AN: I hope you don't hate me too much after the last chapter, and hopefully this one will make up for it somewhat.

Title is Winston Churchill's.


7.

"Healthy citizens are the greatest asset any country can have."

It is Sam Cassidy who calls her first, closely followed by Malcolm's sister Wendy.

When Nicola Murray's phone trills its ringtone loudly and unexpectedly on a Friday afternoon, her initial instinct is to wonder how she neglected to switch it to silent mode during her surgery. Upon closer examination, she is pleasantly surprised to see Sam Cassidy's name flash across her screen. She's not spoken to the younger woman in months and is instantly ready to ask if she's free for coffee or lunch in the immediate future.

Based on this, Nicola excuses herself humbly. Her greeting to Sam is a warm "Sam! How are you? It's so lovely to hear from you."

The other woman's tone affects a localised Ice Age within Nicola's chest. "Nicola, it's Malcolm."

Suddenly Nicola's mind is reeling, hurtling through possibilities like 'oh god he's been hit by a bus, he's been in a plane crash, he's been trampled to death getting onto the tube'. Why Nicola is so quick to lurch to this end of the realm of possibilities is anyone's guess. Why she feels, even after slightly more than three years' separation, like the earth has been pulled out from beneath her and she may well vomit right here is also anyone's guess. Nicola makes a gesture to one of her staff and sinks onto a plush couch in the library where she's holding this week's surgery.

Somehow Nicola thinks her brain always works fastest when things are going worst, and now is no exception. She's confronted with a potted history of Life With Malcolm: morning kisses. Shouting matches. Mutual foot-rubs. An eventual destruction that was entirely her own fault. She flashes to the card he sent her at Christmastime. It had been the first she'd heard from in him in over a year, and then all of a sudden there it had been, an envelope with unmistakable handwriting and a return address she used to call her own. A picture of Parliament in the snow had greeted her, inside the simple message "I hope you're happy, pet. M." The card had been too thoughtful and too appropriate to receive from someone Nicola had worked incredibly hard to convince herself she had no right to love anymore, someone she is certain no longer loves her.

"Is he...?"

"They're running tests." Relief floods Nicola's body. Tests mean doctors and hospitals and places where diagnosis can happen and medical support can be given. Tests mean he's alive. Tests mean Nicola does not have to cope with the idea of a world without Malcolm Tucker in it, nor does she have to analyse why this is such an upsetting prospect for her. While she knows many people from the political world who would dance upon the Scot's grave (both figuratively and literally in some cases), Nicola has never had quite this reaction to him in their very long association. Something about Malcolm had always encouraged Nicola to trust him, and despite repeated betrayals, she had done so.

"He passed out at work. His partner - at the firm that is - " Sam adds the last as if she can see Nicola wincing on the other end of the phone. "She said he's seemed really sick for weeks. Pale and out of sorts."

Nicola rakes a hand through hair that has been tamed by an ocean of serum and tries to keep herself in one piece.

"They called an ambulance. Listen, Nicola I know you two aren't... anymore, but. I don't know. I felt like you should know. I think you should be there."

"Can you text me the details?"

"Already have."

"Thank you."

"No problem."

"No, Sam, I mean thank you. Thank you for calling me. You know I still... He still matters to me, that's all."

"I know, Nicola."

"Keep me in the loop, okay? I'll get down there as soon as I can."

"Will do."

Before Nicola has a chance to utterly crumble in her seat, her phone trills in her fingers again. "Wendy - "

"Stevie, I'm so sorry to bother you, I know ye're busy." Nicola smiles at her erstwhile sort-of-sister-in-law's pet name for her. It had started as Stevie Nicks and ended as just Stevie. Nicola, with her particular aversion to being called 'Nicky', had felt so accepted and included when Wendy and her family had found a nickname for Nicola that she'd not totally hated.

Malcolm had been cooking when he'd first heard Wendy use it. They were in Scotland for Isabelle's Birthday; she'd been busy terrifying Nicola while Malcolm was preparing dinner and Nicola was trying to carve out enough space in the little kitchen to bake a cake. A cake which Isabelle had repeatedly insisted she'd not wanted.

When Wendy had let herself in, inundated with bags of groceries, she had stepped behind Nicola in the kitchen and kissed her cheek from behind, grinning, "Stevie Nicks! What an honour."

"What was that Wend?" Malcolm had smiled slightly, processing the nickname.

"Stevie Nicks. Surely ye've worked out by now that the increase in frequency of my Stevie Nicks references is because I'm referrin' to yer lovely-non-bride?"

"I thought yeh just had terrible taste, hen."

"You're not as big a prick as yeh try t'be, yknow tha'?" Wendy had pouted wryly at her brother, smoothing her hands over his shoulders, and kissing him hello.

"Where's Mam?"

"Taking a break from terrorising me?" Nicola had mumbled into the bowl of cake mix.

Before anyone had had a chance to examine Nicola's comment, Chloé had bustled in the door with her rapidly expanding Labrador puppy and a bright trill of "Hey, Nicola!"

Nicola had brightened instantly and abandoned her cooking to embrace the teenager. "Hello! How's my brilliant girl?"

"Fine. School's a bitch, though."

"Chloé Isabelle McNair, we've discussed this. The bitch-ness of school is why we bought you a puppy."

"And don't get me wrong, I love Leo, but having a dog named Leonardo LabVinci doesn't actually guarantee getting good marks in A Level Art."

Nicola had run her fingers through Chloé's dark curls, her tone becoming soothing. "I know it's a hassle now, Chlo, but trust me, you're better to get it over with. Katie had to jump through every hoop you can imagine when she decided she actually did want to go to college."

"How'd she manage in the end, Steves?" Wendy had asked, fishing through her handbag for her glasses.

"She dropped the 'my-mother's-a-Cabinet-Minister' line at every opportunity."

"Humblebrag." Malcolm had sniped, his lips quirking while his gaze remained trained on the roast he was preparing.

"Excuse me, that was not a fucking humblebrag! It was a statement of fact." Nicola had retorted, mouth agape with her indignation.

