A/N: People keep on asking for the update to this story, and usually I've been too busy/uninspired to hash it out, but recently I was asked about it and something clicked, thus this happened. Enjoy!


Two

Malcolm Tucker knew that he was doing much better than he should have been, when all was said and done. He was raising his nieces and nephew, with a wonderful woman at his side; his business was thriving and no one gave a fucking shit about the past and blunders in his former life. As he sat up tabulating the week's earnings and overhead on the chilled October evening, he felt a pair of hands rest on his shoulder and a kiss press into his hair.

"Hey Malcolm, come on to bed," Clara said quietly. She waited as he took off his specs and palmed his eyes, leaning onto the desk with his elbows on either side of the laptop. "Do you realize how late it is?"

"I'm almost done," he claimed. "Just go—I'll be there in a tic."

"Last time you said that I was asleep before you came to bed."

"Not exactly my best moment, I'll give you that." Malcolm leaned back in his chair and tilted his head back so that he was looking up at Clara. "You're nice from this angle."

"Just nice?"

"Fucking wonderful, pet; you need to be the taller one more often, not just in bed."

"That's better." She kissed the tip of his nose and chuckled lowly; the nips were long down for the night and she didn't want to give any of them reason to wake up. "So, you think we'll be able to get that boba tea machine the girls want by Christmas?"

"If we get a couple fan-fucking-tastic weeks, yeah," he said. Going back to the spreadsheet, he began to put in the final numbers in. "I still think it would be a better idea to keep the money aside and wait until springtime to get it; cold tea is more of a summer than winter thing and I think it'll catch on better then. Besides, I'm still faffing on that shutdown between Christmas and Hogmanay, just because so much of the fucking customer base leaves 'round then for whatever shire kicked 'em out to begin with."

"Then make sure your argument is airtight before explaining yourself," she replied. Clara leaned into Malcolm, running her hands down his chest as she kept him captive in his chair. He finished his work, hit save, and closed the computer, allowing her to turn his chair around and pull him from it.

Following obediently, Malcolm felt his cock begin to twitch as he was led into his own bedroom. He was glad, when the door shut behind them, that the kids' rooms were on the other side of the flat, as the noise he made when Clara grabbed him was positively indecent. Picking her up, he carried her over to the bed and ground his hips into hers as he pressed her into the mattress. She moaned quietly in reply and began to undress him, urging him forward. His shirt came off with ease, as did his belt, and she tried to keep her composure as he dove in to start nipping at her neck while his hands went under her skirt.

"You start your new medicine yet?" he growled in her ear. She had stopped her birth control medication two months before by recommendation of her GP so that she could start a new one. It had meant plenty of condoms within the weeks that followed, though it also meant that he was getting anxious to know when they could safely put them aside again.

"No," she breathed. She squirmed as his fingers teased her, making her back arch. "About that…"

"Later pet, please; if I stop now, there's no waking m'fucking prick back up." He inhaled her scent—it made his blood hot and his cock pulse as he reached for the side-table and the box of condoms within.

"Remember, yeah?" With hands everywhere, neither of them were very conscious of what else was going on aside from their hastened foreplay. "Sooner rather than later."

"Certainly."

Except, unfortunately, they did not talk about anything after they were done with their vigorous fuck and the condom lazily discarded in the bin kept close specifically for snot-rags and the used rubbers. Both were asleep faster than they would have liked, and when Clara woke up, Malcolm was already dressed and down in the kitchen prepping for the day. Her stomach roiled and she made it to the bathroom just in time to vomit in the toilet—the time to talk was ruined until at least that evening.

Fuck.


"Why weren't you in class today, Aunt Clara?"

The woman glanced down at Matthan as they walked along the pavement towards the Cup o' Cussuccino. Iscah and Sarala were a bit further ahead, leaving the lad with his uncle's girlfriend. "I was in your class this morning, wasn't I?"

"Yeah, but Tafa said you weren't in for his class. Did you spend too much time at home after lunch?"

"I didn't go home; just ran a little late, is all," she replied. "I had an appointment I couldn't move." The tween scrunched his nose and furrowed his brow in thought—he looked more Malcolm's son than nephew in that moment, so much so that it made Clara's heart skip a beat. "Nothing's wrong, if that's what you're thinking."

"That's good," the boy nodded.

By now the storefront of their home was in sight, making it so that Matthan quickened his pace to be with his sister and cousin as they walked in. Clara followed close behind, seeing that there were a couple customers lingering about the shop. She placed her bags in a cupboard and took out her apron, putting it on before washing her hands.

"Um, Aunt Clara…?" She glanced over and saw Iscah putting on her own apron, giving her a funny look. "Are you alright to work in the shop now?" It took a moment for Clara to realize what she meant, having been thrown off by the title of "aunt", which was a very recent addition to the teen's vocabulary… as in since she had overheard a conversation with Mr. Coburn the previous week.

