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Ewen Montagu had been delaying seeing his family for months now.
He’d spoken to both Joyce and Ivor multiple times and he’d even spoken to his parents once or twice, but it had been a while since they'd met in person and he had failed to mention his little run in with a bomb almost a year ago. Even though he knew, logically, that he would have to tell them at some point and that he should’ve told them back when it had first happened, he had been putting the matter off indefinitely.
That was, until the letter came.
“Monty? Are you alright?” Charles Cholmondeley asked, his voice full of concern. The two men were sprawled on the couch - in what had once been Monty’s home, and was now their home - enjoying a lazy Sunday morning.
It suddenly dawned on Monty that he had been staring at the familiar sloping handwriting of his mother for far longer than was necessary, given how short the letter was. The familiar urge to shrug the question off with ‘I’m fine.’ bubbled up, but he forced it down.
“It’s from my mother,” He gritted out, trying desperately to organize his emotions into some semblance of order, “My father… he’s dead. Heart attack.”
He thought saying the words aloud would make them feel real, but in that moment nothing felt real. A million emotions whirred around inside him and he couldn’t seem to hold on to any single one for more than a few seconds. Was he supposed to cry? Cheer? Scream? He didn’t know.
“Are you- How do you feel?” Charles questioned carefully.
Monty shrugged and put his head on Charles’ shoulder, who immediately started mindlessly rubbing circles on Monty’s back. “I don’t… I don’t really know? I didn’t like the bastard, but I didn’t want him dead. Christ, Charlie, what am I going to do?”
“I mean, I presume you’re going to the funeral?” Charles said it like it was simple. Monty wished it was. Regardless of the whole ‘having to put on a dress’ thing and also his work commitments, there was one rather large problem that made the whole situation quite complex.
“One small problem, my genius. I may or may not have failed to mention a certain little development…” He trailed off and gestured vaguely at the leg he had propped up on the couch.
“Monty! Did you not tell them what happened?” Charles gasped out.
“I meant to! But I just- I just couldn’t find the words and then it had been months and it felt too late and now it’s a mess!”
The taller man pushed Monty gently off his shoulder and looked him in the eye, which was something that made Monty know he was being serious because his… whatever they were did not tend to make eye contact, “You’re telling me that you almost died and not a single one of your family know? What about Ivor? Or Joyce?”
Monty shook his head guiltily.
Charles simply sighed and pulled him close again.
“They’re pushing the funeral out slightly longer to allow for people to come home in time, but they won’t delay for any more than 48 hours. Which means I’d have to return tomorrow and-” He was interrupted by the ringing of the phone and let out a desperate sigh, “That’ll be Ivor or Joyce.”
Charles squeezed his hand as Ewen rose from his side and he returned the gesture immediately. Grabbing his cane, he made his way to the hallway and picked up the phone, “Hello, Ewen Montagu speaking.”
“Ewen?” His sister’s familiar voice crackled over the line, “Have you heard?”
“About father? Yes, I’ve heard.” His own voice sounded weirdly foreign.
“Are you alright?”
“I don’t know, to be completely honest.” He reiterated, “Are you?”
There was a shuffling over the phone and Monty was almost sure he could hear the screeching of his nieces and nephews, “I’m… okay-ish. It’s a lot to take in.”
He hummed a vague agreement.
“What time are you expecting to arrive at the house?” She asked.
Monty let out a low groan, “I don’t know, Joyce. I don’t even… I don’t even know if I can be there.”
“What? Ewen, you can’t be serious? He was our father.” Joyce’s voice was shrill.
“He was also a lot of other things,” Monty sighed, “Look, I’m up to my eyeballs in work here, I don’t think I could stay for the entirety of Shiva.”
She made an exasperated noise, “That doesn’t mean you can’t come for the burial, Mother would want you there.”
The mention of their mother broke something in Ewen that caused his voice to rise, “You don’t understand! There is so much you do not understand and I don’t think I could even begin to explain it right now.”
“I know coming home is hard,” Joyce’s voice was so gentle that it made Monty’s blood boil, “But think about how it’d look if you weren’t there. You were his child.”
“I was his daughter,” Monty snapped, “And we all know he didn’t particularly care for me.”