"Good god, Nicola, did you pick that language up from this here son of mine, or have yeh always been as bad as him?" Nicola had continued to play with her niece's hair, had almost smiled because that had sounded like the Isabelle version of affection.

"Taught her ev'rything she knows, Mam."

"Like hell you did." Had been Nicola's retort, and any ground she may have gained with Isabelle in the last few minutes had been up in smoke.

"Just don't be corruptin' mah only granddaughter." Nicola hadn't been sure whether the dig was more directed at Malcolm for never procreating or herself for being too old and too ambitious to bully him into doing so.

"That's alright, Isabelle, I think we've corrupted mine enough to last a lifetime."

The older woman's quiet 'humph' hadn't gone unnoticed by anyone.

"Chlo, can you do me a favour and stop getting so monstrously tall?" Nicola had mumbled, turning the teenager in her hands and sweeping her gaze from Chloé's purple Doc Marten's with their bright yellow laces to her red plaid shirt. In many ways Chloé has always reminded Nicola of a more level headed version of Katie.

"Brian's a fucking mountain, Nic'la. She'll have you under her chin by next year."

"And you too, presumably." Nicola had shot back at her partner with an affectionate smile. Malcolm had bitten back a quip about being big enough for Nicola, instead depositing the roast back in the oven, wiping his hands on a towel and emerging from the kitchen.

"Are you too big to give your old uncle a hug hello?"

"'Course not." Chloé had smirked, the expression eerily like her uncle's whenever he referred to his other half as a frump.

"She's right, though, pet. You're not just an insolent ankle-biter anymore. Yeh're fucking tall."

"You're such a shit, Uncle Malcolm."

Nicola had snorted with laughter. "Took me years to work out the full extent of that fact, Chlo."

"Steves, are yeh there?"

"Wendy, I'm so sorry. I'm a bit overwhelmed. Malcolm's old PA called me."

"Me too. I'm so worried about him, Stevie. D'you know anything?"

"Just that he collapsed at work."

"Jesus, what's wrong with him?" Wendy's voice trembles dangerously. She is not equipped to imagine a world without her big brother.

"I don't know. I only know what Sam told me, and she didn't seem to have much."

For once Nicola is concealing the tension she's feeling quite well. For a woman prone to descending into panic, she really does seem to be handling the situation very well.

On the other end of the phone Wendy descends into unsteady tears. "Oh my god what's wrong with him, Nicola?"

"Wendy, I'm sure he'll be okay."

"Will he? Because he's not been - "

"Not been what?" Nicola asks, ears pricking. Has he not been coping? Does he miss her?

"Nothing. Nothin', I don't know wha' I'm sayin'." Nicola can hear Wendy back-peddling but she knows this isn't the right moment to push it.

"Look, I'm going down there as soon as I can end this meeting. I promise I'll call you as soon as I know anything."

"Thank you so much, Steves. I miss you, y'know?"

"I miss you too. Look if - if you need to" Nicola lets out an unsteady breath, "to come down to visit him you're welcome to stay at mine. I mean, you'll probably stay at our - " now Nicola's voice catches audibly. "At the big house. At Malcolm's. Malcolm's house. Forget I said anything."

"I'll see how I go, Nic'la. But I appreciate the offer. And I mean wherever I stay I'll be in yer pocket whenever yeh're not running the whole bloody health system, alrigh'?"

"I'll hold you to that, Wend."

"Tell him I'll fucking murder him if he's not okay, righ'?"

"I'll do my best. If I last that long without being thrown out."

Nicola rings off and pulls herself back together enough to slip back into her surgery. "I'm so sorry for the interruption Mr and Mrs Jones. Gillian, could I borrow you for a moment?"

The strawberry blonde flips closed the notebook, rises and crosses to her boss. She itches at one of her eyes, and in different circumstances Nicola would ask her why she's still bothering with contact lenses when they clearly drive her mad.

Nicola taps the base of her phone against her palm, and Gillian correctly picks it as one of Nicola's more extreme anxiety signifiers. She first remembers it rearing its head when Nicola was preparing for her first Question Time as Health Secretary. Gillian had understood at the time; David Dimbleby can be formidable. She does not understand what has prompted it now.

The brunette tucks her hair behind her ear, fingers unsteady.

"Right, Gilly, I know this is going to be a massive arse ache for you, but I need to leave."

"Sure, I can handle that. Is everything okay? The kids are alright, yeah?"

"What? Yes, the kids are all in one piece. Well, four respective pieces I hope. Hopefully with no extra pieces growing inside them. Anyway, that's not the point."

Gilly settles a reassuring hand on the brunette's arm. "Nicola, talk to me. You're trembling. What's going on?"

"It's - it's Malcolm. He's in hospital. I don't really know much more, but I just... I feel like I should be there. And I mean, he probably won't want me there but I just - "

"Hey, Nicola, it's okay. I understand. I'll sort things out."

"I'd lose my head without you, Gilly."

Gillian's reply is nothing short of insolent. Nicola doesn't have the energy to mind. "I know. That's why you have staff."

The politician in Nicola knows that she absolutely should go back in and apologise to her constituents. Despite this, she squeezes Gilly's arm and all but jogs out of the room.

When Nicola quietly enters his hospital room, she is taken aback at the sight of Malcolm Tucker when he is genuinely ailing. She's seen him ill before of course, dramatically rolled her eyes when he demands cheese balls instead of proffered soup and the whole catastrophe of it. But right now things are different. He is deathly pale and gaunt, looking like he's been subsisting on Fanta alone. Nicola's stomach lurches with that strange protective, possessive mechanism that hasn't seemed to leave her in all the time they've been apart. Before she remembers herself she feels guilty for not cooking enough, then recalls that of course she's not cooked for him in years.

Even though he's skeletally thin and paper white, he has the audacity to be reading a heavy document with his glasses perched on his nose. Given a twenty percent increase in saturation, a five kilogram increase in body fat, and a different room surrounding his bed, Malcolm looks rather like someone she used to regularly wake up next to. Malcolm looks like Wednesday Night Malcolm or Saturday Morning Malcolm. A smirk pulls at her lips; this pale he looks more like 3:30am on Monday Malcolm, the one who used to wake her up and get a right bollocking because she had to be up in two hours and was hoping to look human.

