He walked into Number 10 like a bull in a china shop. And, appropriately, everyone stepped aside to let him go on his merry little fucking way. He practically glowered at all the damn mistletoe, garland, and holly on the way. He made it to his office, a hand upon the knob, when he heard his name and a familiar voice.
"Malcolm, good morning. Your nine-thirty is going to be late today. He's stuck at the airport."
Malcolm turned to cast a questioning glance Sam's way, wondering what on Earth she was doing here. Wasn't she supposed to be on vacation?
Sensing his puzzlement, she said, "Didn't really see a reason to go home," she said quietly. "My mum and dad are away in America for a few months, visiting friends. It's not as if I'll be missed by my aunts and cousins this year." Then, without missing a beat, she added, "I figured you could use the extra help here, the Friday before Christmas. I knew you'd be in today. You always are." In her own way, she was telling him that she'd much rather spend her holidays in his company, but neither acknowledged the silent admission.
For a moment, unable to do much else, he found himself tossing a sympathetic look her way and he pushed his door open. As per usual, his only response was sarcasm. "Don't want people fucking calling you Bob Cratchit now because you're fucking here so close to the Holidays… Go and add some coal to the fire, yeah? It's fine. Don't fucking freeze on my account."
She bit back a laugh, following him into his office with paperwork for him to sign at his leisure. There was no rush. "Alright, Ebenezer," she murmured back to him.
The day went by so quickly. And by the time he was sitting down at his desk, around dinnertime, he'd expected she'd gone home earlier than she usually did. There was a party she planned on going to. He thought he was alone. He could use the time to wind down and relax, he knew it, with all the Ministers he'd torn to pieces and warned about the Christmas parties they'd fucking embarrass themselves at. No, he wouldn't be cleaning up their messes this time. They were on thin ice, as far as he was concerned, and he was running out of places to stash the fucking bodies.
With a soft sigh, he reached for one of the tangerines on his desk, opting not to bother sipping at his cold coffee from earlier in the day. What was the point?
There came a knock at his door and he utterly a loud, "Come the fuck in. State your name and terrible purpose. What do you fucking want?"
Sam popped her head into the room, looking a bit shy. By now, having worked for him for so long, his cursing did little to her. She had grown used to it. Unbothered by it, even. She found it oddly endearing and comforting. And sexy. "Malcolm?"
He paused at the sound of her voice, eyes rising to find her standing in the doorway. "Sam?" he asked. "Why are you even still here?"
She closed the door behind her, a manila folder in hand. "Because," she simply said, "I had things to do. Besides, I was wondering…" She trailed off and he waited, brows rising high on his forehead and nearly disappearing in his hair. "What were you wondering, lass?"
She placed the folder aside on his desk and told him, "That invitation I'd received extended to you as well. I was wondering if you'd like to join me tonight. I was just about to leave. I was waiting for you to return to the office."
If it was at all possible, his eyes widened. There was a line he drew between he and Sam years ago. To keep her safe from the natural disaster that seemed to be his life. But she was tiptoeing all over it. In fact, she had been doing so lately, for months.
For years, she had worked with him, for him. She was a fantastic PA. Almost ten years had passed them by and he'd kept her at a comfortable distance. Close enough to consider her his only friend in the fucking world, but far enough away that he'd never forget that it was all that she could ever be to him.
He wasn't worthy of the affection she gave him on a daily basis in the office. She was sweet and she dealt with him day in and day out. She was a good woman. She was too precious to him to ever take a chance with. This world they lived in, and worked in, hadn't torn her apart. She endured. She was special. Special to him as well. He cared so deeply for her.
"Are you going to say something, or were you just planning on staring at my lips all night?" she asked, as sassy as ever. He blinked owlishly at her and looked away with an embarrassed grumble.
"No thank you," he told her, tossing aside the unbruised tangerine. "I'd rather not. I don't do well at parties. Not my thing. But thank you for asking."
Loneliness had made him so cold over the years. It bristled along his edges and just barely met his eyes. She could see it so clearly. He was a lonely man.
Without thinking about what she was doing, she came around to his side of the large, oak desk that he had on one end of his office and she sat down at its edge. "That's not really truth, though, is it? I've seen you at parties, Malcolm. You're charming and, dare I admit, even nice. You aren't really the big bad wolf, despite what you tell people."
He sat back in his leather chair, gazing up at her. He attempted a look of amusement but it came off as more perturbed than anything. Before he could even respond, she continued.
"Don't be a Grinch," she teased him. "It's Friday. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. And where are you spending it? At home, alone?" He didn't even argue and she sighed softly.
