Work Text:
The basement without Monty held an odd kind of peace. Undeniably soothing, yet unsettling. Charles would long for some quiet to just concentrate, but when it arrived, he found himself glancing up every five seconds with a remark for Monty; ones he could tell Hester and Jean, but what would be the point if he wouldn't be rewarded with an exasperated yet endlessly fond look or stupid joke or charming remark?
While Monty had been known for occasionally showing up not exactly on time before, he had never been this late before- two hours and counting. With each minute, the unease in the room grew, but no one said anything.
By this point, Charles had entirely given up on his paperwork, and was poring over his memories of the night before. Funny how Monty could distract him so completely whether he was around or not.
He tipped his cheek into his hand, conjuring images of the two of them leaving late together, Monty offering to walk him home, and the journey spent in silent, exhausted companionship, hand in hand except when anyone got too close to them.
Then, at the door, key in hand, Charles asking him if he'd like to spend the night, more out of practiced routine than expecting anything other than a roll of eyes and a huffed 'obviously', and instead receiving an 'I need to rest', Charles nodding even though he wanted to suggest he'd rest better in his arms, Monty walking away before Charles could wish him goodnight or an offer of a nightcap or a kiss.
Only to be faced with the first night they'd spent apart in a month, made up less of sleep than staring up at the ceiling, ignoring that his bed felt colder than it had ever been and his arms endlessly empty.
His morning, too, devoid of limbs wrapped around him, tugging him back into bed for ‘just five more minutes’, and pretending to reluctantly relent all the while living in the novelty of spending his time being held just to be held and holding just to hold. Gone was the familiar warmth that grew in his chest when Monty murmured to him, speech slurred from sleep and littered with pet names.
On his part, he used the terms more sparingly, the feeling of them wrong in his mouth as they tripped unnaturally off his tongue, but, occasionally, he revelled in the joyous surprise that spread across Monty's face when he registered the ‘dear’ or ‘darling’, and it usually took everything in Charles not to kiss it off.
Then, tea made for him while he made breakfast, all shared on a table their fingers were interlocked over, soaking up the last of their freedom to bask in the time spent together rather than the stilted awkwardness they attempted to impose on themselves so as not to arouse suspicion.
Secretly, Charles thought they were doing quite a bad job of this but he didn’t dare tell Monty so he wouldn’t lose the sly winks he’d receive when no one was looking.
Before he could spend any more time wasted musing about the life that all too suddenly felt like it was slipping through his fingers, familiar steps marched down the stairs- not the playful jumps that Monty often employed, but the even, heavy pace of Colonel Bevan. Sure enough, he burst through the door looking as panicked as he ever did, scanning the room and seemingly not finding what he was looking for.
“Where's Montagu?” he asked curtly.
The three of them exchanged glances.
“No one's seen him today.” Hester said carefully.
“No one's seen him, or he isn't here?” Bevan asked, no time for pleasantries.
“We think he isn't here.” Charles replied, only becoming meeker than usual in the face of Bevan's brow furrowing and frown deepening further than he had ever thought possible.
“Well, someone had better find him, because I was expressly promised the completed presentation for the Prime Minister today for me to look over and it currently looks like that’s not happening.” Bevan turned to presumably storm out, then paused, “Cholmondeley, are you in a position to fill in?” he asked, looking disdainful, and Charles suddenly felt a rush to defend Monty when he couldn’t for himself.
“Yes, Monty- Montagu was telling me about it, we left late last night, I think he said he was going to finalise everything at home.”
“He took it all home? Of course he did.” Bevan said through gritted teeth, rubbing his fingertips aggressively into the bridge of his nose.
Before he knew what he was doing, Charles was standing, and Bevan was raising his eyebrows at him.
“I could go and see if I can find him or the necessary documents.” He said, sounding braver than he felt, and certainly not creating a situation where he could potentially personally check on Monty who he was growing more concerned about by the minute. It might have been like him to be blasé about deadlines, but he never expressly missed them, and Bevan seemed to know this too given he looked to be genuinely considering this absurd suggestion.
“At his house?” he asked sceptically. Before Charles could even nod, he was continuing, “do you need the address?”
Charles hesitantly shook his head, and Bevan’s eyebrows rose somehow higher, but he nodded, paused and opened his mouth like he wanted to say more - instead gesturing in brief, wild frustration - then turned and stormed back up the stairs.
For a moment, stillness returned to the basement, until Jean couldn’t keep her teasing locked up any longer.
“Go round to Monty’s often then, Charles?”
“Jean!” Hester reprimanded, although there was an edge of curiosity to her voice too.
“Just to work!” Charles spluttered, then let out an audible breath to regulate himself. “I’ll be back later, I won’t abandon you too long.” He said, already feeling guilty at the prospect of going gallivanting around London while they stayed and worked.
