The Great Malcolm Tucker was back in the limelight again, back where he enjoyed being. His column was a success. Many a politician were caught in the line of fire, including one Dan Miller who eventually decided to step down from his position as Future Prime Minister. Too much press could be very bad, which Miller had soon learned.
The only man who was barely mentioned, in any way, was Ollie Reeder. Call it stupidity, but Malcolm felt some sort of warmth for the younger man. They'd been through so much together. When Dan Miller left, Ollie found a shred of loyalty and left as well, with the majority of his dignity intact. He never became the raging, pitiful alcoholic that Malcolm told him he would. No, he left well before then. And now he had a far better job, working as a tech-savy PA of sorts to a local attorney, learning as much as he can in the process.
During those eight months in prison, Ollie even came to visit him a few times. Shocking, that. But Malcolm was thankful for the visits, even as awkward as they were.
But the job...
Political vengeance.
Diplomatic, bureaucratic assassination.
That's all that this ever was. Malcolm Tucker was a man of his word — for the most part, these days — and he'd told everyone they weren't through with him yet the day he'd been found guilty in front of the eyes of his peers, his lawyer, a jury, and a fat, pompous judge.
He was back in the political limelight, back in the news again, back in everyone's lives again in the worst of ways.
Months passed since he'd seen Sam, and they were fucking miserable and sad. He kept himself busy, though, with work. No, correction. He was busy destroying other people's lives. Those who had destroyed him , anyway. And he was finally finding himself able to move on, slowly but surely.
One day, as he was standing outside Number 10 from a rather important visit, surrounded by hacks upon hacks, he heard something terrible. A journalist thrust his recorder in Malcolm's direction and said, "Mr. Tucker, do you have anything to say about your old PA's accusations, of being violated by a journalist? What do you have to say about Sam Cassidy claiming such a thing? Do you believe her? Do you still see her, on occasion, or was it just a professional relationship between you two?"
It felt like someone had punched him right in the gut. He stared, shocked, his jaw hanging slack. He couldn't even speak. Violated? Molested? Was she raped? Where the fuck was this so-called boyfriend of hers when she needed him most?
"I'm sorry," he says, pushing away from the hoard of hacks and making for the street. There was an uproar behind him, following after him. All he heard was a chorus of loud, "Mr. Tucker's" as he went, but couldn't give two shites.
He all but ran to hail a cab, rushing half into the street when he got to one. "Blimey," the driver said, stopping and unlocking the door for Malcolm. "In a rush, sir? Where to?"
Malcolm, utterly unphased, rambled off the address to him. It felt like an eternity before he arrived at her flat. The lights were off, from what he could see outside, and suddenly it was as if his throat was closing up.
Was she okay? Was she hurt? Did the bastard really rape her? Was it all a lie, everything the journalist said? What was the truth?
In the moment, he'd never felt such a rush of love and need in his life. She was certainly the one. She was the love of his life. The one he'd regret losing for the rest of his life. The one he was meant to love. The one he should have told so, so long ago.
Sod everything. He didn't matter right now. She did.
He flew from the cab after tossing quid at the driver, then ran across the cobblestone sidewalk to where her door was. He knocked furiously, chest heaving from all the running. He loosened his tie, eyebrows rising in anticipation.
Sam answered the door rather quickly, much to his own surprise. And her expression was one of pure shock, especially at his dishevelled state. "Malcolm?" She was unsure, surprised. Bewildered, really.
He placed a hand on the door, not-so-subtly looking her over to make sure she was alright. "Are you okay, Sam? Please tell me you are..."
Then it hit her. He must have heard. Of course he must have. The man was surrounded by bloodthirsty hacks. "I'm fine," she said slowly, still too hesitant to step aside and let him in.
"Don't lie to me, please," he said hurriedly. A petite hand rose, her eyebrows drawn together. Then she said, "Look, Malc. I'm not sure what you heard but I really am okay. I was at a party last week and this man made a grab for my arse. A punched him. He might've gotten a bit grabby. It's alright. He might be singing Soprano for the rest of his life, though, and he'll be broke by the time I'm finished with him in court. I won't lie about that. But I'm okay. He's the one who got hurt, not me."
He froze, all-too-embarrassed about his initial reaction.
"Jesus Christ," he said slowly, a hand rubbing at his temple. Whilst his eyes were on the cement ground, on the step into her flat, he felt a hand gently grasp his shoulder. Her fingers were warm, gentle, tender. She caught his attention, saying, "I'm okay, Malcolm. I promise."
His eyes rose again, bravely meeting hers. His were teary, hers were filled with concern and confusion. The words were out of his lips before he even attempted to stop them. "Fuck, I love you," he blurted out. "I love you so much, Sam. Even if it doesn't matter. You're all I ever fucking think about. Do you even fucking understand? I thought I was gonna have to kill some bastard. I was… terrified."
The admission left her stunned, fingers losing their grip on his shoulder. Why did it matter so much? Why did she matter so much? There was a fire in his eyes that she hadn't seen in so, so long. Since before the Goolding Inquiry. Since before he'd left Number 10. Since aeons ago.
She saw the old Malcolm again, in those few seconds.
That is, before his lips were on hers. He needed it. He just needed this one last kiss and then maybe he could leave, put this behind him, and be happy for her. He needed to feel her close just this one last time, even if it only lasted for a few seconds.
One last time.
What was supposed to end so quickly turned into a battle for dominance over a kiss. She was taller than him this way, still standing on the step into her flat whilst he was on the ground level. She seized the opportunity to wind her arms about his lithe shoulders, to pull him closer and press their torsos together, even as she protested.
