Malcolm was nursing a cup of tea when there came a knock at his door. It was well past eight o'clock — far too late to be his sister and his nieces.
Four days ago, he had been released from prison. Eight months of absolute, pure hell. He was slowly adjusting to "civilian life" again. It would just take some time. Months and months of living on a schedule would do that to you. But it felt like fucking heaven to be home again. He'd just eaten his dinner, was watching a bit of news on the telly. It felt… glorious, to say the least.
At the sound of a knock at his door, he set aside his tea and rose to his feet. The familiar face at the other side of his door came as a right, proper surprise. Sam Cassidy was standing on his stoop, a hopeful expression on her face.
"Sam? What the fuck're you doing here?" he asked in that natural, charming way of his.
They had kept in touch, of course. She'd gotten another job, but she kept in touch with Malcolm. She even came to visit him in jail a handful of times. But seeing her there, on his stoop, was an altogether beautiful sight. He'd fucking missed her.
She laughed. She outright laughed at him. Brushing him aside gently, she came into his flat and closed the door behind her, if only to be polite. "I wanted you to make sure you were okay," she said quietly.
His small flat was immaculate, just as he'd always kept it. His sister must have come by and cleaned quite a bit before he was released. To her knowledge, his lovely sister — Janet — had been the one to keep his flat in an alright shape while he was away, anyway.
A look of confusion crossed his features, eyes following her into the foyer as she stood there. "That's fine and all," he said slowly, "but what're you doing here at half past eight in the evening? Bit late, isn't it? London isn't exactly a safe place, pet."
She came over to him, gently touching his chest. "I was nervous," she told him quietly.
This wasn't the Sam he knew. What had changed?
Before he could ask, she continued to speak. "I actually wanted to come by for dinner," she told him, brows drawn together. "Have you eaten?"
What a fucking whirlwind. He ran a hand through his grayer, longer hair and cast a look down in her direction. A gentle look, something that he'd only ever reserved for her and family.
"I have," he replied. "I've eaten. What're you so nervous about, you daft bint? It's just me. I'm not some hardened criminal now because I spent some time in prison…"
Their gazes connected and suddenly there was fire crackling, electricity between them. The old Malcolm was still there. Maybe he'd gotten some of his old self back, since he'd been in prison. Maybe he'd finally gotten the break from politics that he deserved — however fucking terrible the reasons had been. He was home now.
She leaned in closer, two hands finding his chest and brushing along the fleece jumper he wore. It made his eyebrows draw together, his cheeks flush, and his lips part — as if he wanted to say something but he couldn't find the words. "For two-hundred and forty-three days I've thought about this," she whispered quietly, reaching up to lay her lips on his.
It was a long, slow kiss. Something about the way she'd said the days — counted them out, even — caught him somewhere deep, somewhere personal.
For so long, for so many years, he'd loved this woman. She felt so out of his realm. So out of his depth. He couldn't believe this was happening.
His lips began to return the kiss, eyes falling shut, even as his brows flew upwards in utter, complete disbelief. "Sam—" Her name was a tender whisper, gentler than she'd ever heard from his lips. The delicacy behind it almost broke her heart. Two masculine, pale hands rose to cup her cheeks, to draw her closer as he drank her in, warm lips parting for her kiss.
She backed him up to the wall, relishing in the way he so easily gave in for her. Malcolm Tucker was all brimstone and fire and control — and yet he was submitting to her as readily and effortlessly as could be. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever thought it could be this way.
That could only mean one thing — that he yearned and ached for this as deeply as she also did. That they wanted each other. That they craved one another beyond words. That he'd probably, at least even once, thought about this during his long months in jail.
It took her days to come here. Days to find her courage. Days to tell herself that she had to tell him how much she loved him. Days.
You're kissing your old boss, you're kissing your old boss, you're kissing your old boss. The words seemed to ring through her mind. And he's kissing you back. He's kissing you back. Hands, lips, teeth, tongue. Oh, god. He's kissing you back.
