A/N: These guys won't get out of my head. I won't lie, it's probably more fun with them in there. Rating for language and sexual references. Many thanks to Becs for coping with my ranting about this. Cares xx

Pair: Malcolm/Nicola

Set: Post-series.

Spoilers: References to most of season four.

Cooking & Other Dangerous Pursuits

by Tricki

Despite whatever impression her professional life may have given the wider population of the United Kingdom, Nicola Murray is neither incompetent, nor unintelligent. The one perception of her which may be accurate, she muses mirthlessly, is that she is extremely clumsy. She is also not especially talented in the culinary department, but she doubts this was a key factor in her being removed as Leader of the Opposition. Although, come to think of it, there were rather a lot of comments about her being a failed housewife. Perhaps this is an area upon which she needs to muse some more...

In the kitchen, she is much better at taking instructions than could generally be said for her political life. While in politics Nicola has a mind of her own, an agenda - although perhaps not the best judgement imaginable - in the kitchen she is totally at the mercy of an advisor. Tonight is a prime example of this. She is delicately splitting a series of legumes with an unnecessarily large knife after being promised they will, in fact, enhance the curry that is wafting intoxicating smells at her from across the kitchen. Also the occasional smell of burning, but she is choosing to ignore this. Curry management is not her job; legume preparation is.

With her back turned, she does not see the rice boiling over at the precise moment the pan beside it bursts into flame. She does, however hear the torrent of "Jesus fucking shitting fucking Christ! I swear to fuck I will rape this fucking oven with a fucking axe soon!" The volume and intensity of his sudden tirade makes Nicola jump; she briefly wonders exactly how she isn't used to this kind of nonsense from him by now, but pain overtakes her consideration.

"Fuck it, Malcolm! Could you please refrain from your fucking swearathons when I'm handling anything sharper than your tongue?!" She demands, rounding on him with a look that should have killed him many years ago.

He is about to make a highly suggestive quip about how he's sure he can use his tongue in a way she most certainly cannot handle when he notices blood streaming steadily across her palm. The knife (much too large for the task she was given, he notes) is lying discarded on the bench, doused with an uncomfortable covering of red.

"Jesus, Nic'la, I gave you the easiest fucking job..." He mumbles, concern etched over his features. She knows him well enough now to take this for what it is, a moment of genuine remorse phrased in a way only Malcolm Tucker can. He takes up a tea towel after flicking off the stove quickly and crosses to her.

"You're a walking fucking disaster, darlin'." Malcolm mumbles as he examines her hand. She smiles humourlessly at him, forming a retort in her head and losing it utterly when he wraps the tea towel around her injury. She yelps in pain. She thinks she'll need stitches. He thinks she'll need a large single malt.

He presses a kiss to her temple, frizzy yet glorious-smelling hair invading his nose. "I'm sorry, pet." She knows - as she has come to always know such things - that he is in no way apologising for the incident itself, merely for the pain he's caused by crushing the towel to her hand. She knows it makes sense, stop the bleeding and so forth, but good lord it hurts.

"Did you bleed on my fucking legumes?" He demands, only half teasing. "Because I had to go across town for them. Took me fucking hours." She rolls her eyes at his melodrama, sniping "Yes, because London's fifteen hundred metre diameter is a positively tyrannical distance."

"Oi, you'd do well to be nice to me righ' now. I'm the one who's going to have t' drive yeh to the fuckin' hospital." She notices the thickening of his accent, a stress related reaction with which she is well acquainted. It is highly unhelpful at this moment, as there is a direct correlation between the thickness of Malcolm's accent at a given time, and the intensity of Nicola's desire to shred his clothes from his body and all but sexually assault him.

"Yeah, that'll look great, won't it Malc? 'Dumped Leader of the Opposition Nicola Murray escorted to hospital by former Communications Director.' The Mail will love it."

"Well wha' de yeh suggest I do, darlin'? Leave yeh bleeding on my kitchen floor?" It's actually quite sweet, for Malcolm. "I don' fuckin' think so; it's imported fucking Jarrah."

