A/N: Hello, lovelies! This was sitting 90% finished on my hard drive and with a little encouragement from my phenomenal BBFF Becs, it is now finished and ready for your eyes! Can I say, it was an absolute delight to write these two again.
Disclaimer: I don't own them. I also don't own the title or the chapter titles, which I've pinched from The National lyrics. Any technical and police jurisdictional errors are my bad.
Hope you enjoy! x
Chapter 1
Everything I love is on the table
"Malcolm." Ollie's voice is tight, panicked, and Malcolm is already on edge. There is chaos in the background. Multiple news channels playing at once. Malcolm can pick out one of the BBC presenters and a Sky reporter competing for volume. "There's a situation at G8. We can't find Nicola."
"What do you fucking mean, Oliver?" Malcolm's voice is razor sharp, the implicit threat in the use of the younger man's full name clear to him. Normally Malcolm would joke about the younger man's competence, 'Well, Ollie, if you weren't the political equivalent of Windows '98 running on a shiny new computer you fucking might know where to find her', but Malcolm can hear the seriousness in Ollie's tone.
"I mean she's - missing, Malcolm. There's some kind of hostage situation going on and we can't get contact."
Malcolm feels as though someone has sliced open his head and poured ice over his brain. He thinks he can actually feel the Earth grinding to a halt beneath his feet.
"Look, we know basically nothing. I don't know what you want me to say - I don't know what I should say in this situation."
Malcolm is enraged by Ollie's inability to find the right words, but the truth is, Malcolm's not sure what they are either. There's not a correct answer, other than 'Just kidding, here she is! This is a massive hoax and Nicola's not in the middle of a hostage situation at G8. Next week she's going to be complaining about how much mud there is on the mandatory post-G8-holiday and once again posing for photos beside unhappy horses.'
He knows this answer is not forthcoming.
"What are the options? What does MI5 have? Protection Command?"
"Well, - "
"No fucking 'wells', Ollie! What do we know that isn't on the fucking news?" For once Ollie understands why Malcolm is yelling at him.
"Internal explosion. They think there's been an internal explosion. Nothing big enough to cause visible damage to the building but the press outside heard it. Apparently there's some kind of localised seismic activity that the local security forces have picked up."
"Fuck."
For possibly the first time in his life, Malcolm Tucker feels completely powerless.
"Malcolm - "
"Shut it. Fucking shut it, Ollie. Who's accounted for?"
"The German crew have made contact with their guys. The Americans are telling us fuck all but they don't even let her take a shit without eyes on her so I'd say America. Japan, Italy, and Russia have checked in. That's all we know.
"So she's off somewhere in the middle of a fucking terrorist attack with the French and the fucking Canadians? Jesus Christ, just strap me down and bash me with a fucking cricket bat. The surrender monkeys and the international fucking apologists!"
"Look, the chances are she's with the rest."
"She's a fucking walking catastrophe, Ollie! She probably got distracted by some fucking - Faberge eggs on her way to a panic room! Jesus."
"I know she's the pin-up for self induced disaster but Protection Command isn't. They'll keep her safe, Malc. They've brought her home through shit like this before."
"We've never lost her in a fucking hostage situation before."
"We lost Tom. They looked after Tom. I know this is hard for someone as pathologically incapable of trusting other human beings as you are, but you need to let them do their job right now. They're trained for this."
"Well you're trained to shit golden policy eggs but it doesn't fucking seem to have helped you. You're the most deformed goose in all of fucking Whitehall!"
"Look. Malcolm. I know you're upset right now - "
"Don't you fucking patronise me, Oliver - "
" - But for once you need to keep your shit together and behave like a fucking person, alright?"
When in fuck's name did Ollie start talking to him like this? Malcolm launches on a tirade, shouting "DON'T - !" into the phone. But then Malcolm deflates somewhat from the rant he'd been about to go on. Ollie is right. Malcolm isn't helping. He's not bringing her back faster. He rakes a hand over his face, massaging his throbbing head as best he can. "Call me when you hear anything - and I mean anything, Oliver."
"Of course. And Malc? I know this is monstrously, colossally unfair but, SO1 has asked you to stay off her phone."
"Excuse me?" The Scot's tone alone is positively lethal, and Ollie knows his place well enough to be gentle.
"They've asked you not to call her. They're trying to do some technical thing to her phone and they want to keep the line clear."
"She's my fucking wife, Ollie." Malcolm mumbles. He is no longer furious and fuming, and this may be the first time in Ollie's experience of Malcolm where he has been nothing more than a scared husband. "And at the risk of ruinin' my reputation let me say that there are not enough fucking words to describe how much I need her to be alrigh'. And yer tellin' me I can't even fucking call her?"
"I'm not making the rules here, Malcolm. I'm just trying to get her home safely the best way I know how. And right now that's listening to SO1."
Malcolm doesn't like to think when Ollie fucking Reeder started being logical and, god forbid, even correct about things, but he objects to it in the strongest terms. "I know, mate. I know."
"Do you want me to send the helicopter?"
"If it's not already in the fucking air I'll wring that bony chicken neck of yours the second I set a single fucking breath within a hundred yards of Number 10."
"Good, good to know."
"Anything you find out - "
"I will call you the second I know anything, Malcolm, I swear." Malcolm hangs up before Ollie can say another word, and Ollie would be lying if he said he wasn't a little relieved.
"Is he gonna call her?" Mitchell The Man From MI5 asks, looking up from a blueprint of Novo-Ogaryovo and scrutinising Ollie.
"Of course he fucking is. Wouldn't you?"