That was an understatement. His father had tried time and time again to get Ewen to comply, to be the perfect little lady he wanted, and had failed over and over again. Each failure only ended in pain. For some reason it was only ever him that received the worst of their fathers ire, even though they knew nothing of his true self. He’d often wondered if his parents knew, on some level, that he was their son and not their daughter and if that was the cause of their disdain.
“Just come for the burial,” Joyce reasoned, “Please.”
Something deep in his chest ached at her begging, but their conversation had only served to solidify the conclusion he’d already come to when he’d first opened the letter; he could not return home, not now. It wasn’t just the thought of putting on a dress and makeup that brought him to that conclusion - although that did turn his stomach - but the thought of having to explain the limp and the cane and everything else. He couldn’t do it.
“Goodbye, Joyce.” He hung up before she could protest.
At some point Charles had made his way to the kitchen and by the time Monty joined him he’d already set out two steaming mugs of tea. Monty sat down next to the other man and let out a sigh of relief when he wrapped his hands around the mug.
“I- I wasn’t trying to listen, but I did hear parts of your conversation.” Charles said sheepishly.
“That loud, am I?”
“Uh, yes. Kind of. Is your sister alright?”
Monty took a long sip of tea before answering, “Joyce is fine, or she will be fine. I’m not too worried about her.”
“Did you tell her about…” Charles’ gaze drifted to the cane resting against a nearby chair.
“No, I don’t think it was the right moment.” He stared resolutely at the pale yellow mug in his hands.
“Ewen.”
Hearing his first name from Charles’ mouth - something that was reserved for the small, private moments between the two men - was his final straw, and Monty felt tears pool in his eyes as he continued to stare at his tea. He tried in vain to blink them away, but the universe seemed to be eternally against him. As the tears began to stream down his cheeks, he wanted to try to explain to Charles exactly why he was afraid to tell his ever-worried sister about what had happened, instead he said, “I can’t go to the funeral.”
“What?”
“I can’t-” He took in a deep, shuddering breath in an attempt to calm himself, “I can’t go to my own father’s funeral. The worst part is that he hated me and I know that, so I shouldn’t be fucking crying. Why am I fucking crying?”
Charles’ hands encased his own and he squeezed. The gesture had become something as intimate as a kiss between the two of them over the past few months, and it only served to make the tears come faster.
“Crying is normal. Feeling whatever you’re feeling right now is normal. Not knowing exactly what you’re feeling is normal. I, uh, don’t know a lot about your father, but I know you had a… complicated relationship with him. I think it makes perfect sense for you to be feeling a bit confused right now.” Charles said gently, and Monty was suddenly very glad he lived with someone so eternally matter-of-fact. “Can you tell me why you can’t go to the funeral? Did Joyce say something?”
“No, she didn’t. Not really.” Monty mumbled as he searched for the words to explain the… everything-ness of what he was feeling and why that equated to not being able to go to the funeral. “There are just so many things that make returning home difficult on a normal day. There’s the dressing up and pretending to be the upper-class lady they believe me to be. Then we have the overwhelming emphasis on tradition that my family is hopelessly devoted to. I don’t even want to think about Stuart right now.”
He took another deep, hiccuping breath, “And then there’s the fact I never told them about what happened and now it feels too late to ever tell them. Let’s not forget that my father is dead and I’m more upset about what the family will think of me being a cripple than the fact he’s gone. I don’t even know if any of that makes sense, but I simply cannot go to his funeral and I think that might make me a terrible person.”
By the time he was finished he felt completely and utterly empty. Suddenly there were no tears and no more words, everything inside of him was an awful kind of quiet and empty that made him want to scream.
“You’re not an awful person,” Charles said after a few moments of silence, “I think I know you well enough to say that with complete and utter certainty. As I see it, everything boils down to one simple fact: if you go to this funeral it is going to cause you extreme discomfort and pain, and our basic animalistic programming tells us to avoid that at all costs.”
It was as if Charles had the ability to take his word vomit and form a single and coherent conclusion that Monty never would’ve been able to come to himself.