She stood abruptly, suddenly feeling all too uneasy under his scrutinizing gaze. "I'll be spending Christmas alone," she told him, unable to help herself. Because she was upset about it. Because they both didn't have to be alone. He seemed so intent on making himself miserable and the feeling was almost contagious.
Still, he didn't speak. She turned to leave but there was a hand at wrist to stop her. And then, in the softest voice she'd ever heard, he spoke to her. "Listen, pet… Christmas is a hard time of year for me. Lost my Mam on Christmas Eve. It isn't easy. Sorry if I seem like a fucking… numpty about it."
In those few sentences he had divulged more to her than he ever had in their decade long friendship. Remarkable realization. It cut to the quick, just how guarded he was.
She stiffened for a moment before casting a glance lower to the hand at her wrist. His fingers were warm, tender. She smiled softly before saying, "I'm sorry about your mother, Malcolm. Come out with me tonight. Maybe you don't want to celebrate Christmas but at least don't be alone."
She saw rather than heard him give in. Somehow, she registered the quiet, "Fine" he eventually murmured, but her eyes were infinitely more interested in the way his features softened and he looked so much younger, if only for a split second. He changed when he smiled. And for a moment, if only that one precious moment, he smiled.
He rose from his chair, donning his suit jacket and then shucking into his overcoat. He pulled his scarf on, casting a glimpse her way and saying, "If I go out with you tonight, will you stop calling me a Grinch?"
Her legs swung back and forth for a moment before she delicately landed on her feet. She noticed his eyes dart to her lower half before rising again. Was he… Was he admiring her? Her heart leapt from her chest, then suddenly lodged mercilessly in her throat.
"I'll just… go fetch my coat, then. Meet you in the hall." As she spoke, she slipped away and left his office to get her things.
He was a perfect gentleman, as he always was, as they left. Her crazy Scot was always kind to her, making sure she made it home, or even letting her kip on his sofa when the situation called for it. He never let her wander alone in the dark, or late at night.
And tonight, tonight was no exception. He hailed them a cab, letting her slip inside first before following her in. She rambled off the address to the party to the driver, who went zipping off and leaving them quietly sat in the back, just beside one another.
Eventually, though, he cast a look towards her and said, "I can't believe I'm going to a fucking Christmas party with you. What are you fucking doing to me, woman?"
Deciding to be a devious in response, she arched a brow and caught his gaze. "Nothing you didn't want happening to you in the first place," she said with a touch of sass and a hint of honesty. She knew he wouldn't even protest or argue. And he didn't.
She knew her boss too well.
But he was so much more than that, wasn't he? He wasn't just her boss.
With a quiet sigh, he turned his head to watch the London cityscape pass them by. And as they pulled up to a stop-light in the little black cab, he said, "Would you fucking look at that? It's snowing outside. Little flakes. Just barely. But it's snowing."
Her head came to rest on his shoulder as he began to work the knot on his tie open and her only response was a smile. It was as if he was removing his battle armor, and in a way, he was. All for her.
The party was in her friend's flat. Someone she knew from college, she said. They weren't work friends. They had known one another for a long time, and he felt a little embarrassed to be one of the oldest men in the flat.
Soon enough, though, Sam was fixing them both a drink and he found himself relaxing. People were dancing, partying, and having a good time. There was Christmas music on and it all felt very… relaxed. Very happy.
Malcolm, much to his own surprise, felt himself unwinding, loosening up.
As they were standing there together, Sinatra's voice began to filter through older, crackling speakers. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas was playing and she took a step closer to him, a hand reaching out to gently touching his forearm. "Can I tell you something?" His brows arched and she continued. "Two things, actually."
And he waited. He waited and waited, as she apparently found her courage. "First off," she said, "I'm sorry about your mother. I'm sorry you had to lose her around the holidays. You never talk about your parents. And, well… I'm glad you're here with me. I'd be terribly bored if I was all alone. I barely know anyone."
He had a cold glass in his hand, the other resting in his pocket. She watched him blink a few times, letting her words wash over him. "Thank you," he eventually said, trying to be polite. "My mother was very ill. Cancer. Feels like ages ago now." Then, rather suddenly, he drew her closer and wound an arm around the middle of her back. "I'm glad I came, too. Fucking happy? You just wanted me to admit it. Ninny."
Much to Sam's surprise, he began to dance with her. Her breaths were stolen, a hand absently setting her drink aside on a nearby table. Her fingers then migrated to his shoulder, finally rising to play with the dark, chestnut curls at the nape of his neck.
"You're a good dancer," she uttered softly, into the space between them. Or what was left of it, anyway. And she heard him chuckle, a quiet and amused sound, before he dared respond. "I've been holding out on you," he teased her, brogue thick and voice lower than usual.
