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Chapter Text

She had stormed off after yet another one of her panic attacks over a very short-noticed speech to another greedy pack of wolves, the so-called press. Or, as Malcolm had barked after her, "You can't just fuck off like that!" before going after her. 

The last few days had been particularly challenging. Yes, at DoSAC they were used to swimming through a pool of shit like it was an Olympic discipline, but the past week had also been like grenades going off every few seconds while someone tried to pull them under the surface. No amount of Rescue Remedy could calm her down, so after Malcolm had ordered her to make a speech to calm the waves, her brain had gone on full emergency mode, and had snapped. The way she always snapped. 

"Fuck this! Fuck you, Malcolm, and fuck - No!" she had exclaimed between panic attacks and had run away.

Somewhere in this building, there had to be a room without someone shouting at her; telling her how fucking incompetent she was. A room she could hide in, preferably until the next election - which, if Malcolm's words were true, might be closer than anyone thought. Except, she would be giving the bloody speech.

The room she found was a storeroom behind some vending machines, two floors down. Filled with unused chairs and desks, clutter, and just enough space that she didn't associate with a lift. 

Of course, it didn't take Malcolm long to find her. The man was like a sniffer dog on ketamine. 

A little breathless, he clicked the door shut behind him before saying, “Christ, Nic’la, did you see yourself running? You looked like a stampede of rhinos on six grams of cocaine, and twice as clueless!”

That fine insult at least partially brought her out of her tunnel of panic. "This from a man who runs like a ... penguin with his arse on fire!"

Malcolm leaned back slightly, speechless for a millisecond. She felt proud for having made an insult that he seemed to appreciate. 

“I’m not going to make that bloody speech, not if you paid me in gold bars and promised me a holiday in the Bahamas!” she said before he could command it.

"This isn't a toddlers' therapy group, Nic'la. And not Make a fucking Wish . This is Zero very Dark fucking Thirty . The only thing you can decide is whether you are Bin Laden or the TacTeam shooting you.”

Staring at him in disbelief, she wondered if Malcolm had received special online training in how to effortlessly mix pop culture and insults instead of the annual anti-corruption lessons, or if this was honestly hardwired into his Scottish DNA.

"Find Ben Swain," she said. “You couldn’t use him enough in the past to do your dirty work against me.”

"Christ, Nic'la, get your hysterics together. Blinky Pig won't get you out of your fucking responsibilities. And that is what it is, your responsibility. You need to step the fuck up and begin to shine and sparkle, darling."

"I'm a Cabinet Minister, not a fucking glitter bomb for your pleasure." Malcolm gave a snappy laugh before scowling at her. Then she added, "I can't."

Inwardly, she braced herself for another shouting fuckfest, but there must have been something in her 'I can't' that left Malcolm in no doubt that she really couldn't. He remained silent.

Which irritated her so much that she had trouble understanding why he was holding back. Gesturing at him, she hissed defensively, "Go find yourself another pawn. As if you ever cared what I did."

"That's not fucking true."

"Oh, come on. You tell me every fucking day how incompetent I am..."

"Oh, what's this now? You're whining about PTSD like you just got back from 'Nam? Give me a break."

"Acknowledgement!" she blurted out desperately. Instantly, she felt as if she had just proposed and added him as her best friend on Facebook. "Just, for a second, you could give me some appreciation."

Now that it was out there, she couldn't take it back, not even with her typical Nicola Murray stammering and babbling. But by now she was so far from caring. 

"I am not your fucking priest, Nic'la! Or your daddy padding your head and telling you how fucking wonderful everything will be. We're not making The Sound of Music, darlin'! I am here to keep you all in check. To keep you on a leash, like an oiled dominatrix, to gag you all before you open your useless mouths; nuking what we have, with a Tsar bomb bigger than fatty's arse; full of faeces. And honestly, there's not much fucking left."

The divorce with James had been progressing over the past few weeks. She hadn't slept much for a while now, living on snacks from the vending machine and rescue remedies, while Malcolm assaulted her daily about how fucking useless she was. She had tried to throw herself into work, to take her mind off the divorce. Which seemed to be the main point. After twenty years, not only would she finally be free of her useless husband, she would be one of those middle-aged divorced women with four children. She'd live the rest of her life alone because no one would ever look at her and ask her out. Not that it would have been any different with James in the house. She should have thrown him out a long time ago. Had come to that conclusion a long, long time ago. 

It was indeed her breaking point. 

"I'm going to end up like a fucking spinster," she admitted, settling into a chair behind her, sounding so defeated she must have sounded like the Germans in 1945.

"What?" Malcolm rarely sounded or looked completely confused, and Nicola had to snort at his expression. 

"Sorry, there was a whole internal monologue you didn't get." She looked at him tiredly. By now, she was so exhausted from all of this that she was ready to say whatever Malcolm wanted her to say. 

It took him a few seconds to put it all together. Of course, he knew about her divorce. It wouldn't have surprised her at all if he'd known before she'd made the decision. 

"Can ye even hear yerself?" he began, drifting into an even thicker Scottish snarl. She exhaled dejectedly. This had been a mistake. Probably one of her usual brain farts. Then he suddenly added. "It's bollocks!"

"W-what?"

Malcolm shuffled on the spot, unsure how to spin the next few sentences. "I mean, you have a questionable variety of dresses. Colour bombs that will blind yer eyes for millennia to come. But there are a... few that... suit you. Bring out yer..." he gestured up and down her body.

"'My?" She really wanted to know; feeling some inner amusement at his stalling.

"'Yer eyes! God dammit!" he blurted out, only to huff in exaggeration. "You abso-fucking-lutely have no reason to believe that no one wants to get you laid." 

"Well, that's a neat political statement for a change," she breathed in diluted joy. "Maniac Murray - against all odds - gets laid." She finished with a giggle before burying her face in her hands with a soft groan.

"I appreciate yer attempt at self-destruction, but please leave the headline spinning to me; it makes me fear for my fucking job and my sanity." They shared a small smile. "The odds are higher than ye think, Madame de Hysterics. And ye can bloody well quote me on that."

Nicola was about to laugh it off when she met his gaze. It had always been intense, but at that moment it seemed there was something else. It reminded her of the strange feeling she had had for quite some time now when she was around him. A spirit that lingered between all his bollocking and snarling. A certain sensation that ran through her when he glanced at her, while he paced between her, Ollie and Glenn; while he held his breath between one fuck and the next. 

It was best to ignore it. "Yes, thank you, Malcolm. No need to sugar coat. We both know that ship sailed ages ago. Oh, what am I saying, crashed and fucking sunk years ago."

"Nic'la... Nic's... It's not... that bad." Nicola wasn't sure if that was a compliment or damage control. "Yer surprisingly pleasant to the eyes, Nic'la, which is a bloody miracle considering your ability to convince people of your politics is a train wreck."

Bamboozled into a rather daft expression, she tried to find the deeper meaning. "If I wouldn’t know you better, I would say you are … flirting? Thought, when was the last time you flirted with a woman? It’s absolutely horrible." 

"I'm not Doctor Love, kay-"

"I always thought you usually find a few virgins to drink their blood anyway." She had watched him at several events. When he wasn't looming in the corner of a room like Vlad Dracul or attacking his Blackberry with the ferocity of a drunken hockey player, he could be quite charming with others when he wanted to be. "I, on the other hand..."

A chuckle escaped him before he became serious again. A few seconds of silence arouse between them, and when she locked eyes with him, he said, "Come here."

Nicola frowned, unsure of what he was planning. When she didn't move, he repeated his request, this time in a slightly lower tone. 

“Uhm.”

His hand waved her with an expressive twirl in front of him. 

As she followed through with his request, she found herself quickly pulled against the wall as he cornered her. His slender form pressed against hers, his face just inches from hers. 

"Malcolm," Nicola breathed, almost forgetting how. 

His steel blue eyes stared straight into her soft brown, making it impossible for her to form a coherent thought at that moment. She had been close to Malcolm before — for way different other reasons, but never this close.

"Stop wallowing in your own self-pity, Nic'la," he hissed as his hands landed on the bottom hem of her dress. His fingertips ruffled the material. "Makes me absolutely mental."

Hearing that, she almost choked, or maybe it was the feeling of his fingertips brushing up against her thighs, determinedly moving the fabric out of the way.

"Malcolm..." it slipped out with a quiver, unsure how to continue. Her knees grew weaker by the second, and she felt a pang of fear, but also another sensation beginning to settle in her stomach. 

Something she hadn't experienced in a long time.

Malcolm stopped halfway, his fingernails scratching lightly across her skin, causing her to lose her mind. A growl went through him, and his breath hitched warm against her face. There wasn't much space left between them.

"Want me to stop? Better get the words out now, Nic's because the moment my fingers are in your fucking granny knickers, no force on this earth is going to stop me from fucking you over the edge."

Christ, the man was completely unhinged, and God help her as she felt the sensation in her stomach turn to full-blown arousal at the prospect of Malcolm Tucker's long, graceful finger inside her. "No."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. Not in the way he always did, but more in a way to make sure this was done with at least a hint of consent. "Fucking hell, Minister; didn't think yer brain was that fried. Do I have to summon Beavis and Butthead for ye, so they meddle out a speech for this?"

The way he called her Minister in his deep, obscene Scottish brogue made her develop a kink for it on the spot. Still, a brief moment of doubt rippled through her. Was this a test? He was insane enough for it to be a real possibility, wasn't it? To test her credibility or something. Meeting his eyes, filled with dark lust, shut out her nervous brain. 

"It's called consent, darlin'," he rasped, his fingers circling her skin. "Would like to shove any sexual harassment accusation where the sun doesn’t bloody shine. So, could you please, for once in yer fucking life, have an opinion here?”

Fuck, she thought, was he bloody meaning this? He was. "No. I mean, don't... don't stop."

A devilish smile played across his lips, then he dipped his head and nipped at her throat, making her gasp and her hands landed on his shoulder in need to not collapse to the floor. 

The fabric of her dress was quickly tugged to her hips and his hands came shamelessly, but perfectly around her arse, squeezing gently. She was sure she could feel his hard midsection rubbing deliberately against her stomach. 

"Fuck, Nic'la." His mouth and tongue trailed up to her ear, his fingers slipping under the edge of her knickers at her arse. "Wearing fucking lace, like the naughty girl ye are."

Not that many people had the pleasure of seeing her in her underwear. Wasn't much of a chance anyway. In the morning, at home, getting dressed for another maniacal day at DoSAC. James, that useless husband, well, soon to be ex-husband, who had given her nothing but the cold shoulder for the past few years. Sometimes her children, when they discovered their incredible talent to have a fight with each other just before breakfast. Therefore, there was not much need to 'dress up', but she had some self-respect and standards left. Lace had always been her guilty pleasure, to feel not just like a useless, ministerial havocking omnishambles, or the neglected and unappreciated wife that she unfortunately was, but like a woman with wishes and desires.

"God, you're soaked," Malcolm rasped, bringing her back. Two fingers of his right hand brushed over her covered centre, making deliberate circles across the slick material. "Yer in a fucking heat, darlin’."

