A/N: I posted this over on tumblr during the wee hours of the morning, and now that I've had some sleep and food and tea in me, I've made sure it's edited a bit better. This has been in the works since mid-November, if you'd believe it.

AU where season eight of Doctor Who and season one or so of The Thick of It took place concurrently.

Keep Your Secrets Close and Your Mentors Closer

The first time she saw them, Courtney was actually pretty happy to see the sight at first.

Most of the school was stuck in an assembly because of something or other—she didn't bother to pay attention long enough to have the information sink in. All she knew was that some slimy-looking politician was there, giving a speech about academic success while looking like some drowned rat in a suit jacket. If she ever got into politics, she had sworn to herself as she snuck out the back way, she would never look like a drowned rat in a suit jacket. She twirled her whiteboard marker between her fingers as she walked through the corridor and tried to figure out where she was going to leave her next set of colorfully-phrased life-tips for the Year Sevens. It was her last term and someone had to teach the kiddies, after all.

She turned a corner though and that's when she saw it: one of the government blokes, leaning one-armed on the wall, bent down slightly to talk to Miss Oswald in the courtyard. Courtney ducked back behind the corner and peered around—they were talking in low, hushed murmurs and were smiling at one another. Miss Oswald even let out a laugh, high and genuine. She hadn't laughed like that since, gosh, a few years ago. Back when Mr. Pink was alive, anyways. Was it because this man vaguely resembled the Doctor? She tried to remember what the substitute caretaker had looked like, but he had disappeared so long ago that she had a difficult time remembering. Around the same time Mr. Pink died. Maybe that's why Miss was so sad for so long, she had always reasoned, privately and when she was dead-bored of the novels she had been assigned.

When the man with a time-space box can't help you, then who can?

Courtney watched the two flirt for a few minutes, glad to see her teacher happy again, when she heard a shrill, default ringtone cut through the air. The government bloke rolled his eyes and dug into his pocket, producing a mobile that he jammed to his ear.

"He fucking said what?!" he shouted, disrupting the serenity of the moment. "That was not in the scr—hold on one fucking second…" The man gave Miss Oswald a smile, ducked down to peck her on the lips, and said something only she could hear before switching back to the phone and his eyes of flaming fury. Courtney ducked into a classroom and hid behind the door as the man stormed through the hall, not wanting to get caught spying. His baroque language moved past her, the Doppler Effect in full-force as the storm came and went. "Pull him—pull him now. I don't care who you fucking replace him with. Just get Hugh off of that podium and put someone with half a fucking brain up there. I don't care if you have to put Terri up there—her piss-moaning about bath salts and scented lotion is more inspirational than that cunt…"

As soon as the scraggly government bloke was far enough away, Courtney poked her head out into the corridor to see where he was. She could see him turn a corner towards the assembly hall, walking at such a pace that the back of his suit jacket was nearly billowing behind him.

"I should have known," Miss Oswald tutted. Courtney cringed at having been caught, slowly turning around to face her teacher.

"I'm sorry for spying, Miss. I didn't hear anything. Honest."

"Oh, I believe you, but I'd still like it if you came with me," Miss Oswald said. Her face was stern, focused, but not quite angry, and that worried Courtney. The teen blanched and quietly followed her back to her room, where she closed the door until it was open just a finger's width.

"Am I in trouble?" Courtney asked, sitting down in a desk in the front row. Miss Oswald shook her head and pulled her chair out in front of her desk. She then took another chair from behind the whiteboard, which she placed across from hers.

"Sit here, please," she requested. Cautiously, Courtney complied.

"So I'm not in trouble? This feels an awful lot like a lecture."

"This is the furthest thing from a lecture," Miss Oswald replied. She gave Courtney a little smile as they both sat down. "The two of us, we share secrets, yeah?"

"Mr. Smith being an alien, and the moon being some sort of dumb egg," the teen nodded.

"Yes. We've been through a lot, you and I, and I feel like we're mature enough to agree that we'd help one another out when the time calls for it."

"…but what does that…?"

Miss Oswald raised a hand, politely cutting her off. "Please, Courtney, do me this favor: don't tell anyone about what you just saw."

