A/N: The following story is from a tumblr prompt requesting a Malcolm/Clara coffee shop AU. This is the end result, after the story got away from me and took on a life of its own.


Clara and the Cup o' Cussuccino

What do you do when you go from being a top behind-the-scenes player in the government to a prison parolee in the course of eight months?

For Malcolm Tucker, it was an interesting dilemma. He didn't want to whore himself out to the fucking press—he was done with that. They were his closest allies until they weren't, because there's something acerbically, morbidly satisfying about destroying one of your own when you're in the business of information, and he was not going to let that bite him in the pasty arse again. He wanted to start fresh, with a second career that wouldn't gnaw out his soul and feast on his innards and leave him with nothing but an empty husk. Having been put through the wringer for what ultimately amounted to a tarnished name and a lifetime's worth of work down the drain, he knew that what he needed to do would not only give him a release for all the stress that he had built up over the years, but a way to still remain his caustic, Caledonian self.

His brother suggested he write a series of self-motivation books. Naw; too many logistical problems.

His nieces and nephew thought that the best choice was becoming the foulest-mouthed talk show host in all of telly. Tempting, but it would involve being marginally nice to people he wouldn't normally be caught dead with, all because their agent booked it. Not a go.

His sister and brother-in-law wanted him to see about giving lectures on the political system at their university. Same problem as with the nips'.

His father wanted him to meditate and reflect on what he had been doing with his life's work. Fucking fuck, Da—get off me back already, and don't back him again, Mam.

What he ended up choosing surprised even his family, and that was saying something.


Shoreditch.

Trendy, gentrified, bloody Shoreditch.

She had only gone and applied to Coal Hill Secondary School as a joke when she had finished exams at uni, a thing to fill time, yet it ended up being the only place that called her back on her CV. Now, as what seemed to be karma being incredibly unfair, Clara Oswald was getting ready to complete her ninth year of teaching baby hipsters, hipsters' babies, and those in the precarious situation of being taught English literature before they had a complete grasp on the English language itself. The kids couldn't help it, really, and most of them genuinely did try their best (and oh, the satisfied, glorious feeling of watching when the kids got it would remind her why she chose teaching to begin with), but when one's job involves reverse-parenting and overcoming multiple language barriers at once for hours on-end, no one blamed her for the occasional job hunt and looking forward to the summer holiday a wee bit more than she would ever admit.

Early March that year was being particularly chilly and damp, so when she saw that the sun had popped out when she was leaving the school building, Clara took it as her opportunity to get a decent walk in. There was a bus stop several blocks over that was on her route and it was the perfect distance away for when she was feeling a bit sluggish. It had been a while since she had taken a walk, and with every heeled step on the pavement she could feel her frustrations with the mechanisms of life vanish bit by bit. Eventually she slowed her pace and glanced around, seeing what was new in the neighborhood.

Not much seemed to catch her eye… that was until she saw "Cup o' Cussuccino". It was a tiny place sandwiched between a vegan grocer and a yoga studio, with a chalk sandwich-board on the pavement that read "Today's Special: Just F*cking Ask, You Tit". She chuckled at that, tempted enough by the silliness of it all to walk in.

"Come the fuck in or fuck the fuck off," a voice called out soon as she entered. It was gravelly, Glasgow, and definitely a guy. Clara went towards the counter and saw a grey-haired, beaky man in an apron arranging pastries in the display case.

"I take it you're the proprietor?" she asked with a smirk.

"First one to guess that all day, honest," he scoffed. The man closed the case door and looked at Clara, his pale eyes betraying his amusement. "You don't look like the average Shoreditchian."

Clara had to think about that for a moment—oh, yeah, she had walked out the door in business-conservative that day due to a scheduled visit from the Ministry of Education. "I teach secondary school down the road and my superiors want to make the children can pay attention to their Behn, Burns, and Brontë." He grinned at that, leaning on the pastry case with a sort of casual ease.

"To do that you'd need to be in a fucking burqa, and not even that's a guarantee, if you don't mind my saying," he said, holding out his hand. "Malcolm."

"Clara." She shook his hand and glanced at the menu board. "So what, may I ask, is a 'Just Fucking Ask, You Tit'?"

"My version of there not being one," he replied. "What would you like?"

"Single cappuccino and one of those lovely-looking tarts here," she said, pointing in the case.

"Coming up." He turned around and started working on the cappuccino while Clara began to dig through her purse. "Take a seat."

"Shouldn't I pay first?"

"Make sure you keep the nips literate and the first one's on me."

Not one to turn down free food, Clara sat down by the window and watched as a group of teens came into the building. A couple were some students of hers while the others she at least recognized as belonging to the hallowed and horny halls of Coal Hill. She scrolled through the news on her mobile while she waited on her order, eventually delivered by Malcolm himself.

"Leave it when you're done," he said, placing the tray in front of her. He went back to the kids, leaving her to look at the free snack. There was a heart in the cappuccino foam, which made her chuckle inwardly as she drank it. It might've been a bit obvious, or it was the only pattern he could make. Either way she looked at it, the gesture was certainly amusing.

She left amongst a flurry of customers and cuss words, knowing that she would be back.


Later that night, after marking and dinner for one and even more marking, Clara sat on her computer doing a bit of research on Malcolm of Cup o' Cussuccino. What she found surprised her: a short prison sentence after a government scandal that resulted in him perjuring, complete abandonment from a political party he spent nearly half his life working for, and first-hand accounts that made it apparent that he was going soft on his clientele. Completely baffled, she printed out a couple news stories and approached him the following morning, when she walked by the shop and found it empty save for himself.

"Did you mean to do it?" she asked, voice cracking.