"Scold me when it's nearly summer," she replied lowly. She stepped aside as she dried her hands and allowed Iscah to wash up. The girl was good at keeping a secret, that much was for certain. "I still need to come clean about it though."

"You didn't?!" Iscah gasped. She quickly looked at her uncle, who was cussing out the cat for nearly escaping out the front door, and back to Clara. "What are you waiting for?!"

"None of your business," Clara said firmly. She wanted to continue, yet stopped when she saw Malcolm carrying their tortoiseshell-and-white Scottish Fold back to the counter.

"Carrie, lock Fuckoff in the flat as punishment for trying to make a run for it," he scowled, passing the cat to his elder niece. Iscah complied and hauled the cat away, past the younger two who were already sprawling their homework out over a table in the back corner. Malcolm then made a pass at Clara, placing a kiss behind her ear. "How was work?"

"Bearable," she replied.

"The lady-parts-doctor appointment? That was today, yeah?"

"Yeah; everything's working."

"Excellent. I look forward to getting back to business as usual." The bell rang as a couple came into the shop, just in time for Iscah to return to the floor.

"Fuck the fuck in or fuck the fuck off!" the teen beamed, knowing that there was no way she could have gotten away with such language under normal circumstances. The customers stared at Iscah, then at Malcolm and Clara, and back.

"You got a fucking problem with m' niece following company protocol?" Malcolm asked. As he began to banter with the newcomers, Clara sank back towards the inner counter, beginning to wipe up the spills and crumbs that had probably only just occurred, keeping to herself.

When in the world was she going to tell him?


Despite Sarala's birthday being on a weekday, Malcolm had wanted to make sure that his niece had the best birthday manageable. Though he wasn't allowed to take her out of school for the day (Clara's orders), he made sure that there was a birthday cake waiting for when she came back to the Cup o' Cussuccino for the day, all decorated in sugar spiders and blood-red confectioner's gel.

"There's the birthday ghoul," he grinned as the pint-sized contingent returned. There had been a fancy-dress party at Coal Hill, which meant that Clara had chaperoned a zombie, Hawkeye, and Paddington Bear to and from school. "Go into the back and wash up—that cack all over your face is gonna suffocate your skin."

"Okay," Sarala said. She went into the kitchen to find something to wipe the smudges of talcum powder off her undead face, except instead of water in the sink, he heard her squeal in delight. "Is this my cake?!"

"Only for after dinner," Clara said while she made sure the other two were sitting down with their homework. Once Sarala was powder-free, she hugged her uncle and went straight to her own work. There was no one else in the shop, for the after-school rush had not yet decided to show itself.

"You really need to wear those boots more often," Malcolm told Clara as she came around the counter to make herself some tea. She was going straight for the hibiscus and rosehip blend, something he noticed she was doing much more often as of late.

"You took off your cape," she mentioned. Yes, her witch's costume called for black knee-high boots, but she had also left that morning to Malcolm swooshing around the Cup o' Cussuccino dressed in his vampiric best. He wore the costume well enough to make Christopher Lee himself proud and hard, which coincidentally was enough to make Clara quake in her boots.

No Clara—those feelings were what put you in this deadlock of a mess.

"I took some shit out of the oven not too long ago; capes don't like ovens," he shrugged. The bells on the door made noise, calling for their attention. A South Asian woman in scrubs and holding a wrapped package was at the door, glancing around looking for someone.

"Aunt Nisha!" Sarala gasped once she saw her. She ran over to the woman and nearly tackled her in a hug. "I'm so glad you came!"

"I'm glad to see you too," Nisha smirked. "Just because everyone else wants to be silly doesn't mean we all have to be." She tossed Malcolm a knowing wink and he gave a nod in reply. "Give me a mo' with your uncle, will you?"

"Okay!" Sarala retreated back to her homework, allowing the adults to talk.

"Thanks for coming," Malcolm said as he and Clara came around the counter to meet her. "She's been doing well, but you know how she misses people. By the way, this is Clara, my girlfriend."

"I've heard," Nisha said. She shook Clara's hand, a cordial attitude coming easily. "None of the other Chaudrys come around, I'm afraid. No one liked it when Nilima and David were together—even I thought he was too old for her—and it was worse when Sara was born. It's stupid to keep a grudge against a child, but here we are."

"It means the world that you're here, if her talking about you coming hasn't been clue enough," Clara said. If she was under threat of having someone from Sarala's mum's family stop by at random, she wouldn't have minded if it was Nisha, as she was nice enough as far as newly-introduced people go. "Will you stay for dinner? Sara requested her favorite: butter chicken over mashed potatoes."

"I can't—night shift—but is it alright if I distract the kids from their work for a bit before I have to leave? I imagine they can handle the interruption."

