Author's Note/Disclaimer: I posted this on my tumblr ages ago and I thought I might as well put it here too. Also while there is some pretty foul language in this (as it is a Malcolm fic), there isn't much else that would merit an "M" rating so I'm leaving it "T." Finally, I don't own TTOI
Dangerous
If it had been nearly anyone else, Malcolm probably would've unleashed a highly- imaginative, unquestionably inappropriate torrent of four-letter-words on the person who'd dared to touch him. But it wasn't just anyone—was it?
It was Nicola, and she was fucking exhausted—hence her apparent inability to keep herself awake and her head off Malcolm's own shoulder during their relatively brief car ride.
Somehow Malcolm was able to find a way to tolerate her sleeping on him, though few others would've been allowed that privilege. It probably had something to do with the fact that she was actually fuckin' trying—unlike most of those tossers who couldn't so much as wank their way out of a pornographic marathon, let alone attempt to get something of significance done.
He didn't want to think about the fact that there might be another reason why he was willing to tolerate her head on his shoulder—one that had to do with some very fucking vivid and undeniably inappropriate dreams he'd been having recently. Or perhaps even more disturbing, the indescribable fucking feeling in his stomach he got sometimes when she smiled or fixed him with a particularly intense stare.
Possibly even more disturbingly, it might also have something to do with the fact that Nicola believed in things—unswervingly, passionately, and somewhat irrationally—just as Malcolm had when he'd first started in politics, before he'd become totally disillusioned by the harsh reality of their world. And while he lamented her idealism, he couldn't help but envy it, couldn't help but wish he still believed.
'Fuck you, Tucker. When did you get so fuckin' soft?' Without thinking, he glanced down to the woman on his shoulder and realized he'd all-but-answered his own question.
Of course, he doubted Nicola had "softened" him wholly on her own. He suspected Sam also had something to do with this, as did his niece. But of the three women who'd changed him—personally for the better and politically for the worst—Nicola was the most surprising and the most troubling.
She was…Nicola Murray was everything he should and did hate in a politician. (Well, everything apart from being a sex scandal waiting to happen.) She was vain. She was scatterbrained. She was obstinate as fucking hell. She flat-out-refused to listen to reason. She was only an iota more competent as a minister than a fucking chipmunk in kitten heels would've been. She made Hugh-Fucking-Abbot look like the love child of Churchill and Jesus Christ in comparison.
Fuck her, worst of all she was fucking decent. She wanted to help people, believed it was within her power and duty to help. Words like "integrity" and "honesty" still held meaning for her, even though they'd long ago lost all real meaning for everyone around her. She made Malcolm wish those words still held meaning for him.
She was…dangerous. "Dangerous": a word Malcolm never thought he could ever apply to someone who probably couldn't even kill a spider—let alone "kill" a political adversary—without experiencing a profound, irrational sense of guilt.
Ironically, Nicola Murray was dangerous, simply because the last thing in the world she wanted to be was a danger. Her naivety, decency, her vulnerability, her humanity—the very things that he most despised in Nicola Murray were also the things he most admired. There were times where he just…he wanted to—God help him—protect her from the ugliness of their world. Times when he wanted her to stay unspoiled and unchanged, which was ridiculous since they both knew she needed to wake up and smell the fucking shit-covered roses.
Malcolm kept reminding himself not to get too attached. After all, he had no guarantee of Nicola's continued loyalty. In fact, it was already inevitable that she'd continue to obstinately resist his advice, to follow her own mind and heart rather than sensible path. Eventually, there might come a time when she'd stop listening altogether, when they'd realize they were too different to share any sort of lasting future—professional or personal. A time when there might only be room in Whitehall for one of them, and if that time ever came, Malcolm sure as hell wouldn't let it be Nicola.
Or so he said. So he wanted to think. Something about the damned frizzy-haired basket case made Malcolm wonder if destroying her would mean destroying part of himself as well. The part that contained the vestiges of his foolish idealism that he had somehow managed to retain in this sick, fucking mad world. The part that Nicola—along with Sam and his sister's beautiful bairn—had made Malcolm want to continually cling to, to rebuild in himself even—despite the fact that he knew it was pathetic and dangerous and every kind of fucked-up.
The car hit a sudden bump in the road, and Nicola subconsciously curled herself even further into him, her head completely burying itself into his jacket and her hand spraying itself across his chest.
Malcolm told himself he'd purge this…this fucking shameful, totally inexplicable feeling—this fucking weakness that was Nicola Murray—as soon as he could, before it was too late. But not right now. For the moment, he was going to simply enjoy the sweet scent of her hair, the warmth of her body, the curve of her breast lightly pressed against him. For now, he was going to enjoy this moment, even though he knew that even a few more moments like this had the potential to destroy them both.