Hester seemed to sense this hesitation. “Go on, you’ll be of more use there than here.” She said gently, and Charles realised perhaps his lack of work that morning wasn’t as subtle as he thought it was.
He nodded, pulled his overcoat on, and rushed out of the basement with an urgency he didn’t bother to disguise.
The journey was one he was intimately familiar with by now, and he resented doing it alone. Or rather, he resented doing it without the certainty he once had about what would be waiting for him at the other end. It was becoming increasingly harder to convince himself that the reason he was so worried about the lack of Monty earlier that day wasn't just concern for the mission or Monty's dedication to it, but rather the implications he was gleaning about them as, tentatively, a couple, although neither of them had used that word aloud before.
Realistically, he knew the burgeoning relationship they'd settled into wasn't going away from one night spent apart, but he had felt Monty becoming more distant over the past week, less insistent on spending all their time together (not that Charles had minded the way they’d been before).
The further he walked, the angrier he became. If Monty didn’t want to be with him anymore, he wished he’d just talk to him rather than causing this elaborate excursion. He layered the anger on top of the worry that was still simmering beneath. The power Monty seemed to hold over him was binding, driving him to do things he would never have even considered before.
Maybe that was it. Not just worry about Mincemeat, or their relationship, but where they went after the fact. It was astonishing how radically he had felt himself changing in the face of being noticed by Ewen Montagu. Or, rather, the boldness that came with the realisation that he was being allowed to see what was underneath that. The idea that he might be someone who others wanted to hear from, wanted to let in. And Charles was surprising himself with how much he wanted to share the precious time he once used to treasure in being alone.
And Monty too. For all his brash ways, leading the charge, Charles was noticing he did slow down when he wanted Charles to catch up. And, when they were alone, he did tentatively let a crack in his carefully constructed mask show. Just to Charlie, but it was nice. Being Monty and Charlie, or Charlie and Monty. But he couldn’t help but feel they weren’t done yet. Weren’t ready to just let themselves be around each other.
Well, Charles felt like he was ready. It was Monty, somehow, who seemed to be pulling back from him, when before, it was like Charles was the sun and Monty was Mercury orbiting him, and even that wasn’t close enough.
What had he done wrong?
By the time he reached Monty’s house, he was still fretting, but determined to use a little bit of the confidence he’d been imbued with against the very man who’d inspired it in him.
He fished the spare key from under the withering flowerpot, and before he could talk himself out of it, he was pushing the door open to be met with a still house. So still, so dimly lit it was like it was frozen in time. There was a distinct loneliness to it, too, one he hadn’t noticed when they’d fall through that same doorway together, laughing and awaiting the night stretching before them.
Charles couldn’t wrap his head around wanting and choosing to come back here alone rather than spend the night lounging with their bodies interlinked casually around each other. It was silly, the jealousy that snaked within him over a house, but still, it made him feel second best and last choice all over again.
“Monty?” he called into the house, which felt futile given how empty the house felt, blackout curtains still drawn from the night before, and his eyes strained in the dark. Had Monty even come back here last night? He must have done, because the last time either of them were here they’d gleefully gone round pulling curtains open, racing before they managed to be late for work. “Monty? Are you here?”
Eventually, resigning himself to receiving no response, he made his way carefully through the rooms letting the day stream in. It only made it feel all the more haunted.
“Darling?” he called tentatively up the stairs, just to see if he could provoke some response. He couldn’t, of course, so he made his way to the top floor, already planning whether he’d go on a wild goose chase around London, or stay here waiting for him to get back from wherever he’d run off to.
So, it was in this frustrated mindset that he opened the door to the bedroom and marched over to the windows, but he didn’t reach them before his foot caught on something inert on the floor which nearly sent him sprawling to join it.
The dim light in the centre of the ceiling had been flicked on, allowing him to make out the shape of… a person? For a moment betrayal washed over him, before he realised with some horror that it was his Monty he’d just unceremoniously tripped over. Any and all anger he had previously been building with no basis gave way for a wave of anxiety and guilt.
He knelt quickly, feeling for a pulse on his neck, and barely registering how warm his skin felt as he sat back in relief upon finding one. He stood to open the curtains, turning off the light so he could see him properly.
He made quite the sight, sprawled on the floor, seemingly passed out halfway through getting dressed, shirt half buttoned and untucked from his trousers, his chest stuttering with short, shallow breaths while his eyelids twitched but didn’t open, despite the commotion Charles had caused.
Charles shook him gently to see if he’d stir, but received no response except a wince and a quiet whimper and he was nearly convinced that this wasn’t Monty at all. He sat back on his heels, a frown tugging on his lips as he brushed the baby hairs clinging to his forehead away, and this time he really did notice the warmth radiating from him.
A sheen of sweat clung to him, a deep red more overtaking than lightly dusting his cheeks. It all clicked into place. Charles really needed to find a way to wake him.