Charles continued, “I know your family is important to you, but they don’t even know you, Ewen. They know an idea of you that you despise. It’s not fair that you have to hurt yourself in order to fit that idea just to appease everyone else when you have people who accept you as you are with no expectations. You’ve been through a lot, it makes sense that you want to protect yourself from them.”
He simultaneously hated and greatly appreciated just how well Charles could read him, “I just wish I didn’t need protection from my own family.”
“I know.”
“What do I do?” Monty asked, desperate for an answer he knew he wouldn’t get.
Charles smiled sadly at him, “I- uh, don’t think I can tell you that, but I’ll help as best I can with whatever you choose.”
A small, grateful smile spread across his face, “Thank you.”
Familiar hands squeezed his, and suddenly Monty felt a little bit less empty.
—
Hester Leggatt showed up at their door less than an hour after Monty had called her to explain everything and immediately pulled him into a hug.
“Hello, old girl,” He mumbled into her shirt.
“Are you alright?” She asked, pulling back and looking him up and down as if he’d suddenly look different just because his father had decided to make his life infinitely harder by dying.
“People need to stop asking me that,” He grumbled, ignoring the pang of affection he felt for the woman.
“It is quite a common thing to ask someone when a parent dies.”
Monty led the way into the living room, “I don’t care.”
He could practically feel the disapproving look she was giving him. Charles was already on the sofa when they entered and immediately stowed his book away in favor of greeting their guest. “Hello, Hester.”
“Good Afternoon,” Hester responded, sitting herself down in the green armchair she favored as Monty slotted himself in next to Charles. “Long time no see.”
“I saw you at work yesterday…” Charles said with confusion.
Hester ploughed on, “So, Ewen, have you made a decision?”
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, “I’m not going.” His voice sounded much more sure about it than he felt.
The woman opposite him simply nodded, “Is there anything else you’d like to do instead?”
One of the many reasons why he loved Hester Leggatt was her ability to be completely accepting of something without even a fraction of judgement. “I don’t think I feel like celebrating the life of a man who thought it was okay to beat the crap out of his own wife and children.”
Hester’s gaze narrowed and a small noise of surprise escaped Charles, but neither of them commented on what he said, so Monty decided to continue, “My current problem is Joyce, and possibly Ivor if Joyce thinks to rope him in. There is a non-zero chance that they will come here and attempt to drag me home.”
“Could you not just tell them to leave without you?”
Monty let out a humorless chuckle, “You see, there is a small, rather important, detail that I left out over the phone. I haven’t actually told either of them about my little brush with death last year.”
For the first time since he’d met her, Hester appeared truly shocked.
“Ewen!”
“Oh don’t look at me like that, it was none of their business.” He attempted to reason.
“None of their business - Of course it’s their business, they care about you! Were you planning on never meeting them in person for the rest of your life?” Hester was looking at him like he’d grown a second head.
He gave her a level stare in return, “Like I told Charlie, I was going to tell them. I just couldn’t really figure out how and then, suddenly, ten months had passed.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“I know.”
She shook her head, “Let me get this straight, you never told either of the only family members you care about that you almost died ten months ago, and you’ve only come to the conclusion that you have to tell them because your father died?”
Monty shrunk into his seat under her gaze and shrugged.
“You truly are a mess.” Hester chastised, but her tone was gentle.
“I know.” He repeated, voice oddly small.
Charles, who had been quietly observing the back and forth, decided it was time to intervene, “The simplest solution is to just invite Ivor and Joyce over and explain it to both of them at once.”
“I agree, best get it over and done with.” Hester chimed in.
Monty hid his face in Charles’ shoulder, “I hate you both.”
—
A little over a week later, Monty was stressing over the arrival of his brother and sister. All it had taken was a phone call to Ivor telling him to come over once the funeral was over and to bring their sister. She’d tried in vain to get him to answer the phone, which primarily just meant calling the house non-stop until even Charles was getting annoyed, before seemingly giving up when no one answered.
Both Charles and Hester were present, mainly for moral support, but also to fill in the gaps in Monty’s memories of that night, and Monty felt infinitely steadier from their mere presence. The knock on the door echoed through the house at around noon and the gnawing feeling in his stomach increased tenfold. Still, he forced it down and made his way to the front door. He left his cane by where he had been sitting, choosing to endure the increased discomfort in the hopes that he could delay the inevitable questions.