"I'm one of their teachers, so I know how to keep them on-track whether they want to or not," Clara smiled. Nisha then went over to her niece and sat down, placing the gift on the table and inquiring as to what the three youngsters were doing. Once the kids were properly distracted, Malcolm leaned down and murmured lowly into Clara's ear.

"Want to leave the place to Carrie for fifteen minutes?" he asked. "It'll be good practice for her."

"No," she said, blushing furiously. "What if she needs us after ten? I am not going to let you break child labor laws for a shag!"

"They're only theoretical for family businesses and you know it," he replied. He then gave her a smug grin, making use of the false teeth he had gotten just for the occasion. "We've got another half an hour before the rush can even think of beginning—the timing's perfect."

It was a good thing, Clara reminded herself as she quickly followed Malcolm up the stairs, that not only was he correct, but that she knew that Nisha was responsible enough to not let anyone harass the children while they were gone. Twenty minutes and a rushed cleanup effort later and they were both proven right, just in time for their guest to leave for her shift at work: not a single customer had come in and they could put the kids in the hands of someone that was not either of them.

Perfect.


Closing her eyes and inhaling deeply, Clara allowed the scent of Malcolm's cologne to fill her nose and calm her stomach. It was nearly 3:30 in the morning and she was attempting to not vomit everywhere, taking Malcolm's towel to her face in hopes that the relaxing smell he wore would still be there from the day before. It was, thank God, and she tried to be as quiet as possible, certain that any small noise could wake the man in the bed a few feet away.

This wasn't fair—she knew at least that to be true as she sat on the toilet. She was now eight weeks pregnant, nearly nine, and she couldn't find the nerve to tell Malcolm about the mishap. Her GP was nagging her about getting an ultrasound done to make sure everything was looking fine, yet the very thought of it froze the blood in her veins. While she couldn't deny she was pregnant, nor could she deny she was more than a tiny bit—dare she say it—thrilled at the idea, there was still so much that stood between her and being wholly happy about what was happening.

Malcolm released a snort from his spot on the bed, making Clara jump. He was the biggest conundrum of them all when she thought about it. While she was convinced he did well with Iscah, Sarala, and Matthan when they were smaller, she also knew there was a distinct difference between minding someone else's babies and having babies of one's own. He would be fifty-five in April (which was two months before she roughly estimated she'd be due), and was running a fledgling business while he was at it. Would he have it in him to run the coffee shop while experiencing the taste of new fatherhood? Was it even something he wanted to experience at this point in his life? He took to housing the children on the other side of the flat fine enough, yet they did not cry through the night… or need nappy changes… or require near-constant attention… it was enough to make her scream.

There were many things that Clara Oswald could figure out without an issue, yet telling the father of her child that he was soon to be just that was getting the best of her.

Before long, there was movement on the bed and Malcolm shuffled into the bathroom. Clara moved so that he could relieve himself properly, looking guiltily at his bare back and pants-clad rear in what she nearly felt was shame. He turned to look at her when he was done, his hair still rumpled and eyes glassy from sleep.

"You alright?" he asked. She nodded in reply. "What's with m' towel?"

"You spilled that bit of cologne yesterday, and something about dinner isn't sitting right. I should be alright now; you helped more than you know." She touched his thigh and snaked her fingers around to his rear, watching the fabric of his pants shift as his cock hardened.

"Maybe it was too much ghee; the kids were shitting their pants at how much ghee I was using," he muttered. Malcolm then lifted Clara into his arms and carried her back to bed, settling himself so that he could mount her easily despite his sleepy lack of coordination. It took him a bit to get going, but once he did, he took care of his lady's needs just as much as his own before collapsing back into bed with his arm draped across her chest in sleep.

What felt like a few minutes of sleep later and Clara was awoken by the movement of Malcolm getting out of bed for the day. She got up as well, realizing it was a bit later than she had wanted to be awake anyhow—she was taking Matthan and Sarala on an overnight class trip while Iscah was going to spend the night at a friend's place and she needed to make certain that no one was missing anything. She exited her bedroom to find that the kids' things were scattered everywhere as they tried to get organized in theor early-morning haze of half-alertness.

As Clara corralled her charges and their things, she noticed one conspicuous absence: Malcolm. He had already gone down to the kitchen downstairs, leaving her to the kids. While they did normally switch off who got the kids ready in the morning, that was true, the fact that he had vanished when the job was extra-tedious had not been lost on her. By the time she could walk away long enough to go downstairs and steal some tea, it was nearly time for them to leave.

"Have fun." Clara glanced up from the hot water spigot and saw that Malcolm was looking directly at her. "I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," she said quietly. She continued to put together her drink, only to have Malcolm come up behind her, holding her upper arms and leaning towards her ear.

"Are you sure you want to be a chaperone?" he murmured. "You don't look ready to do anything with the way you're wobbling about."

"I'm fine," she stated. "Backing out now would result in cancelling the trip—I'm not about to disappoint my students."

