A/N: This one feels like it took ages despite not so yeah apologies.

Four

Malcolm groaned as he leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling; very little had happened all week, which caused a distinct lull in the hustle and bustle that he thrived on. Things were calm and quiet, like a shop before its big holiday sale, and he didn't like it one iota.

"Rajit, what do you do when there's nothing to do?" he asked, raising his voice so his personal assistant could hear in her section of the office. "I get this means we've done our jobs well, but a little too well doesn't sit right."

"That's not my name," Aparajita said dully. Malcolm suspected she was playing some game on her mobile just to avoid him. "Rajit is my cousin… my decidedly male cousin."

"Tell that to the name Ashley—it doesn't know what's going on anymore." He was trying with her, he really was, in his effort to get her to warm up a bit. There were worse uphill battles, he supposed. Glancing at the clock, he held in a groan realizing it was only three, prompting a rapid-fire text.

'Save me—PA a fucking bore –Malc'

Not even two minutes passed and his phone chirped in a demand to be answered. He picked it up, barking "Yeah?"

'Go on, have a shout and pretend like this is an actual emergency,' Glenn said, boredom apparent in his own voice. Malcolm then stood up briskly, furrowing his brows.

"What?! I can't leave you soggy cunts alone for two fucking days without things going to shambles?" he snapped. "Stay right there and you better pray I can get you out of this mess." He quickly rushed over towards the lift, slamming the button to open it. "Gotta take care of this fuck-up real quick; might see you later."

"It's about time you got something," Aparajita said. Her tone told him she wasn't convinced, and he didn't even look back before the lift doors closed on him.

"Fuck, that was close; thanks," Malcolm exhaled. He drew his hand over his face, coming to rest along his jaw. "Nothing gets by her."

'Well, she's damn good at her job. No one can fool Rajit Khan and get away with it.'

Malcolm blinked in surprise. "How do you know what I just tried to call her?"

'That's what your predecessor called her—served alongside her granddad in the Gurkhas or something like that. Never did get the full story, now that I think about it. Hey, are you coming over? I'll put the kettle on if so.'

"I'll take a raincheck on that—I just want to get out of here since half the staff seems to be keeling over of the fucking Plague." He dodged a coughing IT member and ducked into the atrium. "I almost feel like calling in tomorrow whether I catch this damn bug or not—shit, there's one of my staff. Keep it oiled, sunshine." He pocketed the mobile without waiting for Glenn to answer as a hefty woman, closer to fifty than forty, ran up to him from across the way. "This better be good, Beresford, if you're risking rupturing several internal sacs at once."

"There's been a crash-landing out in Lincolnshire," she informed him between gasping breaths. "Rutan—non-hostile, dead well before impact—and we can't reach Commander Stewart!"

Malcolm's eyebrow quirked up, a mixture of intrigue and worry spreading across his face. "Why not?"

"She went home after lunch because she wasn't feeling well. I think the virus that's been going around got to her too."

"For fuck's sake… where in Lincolnshire?"

"On a farm, just outside the Wolds, but there's no one with the security clearance to go mop things up! They're all out sick!" By now she had caught her wind and looked significantly less like she was going to die. "This is the first emergency I've seen like this—I've only been here a month longer than you."

"So you think you'd know the drill by now." Malcolm snapped his fingers and pointed towards one of the seemingly-healthy-looking people on a computer monitor. "Hey, moleman, what sort of cleanup crew we have that can take care of something that's dead but also…?"

"Rutan," Beresford clarified.

"Yeah, that."

The man tapped on the keyboard in front of him and squinted at the results. "We have a recon team specializing in hostile extraterrestrial forces; I'd go with them, since where there's a Rutan, dead or alive, there's a good chance a Sontaran's not far behind."

"The talking tatties with a hard-on for war?"

"Uh… yes, sir?"

"Good. Who has to hit the button to scramble them?"

"Director Stewart, but—"

"Yeah, yeah, she's puking her guts out with the rest of staff. Who the fuck do I see to override normal protocol?"

"Ah… ummm…" The man pointed in the direction of a series of empty chairs, the entire cluster out. Malcolm growled and took the monitor man by the shoulder of his shirt, dragging him over to the necessary console and tossing him into it.

"Override normal protocol; authorization code: Canmore."

