A/N: So, somehow this is what happened to in my imagination after I watched the Doctor Who 50th Anniversary. A Thick of It story. This is the first I've posted, and it should definitely be taken as some degree of crackfic. I hope you enjoy, I had fun with it.

Pair: Malcolm/Nicola

Set: Post series

Spoilers: None

Nightmares

by

Tricki

With an audible gasp, Nicola Murray sits bolt upright in bed, trying to remember where she is, trying to regain her calm. One of her hands is balled so tightly in the sheets that it's beginning to cramp. Her bedroom is coming slowly back into focus, but her heart is still pounding in her chest, adrenalin coursing through her veins.

A gravelly, sleep-thickened Scottish accent floats over at her, mumbling "Nic', you okay?"

She knows the shortening of her name indicates that his level of wakefulness is not high. Nicola swallows hard, wishing her arms would stop tingling, mentally barking 'just calm the fuck down woman, it was only a dream.'

She feels a fine fingered hand settle on her lower back and her muscles relax a modicum.

"D'you want to talk abou' it?" He asks, slightly more cognisant now.

"Oh it was so stupid. You know that statue that you walk past when you go into the - ?" She is drawing it with her hand in the darkness, and he knows exactly what she means.

"Yeah yeah yeah, the religiousy bullshitty one near yer office."

"Right. Well I - it's so silly, really. I dreamt that it was one of those... crying angel things from Doctor Who." Malcolm has the good sense to suppress his laughter, merely because

a) she is trembling beneath his hand, and not in the way he likes, and

b) that statue is reasonably unnerving.

Nicola drops her head into her hand, tangling her fingers through her hair. "And then there were just more and more of them, and I couldn't look at all of them and then they - "

"Ssshhh. Shush, pet." Malcolm mumbles, tugging Nicola down onto his chest and running a soothing hand over her back.

"God, Malcolm it was horrible. And it was such a stupid thing to be so horrible. And the hot Scottish one didn't save me, and the one my children have awkward sexual feelings for didn't save me - Jesus, what am I like?" The last she laughs shortly, bemused at how upset she is by a stupid nightmare. Nightmares usually don't upset her this much, except on the rare occasion she dreams of someone she loves dying. Dreaming of fictional monsters should not be up there with that dream where Malcolm gets shot and all her hair spontaneously falls out.

Malcolm smoothes a hand over her hair, bringing her more tightly to his side. The faint salty smell of his skin and the peppery remnants of his deodorant work wonders to calm her, to unknot her muscles, to remind her that this is real and her dream was not. Malcolm is here; nothing that has been or ever will appear on Doctor Who is. Nicola winds an arm around his narrow torso, squeezing him more tightly than is comfortable for either of them and not caring. There are lips being pressed to the crown of her head, and Malcolm feels her lips quirk gently against his chest. Confident that she's in a better state to converse, he decides to broach an issue.

"Now, let's get something straight, Murray. If anyone is ever going to fucking swoop in and save you, I am that fucking person. Not some cock-faced wanker of an actor pretending to be a space man. And just by the way, if you ever - ever - deign to refer to anyone other than me as 'the hot Scottish one' again, you will be sleeping on the sofa." He would like to say he is eighty-two percent teasing. Unfortunately, if he's honest, it's closer to twenty-three percent.

While Malcolm had the good grace to suppress his laughter earlier, the same cannot be said for his other half, whose body begins gently shaking with amusement against his.

"Oh, darling, you really don't need to be jealous of David Tennant. Even if he does have exquisite hair."

"Hey - I could have fucking been David Tennant. Instead I chose to better the world - "

"By becoming a spin doctor?"

"I - yes. At least it was for the right fuckin' side!"

The false start does not escape Nicola's notice, and she laughs at his indignation before teasingly mumbling "Hmmm, oh David..."

"If you continue wittering like that, Nicola," his words are slow and precise; he fully articulates her name rather than affectionately dropping the 'o' as he usually does. "I can hones'ly promise you, the only time you will have access to these hands or this mouth will be in your very best dreams."

Once more, Nicola laughs, this time in disbelief. "Are you actually threatening me with withholding sex? Did that just happen?"

"You're damn fuckin' right it happened! I am not going to use my god given sexual prowess on a woman who would clearly have the RSAD boy wonder between her legs." One of Malcolm's hands has fluttered from her body and is gesturing grandiosely into the darkness. Nicola really should not find this quite as amusing as she does.

"Oh, I'm sure my Tennant related fantasies would keep me warm at night..." She listens for the audible pop of Malcolm's brain exploding, but, sadly, it does not come.

"This heap of frump is all mine." He says it affectionately, prodding her in the waist before settling his hand over her hip; she chooses to take it as the backwards-Malcolm-compliment it is. This does not stop her from retorting with a matter-of-fact "David would never say things like that to me."

In an instant, Malcolm has flipped them both over and is hovering over her, eliciting a little yelp of delighted surprise from Nicola. Before she can even begin to process the situation, Malcolm's mouth is on hers, and god, she'd never tell him, but she would miss his mouth if he made good on his threat. The very talented mouth in question moves across her cheek and Malcolm nips at her pulse point. Nicola tries to suppress a little moan, because it's simply not fair what he can do to her even after this long, and she has no intention of making him anymore cocksure than he already is.

However, when he mumbles roughly in her ear "Why don't we spend the rest of the night examining the things the good Mr Tennant won't do to you, eh pet?" she is already gone. She wants to punctuate his ministrations with little comments about the actor who's brought them to this point, but like this, with his nimble fingers dancing over her body so adroitly, she can hardly summon a coherent thought to mind, let alone muster the ability to tease him.

x

Nicola never dreams of Weeping Angels again after that night. While David Tennant does occasionally grace her sleeping self with his presence, she knows, if it actually came down to it, some masochistic part of her would always rather have Malcolm Tucker.

Clearly, she is in dire need of the services of a mental health professional.