"That man… he's just a government official. He's got a cush job where he doesn't have to mind his language."

"No, his job is dangerous, and the swearing is his armor," Miss Oswald sighed sadly. "I am very appreciative of you staying so quiet after Mr. Pink, more than both of us could believe, but politics is a ruthless game and there are people within his own party that are willing to find anything to tear him down. They will be looking all over, trying to find something, and I know you. The last thing you want to be is an innocent source."

Courtney looked at Miss Oswald and tried to decipher her face. It was distant, yet pleading, in a manner that made her decidedly uncomfortable. Knowing Miss Oswald had someone again after so long made her happy, but the fact she couldn't even publicly congratulate her did not sit right at all.

"What… what does he do?"

"He's… in media relations," Miss Oswald explained hesitantly. Indecision flickered across her face before she elaborated. "Actually, he's the Prime Minister's Communications Director. His kind are dangerous, Courtney."

"If he is, then why are you with him, Miss? I mean, I saw him kiss you before going off to do… whatever it was he was doing."

"That's because… him and I are the same," Miss Oswald said. She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, and frowned. "It's difficult to explain, but I think you have an idea. We both held the fate of the world in our hands once—there's something worthwhile in that."

"Yeah, there is." Courtney leaned to try to look in Miss Oswald's face. "So, you've got a thing, don't you?"

Miss Oswald snapped her head back up. "Pardon…?"

"You got a thing, for power. Mr. Smith, he had power to go anywhere he wished and bent over backwards for you. Mr. Pink, he didn't hold much power, but he knew what it was and what he had, he let you own. This bloke… he's got power, and loads of it, and you think he can use it for good."

Clara blinked, baffled. "How do you suppose that?"

"The way I saw it: Misters Smith and Pink were good men. Idiots, yeah, but they were good at heart. You're good too, Miss, and you wouldn't be with a man who didn't have a shred of decency in him."

"That's… very kind of you, but I'm not good. I wasn't very good to Mr. Smith or Mr. Pink. Mr. Tucker, however, I'm trying."

"…as long as 'trying' doesn't mean being your boyfriend's doormat, Miss." Courtney let out a smile when she saw her teacher roll her eyes in exasperation.

"I'm anything but a doormat and he's not my boyfriend. He's… something else."

"Lover? Partner? Beau?"

"Crass. Distant. Possibly, if French is acceptable as a form of communication in Scotland."

"Don't worry, Miss. I've got your back," Courtney nodded. "We power-seekers have to stick together."

"Courtney, what does that mean?" Clara asked, her voice suddenly flat and unamused.

"I like that rush of power too—your man works at Number 10, yeah? We'll work together one day. I'll take the drowned rat's job, except I'll actually be good at it and my hair will always be on-point."

"Don't talk about Minister Abbott that way, Courtney, please. He took plenty of time out of his busy schedule…"

"You sound like a robot, Miss. It doesn't suit you," the teen grinned, standing up from her seat. She was nearly out the door when Miss Oswald cleared her throat.

"Oh, and Courtney," she deadpanned. The teen in-question turned around and saw her teacher holding out her hand, silently demanding something be put in it. She took her marker from her pocket and handed it over. "I'm not stupid."

"Never said you were, Miss."

Courtney Woods did not receive spectacularly high marks that term, but she did end up writing one of the best papers the government teacher had ever seen, earning her a glowing recommendation to his alma mater. She and Miss Oswald parted as friends, with an agreement to meet again one day.

The second time she saw them, it was more of an accident than the first.

It was the first day of Courtney's internship at Number 10. She had fought and clawed for the opportunity to intern there, beating out dozens upon dozens of other applicants. It was on account of being clever, she supposed, or part-American (bless shady citizenship laws), or that she caught her interviewer writing slurs about the previous interviewee in his notebook. A couple covert snapshots of "pikey" and "knacker" in rather distinctive handwriting had certainly been persuasive in a lot of ways.

In retrospect, she could have made the man sweat a lot more and gotten greater use from him, but she kept his name filed away along with his sins; men like him were never powerful enough to sustain a threat such as that. They were, however, the type that held a specific amount of power in a specific moment of time, and if that time held an opportunity, she was going to take it.