In a moment of defiance she clips over and plucks the document from his hands. "Who let you have this in here? Jesus, you look like you were rescued off HMS Iolaire."

"Who the fuck told you I was here." It's more a threat than a question.

"Sam, actually. Then your sister."

"Jesus fucking Christ." Groans the Scot. "And these are the people who are supposed to be on my fucking side."

"Have you ever thought that maybe they actually are? That maybe - " Nicola cuts herself off, eyes dropping from his face. It's too soon to say things like 'maybe it's actually good for you to have someone here who cares about you'.

"That maybe somewhere between idiocy and incompetence lies Nicola Murray?"

"Is that the Calvin Klein 'Obsession' tagline you're invoking, Malcolm? Because if it is, it's nice to know you still care."

Malcolm's blood is about to boil in his veins; Nicola can see the bile rising in his mouth, the slight pulling back of his lips in a standard issue Tucker snarl.

"Yeh're right. It's more like whichever fucking car brand that said when it comes to giving Malcolm Tucker a colossal fucking headache, there's no substitute for Nicola Murray."

"I left my fucking surgery for you! I walked out on constituents! So maybe before you decide I'm the worst thing that's happened to you today you could take a minute to think about the fact that I'm seemingly the only person who gives enough of a shit about you to actually be here."

The acrimony between them crackles in the air, and in the tense silence Malcolm takes the time to really look at her.

It's not that he's not seen her since the breakup. They've crossed paths exchanging the children on occasion, and of course he's seen her on television more often than he'd like, but this is the first time in years he's seen her looking so unkempt. Her hair is frizzy and flyaway, as if she's been racing around so much that the serum she so relies on has vacated her follicles. Parts of it are sticking to her forehead and the nape of her neck, and he wonders how much she must have been rushing almost as much as he wonders why she would still be rushing to him. He'd had no response to the card he'd sent her at Christmas, not even a text to say 'thank you'. Ella had mentioned that it had sat on the mantelpiece for a good three months after the tree came down before disappearing.

Katie had remarked in passing that she'd found it in a drawer in her mother's bedroom one day when she was replacing the spare key to her flat.

Part of him is relieved that she's not shown up looking perfectly quaffed and camera ready. She is more his when she is unkempt, and this fact makes him slightly less likely to verbally tear her limb from limb.

Malcolm sweeps his eyes over her again, from her nude heels and up her burgundy dress that she's been wearing for years and has never tired of. She is encased in a heavy bone coloured trench coat, but when she shifts her weight he sees her Parliamentary security pass peeking out. The Commons isn't in session; she is blatantly brandishing the thing to avoid getting thrown out of the hospital when he inevitably calls for security.

"Nice touch with the pass there, Nic'la. It's not goin' t'stop me having yeh thrown out on your arse, but nice try."

"Did it ever occur to you that two of the people who care most about you in the whole fucking world thought I should be here? Could we not just put everything behind us for a minute? Even if it's just long enough for me to say that when Sam called me I was fucking terrified that something had happened to you." After she announces all this she pulls her coat from her body and crosses to a chair against the wall. It's as far away from his bed as she can be, and he's sure that's deliberate. She drops her handbag beside the chair and he notes the telltale signs of Nicola-Murray-Settling-In.

"Don't you fucking dare get comfortable in my fucking hospital room! I've said I don't want yeh here, Nic'la so I really think you should shit off back to wherever and whatever and fucking whoever yeh were doing when Sam phoned you."

"Not that it fucking matters to you, Malcolm, but as I've said, I was holding a surgery when Sam phoned me. I left a meeting with constituents because your old PA phoned me and said you were in hospital. I've cancelled a policy committee meeting tonight. So you can spend as much time hating me as you want, but I've actually reorganised some reasonably important aspects of my life to be here."

"Aren't you supposed t'be on Sky tonigh'?"

"Claire's subbing for me. Nice that you're still paying attention, though." Her sardonic tone ruffles him further, but what's worse for Malcolm is the vivid memory of the last time he was in a hospital with her.

A frantic call from James in the middle of the night. Twelve year old Josh having his appendix out. Him trying to convince Nicola that her panicking wouldn't fix Josh any faster than a surgeon could. Nicola falling asleep against his side on an uncomfortable hospital couch. When she awoke he'd told her if she funded the NHS better she wouldn't have such a crick in her neck from the fucking couch. He'd earned a smile and a cataclysmic disaster of a woman dropping her head back into the curve of his neck, and Malcolm Tucker, bastard extraordinaire, had felt truly settled for the first time in his life.

The fact that Malcolm Tucker misses this feeling contributes significantly to how much bile is bursting from his thin frame.

Malcolm gets half way through the sentence "don't flatter yerself darling" when pain causes his muscles to whip into tight cords and his teeth to grit hard enough that he's worried he may crack one. Nicola is frozen in space. Half of her is screaming to cross the room, to close the gap between them and let him clasp her hand. She wants to soothe him with her fingers through his hair, even though it is damp with sweat. She wants to press her palm to his forehead and feel for herself how bad his temperature is, for even at this distance she can tell he has one.

Once all of these things would have been acceptable. Now they quite clearly are not, and she fears his reaction should she attempt any of them, fears what it would do to him to unleash his full temper in what is clearly a precarious physical state.

Malcolm sees all of this flashing through her mind, because although he may have failed spectacularly to read her on the night he left, as a general rule, Nicola Murray is a reasonably known quantity to him. Even with pain making his vision less reliable than usual, he perceives the moment when she goes to uncross her legs and cross to him as clearly as if she had completed the action rather than merely adjusted her seat a little.

Finally Nicola can no longer stand to watch this in tight silence. She rises and closes the distance between them, but where Malcolm is half expecting her to perch on the edge of the bed and focus him, talk him through it as she once would have, instead she leans over his head and retrieves his call button.