"That's a pretty fucking loaded question," he scowled. She could tell that he knew what was on the papers without even so much as glancing at them. "Narrow it down."

"Did you mean to terrorize those people?"

"Since it was the last resort when getting them to do their fucking jobs? Yes."

"Did you mean to perjure?"

"Fuck no—that's career suicide for anyone, my sort more so."

"Did you mean to leak that man's NHS number?"

"I'm a lot of things, love, but a monster ain't one." He furrowed his brow and leaned towards her slightly, bringing his voice low in case someone else walked in the door. "I may look and sound the part, but that would have impacted that man's family. Even if leaking his number was an option at that point, it wouldn't've taught him a lesson for attempting to fuck with things he couldn't comprehend. Tickell had a wife, kids, parents, and they were already in pain when that number was leaked. They did nothing wrong—why would I punish someone like that when they're already paying in ways they never deserved in the first place?"

"Then why did you have it?"

"Part of procedure when a non-political starts getting themselves in the mix, to make sure they're not a potential danger to anyone's wellbeing; shame it ended up being only towards his own. I can assure you that the Government had it, but it's now shredded and forgotten like some cheap porn novel. That sort of thing is always researched on both sides, but never exposed… not unless it could prevent a disaster. The timing would have been off to do that—he acted sooner than anyone anticipated and became a martyr in the process. He was supposed to die a hero."

"…and what, may I ask, is the difference in the world of politics?"

Malcolm considered her, impressed by the distinction she made. "A hero dies old, in their bed, having made their dealings with the political system and surviving. A martyr's career dies, either with them or in front of them, exposing their open veins to the world."

"Are you a martyr?"

"Fuck no—I'm the fucking sacrificial goat. Meeeeh, meeeeh, nobody cared when I was publically gutted and roasted on a spit. Political martyrs can always spin their way into another public career—or pay to have it done for them—while nobody fucking cares about the goat once he's slaughtered and his fucking bones have been sucked clean. No one sees the good he did, only the bad, and that is the end of him and his public career, forcing him to pick up what's left of his carcass and figure out what to do with it all. They fucked this goat like a lonely shepherd, and sacrificing him was the perfect way to hide their depravity."

The bells attached to the front door jingled and a woman with a seafoam-green sideshave, jeans, thick-framed glasses, and a tutu walked in while tapping away on her mobile. Clara and Malcolm stared at one another in silence, the tension awkward.

"Latte and Manchester tart to-go, please," she finally said. He nodded, she paid, and he took Sideshave Tutu's order. Clara left immediately after getting her stuff, nearly storming out the front door.

Well, that was that.


Two days later and, to Malcolm's complete and utter surprise, Clara returned. It was after she got off of work, right before the late-afternoon rush, and she brought her marking with her. She ordered a sandwich and regular coffee with milk and sugar, setting herself up in a corner so that she could mark in peace. When the rush was over, Malcolm noticed that she was still there, still marking and having finished her sandwich and drained her cup. He took another sandwich and coffee to her, along with one for himself, and sat across the table from her.

"Thank you for coming," he said quietly. "It means more than you know."

"Thank you for the extra order," she replied. Clara picked up her coffee and lifted it towards him in a silent toast before taking a sip. They sat in silence, him eating and her marking, before it was finally too much for Malcolm.

"Why did you come back?"

"The food's good, the coffee's good, and so far I've only paid half the time—not all bad if you ask me."

He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding eye contact. "Yeah, I guess so."

"The flirting's nice," she added.

"Used to do it a lot in my past career, if you'd believe it," he chuckled. "At least, it would have been flirting in any other context; it's surprising what will scare the fucking shit out of people, and sometimes that's one of 'em."

"Funny—I don't feel particularly terrified."

"That's because you don't seem like much of a cock-up. Cock-ups don't teach Restoration homoerotism, poems by a Scottish farmboy, and Irish-Cornish sisters known for passion back when that was unladylike, all in a state school. You're no cock-up… unless we were talking about making cocks go up…"

"Ha, nice try." She tossed him a cheeky smile and sipped her coffee. "Unavailable until further notice."

"Who's the lucky sack of skin, then?" he wondered. It didn't surprise him that she was spoken for, though the answer to his question did find him slightly off-guard.

"Let's just say that if this were another time, I'd still be wearing plenty of black."

"Oh… sorry." He took a large bite of his sandwich to prevent himself from saying anything else, worried that his cuntish ways from days gone by would automatically make him blurt out the exact opposite from what she should have heard out of him.

"No harm done; remember, not dwell, yeah?"

"Yeah. At least it wasn't divorce—you don't even have the comfort in knowing who you thought was the love of your life has turned into sloppy fucking seconds when it comes to that."

"Ouch," she grimaced. "A bit messy?"

"Messy don't even fucking begin, darling." The sleigh bells attached to the door and drew his attention away as a businessman in jeans and a blazer came in with an order so large that the only explanation was that the usual intern was out sick. Clara watched Malcolm as he put together the man's order and nearly bollocked him out the door—that was certainly the place's shtick.

"Ever think about hiring someone else on?"

"Nah… at least not for now. It keeps my mind focused." He took another sip of coffee and leaned back in his chair, enjoying the rest it gave his back. "Who was this gallant steed that would have kept you in mourning all the way until now?" She looked back at him with big, sad eyes, clearly remembering and glad he even bothered to ask.

"His name was Danny Pink…"


"So why a coffee shop?"

Malcolm glanced over at Clara, pausing his cleaning of the espresso machine. She was marking papers in her usual seat, rain from the extra-British weather they were experiencing hitting the windowpanes, both keeping other customers away and her inside, with them being the only two in the shop.

"Lots of people need their fucking coffee in order to not be complete wastes of space during the day—why not?" he posed. "'Sides, it'll be good for the nips."