"I think you have," she said back, hiding her smile in his shirt.
They danced for a while, both drinking and relaxing and coming into their own. Malcolm, ever-guarded, said little but admired her more openly. What he wanted was obvious — her.
How she hadn't ever seen it was a miracle in and of itself. He'd kept it hidden for so long. It's funny what a few strong drinks and some Christmas cheer could do.
Sam's friend, Claire, came wandering by with a tray of chips. She set them on the counter, then came over to formally meet Mr. Malcolm Tucker.
"So," she said easily, "this is the fucker?" She laughed and reached a hand out for his.
He coughed in surprise, clearly taken aback. She took his hand with a look of amusement, rolling her eyes and saying, "It's seriously a pleasure, Malcolm. Sam never shuts up about you." That earned her a rather pointed stare from the woman beside Malcolm, a drink in her hand again.
"Is that so?" he asked, a bit astonished and altogether intrigued.
Claire was already snickering to herself, knowing he'd done her best to start something. About damn time, though, she thought to herself. Those two had danced around one another — both literally and figuratively — all night long.
Later on that night, dutifully, he brought her home. He always did. He was ever the gentleman when it came to her. Yet, she was the only one. And she knew it. He just wasn't that way for anyone else. Only her.
He slipped out of the cab, following her up the steps to her front door. It was a cute little townhouse with red brick and a dark door. A wreath hung on it with an elegant bow.
A neighbor was playing music and he could hear it filter through a cracked window. Christmas music, too. Of course it was. The Platters' Christmas Time was drifting their way, softly, and he chuckled a bit to himself. December was utterly fucking ridiculous.
"Hurry up," he said kiddingly. "I'm going to fucking stab my eardrums soon enough and put them out of their damn misery. I can't handle any more of this music."
Sam was fumbling with her keys and he reached out with a chuckle to help her. "Can't hold your drink, lass," he teased her, even as his own words were slurring. "Fucking hell. Neither can I. Look at us. Look at me. Pffft."
He was a bit startled at her response.
"I am."
His eyes rose from the keys in her hand to see that she was gazing up at him, a sweet look on her face. They were too close to one another. Vaguely, he understood this fact. He knew that he should move. He knew that he should probably say goodnight and leave. But he couldn't step away. He was glued to the stoop. His shoes didn't want to move.
"I like you far better without a tie on," she said quietly, a hand gently coming to rest upon his chest and caressing the white shirt he wore, along with his suit jacket, void of a tie. "Why have I never told you that before?"
His breath had ceased to come. Like a complete fucking knob, he was just standing there. Standing there and staring.
"Malcolm," she said, laughing softly. "What's wrong?"
A moment or two more passed. Like little eternities.
He finally reached out to touch her face, a bit hesitant to touch her at first. "Absolutely fucking nothing is wrong. Maybe that's what's wrong." She knew what he meant. That whenever he was happy, something went wrong. Something fucked up. But right now, here with her, he'd never imagined it could be this way. And he was just a little bit too drunk to step away from her, like he'd grown accustomed to doing.
"Why don't you kiss me?" she murmured bravely, gazing up at him with a tipsy but determined expression. "I've been waiting for years."
So he did. He kissed her softly, with the tenderness of a man who'd had his heart broken by far too many women. Malcolm Tucker wasn't a gentle man, nor a delicate one. But for her, for her, he could be. For her he found that he was.
Her fingers wove through and through his dark strands of hair as she stood up on tiptoes to reach him. Their breaths commingled, lips eventually parting. She didn't care if the neighbors saw. She didn't care about anything but him in that moment.
When his tongue slipped past her lips, she felt a spark of electricity shoot through her. The desire was almost overwhelming. Oh how long she'd dreamt of this, but the reality was so much better. He smelled like an expensive cologne and familiar aftershave and the tiniest hint of tangerines and liquor.
Eventually, finally, Sam pulled away and laughed softly to herself, if only because she was so fucking happy. "You've left the cabby waiting."
With the air of a man rousing from a long, deep sleep, still feeling so dazed, he drew away and nodded his head. "Right. Yeah. I gotta go." His cheeks were tainted a fair shade of pink, his eyes were dark, his hair a bit mussed. He looked utterly irresistible. If only he knew.
She reached for his lapel to stop him, drawing him back to her and pressing their chests together through their thick overcoats and scarves. "That's not what I meant, numpty," she told him quietly, her lips hovering over his. "Go pay the driver. I'll be inside. I'll put the coffee on. Don't take too long."
His eyes immediately went wide, something that she neither failed to notice nor comment on. She did, however, draw him in for another, longer, slower kiss. "Merry Christmas, Malcolm Tucker."