There are two major implications to this action, and Malcolm assumes she must be aware of them, considering he's deduced them and he's on rather a lot of heavy duty painkillers. The first is that he is confronted with the formerly beloved curve of her breasts directly above his face, and Malcolm's mind is suddenly flooded with her again: her supple body and the warmth of her, the fact that while he may not have told her often, he liked waking up with her in his arms and her mad hair attacking his face. He is too near to the little smattering of freckles on her ribcage which he cumulatively spent hours nibbling, and his mind is now demanding he give his attention to a fragment of a memory, his mad, claustrophobic, ticklish other half squirming with laughter as he teased her skin with his teeth. Malcolm pushes the memory away, because all the things he believed her to be in those moments she is not. Although that said, why he had expected genuine loyalty from a politician is something that still baffles him to this day.

The second, and this one actually causes him some relief, for he doesn't want to be lying her in complete physical and emotional agony, is that when a nurse comes, he can have her thrown out. Then he can stop trying to work out how to deal with suddenly having her here again, flesh and bone and just so irritatingly fucking Nicola that he can't quite work out whether he'd rather kill her or crush her to him and not let go. His body is hungry for her, no matter how much he has tried to exorcise the memory of her from it. Her proximity is unfair to him, and now that the pain is so bad his sense of reason is slipping, he feels like touching her may be the only thing that could keep him grounded in this room rather than lost in a violent sea of nausea.

Thankfully Malcolm only falters for a moment; then he is once again consumed by their history, by the image of her being fucked by Andrew Watckins, by a stab of betrayal more painful than the ways his body is presently betraying him.

Before Malcolm has a chance to comment on any of this, to bite out something cutting at her, a nurse bustles into the room.

"I didn't realise your partner was in, Mr Tucker." The nurse comments idly in a pronounced Welsh accent. She sets about checking the rate of his drip, opening it more to give him some relief.

Nicola's body tenses again. The logical side of her insists that if he had a partner, she would have been his next of kin. It would not be Sam. Nicola would not have been called. The likelihood is she would not have even been told.

"No, she's my bitch of an ex, and I'd really prefer if you directed yer meagre fucking brainpower to giving me some drugs rather than invading my steaming turd of a personal life."

Nicola is used to Malcolm's tongue, she is even used to being the one it's being used to lacerate, but there is something particularly gendered about the word 'bitch' that ruffles her feathers and raises her hackles. She is sure he has selected it for exactly this reason.

"Malcolm!" She snaps, and even in incredible pain his head whips to her, his blue eyes clamp on her features. "I'm used to you being an unctuous, parasitic shit to me but you have absolutely no fucking right to speak like that to someone who's trying to look after you." She is fire and brimstone, and even the Big Bad Tucker is a combination of impressed and intimidated right now. Although that could be the pain talking.

Nicola turns to his nurse now, her tone completely altered. "I'm so sorry. I'd like to say he's not always like this but he's usually worse."

"Oh it's fine, we get grumpier old buggers in here than this one." Nicola can see Malcolm's blood pressure rising at being spoken over in such a manner, and the corner of her lip has the temerity to twitch into a barely-there smile.

In another life she would have trailed her fingers through his hair and mumbled 'See? You're not as terrifying as you think you are, darling.' Sadly that life is years away from where she is now.

"My name's Carol. I'm looking after him for this shift, so anything you need you can come to the desk and ask for me if you'd rather."

"She won't be here for the rest of your shift because she's fucking off right fucking now."

"Thank you so much, Carol. I know he's not easy." The Welsh woman runs her eyes over Nicola covertly, gaze conveying that she is absolutely certain that Nicola knows how 'not easy' Malcolm Tucker can be. "Sorry, what am I like? I'm Nicola."

Suddenly recognition crosses Carol's face. "Oh my god. You're Nicola as in Nicola Murray the Health Minister, aren't you?" Nicola is surprised; frankly most people couldn't give a damn about the ins-and-outs of who holds what Ministerial portfolio, even if she has held it for over seven years now.

Nicola pulls her Humble Politician Face, and Malcolm wants to be away from her more than he can articulate in his current state. "Yes, I am."

"I'm sorry, Ms Murray. I'm a bit of a fan, actually."

"Nicola is fine, really." The brunette smiles. While she is genuinely concerned about the skeletal Scottish shit on the bed, a little part of her does like the recognition.

"I was here when you visited last year but I didn't get to say hello. I got tied up and I was so disappointed!" Nicola is caught between feeling touched that she's made seemingly a rather large impact on this woman and wanting to bite out that Malcolm is actually still contorted with pain and she is sick with worry for him. She feels like if she could steady herself against him, take his hand or touch him somehow, maybe she would be more able to deal with the situation.

"Oh, I'm sorry we didn't get to meet when I was here. It was a fabulous visit, though. Everyone was very welcoming."

"I'm sorry, I know this is a terrible time to do this, but it really is just such a pleasure to meet you."

"Oh, please don't apologise. It's really lovely to have people in the sector saying you're doing a good job."

"Christ on fucking tightrope, Nic'la, would you stop with the ego wank and let me fucking die in peace here?!" Malcolm's eyes are clamped shut, but he seems to have no trouble shouting at her. She takes this as a positive sign. She focuses on this rather than how good it is to have someone say her name with an elided 'o'.

"You're not going to die. Wendy said she would, quote, 'fucking murder you' if you weren't okay."

"What about Wendy -?" Malcolm begins to ask, but is interrupted by Carol announcing: "He's a bit of a drama queen, isn't he?"

"What did you just fucking say?" Malcolm demands, diverted from the earlier topic of his sister, and Nicola almost laughs. He is the definition of a toothless tiger right now, shouting abuse while completely incapable of causing damage to anyone.

"You have no idea." Nicola mumbles, resisting the urge to perch on the edge of his bed and settle her hand on him somewhere.

"I want her removed." Malcolm's voice is suddenly more clear, and Nicola wonders if the increase in painkillers can be having an impact already. His gaze is steady on his nurse, and Nicola feels dread rising within her. If he really does want her gone, then she is, in part, labouring under a misconception. She had thought his card at Christmas may have meant he'd gone some way towards forgiving her. She had thought the fact that he hadn't had her thrown out as soon as she'd arrived might have meant that some part of him wanted her there.