Reluctantly, he moved away from his side to the desk where a telephone stood. He picked it up and began dialling before he entirely knew what he was going to say.
“Hello-”
Before Jean could say anymore, he was cutting her off. “Jean, it’s Charles, I’m with Monty and… well…”
“Well what? Are you two coming back soon?”
He paused, before admitting, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? Bevan will be out of his mind if-”
“I think Monty’s sick.”
“Okay? We’ll just sit on the other side of the room or something and cover our ears if he whines too much.”
“No, I mean I found him passed out or something and he’s not waking up, I think he has a fever or something. I don’t know what to do.” Charles said quite miserably, eyes still trained on Monty as if he might move any moment. “I think I should stay with him though.”
Jean muttered something that sounded suspiciously like ‘of course you do’, but before he could respond, she was continuing. “Aren’t you a scientist? Shouldn’t you know about… disease?”
“I’m a naturalist not a doctor, Jean.” He said severely. “What should I do?”
“How would I know? Call a doctor if you’re that worried.”
“I don’t know. You and Hester are…”
“Women?”
“No! I mean, yes - I mean, I was going to say more astute about what to do with… human beings as opposed to insects.”
“Alright, Mr. I-Think-I-Should-Stay-With-Him.” Jean said wryly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Charles could hear rustling on the other end of the line and then Hester’s commanding voice. “You need to wake him up, take his temperature, and then cool him down.” Then, thoughtfully, “I’ll smooth things over with John- Colonel Bevan, I mean.”
“…Right. Thank you. How do I wake him?” Charles asked pleadingly.
“What have you tried so far?”
“Well, I shook him a bit.”
There was a long pause, and Charles began to wonder if that was the absolute wrong thing to do with a sick person and whether Monty was going to take a turn for the worse before Hester spoke again, a laugh at the edge of her voice. “That’s it? You might need to try something more extreme, Charles.”
“Like what?” he asked despairingly, and he wished he’d just called a doctor instead, really.
“Go and wet a cloth and lay it on his forehead to cool him down then maybe shake him a bit harder. If he really isn’t waking up after that, you should call a doctor.”
“I don’t want to leave him.” He admitted quietly, already feeling the distance between them despite the fact it was no more than a metre.
“He’ll be fine for two minutes. It’s not like he’s going to go wandering and get lost.” Jean chimed in again. “Make him some soup or something.”
Charles hesitated. “Will you two be okay today? I think I should stay here for now.”
“I know, Charles, I’m sure we’ll be fine. Good luck.” And with that, Hester put the phone down and he suddenly felt even more out of his depth. He at least had an objective now though, and he was very grateful that Monty insisted on them coming back here more often than not, despite it being a longer journey out, because if not, making his way around the house for a tap would have been vastly more difficult.
He made it back though, kneeling again beside Monty, the cloth hovering limp over his head and dripping water onto it as Charles hesitated with what exactly he was meant to do. He placed it gently onto his forehead, arranging it so it wouldn’t drip into his eyes, but it ended up more in a crumpled pile than he thought it was meant to, and Monty certainly didn’t look like the elegantly ill ladies you’d see in films.
His eyes did crack open though, and his hand clumsily moved up to push the cloth out of the way.
“Charlie? What?” he slurred, as if that encapsulated all the questions he had.
“Oh, thank god you’re awake.”
“What’s this?” he asked, and it took Charles a moment to work out what he was talking about.
“Hester told me to cool you down with a wet cloth.”
“Damp.” Monty corrected, still trying to brush it, and the water currently dripping from it, off his face, and failing miserably. “Squeeze it.” He commanded, letting his eyes flutter shut again.
And who was Charles not to do as he was told?
When he came back into the room, Monty was attempting to drag himself up by the slats of his bed, and he rushed back to force him back to the floor, laying the now-damp cloth over his forehead, although Monty was still attempting to push it off.
“Gotta go to work.”
“We’re not going to work today, Monty, just let me-”
He was cut off by Monty’s uncoordinated arm flying up to hit him in the face. “Late is fine.”
“We’re a bit beyond late now.” Charles said gently.
Monty’s face twisted in confusion. “But I’m getting ready.”
“It's nearly noon.”
Some of the fog was beginning to lift from his face and a little clarity returned to his eyes. “That can't be right.” He murmured.
“What happened, Monty?” Charles pleaded, fingers sinking into his tangled hair and smoothing it out.
“I woke up and then I went to sleep again, I don't know.” Monty said wholly unhelpfully and looking like he knew it.
“Did you know you were sick? Why didn't you let me help you last night?” Charles demanded.
“It's fine, I just... I don't know.”
Charles paused. “Ok. I'm sorry. Don't stress yourself out. Why didn't you call and say you weren't coming in?”