The touch alone made her tremble so hard, she believed she might come right then and there. Clutching his shoulders, she bent her face towards him, craving contact. 

"Easy," he murmured, and leaned forward to nip her earlobe. "I need you raw, Nic's."

She wasn't sure how to take that, but as his fingers crept under her knickers, she stopped trying to find an answer. Instead, she began to tremble like a leaf; anticipation running through her.

Malcolm seemed unperturbed as one of his fingers found her clit while the other slipped between her folds as if he had done nothing else in his life. 

In response, she tightened her embrace around his neck and let out a moan that was definitely in the shameless category, just bordering on filthy. 

In twenty years, no one but James, or herself, had touched her like that. While she had closed the door on the possibility of it ever happening again just five minutes ago, she had at least hoped to get laid in a drunken, shameful act at one of those government parties she had heard so many dirty rumours about. 

Now, however, sober, she found herself in Malcolm Tucker's arms. Something she would not have bet on if she had been waterboarded for it. 

His fingers teased her entrance perfectly, sending a wave of excitement and heat through her. Who would have thought?

"You like that, huh?" he said, after she had moaned several times into the crook of his neck. "I bet yer mentally retarded husband hasn't done that in years. Stupid fuck he is." Both his fingers slid inside her, causing her to bite her lower lip in response. Her hips jerked upwards. "No wonder, yer always so fucking tense and crazed. That tight fanny hasn't been fucked properly for a while, has it?"

She couldn't even tell how long it had been since she and James had exchanged the slightest intimate touch.

It had been an embarrassingly long time, but not that she cared at the moment.

The only thing she cared about was Malcolm's fingers slipping in and out of her in a perfect rhythm, stringing her along. 

"Like fucking yerself on my fingers, Minister?" he rumbled. His other hand had cupped her left breast, his thumb eagerly stimulating her nipple through the fabric. "I bet you've played some naughty mind games in the past. Touching yerself, imagine me licking yer craving cunt like a Bernadine on a fucking rescue mission."

With anyone else, this would have been a hideous mental image, but God, the faint prospect of Malcolm teasing her with his tongue gave her the shivers. 

His fingers pinched her hard nipple through the fabric of her blouse and bra, and she buried her teeth in Malcolm's neck. The man was playing her like a fiddle.

"I'd love to watch yer do that," he admitted between moans and hot breaths. His finger moved deep inside her. "'Would wank myself off while sitting in the naughty seat, watching, while ye moan my name. Or lick that juicy pearl of yours. Make ye beg me."

"Fuck," it escaped her. The mental image was too vivid not to feel the first ripples of a rising orgasm beginning to shake her. 

And then Malcolm stopped. Not withdrawing, but stopping. 

Irritated, she looked into his eyes. "Malcolm?" Was he having second thoughts?

Instead of doubt, she found an insane expression of lust written all over his face. As if he were ready to devour her soul and her body instantly.

"Oh, how about you start grovelling now, darlin’? Go on, I'll wait - let's see some bloody enthusiasm for once."

The seriousness in his voice, like a threat, made her tremble. It didn't help that his thumb brushed lightly over her nipple. Swallowing, she breathed, "Please."

His fingers curled just slightly inside her before he scolded; "This isn't fucking university, Nic's. I'm not yer pimple-sticky boyfriend, fiddling with your tits in the back seat of daddy's car because I'm too illiterate to know what a cunt is. I want yer to fucking beg me like yer whole fucking career depends on it! Do the fuck better."

"Please, Malcolm," she urged, finding the courage to put a hand between them, letting it brush over his cock. Which she found gloriously hard and promising in size under the fabric of his trousers. "I need you. So much. Need you to fuck me with your cock."

Maybe a bit rusty on the dirty talk. It helped that they talked dirty all day long, throwing accusations at each other in the office. 

Malcolm groaned, satisfied for a start, and started moving his fingers again. "I bet. Fuck that tight cunt of yers, I'd really enjoy that. Screw you senseless half the night. Would love to bend you over that creaking table; fill you up. But I bet Terri the terrier is already running around like a headless chicken, brain fried and frantic, hunting us down. Can't fuck this up, Nic'la.”

It wasn't often that Malcolm rambled on like that. Obviously more out of his mind than usual, and she had no doubt that he was not just teasing her with the idea of them shagging. Because if there was one person in the whole damn building who was totally committed, it was Malcolm fucking Tucker. 

Unfortunately, not only were they in this atrocious storeroom, but it was only three in the afternoon. The appointment with the press that had her in pieces earlier was in twenty minutes. She had to go. Malcolm would fucking make sure she did. No matter how fucked she was - literally.

It would be that or her beheading outside Number 10. 

In response, she rubbed his cock hard through the fabric of his Armani, making him moan and buck against her.

"Fuck Terri," she slipped out. Followed by Malcolm leaning back, looking at her with a purse of lips and eyebrows drawn dangerously close together. A flash of panic shot through her. "Metaphorically, I mean... um..."

Malcolm was clearly enjoying the little misery he was causing her with his reactions. The left corner of his mouth turned up slightly. 

"Fuck, Malcolm, could we stop talking about Terri and..."

She started to remove her hand from his cock, but Malcolm grabbed her wrist and stopped her. "And bloody what?"

Nicola grew frustrated, which added to her panic at what was about to happen in twenty minutes. "Finish what you started? Make me come? I am ... begging you," she breathed almost desperately. "I'll do anything for you, Malcolm, but please - for fuck's sake - make me come!"

For a second, Malcolm seemed unable to believe what he was being offered. Licking his lower lip, he leaned forward and whispered hoarsely, "Oh, you will, darlin’! Because tonight yer going to do exactly as yer told." He attacked her neck again with his mouth; his fingers now scissoring her cunt with wild abandon. 

Nicola felt her orgasm building again and found her arms wrapped around his neck once more, afraid she wouldn't be able to get through. "Anything you want." Why the hell was she so fucking weak when it came to him? 

Because, let's face it, she always had been. 

"That sweet cunt of yers needs some more fucking attention, Nic's. You're going to give it to yerself tonight. I want you to fondle yerself, pet. Imagine my hard cock inside yer. Yeah?"

The image made her buck her hip against his hand, riding herself to the needed release that loomed close by. She hummed in agreement, half-stunned, unable to say a word. 

Hot flashes pulsed through her as Malcolm rubbed her swollen nub hard.

"I need you to call Nic's; need you to let me listen." She felt Malcolm's finger hold back just a little when she didn't dare answer. “Come on, pet, no weaselling out of it.”

The man would be able to convince her to commit political suicide if that was what it took, she thought, rasping, "I'll call you. Please - don't stop, Malcolm! Please don't. I-"

His thumb brushed hard against her nub, and Nicola's climax washed over her like a storm she knew was coming, but which had often only been a disappointment. This time, however, it was like a full force of nature. Led by the grand doctor of spin, Malcolm Tucker. Or, as he would probably call it, the grand doctor of fucking pleasure.

In an attempt to silence her orgasmic moans of his name, she buried her face in Malcolm's chest, shuddering hard against his lean body. All while, stars were whirling in her head and eyes, and mounds of warmth and joy were rushing through her, about to pull the rug out from under her feet. 

“That’s it,” Malcolm's hoarse voice whispered. “Fucking beautiful, Nic’s.”

As the daze of her orgasmic storm began to settle, she found herself clinging to him for dear life. She was sure it must look pathetic, but Malcolm held her tightly. One hand firmly around her hip, the other slowly withdrawing from her knickers. He wasn't rushing, it seemed. And Nicola wasn't rushing to get away from him. 

The Lord of Doom had just given her the best orgasm she had had in a decade, what better never made it to the tabloids. Though, the fact that this could not simply be erased between them was already dawning in the distance of her brain. 

"Nic'la," he ordered, at least quietly, to attention. "You need to pull yourself together, darling. In 15 minutes you've got to charm those press vultures for me. It's a big fucking day for you, remember?"

Did she remember? Hell, wasn't that the reason for her panic attack that had sent her into the storeroom? Fuck, the press! 

Sensing her tension, Malcolm gripped her hips tightly, forcing her to look at him. "Nic'la! Calm the fuck down."

Her eyes widened, her post-nut-clarity setting in. “Is that why—”

He put the thumb that had caressed her nipple earlier to her mouth, silencing her. "Jesus fucking Mary Sue. Didn't I just tell you to calm down? What do you think of me? Do you really think I go around fondling the dicks, balls and tits of every feral cabinet minister? I had to rent myself out, at a glory hole, and make a fortune, if that'd be my motivation.”

She swallowed at his euphemism and watched as he pushed down the hem of her dress before licking the fingers of his other hand clean of her scent. He didn't make it easy for her.

"You own me, Nic'la, and not because my cock is fucking about to burst, but because you are a servant of this bloody country, this party." She couldn't help but look down at him. "Oy! Listen to me! It's very fucking important that you make this announcement in two or three coherent sentences without looking like a chipmunk on speed or accidentally announcing a fucking war with North Korea. Yeah?"

"Okay, I... I will," she stuttered, and started to nod. "I so will."

With a gentle smile, Malcolm brushed against her cheek and then around her dress. "Good girl. Check your hair before you go, you look like a hen that fucked the electric fence." 

With that, he gently led her to the door, where she turned and looked at him. "You're not coming?"

He gave her that typical Malcolm Tucker face, indicating that once again he doubted her ability to ever understand. "Give me another five minutes, Nic'la. I've got to will my third leg away here before I can be representable. You can do without me for five bloody minutes, can't you?"

"Yes, yes," she said, shaking slightly. “Of course. Sorry, Malcolm, sorry—”

He was with her in a second and a large stride, grabbing her arm to twist her back against his slender body, rumbling in a baritone so deep it went straight to her stomach, "Don't you dare apologise for this! There is no need. Okay?"

"I... I won't."

"Good," he gave her a lascivious grin and squeezed her bum for a moment. "Now go, ask Ollie and Glenn to hold your hand until I meet you downstairs. Metaphorically!"

As the door closed behind her, she considered that it had all been a dream, but the slick feeling between her legs told her otherwise. Taking a few breaths, she walked back upstairs, with a diversion via the ladies checking her hair, make-up and all. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." A million thoughts were about to crash down on her. 

Gladly, there was no time left as — for once luckily — Terri burst in, just as Malcolm had prophesied, ushering her out the ladies into her office, where Ollie and Glenn immediately threw words at her that she had no idea what they meant. And before she could think twice about what had happened, they dragged her down to the main entrance, where the press was waiting. 

It happened more or less in a blur. She made the statement, exactly as Malcolm had told her, and came back inside. Only when she was back in her office did she blink out of her delirium.

"Good," Malcolm's voice echoed across the room. 

With wide eyes, she took him in. Had he been downstairs? She couldn't tell. Only that he looked the same. His suit was a little more rumpled on closer inspection, but no one would notice. 

"You actually strung two fucking sentences together without collapsing into a mess. That's like witnessing a bloody miracle - once in a lifetime, if I'm lucky."

Nicola looked at the floor, more ashamed than she should have been, and then at his face. "Don't make me look competent, Malcolm. Would ruin both of our reputation."