"I haven't even found out what's wrong with you and you're trying to have me kicked out? Jesus, Malcolm!" Nicola recognises that they are squabbling like small children, but something about him, about them when they are not together, has always brought out the petulant side of her. Normally she would try to restrain her language in front of a voter, especially one with some affinity for her, but under the circumstances she's barely managing to keep from shouting obscenities at him and hitting him over the head for worrying her so much.

"It's a peptic ulcer." Carol supplies, and Nicola's head pivots from glaring at her former lover to gazing at the little Welsh woman, gratitude shining in her eyes.

"An ulcer?"

Malcolm is too busy barking "That's fucking confidential! That is confidential, righ'? I can have you fucking sacked fer that" to consider the relief in his omnishambolic ex's voice.

Nicola lifts a shaky hand to her forehead and combs her hair back roughly. She snorts a humourless laugh. "You have an ulcer. Of course you have a fucking ulcer."

"Oh, and what's that supposed to mean, Your Royal Shiteness?"

"That you're the most stress-prone, toxically acidic person in the whole fucking United Kingdom! And I've been to charity dinners with Gordon Ramsay."

"Why don't you drop another fucking name and start calling yerself Dam Buster Murray."

"Why don't you shut up and let me work out exactly how worried I should be about you right now?"

"Why would you be even vaguely fucking bothered by what happens to me, darlin'?" Malcolm's tone is dripping with disdain, and if he didn't look like something out of The Walking Dead, she would protest that there is absolutely nothing wrong with him.

Nicola does not answer him because she can barely explain it to herself. Why should she be worried about him? Why was divorcing James after twenty years one of the easiest decisions she had to make in the 2010-2015 election cycle, but losing Malcolm after a comparatively small eight years is still causing her perceptible pain almost three years later? Sometimes she tries to put it down to not getting enough of him. Perhaps in a few years she would have lost her patience with his moods and workaholic tendencies (not that she has a right to complain on that front).

"I'm fucking serious, Nic'la. I don' want you here. You're about as useful here as you were when you were the fucking Leader. How fucking dare you presume that I - I - might fucking need you. You're an inexcusable fucking waste of an oxygen allocation and when you finally fucking do this country the service it's owed and drop the fuck dead, it'll be a waste of taxpayer funds on yer fucking State funeral."

Nicola does not break eye contact with him, and she hopes he can see the damage he's done. Where once she tried to conceal such damage from him, tried to show her strength by feigning invulnerability, now, years of loving him have taught her that Malcolm deserves to see the damage. The damage hurts him too. When she does drop her gaze her eyes land on her fingers, and she finds them trembling. She once was well accustomed to the well forged blade that is Malcolm Tucker's tongue, but now she is not battle ready. She's not sure she even wants to be anymore. What she does know is that she has been labouring under the misapprehension that the fact that in the past they have managed to part enemies and become friends again, when they really should have parted for good, might indicate they can do the same again, might indicate that they can move on.

Malcolm takes less satisfaction than he had hoped he would from seeing her face fall and pain flash in her irritatingly endearing eyes. It's as if she's told him off for every single thing that's ever passed between them simply by recalling it for a fleeting moment. Fuck, Malcolm's head is a mess. He's drugged to his eyeballs, he's in extreme pain, and he has his fucking ex silently deconstructing what a prick he is.

"Are there complications with the ulcer?" Nicola asks, turning back to Carol with a level gaze. She has, correctly, gauged that Malcolm will give her around six minutes of leniency for being such an inexcusable shit. After this time she will have to squirrel Carol away to garner information, and she neither wants to be away from the man who looks much like a page three girl could snap him in two, not does she want to risk getting Carol fired. Malcolm is quite correct. She should not be disclosing such information to Nicola, and the Minister is certain Carol would not be doing so were it not for Nicola's position.

"We're actually waiting on a surgeon. She's on call and we're just trying to get her in at the moment."

Nicola's eyes double in size and she gapes at him. It's a face he's seen more times than he can count. Shocked And Outraged Nicola Face. He was once quite fond of it, quite fond of coaxing it out at inopportune moments. "A-a surgeon? Why does he need a surgeon? Is that normal for an ulcer?"

"It's not a normal ulcer, Nicky Darlin'. I've been spewing up blood. Literally fer once."

Nicola rounds on him, infuriated. "You've been vomiting blood? You've been fucking vomiting blood and you waited until you fucking passed out at work to come to hospital? I could fucking strangle sometimes! Jesus, Malcolm! You won't let me look after you so I expect you to be a fucking grownup and look after yourself - and don't fucking call me 'Nicky'."

In even marginally different circumstances, Malcolm would smile. He likes her when she's riled up. He misses being able to take her by the hips once she's angry and kissing her until she can't remember why.

"So what does that mean, that he's vomiting blood? What kind of surgery does he need?"

"We still need to do an endoscopy. Worst case scenario that will show we need to do some keyhole surgery to repair a burst blood vessel. It should be relatively simple."

"Well that's the nail in my solid Jarrah coffin of a miserable fucking life, isn't it? 'Relatively simple'. Christ in a cancer ward, famous last fucking words." Malcolm throws out drily. Nicola clocks that even while she is mid way through discussing his need for surgery, he has settled his glasses back on his nose and is looking for the document she robbed him of earlier.

"If you don't take off your glasses, Malcolm, I'm taking your brief back to the office and shredding it."

Malcolm doesn't respond, nor does he remove his glasses, but he does shoot her a look which quite clearly says she is in no position to give him such directives anymore. In different circumstances it would be ample invitation for a change of mood, for a moment of warmth between them. Nicola is surprised at how much she has expected her love to wear away, and how markedly her expectations have not been met.

There have been men in the last three years, of course. There was a nice chap from the Exchequer who even lasted slightly more than four months, but it had died of natural causes that could basically be summed up as a lack of love.

She has pushed aside the actuality that her body begs for Malcolm even though her mind has justified the whole thing within an inch of its life. No one has ever fulfilled her like Malcolm, and the memory of nimble Scottish fingers pushing all of her buttons refuses to leave her memory. For moths she had woken from sleep after fitful dreams craving him as if he were water or oxygen.