Joyce was upon him the moment he opened the door, arms wrapped around him in a tight embrace that was over before he could even think to return it. She pulled back and gave him a light shove that had him scrambling at the wall to keep himself upright. Oblivious to the pain she’d just caused, she pointed a finger at him, “How dare you not show your face.”
“Hello, Joyce,” He greeted, rightening himself before nodding at his brother, “Ivor. Welcome to my home.”
Ivor opened his mouth to speak, but failed to get anything out before Joyce was speaking again, “You better start explaining what was so important that you ignored my calls. I was worried sick, and mother was distraught that you weren’t there.”
The two brothers shared a look at their sister's familiar antics before Monty plastered his cockiest smirk on his face, “I’ll explain all. Now, I have guests so please be polite.”
He started to lead them down the hallway and Ivor immediately called him out, “Brother, are you… limping?”
Monty’s smile faltered but he continued on, “I said I’d explain in a minute.”
“Are you hurt?” Joyce asked at the exact moment Monty pushed open the door to the kitchen.
He ignored her in favor of introducing his two families to each other, “Joyce, Ivor, this is Hester Leggatt and Charles Cholmondeley. We work together. Charlie, Hester, this is Ivor - Ivor you already know Charles - and my sister Joyce.”
Brief greetings were exchanged, but Monty couldn’t help but notice the odd looks he was getting from his siblings whenever he moved. He slipped into his usual seat beside Charles and gestured for the newcomers to do the same. Before he could even open his mouth, Joyce started questioning him, “Are you hurt? What happened? Do you need a doctor?”
He held up his hands in a placating gesture, “I haven’t been entirely honest with you two, and the past week has made me realize that putting this off isn’t going to make it any easier to fess up.”
Leaning back in his chair, he gave his siblings a sly smile, “I was caught up in a little incident involving a bomb about ten months ago.”
The effect was immediate. Joyce asked him question after question so fast that he couldn’t even begin to form an answer to one before she was asking another. His brother was staring at him dumbfounded, lips moving but no sound forming. Hester was glaring at him for choosing to blurt it out instead of how they’d planned on sharing what she said was ‘very difficult to process information’. He grabbed Charles’ hand under the table and squeezed.
“Okay, okay, let me explain…” And he did. With the help of Charles and Hester he gave his siblings a brief rundown of the worst few weeks of his life and was filled with guilt as he watched his sublings and realized that, not only was Joyce crying, but there were tears in the eyes of his ever-cheerful younger brother.
“So, that’s, uh, that.” He finished awkwardly.
Joyce was staring at him with wet cheeks and a look of abject horror on her face, “Why didn’t you tell us sooner? We could’ve helped.”
“I didn’t think you needed the worry?” He hadn’t intended on it being a question, but his mouth appeared to have a mind of its own.
“Bullshit,” Ivor muttered, “Utter bullshit. Did you not think we deserved to know that our brother almost died.”
Ewen sighed, “I need you to understand that I am genuinely very sorry, but I cannot change the past. I’m telling you now, that has to be enough.”
“You’re an idiot.” His brother said.
“So I’ve been told.”
“You are,” Joyce chimed in, “And you always have been. Remember that time you tried to ride the neighbor’s racehorse?”
Monty sighed in dismay, “Please don’t.”
Joyce gave him a smirk he recognized from his own reflection.
Suddenly the afternoon was filled with embarrassing stories about Monty’s youth that lasted until he kicked everyone out in an attempt at peace. Although it had gone about as well as he could imagine, there was still an odd emptiness inside him as he sat down next to Charles, a soft groan escaping him as he relaxed for the first time that day.
“Are you okay?” His… Charlie asked.
Ewen was silent for a moment, “My father is dead.”
Charles let out a soft noise of surprise, “Yes. Yes, he is.”
“He was a terrible father.” He admitted.
Another noise, this time of encouragement, from Charles.
“Is it… Is it wrong that a small part of me is glad I’ll never have to see him again?”
Charles pulled him close, “No, it’s not.”
Ewen said nothing, he simply sat with the knowledge and let confused tears fall from his eyes.