He heaved a fake laugh and glanced between her and the other three. "'Kay. You fec-boy!" He pointed at Ollie. "Stop pondering your feeble existence; check the websites! Glenn! Deranged knucklehead of glacial thought - double-check whatever half-baked thing he's doing, then double-check it again because God knows you're all still screwing it up!" Malcolm didn't even pause to catch his breath as he turned to Terri. "Terri! What the hell is your fucking job anyway? Because from where I'm standing, you're just sucking up all the fucking air!"

"I'm -"

"I didn't fucking ask for an explanation! Get your tiny feet and those eye cancer-causing trainers moving, chop chop, and at least pretend to be earning your fucking pay cheque for once."

All three guzzled into action, leaving Malcolm and Nicola alone. 

"And you!" he roared, raising his hand to point a long, threatening finger at her. The same finger that- "You'll call me. Ten o'clock sharp - and God help you if you're a second late because the consequences will be unimaginable. Got that? Don't make me spell it out for you -" his tongue flicked briefly between his teeth and against his upper lip - "we both know you couldn't take that quietly."

The sudden colour in her face must have looked hilarious against the colour of her dress. Nicola couldn't help but notice a lingering gleam in his eyes. That the promise of consequences wasn't as dangerous as usual, but would get her into even more exciting trouble, but still trouble. She could already sense that the phone call would be one to remember. 

By the time she had nodded briefly, Malcolm was already out the door, spewing lava and insults at whoever was on the other end of the Blackberry. 

Chapter Text

For the third time, Nicola checked that her phone was charged as she lay on her bed, staring alternately at the ceiling, the phone and the bedroom door. After the usual rituals and struggles of getting the children to bed, she had retreated to her bedroom, locking it. Just in case. 

Glancing at the phone's clock, she saw it was a minute past ten. Immediately she remembered Malcolm's warning not to be late. With a long sigh and trembling hands, she pressed the button to speed dial Malcolm's number. For some reason, her heart did a slight tumble when the phone started to dial.

It only rang twice before he answered. "Nic'la! Yer two minutes late." He sounded joyful. "Only."

"Malcolm." Pushing away the feeling of dread, she reminded herself that Malcolm was only on the phone. "I was having a bath, okay."

"A bath?" he drew out the words with a certain curiosity. "Well, it's always good to have a wash. Where are you now?"

"M-my bedroom." Where else would she be? Heck, why did it already feel indecent?

"I bet you've got a bed the size of a bloody king's throne, dripping with enough decadence to make a bloody sultan blush," he teased in a very casual sounding voice over the line.

"Yeah, and I bet you've got a bunk made of barbed wire." That had sounded better in her head, but Malcolm chuckled softly. 

"You know how it is, sleeping with the wolves. A bit of hay and some raw meat, all I need these days." At least he appreciated the rumours about him. 

Nicola had to laugh, wondering how often he saw the inside of his house, since she didn't see much of hers most of the time. 

"What are ye wearing?" he asked, and Nicola felt herself blush. Straight to the point. As always.

"Um..." Startled, she peered down at herself. "Thong and a ridiculously expensive push-up that makes my tits fall out."

There was a moment of silence in which she feared she had done something wrong, then Malcolm snorted with laughter.

"What?" she asked. Annoyed in a way.

"You're a bloody liar, Nic'la. Plain and simple!" It didn't sound disappointed, and she had to laugh at herself when she heard it. "This isn't your fucking thing. Is it?"

"Fine," she admitted. "A shirt three sizes too big and the most comfortable shorts I own. Better?"

"Yeah, that's the eroticism I'd like to see on you, to be honest," he said lowly. His voice sent a chill through her. "Bet you wear socks too."

"No!" she protested quickly, wiggling her socked feet and swiftly kicking them off with the toes of the other. "What... what are you wearing?"

"Leather chest harness and a 12-inch strap on." It came without the slightest hesitation.

"I dwell between fascination and disgust," she chuckled. "I thought you only owned suits and a smug snugly jumper."

"Oy, Nic's," he protested. "Don't call my snugly jumper smug."

For a second, she was on the verge of making a joke about Smug and Glum, but decided against it. "It won't happen again, I promise," she relented. 

"What do you think I should wear?" he asked her instead.

She was torn between a boastful answer and being rendered completely dumbfounded. "Um... I don't know." She felt frustrated with herself. "Shit, Malcolm. As long as you're not wearing a tutu, I don't give a shit what you're wearing."

"Damn Nic'la, you've never done this before, have you?" 

"Telephone sex?" she tried to come up with an answer to show how fucking versatile she was with telephone sex. "I mean, I know how to use a... a phone. Fuck, truth be told, I've never done it."

Malcolm chuckled forgivingly. "Well, there's a first time for everything." 

"On the other hand," she mused. "It wouldn't be the first time I've been fucked and bollocked by you over the phone, would it?" She was surprised at her courage to say that in that context, but it was her Murray brain that got lost in the situation. 

"Which neither of us got off from." There was a deep vibration in Malcolm's voice that reminded her of their meeting a few hours ago, when his fingers had been buried deep inside her. 

"Malcolm..." Not that she would be able to resist him, but there was still some doubt and uncertainty about his overall intention. Had he done this before? It felt like it. "Perhaps I am not the right person for this."

"Nic'la," he spoke quietly, and when had Malcolm ever spoken quietly? "Listen. There is no need to be prudish. We're not going to do anything you don't want. It's a fucking phone, you can hang up anytime."

She calculated if she could actually find the strength to do that. Which was about minus ten.  "Have you ever done this before? Oh, what am I asking?" she babbled. "I bet you have."

"Every Thursday. With Balaclava Reeder and Peek A Boo Glenn. It's a wank fest circle." A smile crossed her lips as she heard that, and she had the feeling he was smiling too. "You'd be a nice change of routine."

Their back and forth had calmed her, and in a dash of megalomania she asked, "Why? Why me?"

"Because I can still smell you on my fingers, and it makes me want to go down on you." Nicola's toes curled as she felt a warm tingle between her legs. "Would you like that?"

"I'm not sure if this falls under normal interactions with colleagues, and -"

"Nic'la!"

"I-I would like that, yes," she finally admitted, silently hoping that the line was even secure. The uproar it would cause if it ever made it to the Sun could never be spun away by Malcolm.

"Good girl," he rasped, and she could hear his slightly ragged breathing. "When was the last time a man went down on you?"

"I... I don't want to say." Years, Nicola, fucking eons! "It would be far too rude to tell."

"This from the woman who suggested the massive bum-dildo of vengeance."

She sniggered at the memory, especially because it was the one time he had called her ‘my girl’ for the first time. "Yeah, that was a good one. Still, I won't tell you."

"Got to respect a fierce woman with a secret,” he said in a voice so uncharacteristic of Malcolm, filled with gentle admiration, encouragement and something Nicolas wanted to call longing. "But would you?"

"Let you…?" she felt ridiculous. "Right now? If you were here? Would you even accept a no?"

"You know I fucking wouldn't," he rasped, and Nicola knew she'd always be safe with him, but the thought of him overstepping made her whole body shudder. "I'd bend you over your kitchen counter, and I fucking bet it's just the perfect high to have you moaning my name. Mark your neck with my teeth."

With a gasp, Nicola touched her throat and neck, the memory of his kisses and nips from just hours before suddenly flaring up again.

"First, I'd take your knickers off, and don't think for a second you'll ever get them back."

Nicola swallowed at the prospect. 

"Kiss my way up the inside of yer thighs. Nip yer flesh with my teeth; scratch yer arse with my fingernails." Nicola closed her eyes. Letting Malcolm's voice seduce her into unsteady imagery of shameless acts. "Have ye any idea what yer doing to me when ye fucking waltz around in one of those dresses that are just a tad too tight around that lovely arse of yers?"

How anyone could find her backside lovely in those stuffy dresses Malcolm had insisted on because the others 'gave him fucking tinnitus' was beyond her, but at that moment she couldn't have appreciated it more. 

"Bet you'd look nice in a black dress, no sleeves, a wide cut out in the back and a split all the way to your hip bone." 

She had to admit that this was not only very specific, but also something she would never have thought of wearing. Perhaps at one of these cocktail parties, not only far away from Downing Street, but with Malcolm by her side. Maybe then she'd find the courage to wear such a dress. Instead of answering, she let out an appreciative hum.

"Wouldn't last a second by yer side without getting hard. And God help anyone who stares at ye for too long."

Oh, she could vividly imagine him glaring and growling at the others in the room, threatening to gouge out their eyes at a moment's notice. And the next, cut out their filthy tongues with a spoon. That would be Malcolm Tucker territory, for sure.

"But that's a story for another day," he grunted. "Do ye remember how it felt? My fingers inside ye?"

Nicola shifted slightly with her hip. If she remembered? God, she would probably never forget it and feed on it for many nights to come. 

"I can," she said unsteadily.

"And ye enjoyed it, didn't ye?" he breathed, sounding attractively rough to her.

"I... I think, you know, I did," she whispered, feeling her body react; it was buzzing softly.

"Fucking wet ye were; deliciously ready," he murmured. "Are ye now?" Her throat tightened, a strange shame running through her - Malcolm caught it. "No need to be shy all of a sudden, sweetheart. This isn't a fuckin’ election interview - ye know that. Spit it out, Nic's, make me lose my head for fucking once!"

Was he touching himself? She could only muse because asking was out of the question. Or maybe he would tell her at some point, maybe that was the point of it all. The implications, the certain uncertainties, spicing everything up. The 'not seeing the obvious'? In the end, he also could only guess at her reaction to his game.

"I am," it escaped her in a whisper, afraid that one of her children might hear her. The dampness between her legs, a hot mess.

"Would love to lick you clean, Nic's. Tease yer fanny. Very, very slowly, till I make ye scream my name."

Another shudder went through her, and she had to cross one leg over the other. "Malcolm—" was she going to stop him or keep going? Fuck her life.

"I want to bury my tongue inside ye," he continued, laying out his plan. "Listen to yer moans. Yer breathing. Hold ye while ye come."

God, the best part - or was it the worst part - was that she could picture it vividly. Malcolm Tucker between her legs, holding her close. Her hands buried deep in his grey locks, gently nudging him to the right spot. Those exquisite grey curls she wished he would grow out just half an inch more. She had spent an ungodly amount of time in her office daydreaming about his curls and staring at him when he had once again barged into her office without knocking to insult her. 

Gosh, truth be told, she wanted him. All of him. She wanted Malcolm so badly that it actually hurt physically. 

This was a foolish idea to give into, and whatever Malcolm’s reasons were, she had to think about herself. 

Rolling onto her side, she gasped and then came to her senses. "No, Malcolm!"

There was a brief silence, and she had to check to see if there was still a connection when he began speaking.

"Why not?" He didn't sound demanding or disappointed. Which was something she would have been able to tell immediately, having had to deal with his outbursts on a daily basis for a long year. No, if she wasn't completely deranged, she dared say he sounded … desperate.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why shouldn't I?" he asked.

"Because..." She felt lost. “It’s me.” James hadn’t looked at her in years, nobody had. Why Malcolm?

