ah, I apologize in advance if this isn't really all that good. it's a pretty half-assed attempt coming from an American who had about thirty minutes of shitty research and guesswork from my part.

Malcolm Tucker was a busy man.

He was basically holding up the entire government as it was, even if nobody wanted to admit it. He was the only sensible man in the chain of bullshit. He had no time for anything. No time for family. No time for himself. No time for whatever it may be.

Just like now.

Being a busy man, he didn't have time to sit idly in his vehicle, glaring down at the train that just didn't want to stop. He looked towards his watch. Five minutes. Every single government cunt of importance knew just how much swearing the man could do when he was enraged.

This time, especially, was one of them.

"For fucks sake!" He cried, rolling down the window and choosing to yell at the never ending train. It was better than yelling into his BlackBerry, "I have to babysit some cunts and when they aren't supervised, they're going to fuck up this entire nation!" He didn't really know what he was going for with this. He was just really irritated. His coffee spilled onto his trousers and he had to get a new pair, which made him a tad bit late in the first place, then the traffic, just to get to this point, which was the long train and everyone in the vicinity seemed to get an idea of how frustrated the man was.

"Do you always yell at trains or is it just personal preference?" He snapped his head towards the voice. It was a woman, on a motorbike, but Malcolm couldn't see her face; she was masked with helmet. She wore a black matte leather jacket, but she wore a bright red dress with tights and boots.

"Why do you fucking care?" He snapped. The woman glared at him and even through the tinted glass, he felt intimidated. Malcolm Tucker never felt intimidated- that just wasn't him. If anything, he was the intimidator, not the intimidated.

"Yelling isn't going to do much. We're going to be stuck here for a little. Neither is cursing. Train can't hear you." She said, crossing her arms. He was surprised her short legs could even reach the floor so she could steady the bike.

"I can give the Minister of Transport a good bollocking if I really wanted to. This is fucking ridiculous. I need to get to work. The government isn't going to keep itself up-fucking-right." He tightened the grip on his steering wheel.

"Minister of Transport? What are you going to do? Swear him off until he's deaf?" He scoffed, smirking at the lass. She had the nerve to talk to him like he was just some normal bloke- that was enough to intrigue him. Maybe she didn't know who he was, or maybe she was just brave as fuck. Either way, he liked it.

"You'd be surprise at how much can be fucking done if you scare them. One kick in the arse and they'd be running like little dogs." She laughed at the thought and Malcolm felt himself squirm in his seat. The laughter sounded beautiful, but he just didn't want to admit it. It had been ages since a woman could make him squirm. Most of them squirmed because of him, not the other way around.

"Ah, is that really how our government is like?" She inquired, her laughter turning into giggles.

"You should see where the taxes fucking go when I'm not at the wheel. Cunts can't get anything right at all." He grumbled and found that the train had left. He was about to say a word to the young woman on the motorbike, but she had already drove off before he could even ask for her name. He didn't even notice. He started driving himself, watching the motorbike take a left turn. He wondered who the woman beneath the helmet was. He shook the thought away. He was late to Number 10 and he needed to yell at someone. He had multiple possible victims, but in the end, Nicola will do.

Malcolm found himself at the same intersection with the long train car the next morning. A part of him hoped the young woman came back, maybe to hear her voice or anything, really. He wanted a name to attach that voice with, or perhaps a face. Anything. She was a mystery. He fucking hated mysteries. When uncovered, the press were often quick to suck its cock dry. He grimaced at the train, his anger already boiling.

"Not cursing out the train today, I see." He practically jumped in his seat, finding the same woman on the same motorbike yet again. This time, she wore a different dress, a crimson color with the same black tights and now she seemed to be wearing heels. He rolled down his window further.

"It doesn't deserve my anger, not today at least. I need to reserve it to the Prime Cunt. She's fucked up yet again and it's only seven in the fucking morning. Can't even leave the fucking twat for one fucking evening and we're already getting fucked!"

"You mean the Prime Minister?" Ah, she wasn't even fazed by his swears. He liked that.

"Same fucking thing, just that mine is much more honest." He retorted. It was silence besides the wind and the long ass train heading to it's destination. He tapped on his steering wheel. Why wasn't he choking up now? He could say what was on his mind all the damn time, what the fuck was wrong with him? "Do you have a name for that voice or are you going to leave me in the dark?" He finally asked and she looked to him, then after a long and quite excruciating moment, she removed her helmet, ever so casually as thought this wasn't the reveal of the century.

And fuck, she was beautiful.

He felt his throat catch as he finally saw the woman behind the helmet. He finally saw her chestnut hair, well, more than what the helmet allowed. He saw her beautiful dark brown eyes and her facial structure just seemed so...different than what he had ever seen by women. He wondered if she also had wit. Women were beautiful, but if they didn't have the brains, they weren't worth it. She smiled and he watched as dimples formed.

"Clara, Clara Oswald." Clara... He went on and attempted to introduce himself.

"Mal-"

"Malcolm Tucker. I know. I knew when I first saw you that I had recognized who you were." He raised an eyebrow. She rolled her eyes, "I only knew you by face and name, but I didn't know anything else. So, I did my research." She paused, examining him. This time, he could really feel it, now that he could see her eyes. "The Guardian says you're a velociraptor. I don't really see it." He scoffed.