"Miss me as much as I'm already missing you," he requested, leaving a kiss on her neck before getting back to customers. Clara quickly finished off her tea (wow, she missed caffeine), and herded her makeshift brood out the door towards school, not giving Malcolm another word or glance as he kept busy.

Things were falling apart; she could feel it.


The rest of the day had gone pretty much as normal for Malcolm. The customers weren't as bad as they could have been, which was good, and Fuckoff had only vomited on the rug in the flat, which he was disturbingly used to dealing with. He had a leftover sandwich from the shop for his dinner and fell asleep with the cat on his feet. It felt odd to wake up the following morning to an empty flat, but at least he knew it was for one night only; he'd had his nieces and nephew around for so long that it seemed out of place for them to be gone, and as for Clara… it felt flat-out wrong to not wake up in her arms and kiss her good morning.

He had been warned by multiple parties that settling into a life with others in his place would make him grow comfortable, accustomed, content in a way. There was never the threat of that in his old career, where he would go nearly weeks on-end staying at the office, and he never really thought about such a threat until his home was suddenly above his workplace and he was three-quarters to being a washed-up hack with barely anything to his name.

Yeah, he liked the way things were now, at least that was for sure. A bit of familial chaos was good—refreshing, even—and what was even better was knowing it would return that night.

Going into automatic, Malcolm got ready for the day and went downstairs into the kitchen to start the day's prep. Near everything had been baked and in different stages of cooling, with bread even gone through the slicer, when the music he'd had on his phone softened by the sound of his ringtone.

Picking up the mobile, Malcolm saw the number and cringed inwardly. His parents. Figuring he could at least hang up if the call got too irritating, he put his music on hold and answered it, putting the call through to his earpiece so that he could still work and hear clearly.

"Yeah?" he muttered. "Why're you calling this early?"

"I'd like to talk to you, son, but it seems like you're always busy." Great… his da. "Is anyone else up and helping?"

"Just me 'n the cat," Malcolm replied. "Carrie's at a friend's overnight and Clara's chaperoning a sleep-in class trip for the younger two."

"Good—we need to talk about Clara."

"Fuck, Da, I'm not awake enough for this shit." He grabbed the tubs of yesterday's delivery of deli meat from the fridge and began to slap together sandwiches. "What about Clara?"

"I need to know precisely what your intentions are when it comes to her," the Reverend Tucker said. "You know that I get plenty of questions about you from parishioners and I only want to be truthful when I answer."

"Then what the fuck do you want me to say?" Malcolm scowled. "We're living together, sharing a cat, and she keeps me sane despite the nips and customers driving me up a fucking wall. I wish I'd had someone like her before, but I had Kelly instead, so you can see where that got me. There's fucking plenty I want to do—trust me on that—but we're good where we are for now and I'm not pushing anything just to cock it all up."

"She deserves better than that—anyone does."

"Okay, yeah, are we done?"

"I saw how you look at her, Malcolm," his father said. "You never looked at Kelly like that, nor anyone else you've brought around, and none of them looked at you the same way she did… especially not after such a short amount of time. Are the two of you going to live like children or is there ever going to be any sort of commitment?"

"We are not children! For fuck's sake, Da! I'm fifty-four!"

"Then start acting like it; you are only getting older, as is she. Do you want to be a long-term fling or are you going to be something more?"

"I know you don't have much experience in this, but you don't exactly move in with a fling," Malcolm hissed. He stopped making sandwiches and glared at his mobile. "People don't just do what you and Mam did anymore, marrying young and having kids young and then staying together into the ancient days; thought you realized that when David didn't marry the Hindi banshee and Elsie had Matt at forty."

"At this point there's little magic or wonder or spirituality in marriage since you're already living together. Speaking as your father, not a Man of God, I don't care if it's just a piece of paper from the registrar saying it's a purely legal union with no ceremony to it—are you going to provide the lass with a sense of security or not?"

"What, we can't feel secure without a marriage?"

"Ach… now what was that phrase Mrs. Patterson's granddaughter used the other day? 'If you like then you should have put a ring on it'?"

Fucking floored at the fact his seventy-seven-year-old, minister father quoted Beyoncé, of all people, Malcolm turned off his earpiece and put the mobile up to his ear. "Why the fuck are you pushing me towards this? You know better than most people that pushing only makes me want to do something even less."

"I have known you for your entire life, Malcolm…"

"…you're m' da…"

"…and I know what sort of conditions you thrive under best. You need Clara by your side, and the only way she'll stay is if she knows that you are not going to pass her up one day for an even younger woman."

"She knows I wouldn't do that!"

"Does she, Malcolm? She has never doubted? Would you blame her if she did?"

Malcolm froze, the morning before flashing before his mind. The look Clara gave him, the indecision she seemed to wear all over her body… it wasn't about whether or not she wanted to rethink chaperoning so that they could have a night alone. Fucking fuck—she was worried about them.