"So, fucking what, Nic'la? Ye think I’m completely thick or just playing at being an idiot?  Ye think I did what I did today because it was part of a …. a back-up plan? Nic'la Murray goes nuclear, so Malcolm gets horny to save the day? How about ye bring a bit of brains and some fucking respect to this conversation?"

"Stop it!" She shouted, knowing that if she didn't, he would go on an endless tirade. "What am I supposed to think? For a year, you've shredded me every day like I'm some pathetic... guppy, and you're the bloody shark circling for the kill. And now... this! Whatever this is."

Instead of a quick reply, there was an uncharacteristic silence from Malcolm. Nicola could only hear him breathing. Had she rendered him speechless for once?

"Malcolm?" Deep down, she was afraid that he would hang up and that this would end forever without explanation and remain an untouchable secret between them. 

"You called me—" He was clearly in the defence.

"Because you basically ordered me." She wouldn’t let him get away with it.

Malcolm gave a sigh. "What the hell do you want me to do now?"

There it dawned on Nicola that he seemed as clueless as she was. But while she had never been good at hiding her insecurities and uncertainties, Malcolm was basically the Roger Federer of avoiding any personal expression and emotion.

She had no idea what to say. Because she would only say the wrong things, but to hell with it! Still, it was quite a leap to say, "You could come over.” To do what? Talk? Don’t be daft, Nicola.

Malcolm groaned loudly, hesitated and groaned again. He was probably rubbing his face, trying to work out what to say next. "Nic'la, I hate to break it to ye, but ye have four fucking kids and I doubt this will do at this fuckin’ moment."

Shit . He was right, and she was being an idiot about it all again. "Yeah. The kids-"

"Another time, though," he cut her off quickly. 

Something easily promised over the phone without ever meaning it, but there was a tone in his voice that betrayed it as truth. Malcolm Tucker's truth, and Nicola was aware that to many people it was not a truth that he could be held accountable for, but between him and her it was true. Another time wouldn't be tomorrow or next week, even next year the chances were slim, but Nicola knew it would be. One day.

"I ruined it, didn't I?" she said, forcing a laugh, trying to find her way back into the conversation. "That phone sex thing."

On the other end of the line, Malcolm let out a hoarse laugh and said, "Ah, don't worry. For the first time, ye were close to fucking spectacular."

“You’re a liar, Malcolm,” she said, but had to laugh anyway.

“And you are selling yerself too low,” was his response. 

She thought about it. Yes, he was right, but many women probably did sell themselves low, plus he was good with people. At least in his perfidy way, he was, and he knew her. All of her. 

“Still, I left you hanging.”

“And since when is that something new, Nic’s?” he teased.

“Oh, fuck you, Tucker.”

“Maybe you should,” he rasped without delay. 

Damn you, and then damn you even more, she thought, trying to convince her that every second more with him on the phone would only lead to a headache no rescue remedy would be able to soothe. “I am going to hang up on you now.”

"Why? Things were finally starting to get fucking interesting."

“You are aware you could give paracetamol a headache, right?”

Malcolm began to laugh heartily. “Minister!”

Oh, fuck. “Good night, Malcolm.”

“Good night, Nic’la. Looking forward to seeing you again soon.” His voice was teasing, but also very calm and soft. 

It wasn’t easy for her, but after a few seconds she was able to end the call. Pressing the phone against her chest, she gave a soft sigh. What had she got herself into?

Chapter Text

After a long day somewhere on the English plains promoting one of Tom's ridiculous "shine on crime // prevent it when you see it" messages - and let's face it, even Nicola had decided it was utter rubbish - things hadn't gone as planned.

In the morning, Malcolm had basically kidnapped her from her own home to do the job. She was just about to step out of her driveway into the wilderness to get to DoSAC when Malcolm had rolled up in the car with Elvis and was bollocking her to get in. 

Short-notice change of day. He'd fill her in on the way. 

"It's an idiotic phrase of utter bullshit, which means it's idiot bulletproof," Malcolm had ranted as she tried to get the cup of coffee he'd brought her into her system. And when had Malcolm ever brought her coffee? 

"Idiot," he had snarled, pointing at her, then at the papers in his lap, and continued, "Idiot phrase. Idiot bulletproof."

Whatever had happened between them before, it hadn't dampened his enthusiasm to bollock her in all his Tuckeresque beauty. 

With a sigh, Nicola said, "You have no idea how much I envy the people who haven't met you, Malcolm."

Snatching the cup of coffee from her hand, he replaced it with the papers. "Read this! And I mean ingest it into the fucking neutrons of your omnishambles brain." 

He sipped straight from her cup, where her lipstick had been transferred, she noticed. Then he handed it back to her to fumble for the blackberry in his pocket. 

By the time they had arrived in a town that was basically just a sprinkling of a few houses, she had managed to memorise the speech as well as she could. Malcolm seemed satisfied after going over the script with her three times, and then pushed her in front of the crowd with his usual encouraging manner. 

"Now get out there and stop looking like ye can't tie yer damn shoelaces."

After the announcement, a short Q&A session and a few interviews, the plan was to head straight back to London. 

Instead, the car had broken down. Major, as Elvis had put it, and repairing it for the day was out of the question. All the trains for the day had left too, and the only logical consequence was to either hitch-hike back to London or stay in a hotel for the night. 

The hotel it was because Nicola really "had to get those fucking shoes off, or I'm going to kill someone!"

Malcolm had given her a pitiful look and was about to comment when she pointed at him and threatened: "I swear to God, Malcolm, one more word and I will dissect you on the spot. Don't get in the way of a woman with an empty stomach and sore feet."

"Jesus fucking Christ, Nic'la, how on earth can you never be so ferocious when it comes to yer job?" Without another word, he handed her a Snickers he had got from somewhere only he knew, then pulled out his phone to call Ollie. "Get me a fucking car here by tomorrow morning, you unfrosted Weetabix!" 

After getting two rooms in a not too shabby hotel, Malcolm had followed her up to her room while throwing more shit at Ollie on the phone. 

"How's the view?" Nicola heard Ollie ask smugly over the line, in a way that suggested the man was pissing happy rainbows because Malcolm was stuck in this place for a night instead of London. Gave them all a breather from getting fucked all the time. "Why don't you go out and about, and get some souvenirs, Malc?"

" Go squat on a cactus, Ollie." If anyone was capable of pulling Ollie through the line to strangle him, it was clearly Malcolm. "This place is like fucking Mordor. And you know what they say about Mordor?"

Nicola, who had placed her few belongings on one side of the bed to finally sit down for the first time in a very long time, grinned to herself as she watched Malcolm pacing around her room. 

"I... what do they say about Mordor?" Ollie asked exhaustedly over the phone.

"Christ, you are so stupid, your two brain cells are fighting for 3rd place. Where have ye been the last few years? In a fucking basement wanking yer brains out to Pamala fucking Anderson's tits? Tomorrow, eight o'clock, there will be a car in front of the hotel, or I'll make ye run naked down Piccadilly, while ye spank yerself with both your bollocks on a stick, got it?"

"There will be a car," Ollie assured. "Nicola?"

"Kicked her out into the street to sleep in the chicken shed," Malcolm quipped, earning an irritated look from Nicola. But Malcolm seemed to skilfully ignore her.

"We were all wondering whether she had fucked up or not," Ollie pointed out, and Nicola raised her eyebrows. Thanks for the respect. Not that she expected anything less from those three clowns. 

"We set the bar so low it was a tripping hazard in hell; she surprisingly managed it," he growled, adding, "must be the fucking scenery or the fact she wasn't surrounded by you clowns for once."

At least they were on the same page as far as Ollie, Glenn and Terri were concerned, Nicola thought, pulling herself out of her blazer before deciding it wasn't worth putting up a pretence and dropping her back into the mattress, kicking off her shoes at the same time. It was certainly more comfortable than driving back to London. One night away from the madhouse that was DoSAC might not be so bad. 

She closed her eyes for a second and listened to Malcolm's voice, insulting Ollie for a bit longer, before he suddenly announced, "Listen, brain-dead, I know you don't have a clue about anything, but there's a stunning brunette on my bed and I have urgent matters to, shall we say, attend to in person."

Nicola's head snapped up, eyes wide open now, only to see Malcolm hang up on Ollie. His gaze was so fixed on her now that a wave of heat and anticipation not only ran through her, it crashed through her.

This was probably the moment to say something. Instead, she stared at him like a fucking deer blinded by an atomic bomb. She only raised herself up on her elbows to get a better view of the situation as she watched him take off his coat and throw it over the armchair in the corner of the room.

"How about ye do us both a fucking favour and get that skirt off before I lose the will to live?"

Nicola gulped, perfectly able to understand what he had said and meant, but as she watched him take off his jacket as well, she froze. Unable to react. Mesmerised by his words, his shuffling around the room, and even more by the look he gave her when she still hadn't moved. 

"Before I lose my bloody patience, Nic'la?" he rasped, tilting his head slightly. A hint of a smile on his lips. 

There was no need to ask him 'why', for the way he moved his eyes over her; the way they had had that one phone call, there was not even a grain of doubt left in Nicola's muddled brain as to why he wanted her out of her skirt. 

Malcolm let out a soft but intense breath and added, "I can rip it off myself, if..."

"Yes-No!" she exclaimed, finally able to speak. 

Her hand fumbled with the zip at her back, and she thanked the designer and her ability that this was a task she could accomplish without making a fool of herself. The piece landed on the floor, and with it Malcolm tugged at his tie, loosening it without taking it off. Then he dropped to his knees in front of her, both hands clasping her ankles.

Gasping for breath, Nicola continued to stare at him. The man looked absolutely worn out and exhausted, but in a way so determined and willful that Nicola was almost ready to fall in love with the sight for the rest of her life.

The warm touch of his gangly, determined fingers, tightening gently around her ankle, made her gasp. "Malcolm..." 

How many times had she said his name in the last few days in a way that would get her banned from any decent establishment?

With no ability to comment or even fully comprehend what was happening, she watched as his fingers trailed upwards over her stockings, held in place by clips on her thighs.

"Fuck Nic'la," he breathed, his voice vibrating heavily with his Scottish brogue, "stockings and lace. Probably the sexiest thing I've seen in a decade."

Then he lowered his head to nip the inside of her thigh with a soft hum, while his fingers curled around her arse, pulling her centre closer to his face.

Oh, my God. Nicola's mind went into overdrive as Malcolm wasted no time in teasing her. As soon as he had pulled her towards him, he shoved her legs over his shoulder and pressed his nose and face into her knickers-covered centre.

The contact sent a heavy sensation through her body, forcing Nicola to hum enthusiastically.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this." He breathed hotly against the edge of the fabric that separated his mouth from her most sensitive area. 

Her hands gripped the blanket she was lying on as she bit her lower lip to stifle a loud moan. 

Malcolm was obviously prepared to use her to his liking; to let her enjoy the show without expecting anything in return, but being Nicola 'I overthink the most useless shit' Murray, her brain went from flight mode to DEFCON 1 in no time. When had she last shaved? Two days ago? Or three? Not to mention she'd been running around all day down there sweating, wouldn't that-

Malcolm's hands gripped her hips tightly, emerging just slightly from the delta of her legs, and growled, "I'm not even fucking kiddin', Nic'la. Shove that brain of yers back into the bottomless pit where ye usually leave it. Or, I can't guarantee anything, darlin' - except maybe a bloody disaster of getting utterly fucked by me."