That made her raise an eyebrow. "You have kids?"

"Two nieces and a nephew," he elaborated. He thought about continuing, and then did so. "My sister is moving to Chicago for a couple years to teach some courses in Celtic society; hubby's going, but they don't want their kids getting Americanized. Brother's a single da and is getting a promotion that involves lots of long-term travel, despite already dumping his girl off at our sister's for a couple weeks at a time for the travel he does now."

"…and Uncle Malcolm's simply volunteered to take them all on?"

"If the clientele fucking cooperates, then yeah. Next term."

Clara had set her marking pen down by now, paying as much attention to Malcolm as she could. He had never divulged this much information in one go before, and she was acutely aware that she should pay attention. "I remember staying at Gran's a lot when I was younger; that not a good option, I take it?"

"My parents are fine on their own for the present, but they don't need to look after three tweens that are bound to be hell-raisers if what genetics are telling me pans out. A Man o' the Kirk don't need that sort of stress in his life, so his wayward eldest boy might as well take the load off of him so he can keep concentrating on his dying flock. It'll make me feel less like I missed out in the end, anyhow."

"…missed out on…?"

"C'mon—donnae take a genius to figure that one out." He went back to cleaning the machine, letting her ponder his words. They liked one another for their smarts, so that was all he needed to say to confirm her suspicion.

"It really did take a lot out of you, didn't it?" she wondered. "Concentrating on your job?"

"Knew from the start that the bloody career would take so much fucking out of me that I'd be more of a sperm donor than a da, so I tried not to think about it too much… which worked out considering how my marriage panned out. You think, then you want, and just because someone wants something doesn't mean that they need, let alone deserve, it."

"I've heard of people not knowing what it is they desire until it's no longer in reach."

"Naw, it's better this way. Trust me," he said, adding a half a chuckle.

It was not enough to convince Clara, though she dropped the conversation and picked up her pen again. The subject was obviously a sore one and she understood that sore subjects needed time to open up. She was halfway through the page when she stopped to snicker, which caught his attention again.

"What?"

"I'm sorry, but I don't know whether it's weird or perfect that you're the son of a minister."

That got him to laugh too, genuinely this time. "Yeah; imagine the shock on his face when I said I wanted to get into journalism and politics instead of theology. Elsie and David didn't follow his path either, so it's their poor nips that are feeling the pressure. They're Tuckers though—they can handle it."

"Made of the tough stuff?"

"When they come to London, they can be whatever the fuck they want to be, long as they don't destroy themselves or others," he beamed. "M'parents mean well, I'll give 'em that, but considering how they acted when I dabbled in punk? Nips and prunes alike need to be out of the line of fire when the hormones start flying."

"…and because you speak both languages, you're the intermediary?"

"Exactly." He glanced over at her, seeing how intrigued her expression was. "You got nieces or nephews? I didn't think you'd have kids of your own, or you wouldn't be visiting my sorry arse to drop money so often."

"No kids and was an only child myself," she shrugged. "It's a bit lonely at times, but not bad."

"Students turn you off to having kids of your own, I take it?"

"Turned me off from having those kids; my own would be more well-behaved in general and only sass their teachers back when they genuinely deserve it." She threw him a smile and gestured at the paper she was in the middle of marking. "Still doesn't mean I don't love it when the kids I have now do succeed. The world gets a bit brighter, you know?"

"Was like that every time a politician didn't shit their pants in front of the media."

"You must have been so proud."

They shared a laugh at that and returned to working, the sound of the outside rain and the banging of metal coffeeware the only sounds that went between them for a long time.


It was a very, very busy day.

When Clara had arrived after work that afternoon, she found the little coffee shop absolutely swamped with customers. She saw Malcolm both taking orders as well as filling them—how he wasn't mixing up everything out of the enormous pressure of the situation was beyond her—and she sprang into action without so much as a second thought. Going behind the counter, she set her bag and purse in an empty space between bottles of reserve flavor syrup and gently shoved the proprietor aside as he attempted to re-man the register.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Malcolm growled lowly in her ear. Clara simply pointed back towards the drink machines.

"Continue filling orders over there and I'll keep things under control here," she said.

"…but you don't…!"

"Consider this payment for last week's sandwiches." She then turned towards the next customer in line and began to take their order, grabbing a bag to shove a croissant in as they spoke.

Hours passed, the crowd not letting up, until it was finally closing time and Malcolm felt alright about bollocking any leftover stragglers into fucking the fuck off until the following morning. Once the building was clear and the door was locked, he turned towards Clara, who was cleaning up the condiments counter.

"Why the fuck did you do that?" he wondered. "You don't work here."

"You're right—I don't—but you were dying out there," she replied with a frown. "Don't you ever have help? You can't possibly do everything yourself."

"It's safer than relying on others who end up cocking it up and disappointing me in the end."

"Uh-huh, sure." She turned to face him and folded her arms over her chest, shifting her weight to one hip. "You're going to run yourself ragged going like this. There's barely even time for prepwork in your schedule."

"Being a former workaholic has its benefits later on in life," he said. "I do most of my prepwork all day on Sunday, as well as Wednesday and Thursday nights. I might bake shit fresh every morning, but only after extensive usage of the fridge and freezer."

"…and no one can tell the difference?"

"Not a one."

Clara studied Malcolm, frankly astounded at his work ethic. She never thought he was a lazy man by any means, but this… this was above what she had ever thought.

Wait a second…

"Your nieces and nephew are coming in late August, yeah?" she asked, a smirk on her face.

"Yeah…? Why?"

"Chances are that you don't have the time to clean up and get your place ready for them, with you working all the time," she figured. "I have some extra time on my hands—and a lot of it soon enough—would you like a part-timer who already has a knack for home-baking?"

