Monty struggled within Michael's hold for thirty seconds, then a minute, until realization finally began to seep in that he was held securely. It wasn't a death hold, and Michael wasn't trying to kill him. Instead he spoke softly, gently until Monty calmed enough to want to be let go. He'd no sooner wished that than a wave of grief crashed through him, and he found himself sobbing in Michael's arms. He cried as if a lost child, as he'd cried the night his father died, as when he'd had news of his wife's death, as when first Bucky and then Steve died.
Monty cried, and shook, gripping Michael's arms long enough and hard enough that one of his hands began to fall asleep. Finally he quieted, kneeling on the mat with his arms circling his waist while Michael held him securely, and he sat even longer, regaining himself and wishing that he could at least have the dignity of feeling embarrassed about his prolonged outburst.
A part of him wished that it had been Steve who was witness to this, but the truth was that it was better that it was a relative stranger. Wiping his face, Monty sat up and sniffled. He kept his face turned away. "Thank you."