NB: There is canon-typical language.

Prompt: Person 1 follows Person 2 out for a smoke break during work, but Person 1 doesn't actually smoke. They attempt to smoke a cigarette to impress Person 2, but they immediately start coughing uncontrollably and embarrass themselves.

It had been an incredibly trying morning for Nicola Murray. She had just been on the receiving end of a monumental bollocking from Malcom on the Dos and Don'ts of addressing an audience of middle-aged bankers in their lunch break. For instance: DO make your policy, that essentially boils down to them giving the government money to educate delinquents on the ins-and-outs of compound depreciation, come across as something that is beneficial and will make them look good. DON'T, accidentally refer to the CFO of a bank as a "Banker wanker" in front of his wife and then proceed to make underhand remarks about the propriety of the banking profession (or lack thereof). No matter how true said comments may be.

Unfortunately, Nicola had quite successfully pulled off the latter of the two, and as a result had been subjected to a full 20 minutes worth of mixed metaphors and violent sexual imagery explaining how much of an eternal fuck-up she was, as well as some rather unnecessary personal attacks on the volume of her hair.

She knew the speech was a crash-and-burn as it was happening, and the comments re: the balding salamander of a CFO had only been the final nails in the coffin. However, an inordinate number of fucks later, she still felt like it wasn't worthy of the intense verbal bashing she had received from Malcom, in fact – despite that particular incident – Nicola had been practically competent in the past few weeks. Her fourth sector pathfinder's initiative was getting off the ground and she had had a very successful meeting with her constituents not three days previously. Yet somehow, she had managed to piss off Malcom Tucker so inordinately that he felt it necessary to refer to her hair as "a sentient bird's nest that would do a far better fucking job of running the department than you Nic'la". In fairness, the banker fiasco wasn't great but it was by no means one of her bigger faux pas, in fact, she said nothing the man didn't agree with himself and even then, there was only a handful of journalists there (which Malcom saw to before the event had even finished). Frankly, what ever Nicola had done to deserve the rage she had just witnessed was beyond her.

Malcom Tucker sat at his desk in 10 Downing street. Long, bony fingers steepled under his chin. His piercing gaze fell upon the offending article. A 20 pack of Benson and Hedges. So trivial and yet they elicited such rage within the Scot. He had asked Sam to go out and buy him the pack, a request that had been met with puzzlement and a fair heap of judgement. However, she had complied and bought them in after Nicola had left his office that afternoon.

Ni'cla. She was the one who had started this whole conundrum he was now facing. Granted, she wasn't necessarily aware that she had sent the normally unflappable Malcom F Tucker into a spiral of self-doubt and shame, but neither was he going to explain it to her. Yes, he had overreacted somewhat to the banker incident and yes, he had said some rather rude things about her hair (not that they weren't true, but it wasn't pertinent to the conversation at hand). But he couldn't help but be furious at the woman for making him look like a fool.

4 days earlier

It was a warm afternoon and the sun cast a soft glow across the rooftop garden of the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship. Nicola Murray was sprawled across the bench in said garden, the skirt of her suit rucked up and the sleeves of her blouse rolled for maximum sun exposure. She had had a busy morning, having presented some of her fourth sector ideas to the cabinet (thankfully with little backlash) and then back to back meetings with some of the more outlandish "pathfinders" she had, well, found… All in all, she was rather stressed but feeling pretty good about her work, a feat unto itself really. Perhaps it was the bizarre fact that for once things seemed to be going okay, or maybe it was the feeling of sneaking away for her lunch hour to bask in the first proper sun of the year, then again maybe it was neither of those things and she was suddenly struck with a streak of teenage rebellion a few decades too late. Whatever the reason, Nicola found herself fumbling in the bottom of her enormous – "makes you look like a fucking Mary Poppins wannabe" – handbag for the pack of cigarettes she had confiscated off Katie at the weekend. She had been meaning to throw them away all week, but instead she found herself lighting one and taking a deep drag. She exhaled. Christ, she had forgotten quite how enticing the bloody things were. Well, there was no harm in smoking just the one now was there?

No sooner had she taken a few more puffs when a she was shaken out of her reverie by the dulcet tones of an angry Scotsman.

"Nic'la, darling." The term of endearment rolled off his tongue in a way that conveyed he was about to be anything but endearing. "What the ever-loving fuck do you think you're doing?" Oh, for fuck's sake, thought Nicola, just for once in my miserable life I can I catch a fucking break.

"Malcom," She bit out, "I am having a cigarette and I am taking a moment." She glared at him intensely.

"A cigarette… A cigarette! Who do you think you are love, Kerry Ka-fucking-tona. You don't even smoke love. The only fag in your life is fucking Glenn."

"Oh Malcom, for fucks sake don't make this a thing. Please. I can do what I like, it's my lunch break."

"Oh well then. So, when the Mail is running with the headline: 'Nicorette Murray, why the fuck is she proposing health advice when she smokes like a fucking chimney? I'll just ignore it shall I?"

"Malcom," Nicola interrupted him before his rant could turn into a full-on Shakespearean monologue. "I realise that this is not a great look for my image, but please, it's not like I'm in public or supporting a smokers' cough, am I?" She rolled her eyes and took another drag. To be honest she wasn't particularly enjoying the thing anymore, but she persevered simply to piss Malcom off further.

"Look, Nicky. I'm just worried you'll pick up a bad habit love." Like fuck he was, thought Nicola.

"Don't fucking call me Nicky. And the only thing you're worried about is your reputation, which happens to occasionally live vicariously through me. So, either have a cigarette yourself," she thrust one towards the ever- furious spin doctor, "or fuck the fuck off!".