"Wouldn't that be a step down for you?"

"Isn't it for you?"

"I own a business."

"…and I am about to have two months of going stir-crazy. Might as well stay in the workforce and not get too lazy."

Malcolm paused, then scowled. "That rhymed."

"I'm a literature teacher—it's a standard feature."

Not wanting to dignify that with a response, Malcolm stared at Clara, considering her offer. She made sense, which wasn't a big shock, and it could possibly be the relief he needed in order to get the flat ready. The rooms needed painting and some decent furniture and…

Fucking fuck, she had him there.


School had ended for the summer the day before, meaning that Clara showed up to Cup o' Cussuccino promptly at quarter after five in the morning. She found the back door unlocked and walked in to see Malcolm taking trays out of the walk-in freezer and placing them on a counter.

"Ovens are preheating," he said in greeting. "Wash your hands, get that apron off the peg, and you can start prepping the chocolate for drizzling, checking the berries for faults, shelling the peanuts—" He was cut off by a knock at the door. "That must be Yousif with the day's coffee delivery; fucking cunt is going to drive me up the fucking wall one of these fucking days with how fucking early he is…"

He went to answer the door and the two men began throwing colorful, fun-loving insults at one another, starting the day's tone off with the sort of language Clara had become accustomed to while being on the premises. She went to the tubs of berries on the counter and began to sort through them; he had sacrificed his pride just in time, it seemed. Just a quick glance around the kitchen showed how much needed to be done and it was probably a good thing that she was there to help.

Forty-five minutes and the shop opened, the first customer letting herself in directly at six o'clock and ordering a large plain coffee and a strawberry pastry, paying with exact change. Every so often Clara would emerge from the back of the shop with trays of treats for the quickly-emptying case and helped out at the register, selling venti drinks that Malcolm subsequently whipped up and all sorts of pastries and sandwiches and other food that everyone snatched in their hunger. There was very little time to rest until the end of the night, after the doors were locked and the open sign turned off.

"For it being your first day, you did pretty well," Malcolm snarked. Clara was sitting in a chair near the back of the shop, slumped down far enough to nearly fall out.

"I remembered working in a café being a different sort of difficult from teaching, but that one afternoon shift did nothing to prepare me," she admitted. The idea to take off her shoes flickered across her mind, quickly snuffed out when she remembered how filthy the floor was since it was still unmopped.

"Still think I'm gonna keep yeh," he said. "You're not only competent, but the décor's leagues better now."

"Ha, ha… very funny."

"At least you know that it's genuine."

"Yeah, yeah… what do you need me to do for cleanup?" she asked.

"Just wipe down the counters, the inside of the cold case, and mop the floor—I've got the kitchen and the coffee machines," he said. "I'm not too worried, tomorrow being Sunday and all, so you can do it when you come back tomorrow, if you'd like."

"No—might as well get it done now while I'm here; not every night is going to be a Saturday night," she decided. Malcolm nodded and went into the back, allowing her to get to work. The front of the shop—aside from the coffee machines that were genuinely too tall for her to reach properly—was spotless when she left half an hour later, and half an hour after that she crashed into her bed wondering when it was she last went to sleep this early without being sick.

She wasn't awake long enough to figure it out.


"Thank you for visiting Cup o' Cussuccino; now kindly fuck the fuck off."

It was a moderately-busy weekday and things were going smoothly. Clara had eased into her new job almost seamlessly, once she had gotten over the initial shock of running around all day again. Malcolm would laugh every time a set of kids came in and panicked seeing their teacher behind the register, let alone when someone would try to chat her up and she would turn them down flat. She was even getting more comfortable with the swearing part of the job, as the entire shop's thing was colorful language, and it was rolling off her tongue as though she was a regular Whitehall denizen.

She handed him the order and continued with the next person in line. He lingered a short while, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. There was something about her that was keeping his attention, making it so that he couldn't look away, and he attempted to still fill the drink order while he thought.

Fuck, what was it? What was it about Clara that was pulling him in? Was it the way she was standing, all taut and gym-fit? The way she fit the company shirt, which he frankly had made up just because she was coming on as an employee? How she had just a small section of her brown hair that fell out of her ponytail and behind her ear… the same brown as those wide, gorgeous eyes of hers?

…fucking hell; keep it in your fucking pants, Tucker. She can do better than you.

"Oi, mate, can I have m'drink now?"

Malcolm's attention snapped towards the young man standing in front of the counter and realized he was standing there with the lad's frappuccino. He then slammed the drink on the formica top, spilling a couple drops in the process.

"Fuck off, yeh wee cunt, until you can grow a proper beard."


Friday; there was always something about Friday that made it extra-cuntastic when it came to work. Mondays were, well, supposed to be a cacophony of painful dry-fucks, yet Friday… Malcolm had noticed that certain things happened on Friday that made him and his lone employee stay past closing time later and later and later on the start of the weekend. This particular Friday happened to coincide with what was apparently a glitterpaint-themed café crawl that he wasn't informed of beforehand or something, because the shit was all over his establishment without so much as warning or a granny-fucking apology.

"It looks like a unicorn wanked off in here," he observed with a grimace at closing time. "You head on home, Clara. I'll snap some shots of Ziggy Stardust's vomit and clean it up before heading to bed."

"Why would you want to take photos?" she wondered, already headed towards the cupboard with the mop and bucket.

"See if I want to prosecute, for one, and two, so I can show the nips."

"It's just glitter—you sound like an old man."

"This shit causes damage when it hits the right place, and is almost fucking impossible to get rid of," he scowled. "I've personally been on the bad end of some glitter explosions and let me tell you: it wasn't fucking fun."

"Are you saying that Number 10 has been glitter-bombed?" Clara marveled.