She had thought that, while she was never settled on the idea of building a life with Exchequer Martin, her time in another relationship had taught her that Malcolm was over, and she would go on. Now the idea that she almost lost him today has reminded her of the depth and breadth of a love that was a best ill-conceived and at worst death marked.

She breaks the steady gaze they've been holding for too long, wondering what he has read in her eyes as she cycled through her idle thoughts.

"You're really pushing the enmity right now, Nic'la." Malcolm mutters, but he removes his glasses nevertheless. Nicola can't help but feel this is something of a victory.

"Carol, do you have any idea how long he's going to be in hospital?"

"I couldn't actually say, I'm afraid. A few days at least."

"Okay. Could you give us just two minutes? If you don't mind."

Malcolm grumbles something about how he shouldn't be left alone with her again, but Nicola takes no notice of him. It's something she's become exceptionally good at over the years.

"Of course. I'll just be outside."

"Thank you so much."

When she turns back to him she looks weary, battle-worn. She curls her hands around the metal bar at the end of his bed. "If it's alright with you I'd really like to be adults for just a minute."

"That's fuckin' fine an' dandy with me, yer ladyship."

Her gaze is withering, but she goes on regardless. "I've cancelled my day and you're going to be in here until after you've had whatever kind of surgery they're planning. I have nothing to do and you, presumably, need clothes at the very least. Why don't you give me your keys and let me get your things. I'll drop them off here this evening, probably while you're still under, and then we can go on pretending that we despise each other."

"Who's fuckin' pretendin', darlin'? Because it sure as Satan on the shitter isn't me."

"Fine, keep hating me. But let me... let me do something for you. And for fuck's sake don't even think about trying to make me beg you, Malcolm, because I won't."

They stare each other down for a long moment, and Nicola feels a pang of loss for a life they once shared. Eventually he relents, reaching into the drawer of the bedside table and throwing a little bunch of keys at her. "Suit yer fucking self."

She releases a breath. "Good. Good." He notes colour flooding her knuckles, wondering why she was gripping his bed so tightly that they went white in the first place. She clips over to her coat, shrugging the garment on and taking up her handbag.

On her way out she turns back to him, something on her lips that is bursting to breach its confines. Despite everything he has said and everything that has passed between them, something about her being so singularly Nicola is almost comforting.

"Just..." A breath that is deliberate and full of futile wishes. "Just... Fucking be okay."

xXx

Nicola had known, of course, that it would be hard going back to the house that was once theirs. She had not known exactly how hard.

Everything from the turn of the key and the swing of the door to the particular creaking floorboards unlocks memories which she has carefully quarantined. She has vivid recollections of shagging on the stairs because they'd not quite made it to the bedroom, and burst faucets that caused shouting and then eventually just hours of sopping amusement while they attempted to rectify the problem until a plumber had arrived. She is confronted with birthday cakes and nights spent lying against him while swearing at the evening news. Nicola feels assaulted by the life she once had, and there is nothing she can do.

Sweeping into the house as she used to every night, dumping her shoes by the door, her coat and bag on the couch, Nicola sets off for the bedroom, refusing to allow herself to stroke her hands over the benches in the kitchen that bear the scars of her cooking, or check the fridge for indications of his current eating habits. It is no longer her place to fret over his diet. It will not benefit her anything to remember all the sins this kitchen has witnessed, culinary or otherwise.

Climbing up the stairs, however, she can't help but recall all the times they failed to keep their hands off each other; times the bedroom seemed too far away and she ended up pressed against the wall or sprawled ungainly over the stairs; their carpeted edges pressing into her back and her failing to care. Nicola breathes deeply to steady herself and clutches the banister a little tighter.

When she gets to the threshold of the bedroom she settles her hand on the doorjamb, digging her stocking-clad toes into the soft carpet. Part of Nicola is all too aware that this offer was a bad idea. Throwing herself into the home where she lived so happily after encountering Malcolm properly for the first time in years is more than she should have put herself through.

"For fuck's sake, Nicola." She mutters harshly to herself before pushing off the doorjamb, batting the lights on, and crossing to the wardrobe. The room which used to smell like a combination of the two of them is now predominantly flavoured with him, his soap and deodorant and aftershave. The magical little combination of fragrances that make up Malcolm Tucker. All at once she finds it soothing and unsettling. Bending neatly she shoots an arm out under the bed and retrieves his overnight case, only realising how habitual this action is once she has flipped the bag open on the bed. The covers are dark grey and terribly Malcolm. They may even be ones he had before they began cohabiting; they are certainly not ones they used while together. At present they are tugged over the bed inelegantly; a worn campaign tee shirt is crumpled and tossed over them.

Nicola turns to the wardrobe and takes a moment before pulling open the doors. She has avoided properly taking in the other bedside table lest she find some trace of another woman in their home, but the wardrobe will be the clearest sign of an external presence. She readies herself to see a pair of pyjamas or tracksuit pants; maybe a woman's coat. Despite the fact that the notion makes her slightly bilious, she steels herself and continues with her task. She is surprised when she opens the wardrobe; not by what she finds, but by what she doesn't.

There are not enough clothes to fill it, the space left by the removal of hers has been evened out by him spreading his, but the garments look sparse in a wardrobe that was clearly built for two. Nicola makes a beeline for a plush navy jumper and a worn pair of jeans. She selects the black belt he used to favour with jeans and rolls it neatly as he used to before a business trip. She gathers two pairs of socks and two casual shirts, resisting the urge to drop her face into the crisp fabric and see whether he has changed laundry liquid brands. Nicola neatly folds a few pairs of boxers and tries not to assess which of his ties are new as she does so.

After arranging his case the way he likes it and laying a folded suit bag on top of his clothes to transport the one at the hospital home in, she pads into the bathroom to fetch his wet-pack. Opening it she checks that it is still equipped with travel sized bottles of his favourite shampoo and body wash. She finds the body wash close to empty, and for no apparent reason she takes it upon herself to refill the bottle. As much as she would like to deny it, some small part of her feels that this is a test, something she must do in a way that is technically perfect. Something she must do in such a way that he can find no fault with it. When she reaches into the shower for the familiar orange body scrub something catches her eye, something even more familiar than his body wash: a cake of soap of the same fragrance as her favourite perfume. It looks intermittently used, as if maybe there are some days he misses the scent of her on his skin so badly he still uses her soap. Of course maybe she's just being wishful.