She flashed her badge to the policeman standing in front and was allowed in. Her chest swelled with power and bloodlust as she made her way through the building. Pace brusque, smile smug, and back straight, Courtney climbed the steps necessary to reach the office of Malcolm Tucker.

Her new boss was Malcolm Tucker.

She found the door with the nameplate and walked in. There she was greeted by a brown-haired woman leaning on a desk, tall and friendly, whose face lit up when she saw her.

"Oh, you must be Courtney," she said, taking her weight off the desk to shake hands. "I'm Sam, Malcolm's personal assistant. I'll sort of be like the Assistant Manager around here. Excited for your first day?"

"Am I ever," Courtney grinned. She looked around the office, which was clearly the foyer to the larger, more important office sitting behind the door to the left of Sam's desk. "Not to be rude, but is there a place for me? Like an intern area or something?"

"Interns usually don't survive around here for very long, so we don't exactly have a place set up," Sam admitted. "Malcolm is not what you'd call an easy man to get along with."

"That's okay," Courtney shrugged, hefting the sidebag off her shoulder and placing it in front of Sam's desk. "I met him once, sort of, so I have an idea of what I'm getting into. Hugh Abbott once did a launch at my school and…"

"Ah, that sort of meeting," Sam chuckled. "Well, ministers have changed but there's still a lot of mess to mop up." Some Scottish shouting filtered in from behind the shut door, prompting Sam to tilt her head towards it. "Go on; introduce yourself properly before he has to wander off for the day."

Courtney smoothed her skirt and took an arming breath before turning the knob and walking into the line of fire. On-point, Courtney. On-point. There, on the far end of the room, was Malcolm. He was angrily typing something up on his phone, his upper lip curled into a sneer and his brow furrowed. His hair was even showing some grey, if her vision wasn't being cheated by the poor fluorescent overhead lamps. He caught her out of the corner of his eye and did a double-take.

"Who the fuck are you? Where is Sam?"

"I'm Courtney, your new intern. Sam told me to come in and introduce myself." She held out her hand and approached the desk. Malcolm did not take it, instead placing his phone down and leaning back in his chair.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to a nearby set of armchairs. Courtney froze.

"I'm just trying to be nice," she snapped. "I'm going to be here a whole year, so I think it'd be good to get this put of the way before you start barking orders."

"Don't bunch your knickers yet—just sit," he repeated, though this time purposely adding a layer of softness to his voice. Courtney complied and picked the nearest chair, which she stiffly sat down in. "What did you do?"

She blinked, confused. "Pardon?"

"Every intern I've had did something to get their position. They got an accolade or slept with the interviewer or…"

"Are you implying I slept with the interviewer?"

"No, but the one two hence did—don't know what was so special about him considering he was nothing but a limp-dicked tit. What I'm saying is that everyone gets here by some means, and none of it is by accident. So what is it? Familial influence? Monetary influence?"

"Travellers," Courtney smiled. She leaned back in the chair and watched as Malcolm's face turned quizzical. He stared at her, silently breaking her down her relaxed body language and rather odd reason for being into something more personally-digestible.

"What, are you an advocate?"

"The worst I can say is indifferent," she shrugged. "I held power once, and I want to hold it again, and the Travellers helped set me down the path to regaining that."

"That's an odd choice of words, for someone so young."

"…and for being the Dark Lord of Downing Street, you seem pretty agreeable."

"…fucking hell, I'm gonna fucking kill whoever made that up." Malcolm slumped in his chair and gave it a small swivel. "Okay, listen: throw all your preconceived notions about government out the window. You're in my domain now, and in Tucker-fucking-opolis, we do real work."

"I'm ready," Courtney grinned. Malcolm quickly sat upright on his chair and laced his fingers together, placing his forearms on the top of his desk.