"No," Malcolm replied, "though it should have; I'm referring to my uni days. That shit's probably still up me arse if you dig deep enough."

"…a description for the ages," she snickered.

He tried to get her to go home a couple times over the course of the evening, but she wouldn't have any of it. Clara didn't want to leave Malcolm to clean up everything by himself, so they worked side by side until well past when either of them normally went to bed, something that made her curse when she realized what time it was.

"Shit—I'm going to need to call a cab," she frowned. "Had bad vibes going on the bus this late before."

"Why don't you just stay the night? I've got the space."

She considered that carefully. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah—then I can get a critique of the kids' rooms before they come over."

"Just because I work with kids doesn't mean that I know what every single one of them likes," Clara laughed. It didn't matter that she was already following him towards the door to his flat; joking was what was going to soften the blow of staying overnight. Well, joking and the fact that she was dead-tired, but she needed to humor herself.

Up the stairs and past another door on a landing and Malcolm led Clara into his flat. It was a veritable mishmash of private life and office, with an entire corner of the large sitting room devoted to business-looking things, while the remainder of the room was a mix of DIY supplies and personal belongings. From her vantage point, Clara could see where the kitchen branched off, as well as a half-bath, and twin offshoots on opposite sides of the sitting room that she figured led towards the bedrooms. Malcolm grabbed a set of sheets out from a linen cupboard and opened a door in one of the hallways, on the door labeled "Matthan".

"Green's Matt's favorite, so I decided to go with that," he explained. Sure enough, the room was a pale, soft green, with forest green as an accent trim. The furniture was a dark wood—Clara was too tired to figure out which—and there was a dresser still sitting in a state of half-completeness while the bed and desk were both assembled.

"Uncle Malcolm is outdoing himself."

"Naw—gotta make sure they're comfortable here. I mean, they could end up staying for a long time and I don't want them to feel like they need to leave soon as possible. Yeah, this was my office, but I'd rather have a good place for them to call their own instead of me needing to store bloody paperwork." He then brought her over to another door, this one with the names Iscah and Sarala tacked onto it. "It was a bit more difficult for the girls, but I think I got it." Opening the door, he showed her the very blue bedroom that was a bit larger than the first, but was clearly one that was going to be shared. A golden yellow swirled around on parts of the walls, clearly free-handed detail work that caught Clara's attention.

"Uncle Malcolm is really outdoing himself," she said, sitting down on one of the beds. They were the only furniture actually assembled and not still in boxes, as it was clear that this room had more to do than in the other. "Sara and Carrie are going to love it."

"I hope so," he nodded. He glanced around the room, observing his handiwork. "The other doors lead to a bathroom and another bedroom; it's risky, though I opted to keep the girls in the same room and have the last one stay the guest room just in case, but I don't know what'll happen with all three kids sharing the same bathroom. Matt might utilize the one in the main of the flat instead, which makes me glad that I have my own ensui…"

Malcolm stopped talking when he saw Clara lying down on the bed now, fast asleep from sheer exhaustion. He put the top sheet over her and eased the still-folded fitted sheet under her head as a pillow. She slept on, not realizing that he had covered her and turned off the light, making his way towards his own room on the other side of the flat. It felt almost wrong to leave her there, yet he did anyhow.

At least tomorrow was going to be back to the shit-grinder.


By now their teamwork came as effortlessly as, well, anything really. Clara smiled inwardly as she dodged a pan being carried across the kitchen, Malcolm's arms lifting just high enough for her to duck under as she went to grab more sugar for dusting pastries.

"Do you have the extra cupcake batter ready for the neighbor's order this morning?" she asked.

"I was gonna whip 'em up while these are in," he replied. He stuck the tray in the oven and set the timer. "They're all vanilla, yeah?"

"Forty-eight of them, and you better hurry up, because Jan is going to be here in twenty minutes and once she walks through the door, the floodwaters start rising."

"For fuck's sake—stop nagging me, woman." He grinned at her as he pulled ingredients down to toss into a bowl. "It's almost like you belong here or some shite like that."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," she said, placing the remaining pastry on the display tray.

Once the cover was on, she rushed it out to the counter and returned just as quickly, rushing over to the berries to start sorting them for the next round of desserts. Clara quickly inspected a blueberry and, not finding it to satisfaction, popped it in her mouth.

"Hey, stop eating all the fucking profits."

"You'll thank me later." She took a strawberry and turned around, eating it purposefully slow while leaning on the counter. Malcolm went red and turned his back to Clara, which was precisely the reaction she was looking for.

Ha; take that.


"…and if you don't like it, you can fuck off permanently for all I fucking care!"

Malcolm locked the door behind him and flicked off the open sign, another busy Saturday in the books. Turning around, he leaned against the door and surveyed the damage: neither he nor Clara were able to do any sort of cleaning for hours, which meant that the shop was fucking trashed. He turned off the main lights and went behind the counter to join Clara on the floor, as she didn't even have the strength, let alone cared, to go all the way towards one of the chairs. They looked at one another, completely exhausted, and chuckled at the absurdity.

"It's times like these where I just want to fucking quit, but the reason I don't is looking at the fucking sweet-arsed profits later," he admitted. Profits were not personal gain, but gain for the nips', and thank fuck he didn't need to remind her of that.

"God, I'm not going to get the coffee grounds out from under my nails for days," she laughed. The dimmed work lights above them gave her a Malcolm she hadn't seen before: softly lit and tousled. Carefully, Clara leaned in and pressed her lips against his, her heart leaping when he quickly breathed in yet did not draw away.

"Fuck… you feel it too…?" he asked. "Wait, what about Danny?"

"I mourned already today—he would understand."

"…you sure…?"

A nod.