"…b-but, sir…!"

Leaning over, Malcolm got within an inch of the man and narrowed his eyes. "What's the use of being Intergalactic Big Brother if we can't override our own fucking system?" He dropped his voice low and curled his upper lip into a sneer. "Do it."

The man whimpered and nodded quickly before sliding away to sit in one of the chairs. He began typing away, attempting to initiate the scramble of the clean-up crew. Once he was unable to continue, Malcolm swiped his ID card and all the lights on the console that were red and yellow perked up in a bright neon green.

"Thunderbirds are go," he nodded. He looked over at Beresford and flashed his teeth. "Alright, I'm catching a ride with the squad—you hold down the fort, make sure Shaw doesn't piss himself, and if Rajit complains, she's got my number, yeah?"

"She's your PA, so I should hope so…"

"Right; see you when I see you."

"…but…!"

There was no time for Malcolm to reply, for he was off, nearly gliding away as he went to go find someone both well and important enough to not be mind-wiped regularly to ask where the squaddies were stored for just such an occasion as this.

Malcolm was the last one out of the military convoy, hands in his trouser pockets as he glanced around at his new surroundings. It had been a tolerable ride—the soldiers he rode with had amazing senses of humor—but now it was time for business. He meandered about, examining the smoldering wreckage from afar as it sat in a barley field. The dirt road he was on squelched underneath his shoes, telling him that the rest of the field had been saved by recent rain and nothing else. Watching the clean-up crew, he stood silently until he heard the sound of someone running down the dirt track, shouting loudly the entire way.

"Hey you! What the blazes are you doing out here?!" Malcolm took one look and knew he was dealing with the farm owner: over sixty, the beginnings of a hobble in his gait, and patched overalls covered in various sorts of stains he did not want to think about. Grinning politely, Malcolm held out his hand as the man approached.

"Hey there, mate. You the owner of this lucky field?"

"Lucky me arse! I thought I called the police! Now I've got soldiers and hazmat suits and I don't know what-all buggering up my field! This is my livelihood you know!"

"You think we don't realize that?" Malcolm scoffed jokingly. "It's farmers that make sure we don't have to import all our food from fucking who-knows-where and while I'm all for modifying our crops for health reasons and better shelf-life, enough is enough. It's a tough one, yeah?"

The farmer squinted at Malcolm, unsure what to make of the Scottish stranger who was currently the most normal-looking of the strangers currently stomping about on his property. "Who are you people?"

"The ones the police call when they're damned if they know what's fucking going on. Malcolm Tucker; I'm one of the higher-ups over at the UK sector of the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce." The farmer cocked an eyebrow, but finally shook his hand. "Now tell me: what can I do for you that would make both of our lives much easier?"

Kate woke up the following morning about as gracefully as she fell asleep: crumpled over in the bathroom whilst huddled next to the toilet. A pounding headache, sandpaper throat, an unsteady hand and a queasy stomach… it was punishment for not having been majorly sick in fifteen years, she imagined, and the price had been huge. She heard her mobile buzz atop the counter and crawled over to get it.

'Are you coming in today?' Her PA checking in—had to remember to give her a nicer bonus at the end of the year.

'No. Will try for tomorrow. Don't let the place burn down.'

Leaving it at that (the details of one's illness always best left private), the mostly-incapacitated scientific director and leader of UNIT's Mainframe UK picked herself up off the floor and stumbled out into the main of her room. Finding it too cold for just pajamas, she found her robe and shuffled her way down the stairs. She curled up on the couch in the sitting room and closed her eyes, attempting to not fall asleep sitting up while taking in the sounds of the day. A few minutes passed and she heard the other occupant of the house, her adult son Gordon, come out of his room and start looking around.

"Mum? Where are you?"

"Down here," she replied, grimacing at the sound of her own raw voice. Gordon came down and found his mother, groaning in frustration upon seeing her.

"You should be in bed," he scolded gently. "You're never going to get better if you don't rest up."

"I don't need you to tell me what to do," she frowned. A blanket was soon draped over her and Gordon was walking away. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Yes Mum, and did you already forget who came home last night to find you so delirious you were vomiting in the dishwasher?"

"It was that medication—it was out-of-date," she reminded him. A moment later and he was back in the sitting room, fussing over her blanket.