"Ah, and here I was thinking you were genuinely concerned for me, but no, the flooring." She is teasing him still. How she can manage is beyond him, really; he's losing his composure rapidly and it's not his hand that's all but sliced in two. It seems the ability to remain composed on matters of national significance, up to and including potential world wars, actually has no bearing on the ability to remain composed on matters of injured loved ones.

"Fuck off, Nic'la, yeh know how I feel."

"Right now I feel like I'm losing rather a lot of blood." His gaze turns to the tea-towel, which is, indeed, becoming a very concerning shade of crimson very rapidly.

"Alrigh' come on, I've got an idea." Malcolm mutters, snatching up her car keys from the bowl on the counter.

"Why are we taking my car?!" Nicola demands. It's silly, but she's attached to the thing, and Malcolm's driving is not always conducive to its survival.

"Because I don't want you bleeding in mah fuckin' Mercedes as well as on my Jarrah and my legumes!"

At moments like this, Nicola Murray still wonders what the fuck she got herself into.

~x~

As it turns out, Malcolm has made the executive decision to take her to the doctor who saw to Tom back in the days of his Prime Ministerial reign. Nicola assumes that, if anyone can, the former Prime Minister's physician would probably be able to see to her cut hand. Beyond this, Malcolm assures discretion. Apparently Doctor James Handelson-Woodcruft the Fourth owes Malcolm a favour or two. No amount of pressing him will make him elaborate on this, and Nicola resolves that it is a task for a night with alcohol and no serious injuries.

Tom's doctor, despite his far-too-posh name, is adroit in his needlework, and leaves Nicola confident that she will neither bleed to death, nor retain a disfiguring scar for the rest of her life. He bandages her hand carefully once he's done, and has the good sense to make minimal chatter while he tends to her. Nicola is a friendly person, but honestly, at this point, she's not eaten in eight and a half hours, and she has lost rather a lot of blood.

After forty minutes or so, she slips into the passenger seat of her car, glancing over at Malcolm and wondering if she should pull him up on the fact that her car has been unlocked as long as she has been in the doctor's residence. He seems to be in some faraway place, totally lost in thought, so she refrains. The sound of the door shutting causes his head to swivel towards her; his expression is unchanging as his eyes sweep over her, fingers resting against his lips.

"You all patched up?" He queries, and she can't decide what's going through his head. He is unusually and disconcertingly calm for Malcolm Tucker, and while part of her wants to delve into this rare phenomenon, the rest of her just wants to go home and change into her pyjamas.

She holds up her left hand and offers a weary smile. "Consider my panels beaten."

"Good." He mumbles, turning the key and peeling away from the curb. Watching him shift into second gear makes Nicola realise that driving is going to be absolute agony until her hand heals. She huffs irritably; even the thought of bending her hand enough to change gears causes pain to shoot through her. Stupid indulgent car selection.

"God, I'm starving." Nicola mumbles after several minutes of silence.

"Yeah, well tea's goin' to be ruined." Malcolm retorts. Normally she would be able to discern whether this is a simple statement of fact or a subtle gripe; right now the skill is eluding her.

"And whose fault is that?" She demands. The fact that it is now 9:15 and she hasn't eaten anything since the croissant she practically inhaled at 12:07 is beginning to take a toll on her sense of humour.

"Well I didn't fucking slice my hand open out of sheer incompetence, did I?!" Malcolm shouts, leaving Nicola with no option other than to shout back even louder:

"Well I wouldn't have sliced my fucking hand open if you hadn't started shouting at the stove for no sodding reason!"

Malcolm turns his eyes back to the road. Even though his shoulders are still tight and she can feel the anger rolling off him, his tone softens. "I just wanted to do something nice for our fucking anniversary."

Nicola lets out a huff of air through her nose, lips still tightly pursed. After a long moment she extends her right hand and squeezes his knee affectionately. "I know. I'm sorry. I'm tired, and I haven't eaten in nine hours. Despite how much blood I've seen today, I'm not feeling particularly sanguine."

"I get that."