"…but I don't have any…"

"I'm on the pill, and you're closed tomorrow on account of it being Sunday," she reasoned. By now she was positioning herself in his lap, chests flush together as she kissed his jawline going back to his ear. "Don't make me beg—it's unbecoming."

"Funny, I was about to ask you to make me do so," he replied. She reached between them and palmed him through his trousers, eliciting a strained groan of delight. "Not here; upstairs."

"Fearing for the pastry case?"

"No, just that the CCTV can see us." Malcolm pointed towards the ceiling where a camera was still blinking red—on and recording. Clara stood, gave him a hand up, and remained patient as he led her into the back of the bakery, unlocking the entrance to his flat and bringing her up the stairs.

Not two seconds after Malcolm had closed the flat door, Clara had pushed him up against it, straining on her tiptoes to reach his neck. He made things easier by picking her up by her rear, lifting her into place so that they could jam their tongues in one another's mouths. Breaking for air, he deeply inhaled the smell of her hair; coffee, tea, biscuits, and a sharp, musky aroma that he inferred was sweat.

Cock straining against pants and trousers, Malcolm knew he did not have long before he popped off and potentially ruined the entire moment. He carried Clara into his bedroom and pressed her down atop the mattress. She grunted and bucked her hips in response—a favorable reply. Fuck, it had been a long time since he'd done this, but he was prepared to still go all-out for the woman under him.

The woman under him? Before he could realize it, Malcolm was shirtless and on his back, gazing up at an equally-shirtless-and-knickers-clad Clara. Chocolate smudged across her face and sugar crystals in her hair, she seemed to be the closest thing he'd ever seen to a bona-fide angel. She undid his trouser zip and shoved both it and his pants down past his knees, surveying the Scottish bounty she was about to claim in all her conquering Englishness. Of all the fucking historical analogies, it had to be this fucking one, and the terrifying part was that he didn't mind one cocksucking bit.

Clara's knickers were off it a moment and instead of cocksucking, it turned into cockriding as she positioned herself over him and went down hard, grinding him into the mattress. Fuck, she was so smooth, so blazing warm and inviting, so concentrated on the moment—drove him fucking nutters.

Yes, nutters. Got a fucking problem with that? Didn't think so.

And so she fucked him, over and over again, until he couldn't hold back anymore and finally came in her, neck straining and fists clutching the sheets as he gasped desperately for air. When she didn't tighten and moan like he had, Malcolm ignored his embarrassingly heavy breathing and laid her down, easing his quickly-softening prick out and replacing it with his hands and lips. That was how he made her orgasm so fucking gorgeously, his face between taught, nearly crushing, thighs. The feeling of her gripping his hair and the sinful sounds coming from her made him go at her again almost immediately, turning pain into pleasure as it was her turn to squirm helplessly within his grasp.

Four times—sweet fuck she could go a long time—and they were done. Collapsed and sweaty in the two-day-fresh sheets they languidly kissed and fondled until they both fell asleep from pure exhaustion. All they knew was that her hand was in his sweat-dampened curls and his head nestled on her shoulder, arms wrapped and feet tangled.

It was blissful, it was serene, and it was, above all else, theirs.


Four-thirty—Malcolm woke up on instinct, his bladder replacing his forgotten mobile alarm as he realized that he needed to piss something fierce. Clara was not lying next to him, or on top of him, or even under him, which sent a pang through where he figured his heart used to be, before the cunting government pulled it out like fucking Mola Ram. He sat up and relief washed over him—she was in the bathroom, standing there in knickers and one of his t-shirts, combing through her hair in the mirror. Getting out of bed, he shuffled over to the bathroom and slid around her.

"Pardon, but nature calls," he mumbled. Fuck, the bathroom light was bright. He took himself in-hand and relieved himself, moaning quietly in the satisfaction that could only come with a nice, long piss. Glancing out the corner of his eye, he saw Clara watching him with a look he could only categorize as "amused". He tried to scowl, though it came off more as a pout. "What?"

"Nothing," she smirked. She placed down the comb and waited for him to flush the toilet before wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his upper arm. "Just thinking about how our professional relationship is in utter shambles now that we've slept together and watched each other pee."

"Omnishambles, pet." He then furrowed his brow, regarding her with curiosity. "When'd I do that?"

"When I got up at one—you did seem half-asleep at the time. It was when you offered me this shirt to wear, saying my breasts looked cold." She backed up to let him see which one it was and he grimaced; Grumpy the Dwarf was scowling back at him from the fabric. "Didn't take you as a Disney fan."

"Sara got it for me when David took her to Disney World two years ago," he grumbled, pulling her close again. "She was so proud of herself too—I couldn't turn the nip down."

"Then maybe you should be the one to wear it," she chuckled.

"I have a better idea." He pawed at her rear, pressing himself against her. "It will look great on the floor."

She grinned at that—what the hell, why not?


A few hours later they went downstairs to the shop and began cleaning. It took most of the late morning and afternoon, yet they did eventually get everything in place and started the week's prep. Malcolm ducked out for a time and returned with a couple curries, which they ate in the back of the shop, and a surprise strip of condoms, which Clara declared they would make use of later that night once everything else was done. Being on birth control was great for more than just contraceptive, that was true, but since she hadn't been on it for sex-reasons for a long while at that point, it felt safer to go a bit overboard.

Not even five minutes passed after Malcolm and Clara finished the week's prep and they were back upstairs, indulging themselves in their new form of release. It would have felt awkward had they not known each other for a while prior to this distinct change in their relationship, yet this… this felt right. Teasing one another and flirting while downstairs, being good friends on the outside, and fucking one another stupid upstairs in his flat, taking a carnal turn to things. Fuck it felt good to, well, fuck.