To underline his words, he pushed her knickers aside and brushed his mouth over her clit in one languid motion. With that, all her doubts were swept away. Sinking her head back into the pillows, Nicola decided it would be best to enjoy whatever he was about to do to her.

And whatever was exactly as he had told her on the phone five days ago. Lips and tongue wandering around her clit and folds. A gentle suck here, a playful lick there. Soon joined by two of his fingers, sliding between her folds and into her cunt, massaging in a steady rhythm, forcing her to buck her hips against him, moaning and panting over her lips. 

"Fucking tasty, love," he murmured between licks. "Don't ye dare hold back, let me hear ye fucking sing for me."

Malcolm's tongue played skilfully between her folds as his fingers gently fucked her closer to release, eliciting moan after moan from her. Both of her hands had come to rest on his head, her fingers tangling in his short grey locks, not just to make contact, but to guide him to that one spot that would drive her completely out of her mind. It was just as she had imagined. 

When he brushed his thumb over her clit to reinforce his tongue, Nicola screamed so loudly she was sure it was heard in Downing Street. Her grip on his hair was so tight for a second that Malcolm grunted loudly, but not let go for a split second. 

"Right there," she exhaled in ecstasy, feeling the first tense swells of her climax radiate through her. She was now completely engulfed in Malcolm's wonderful act and couldn't care less about any noise or consequences. "So, good..."

"Come for me, pet," Malcolm murmured, his licking and sucking now intense. 

Nicole wriggled under his action in a mixture of wanting this to last forever and the urgent need to come. "Fuck, Malcolm, I..."

With Malcolm's tongue flicking against her clit and his hand fucking her relentlessly, Nicola's climax hit her like a wrecking ball. The knot in her stomach loosened, and the spiralling sensation of falling raced through her so hard she saw stars for a second. Unable to stop her body from moaning loudly or arching so hard that she thought Malcolm was performing some strange sexual exorcism, she grabbed his hair with one hand and the sheet with the other.

Unimpressed, Malcolm sucked and licked her through her orgasm, moaning softly at her reaction. As the beautiful feeling of bliss became almost too much to handle, Nicola almost had to restrain Malcolm from touching her by closing her legs to stop him.

The life knocked out of her, Nicola lay there for a moment, catching her breath and listening to her heart slowly returning to a normal rhythm. Had that really just happened?

Opening her eyes, she dared to look at the end of her bed. Malcolm, still kneeling but with his upper body on the bed, rested exhausted beside her legs. One hand rested on her thigh, caressing it absently, while his head rested in his other arm. The only thing she could see of him were his curls. His body moved gently with deep breaths. 

"Malcolm?" 

Hearing his name startled him into motion and he lifted his head slightly, allowing Nicole to see his eyes peering at her from beneath the frame of his dishevelled hair. For a few seconds, his eyes darted left and right, back and forth, then he came more upright, stuttering. 

"Um."

Nicola could see the confusion on his face, feeding her own. "Mal..."

"No! I..." Slipping backwards, he landed on his butt and stared at the situation in front of him. The one he had created. His hair wasn't the only thing in disarray, but his shirt, his tie, and she could see his mouth, swollen from the act and wet from salvia and her wetness. Her wetness!

Oh, fuck! Awkwardly, Nicola shifted on the bed, quickly pulling the blanket over her lower body and coming more upright.

"Right," he began, struggling back to his feet, where he swayed several times on the spot, she'd think he was drunk. Both hands brushed over his face and hair, finishing the gesture by glancing at his watch. "It's late."

"Damn it, Malcolm, what-"

"I said it's late, yeah," he snapped, but immediately realised he was wrong. "What I mean... it's been a long day. We'll talk... another time."

Without waiting for a reaction, he picked up his jacket and coat and zigzagged across the room, all under Nicola's worried gaze.

She knew he couldn't be stopped, so there was no point in making him talk to her. Overwhelmed by the situation and his behaviour, she watched him walk to the door. But before he opened it, he stopped and turned to her with a quizzical and worried look on his face.

"Are you all right?" he asked. " Like... I mean..."

"I'm okay, Malcolm."

"Yer sure?"

They both knew that even if she wasn't, it wouldn't change anything. They were both too exhausted and irritated to have this discussion now without ending it like a Shakespearean drama, so Nicola nodded and Malcolm did the same.

As the door clicked back into the lock, Nicola took a deep breath and then fell back onto her back, staring at the ceiling with nothing but white noise in her head. 

How the hell had they gotten into this, and how could they ever get out? Nicola had no fucking idea. At the moment, it was more likely that she'd be Prime Minister by ten tomorrow than that she and Malcolm would have a grown-up conversation about the last few days.

And with that realisation, Nicola decided to take a long, hot shower and then go straight to sleep.

Chapter Text

Mojito Murray. Yes, the name didn't come from nowhere. She was no fool, but to be honest, a well-served mojito was her thing, and considering how bad of an alcoholic some of the other MPs were, this little weakness was essentially nothing. It wasn't like she was going around knocking back mojitos left and right all day long - but once in a quarter or half a year, she liked to have one. Because why the hell not!

The occasion this time was one of those party get-togethers after one of those ministerial retreats where they spent the weekend brainstorming one shitty idea after another. Trying to look competent, when in fact they were wasting more air than a child factory somewhere in the ditches of Bangladesh. 

The weekend with these fuckers had been absolutely awful. At one point Nicola had wished she was in a Russian labour camp instead, but as Malcolm had put it at one point: "You're being paid for this sham, so fucking act like it! Show some vigour, with that useless skin of yours.”

At the end of the day, not even Malcolm could keep her spirits up, no matter what insults he hurled at her - or the others. The fact that her mind was swirling around what had happened between them lately didn't help. 

On the first morning, he had joined her at the breakfast table, somewhat unexpectedly, and they had gotten into an enjoyable banter about some of the other partakers in this weekend from hell. By the second, Nicola had gathered enough courage to hint at what had happened between them, Malcolm's mood had changed, and his attention had shifted to his Blackberry. A few more insults later, he had decided he needed to be somewhere else. 

“Listen, nice talking to you, but I fear if I don't get going, I need to bomb the place down with napalm, to destroy any evidence left of sheer fuckable incompetence, when I don't bollock Pearson into the next millennium.” And off he'd gone. 

A typical Malcolm Tucker diversionary tactic. What he didn't want to hear or see was skilfully ignored and, if necessary, flattened with a barrage of insults. 

Perhaps it was this reaction that led Nicola to the hotel bar on their last evening and to ask for a mojito. Unacceptably overpriced, it was, but bloody delicious. Or it was the blatant fact that Malcolm had decided to spend the entire evening charming a journalist - one of the few allowed to attend the party. She hoped this particular NDA was bulletproof. 

The woman had legs up to her chin, not to mention blonde hair Rapunzel would have killed for, and judging by Malcolm's velociraptor laughing noises, the girl was funny too. Observing all this made Nicola want to puke. 

After the first mojito had been absorbed into her system, she warned herself that it would probably be enough, but as she looked around the room, she decided to give a fuck about her good intentions. About 40 people oozing testosterone and arrogance, laughing fake and not shy about saying that the world had been waiting for them, made Nicola doubt the entire western civilised world. Nothing a second Mojito would change, but it was certainly easier to bear. 

The second mojito and a cheap glass of white wine later, she decided that she had just the right blood/alcohol ratio in her veins to call it quits. She was squiffed, but not wasted. At least that was her perception. 

Without looking back, she left the room and dragged herself up the stairs. Where she spent a minute wondering why the bloody door on her floor didn't open when she pushed against it. Then she realised that she had to press her room card against a sensor.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she cursed as she fished for the card in her purse. "Does every bloody thing have to be an impossible challenge these days?"

As soon as the sensor pinged the card, she slammed the door to the fourth floor open, catching her reflection in the glass. Tired, she looked at herself and a surge of self-pity ran through her. Two mojitos, a glass of wine and an evening spent loathing her life and Malcolm Tucker in particular. "It's like the summit of Mount Shit just before it erupts." 

Rubbing her face for a moment, she finally managed to get past the door and staggered down the floor to her room. As she passed the two lifts she had avoided, one opened to reveal none other than Malcolm.

"Oh, look, it's Lindsay fucking Lohan," he cheered in his Tucker-esque sarcastic drawl, seizing her up with his eyes. "How many bloody mojitos did you knock back this time? Didn't I tell you to keep your hands off that crap? You'll smell like a fucking air freshener, and next thing you know you'll be tearing the hotel room apart like a full-blown lunatic."

Nicola faked a polite laugh. "How's that Fanta-induced diabetes treating you? Still gobbling sugar like it's a bloody race?"

Glancing into the lift and down the corridor, she noticed - not unhappily - that he didn't have the girl, who was also easily half his age, in tow. 

Catching her eye, Malcolm arched an eyebrow. "Expecting company?"

She could swear there was an unfamiliar note of... jealousy in the sound of his voice. 

"What's the matter? Afraid I'll find a better spin doctor?" She laughed smugly before heading for her door. "Don't worry, I can't imagine it would break your stone-cold heart."

Malcolm had followed her, taking out his key card as well.

"How much of that piss shit cheap wine have you had? Gives you the aura of a hollowed out corpse, pet," he snapped, holding the card up to the door in front of him and unlocking it. 

How the hell had she not noticed all weekend that he was accommodated in the room opposite hers? Instead of answering, she stared at him with all the frustration she had bottled up over the past few days. 

Malcolm scoffed, "What? You don't really expect me to tuck you into bed, do you? What's next, I'm going to sing you a fucking lullaby?"

Torn between going to his room and Nicola, who was still staring at him, Malcolm gave a frustrated sigh and walked over to her. He snatched the card out of her hand and opened the door for her. 

"Just, ... for the love of God, get some fucking beauty sleep, Nic'la."

When she didn't take the card from his hand, he grabbed hers and shoved the plastic into her fingers. 

Only when he didn't move, and the heat of his fingers kept burning on her skin, did she look down to find his long fingers still curled around hers. He seemed almost distraught when she turned back to look into his eyes.

Another low growl from him, and he retreated quickly to his door, hissing under his breath. "Fuck."

There was an attempt to slam his door shut with force, but this being a bloody upper-class hotel, all doors were fitted with bumpers and silencers, and his attack ended with a soft click. 

Duped, Nicola felt the alcohol in her veins produce not only disappointment but also a good deal of anger. As she did so, she noticed that Malcolm's door wasn't completely closed, but slightly ajar. Her rage was followed by courage and a hint of unbridled insanity. 

Letting her door click shut again, Nicola slipped the card back into her handbag and stepped up to Malcolm's door. One last quick glance down the corridor in both directions, then she pushed the door open with her shoulder.

The room was no different from her own. A small corridor with a wardrobe leading to the main room with the queen size bed. The bed was made and Malcolm's suit jacket lay on top of it. He himself was nowhere to be seen. 