"Malcolm? Son? Are you still there?"

"I've got a shop to open; ta."

Malcolm ended the call and set the mobile down. His hands were shaky as he tried to go back to the sandwiches, yet couldn't for the fucking life of him. Fuck him with his pants at his ankles and arse ground raw—Reverend Tucker was right, again. He tried to think about what he could do, what would make it right, only to think about more things he cocked the fuck up.

Shit… what did Clara think? He perched himself on a stool for a moment to collect himself, trying to make sense of everything. What could she have doubted in him? Where did he slip up? He did his best to make sure that she was never in want or need of anything, and she was definitely the sort of person who would speak up if things were not going how she thought they should… unless…

No, it couldn't've been. A weight sank in Malcolm's chest as he thought about what he considered one of the worst conclusions he could manage: she was afraid of him somehow. She was afraid of him, or how he would react, or some other shitty thing that was making him the bad guy in the situation. The main problem was that he didn't know what it was, and that if he asked Clara what was the matter, she could very well lie to him in order to keep the quo at status.

A knock at the back door ripped his attention away, reminding him that he was still crunched for time before the Cup o' Cussuccino opened. He signed for the produce order and let it get put in the walk-in fridge, getting back to work when the delivery service left. He ended up with only seconds to spare as the first customer walked in, and he made up his mind by the time he had the head tit from the IT firm down the street pick up his near-daily macchiato an hour later.

Thank fuck, he thought, that someone could order anything on the internet these days.


It had all kicked off with a surprise.

David had returned from a work-trip without warning—the assignment he was supposed to be on all through to the week before Easter had fallen through early and he was not going to be given a new overseas order until after the end-of-year holidays. He showed up at the Cup o' Cussuccino completely unannounced, which only made his daughter cry in joy as they hugged in the middle of the Saturday evening rush. It wasn't long before the Tucker Brothers were both behind the counter—the younger at the till and the elder filling orders—and the shop was quickly cleared out in order for the family to catch up over celebratory takeaway.

"I was talking to Elsie while I was packing and she has part of next week off work," David explained over his noodles. "Malcolm, Clara, do you think it would be alright for me to take the kids up to Glasgow? That way Elsie and Bruce can come back home and we can pretend like we're not all depressed about being split up constantly."

"As long as they go in on Monday to get their work from the other teachers, I don't see why not," Clara shrugged. She smiled as she watched the kids' faces light up in joy; even though they now called the flat above the Cup o' Cussuccino home, there was little that could replace being with their parents again, in their old neighborhoods and amongst their old friends.

Besides, Clara thought, it would give her and Malcolm an opportunity to talk openly and honestly, which wasn't exactly something they could do often with wandering ears about the flat. He also agreed to let the kids go without a problem, which only served to excite the children even more as they continued throughout the weekend. They could barely contain themselves as they went to school on Monday, nor were they calm as they were shoved towards a sleeper car late that night. For the first time since late August, both Malcolm and Clara were able to go to bed that night without any sort of threat of being walked in on, disturbed, interrupted, or otherwise annoyed, by anyone other than Fuckoff (who merely mewled sadly as she batted at Matthan's door, wanting her buddy back from wherever it was he went). They slept almost too soundly, leading to pure idleness on every front as they recouped from housing the kids.

Idleness was such a draw, in fact, that it took two days before they were able to get to anything without being dead-tired first. They had gone about their days as usual, with Clara jumping in behind the register to help Malcolm after she had gotten home from work. It was nearing the end of an average sort of night when Malcolm decided to put the plan he had been stewing up since he dropped his family off at the station into action.

"Hey Clara, can you close up?" he asked. "There's some things I need to do in the flat before dinner."

"Yeah, sure."

The smile she gave him pained him, for he knew it was only hollow in the end. He went upstairs and shed his work clothes—putting on clean slacks, a shirt, and a decent jumper in their stead—and rummaged through his drawer in order to find and pocket the ring box he had been diligently hiding since it came by post on Friday. Once he was ready, he went into the kitchen and began cooking dinner.

Garlic, seafood, and wine filled the air as he pulled from memory a recipe that he used to make often when work was beyond shite and he needed to cool the fuck down. From the moment he was tall enough to see over the countertop, cooking had been enjoyable, even therapeutic at times, and now he was aware as to why: cooking was controlling. No matter what happened, a mishap could almost always be fixed and the outcome was truly in his hands. It was a far cry from his Whitehall days, when he would try to cook up the Party politics—so to speak—and everyone else would butt in and fuck it all to Bangor and back. Those times were behind him, though… now the only things he wanted to control was the state of his dish and the banality of customers that walked in the shop door.

"Oh, that smells great," Clara said as she walked into the flat. Malcolm glanced towards the door and saw her standing near the edge of the kitchen, taken aback at his handiwork. "I didn't know you were coming up here to cook…" She took a step forward, only for him to put down his spoon and usher her towards the table.