Clara left the flat that night long enough to head back to her place, feed the fish, and pack an overnight bag that she brought back with her to Cup o' Cussuccino and its rather horny proprietor.

She was moving on, and to a man that she imagined Danny would approve of after getting to know him. That was, above all else, what really, truly mattered.


They had soon fallen into a routine.

Staying over on weekends and prep nights, Clara would sleep with Malcolm above Cup o' Cussuccino in his flat, the two of them taking turns shagging one another until they couldn't think. Otherwise things ran as normal, with her going back to her own flat every once in a while, as well as manning the shop by herself during slow times in order to give Malcolm a bit of extra time to get some work done on the spare bedrooms. Things between them quickly grew closer as the anticipated date of arrival of Malcolm's new charges was approaching, which made him feel more than a bit nervous.

"Clara…?" They were lying in bed together after another night of excess, completely starkers as they were curled up in the sheets.

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck are we doing?"

She chuckled at that and kissed his hair. "We are cuddling after a long day at work, Why?"

"No, I mean, what are we doing?" He sat up and gazed down at her, disheveled and relaxed, and frowned. "I'm a washed-up, fucking ancient, waste of cum and you're a clever, brilliant woman who could and should have men half my age and twice my stamina lined up out the door just to have the privilege of looking at you. What the actual fuck is this?"

"I think you're being too hard on yourself…"

"Tch—I highly doubt."

"…and even if you weren't, I may enjoy looking at pretty, young men, but I examine what a man can bring to the table above all before considering him as I consider you. Young is nice, though not all in the younger set have what you do."

"Erectile fucking dysfunction and two decades on you?"

"Worldly knowledge and a clear idea of what he wants in life, more like it," she clarified. She too sat up and caressed his cheek gently. "I wouldn't be here unless I wanted this."

"...and what is this?"

"Doing right by children who aren't even yours, getting your hands dirty in the daily operation of a small business, loving your girlfriend the best you can…"

"Girlfriend; that's a funny word for you," he chuckled softly. "You're no girl—you're a goddess."

"Don't let Reverend Tucker hear that or he might make you repent."

"Naw; Da'll think I'm sinning as it is the moment he finds out I'm with you, as though I'd keep you in my bed and hidden away from the world. I just…" He trailed off, unable to look at her.

"You what?" She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, feeling the slender muscles just underneath the skin. "What's the matter, Malcolm?"

He avoided her gaze, frowning worriedly. For all the times Clara had seen him scowl and sneer and glare, there being worry on his face sent a shiver through her, simply because it was not natural. The Deposed and Exiled Dark Prince of Spin was not a worrier, even when it came to his shop's fortunes.

"Malcolm…? Tell me."

"I'm… I'm just terrified he'll be able to convince me he's right this time around and have me push you away before..." He didn't continue, out of what, she could not tell, but Clara could see something deep off in his gaze… something she wasn't sure she wanted to poke, yet knew she had to if things were going to go forward.

"He won't, I can assure you of that," she said gently. Clara laid back down and pulled Malcolm after her, allowing him to rest his head between her breasts. "When was the last time he was able to convince you that he was right?"

"…after my divorce from that fucking hag."

"…and that was ages ago, yeah? It'll be fine."

"You say it because you never had him as your da." He held her a bit tighter, keeping his long arms wrapped around her torso and up to her shoulders. "I gave up on that shite years ago because of him, but somehow he still drags me back and feeling like a naughty brat again every time he feels as though I've cocked shit up. Sometimes I have, but… fuck…. why do you think I'm trying so fucking hard to prepare things for my nephew and nieces? Otherwise they go to Da, and that's like a cunting death sentence when it comes to being able to do shit with your life."

"Even so, does he mean well?"

He snorted at that, burying his nose deeper. "Of course he means well—they all mean well—but meaning well and doing well are often on the opposite fucking ends of the fucking spectrum."

"Simply because one person in your life, or even many people in your life, aren't good at what they do, doesn't mean that everyone with passing similarities is just as bad as they are. Hatred is too strong an emotion to waste on someone you don't like, after all."

"Where the fuck you hear that?"

"At a concert—it doesn't matter. What matters is that, your father does what he does out of love for you and your siblings and his grandchildren, yeah?" A grunt. "Long as you remember that, you can keep your wits about him if he starts guilting you. Life isn't about realizing that you're wrong, but that everyone is, including you, your parents, your idols, your friends… everyone is wrong, because no one is right all the time. It's called being human."

A heavy silence weighed in the air, punctuating the conversation. Clara could feel Malcolm's breath on her skin, warming it steadily as he thought, drawing out each passing second into an eternity of its own. Several eternities passed before he shifted himself onto his elbows and reached to kiss her lips.

"I need to be shagged by secondary school teachers with life advice to impart more often," he joked. "You're right, this time, and I won't let it bother me. Thank you."

"That sounded amazingly sincere for someone of your sarcasm levels."

"Yeah, well, when preparing to deal with a man who makes you feel like you're still in lower fucking secondary, even grown-arsed adults need a bit of reminded."

"Yes, your arse is fully-grown," she smirked. She grabbed at his rear, made accessible by how he was positioned over her, and squeezed teasingly. "I think it would do great if it was being made to sex up a certain someone… a certain someone also in this bed…"

"How your lack of subtlety is this fucking erotic, I have no fucking clue." He ground his hips against hers, demonstrating how hard he was, and murmured hotly in her ear. "Clara?"

"Yes, Malcolm?"

"Would you like to move in?"