“I was coming in! I wouldn't just abandon you. I was getting ready and then... I don't know, I passed out.”
A realisation dawned on Charles. “Have you been unconscious all day?” he asked, voice rising with his panic until he noticed Monty’s eyes screwing up in pain.
“No, of course not. I just fell asleep.” He said guiltily. “I was trying to get up, I really was, but I just felt so nauseous and-”
“Monty, the last thing I’m worried about is whether you were going to come to work. Especially like this.”
“It’s fine, I’m fine.” Monty said, attempting to sit up. Immediately, he winced, lowering himself back down, and Charles’ hands shot out to support his neck when it looked like he could smack his head back onto the floor, before guiding it to rest in his lap, and he could feel him trembling. “I’ve been coming down with it for a week or so, I thought I was getting better.” He said sheepishly, staring up at the ceiling past Charles’ eyes.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Charles asked despairingly. “How did I not notice?”
“Oh, you don’t want to see me like this. Besides, I’m fine.”
“You most certainly are not, here, just let me help you-”
“I don’t need your help!” Monty said, clumsily pushing Charles’ hands away from his burning forehead, and he would have been more convincing if he looked any less pathetic than he currently did, half-dressed and crumpled limp on the floor as he was.
“Of course not.” Charles sighed, pulling back to give him some space. Not far enough that there was any real distance, mind - he was still hovering like Monty might fall through the floor at any second. “Why don't I help you to bed?”
“We need to go to work.” Monty said almost petulantly.
“And how exactly are you planning on doing that while lying on the floor, my dear?” Charles teased, and Monty scowled back at him, which was largely the opposite effect he intended to cause.
“Don't use pet names against me.” He said, no real heat to it, and it seemed as if whatever fight he had just managed to muster had fallen out of him immediately as he let his eyes drift shut again.
“Fine, what if I take your temperature and if it's higher than 38° I get to feed you soup and fuss over you?” Charles said, clinging to his instructions like a lifeline.
“39.” Monty said.
Charles acquiesced, allowing Monty some semblance of control, although he loathed to leave him lying there on the floor. He considered for a moment, then, “wouldn't you be more comfortable if you were laying in bed?”
“I like it here.” Monty said stubbornly through the sheer discomfort on his face. The two of them stared at each other for a moment, neither willing to budge.
Charles sighed. “Monty, I swear to god, I will do the washing up for a week if you get into bed and let me take care of you.”
Monty's face twisted again into something that looked like guilt or shame. “I don't need you to take care of me. I don't want you here.” he said, sounding slightly desperate.
“Bold words from someone lying in my lap right now.” Charles said, then sighed. “If you get into bed and your fever isn't too bad, I'll leave you alone.”
“I don't have a fever.”
Charles laughed, then stopped when he saw Monty's frown. “Darling, if you don't have a fever we can both go into work.”
Monty rolled his eyes, then winced at the movement. “I know what you're doing.” He scowled, but allowed Charles to sit him up so he was flopped against his chest. He hummed in contentment, and Charles was half-tempted to just let them stay there like that, with his chin resting atop Monty's head.
This plan was quickly foiled when he felt the heat emanating from him, so he lifted Monty to his feet and walked him to the bed, allowing him to arrange himself. This proved to be a bad idea when he pulled the bedsheets up to his neck.
Charles moved to pull them off slightly to give him some air, but Monty grabbed his hand and looked at him so pleadingly he let go.
“It's cold.” Monty said by way of explanation.
“Right, and you don't have a fever, hm?” Charles said, smoothing the sheets over him.
“Fever is hot, Charlie.” Monty said, words beginning to slur again as he sunk into the bed.
Charles didn't bother to respond, but he did press a quick kiss to Monty's forehead before going to seek out a thermometer.
By the time he'd returned, Monty appeared to have gone right back to sleep, bedsheets pushed away from him and tangled in his legs like there'd been a great struggle with them. He perched on the bed beside him, reaching out to brush his fingers against his cheek in an effort to soothe him.
“Charlie? I thought you'd left.” Monty murmured, eyes still shut.
“Still here.” Charles said. “Open your mouth so I can take your temperature.”
“It's hot,” he moaned, “why's it so hot?”
“Well, if you'd let me take your temperature we could find out.” Charles said gently.
Monty glared at him, but reluctantly obliged so Charles could slip the thermometer under his tongue. He shut his eyes again through the discomfort, hand reaching out to grasp Charles’ trousers, presumably for some semblance of comfort or grounding as Charles pushed hairs out of the way of his forehead absentmindedly and counted the seconds in his head.
In his mind, he was forming teasing jokes about how this was the quietest Monty had ever been, perhaps, but he didn’t say them, because a look of peace was settling onto his face through the silence between them, and Charles was loath to disrupt it.
“All done.” He murmured, taking the thermometer back out.