"Sit down, sit down—I didn't start cooking only for you to finish it," he said. "What kind of a sorry cunt would I be if I let that happen?"

"Malcolm, I…"

"The nips are gone; let's enjoy this," he insisted. "We're not Aunt and Uncle today, just Clara and Malcolm, and we need to take advantage of that while we can. I'm almost done."

Clara nodded in agreement and stayed quiet as Malcolm silently finished off the last touches of his pasta dish. He put a heap of food on two plates and brought them over to the table. As he put the plates on the table and sat down, he noticed something that hadn't been there before: a few Polaroid-looking pieces of paper whose blankness denoted that they had been placed face-down.

"What are these?" He raised an eyebrow and looked at Clara, for she was the only one who could have put them there.

"Had those taken last week; I've been trying to figure out the right way to tell you, but my mind's firmly made-up." She fidgeted in her seat, broadcasting loud and clear to Malcolm how difficult this was for her, and motioned towards the paper. "You're the last piece; it can work with or without you. The choice is yours."

Intrigued by her words, Malcolm picked up the papers and looked at them. It looked like scratchy, black-and-white images of two oddly-shaped beans with a line separating them, but having been passed enough of similar images (usually involving one "bean") in his lifetime, he knew precisely what was going on. These were not beans… far from it…

"Are you…?"

"Yes. Ten weeks."

these were his children.

Malcolm pushed aside his plate and placed the ultrasound photos down on the table. On the closer ones he could see the outlines of faces, hands, toes; signs that they were slowly becoming more and more human as they grew. He put his hand over his mouth as he stared at them, beginning to shake in nerves. Had someone asked him at fifty that he ever expected to be a father, he would have told them no and offered some of that tasty cunt-cake that the PM's secretary had sent him. (It was the secretary, not the PM, as he suspected that the man himself was likely too dense to remember his own children's birthdays, let alone his staff's.) Now it was staring him in the face—it was happening—and Clara had already said that her mind was made up, which could have only meant that she was ready to leave him if that's what it took. For once, he was at a loss for words.

"Say something, Malcolm," Clara ordered. "I don't like you when you're quiet like this."

He swallowed and took his hand from his face, placing both hands palm-down on the table. "How did this happen?"

"When I went off my medication to prepare for the new one, we likely hadn't switched to condoms quick enough to prevent this, and we tend to shag a lot, and…" Clara bit her bottom lip—she didn't want to continue. She was merely hoping that there was enough of their relationship left after this to make it so that her children knew their cousins; they wouldn't have a spare set to gravitate towards like Sarala had. Malcolm stood and she closed her eyes; she didn't want to watch him walk away… she couldn't.

"Clara…?"

His voice instead sounded much closer, the unexpectedness of it making her jump. When she opened her eyes again, she saw him knelt down next to her, leaning in for a kiss. He was warm and inviting as he pressed their lips together, which only made her cry harder. Fuck her shite hormones—she was soon sobbing uncontrollably into his shoulder, only feeling comforted by the fact his arm was around her. She felt weak, hapless, and so unlike herself from a mere few months ago. How was she so quickly spiraling out of control? The fact Malcolm had only come closer was a temporary balm, that much she knew, but that was not an answer. There was still time for him to back away.

Just then, Malcolm took the handkerchief from his pocket and used it to tab at her tears, leaving makeup-stains on the pure white fabric. "Don't be like that," he murmured gently. "You're a fucking wreck; the Clara I love isn't a wreck, pregnant or not."

"I can't help it—I've spent the past couple of months terrified of what was going to happen when I told you… what I would need to do if you weren't up to the change that is coming…"

"Then take this," he said. He put the ring box in her hand and closed her fingers around it. "Just let me know what you want to do."

Clara opened the box and saw the ring, gasping at the sight of it. A brilliantly-golden topaz flanked by two smaller diamonds, she was speechless as she took it from the box and slid it effortlessly over her finger, trying to choke out the words.

"Did you…?"

"Yes; since Friday. I know it is tomorrow, but, happy birthday."

She kissed him in order to shut him up—only them.


When David brought the kids back a couple days later, he was not surprised at all to discover that his brother now had a fiancée, something he hadn't thought possible until only that August. He smiled, congratulated the couple, and reminded them that they were now obliged to attend Christmas that year. Malcolm cussed at the very idea, yet Clara jumped at the opportunity—of course they were coming to Christmas. They all were.