Clara was there at Cup o' Cussuccino when the Greater Glasgow contingency arrived, ready to meet and greet her newest combination students-and-roommates as well as potential in-laws. Malcolm's brother-in-law Bruce and brother David were the ones who drove down all in one Sunday, transporting tweens and elderly alike as the family used the excuse of moving the children to get in a brief reunion. The proud uncle introduced her to their new charges and allowed them to head upstairs to unpack in their new rooms while the adults visited, questioning the children's new potential guardian. They returned back to the shop with wide, excited eyes and unknowingly diffusing a potential spat between Uncle Malcolm and Granddad Donald that had been about to explode despite Miss Clara and Granny Joan's best efforts.

Dragging the adults upstairs, the kids showed their parents and grandparents the flat that had replaced their uncle's large house in a leafy, quiet neighborhood. Gone were the DIY supplies and clutter, replaced with the makings of an actual home. Though there were still leftovers from the house, new things were mixed in, making it feel less like a display in a furniture store and more like people actually lived there. A cat hopped down from a cupboard and rubbed itself up against the kids' legs, purring affectionately; this was going to be the best place ever.

As he inspected the flat, the Reverend Tucker grew quiet, pausing every so often to ask a question and pensively nodding while digesting the answer. The kids showed him their rooms—still unnaturally excited for their age and how many miles they had traveled—and subsequently the handiwork of his eldest son and the girl with whom he claimed to now share sleeping arrangements with. Suitcases had already exploded inside the girls' room, with a shipping crate sitting in the middle, absolutely begging to be opened.

"…and you said you helped…?" the Reverend Tucker wondered. Clara handed Iscah a pry-bar and gave the old man—a haunting ghost of her beau in the years to come—a gentle smile.

"The designs were Malcolm's doing through and through, but I did help with a couple things," she admitted. "It was a challenge, that's for sure, though it was worth it in the end." She watched as the cousins helped each other pin a One Direction poster up on the wall and begin arguing which would be the one other thing that would dare cover the swirls and stars that were their doting uncle's handiwork. "My part was mostly in helping put together furniture, or man the shop so Malcolm had time to do things himself. He's a hard worker, I hope you realize."

"Of course, lass. I know better than most."

"That's part of what I like about him, if you haven't figured it out yet." They exited the room and popped inside Matthan's, seeing that Bruce and Malcolm were helping the boy open the crate with his things. "He was determined to make this place a good one for the kids, so they didn't feel unwanted today. Not many bachelor uncles would have even considered that could be how they'd feel."

"My eldest boy has always been observant," Reverend Tucker nodded. He walked with Clara into the sitting room, where Elsie and Joan were waiting for the potential fallout that might have entailed and made their car ride home a terror.

"…and…?" Elsie wondered. Reverend Tucker put his hand on Clara's upper back and gingerly pushed her forward.

"I think Malc might be onto something with this lass here," he said. The collective relief that permeated the room cleared the air.


"Hey Clara, do you think you can ask Mr. Davies about this assignment for me? He doesn't seem to give a straight answer."

"If it doesn't seem like a straight-enough answer, then you need to read it a different way," Clara said. She glanced across the table at Iscah—thirteen years old and still so much to learn—and continued to mark her own papers. It was well into October now and things were settling into rituals that seemed to suit the makeshift family well, part of which included weekday afternoons in the coffee shop to keep Malcolm company. "What do I keep on telling you kids about interpretive readings? You need to be able to see multiple variations of the same story."

"Aunt Clara, she's just sore because we don't have work to do!" Matthan piped up from behind the counter. He and Sarala were helping Malcolm by fetching people their pastries and sandwiches, the two eleven-year-olds so in sync it was nearly as though they were twins… well, twins born with funny genetics that allowed for his complexion to be leagues lighter than hers, but twins all the same.

"We are doing work, Matt!" Sarala replied from right next to him.

"Different kind of work! I'd rather be here than writing a paper for Mr. Davies."

"Try saying that during a rush while the fucking milk frother's down," Malcolm smirked. One of the regular customers walked in and the proprietor tapped his niece and nephew on the head. "Okay, which one of you wants to learn the register?"

Both tweens volunteered, but Sarala reached the register first. While Matthan pouted and helped his cousin, his sister leaned over the table and whispered quietly.

"When are you going to tell Uncle Malcolm?" Iscah asked.

"Tell him about what…?"

"I heard you talking to Mr. Coburn after school today, and…" Iscah shrugged uncomfortably, as though she wasn't ready to admit anything herself. "I guess we're going to need to paint the guest room and put a different bed in it, yeah?"

"How very astute of you," Clara replied. She pointed the end of her marking pen at Iscah and raised her eyebrows in warning. "Only after I'm certain this is going to be a for-sure thing. Sometimes plans… end themselves… so I don't want to raise any unwarranted alarms."

"Raise what alarms?" Malcolm asked. He was approaching the table with some sandwiches and drinks for them, setting the snacks on the table after a kiss to the top of Iscah's head and one to Clara's lips.

"That I'm going to start administering some pop quizzes if these scores don't improve," Clara lied effortlessly. She pecked Malcolm on the lips in return, only for another customer to walk in the door.

"What the fuck do you want now, yeh randy bastards?" Malcolm walked away, leaving the ladies to their food and work. Instead, however, Iscah leaned over the table and lowered her voice yet again.

"He'll marry you in a heartbeat, you know."

"I'm fully aware of that, Carrie."

"He's raving mad about you."

"That I've also figured out."

"Granddad can do the christening."

"…which is both a sweet and horrifying thought; thank you."

"He only dropped Matt twice and he turned out to be fairly normal… as far as little brothers go."

"One more not-school-related word out of you for the next half an hour and you are grounded, young lady."

Iscah sat back down in her seat properly and pouted, knowing full-well that Clara had that power. She sipped her tea and glanced out the window at the damp, dreich landscape that felt all too much like home.

"So does that mean you'll ask about the assignment?"