"No, you're not ready, Princess," he growled. "By taking on this position, you have decided that your way of life is to be one where you wade through a sea of cunts every day, up to your fucking eyeballs in 'em. They will beat you, and curse you, destroy everything you hold dear, and then make you beg for seconds. Got a boyfriend? Dump the sack of skin. Got a girlfriend? Give her a one-way ticket to Brighton; that'll cheer her up. Got family? You don't anymore. Whatever comfort zones you had you left behind when you entered this building. People are going to call you horrible names and things you aren't all in an effort to make you look bad and elevate themselves. What do you have to say about that?"

Courtney pondered for a moment before answering. "They can't fuck me, even if they tried."

"…and why not?"

"…because one day I'm going to be President of the United States of America," she replied. Malcolm went quiet, bringing his folded hands up to his mouth.

"President? You? They wouldn't let you within a hundred yards of the White House on your accent alone."

"Oh, don't worry, sugah, I've been practicin'," Courtney said, coating her voice in the drawl she had been mastering in the mirror the past month. To her surprise, Malcolm burst out into laugher.

"Fucking—that's a good one!" he cackled. "You've got at least two brain cells; if we can find a third I might make a politician out of you yet!" It was then that Sam poked her head in, lips pursed in confusion at the rare sound her boss was emitting.

"Malcolm, your ten o'clock's early. Shall I find something for Courtney to do?"

"Yes, please; get this renegade a bottle of Coke so she can pitch it in the Thames. Listen, Courtney, got to pop out for a bit—Sam's in charge. I don't care if she makes you do the fucking Macarena, just listen to her." With that he left and the two women were alone.

"Good, you're going to fit right in," Sam laughed. She handed Courtney some of the papers in her arm. "I need you to take these and distribute them amongst the other offices on the floor. Give them to PAs and secretaries, introduce yourself, and take a look around. This first week is just going to be about familiarizing yourself with the building, so don't think you'll get to the nitty-gritty unless there's an emergency."

"Right-o, ma'am," Courtney said, giving Sam a casual salute as she walked out.

Half an hour later the papers were gone and Courtney was simply wandering the halls of Number 10. She had to show her badge a couple of times in a yes, I do in fact belong here sort of way, but other than that she was generally fine. By the time she had made it back to the office she had looked in nearly every spot she could where she was allowed (as apparently only special interns were allowed by the PM's office without special clearance) and was officially bored.

'I wonder what sort of things are in here,' she wondered, noticing the door next to Sam's office. It was very nondescript, though it did have a brass placard attached to it that read "PRIVATE" in bold letters.

"Excuse me, but what's in here?" she asked a passing man. They were both interns, but when meeting him earlier she had discovered he had already been there a few months.

"Oh, that's Mr. Tucker's supply cupboard; doesn't want anyone in there but his staff," he replied, not slowing down his rushed gait. The other intern vanished behind a corner, leaving Courtney to quietly open the door and slip inside.

The cupboard seemed relatively boring enough. There was a table and some chairs, cabinets presumably to keep things in, and shelving units that were laden with paper files and boxes and who knew all what-else. There was a sound coming from behind one of the shelving units, soft and muffled and very curious. Courtney cautiously turned the bend, her eyes going wide at the sight before her: Miss Oswald, whom she hadn't seen in years, with her legs wrapped around Malcolm's waist and her back against the wall. Her face was buried in his shoulder, softening her moans to just barely above a whisper.

"Miss…?" she said, too stunned for much else. The couple jumped in a panic.

"Oh God, what are you doing here?!" Miss Oswald gasped, pulling down the hem of her skirt. Her eyes were wide in terror, as if everything was coming crashing down around her. Malcolm gently placed her back on the floor and hurriedly adjusted himself before turning, his eyebrows furrowed in anger and confusion.

"Courtney you have five seconds to tell me what the fuck is going on or I am going to make sure the rest of your internship is going to be like making love to a pufferfish," he snapped. Courtney inhaled sharply and scowled.

"Sam sent me to deliver some papers and told me to have a look around," she hissed back. "I came in here thinking I should see what sorts of supplies are kept in here, not to have a peek at you shagging Miss. Now that I know it's your fuck-cupboard I'll make sure to stay out of it whenever it's your ten o'clock."