A couple more weeks ensued of phone calls, planning, and making sure that the shop was well-guarded by Fuckoff (and that Fuckoff was to be well-fed by Jamie, who was not going to Scotland for anyfuckingthing thank you fucking much; bring us back a wee haggis to slaughter, mate), until Malcolm and Clara went their separate ways in the train station, he taking the kids directly to Glasgow and her stopping at Blackpool to pick up her father before heading their way. Malcolm's parents had insisted that Clara's father and stepmother come as a sort of precursor to the impending wedding, with no one in the know letting out the other impending event that the couple was about to unleash upon the family. Luckily for everyone involved, Linda already had an engagement that she could not break over the Christmas holiday, and with her father and grandmother in-tow instead, Clara set out for Glasgow with a renewed sense of vigor that could only come from a lack of Linda.

Malcolm had met them in the station upon their arrival, getting an approving glance from Gran and a nod from Dave. After putting everyone in his brother's car, Malcolm took his future in-laws to the rectory at St. Thaney's where everyone was being housed. Having been a former boarding house for young, single ministers awaiting their assignments, St. Thaney's had inadvertently become the perfect place to house family gatherings, the Reverend and Mrs. Tucker had decided, and they were elated to have their eldest boy back along with newcomers. Twelve was a pleasant, gentle number to have in the house during the holidays and she was glad that they were all finally there.

Christmas quickly came and the mechanizations of a Tucker Family Christmas were underway. Everyone but Malcolm went to the holiday service, leaving him to begin the first rounds of dinner prep while away from the parts of his upbringing that no longer made him comfortable. The rectory was full of sumptuous smells by the time the others returned and Granny Joan pulled Carrie into the kitchen with her in order to kick Uncle Malcolm out—he had done his penance for missing his father's sermon, and it was time that the teen started helping prepare Christmas dinner (with promise that her brother and cousin would join them in two years' time).

By the time everyone sat down at the table and Grace was said, nothing had been burned even the slightest bit, which according to the ones teaching her to bake down in London, was just short of a Christmas miracle. Iscah pouted while she put food on her plate—adults were not funny.

"For our newcomers," Reverend Tucker said as he put some turkey on his plate, "we have a tradition where we go around the table and try to say three things that was good about the previous year, as well as three things we hope to have within the coming year. It is to help us reflect on the good in our lives, despite any bad that might've happened."

"Is this a Kirk thing?" Gran wondered.

"No, just a Tucker thing," Joan replied. The two old women gave one another a nod—they were becoming disturbingly fast friends, as Malcolm and Clara noted, and would need to be watched.

"Oooh! I'll go first!" Matthan said, jerking his hand high up. His grandfather gave him permission and he put down his hand. "I'm glad I got to stay with Uncle Malcolm and Aunt Clara when Mam and Dad moved, I'm glad we have a cat now, and I'm glad for all the new friends I made in Shoreditch!"

"…and what are you looking forward to?" Bruce asked, patting his son's shoulder. The lad did not ponder long over his dinner, knowing precisely what he wanted to say.

"Uh, when Aunt Clara becomes my official aunt, when I get to spend time with you and Mam over summer holiday, and when the robotics club starts after Christmas! Now you try, Aunt Clara!"

"Oh, I couldn't…"

"Whoever goes picks the next one, Aunt Clara," Sarala said. "Rules are rules."

"Now Sarala, it's not steadfast…" Reverend Tucker started, but Clara held up her hand to gently stop him.

"No, it's alright," she said. She held Malcolm's hand underneath the tablecloth and took a deep, nerve-steadying breath. "I am grateful to have taken a walk one day in March, because otherwise I doubt I would have met Malcolm, and by extension everyone else in the Tucker Family. I am grateful for the life I lead, even if it is hectic, and I am grateful that I teach students that love to learn, not just the three at the end of the table." She gave Iscah, Sarala, and Matthan a wink as they giggled. "As far as the coming year is concerned, I am looking forward to marriage, to motherhood, and to when the kids start up in robotics club and I get the flat to myself for a bit for once."

Everyone stopped eating and taking food to stare at Clara, wondering if they had all caught her correctly.

"Motherhood…?" Dave repeated. "Are you going to try to have children right away, then?"

"We will have two of them by June, Dad," Clara replied. "I was actually hoping that Reverend Tucker could take care of the ceremony while we were up and everyone's here—just to get it out of the way—so we can concentrate on preparing the guest room to become the nursery. A baby takes a lot of preparing, twins even more so." She took a sip of her water as Malcolm hissed something in her ear about "not Da," or something along those lines; honestly, she wasn't listening.

"You're…" Elsie swallowed hard as she processed the information, "…you're pregnant? Now…?"

"Why else would I turn down a red wine older than my teaching career?" Clara replied, motioning towards the drink at the other woman's place setting. "You've been saving that for a special occasion, clearly, and I would otherwise be a fool to pass that up."

With the initial shock wearing off, the table erupted into a cacophony of questions and congratulations. There was so much that everyone needed to know (Do you know what gender they are? Not until they're born. Did anyone else know? Only Carrie, who has been marvelous at covering for us. Have you picked out names? Not yet), and there did not seem like nearly enough time to cover everything before the food got cold.