She finishes packing his toiletries, slipping his blood pressure medication into its regular place and retrieving his toothpaste. He is notoriously fussy about the flavour of his mouth, which Nicola has always marvelled at, given his proclivity for Fanta. While she has the bathroom cupboard open she manages to keep herself from dwelling on the pack of condoms sitting on the shelf. Using every ounce of her self control she keeps herself from counting them.

When she returns to the bedroom she flips the protective barrier down in the case and sets his wet-pack in its usual place, and god, how overly familiar is all this? His habits and his foibles? His pedantic dedication to order that he swears means he's never forgotten anything. She smiles at the number of times she has subtly slipped his glasses or his phone into his pocket or her handbag only to later reveal them at an opportune moment. In the midst of this consideration she bends to collect a pair of shoes, but is stopped in her tracks by a Savile Row suit box that has the letters 'NM' scrawled on it in a rushed hand. Nicola knows she should keep her mind on packing, but the temptation is too great. She drops to the floor and pulls the box out, laying the lid on the ground beside her.

Nicola's hand trembles as she parts the white tissue paper in the blue box and finds it littered with memories. There is the tie and cufflink set she agonised over selecting for his 60th Birthday, abandoned in a box in the dark. A leather notebook that she used to leave by the phone is tossed on the top. She's not thought of the little thing in years, but now that it's here she feels the need to read it, to pour over their notes, the idle exchanges of their days.

They vary between straightforward "3:14pm, Call Sam back", "Katie's lost her keys. Where's our set?" to messages passed while on the phone, her writing declaring "If you're not upstairs in ten minutes I'm starting without you." and his beseeching "for the love of fuck stop putting your hand there." Nicola is all at once smiling at the memories, amused at their consistent inability to keep their hands off each other, and overwhelmed with a sense of loss for their relationship. She does not waste energy on why James was so easy to lose and Malcolm is such a lingering madness for her. She does, however, spend it wondering why she had to ruin her own life quite so pitifully. The contents of the box reveal fragments of this life. There is a half empty sample bottle of her perfume. There are used and half-slack hair-ties scattered throughout. Crumpled receipts from her desk and bedside table drawers that she can't quite decide why he would bother keeping are there too. Almost everything in the box is inconsequential to the average person, but Nicola is devastated by the simplest little item. Christmas gift tags passed between them that proclaim in her hand To my favourite grumpy old fucker. I'm stupidly in love with you. Replies in his that read To the doziest of giblets; another that simply says From your worse half xxxx. The repeated declarations of love, albeit in their own sardonic way, are almost too much for her to bear. Nicola opens an envelope stamped with out of date insignia for her. It's from her (thankfully) short period as Secretary for Culture, Media & Sport, and it contains all the ticket stubs from the events they were required to attend. There is every inch of the spectrum, from opera and ballet to poetry slams, cricket to roller derby. She doubts she would recall each of them, even if she laid out all the tickets before her, but if she sat with the whole family she thinks she could piece it together. Ben would know who won each sporting game she attended, everyone would be able to contribute which of them attended as her plus one, they would be able to number the few times they attended as a gaggle of six.

Nicola continues to sift through the box, eight years of life reduced to a box the size of a four thousand pound suit. There are three framed photos which she remembers consciously leaving for him, a packet of prints from a trip to Scotland, a variety of half used tubes of hand cream. Nicola flicks through the photos, wondering why she is wilfully inflicting this pain upon herself. They are Wend's photos mostly, with some obviously taken by Chloé. Nicola has always marvelled at how a man as procedural as Malcolm, whose main creative talents are spinning words and crafting passable lies, has a sister with such a genuine talent for art. She manages to capture the reality of everyone, neither the best nor the worst unless they are being their best or worst. That particular day everyone was rather close to their best. Isabelle had been relaxed, leavening the rest of them relaxed by extension. Nicola hesitates over three photos of her and Malcolm. They are walking, Nicola two steps ahead. Over the course of the three photos Malcolm catches her hand and closes the distance, holding their tangled fingers against his chest and muttering something in her ear. In the last image she dissolves with laughter. Later in the set there is a photo of Chloé leaning against Nicola's shoulder and Nicola trailing her fingers through her hair. They had been watching Ella, Josh and Malcolm playing fetch with Leo. There is a notoriously bad photo of Nicola, Malcolm, and Wendy mid-conversation, obviously taken by Chloé, but shortly after it comes the tiniest moment, so fleeting Nicola is amazed even Wendy managed to capture it. It's nothing more than a look shared between herself and her ex-lover, but nevertheless it is the thing that tips her over the edge and brings her to tears.

She cries because they look like they are in love. Their eyes have met and her lips have quirked just ever so slightly, and while Nicola remembers what it felt like to be that happy, Nicola does not remember the last time she felt that happy.

She leaves the photos scattered about her knees as she digs through the box some more. Near the bottom she finds the card she selected for Chloé's eighteenth Birthday. It had been one of those trendy multi-layered paper cards with an owl on it. The kind of thing a nineteen year old wouldn't be embarrassed to receive, even though it bore the words 'to our favourite niece'. They had broken up scarcely a fortnight before her Birthday, and Nicola had had to muddle her way through a Birthday phone call and a profuse apology without tears.

Of course Nicola knows that she should be focussing on packing Malcolm's things, not sitting in his bedroom tormenting herself, but for some reason she can't keep from opening the card. There are soppy words that she's sure all of Westminster would be amazed to learn were penned by Malcolm Tucker, but she remembers them well. 'Your auntie Nicola and I are so proud of the person you've become. Don't ever leak this to the papers or you'll ruin our reputations.' Her own hand interrupts here, an arrow towards his comment and the words 'Ignore your uncle. He used to keep your paintings around Number 10 when you were five. Everyone already knows we love you to pieces.'

Nicola chokes back a sob, fights the desire to weep for everything that once was hers. For the man she loved and the extended family she gained. She is not in the correct frame of mind to deal with the things that surround her. She should never have offered this, or if she had, she certainly should not have put herself through the added pain of sticking her nose in things that should be left alone.

