2.
"In the old days men had the rack. Now they have the Press."
Nicola does not remember the first time Malcolm kisses her when he is sober. Malcolm is eternally grateful for this.
Nicola's interview with the Telegraph had been a disaster, even by Nicola standards. Malcolm, very unwisely, had utterly offloaded at the journalist interviewing her. Not about his journalistic practices, but about Nicola's inability to not fuck up. He may have asked why she wouldn't just die before bailing up said journalist and threatening his every orifice until he was sure his comments wouldn't be attributed. Even Lord Malcolm of Fuckoffideen was unable to enact retrospective off-the-record status.
So now here he is, sitting in the Opposition's favourite haunt listening to Nicola fucking Murray lamenting her life on a Wednesday night, trying to resist the urge to commit suicide. The problem with today, from Malcolm's perspective, is that Nicola was fucking worse than she should have been. He'd sat there, watching her come further and further unstuck, partly wishing he could intervene and partly wishing he could set the whole fucking building on fire and just be done with it.
He may call her useless, but Jesus shitting Christ, she's not as fucking retarded as she came off today, and somehow it's always Totally Fucking Retarded Nicola who makes it into mass media rather than Only Slightly Retarded Nicola with whom he works most of the time. Herein lies the uncomfortable problem, the cause of his frustration. It's not that she always puts the wrong foot forward, simply that she only puts the wrong foot forward when it's important that she doesn't.
Malcolm muses over this while nursing a Fanta and watching Nicola power through yet another glass of the cheap house white. She complains that it is horrible whenever she receives a fresh glass, and he receives no sensible answer when he asks her why she doesn't buy something decent. There is little logic he can find in "Because you drink nice wine because you want nice wine and you drink shit wine when you would like the universe to open and swallow you whole."
"Fuck you're melodramatic." Malcolm mumbles with an unsympathetic eye-roll.
"Well you're a fucking bastard but I don't whinge about that." Nicola remarks, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye.
"Yeah, because you're too fucking busy whining abou' everything else. 'Oh my husband hates me, my children are the fucking spawn of Satan, oh boo hoo, I'm the worst fucking Leader who had the misfortune of being born.' Fucking grow up, Nic'la. Yer bit's gettin' old."
"There's a fucking club, Malcolm." Nicola says, voice thickening with the threat of tears. "I am so shit at this job there's a fucking club celebrating my incompetence. Hail fucking Murray." She shakes her head and rests her forehead against her hand. It's a gesture of defeat which used to be rare when she was first appointed to Cabinet, but over the years he's watched it become a more and more regular part of her paralinguistic repertoire. Malcolm Tucker feels no modicum of guilt for this. Not for the slump in her shoulders, nor the tense threading of her fingers through her now neatly cropped brown hair, nor the tightness in her throat. He feels no guilt for her train-wreck of an interview, either, only vague regret at letting her do it, and intense frustration that she can't just be a little bit fucking less of a walking clusterfuck.
"Hail fucking Murray is right." She looks at him murderously and he finally unleashes everything that's been swirling through his head. "Look, if yeh don't like having the twats over there takin' the piss yeh should've stayed on the backbench, righ'? But you didn't. You ran in a mammoth fucking leadership contest and somehow you fucking won it. Skin of yer teeth, but you're the fucking Leader of a massive political machine, and if you want to fucking sit here wallowing, that's fine, but some part of that tiny, frizz-haired mind of yers has to know that there's a direct correlation between you sittin' here blubberin' and you bein' a totally fucking useless Leader."
She nods at his side, head still against the heel of her hand, eyes clamped shut. He watches her, taking note of the hint of a tear that creeps from the corner of her eye.
Malcolm casts his gaze around the pub, taking note of anyone who might be paying them attention. The pub is one of several locales in Westminster where journalists and politicians have a gentleman's arrangement that nothing that happens within these walls can be reported on, and nothing that happens in the alleyway and car park behind the pub can have names attributed to it, but most of the decent journalists consider the alley and park part of the exclusion zone.
It's not really the journalists he's worried about, though; it's the Ben Swains of the world, the Dan Millers. The people who will tactically use things against her rather than write articles in trashy newspapers which will be forgotten tomorrow.
The pub is designed with an oval shaped bar towards the back. It's an aesthetically pleasing but spatially inefficient design which thankfully has allowed him to tuck them somewhere towards the wall, facing the back. Nicola had been in a distinctly 'flop on the bar and cry' mood, despite Malcolm's protestations that the corner booth was more appropriate for a post interview wake. There are sometimes even Malcolm can't muster the energy to argue with her.
"Why'd yeh want to be a vet?" Malcolm queries, hoping to stop her wallowing before she descends into actual tears and makes a scene. He's never seen her fully cry, so he's worried from a contingency point of view more than anything else, but the risk is always there, especially when she's this taught with tension.