Clara and Malcolm both knew that if they were to break it to their families, that now was the time to do it, and they wouldn't've changed it for anything. They kept their fingers entwined as they fielded questions and got incredulous stares from their fathers; it was certainly the best Christmas either of them had in a long time.


The end of the week drew near and St. Thaney's was shut for the afternoon to visitors, as there was a private ceremony and they were not to be disturbed. In actuality, it was the only way that Malcolm would agree to having the wedding right then and there, as he did not want the multitude of the parish's twats and tits from his childhood butting in and creating a scene when there really was none to be had. He enjoyed not being in the forefront—why else would he had gone for Communications and not Premiership—and grumbled under his breath that they even had the organist there in the loft, for once she was released from her duties for the day, he knew it was only going to be a matter of time before the entire parish population knew, including his fellow wayside members.

She had to be there, his father insisted as they got ready, because a wedding involved music and singing, and singing to music at church was like praying twice, and every couple needs all the prayers their loved ones can manage. Malcolm simply straightened his tie and scowled into the mirror; he was glad that there was normally a few hundred miles between him and his father, because it was bad enough that a week of being back in Glasgow made him want to blow his top… he didn't dare want to think of what it would be if they could be in contact even more.

It all seemed to fade away, he noticed, once the ceremony was underway. Malcolm could not take his eyes off Clara, completely enamored by the sight of his bride. Her round face was becoming even rounder and her curves more pronounced now that she had put on a noticeable amount of pregnancy-weight. Fuck… his horny arse had done this to her, and he was nearly hard at the thought that she not only accepted it, but was just as thrilled about being there as him. The realization allowed him to ignore his father's pronouncements and ballyhoo, which he put up with the same way that Clara put up with him not going to church on Christmas: because they were in love. Not only that, but they were in love because they respected one another, down to their very faults—he a shouty sinner and she a bossy control freak—and there would be little to stop them in the years to come.

They exchanged their vows and kissed; to Hell with whomever attempted to get in their way.


Samantha and Domhnall would not. Stop. Screaming.

Already achy from having a shitetastic day in the shop, Malcolm creaked his joints awake as he sat up to look towards the cot in the corner of the room. Nothing smelled off, so he knew it wasn't the nappies, meaning he gently put the back of his hand against Clara's breast—it was slightly wet, alerting him to the fact it was feeding time. He let his wife sleep as he shuffled out of the bedroom and towards the kitchen, fetching premade bottles to warm up in the microwave oven. The bottles were just barely warm when he heard a door open on the other end of the flat. Fuckoff scuttled into the kitchen and slammed her body against his ankles—Matthan.

"Uncle Malcolm, why are Sammy and Nally so loud?" the lad pouted. "I start school next week—will they always be this loud?"

"Just a couple more months, then it'll be better, your mam promised," Malcolm said. Too exhausted to even cuss, he held out a bottle towards the twelve-year-old in offering. "Which one do you want?"

"I'll take Nally."

"Then let's get a move on."

The two then snuck back into Malcolm and Clara's room, plucked the babies from their cot, and brought them back out into the sitting room to feed. Both infants sucked down their milk with vigor, not caring that their benefactors were not awake as they were.

"Uncle Malcolm?"

"Yeah?"

"Sammy and Nally won't fully move into the nursery until they sleep through the night, right?"

"Yeah; I wouldn't do that to you kids unless there was no choice," Malcolm assured. "They're almost three months now, and your mam said that if she put you on foods at three months and you slept through the night, then that's what we're doing with these two."

"Babies sure are hard," Matthan nodded sleepily. He burped his cousin and continued feeding him. "Is that why Aunt Clara doesn't want to go back to work yet?"

"It's either that or her gran stays here until these two are off to playgroup, and I don't think you want Granny Oswald chatting up customers and wandering around the flat and getting in your things."

"Nuh-uh; it's bad enough Fuckoff gets in my stuff."

"If that's a problem, just wait until these two start crawling." Malcolm chuckled as he watched Matthan cringe in disgust. "Don't worry, Matt—they'll mean the world to you, and you to them."

"Yeah, but they still are loud and smelly and spit up over me."

"…then just think about what it'll be like if you or Carrie or Sara ever have kids, and then Sammy and Nally will be the ones to suffer."

"That's true," Matthan nodded. His cousin was now full and falling asleep in his arms. Malcolm quickly finished feeding his daughter, put her back in the cot, and rescued his son from the sleepy clutches of his nephew. With both babies asleep, a blanket thrown over Matthan and Fuckoff, and the flat back in order, Malcolm retreated to his bed once more. He snuggled up behind Clara, one arm over her waist and his chin atop her head.

"Thank you," she murmured, still asleep herself.

"Thank you," he replied. All was hectic, yes, and he could do with a full night's rest, but it was good—better than good, even—and he was content with his life for once.