As if on cue, his hands were suddenly all over her and her only response was to moan. She'd only ever dreamt of feeling those rough fingers along her warm skin in that way. Cupping her, holding her,cradling her.
He had protected her from beginning to end. From the day she began working for him, to the day she'd lost her grandmother, the day he was fired, the day he fucked over Nicola Murray. Every day. Every. Single. Day.
Throughout all of it — as reckless as he was at times, stupidly so — he still protected her. It was how he told her that he loved her.
And now it was his turn to moan, as she rubbed their bodies together and wound her arms about his frail shoulders — and really, it worried her, how much weight he'd lost in prison. He was always quite lithe, and he always had been, but he was far older-looking now. Frailer. Skinnier. So much thinner. And she hated it with every fiber of her being.
Something changed in that moment. She felt it, but couldn't explain it.
"Sam—" It was a groan against her lips, and she was afraid to draw away for fear of breaking the spell. All she could do was press her body to his and mumble, "Don't ask me to stop, please. I've wanted you for years. Even if it's just this once, let me have you. I know you want this, too. Just wanna make you feel good, let you feel alive again."
There was a pause as he drew away, despite being wedged between her and the wall. "Sam," he urged her, "stop." It was a plea. Something about it yanked her back to the present and she pulled away as if she'd been stuck by fire.
"Just stop," he said weakly. And for a moment, he sagged against the wall in his hallway. The spark of his old self that she'd seen earlier was seemingly gone now, replaced by a much older, wearier look and a trembling hand as it ran across his aged features. But the desire was there, crackling in the air between them like a static electricity. Her eyes fell briefly to the unmistakable bulge in his denim trousers, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.
He wanted her.
What was the problem?
She just stood there, awaiting some sort of response. Something. Anything.
"We shouldn't do this," he began slowly, eyes bravely rising to her features after a few soft breaths. "We shouldn't. We could just pretend this never happened. Blame it on exhaustion, yeah? Blame it on us just being… happy I'm home. Happy I'm out of fucking prison, right? Go home, Sam. It's late."
After the long months without him, she nearly shattered on the spot. What was his fucking problem? Why was he being this way? They'd known one another for over ten years. And throughout it all, they've loved one another. Sod him for denying it.
Her eyes grew hot and teary, a look of utter disbelief passing over her features. He almost reached out for her but eventually thought better of it.
"I don't want to blame this on being tired, Malcolm," she said as she found her voice, despite the lump in her throat. "I don't want to leave. The last place I want to be is home, all alone. I want to be here. I want to be where you are."
The crease in his brow was obvious. It stung. She'd hurt him. Even the Mighty Malcolm Tucker had his soft spots. And apparently all of them involved her.
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," he told her. "I'm sorry I kissed you back. Now go home. I'm sorry." There was something in his eyes. She couldn't quite put her finger on it but it was dark and she guessed it was self-loathing. Was he angry with himself? Was he feeling like he wasn't good enough for a lass like her? Well, she had a thing or two to say about that.
"What did I do?" she asked him, afraid to move away and afraid to leave. "Do you feel like you aren't enough? Is this because you were in prison? Is this because… Oh, I don't fucking know. Malcolm, just talk to me."
He opened the door. "Fucking Christ," he mumbled. "Leave."
Never once in their many long years had Malcolm ever taken that tone with her. He spat venom at everyone else. He was volcanic and torrential with everyone else, but never with her. And in that moment, it occurred to her — he really might not have wanted this.
Maybe he didn't want her anymore. Not like he used to, anyway.
Her lower lip began to wobble. But Sam — oh, strong little Samantha — she left with her head held high, even if her dignity was in tatters. She didn't look back at him once, didn't even flinch as he slammed his flat door in her wake.
He simply stood there, back against his closed door, and allowed himself a long, low groan. What the fuck just happened between them? He'd dreamt of kissing her for years. But when it finally happened, something inside of him shattered. He was terrified of disappointing her. Terrified that she would see him for the weary old man that he'd become.
He wouldn't be able to fix this, and he certainly wouldn't be able to explain his feelings to her. And what's more — he had a feeling she wouldn't be coming back.