They spend the rest of the drive in silence, but the animosity has dissipated at the very least, and the presence of Nicola's hand on Malcolm's leg helps to ease his tension.

When Malcolm pulls into the driveway he brushes Nicola's hair back and kisses her apologetically. He runs his hand around her jaw-line, pinching her chin between his fingers. His grey-blue eyes meet hers and he even manages a smile. "Now, why don't you go slip into something that's more 'slutty nun' than 'nun', and I'll pick up some take away? Yeah?" Nicola bends and kisses him again with a wicked smirk.

"You know, if you keep saying things like that I'll stop thinking you're a complete and utter bastard."

"Don't worry your pretty little empty head abou' it, darlin', it's a one-time offer." Nicola laughs and runs a hand down his arm, shaking her head as she gets out of the car. He has a very unique method of showing affection.

As soon as she's through the door she kicks her heels off. Normally she would have searched out her trainers on her way out, but she was bleeding rather a lot, and, funnily enough, her heels had been just by the entrance to the door. Perhaps because she is in the habit of removing them at the earliest possible convenience. Ever since she slipped into the car with that tea towel around her hand, she has been wishing she'd abandoned her work clothes as soon as she got home. Unfortunately, she'd expected to cook dinner and then have Malcolm peel them off her promptly afterwards, so she'd remained in the neat grey dress and thin turquoise belt which matches her jacket all evening. She is now well and truly ready for something less constraining.

~x~

Nicola isn't sure if she hears the door or smells the fish and chips first, but either way, she is delighted with the development. Malcolm finds her curled on the couch in a robe, reading a well worn copy of Northanger Abbey. The familiarity of the whole situation is something Malcolm never expected to find quite this comforting, but regardless of this he feels tension dropping from his shoulders at the sight of her.

She shifts from her position, depositing the book on the arm of the couch and going to fetch plates from the kitchen. "I did attempt to clear up, but - "

"You're about as incapacitated as a hog-tied whore. Noted." Nicola rolls her eyes, but is sure the action escapes his notice. "Although, that's only a wee bit more incapacitated than usual, if we're being honest."

"Your charm knows no bounds, darling" drawls the brunette, and Malcolm can't help but be impressed by her sardonic tone. He's taught her well over the years.

She returns to the couch with the plates and a bottle of white wine, tucking her feet beneath her when she sits, and daintily steals a huge piece of beer battered cod. She wants to remark on the presence of mashed-Dalmatian-head-and-sawdust sticks, but she is too busy cramming chips into her mouth.

"Are you forgetting somethin', Nic'la?" His question is met with her furrowed brow until he shoots a pointed look at the bottle of wine. "Glasses?"

The brunette shoots a contemplative look at the kitchen, assessing the distance before mumbling "Sod it," twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a swig. Malcolm grins, accepting the outstretched bottle and following suit. This is another of those moments which reminds him why he chooses to share his life with a women he used to (sometimes still does) call Glummy Mummy. If he were feeling slightly more responsible, he would consider advising her to pace herself on the booze after her injury and painkillers. Unfortunately, this is not his style.

"So, tonight was a bit of an omnishambles, wasn't it?" She observes after a silence punctuated by little more than chewing. She has been loosened somewhat after the equivalent of a glass and a half of wine on top of her painkillers.

"Darlin', this wasn't an omnishambles, this was a complete shitting clusterfuck." Nicola nearly spits her chips - in a literal sense - across the room.

"Just a normal night, then." She teases, lifting the bottle in a salute before drinking deeply from it again.

"Stop hogging the wine, woman! Honestly." Malcolm grumbles good naturedly.

Nicola withdraws with a playful glint flashing in her eyes. "Why don't you make me?" She has attempted to purr but ruined it by laughing in the middle.

Malcolm is not the kind of man to refuse such an offer. Crawling forward on the couch and trapping her back against the arm, he grabs the bottle with one hand and directs her mouth to his with the other. Despite the half bottle of wine he's consumed in the last sixteen minutes, he is conscious of not landing on her injured hand.