"So you researched? I'm fucking flattered sweetheart." He intended to say something else, but his mouth just went to that. Fan-fucking-tastic.

"The Spectator says you're lago with a BlackBerry." She continued, ignoring his comment, "Perfect that my students are analyzing Othello right now. That, they have spot on, I think, from all the things the papers say."

"You teach?" He asked first, rather than whatever shit the Spectator was giving him. "Really?"

"Mmhmm." She hummed, "At Coal Hill. English has always been my passion. Kids too, so I thought to combine the two to make life easier." So she was smart. Really smart, if she was teaching English to kids that'd rather be on their phones. Othello was boring as shit when he went through school, he could only imagine the difficulties the students must have paying attention to anything she was saying with a face like that.

"Not bad for a lass on a motorbike." She rolled her eyes at that, the train still passing by. Her hair flowed, making her look like a model. She looked wiser, the more he looked at her. Much better than any woman he'd ever fucking see in the shitty government he had to go to every morning.

"Not bad? Thanks. It's probably the most I'm going to get from you, isn't it?" Clara laughed. He chuckled along with her. The train passed on. Clara put on her helmet again, "I'll see you soon, Malcolm." She sped off and he sighed, managing to do the same after a few minutes of composure.

Their short conversations in the morning made him a better person, going on for months besides weekends. He found himself longing for more, to finally have some other person who wasn't a complete fucking idiot to talk to. Jamie was an exception, but even he was low in intellect. The madhouse that was supposed to be the 'government' pulled him thick and thin, making him weary. He noticed how his brash demeanor was always lowered and relaxed, in comparison to when he was at Number 10. He could lower the strong walls he had built under her gaze, even if it was only for five to ten minutes. He liked that he didn't have to be the swearing spin doctor everyone was terrified of- she didn't care about that. She saw him as Malcolm Tucker, without the title attached. She was good for him. Oddly good for him. Even if they were two decades apart in age. It boggled him that she even talked to him, an ancient fuck, when she could be talking to men half her age. Tch, he decided it would be best not to question it. In the line of politics, hardly any fucking thing comes out right. He held onto what they had.

One morning, he was screaming into his BlackBerry. Clara pulled up besides him, watching as he cursed out. She coughed and he immediately stopped mid rant. He could practically hear Nicola on the other end, confused as to why his hostile rant had stopped, but the other end was silent.

"Clara, not now." He said calmly to her, flashing a small smile, then continued on back to his rant, unknowingly dropping Clara's name into the mix. "It's like you can't do one fucking thing right! Just like your mother and father when they didn't use protection and made you! What? What about Clara? Clara is none of your fucking- if you breathe any of this, I'm going to fucking kick you so hard in your- fuck!" he glare down at his BlackBerry. The fucking cunt hung up on him. "This cocksucking fuck is going to pay for this!"

"Sorry, did I do something?" She asked meekly under her helmet. He looked up to her and his facial expression immediately softened. He shook his head.

"No, no, it's not you. It's these people I work with. If work even is the right term." He sighed in exasperation, throwing the phone into the passenger's seat. He composed himself, wanting to look at least less angry for Clara. He knew he was scowling, but at least she knew it wasn't for her. "How are you then?"

"Peachy. Last day of classes and I'll be at home for two months." He processed that for a moment. As she wouldn't require waking up early and heading off in this direction, he wouldn't see her in the morning. The weekends were already terrible as they were, as she didn't show up as this bullshit of a train continued to speed on. He didn't talk with anyone about the train, all because he wanted to have the talks with Clara.

"Oh." He uttered out, frowning now.

"Yeah, personally, I don't really like it. I like being busy." He noticed how the train was shorter than normal, seeing the end of it coming close. He needed to say something, right now. Fuck it all, he craved her voice or her talks or fucking anything about her. She listened to him rant about every fucking thing and nothing was spilled onto the press. She impressed him in many ways and he didn't want to lose what they had- whatever the fuck it was. He'd figure it out later. Right now, he wanted just one thing: to keep in touch. To keep what they have.

"Clara?"

"Malcolm?"

"Can I have your...number?" She lifted the tinted glass up to show her eyes. They were questioning.

"My number?"

"Yes, you know, the fucking thing I can use to contact you. Made up of numbers, I know English is your specialty but it doesn't take a fucking rocket scientist-" he realized how brash he was being and calmed himself, "I could have just delved through the Coal Hill files but that's just fucking wrong. So, I'm going to ask again. Clara Oswald, can I have your number?"

"Well, I appreciate that. Sure, you can have it." He found the corners of his lips rising slightly. "Got some paper?" He scrambled quickly, finding a random piece of paper and handing it to her, along with a pen. She took both and looked at the paper. "'Fuck off.'" She read out loud. He couldn't help but let out a laugh, quite a hearty one too- since when did he let out a laugh like that? She peered up at him, raising an eyebrow.

"First time I've ever heard you swear." He explained.

"Teachers can't swear, encourages the children into following. Wouldn't want teenage Malcolm Tuckers running around yelling swears to everybody." She wrote down her number, then handed it to him. The train passed by and Clara drove off yet again. Before he decided to, he glanced down at the paper, seeing the small note along with the number.

'Hopefully you don't tell me to fuck off too, Malcolm, I quite like your company. Call me, Clara.'

For the first time in quite sometime, he found himself smiling out of pure bliss.