"Courtney, please," Miss Oswald sighed in exasperation. "I told you this was a dangerous place, didn't I?"

"Can't keep a good girl down, Miss," she grinned. Courtney turned her expression back on a dime and glared up into Malcolm's face again. "Don't you dare think that you can use this as an excuse for one of your famous bollockings, considering I knew about you and Miss long before now. I could have used this information to get my internship before I even started university, but I didn't, and you're fucking welcome."

"Don't you threaten me, child," Malcolm hissed. "Don't think that you're so special that you're going to be able to do whatever the fuck you want. I will see to that." He then began to storm away, only to freeze with his hand on the doorknob when a panicking Courtney finally came up with a solution.

"Stewart Pearson," she sputtered.

"Yeah? What about him?"

"Bet I can make him a laughing stock by suppertime and not have it traced back to us."

Malcolm narrowed his eyes and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. "You have until the end of my wank, which I now need because you ruined my ten o'clock to begin with." He then turned is focus on Miss Oswald. "I don't know if I can make it home by dinner tonight, love. Call, yeah?"

"At least make it home by bed," Miss Oswald responded. With a "ta" he vanished behind the door and it was the teacher's turn to turn on her former student. "What is wrong with you?!"

"Nothing, Miss," Courtney replied. She was on her phone, rapid-fire-texting, not even looking up as she spoke. "I told you one day I'd work at Number 10, and here I am."

"Whitehall will eat you alive, just like it's eating at my husband. What do you have to prove?"

"I already told you, I like holding power. Besides, what's the old phrase? 'Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger?' I rather like that," Her phone rang and she quickly answered. "Hold on Mick, just a sec—and congratulations, by the way. I saw the ring on his finger before this. How long?"

"Three years in summer."

"I'm glad. He's good for you; you're no good when you're mourning Misters Pink and Smith all the time." She turned and began to walk towards the door to the hallway, a devilish grin on her face. "Okay, Mick? I got a question: you still have those papers we graded in uni? The ones for Harrison's class? Well, I need one of the sources and STAT. Come on you little cunt, I know you saved them, and this isn't going back to you I can promise that." Miss Oswald watched her student's back as she vanished behind the door that was not Malcolm's.

Moments later Malcolm poked his head back in. "She gone?"

"Of course. Now where were we?" she chuckled, a sound deep and sultry and covered in chocolate. She draped her arms around his neck as he leaned in for a toothy kiss.

Not only was the Opposition's Director of Communications on the evening news, he headlined nearly the entire remainder of the week. Malcolm couldn't have been prouder if Courtney had been his own blood. Not only was the entire internship a success, but Malcolm even found her a job once it was over and Miss Oswald put her on the Christmas card list.

The last time she saw them on British soil, she had purposely sought them out.

Malcolm had been released from prison only the week before. It had only taken four days for the reporters to stop showing up at his doorstep, which was pathetic in Courtney's opinion. To toss aside a mastermind such as Malcolm Tucker was nothing short of sacrilege, but then again, what did they know? They, in the broadest sense, knew that Malcolm Tucker was the name of a man a regime or two ago who swore a lot and lied even more. They, in a narrower sense, knew that Malcolm Tucker was broken and in desperate need of repair.

He could be repaired, but it was simply a matter of finding the correct tools.

She made the turn down the lane and followed her car's satnav until it brought her to a little house. Tucked away from the world in the rustic countryside was where the Chairman of the Coal Hill Board of Governors said Miss Oswald had moved to. She was still Miss Oswald, despite having worn a wedding ring for years. The less attention drawn to her married life the better, she had long-ago decided. She had moved there two years earlier, when she found out she had been expecting a baby… a fact even fewer knew. Courtney had known all along, thanks to keeping in close touch with Malcolm, but it had now been eighteen months and four days since she last talked to him… to either of them, and she figured she was overdue.

After shifting the car into park and taking one quick look around for the glint of a camera—to show up on Malcolm Tucker's doorstep after his violent ejection from the political sphere would need one hell of an excuse and a shot of her doing a killer powerwalk. When she was sure the coast was clear, she made her way to the front door and landed a few sharp knocks on the wood. Miss—no, Clara—opened the door and jumped back a little in surprise.