"Malcolm, we shouldn't—" The words were cut short by another, hungrier kiss. Her knees gave way but he was there, and he'd always be there, to catch her. He'd never been so sure of anything in his life. He was hers.
He lifted her into his arms with an ease that thoroughly shocked her. It shocked them both. He slipped into the flat, shutting the door behind them. She was eager, needy, and winding her thighs around his narrow hips.
It was there — that powerful chemistry, that affection, that love, that lust. She didn't know what to do with it all. She smiled against his lips, absolutely stumbling over her words. "What are we doing, Malcolm? What are we fucking doing?"
He fell to the sofa with her, collapsing into her and leaning up on his forearm to keep from crushing her with his weight, as slight as it was. Their bodies pressed together and it stole her breath away. And his.
"I should've had you on my desk years ago. Why didn't I? What stopped me?"
His response took her breath away. She yanked at his tie, loosening it in the process and beginning to untie it. "I bought this tie for you, years ago," she mumbled, her teeth tugging at his lower lip without any care or mercy. Once he was rid of it, she heard him reply back, "I know you did."
Furious. That's what their hands were. And his were everywhere. He pushed her blouse up higher, needing to feel warm skin against his rough fingers.
"I'm in a fucking relationship," she finally mumbled. And really, she probably should have said the words minutes ago when this all began. He laughed, chuckled almost, against her lips and murmured in reply. "I don't fucking care, sweetheart. Might've cared months ago but I don't now. You wouldn't be undressing me right now if you cared about him, anyway. So why should I?"
She gave him a good shove but her lips were attacking his again afterward. Then she dared to reply. "Because he's a good guy, you know. He's nice. Caring. He's there for me when I need him to be. Shaun's nothing like you, you dimwitted fucktwat."
He laughed. It was a real sound. He threw his head back and laughed. "Nice one," he replied. "You're sounding more and more like me every day. Doesn't that seem alarming to you?"
She shoved him again. This time, though, they were both caught off-guard as he lost his balance above her. He went falling to the plush, carpeted floor and she landed on top of him there. It knocked the wind right out of his lungs and a flurry of colorful Scotch curses followed, along with a gasp, to feel her pelvis against his.
"You're dangerous, lass," he grumbled to her, wincing and moving the hardcover book he'd landed on. He tossed it aside, onto the sofa, and sighed. He felt all reason go right out of the cracked window in that tiny living room, however, when she reached lower and cupped what was making itself rather known between his thighs — a hard cock.
"Sam—" He couldn't even speak. The name came rushing past his lips in a whoosh of breath, neck arching for a moment as she pressed her lips to his jugular. As if he completely, utterly crumbled for her in that exact moment.
"Why now?" she asked, shocked with herself and shocked with everything that was happening between them. "Why we are doing this now, and not months ago? Why didn't…" She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Unable to speak her mind. Unable to swallow the lump in her throat.
He cupped her cheek as she made quick work of unclasping his belt buckle, deft fingers popping his trouser buttons open afterward. "Because… Because it just took me some time to realize what was really important," he told her.
There was a pause, her expression softening as she watched him for a moment.
"And what's that, hm? What's really important to you? I've loved you for so long," she mumbled quietly. "I worked for you for a decade, Malcolm, and I loved you for every second of it. It was an accident. I just started feeling that way one day and I couldn't stop it once it began."
She stilled, her hands touching his jaw and holding him close for a moment. Out it came, like a broken dam, and once it started it couldn't be stopped. "I love you," he said hurriedly. "I love you and it hurts. It wears away at me every day to be without you. I've missed you since the day I was booked and sent to prison. I thought maybe I was doing the right thing, because you deserve better, by being with someone else and not me, but I don't fucking care anymore. I want you."
Their clothes were gone in minutes. They undressed one another, both no longer really caring about the consequences of their actions. They just wanted — no, needed one another.
He was so hard, achingly hard, and she was so ready for him. It felt like heaven to slip inside of her for that first time, to bury himself to the hilt, to feel her nails rake down his back.
Everything inside of him screamed how they should have done this so long ago. Every fiber of his being belonged to her. Every thought, every cell, every molecule. Why hadn't he told her years ago?
She rode him hard and fast, with urgency and impatience. That's what waiting for nearly a decade did to someone. That's what it felt like. It felt like they couldn't get enough of one another, no matter how hard they tried.
She grasped his shoulders, the pillow by his head on the carpeted floor. His hands trailed along her spine, down to the base of it, grappled for her backside. He gently caressed everything he could possibly reach, palming at her breasts and teasing her rosy-pink nipples, trying to find what drove her utterly insane and propelled her over the edge.
He needed to feel her. Needed to touch her everywhere. He was so tactile, as she soon discovered. And oh, she adored it. She didn't care what he touched, though, truthfully. As long as he was the one doing it, it didn't matter. She'd yearned for those hands to map out her body for so long.
Their highs were intense. They found their peak together, climaxing in one another's arms and clinging to what little sanity remained. This evening had been far too surreal to even begin to explain, not that she wanted to think it over.
And when it was all over, when they were lying spent in one another's arms on the sofa — where they'd relocated to, sometime during the lovemaking — he fell asleep beneath her. He dozed off, finally at peace and utterly at home in her arms.
She was in awe of it all. Awestruck by how comfortable he was with her, by the ease he suddenly felt with her. By the snug, cozy arms that were wound around her. The cheek that was resting atop her head. The soft snores. Everything him.
But what would she do about Shaun, her boyfriend? She felt dirty, really. She was a loyal woman. She always had been. Look what Malcolm had made her do... Not that the fault lie entirely with him, mind. She knew that. And the worst part? She didn't regret a single thing about it.
She fell asleep that night, lost in his arms, and curled up at his side. Nothing else mattered.