"Don't give me that; the box was printed in America and they mix their days and months."

"Go away Gordon," Kate scowled. "I don't need you hovering over me like I'm about to die." She grumbled as her son forced a mug of soup in her hands. "Don't you have anything better to do?

"Mum, I don't report in for my last month at Wyton for another week—let me do this," the young man replied. When he saw his mother take out her mobile, he confiscated it, holding it high out of her reach. "No; not until you're better."

"Gordon James Lethbridge-Stewart, you give me back that mobile. I made you, and that means I can unmake you," she hissed.

"You could, but it would be much less effort to just sit there and let this bug run its course," he said. The mobile beeped and he checked it from afar. "It's Ms. Khan. I thought you gave her a new boss to bother."

"Oh God, those two are fighting again," Kate groaned. She coughed roughly and sank down onto the couch cushions. "Tell her I'm not around. Tell her I'm in the loo vomiting my guts out. I don't want to hear another squabble out of them until I'm well again."

"Okay," Gordon shrugged. He swiped the phone and answered, a smirk on his face. "This is the phone of Kate Stewart and you have reached her son Gordon. Kate is unable to…"

'Put Director Stewart on the phone, now,' Aparajita demanded. 'Tucker is going to ruin everything.'

"Ms. Khan, I'm sorry, but Mum's home sick and…"

'I don't care what's happening you little RAF reject. We are currently panicking and we need the Director's instructions!' Gordon wrinkled his nose at the device in his hand and held it out towards Kate.

"She's being incredibly rude and insistent, but I assume it's the fault of this Tucker fellow and whatever they're scared he's going to do."

"If this is her exaggerating again I'm going to sack her myself," Kate muttered. She took the phone from her son and held it up to her ear. "This better be good, Khan."

'Director Stewart, there's been a breach in protocol that I was only made aware of just now,' Aparajita stated. 'Mister Tucker is going to give a press conference.'

Kate's face blanched as all the remaining blood drained out. Her face set and she reentered work mode, ready to kill. "He's giving a press conference?! On what?! Where's Miller?!"

'I forbid it and told him just to wait, but I need your permission to conduct a blackout before—oh sodding hell he's on-air.'

Lunging for the remote, the sick woman turned on the television just in time to catch Malcolm stepping up to a podium amongst camera flashes and microphones. He gave the press a grin and cleared his throat.

"Good afternoon. First off, I would like to apologize for the little change in programming—an unexpected bug is going around the office and our official spokesperson is where we all want him to be: at home and away from us," he began. No one in his audience made a noise. "Down to business: there have been claims that at approximately two-forty-three yesterday afternoon there was an 'alien invasion' on the outskirts of Caistor, Lincolnshire. We at the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce have looked into the matter and have deemed it merely the remnants of a rather large decorative paper lantern used as a school experiment that had been launched from an old strip of military tarmac, and the farmer whose crops have been damaged will be subsequently paid for his troubles. Any questions?"

The press was dead silent, not a one knowing quite what to say. Malcolm continued his cheeky smirk as he scanned the crowd. "No takers?"

"Khan… why did no one tell me there was an incident this morning?" Kate wondered aloud. The woman on the other end of the call gulped.

'Well, you called in sick and…'

"…and you let Malcolm handle things. Malcolm, the man who has been aware of extraterrestrial life forms, let alone out of prison, for how many months? How many of those people there covered the Goolding Inquiry? How many of them covered him getting hauled off to the penitentiary!?" She let out a hacking cough into her kerchief, disgusting herself.

'He was the one that went off on his own!' Aparajita replied. 'He took things into his own hands without telling me a word. To make matters worse, he was talking to your PA about protocol instead of his PA first thing this morning and by the time I come into work I'm chasing him all around the compound trying to keep him in-check!'

"Wait… he handled it…? The entire thing?"

'He was there when the clean-up crew arrived yesterday and didn't leave until he had talked with the farmer personally,' was the response. 'Does he not know what his job entails?'

"No… I think he knows exactly what his job entails," Kate nodded. "Thank you for keeping me updated—see you tomorrow." She ended the call without allowing Aparajita to respond.

"So… is this a good thing…?" Gordon asked warily, eyes glued to the television. Not a single member of the press had asked a question and now the pundits were merely complaining about people blowing things out of proportion.