"Courtney… what a surprise," she said, her mask a bit too thin to hide her shock. "Please, come in. Congratulations on that ministerial position, even if it is belated." She stepped aside and let her guest in.

"Congratulations are more in line for you, Mrs. Tucker, for finally getting your husband back for keeps." Clara rolled her eyes and chuckled softly.

"I'm still Clara Oswald; that hasn't changed, no matter how many times you ask. We don't even correct people in town when they call Malcolm 'Mr. Oswald'."

"Maybe that's for the better," Courtney nodded. "A country home, far away from anything possibly considered political… it's a good place to recoup."

"I don't think that's the proper word to use for Malcolm these days. Come with me." She led the way through the house towards the back sitting room with Courtney following close behind.

The junior minister did not smile as she entered the room and saw her old mentor, reclined on the couch with a sleeping toddler nestled on his chest. He looked ancient—prison had not been easy on him, even if it was the place where they sent liars and frauds and other false criminals. Despite the thick clothes he wore, he seemed incredibly thin—thinner than when he'd forget to eat during the Big Cock-Ups—and looked just as bit a shattered man as the tabloids made him out to be. He opened his eyes as Clara plucked the child off him, immediately taking notice of his old protégé standing there on the rug.

"Oh, why hello there, Miss Minister," he said, easing himself upright and standing. He gave Courtney a hug—something he had never done before—and motioned for her to sit. "Now what's a high-rolling and important woman such as yourself doing hobnobbing with riffraff like me?"

"It's nothing but a disruptive influence visiting her old teacher and former boss, you know that," she sighed. She hated sitting there, seeing the husk of what Malcolm used to be. Next to her was a man that used to command and terrify. Now… he couldn't hurt even the freshest intern, not in this state. "How's life on the outside treating you?"

"Well enough," Malcolm nodded. "I spend my days with my son and my nights with my wife. What else could I want?"

"You don't… miss it?"

"Any chance I had to miss it died a while ago," he said. Clara returned with a tea tray and set it on the coffee table. They all helped themselves and the room fell quiet.

"You know," Courtney finally said, "sometimes I call up Ollie to have a shout at him, just for fun."

"That's my girl," Malcolm chuckled. "He still do that thing where he looks like he's about to piss his pants?"

"Every fucking time." Courtney looked down at her tea and laughed weakly.

"We need you, Malcolm. Ollie's pretending he can run the place and keeps on cocking it up. Everyone else has been shuffled around so much that they're somehow less effective than they were before. It's just… you have to come back."

"No—they don't need me," Malcolm sighed. "I promised myself I wouldn't go back to Whitehall, not unless it's to chaperone Daniel on a school trip. It took me for everything I had and then tossed me away. Now what am I? At least when I supposedly resigned there were still people that thought well enough of me—now we're living off my savings and Clara part-timing at the florist. I told you the job ruins people… but you're young yet. It'll come."

"What have you been up to, Courtney?" Clara asked, trying to change the topic. "I've been trying to keep an eye on you, but you're rather good at staying out of the public eye for a young minister."

"Well, that is part of why I'm here," she replied. Courtney put her tea back down on the tray and looked back at Malcolm. "When are you cleared to start traveling?"

"Again with the Travellers," he tutted. Courtney shook her head.

"Not Travellers… traveling. I know there's a travel restriction on you right now since you just got out, but it can't stay in place forever."

"I… I don't know," Malcolm admitted. "Never thought about it, considering I don't plan on going anywhere."

"Three months," Clara replied. "He's cleared to travel internationally in three months. I had been thinking maybe France, to get some good food in him. There's a lot of countryside to visit in France."

"Would New France make a decent alternative?" Courtney asked. She then shook her head. "Well, not what's left of New France, anyways, but parts of what had been chunked off of it?"

"What are you asking?" Clara wondered. "You can't… you can't be thinking about going overseas."

"I got offered a job last week by an American senator," the younger woman explained. "Apparently, there are people who wish to strengthen Anglo-American relations and a few of these people have been eyeing me specifically. I'm one step away from being a reverse Boris, except I'm actually capable of holding the highest office imaginable."