Sitting here on the floor in the dimply lit room, Nicola is reminded, cruelly, of the night he left. The way she had collapsed onto the ground because the sight of his clothes still hanging in the wardrobe had all but broken her. Deliberately, Nicola stands, bending to gather the things and stash them back in the veritable Pandora's Box that she has opened. When her fingers come to the photograph that so captured her, however, she hesitates, wondering if Malcolm recalls that they had been happy once. While she fills the box she continues to toy with this question; she is so deep in thought, that it is only when she turns back to his case that she realises the photo is still loose, and she cannot bear to put it back. She zips his bag, ensuring she has tucked in a book for good measure, although she highly doubts he will read it.

Leaving the house is, once again, complex for Nicola. The home she built with him is so distant to her that being here again, being able to run her fingers over the all too familiar quirks of the building in which she was so happy, is altogether quite surreal. Every inch of their home is marked with a memory, and as she leaves it, resigned to the fact that she will probably never enter it again, the memory that invades her mind is Malcolm coming home to her the night she finally told him the truth.

xXx

When Nicola arrives back at the hospital with his things she is informed that Malcolm is still in recovery, so she takes the opportunity to sort out his room. She hangs the suit he was brought in wearing in the suit bag she retrieved from the house, although she knows that it is too late to recover the intense wrinkles that stuffing the garments into a hospital laundry bag have caused. For a moment Nicola holds his jacket to her, savouring the scent of his aftershave on freshly dry-cleaned suiting. She remembers evenings being punctuated with her curling up against his suit-clad body. She misses them. Just as she is setting his book on the awful peach coloured bedside table, Malcolm is wheeled into the room, and her heart leaps into her mouth.

He looks even paler than he did before she left. While Nicola knows this makes sense, she is still surprised that it is physically possible.

The brunette had resolved to leave once she had been assured he was alive, but now that he's here, semi-conscious and clammy, Nicola's protective instincts seem to have kicked in. At least, this is how she has justified it in her own mind. The reality is probably closer to her simply wanting to spend some time around him when he is too incapacitated to eviscerate her. She sinks into the chair she began the afternoon in and rests her chin on her hand, considering him at length.

He's aged since she met him, she supposes less than he would have if he'd stayed in politics for the last ten years. His hair is almost completely white now, but his skin is relatively unscathed by the years. She imagines his eyes are just as blue as they've always been, but they had been clouded by morphine and pain when he was awake.

When Nicola eventually glances at the clock she realises she has been sitting here in silence for nearing two hours. Bending to retrieve her phone she sees seventeen missed calls and thirty text messages. She should have been more aware of the little device, should have been more aware of the time. She does not regret ignoring it. A flutter of movement across the room catches her eye, and she sees that Malcolm is coming to.

He grunts at the sight of her.

"You know, I looked up the symptoms of an ulcer while you were under. I almost feel like I should apologise. Of course no one noticed you were pale, tired and breathless. All that bollocking you do, it's your natural state."

"Ha fucken ha, darlin'." Malcolm drawls in response, but the corners of his lips have turned up slightly; the word darling does not sound like a veiled insult for the first time since the night she told him of her moronic shag with an even more moronic co-worker. Nicola's not quite sure how long the anaesthetic will take to fully wear off. While he seems relatively alert, he is drifting in and out. His eyes slip closed at random intervals, and Nicola is half convinced at each one that he is going to succumb to his need to catch up on thirty years of lost sleep.

She knows she should leave him to his misery, should stop intruding on his recovery, but she finds herself glued in place.

"Have you finished hating me yet?" She says quietly, half expecting him to have passed out again.

"I've always fucking hated yeh, Nic'la." He retorts, but there is levity in his tone, the ghost of a quirk to his lips still.

Nicola's own lips curl in a way Malcolm himself would once have described as appealing, and the words "Is that so?" fall from them in a tender whisper.

Another little grunt from him, one that could almost be interpreted as a chuckle.

"If you hate me so much why do you still have my soap?" The query is light, her eyes twinkling with amusement. Sadly, Nicola thinks this is the most civil conversation they've had in years; all it's taken is heavy narcotics.

It takes him a moment and he slurs heavily, but after a long minute Malcolm manages "Y'alwa's smell good."

"Is that so?"

His eyes have closed heavily, and she thinks he may have passed out again, but a few minutes later his head turns towards her and his eyes flit open.

"D'yeh r'member when we were happy, Nic'la?"

The slight lack of clarity in his words aside, it is the most lucid thing he has said to her. She is so taken aback she feels her eyes moisten ever so slightly. The "Yes" she offers him is so small she is surprised he detects it. Part of her is itching to cross the room and take his hand, touch his hair, something. Just something.

"Why're yeh here?"

The words that have been threatening to breach Nicola's lips since she started planning her initial exit from his room that morning are right back on the tip of her tongue.

Nicola does not manage to pull them back from the precipice before she has uttered urgently "Because I still - "

All at once Malcolm's eyes close and she remembers herself. This is, of course, the most wrong moment she could possibly select to do this. She halts herself, heart hammering, and waits to see if he will come to again, part of her knowing he will not. Nicola sits in tense silence for ten full minutes before conceding to herself that he's out for the rest of the night.

She rubs a hand over her face, muttering "fuck" into her palm, and then gathers herself enough to stand and pull her coat back over herself.

Nicola is about to leave his room with no intention of returning when she changes her mind and doubles back. She takes the photograph of them that she retrieved earlier from her handbag and, resting it on his horrible apricot bedside table, scribbles a note on the back.

Her heels click as she crosses to the wardrobe and tucks the photograph into his inside jacket pocket, taking another greedy whiff before zipping the suit bag and crossing back to the skeletal figure on the bed.

Nicola runs her fingers through his hair gently, before, in a moment of audacity, bending to press her mouth to his.

The first time Nicola kisses Malcolm since their separation he is unconscious and drugged. She cannot imagine doing so in a situation where he was not. His lips are dry and cracked beneath hers, but even so she has not been so pleased to feel anyone else's mouth against her own for many years.