"I wanted to help animals." She answers. No nonsense, no elaboration. A simple fact. She wanted to help, to alleviate suffering. It doesn't surprise him. Despite her near total lack of ability she really does have, and it took Malcolm a long time to realise this because it's quite far from his normal assessment of politics, a genuine desire to improve people's lot, and that it something he respects.
"What changed your mind?" His query is genuine, even if Nicola is inclined to read a veiled assertion that she'd be better off as a vet into it. She turns her head, looking at him on an awkward horizontal angle. "Because I didn't like the idea of putting them down when I couldn't fix them."
"So, politics because it didn't involve personally performing euthanasia. Not the worst reason I've ever heard, and that, is fucking depressing."
"Can we just write all of today off as 'fucking depressing'?"
"Every day's a fucking write off with you, Nic'la." Malcolm snipes.
Nicola sighs heavily and turns her head back into her hand. "Good-o."
"Alrigh', finish yer fucken wine. Yeh've wallowed enough for one night." Malcolm is dialling her driver while he says all this, ordering her car immediately.
"Fine." Nicola replies, swigging the dregs of her wine before sliding off her barstool, shrugging on her coat and following him out the back door of the pub. Malcolm doubts she would be quite so pliable if she'd stopped drinking forty minutes ago.
The rain is misting lightly, and Malcolm curses under his breath when he sees that her car isn't there. Once upon a time she would've leant lightly against him as they waited, before the trust between them began to slowly crack and crumble. He can feel it. She feels less like he's less on her side now than she used to, and she was honestly always a little dubious on that fact.
Good. Part of Malcolm grumbles. She's finally fucking learnin' something.
It had been a sign of defiance as much as anything, though, hadn't it? That light body contact the Nicola Murray version of humming 'Who's Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf' under her breath with the clear indication that she'd not been afraid of him. Of course to some extent, like all the rest of them, she is and always has been a little, but she has been more willing to fight him than others right from the start. Malcolm liked that in the beginning, even if he was well aware it would make his life harder in the long run. Now he's starting to worry that her fight is ebbing away from her, and more to the point, he worries that he is at least partly to blame. When this article is printed on Friday she's going to recognise his phraseology immediately. She's going to be both furious and upset with him for his tirade. The trust will continue to erode.
Of course this isn't a personal issue for Malcolm. Not at all. The issue is that she will become harder to control the less she trusts him, but in fairness rhetorically asking a journalist why your Leader won't just die is reasonably solid grounds for not being trusted anymore.
Out of the corner of his eye Malcolm studies her. The hair at the nape of her neck is curling into little flat ringlets in the misty rain; the neat bob which requires approximately half a bottle of serum per day to make it even vaguely resemble something that could be printed on a banknote is waving at the ends and developing flyaways at the roots. Malcolm almost wants to smile at how infuriatingly Nicola she looks right now. Almost DoSAC Nicola. Almost the woman who came in bubbling with social mobility before the notion of spending money on her portfolio was well and truly beaten out of her. Part of him wants to know what happened to her, the woman who had some good ideas even if she had no concept of how to execute them, but really Malcolm already knows. He was one of the ones who helped beat her into whatever she is now: this insecure blathering idiot who burnt her fucking mouth on a cup of coffee in the middle of an interview. God, he wanted her to be better than this. All those times when she's challenged him and stood up to him made him think maybe she even could be. Alack the day Malcolm Tucker gave someone the benefit of the doubt.
Malcolm doesn't realise that he's shifted from idly considering her out of the corner of his eye to outright staring at her.
"What?" Nicola demands, eyes narrowing as if she is steeling herself for a fight.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about at the best of times, Nic'la, let alone when you're trolleyed."
"You know exactly what I mean. That fucking look! What is that fucking look? Most of the time I'm pretty good at picking up on outright disdain, but sometimes you look at me and I'm not sure if you want to throw me in front of a bus or - " Largely because of the amount of alcohol she's consumed, Nicola Murray had actually been well on her way to blurting out the words 'fucking kiss me'. She is interrupted by Malcolm Tucker doing exactly that. He pulls her to him with force, and a little 'unf' escapes her. The motion is jarring for a body that already feels somewhat like she's on a life raft in a storm. Malcolm silencing her is never something she takes pleasure in, but when he does it with his mouth, Nicola is ashamed to say she has very few objections.
Her tongue is imprecise and indecisive against his. She is not demanding or hungry as he expects she would be when she's at her best, as she hinted she would be that night all those years ago. Her mouth is laced with cheap wine, and it clashes horribly with the intensely sugary remnants of his Fantas. Nicola slips her arms under his overcoat, clinging to his sides as much to keep herself upright as to gain a little warmth, a little intimacy. Malcolm curses her stupid black trench coat for the barrier it creates between his body and her skin. She is cocooned in gabardine and a cashmere scarf which (she takes no end of pleasure in reminding him) originated in his homeland. Just as Malcolm is burying his fingers in her hair and pulling her against him harder, Nicola shoves off him as hard as she can manage, spins on her heel, braces against the rough brick wall and vomits violently. The Scot rakes a hand over his face, wondering once again exactly what in Christ's name he's gotten himself into.
