A parcel rested in the middle of Malcolm's desk.
"The fuck is this?" He pointed at it as though it were some vile, poisonous insect. The room was empty and his audience was a laughing mandarin so he scowled and prodded the delivery with one of his uncommonly long fingers. Fearing it was nuclear waste or dismembered babies, he opened it at one corner, peering cautiously inside. Of course that was incredibly awkward and so he ended up nose to nose with the wrappings of his parcel. Finally he realised what was inside. That's right. Heavy drinking. Phone. Ebay.
"Malcolm?"
Tucker pulled back so fast the parcel fell off the desk along with half his paperwork. He blushed profusely, hair a mess, looking panicked. He shoved the parcel under his desk out of sight with his feet.
"N-nothing..." he replied, alarmed.
Sam eyed a mandarin rolling towards her on the floor. She bent down, retrieved it and held the thing up with a heavily arched eyebrow. "Well, you've got nothing on in five minutes."
"Shit. The Prime Minister."
"The Prime Minister," she confirmed. "And he looks more guilty than you."
"Well he should," Malcolm huffed. He stood up and swiped his jacket off his chair, sliding it onto his stick-insect body. "I'm a miracle worker not Doctor Fucking Who. I don't know how he thinks we're going to smooth this one over."
Sam gave him a patient look, dusting his shoulders off when he came close enough. "You've still got four and a half minutes to formulate a plan."
"That's ages."
"And your last meeting of the day -" Sam didn't mean to but her voice dropped slightly as they paced along the innards of Parliament, "-is that still...?"
Malcolm nodded once.
"Now remember, murdering is considered a crime so if you're gonna do it, don't do it on camera."
This time Malcolm smirked. "Yes, ma'am."
Sam hit him sharply with her folder. "I mean it."
Nobody around them blinked.
Whatever bits were left of the Prime Minister appeared on the evening news, plugging a carefully selected festive charity event yanked from mid-air at the last moment.
"Malcolm – that wasn't funny."
There he was, Julius Caesar lurking by the tea tray, head reflecting the eco-friendly spotlights making him look a bit like an exoplanet in the waning warm of a distant star. Malcolm was in a cheery mood and diverted from his kill-path to inspect the biscuit selection. "It was hilarious, I promise."
"Jesus fucking Christ..." Poor Julius was sweating out a Roman.
"You realise that's another way of shouting 'masturbation' to the room, right?" Malcolm stuck a biscuit between his teeth, twiddled his hefty eyebrows and left Julius to his ruined world. The Prime Minister in bits always sent him into a spin.
He was in such a good mood today. It wasn't his birthday or a major calendar holiday but definitely a Hallmark event. He was only slightly dampened by Ollie tripping over his own feet.
"Ollie, the travelling otter," Malcolm paused momentarily, not sure if this was social or mortal.
Ollie leaned in, clutching his laptop bag to his chest like body armour. "You're up shit creek," he half-breathed, half-whispered.
"I know. It's on the telly and-"
"No. No. No. Listen. One of the panellists..."
"Two down, two to go."
"Maybe not."
Malcolm looked put out. "What do you mean, there's a sword half way through his chest."
"Not that one."
"The – quiet one? The ex-teacher?"
Ollie nodded slowly, backing Tucker towards a quieter, more shadowy part of the hallway where they wouldn't be overheard. "You've been leavin' him 'til last."
"Yeah," Malcolm was rather concerned by the confined place he found himself in. "You get rid of the most dangerous things first – don't give them time to plot."
"Malcolm, you missed something."
"He's a teacher not-"
"Look at his brother. Quietly."
Nobody could ever accuse Tucker of keeping his hands clean. He was more than prepared to get his paws covered in muck. Most of his equals had their P.A.'s run the file rooms but honestly, Sam had enough dirt under her nails on his account. This time he could manage on his -
"Sam. Sam?"
Sam dropped a box of files in fright, one hand on her chest – the other on the wall of filing cabinets. He'd scared the living hell out of her. His victims were right, he could materialise out of thin air.
"The fuck you doing down here?" Malcolm continued, quite unable to believe his eyes. It was almost midnight and Sam was here, calm as you like as if she was on a fucking coffee run. Did she sleep? Maybe he'd gone and hired a goddamn android or clone. Two Sams. Interesting. No. Fuck, Malcolm.
"You okay?" Sam dipped her head, eyeing her boss. He looked – odd. "Did one of those cabinets hit you in the face?"
Well honestly, that's probably what he needed. "What are you doing down here?" He managed to produce a perfectly sensible question.
"What are you doing down here?" she countered.
"I asked first."
"That was your answer," she clarified.
"Oh..." So she knew as well. Ollie must have given her a heads up as well, sly fucker. "Anything yet?"
She shook her head. "No but I'm not leaving until I know what Ollie's on about. It'd be so much easier if he told us. Something's got him spooked. He won't say a word. Something scarier than you."
"Obviously we're in the blast radius of a nuclear explosion," Malcolm huffed and went back to his drawer until Sam stopped him.
"I've done those. Try over there," she pointed behind them. She knelt down, collecting everything she'd dropped.
He did as he was told, turning to the alarming forest of paperwork. It would really help if they'd been given a hint. 'Brother' was a very broad category and so far, the sibling was as just as dreary.
"That delivery. From Amazon." Sam spoke up, now knee deep in files. They'd been at it for hours.
"Ebay," he corrected.
"Amazon." He was wrong. "I put it in your bottom drawer. Thought it for the best. All things considered."
This time Tucker's head did impact the cabinets. It was loud, echoing through the room in the bowels of the records building. She knew. This day wasn't going to get any better any time soon. "I think it happened accidentally," he tried to explain. "The – Gin."
"Scotch."
"Scotch. Just so you know, your bank statement says you ordered two of them. You don't – ah – happen to know where the other one went, do you?" It could be important. She might have to shed blood to protect his dignity.
Malcolm closed his eyes, trying to think – then...
"Oh fucking fuckity fuck." That explained so much.
Sam bit her lip. "I take it a few details are wafting back?"
"All hail fucking Caesar."
Sam had to cover her mouth with her hand this time. Oh shit. Julius.
"Stop that. Stop – stop laughing."
Poor Sam. She couldn't.
"If you're gonna do that – just go..." he muttered. Was she crying? Bloody hell. Her make-up was going to run and it'd be his fault and some press hack would get a snap of it and - "Seriously. It's not that funny."
Sam pulled herself together long enough to dead-pan. "It's fucking hilarious."
"Well – stop laughing," he pleaded. "Or I'm going to hit you with this file."
"That's my line," she complained. "Wait on." Sam reached for the file, snatching it out of his claws. She opened it and started reading intently.
"Oh no..." Malcolm collapsed against the filing cabinet and slid to the ground with the rest of the debris. "I forgot about the meeting."
"Nevermind. We can have it here, if you like."
"What, on the cheap carpet of the records room? No biscuits? No thanks."
Sam wiped the corners of her eyes as she flipped through the file. She'd process her emotions later – right now there were arses to save. "Oh here we go. Simon Weir... PHD, Masters in Commerce – worked for P&T Gas Co ten years..." she was glazing over everything they already knew. "Parents deceased. Two elder sisters, abroad working for Doctors Without Borders and one brother, currently employed in -"
She fell silent.
Malcolm shifted, extracting himself from the towers of dismembered folders. "Sam?"
Sam lifted her gaze very slowly to his.
"This is no time for a dramatic silence."
It was serious. Sam was lost for words.
"Malc..." she whispered, a moment of frailty brushing between them. "We're fucked."