“That was forever.” Monty said, hand still lazily gripping Charles’ leg.
“It was only three minutes. Maybe less.” Charles said, moving his own hand to brush against Monty’s in what he hoped was a soothing move.
“Maybe more, I think.” Monty sniffed. “Felt like an age.”
“Maybe you’re just impatient.” Charles said lightly, turning the thermometer to take the reading.
“I’m sick. I’m allowed.”
Charles looked down at him with a smile, “so you admit it, do you?”
“No. Time is just… slippery right now. For no reason. And I’m very patient. Hurry up and tell me what my not-temperature is.”
“Your not-temperature?”
“Because everyone has a temperature so I can’t…” he paused, furrowing his eyebrows as if they would stimulate his brain into feeding him the right words, “I have to have a temperature but it’s a normal one so tell me what it is. Now.”
“39°.” Charles said.
“So, I can get up.” Monty said, looking very much as if he did not want to do that.
“I think we agreed if it was 39°, you’d stay here.” Charles lied, hoping through the fever Monty would have forgotten the specifics, or perhaps taking pity on him, allowing him a dignified loss- but they were quickly dashed.
“No. Higher.”
“Ok, be my guest.” Charles said, because what else could he do- standing to see if Monty would try something stupid. He was pleasantly surprised when he was just glared at again.
“You tricked me.”
“Did I?” Charles asked, with some relief.
“Into getting into bed and now I can’t get up and now I remember actually, you did say that if it was 39°, I had to stay in bed.”
“Yes, I did say that.”
“So, I’m being a good patient.” Monty concluded. “Can I have the duvet back? That thermometer must be broken, it’s freezing.”
Charles lay the sheets back over him and tucked him in, watching him shiver. “Are you going to let me take care of you now?”
“I just need to warm up then we have to go to work.” Monty said decisively through chattering teeth. If his words weren’t hard to make out before, they certainly were now.
“Alright Monty, you let me know when you're ready.” Charles said after a long moment. Usually, he'd draw up to the fight, and he'd relish in the bickering, but today he could see that any of the combat he gave back to Monty cut to his core.
Instead, they sat in silence for a while, and Charles let any vulnerability go unnoticed. Except when Monty- with some difficulty- fished his hand out from under the heavy duvet and held it out for Charles to take. He did, lightly brushing his thumb back and forth until Monty abruptly pulled his hand back and was pushing the covers off himself frantically.
“Monty-?” Charles asked, standing up to help.
“How is it so hot?” Monty asked, still shivering and turning to his side to curl in on himself, before pushing himself up in alarm. “Charles, you have to go. The mission-”
“Is fine. Everything is fine. What can I do to help you, Monty?” Charles pleaded.
“It's not fine, what if Johnny- what if something happens- we have to- we have to-” he slowed in his speech as Charles stroked the top of his head and he lowered himself back down to the bed. “You should go, Charlie.”
Something in Charles snapped, and he pulled away to stand up. “Why?” he barely registered Monty’s wide, doe-like eyes staring up at him in alarm as he spoke. “Why won't you just let me stay with you?”
“Because the mission is important!” Monty's voice rose to match Charles'.
“I know that!”
“Do you? Well, that’s obvious by the fact you’re here.”
“What was I supposed to do? You're the one who's barely spoken to me all week! If you’d just told me what was going on we wouldn’t be here!” Charles exclaimed, and he hadn’t realised how much it had affected him, clearly so much that he was now lashing out at someone who could barely leave his bed.
“I've been ill, Charles. And I have spoken to you!”
“And that means you isolate yourself? And pass out on the floor with no one knowing what’s going on?” he was trying desperately to lower his voice, really, he was, but the fear and anger that had been building since the night before had seemed to overtake all reason.
“You're being irrational, you worked it out, didn’t you? And I haven't isolated myself, I've been working.”
“Well, we're not working now-”
“Yes, and why not? The fate of the nation or- or the world is in our hands and I'm what? In bed? And you're hovering over me?”
“Hovering?” Charles said, voice wobbling. “God forbid I try to help you-”
“And I've said I don't need your help! Just- go back to work, Charles, I won't go in, I'll just do it from here. Will that make you happy?”
“You need to rest.” Charles said, slightly wretchedly now.
“I've rested all morning! I'm resting now!”
“Arguing is not resting.”
“Then go back to work.” Here he paused to sit up, lean over and cough, sounding like it was coming straight from his ribs, wracking his body. “I don't need you here and I don't want you here.”
“You're hurting yourself.” Charles said, voice finally growing softer at his command.
“I'm fine.” Monty said, although it came out somewhat more of a sob, triggering another bout of coughing.
“Easy, Monty.” Charles soothed, placing a hand on his back in an attempt to support him, but Monty pushed him off.
“I'm not a horse.” he snapped.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Charles almost wanted to laugh, but if he did he may have started weeping instead.