The sound of running water from the bathroom made Nicola freeze. If she turned around now, he'd never know she'd followed. Had it not been for that cheap glass of wine, she probably would have, but anger and frustration were boiling too hot in her chest.

By the time she heard the tap being turned off and him opening the door, it was too late anyway. 

 Shuffling out of the bathroom, it took Malcolm a second to realise that she was there. When he did, he froze, staring at her with his eyes wide open. He couldn't believe his eyes - or his overworked brain. 

Tie loose, shirt sleeves rolled up, hair slightly dishevelled. She thought he looked utterly wasted from work, but goddamn, so beautiful at the same time.

The moment only lasted a second.

"'The fuck Nic'la!" he exclaimed, coming to the realisation that she wasn't just an illusion. And launched into a eulogy of insults. "What the hell yer doing in my room? Pissing me off? Want to redecorate?"

The man was anger on two legs, and she was so fed up with it. "Oh, for fuck's sake, Malcolm. Shut the fuck up for once!"

For a brief moment, he leaned back slightly, as if the bullet she had fired had hit him on the edge of his 'built out of insults' armour. 

"You've had one too many drinks, pet!" he croaked, stepping up to her. "Come on, let me drag you to your room before you embarrass yourself any further. We'll keep this between ye and me."

Winding her arm out of his hand, Nicola raised a threatening finger. "No, Malcolm! Don't act like I'm drunk and delusional. I am not!"

"Yer fucking insane, is what it is!" he sneered. "What are ye going to do, anyway? Manhandle me? You can't even handle giving a coherent three sentence statement sometimes."

Nicola's hand was already clenching into a fist, and he probably deserved something like that, but instead she did what felt right. What felt like it would make a much bigger impression on him than a proper slap on the chin. In silence and without movement, she stared at him with a look that she knew could sometimes intimidate more than just her children. It was a look she could pull out of her hat once or twice a year, and this time it was reserved for Malcolm.

A look that could mean anything. And Malcolm was smart enough to sense it.

His breath caught in his throat for a moment, but then he reached out for her arm, about to steer her towards the door and barked, "All right, that's it! You've just officially certified yerself as a complete fucking maniac, pet." 

But Nicola was drunk enough to dodge his attempt. "Stop calling me pet, Malcolm! Have you got some kind of fucking twisted animal fetish you're working out here, or is this just your usual brand of madness? Whatever it is, you're not doing it to me!"

She wasn't just answering an insult with an insult, she was dead serious, and the way Malcolm stopped in place and glared at her told her he was well aware he was treading on very thin ice. 

"Fine, just calm the fuck down. I don't want your aneurysms blasting all over me. That be a fucking mess; the poor house cleaner rubbing the shit out of the carpet--"

This would and could go on forever. Back and forth, but Nicola knew neither of them would survive it. She couldn't let him get away with it, not after what had happened.

Biting her lower lip in anger, a narrow frown forming on her forehead, she stepped up to him. "You know what?"

"I'd rather gouge my eyes out-"

"Fuck. You. Literally, because two can play that game." It was a quick shove with her hands, and Malcolm tumbled back onto the bed, unable to stop himself from landing on his arse. The  cushion of the mattress made him wobble like a bobblehead for a second. 

"No! What?"

There was no chance left for Malcolm. Before he could do anything, Nicola was on her knees, her hands fumbling with the zip of his trousers.

"Fuck! Nic's," he gasped more than growled, and for a second, she figured this was wrong. Taking advantage, blah, blah, but that thought only lasted until her hands felt Malcolm being hard under the fabric of his Armani. Not just half hard, but rock hard, which he had probably been for a few moments. 

She couldn't help but let her hand run across the fabric and cup him in it. It still felt as exciting as when they had been in the cupboard at DoSAC. 

Malcolm moaned as she felt him. Ready to surrender, but unable to give in just yet. "What yer doing?"

Their eyes met and Nicola stopped her motion. "I'm on my fucking knees. What do you think I am doing?" she teased. "I'm about to show my appreciation, idiot."

Eyes wide with shock and unable to do or say anything, Malcolm almost forgot to breathe.

"How about you stop staring at me like a 16-year-old who has seen a woman's tits for the first time, Malcolm." To underline her request, she squeezed his cock once more. "Fucking hell, Malcolm, consent goes both ways."

It was the barest of nods, but Nicola had her consent. The fly was unzipped, and the fabric was quickly pushed aside to reveal a pair of dark blue boxers with a nicely cut fly. His thick cock was prominently displayed beneath the fabric, a wet spot of pre-cum at the top. 

Fuck, Nicola thought, it had been a while since she had been on her knees for one of these. The last blowjob she had given was to James, many moons ago, as a kind of naughty birthday present. Which had been more of a chore. This felt different, though. Not only was Malcolm's cock clearly humming with excitement, but so was her body. Warmth and shivers of hot and cold raced down her limps and spine. The scent of sweat and cum tickled her nose, threatening to take her out of touch with reality. 

Rubbing her face against his erection, she heard Malcolm humming sharply. He didn't move much, any objections taken into nowhere land, and something told Nicola that this was the moment she could do whatever she wanted to him. 

His cock fit perfectly in the palm of her hand, she thought as she removed his underwear. Her gentle stroking, down to the base, was accompanied by a deep sigh of satisfaction. 

"Oh, God," he murmured. It spurred Nicola on.

His skin was smooth against her flat tongue; the taste of him tingling in a mix of sweet and sour on her lips. Shuffling forward, she pushed his legs further apart and then, in one seemingly effortless motion, took him all in. So far, her gag reflex kicked in, but she quickly adjusted, not ready to embarrass herself yet.

Malcolm writhed beneath her, and when she dug her left hand into his side under his shirt, his hand clawed around hers, as if he needed support. "Nic'la..."

"Shhh!" she murmured between licks, letting her fingernails scratch his stomach at the same time. "Let me be a good girl, Malcolm."

Where did that come from? A massive loser at telephone sex, but when it came to sucking cock, there seemed to be some undiscovered talent. She really needed to explore that further, it crossed her mind, only to be embarrassed by her own silent thoughts. Explore? With Malcolm? 

His hand on her head saved her from spiralling out of control and pulled her back into the now. Not only did she want this like air, but so did Malcolm. His chest rose hard and fast as his hands tangled with her head. A gentle nudge, a little encouragement, punctuated by a whimper and a moan. Swirling her tongue around his cock as she sucked it up and down, she seemed to hit a nerve as Malcolm suddenly bucked with a loud gasp. Nicola felt like a bloody sex goddess.

"Oh God, that's so good," he whispered, his voice lacking oxygen. "Such a good girl."

Nicola fell into a steady rhythm of sucking, licking and squeezing his shaft and balls with her hand. It was messy, wild, and she'd better check her hair before she left later, but it was oh so glorious. 

She could feel the muscles in his stomach tighten, just as his breathing became harsher and louder - Malcolm was about to come. 

"Nic's," he warned, but Nicola just sucked harder and deeper. 

"Come for me, Malcolm!" she ordered softly. The pre-cum was already pouring into her mouth.

With a loud moan, Malcolm arched his back. The sensation of his climax rippled through him, forcing his hand to grasp Nicolas' shoulder in wild abandon. 

It was out of the question for her not to take it all, every last drop. And when he finally came down from his high, her mouth had kissed him clean. 

They were both exhausted and taken by the action. Malcolm just lay there, one arm over his face, the other still tangled in Nicola's hair. Nicola rested her head on his leg, one hand absently tucking his cock back into his boxers. Their breathing, the only sound in the room.

It was content until it wasn't, and reality seeped back into both of them. Nicola gave a shaky breath before staggering back to her feet and staring down at Malcolm, who was still catching his breath and heart rate.

Shit. Fuck. Shit-fuck. It wasn't as if she'd thought any of this through, but she certainly hadn't thought about how she was going to deal with the immediate aftermath of having just given Malcolm Tucker a gratuitous blowjob. Ten minutes ago, that would have been out of the question, even in her wildest dreams. 

Eventually, Malcolm removed his arms and opened his eyes. He stared at the ceiling and then his head snapped up, staring at Nicola with wide open eyes as if she had just announced that he had impregnated her with triplets. 

No, she couldn't crumble now. She had come here with intent; with the fury of someone who had been used far too much - mostly in a political sense, but still.

Shooting up into a sitting position, Malcolm quickly grabbed the blanket and threw it over his lower self. Nicola knew he was three breaths away from jumping back into his dark lord persona.

Warningly, she raised a finger. "Don't you dare say anything!"

"Nic'la," it fell from his lips anyway.

"I'm not kidding, Malcolm," she said sharply, "oh, before I forget." Under Malcolm's shocked expression, she hiked up her skirt. Just high enough that she could pull her underwear down without looking like a complete moron. "Since you didn't live up to your own ideas... Here!"

Her knickers landed on his chest without him reacting. The man was stunned into being flummoxed by what she had done, Nicola was sure he thought he had taken a trip on acid.

Grabbing her purse from the sideboard, she made her way out of his room and straight into hers. 

Her back landed on the edge of her bed, where she stared into oblivion for a few minutes. The alcohol in her system had mostly evaporated from what she had done, leaving room for her clear mind to scold her for having fucked up colossally. "Fuck."

Yes, at that moment Nicola was sure that this was either going to be a funny story over a five o'clock tea one day, or the beginning of her personal downfall. Nothing in between. 

Chapter Text

Malcolm settled into his chair and desk, exhausted. The day had been a semi-catastrophic fuckfest, but at least DoSAC had managed to get through the day without making the aneurysm lingering in his brain grow another centimetre. Truth be told, he hadn't spoken to any of the brainless Muppets. Instead, he had spent the day with Tom and the Department of Health, who were in favour of an NHS strike that would fuck over the government's competence big time.

He fumbled his Blackberry out of his pocket and checked the call log. No, no calls. Not even Nicola had tried to reach him, which wasn't really a surprise, but still gave him a distinctly unfamiliar feeling. DoSAC not burning like fucking Rome wasn't something that happened very regularly. 

Letting the cursor hover over Nicola's number and his thumb over the call button for a second, he decided to call Ollie instead. 

"Malcolm?" Ollie didn't sound nervous, but surprised.

"Okay, straight to the point, no lube necessary," Malcolm began. "What did you guys screw up today?"

There was a moment of silence before Ollie replied, "Nothing, absolutely nothing."

"Nothing?" He couldn't believe it, but he would have heard if they had. So, for once, he tended to believe Ollie. "How is that even possible? You all usually have fucked up from Congo to Kremlin before your first cup of coffee."

"I know!" Why the fuck did Ollie sound proud? "We had a meeting in the morning, and then we all did some necessary paperwork."

"Paperwork? Are you taking the piss out of me?  I'm warning you. These days, you can order castrations over the internet. I'll have your balls on a tray in twenty minutes if I want to."

"I'm not shitting you, Malcolm," Ollie began to sound panicked. "Nicola spent all day sorting through some laws that needed reading. She came in at eight, left at five. Went for a wee four times, and asked Terrie to bring her lunch. That's it."