"It's more a confidence-building thing," his mother admitted. Her mobile chirped again and it was Malcolm. "Have fun scaring half of the political world to death with your inability to stay behind bars?"

'Oh, you know, just thought I'd make sure the cattle could understand what was being said to them without getting out the fucking prod,' he chuckled. 'You know, that farmer bloke out in Lincolnshire was a real nice fellow once he calmed down. Gave me some local ale—put a bottle of it on your desk for when you're better.'

"That's nice, but, why'd you go? There's plenty of other people who could have gone with much more experience than you…"

'Yeah, but you all talk in such gobbledygook that sometimes all the men in black and soldiers stomping about just confuse 'em more,' Malcolm explained. 'Simple men sometimes need simple terms. It's not a bad thing, unless you don't have someone around that wasn't handed everything on a silver platter, no offense meant.'

"All the offense taken," she deadpanned.

'Get better or I'm taking back that bottle—it was tasty. Ta.'

The phone went dead and Kate locked the screen, plopping the device down on the couch next to her. "Well, that's a relief."

"Then I'm taking this back," Gordon said. He walked by the couch and plucked the mobile from the cushion, pocketing it immediately. He turned around just before the sitting room doorway and stared his mother down. "Okay, I'm going to the store and getting you some orange juice and something for that cough. Any requests?"

"No bits in the juice," she said, curling up and flipping through the television channels.

She had him trained.

Finally able to maintain an upright position without either wobbling or being criticized by her son, it took Kate nearly a full twenty-four hours before walking back into Mainframe UK. Some of the staff was still hobbling along looking rather thread-worn themselves yet she exuded the air of someone simply come back from a business trip. She went rode the lift up to her office, only to find Malcolm sitting in one of the chairs across from her desk, looking impeccably smug.

"Welcome home, love. Cat made a mess while you were away so I cleaned it up all nice for ya."

"Don't do things just to irritate Ms. Khan—it's not nice," she replied, sitting down in her chair. "She was very cross when she rang me yesterday during your press conference."

"Yeah, got to apologize about that; Miller was keeled over from this thing that's going about and things were getting too hot under the collar without putting something out there. Not that keen on taking over for Miller though—just 'cause I could do it once doesn't mean I won't cock it up eventually, and leaving himself open to a fucking like that is not what a Tucker does." He grinned, teeth flashing cheekily in a demand to be praised.

"Well next time, be sure to clear it with someone else first before you go ahead and do something," Kate said. "I don't care who, just as long as they're not gang-pressed into it."

"Got to have more than one of me to have a gang."

"There's only enough room in the world for one Malcolm Tucker… at least one in your likeness," she quipped. "Now where's this bottle of Lincolnshire ale you promised me?"

"What… you don't want to hear about my daring-dos? How I figured out how to use the neuralyzer without setting it off on myself first? Maybe the jokes I told the lads on the way up to the where the Flying Spaghetti Monster took a dive?"

"Getting back to your regular duties will suffice." She watched as Malcolm stood and exited the office, hands jammed in his pockets, and gave her a wink as the lift doors closed. Her PA giggled in amusement.

"I don't know why everyone is always so terrified of him," she said. "He really is a nice man."

"He's nice to those who know how to do their job, and it seems like we passed the test," Kate said. It wasn't until her assistant took the lift down to do her own errands did she begin to look through her desk. There, in the bottom drawer, was a bottle with a ribbon around the neck and a scrap of paper shoved behind the knot. She took the paper out and unfolded it, rolling her eyes at the scrawl.

'Drink me.'

"We might as well be through the Looking-glass in this occupation," she groaned. She replaced the bottle and closed the drawer—that was going to have to wait until lunch.

A day later and it was Aparajita's turn to get a text implied to be filled with mucus and bile, making her loudly thank her parents' gods in the middle of a hallway that she was to have a Malcolm-free forty-eight hours, which she took to do little things around the place that needed to be done. By the time he returned, she had his office equipped with a fruit bowl, heavy on the satsumas, and a formal promise to call a truce based on his admittedly cool demeanor during the Rutan fiasco. It was good, Malcolm knew, that he and Aparajita were now on the same page. That just made them all the more dangerous to whatever intergalactic pile of goo decided to crash-land on his home soil in the future.