“I thought,” Charles began, “that this... partnership, whatever it is, was something different to what it is.”
“And what's that?” Monty asked tiredly.
“Come on, Monty, we spend every night together. God, we're half-married!”
“That doesn't mean anything.”
Charles stared at him in a stunned silence. “Okay then. Fine. Understood.”
“No, Charlie, that's not what I meant.” Monty said, hand shooting out to try and grasp Charles' wrist, but he moved out of his reach. “Charles. Please, I can't think right now, that's not what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then?” Charles said, and even he could hear the cruelty in his voice, and immediately regretted it.
“I meant...” he shut his eyes to try and formulate a response, lowering himself back down into the pillows, and Charles wished he could stay like that forever- silent and contemplative, “we can spend every night together, and practically live together, I suppose, but we don't- you don't need to see this.”
“See what? You sick?” Charles scoffed, rolling his eyes to hide his hurt.
“You don't need me to be a burden on you, Charles.” Monty said, not meeting his eyes.
“What if I want you to?”
Monty shook his head. “You don't.”
“What if I was sick?” Charles asked suddenly.
“What?”
“What if it was me who had a fever?” he said carefully.
“Well, I, that's- that's different.”
“How?”
“It just is! Stop making me think, my head hurts.”
Charles took pity on him, but didn’t let him off too lightly. “Fine, well if I don't 'need' you a burden, what do I need you to be?”
Monty paused, then frowned. “You need me for Mincemeat.”
“Is that it?”
“I don't know. I'm tired.”
“I missed you, last night.” Charles said, taking his hand again.
“What?”
“And I missed you this morning, in the office. I thought- I thought maybe you didn't want to do this anymore.”
“Of course I do. That's why I... I didn't want to scare you away.”
“By being ill?”
“Can't we talk about this when I'm not practically delirious with a fever?” Monty asked.
“But will we? I- I want to do this properly. I want to be your partner.”
“Are you not?” Monty asked snidely, but Charles could hear the insecurity beneath it.
“Of course I am. I just want you to talk to me.” Charles could see the hesitation on Monty's face.
“I'm sorry.” He murmured.
“Don't be. Now wasn't a good time for this.”
Monty nodded, exhaustion coming off him in waves. It scared Charles, how easily he flipped between semi-lucidity and being almost completely out of it- and on top of it all how struck he was that this wasn't Monty- at least not the Monty that he saw everyday.
He'd always seemed so robust, so above illness, or at least above being affected by it, even in the time they'd spent together, carefully showing the parts of themselves they usually hid away. Clearly Monty had been more careful than Charles had thought. Or maybe this was just what fevers did.
“Are you hungry? You probably need to eat, I'll go and make you some soup or something.” Charles asked, after a few moments.
But as he turned to go, Monty, glassy eyes wide and desperate, grabbed Charles' wrist and begged, “don't leave me.”
Charles took an involuntary step towards the bed. He considered his options, Monty still staring up at him, hand tightening its grip, and he caved.
“Budge up.” He sighed, sitting down to swing his legs up next to Monty.
“What are you doing?” Monty asked, looking bewildered, and Charles paused.
“Well, I was- I was going to… get into bed with you?” he said, wishing it didn’t sound quite so absurd when he said it aloud.
“Oh!” Monty said, leaning in to grasp at Charles’ shirt and tug him in. Charles took the hint.
He carefully arranged himself so Monty could lay on him, and the slightly awkward angle was worth the comforting, familiar weight of him, his arm flopped over Charles’ stomach, keeping him close.
After a few moments of peace, Monty spoke. “I'm gonna get you sick.” he slurred, head resting on Charles' chest, and Charles drew him somehow closer, wrapping his arms around him so he couldn’t slip away from him.
“I don't care.” Charles replied, pressing a kiss to his still rather warm forehead. “If you'd stayed last night, we wouldn't be making up for lost time now.” he teased lightly, but Monty frowned, taking Charles’ hand and interlocking their fingers together.
“I didn't want you to feel like you had to take care of me.” he murmured, words almost lost between the sheets.
“I want to, darling.” Charles said, hoping he'd have enough chances to repeat it that one day it might sink in that he meant it.
Monty just hummed, although Charles spotted a trace of that tiny, surprised smile gracing his face, all the while tracing slow, sweaty patterns into Charles' palm as they sunk together into a quiet, sleepy haze.
Eventually, Monty fell asleep like that, cradled in Charles' grip. Usually when he slept, he looked so peaceful, a calm washing over him that he never possessed when he was awake. Now, though, his brow was furrowed, murmuring nonsense, taking shallow breaths. For lack of anything better to do, Charles began to count them.
For a little while longer, Charles let them lie like that, and minutes or hours could have passed before he reluctantly eased himself out from under Monty and tucked him in carefully, slicking his hair back from where it was sticking to his forehead.