"You're counting how often the woman goes to the toilet? Have you ever considered therapy, you pervert? Because honestly, you're one step away from needing a fucking intervention." How Ollie had managed to find his way into DoSAC without getting beheaded or tripping down a flight of stairs was a mystery to Malcolm, but heck, the pussy was useful sometimes.

"You ordered me to watch her!" Ollie defended. "Threatened to cut my balls off—once more—if I didn't."

Malcolm rolled his eyes, angling for another insult, but found himself too tired. Ollie wasn't worth it. "So you're telling me Nic'la actually did her fucking job today?"

"She's not actually stupid, Malcolm, as long as you don't shove a camera or a microphone in her face." Malcolm knew that Ollie's opinion was like erectile dysfunction. One moment it was there, the next it was gone. "Look, why don't you call her yourself? I really have to go."

Had the fucker just hung up? He definitely needed to rain more and harder shit down on him next time, but for the moment, Malcolm just let out a strained groan. 

Call Nicola. He stared at the screen for a few moments, then just tossed the Blackberry down on his desk. It wasn't that he didn't want to call her, but... there were things that needed to be said to Nicola, and they wouldn't come out well over the phone. 

It was time to do something about the mess they - he - had manoeuvred them into.

"Sam!" he called, but there was no answer. He had sent Sam home two hours ago. The woman was worth her weight in gold, and he had to make sure she had a few evenings off. Otherwise, he would end up without one of the most capable assistants he ever had. It seemed he would have to call himself a cab. 

Grabbing his coat, he marched out of his office and down to the street to hail a cabby. Within seconds, a car stopped for him, and he dropped into the back seat.

“Where ya going?” the driver asked.

Fuck, this was a stupid idea, Malcolm thought. Like Olympic level of stupidity, but here he was, knowing if he didn’t put this right again, he’d be as useless as a screen door on a submarine for the rest of his personal life. So he gave the driver Nicola's address. 

Nicola was ready to end the evening with a second glass of the fancy red wine a friend had given her for her birthday. The kids were out, she had an evening to herself, and during the day the job had been surprisingly ... easy. Not easy, but nobody trying to fuck her over. Not a single person, not even Malcolm. 

Malcolm. 

Suddenly, without any desire to empty the glass of wine, she shoved it out of her way, before sinking deeper into her sofa. There was no denying it. She had been miserable for some time now. Since that hotel stay with Malcolm, giving him—

Anyway. 

God, what she would give for a decent-sized Mojito. Ignoring the fact that it was a Mojito that had gotten her into all this mess in the first place. But had it? She knew the trouble had started long before that.

After flicking through the telly, she had got stuck on 'One Day'. It was advertised as "following two friends over two decades, exploring love, missed opportunities and tragedy". And after ten minutes, she thought getting drunk would be a better way to torture herself, only to find that her ambition to feel miserable outweighed her ability to actually get miserable. 

Right now, Malcolm had only one effect on her—beside being absent—that she couldn’t think straight what his damn problem with her was. 

About to fall to the side and stare into oblivion, hoping she simply wouldn’t wake up the next day, Nicola heard a heavy knock on the door. She decided to ignore it, but the knocking continued.

Obviously, the powers that be, weren't going to let her die in misery just this once. 

"For fuck's sake," she cursed under her breath and scurried to the door. "It's eleven fucking o'clock. The godforsaken neighbourhoods be better up in flames, or I might just set it alight myself.”

Ripping open the door, she was stripped of all emotion to find Malcolm standing outside. Funnily enough, the man seemed as surprised as she was. As if he had got the wrong door. 

He'd asked the driver to drop him down the street, not wanting to alert anyone or anything to the fact that he was going to Nicola Murray's private home at eleven o'clock at night. The chances of him being followed were slim, but the nagging possibility and paranoia that some sleazy photographer might be following him had long since corrupted his brain. 

The wind grew cold, and he considered three times just turning around and not doing what he was about to do. Not that he had any idea what he was about to do.

When he spotted her house and the car in front of it, he saw that there was still light inside. Whether that was a relief or stressed him the fuck out, he couldn't decide, as his hand was already knocking on the door. Since she was probably not expecting company, he decided to keep knocking like a madman. 

Then the light in the floor came on and the door opened. Malcolm's brain short-circuited, and he couldn't even form a simple 'good evening'. No, instead he was sure he'd look like a fucking sleep-deprived corps, fighting raccoons for the good trash and nothing else. 

"Malcolm!" Nicola's voice was instantly distressed because, of course, there was never a good reason why he, of all people, would turn up on her doorstep. "Oh fuck, what is it? Has Tom fucking resigned? Is it Maniac Mannion?"

At least one brain was working, he thought. It helped to quick-start his own. "Robert Palmer ordered on fucking Wish? I'm sure he couldn't overthrow a bloody deck chair, let alone the government." 

As she was about to keep asking what was going on, Malcolm raised his hand to reassure her. "Everything's under control - as long as you're not there, yeah?" 

His eyes couldn't help looking down. He hadn't expected her to be wearing heels at home, but what was clinging to her feet was far from ordinary slippers. 

"Goodness, Nic'la, what's that? Did ye kill a buffalo or somethin'?"

Nicola groaned in annoyance. "These are UGG boots, Malcolm. They are amazingly warm and super comfy, you should get some for yourself. Might help with your anger issues."

"I don't have anger issues!" he protested, eyeing the boots once more. They did look comfy, though, and very endearing on Nicola.

"You fucking do," Nicola folded her arms in front of her, leaving no room for discussion. "Since the government isn't in shambles, what do you fucking want, Malcolm?"

Well, that was a question he could barely answer himself. And now her? At that moment, he understood what he was when it came to Nicola. Not good, not bad, but fucking mediocre. Nicola was doing this to him, without even knowing it, and he hated every bit of it. And yet, he was here. "Can I... come in?"

"Why?"

"Why not?" he asked instead.

"Because when I see you, I feel like playing Russian Roulette in single player mode." It came so swiftly and wittily that they were both surprised. "Why?"

Malcolm huffed in annoyance. Why did this woman always ask questions when she shouldn't and not when she had to? 

"Because there's a fucking draught and I want to critique the interior of your house, like a fucking Gordon Ramsay for Ikea," he rambled, leaning on the door frame with one hand.

"Fuck off, Malcolm!" Nicola hissed and punched him in the chest with her fist. Just above his solar plexus. Not hard enough to be serious, but enough to make him gasp for air and bend slightly.

"That's fucking assault." Malcolm rubbed his chest.

"That's me being nice," Nicola said, glaring at him, but she didn't slam the door in his face. A victory, perhaps.

When the hell had Nicola become so bloody feisty and strong-willed? He turned around, instinctively looking for the press or some other shabby figure, knowing he had to tone himself down when he wanted to get inside. "A conversation, Nic'la, I want a simple conversation."

She considered him for a few seconds, checking the background as well, and decided that whatever Malcolm was here for, it was best discussed inside. Wordlessly, she stepped aside and let him enter. 

That was a win. He had never been inside her house before, only in the driveway. Looking around the entrance hall, he saw a few of her familiar coats and plenty of shoes and children's toys. A certain chaos that came with the challenge of raising four brats alone. He had a strong suspicion that her children were away, but he wanted to be sure, so he asked, "The children?"

"Katie and Ella are at a sleepover with friends," she said warmly, but also with a certain relief. "Rosie and Ben are with their grandparents."

"Good," he murmured, following her into the kitchen, where the gentle chaos continued. The fridge door was filled with photos and drawings of the Murray kids, on the kitchen counter were various papers, notes, keys, a charger cable and off to the side was Nicola's purse. 

When she reached the central counter, she turned quickly and made a grim face. "Well?"

This woman was going to be the death of him, one way or another, it crossed his mind, and yet here he was. Charmed by a woman in fucking UGG boots. Speechless. Mediocre. 

"Listen," he started, but he couldn't find the courage. At this point, his mind went straight to the gutter and instead of answering, he gave her a half-deprived smile.

And Nicola was the first to understand, for no one understood Malcolm Tucker like Nicola Murray. She held up a hand and warned, "Don't!"

Malcolm could be an unstoppable force. Even for himself. "Ni'cs."

He grabbed the wrist of the hand holding the counter and pulled it gently towards him. Her stern expression was slowly chiselled away. 

"Malcolm..." Nicola struggled to breathe, much to Malcolm's delight. "Listen, I don't... we... you."

"Yes, you and me," he whispered, now holding her against the counter and against his body. He put her hand on his hip and caressed her face with his hands. Brushing his thumb across her lips, he leaned down to plant a kiss on her neck. 

"Let's make the most of this opportunity while yer children aren't around to ruin it. What do ye think?"

Feeling her body melt into his, he reached around her, grabbing her arse and intensifying the nips at her neck. Mediocre. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't fucking help himself.

"Malcolm..." Nicola whispered sensually, gripping the lapels of his black cashmere coat. Whatever his mind told him, his groin told him he had her almost where he wanted her.

Then the grip of his coat changed to something else, something more aggressive. Something very dangerous. 

Pushing him away from her, punctuated by another blow to his chest that sent Malcolm stumbling backwards into the fridge, Nicola screamed, "I can't believe this! How dare you come into my house just because you're desperate for another wank? Have you completely lost your fucking mind?"

"No! I mean..."

She grabbed his arm firmly and shoved him out of the kitchen. "Get out of my fucking kitchen, Malcolm, out of my fucking house, and best of all, out of my fucking life! Go fuck one of the interns at the Daily Mail if you need it so badly."

By the time she had dragged him to the door, Malcolm was struggling to formulate a suitable apology. He had underestimated her - well, this was Nicola Murray, wasn't it?

"Nicola, listen to me—” He used his long arms to wedge himself into the narrow space between the wall and the door frame— "I'm sorry, okay?"

"Sorry? You? When have you ever been sorry, Malcolm? All you ever do is spout insults, plot government coups, and give a shit about the people around you. Do you realise that nobody fucking likes you?"

"And this from a woman in hideous fucking UGG wellies."

"Boots, Malcolm, they're fucking boots, not wellies. How did you ever know the difference between fucking Armani and Primark, you illiterate himbo?"

Malcolm gave her his best 'what the fuck did you just say' face, which was a wavering frown between his eyes, a purse of his lips and a tilt of his head. "Himbo?"

"It's the male equivalent of Bim-"

"I fucking know what a Himbo is, Nic'la," he snarled, his hand still clinging to the walls like an octopus.

"Malcolm?"

"Yeah?"

"Go and apologise to the tree that makes the air that you are wasting. And then go. Fuck yerself," she growled back, imitating a Scottish accent.

"That's a fucking atrocious impression of an accent."

"Yeah, I bet William Wallace and Stephen Rea are rolling over in their graves," she said wearily. 

"Stephen—" how the hell did this woman get to be a minister? "Stephen Rea is bloody Irish, old as dinosaur shit, but far from dead."

"Good for him." She pushed against him again. "Now piss off!" 

He couldn't keep his balance and had to let go of the walls. Nicola was able to push him out of the door, throwing the same in his face. He was lucky it didn't break his nose. 