"…and what does that have to do with me?" Malcolm asked. Courtney shrugged and picked her tea back up, sipping it smugly.

"It's only fair that you were there from the start. Why don't you come along? Both of you. I will need counsel from people I can trust, and if there's anyone I can trust it's my two mentors."

"I'm very flattered, but my days in politics are over, Courtney," Malcolm said.

"At Whitehall, maybe, but in America, they'll take anyone with a gift for gab as their leaders and pundits. They even have some that you could replace with a demented badger and you wouldn't know the difference provided it hisses loud enough."

"It will look suspicious though, won't it?" Clara asked. "For all of us to pick up and leave for America at once won't sit well with others. You can't make enemies before you even start your job."

"Even by lying as low as I have I've made enemies, and considering how little people pay attention to what's going on outside their own bubble I think we're safe once we jump the pond," Courtney explained. She put her cup down and grinned in a way that told the couple that she had already made up their minds for them. "I make the move in two weeks—I can put your visas on the fast-track once I get there, but after I go out the front door I'm not planning on seeing the two of you again until I pick you up from the airport."

"Not sending a taxi or a gofer?" Malcolm laughed weakly.

"For you? Not a chance. So what do you say? Want to bring a bit of Whitehall to the White House with me? Show their master race of highly advanced toddlers a thing or two?"

Malcolm turned his head towards Clara and grabbed her hand, holding it gently as they looked at one another. With their eyes locked in silent conversation, they stayed like that until Malcolm broke the gaze and turned his attention towards Courtney.

"You really want me?" he breathed. "You know this old dog doesn't mesh well with American propriety."

"That's part of why I want you," she replied. "Got to add a little flash and color if we're going to be a political mainstay. Besides, one whiff of the indignant Scottish Terrier and those American mutts will slink away with their tails between their legs."

"I guess that if that's how you want to look at it, then you're going to have to give us four months, just to make sure that no one's waiting for us with a high-zoom DSLR at Heathrow," Malcolm said. His chest seemed to swell as he happily looked back at Clara in wordless thanks.

"Though I do have one question before we call this settled," Courtney mentioned. Her hosts looked at her, worried.

"What is that?" Clara asked.

"You named your son 'Daniel'? Are you mental?"

"Hey, I named my boy, via letter, so don't go blaming your old teacher for anything," Malcolm snapped. He flashed his teeth and stood, walking around the coffee table and towards the hallway. Clara stared at him—the lift in his step seeming a bit higher than it was before. "Which, hey, I'll go get the lad. He's got to meet his Auntie Courtney before the move so he knows who to thank. Never did like that tit that runs the local playgroup anyways." He vanished into the main of the house

"You're pretty relaxed for all of this," Courtney mentioned casually. Clara carefully placed her teacup down and sighed.

"As much as I hate Malcolm's job, he needs the work," she admitted. "It's not for the money or some sense of duty, but there's something about him that doesn't quite function properly when he doesn't have a shout at least four times a day. At least it will be at someone else now instead of the garden hose and the toaster."

"He's the kind to spite everyone by staying alive; I wouldn't worry," Courtney chuckled. Without another word the two women stood up and gave one another a hug, just in time for Malcolm to arrive with a groggy toddler in his arms. The junior minister was passed the child and introductions were made before a rogue call on her mobile pulled her back to civic duty. At least it was only her civic duty for a little while longer.

Decades later, President Woods and Vice-President Oswald-Tucker broke protocol by staying at Camp David at the same time despite objections from half the government. "I know what I'm doing," was President Woods's response as press hounded her beforehand. The two politicians looked up at the night sky, the moon large and bright and about to be blown up… or so the world thought.

"You mean, that's you and Mom up there?" the young vice-president asked, full of awe. The president nodded, a wan smile spreading across her thin lips.

"The first women on the moon, and the ones responsible for saving it," she replied. "Just me, her, Lundvik, and an impossible man in a blue box. It was terrifying, but I'd do it all over again."

"You would?"

"Of course I would, Dan. In a heartbeat."