He snuck down the stairs, and as he shut the door, he let out a breath, tilting his head back to rest on the frame. When he was sure he couldn't hear Monty stirring, he made his way downstairs, and with every step he took, a small, silly part of himself felt like there was a piece of string tying them together, getting more and more taut the further away he got.
There was something so novel about being in Monty's kitchen alone, though. He didn't feel out of place, in fact, as he made his way around the room, there was a comfort to the familiarity of it all.
To know what kind of soup someone might find the most warming, even down to how long he might cook it before it became too soft (or 'too much like baby food' as Monty had once complained), was more intimate that Charles had expected. Everything with Monty still felt so new, and Charles felt like he'd been plunged into the deep end. He wasn't sure there was any other way to do it really, or perhaps Monty had just dragged him along and he'd let him lead.
Now, though, it felt like their roles had reversed, and Charles was attempting to tug Monty along behind him into what Charles had thought they'd had.
He was beginning to wonder if everything was a play to Monty. He'd construct sweeping narratives for the mission, and now, as Charles was learning, around himself. Had Charles become too emboldened by that? Maybe so, but it was too late now. Whatever Monty wanted seemed to be secondary to what he pretended to want, and Charles didn't quite know what to do with that.
Apart from making soup.
The broth was bubbling now, and he swirled it idly as he contemplated how exactly he'd tackle this when Monty was better, if he didn't launch straight back into his previous act, or push him away completely.
But it couldn't have all been an act. While most of the mask that Monty shoved into people's faces was about showing off, there wasn't anything to show off about them. He could hardly hang off Monty's arm as he paraded him round cocktail parties, as much as he might want to. There was a slow realisation dawning on Charles that Monty's narratives might be for himself just as much, or perhaps even more than they were for other people.
So, honestly? His relationship with Monty was one of the things he was most secure in. It hadn't ever crossed his mind that it might be Monty who needed his reassurance. He couldn't tell if it was he who needed to pay more attention, or Monty who needed to consciously let him in. Probably it was both.
He turned the heat off, and stepped back to let it cool a little. He was taking his time, somewhat deliberately, finding the deepest bowl he could, and the spoon that Monty might like the most, before he heard a thud coming from the room above, and panic spiked through him.
He began to rush as much as he could with a full bowl of boiling hot soup in his hands, and when he re-entered the room, he found Monty half-collapsed on the floor again, although thankfully he was awake this time, holding himself up by his elbows and looking mournfully at Charles like a dog who thought it had been abandoned.
Charles placed the bowl on the desk before kneeling back onto the floor to help Monty up again. “What happened now?” he sighed.
“I thought you’d left again.” Monty admitted quietly, and Charles reached out to brush what could have been a tear or a bead of sweat from his cheek.
“I can’t have been more than 20 minutes.” Charles frowned.
“It felt like longer.” Monty said, gripping Charles’ hand like he might disappear any second.
“Shall we get you back into bed? What were you doing anyway?”
“I just wanted some water.”
“Oh! Of course.” Charles went to stand, but Monty weakly tugged him back down. “Monty, I'll be right back, promise.”
“No!” Monty exclaimed. “Please don't leave, I'm fine, I'll get back into bed and I'll eat soup, whatever you want me to do, please.”
“What I want is for you to be hydrated.”
“Soup is liquid. So.”
“When was the last time you had any water, Monty?”
“How am I supposed to know that?”
Charles fixed him with a look that he hoped was unimpressed, but he suspected came across more fond than intended, and he relented. “Come on then, back to bed.”
When he was settled again, looking like a child clutching the duvet to his chin and lounging against the pillows, Charles brought the soup back over, somewhat grateful for the interaction that meant the soup was now cool enough to eat.
He dipped the spoon carefully into the bowl, ensuring it wasn’t overflowing, and delicately guided it towards Monty, who scowled, and rolled his eyes.
“Give it to me, I’m not a child, I don’t need you to feed me.”
Charles raised his eyebrows, and Monty blushed an even deeper red, pushing the duvet down carefully and sitting up clumsily, before holding his hands out to take the bowl. Charles hesitated, eyeing his trembling hands, but pressed it into them, making sure not to let go.
When metal rattled against ceramic, and liquid sloped up the sides, Monty sighed, and let go.
“Fine, you can hold the bowl, just give me the spoon.”
“I really don't mind feeding you, Monty.” Charles said as gently as he could, but Monty just winced.
“You don't need to, though.”
Charles hummed, and just passed him the spoon, which he took between shaking fingers, slowly but surely making his way towards the bowl which Charles pushed close to his chest nervously. The two of them winced when, upon reaching his destination, his hand slipped and the spoon hit the edge of the bowl with a clang.