That went well. The bar was on the floor, but somehow Malcolm had managed to bring a shovel. 

"Nic'la!" He could see her leaning against the door through the frosted glass. "I'm sorry!" He pressed his face against the glass, trying to see more than shadows, which was a hopeless endeavour. At least she hadn't moved away from the door. 

He had to fix this, whatever this was. 

"I'm going to start singing The Proclaimers if you don't open the door again. I will!" What the fuck was wrong with him? There better not be any journalists around. "Oh..kay, um, let me fucking google the lyrics real quick."

He heard Nicola gasp in frustration on the other side before she turned and flung the door open again. Malcolm Tucker was worse than any teenager in her household at that moment. 

His phone in his hand, he gave her a rueful look. "God, I'm fucking relieved you opened the door. My singing would've probably triggered a full-blown crisis in the neighbourhood."

"Would you?" she asked instead, ignoring everything else. Her eyes burned into him. 

"W-would I what?"

"Walk 500 miles for me?" This wasn't a joke any more, it was a serious question; he could tell by her expression. 

"How do you think I got here?" Which wasn't an answer she wanted to hear as she started to close the door. "W-wait wait!" 

He hadn't listened to the song in ages, but occasionally Jamie would email him a mind-boggling long rant about all the fucking useless remixes he found on YouTube. 

"Yes, I would. And I ... I want to be the man who wakes up next to you."

And that, ladies and gentlemen, just popped up out of fucking thin air for both of them.

"What?" Nicola stared at him while Malcolm stared back at her. Neither of them could muster an appropriate insult as they usually did. "Malcolm—"

"I do," he said, and it was unmistakable, the most sincere thing he had said in 53 years. 

Nicola was sure that her IQ and her ability to react had temporarily dropped to room temperature. In Celsius. "Okay."

"Okay?"

Gathering her thoughts, Nicola let out a soft breath and then swung the door back open for him. Malcolm entered without a word, just a grateful nod to her. He knew that if he screwed up again, she'd be done with him for good. 

Entering her kitchen again, he slipped off his coat and found a free spot on the counter to set it down, then turned to wait for Nicola, who took her time to join him. 

As she passed him, she went straight to the fridge and pulled out two cans of Fanta, placing one in front of him with a clank. He hadn't expected this. 

"Don't read too much into it. My kids fucking love that shit, so..."

"Of course," he said, opening it to take a sip. 

Looking at her over the edge of the can, he figured it was on him now. Nicola would stand there and listen, and when she had, she would pass judgement. 

He placed the can on the counter and let his eyes wander through the gentle chaos he had witnessed earlier. Both hands on the counter, his body facing her, he nodded.

"I was married once, did you know that?" he began. Seeing a slight frown forming, she obviously wasn't, but she decided not to say anything about it. "I was 31 when I met her. She picked me up at one of Jamie's parties. Well, I used to tell people I picked her up, but ... yeah ... she was smart and beautiful and kept me fucking in check. And I fucking loved her, but I also loved my job and ah... to make a long story short, I fucked it up massively. Not coming home because the fucking government was always on fire. And after countless such occasions, when I came home one night, she was gone. Because she had married me and not the bloody government. So that was it."

He hadn't told anyone about this, not even Sam, who he trusted the most. Jamie knew, of course, but he'd threatened him one night that if he ever breathed a word about it to anyone, even him, he'd skin him alive. So that was it. 

"I loved her, but I wasn't able to change anything, or to understand that a marriage should be more important than work, at least most of the time."

There he fell into silence, drinking his Fanta absently. 

Nicola shifted on the spot, unsure how to take it all in. "What was her name?"

Malcolm took a moment to process her question. "Erin. She remarried, has two children. She sends me postcards for Christmas and my birthday. We are doing well. She's happy."

"And you?" Nicole decided to get involved. “Have you been happy ever since?”

"I'm pretty damn happy when I rip Ollie a second arsehole," he admitted with a grin. "But that's probably not what you wanted to know."

Nicola laughed. "No, but I understand why it makes you happy."

Malcolm turned the can between his fingers and thought about her question. "It's not like I've been walking around suicidal for almost 20 years, but... I've chosen not to have relationships because I don't want to hurt people," he admitted, only to quickly add, "at least not that way."

And they both chuckled at that, in a kind of shared sick humour. 

Nicola considered him, the things they had done together and against each other over the last few weeks. Malcolm would never have come to her if it hadn't been important to him. He would never have told her the story of his life that wasn't yet finished. "Malcolm?"

With a long sigh, he put the empty can down and walked over to her. Just close enough to stand on the edge of her personal space. His eyes fixed on her with that mixture of predation and genuine affection. 

Nicola felt herself shiver, but stayed where she was, holding his gaze. Then Malcolm's arm rose, and a hand reached out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 

"And then I met this girl, you know. Her fashion sense is pretty questionable." Malcolm glanced down at her shoes, smirking for a second. "But, hell, she knocked me off my feet."

His hand fell back to his side. His eyes blinked at her. He had said everything he wanted to say. It was up to Nicola now. 

"But," she began, looking down for a second, trying to find the words, "you've done nothing but berate me."

"Because I don't want to hurt you."

That was probably the most toxic shit she had ever heard, but yes, she was also a little taken with him. Their jobs were relentless, and if she ever hoped to find a good guy in the snake pit she worked in, she was an even more hopeless idiot than Malcolm occasionally made her believe.

"When I had that panic attack—"

“I should have never done, what I did there, but damn Nicola, you do make me go mental! In a good way."

This is like 'One Day', she thought, or potentially 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest', it crossed her mind. "I tried to kiss you there, but you wouldn't let me." 

He nodded, guilt written all over his face. "If I had let you, I would have fallen for you like a bitch-boy," Malcolm said, laughing softly. "Truth is, Nic's, I'd die to kiss you right now."

She couldn't tell if it was suddenly cold or hot, or if her brain was about to melt. "Um. Why don't you? Nothing against a bitch-boy."

Malcolm chuckled, almost too endearingly. "You don't understand. If I do, I won't be able to stop."

"Oh, okay, well then... don't then?"

"I don't mean for tonight. I mean ... forever."

Now the puzzle fell into place for her. Malcolm Tucker wasn't a man for maybe, or for one night, or for mediocrity. "So it's all or nothing?"

"I never said it would be easy, but I want you to know that—"

"Shut up, Malcolm," she said, stepping up to him. "You just told me you'd try forever with me."

"Basically."

Her hands landed on his chest. "Damn it, Malcolm, you better kiss me right now, or I'll have to give you a bollocking from here to Covent Garden."

"Give me a bollocking?" he was ready to retreat into his usual Malcolm. "That's not going to—”

"Malcolm!"

It was mad. Everything was. That he had made a move on her, in that bloody broom cupboard, and when he thought about it long enough, it had been madness to make her Minister of DoSAC. It had been madness to come here, but looking at her, he knew he wanted to be nowhere else. 

"Malcolm?" Had she overdone it, put him on the spot too much? "We..."

"No," he whispered, and then he was at her. 

He dipped his head, reached for her face, and did what he had wanted to do all along. Kiss her with all his strength and power. Lips on lips, they stood there for a few seconds before Malcolm adjusted his hands and body. Slipping his arms around her, Nicola held on to his neck and found herself propped up on the kitchen counter. Their kiss broke for only a second before Malcolm came back in. More passionately this time. Nicola gave in to him without hesitation, grabbing one lapel of his jacket, her other hand at the back of his neck. It felt right, and it felt so necessary. 

Soon she was pushing his jacket off his shoulders, as Malcolm was nothing short of assaulting her throat with nips and licks, working the buttons of her blouse at the same time. Then he pulled away, staring at her with passion in his eyes and swollen lips.

"W-What?" Nicola feared he was having doubts.

Malcolm's eyes darted around her and the counter with a mixture of confusion and realisation. "I can't fucking believe it. That damn counter has truly the right fucking high.”

Nicola grinned at him, grabbed his chin and said in her best sultry voice, "Well, why don't you make good use of it?"

He was about to lean in again when he pulled back. "No."

"No?"

"I'm not going to fuck you on the kitchen counter," he rasped, only to add, "at least not now. Do you have a bedroom?"

"No, I don't," Nicola quipped deadpan. "Just a cryopot for hibernation." 

Making a face of admiration, Malcolm pulled her away from the counter and into another kiss. "You've been around me too bloody much. Bedroom!"

Together, they stumbled through the corridor and up the stairs. Shedding part of their clothing here and there. Malcolm's tie landed somewhere on the stairs, joined by Nicola's blouse. They literally fell through the door of her bedroom, just so hitting the bed. 

His hands worked eagerly at the clasp of her bra, and it was then that Nicola's doubts and insecurities exploded into her brain as if an unexpected election had been called.

"Malcolm!" Her hands tried to distract him from his mission. "I... um... listen..." it had been years with another man and probably a few pounds too, "I..."

Malcolm stopped and reached for her face. "Fucking Christ, Nic'la, if you think I care one fucking bit about your stretch marks or a few 5 grams too many on your hips, you really deserve a bollocking. What do you think I am?"

She stared at him like someone whose brain had been stolen. Instead of answering, she just swallowed, taking him in. 

"Look at me, I am like a grey-haired stick insect. So far, I can say that you don't give a damn about that either, so could we put our insecurities behind us for an hour and..."

"And?"

"And just get on with it, love?"

With the sweetest smile, she leaned forward and pulled him into a sweet and lazy kiss. Their hands roamed over their bodies, in need for contact. Finally touching their skin without fear, without hurry and with the certainty, they had finally come to a match.

Yet, as she unzipped his trousers, Malcolm stopped her hand. "Wait a second."

Nicola couldn't hold back and gave an exaggerated sigh. "Come on, Malcolm, we're not bloody writing the Magna Carta here! Stop pausing every five minutes like we were plotting world peace!"

"Shut up, just..." he tried to form the question in his daze, "do I have to adopt the fucking kids too?"

"What?" For a second, she had forgotten that she had children at all. "Um, I... not necessarily right away, I guess." She shrugged helplessly.

Malcolm tilted his head. "Cool, works for me." And put his arms around her again. 

"W-wait, would you?" she asked.

His eyes scanned her face as his mouth tried to form words. Fuck, he thought. He'd pay the bills, mow the lawn and make her and the four brats breakfast every Sunday if he had to. "Yeah."

"Fuck," it slipped out to Nicola. 

"What?"

"You know, call me crazy," she began quietly, "but forever might actually work for once."

Malcolm looked at Nicola and gave her his infamous 'you're the prey, and I'm the one who's going to devour you' look. Then he relaxed and stripped out of his trousers.

"It better be, you know why?" He worked on her skirt. 

"Why?"

“Because, let’s face it, tomorrow’s office meeting would be a bloody train wreck of awkwardness if not.” He gave her a toothy grin. "Now let's get you out of those knickers before we both end up in a bloody state, for God's sake."

With a giggle, wriggled herself out of the last bit of clothing, and Malcolm captured her mouth with a kiss of the utmost devotion. 

Forever wasn't going to be easy, they both knew that, but it was a fucking good place to start, and that was all that mattered.