"Your phone."
Sam's eyebrow arched just as high as his, curving accusingly. "My phone?"
"Yeah – your fucking phone," Malcolm muttered, more pitiably sad than vengeful. That's why Sam always took the care to sate him with sugar. It was the equivalent of filing back his fangs and putting a generous ring of salt on the floor around him. Rumour was she had a fantastic set of stakes in her drawer for emergencies.
"My phone is taking a break," she replied simply. "What's so important that you extracted your consciousness from the Downing street matrix in the wee hours? Will I read about it in this morning's headlines or are we at full, front page spread?"
Malcolm Tucker was about to say, 'we're out of biscuits' when he realised how unbelievably pathetic that sounded in the sober light of his P.A.'s living room. Hell he was tempted to hang his own arse out to dry, fuck knows he deserved it but sometimes he got tired and little things built up into enormous towers of fuck until they blocked out the sun and cast apocalyptic shadows on the world and the only island of solace left was a tray of Sam's biscuits. They weren't condiments, they were survival. He'd been sitting there in silence for some time, shifting his cutting gaze between his cup of tea and the tray of biscuits.
"Was it biscuits?" Sam asked patiently. "You and Jamie don't need a P.A. - you need a mother."
Right now he needed a cushion, which he stole from the couch, clutching it against his chest.
"Right – so..." Sam fought back the urge to yawn. This certainly wasn't the first time she'd had her boss tucked into the corner of her couch. The novelty had worn off especially when he resembled a five year old hiding in a cubby house. She was tempted to get a second set of keys cut so that he could just let himself in instead of waking her from a perfectly good sleep. "Blankets are in the chest over there. Coffee's in the kitchen. Try not to scare the cat."
"Sam – Sam."
She turned, nearly at the door. Her hand hovered over the light switch. He always called her twice but this time the second didn't appear to have any purpose than to cause her to linger. "I got your text," she admitted, making him tilt his head like a puzzled, plague carrying rodent.
"You didn't reply."
"You didn't ask nicely..." Sam winked and then turned off the light.
Your coffee is vile. Wailing nuns are more use raising the dead than the thin veneer of caffeine your machine left in my cup.
XX M
Your Scottish twin has left a trail of crumbs on my desk. Shall I let him into your office?
X S
She knew very well that Malcolm was still camped out on her couch even though she'd returned to the office to set up for the morning ritual of press interviews. It was a process of blood-letting that Malcolm insisted on doing himself, if only so that he could indulge in the simple joy of watching a hack dissolve into a stuttering, whimpering mess. She had several such candidates lining up already. Sam softened them up a bit with press packs and cooed at them when they started glancing toward the windows in the hope of leaping to freedom.
Fuck that cunt. Tell him to wait in line like all the other poor soulless fools.
X M
Her smile evaporated as the least enticing bald icon nudged his way past the press. "Julius..." Sam smiled sweetly, offering him a press pack.
He lifted his hands to fend it off. "No, no. Here on more serious business I'm afraid. Where is the little mung bean?" He didn't give Sam a chance to reply when he spotted his other least-favourite-scot. The place was overrun. "Jamie... who lashed your corpse to the deck of the Titanic?"
"I did it my fucking self," Jamie replied, tearing his way through the innards of a poncy croissant. "Like the view – lots of big, fuck-off ice bergs, excellent string quartet and cheap champagne. Actually, haven't seen the navigator have you? Tall. Ghoulish. Angry – sort of a semi-demon that had a shitty trade off from the devil where he got the horns and goatee but none of the demonic superpowers."
"You two are hilarious. What am I meant to do? Score you out of ten..."
Jamie leaned toward Sam. "I'd let you score me out of ten."
"All right e-fucking-nough. Stop pissing around Sam and get into my fucking office you pair of twats." Malcolm's entrance was marked by a 'parting of the press' who threw themselves against the walls to avoid any accidental contact. "Go on, fuckity in. In. In. In." He didn't see the little smile Sam gave before turning on the under-age squabble of press. "Right now – Julius Caesar, the fifteen iteration of his line, inbred for millennia, left your laurel wreath on the train? To what do we owe the honour?"
Julius couldn't help but touch his bald head. "There are whispers, Malcolm," Julius began in his more serious, slightly stilted tone. He didn't dare sit. "Whispers that involve you and a date with a prison cell."
"Yeah, no yer right." Malcolm strutted about his office, getting in some of his morning exercise. "I often like to book myself into our penitentiary system for a bit of R&R. It's cheaper than Portsmith and all the meals are included."
"Malcolm."
"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to pay heed to whispers that you happen to overhear lurking outside other people's bedrooms?"
"The only thing lurking outside your bedroom are cobwebs," Julius protested rather calmly, even getting a rise out of Jamie. He had to re-adjust his glasses. Those heavy frames started to slip when he sweat. "It's being whispered in the foyer of parliament. Everyone's heard it."
"I haven' heard any whispers," Jamie shrugged.
"You listened to too much fuckin' Celtic trash as a young lad and -"
"Julius!" Malcolm and Jamie shouted together. Anyone who ever talked shit about anything Scottish was in danger of a tag-team murder.
"Look I'm just saying that there's a lot of discussion swarming around the outcome of this inquiry." To his credit, Julius didn't say anything at all about the mandarin sticker that Malcolm stuck to his great, gleaming forehead as he spoke.
"Sorry," Jamie paused, arms folding in Julius's general direction. "I don't even know why you're here. You've materialised like a melanoma after a summer holiday."
"Contrary to your internal fiction, we're on the same side."
"Is the Prime Minister sacking me?" Malcolm shifted, a touch more seriously.
"No," Julius replied honestly. "The last time he tried that there was so much blood on the floor they had to burn down the building to get rid of the stains."
Malcolm smirked.
"I'm here to help."
Sam waited as long as she could before knocking on Malcolm's door. The nest of young press chicks were starting to flap about uneasily and she didn't like being responsible for so many hatchlings. When he didn't reply, she turned the handle and carefully opened the door.
Jamie was in Malcolm's chair, feet on his antique desk peering at a mandarin in frustration.
"Honestly, is there nothing but fucking fruit in this office? The man has a problem and it's not his dependency on morphine."
"Where's Malcolm?"
"He had to go out."
"Out the window?" It was a fair question. Sam hadn't seen him leave and there was only one door to his office.
"Out of phase. Out of body. Outer limits – who knows. Now, have you or have you not got a clutch of press for me to shout at?"
Very funny. I can tell you two apart.
X S
That's not what he said at the Christmas party.
X M
Sam dropped her phone. Fuck . Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.