan thought ruefully. The man was incapable of taking anything seriously; this whole thing was probably just a lark to him, a dare exchanged over a pint. With Bevan’s luck, the whole office would probably be laughing at him by tomorrow morning.
Best to pretend this had never happened, then—for all their sakes. “I expect that report on my desk by tomorrow morning, Lieutenant Commander,” Bevan said, stepping back from the door; it was all he could think to say. His voice came out hoarse, and it was an effort to keep it from shaking.
Montagu waved a hand, obviously not listening. “See you in the morning, Johnny,” he said with a wink. Suddenly, his demeanour changed, the last of the mirth vanishing from the corners of his mouth. "I'll...I'll keep what you said in mind."
And then, just like that, he was gone. The office door swung shut behind him. Bevan sank into his office chair, feeling for all the world like something inside him had been permanently altered. What the hell was he meant to do now?