The problem, Malcom considered, was not that he had been against Nicola smoking. He hadn't wanted her to pick up the habit, lest she come across as even more of an idiot than normal, but really he had no objections to the cabinet minister having a puff or two after a stressful day (lord knows he had seen some ministers chain a 20 pack under less stress than Mrs. Murray). However, he did object to the sight he saw as he entered the roof garden that lunchtime. Or, more correctly, he objected to how it made him feel.

Malcom heaved himself up the stairs towards DoSAC's rooftop garden. Normally, this was the kind of place he would avoid like the plague for fear of bumping into Terri and Robin lounging around doing diddily-fuck and gossiping. However, today he had it on good authority that Nicola Murray was spending her lunch break doing lord knows what up there. Again, it was unusual that Malcom went in search of the dowdy DoSAC minister, but he had wanted to tell her about a request from BBC2 to talk about her 4th sector on their morning show. By Nicola's standards this was practically the equivalent to being offered a knighthood. So here he was, about to congratulate glummy mummy on not being a complete cock-up for once.

Unfortunately, all semblance of congratulatory spirit left the spin doctor as he opened the door. Nicola Murray was looking decidedly "non-glummy" as she lay on the bench in the garden. Her slim, toned legs were borne far more than usual, with – oh Christ were those garter belts – holding her stockings up. Her blazer was slung over the side of the bench and her shirt sleeves rolled up to show off her tanned forearms. If that wasn't enough, she sat with her eyed closed, legs crossed, puffing on a cigarette in a way that was bordering on salacious. 'Well fuck me', thought Malcom.

For all that he referred to Nicola as a 'dowdy bitch' or 'frizzy-haired fuck up', Malcom was aware that the cabinet minister was attractive. She had that MILF thing going on, and an arse that was frankly glorious – he had even once heard Robin and Terri singing its praises. However, he had never considered her to be sexy. That was, he hadn't considered her to be sexy until he saw slowly remove the cigarette from her pouted lips and open her eyes to meet his. Fearing the feeling that was growing in the pit of his stomach, he had no choice but to go on the offensive.

"Ni'cla, darling." He drawled, trying to keep his voice level. "What the ever-loving fuck do you think you're doing?"

From that point, Malcom had managed to push the sudden feelings of attraction down as he focuses on lambasting the poor woman. However, when she began to argue back, he had felt a whole new wave wash over him. See that was the thing that really kept Nicola Murray high on his list of priorities. Yes, she often ballsed things up spectacularly, but so did every other minister in the fucking party, but really it was her ability to fight back that endeared her to him.

"either have a cigarette yourself," she thrust the thing towards him, "or fuck the fuck off!".

Now Malcom didn't usually take kindly to being told to fuck-off, but in this case, he practically welcomed the chance to leave without making a fool of himself. However, despite his sudden and mysterious desire to jump the minster for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship, Malcom Tucker refused to back down. So, he plucked the offending item from her hand and pushed it between his pursed lips.

"Here, let me…" To Malcom's horror, Nicola leant across the gap between them to light the cigarette and as a result gave him a full view down her shirt. This resulted in him inhaling sharply, a reaction that could've been covered up had he not taken in a lung-full of smoke as he did so.

The smoke filled his lungs and he could do nothing but wheeze as it went down the wrong way. He started coughing uncontrollably, his eyes watering. Christ, he was embarrassing himself like a fuckin' bairn.

"Shit, Malcom!" Nicola leapt off the bench to pat him on the back. "Jesus, are you okay? God, you should've fucking said you don't smoke." Then, to make matters worse, Nicola prised the cigarette from his lips and popped it in corner of her own mouth. Malcom's coughs began to subside, but he could feel his cheeks become flushed, partly with embarrassment and partly from the fact that the woman he had once considered a frumpy bint, was now rubbing circles on his back as she assaulted the cig that had been in his mouth not moments earlier.

"I'm fine Ni'cla." He growled, brushing off her attempts to help. "Fuckin' fine."

"Malcom, it's okay. Not everyone is able to smoke, there's nothing embarrassing about it." She looked at him, doe eyed with the expression one might give when reassuring a young child that everyone has wet themselves at some point in their miserable little life. He groaned and looked up at the sky.

He was lucky, as the awkward silence that had descended was suddenly broken by the shrill of his Blackberry. Hallu-fucking-llujah. He picked it up, spun on his heel and said nothing as he left Nicola stood – smirk on her face – puffing on the rest of his cigarette.

Malcom had replayed the memory over and over, each time embarrassment and arousal fought each other and – annoyingly for Malcom – each time arousal won out. So, it was with this thought that he made a reckless decision and scribbled a message onto a post-it and taped it to the box of B&H. Then, without overthinking anything, he called out for Sam to courier the package over to DoSAC.

Nicola returned to her desk at the end of the day to collect her stuff. On it she found a small package and a note. She opened the note, read it and then re-read it twice more for it bore the message:

Dear Nic'la,

Sorry for being a twat. The fourth sector isn't going completely to shit, and you aren't being a total fucking spaz at the moment – well done. I hope you will except these cancer sticks to make up for the bollocking this morning.

Malcom x

(p.s. if you ever mention this to anyone, I will have your lady bollocks as earrings)

To say Nicola was astounded would be the understatement of the century. She turned the packet of Benson and Hedges over and over in her hands. Was Malcom dying? Had he been subject to an invasion of the body-snatchers? But then, she reasoned, whatever had happened, who was she to question it. So, with that thought she pocketed the packet and grabbed the rest of her stuff. What a strange, strange couple of weeks.