"You know, the robe wasn't exactly what I had in mind." Malcolm hums, taking another swig from the bottle and nipping at the base of Nicola's neck.

"Running a fucking knife through my palm and gorging on fish and chips wasn't what I had in mind either, so I guess we're even." Nicola retorts sassily. Malcolm knows she's joking, can see her thinking about how much she enjoys him in suit trousers and a partially unbuttoned shirt with no tie on. Physically it is one of her favourite iterations of Malcolm, tied with Tuxedo-Clad-Malcolm and Naked-Malcolm.

"Fucking Jesus, Nic'la, do you ever shut up?" Laughs Malcolm, grinning at her with a rare blend of disbelief, amusement, and unadulterated affection.

"I would say 'I'm sure you can find a way to make me' but I'm just a little bit concerned that I'll tear my stitches open in the heat of the moment and paint the bedroom red." Upon catching the suggestive glint in his eye she snaps "Don't."

Malcolm beams and leans down to kiss her again. "Don't worry, pet, I'll handcuff you to the bed. Tha'll keep yer hands out o' the way." Again, the thickening accent. Again the irrepressible desire to shred his clothing with her fingernails. His voice drops what feels like an octave and reverberates through her body intoxicatingly. "Then I'll show you exactly how sharp my fucking tongue can be."

Nicola groans, fingers of her right hand biting into his skin painfully, even through his shirt. "If you don't prove that that fucking knife is going to threaten your favourite part of your anatomy."

Malcolm laughs and drags her off the couch in the direction of the bedroom. "And a very fuckin' happy anniversary to you too, darlin'."

~x~

The next day, Malcolm returns to the house at shortly after 6:30 pm. It's a very respectable finishing time for either of them, and given this he does not expect to find her home yet. Strolling into the kitchen to get a bottle of Fanta, Malcolm stops short at the sight of a sparkling new, state-of-the-art duel fuel 48 inch Bertazzoni Professional range built into the counter in place of the old sputtering piece of shit which ruined their evening the night before. Its cream enamel front blends perfectly with the joinery on either side of it. Malcolm isn't a romantic man, but Jesus fuck, he thinks he's in love. He runs a hand over a chrome panel reverently, only now noticing a card sitting atop the new appliance. The card is that eco-friendly pulped-paper plain brown with the words 'You'll do' pasted on the front. He checks the back. Someone actually fucking makes greeting cards that say 'you'll do' and somehow Nicola has enough fucking time to find them. He wants do despair at this revelation, but as he flips open the little card he can't help but smile to himself.

Happy fucking anniversary. You owe me a curry.

With grudging love,

Nicola xxx

Malcolm whips out his BlackBerry and quickly fires a missive to his absent other half.

I've named her Berta. Don't worry about coming home, I've changed the locks.

In the back of her driver's car, Nicola Murray glances down at the phone which has just buzzed in her hand. She'd never tell him, because she knows his perceived unpredictability is something crucial to his self-image, but this is exactly what she expected him to say, within three words' variance.

I'm sure you two will be very happy together. Try not to shag her while she's on. Would hate to see your char-grilled cock on the front page of the Mail.

After a minute Nicola's phone buzzes again.

You see this? The banter? This is what keeps the fucking magic alive.

With a smirk on her lips Nicola quickly retorts,

We are the sweary Bat People young girls fantasise about. This is why I assure my children that romance isn't dead.

Suddenly her phone buzzes with a different rhythm, and Nicola realises it is, in fact, ringing.

"That and the fact that you came five times last night." Malcolm growls before she even has a chance to get the word 'hello' out.

"That's not romance, Malc, that's fucking." Nicola laughs, wishing she were the kind of person who wouldn't feel guilty for putting the screen up in her car.

"It's fuckin' romantic that I care enough to make you come five times!" Malcolm insists. Nicola can picture the look on his face; something between bemusement and insistence.

"Look, I'm on my way home. Why don't you discuss your philosophical attitude towards romance with Brenda?"

"Berta! Jesus shitting Christ on a Cruskit, Nic'la, if you're going to lay down five grand on an appliance you should at least have the common fucking decency to learn her name!"