Ever determined, Monty pressed on, gathering a tiny amount of soup with a quivering scoop, although the amount grew less the higher he lifted it as it spilled back into the bowl. He stared at it for a while, hand drooping from the exertion, and sighed, lowering the spoon to drop it back down and letting his hand fall to his side.
Charles watched him for a moment, eyes averted and fingers picking at the duvet, before silently taking the spoon and tentatively reaching it out towards Monty who, also without a word, took it into his mouth with a shudder. They continued like this for a while, until it looked as if Monty had reclaimed some shred of his dignity.
“Is it good?” Charles asked, trying not to sound too nervous.
Monty nodded. “It's nice.” He admitted. “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me.”
There was a pause, spoon hovering in the air between them, until Monty spoke again.
“I really like you, Charlie.” The words slipped out of him, and it looked like he was only dimly aware he’d actually said them.
And, because Monty was sure to forget this by tomorrow, “I really like you too.” Charles responded.
He smiled, and a glorious twinkle, one that had been missing in the time he'd been sick, returned to his eyes and Charles' heart at least was beginning to believe he'd done the right thing, if the flutter in his chest was any indication.
Monty ate the rest of the soup in silence, although there was less of a sulk about him now. He finished it with a vigour, like he hadn’t eaten in days.
“When was the last time you ate?”
“So many questions, Charlie.” Monty dismissed, settling back into the pillows, looking considerably more alert. The bewildered and distant look which had descended into his eyes that sort of made Charles want to cry was loosening its grip on him, and really Charles was just glad he looked more like himself again.
It had frightened him, really. Not because of any of the stupid reasons Monty seemed to believe, but he really had gotten used to Monty leading and him following behind. He hated that there was also a bit of joy in allowing himself to be the leader for once- it didn’t seem fair that he’d essentially taken advantage of the fact that Monty was sick.
But on the other hand, it might have done them both a bit of good, to swap their roles so to speak. Everything was still such a novelty, it was nice to be the carer for once. He thought he’d never tire from being cared for, and he hadn’t really, but it was thrilling, in a way, letting himself take charge of a situation for once.
“Why are you staring at me?” Monty asked, voice still thick with exhaustion, although there was a familiar astuteness to his expression now.
“Thank you for letting me take care of you.” Charles replied earnestly.
Monty rolled his eyes, and didn’t respond, but he did loosely take Charles’ hand in his own once more.
“Can I get you some water now?” Charles asked.
“If that’s what you desire to do most in the world, be my guest.”
“Well, it is, so I’ll be back in a moment.” He stood, and there was only a little resistance as he slipped his hand out from Monty’s.
He returned with the glass and to a soft smile gracing Monty’s face. Despite all the fever, he still managed to be astonishingly handsome, and Charles couldn’t help smiling back when he saw him.
Monty drank, again like a man who had been dying of thirst, and Charles went to refill it. He was considerably slower with this one, shakily placing it onto his bedside table half-drunk under Charles’ watchful gaze and hands hovering just in case it decided to drop.
“You can go back to work now.” Monty said reluctantly.
Charles shook his head, although he at least believed there was a semblance of choice in it now. “You asked me to stay,” he said, squeezing Monty's hand, “we can go back tomorrow if your fever is gone.”
He didn't miss Monty's small smile at 'we'.
“Do you think we'll still be us when Mincemeat is done?” he asked quietly.
And, because Charles is a romantic, “I hope so,” he replied.
There was a long pause. “It will work. And after, we’ll be the most celebrated men in England. Or, Europe!” He said, with some conviction, and Charles nodded. This line of conversation was long memorised by now, and he let himself be swept along in Monty’s reassurance, even as he seemed to be descending back into incoherence. “It has to work.”
Charles looked up at him wordlessly, eyebrows furrowed. That was a new one.
“You understand, Charles? It will work and it has to work and it will work because it has to work.” Monty had brought his fingers up to twist together, and Charles gently separated them. “Do you think it'll work?” he whispered, searching Charles' face earnestly.
And, because it was what Monty needed to hear, “yes,” he said, and it surprised him how quickly he had come to realise that he would do anything to wipe the small, serious frown that tugged at Monty's lips off his face.
It also surprised him how genuinely he believed himself when he said yes. Perhaps that was part of being the person who reassured everyone all the time. It was also a good way of convincing yourself.
Even if everything was a play to Monty, Charles was beginning to understand that it was at least partially because it mattered so much to him. He could understand the appeal of that.
Monty was drifting off into sleep again, more peaceful than before, as far as Charles could tell. The tension was seeping from his face and body, although he was still gripping Charles' hand.
When he was certain he was asleep, Charles pulled the bedcovers back and carefully climbed back into bed with Monty, all consequences be damned. He pulled him carefully into his arms, and there was no resistance, but a sigh and a hand absently grabbing at Charles’ chest.
There, they fell asleep entangled together, even though the sun was still shining through the windows.