"Oh god, what have I done?" Nicola beseeches softly, combing her hair off her face and trying to decide whether she should be laughing or despairing at how quickly he's anthropomorphised a stove.

"Introduced me to the love of my life! So thoughtful of you, darlin'."

"Look, can you fuck off and sort out some dinner with your new betrothed?" Nicola prods, smiling despite herself.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Barks the Scot. "Since when are you the fucking boss, eh? You were a fuckin' Bambi Minister who could barely fucking walk unless I told you to."

The smile gracing Nicola's features becomes victorious, almost predatory, and she retorts heftily with "That would be somewhere between you being arrested and me becoming a Cabinet Minister again."

"There's something unnervingly sexually appealing about you when you get all hoity like this."

"I'm hanging up now."

"Great, you'll free up my other hand for a Hoity-Nicola themed wank."

"Just be done by the time I get home. I'm about twenty minutes away. And don't make Berta jealous!"

Nicola hangs up and sinks back into the plush leather seat. It's taken them years to get back into government, and this time she has earned her place at the Cabinet table on her own terms. She has spun her own story in such a way that most of the public believes her to be at least a semi-capable Secretary of State for Education. She has tried to avoid genuine consideration of the fact that she truly found her political feet shortly after Malcolm got out from underneath them.

Now her personal life is fiercely off-limits, which is no mean feat considering in the past few years she has divorced a bastard and taken up with an infamous arsehole. Somehow she manages it, though - manages it in a way she never would have back when she was at DoSAC. Closing her eyes she lets the last few years race through her mind. Of course her friends have queried her motives, wondering what the fuck she's thinking taking up with someone as unhinged and aggressive as Malcolm Tucker. What she has struggled to explain to them is that if Malcolm's bastardry in any way resembled James', she would be in an entirely different position with an entirely different man. Malcolm is undeniably a borderline psychotic fuckwit, but their relationship is functional where they as individuals aren't necessarily. Further to this, if Malcolm for a moment exhibited any James-esq tendencies, she would be out the door before he had a chance to utter a single expletive. While she is still pondering these things, Elvis pulls up in front of her house. She is infinitely glad she managed to re-employ him - he is all at once discrete, respectful, and willing to ignore when she falls asleep in her seat and starts drooling.

The house greets her with warmth, the intoxicating aroma of Malcolm's signature pasta, and Sam Cook floating gently from the stereo. Discarding her coat, jacket and handbag as she goes, Nicola journeys into the bowels of the house to find the lounge and kitchen lights dimmed. There is a glass of red wine waiting for her on the counter, and a barefoot Malcolm Tucker waiting by the new range. It looks even better than she had hoped from the preview emailed to her BlackBerry. She wishes she had been able to see the look on the shop assistant's face when she'd rattled off "Minister at education dot G-S-I dot gov dot UK" as her nominated email address.

"Any third degree burns to report?" She queries, slipping onto one of the barstools on the other side of the counter.

"Jesus, you don't jump straight to third fucking base with a classy lass like Berta." He chides, shooting a longing glance at the oven. Just as Nicola is pondering how often he's going to polish the damn thing Malcolm turns and studies her. She is post-work-frazzled but glowing, just as he likes her. He hoists himself up on the bench so he can lean over it and kiss her soundly. Berta dings just as Nicola moans contentedly, and for a brief moment she thinks the damned thing is actually cognisant and either empathising with her, or objecting to Nicola having her tongue in Malcolm's mouth. Both these theories she quickly dismisses as being insane, as they are. Malcolm bounds back and strains a pot of pasta.

"I thought we could have a do-over. Y'know, less of a - "

"Complete shitting clusterfuck of a night." Nicola finishes with him, nodding at his logic.

Malcolm lifts his glass tilts it towards hers. "To the next year?" It's an offer, an opening gambit. She knows this is a rare moment of vulnerability for her Malchiavellian other half. After lifting her own glass she touches it to his; an F6 vibrates gently on the air.

She offers him a confident smile. "And the year after that."