Malcolm does not do the gentlemanly thing and hold her hair back or support her forehead, instead he does something much more politically astute: he turns away from her and scans the area for lurking journalists, punters on their mobile phones, any sign of life. The last thing he needs is vomiting Nicola plastered across every major news outlet because someone nearby is on fucking Twitter; god knows her electoral prospects are bad enough without snogging staffers and vomiting in alleyways. While he does so he spreads his hand across the small of her back, fingers taking in her damp coat. He is not actively seeking to comfort her. Not really. It's a reaction to her proximity and her persistent heaving and nothing more. This is something Malcolm repeats to himself as his fingers gently rub tiny circles over her. Malcolm's eyes finally land on her car, sitting patiently with its headlights on just in front of them. Malcolm has no idea when it pulled up; he imagines he'd been too busy sucking on the Leader of the Opposition's lower lip.
When she rights herself, her face is pulled into that bemused Nicola frown; it would be endearing were it not so frequent to grace her countenance.
"Feel better gettin' that out of yer system?" Malcolm's query is only a little biting, idly disapproving rather than blatantly critical.
"Very much regretting my cheap wine assertion, actually."
Malcolm laughs shortly and drops a hand to the small of her back, directing her to her car. He opens the door for her and pushes her in with little ceremony, watching as she lifts her hand to her head like she might go again. Her breath is toxic, acidic from sick and stale from wine. She is dishevelled and damp, and actually, Malcolm doesn't utterly hate her. He leans into the front of the minivan and mumbles, "None of this goes any further, righ'? Good man."
Nicola's head is lolling back against her seat and she is looking at him with wide-eyed confusion. Reaching across her, Malcolm draws her seatbelt over her body and clips it securely. It's his small concession, a little acknowledgement that he does not actually want her to die at all. She may frustrate him beyond articulation, but part of him tries to keep her safe, where possible. Malcolm knows as soon as the Telegraph hits on Friday and she picks him for the source, she will hate him. Perhaps when that happens he will be able to invoke this moment as some kind of evidence that he is still on her side, or at least wants her to live. His hand finds her cheek gently, and why he can't seem to keep his hands off her is a troubling and potentially disastrous question he totally refuses to answer.
"Now get some rest and don't hack yer guts up in the nice man's car. Alright?"
Once he's sure she's nodded in response, he mumbles "good," and shuts the door with a decisive snap. Malcolm hopes a long walk home in the rain will help him dismiss whatever it is that's going through his mind tonight.
The next morning is a clear and sunny one - by London standards at least. Nicola has never longed for a typical, gray London day more than at this very moment. She'd allowed herself a politician's version of a sleep in, only arriving at the Norman Shaw at 7:20am, but she still feels like death warmed up, re-frozen, left in the sun to rot, and then thrown back in the fridge to slow the decay. In fact, Nicola is feeling so ill that, while she is aware she has a couch in her office which could offer her rest and comfort, she cannot bring herself to move from her current position slumped over her desk. It is in this position that Malcolm finds her when he is finally granted entrance to her office by Helen at 7:50. The curtains are drawn and the office is largely dark. There are cracks of sunlight coming through in places where one of her staff clearly couldn't quite get the curtains to meet. Although he can see none of Nicola's face under her sheath of hair, she looks like she would not object to euthanasia at this point.
"You loved her as Pukeahontas, now relive the magic with digitally remastered Sleeping Barfy!"
Ordinarily Nicola is sure she would laugh at this, but right now all she can manage is a low groan.
"Do you know why being a vet is better than being the alternative Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland?" She mumbles into her arms.
"Because animals don't get shitted off by yer boring arse stories?"
"Because vets are fucking allowed to take the day off when they're hung over."
"D'you know why politicians aren't?"
"Because they're supposed to run the Kingdom, and therefore probably be mature enough not to get paralytic while Parliament's in session?"
Malcolm snorts derisively. "Because most of them are such seasoned fucking alcoholics that they don't fucking get hangovers anymore."
Nicola makes a little mewl of desolation, and Malcolm, in spite of himself, wants to laugh gently at her despair.
"I actually can't remember a fucking thing from last night." Groans the brunette into her desk. "Fuck, I haven't done that in a long time." Malcolm's ears prick up. He'd been wondering when and if his totally sober snogging of her would become a topic of conversation. He might be saved.
"Nothing?"
"After burning my mouth on that stupid fucking cappuccino, I remember going to the Hog and then I remember drinking about three glasses of shitty wine, and then I actually have no idea what happened." Suddenly her voice hardens. "I didn't do anything, did I? Anything that might, you know... Get published or anything?"
"Aside from sexually assaulting that midget, you mean?"
"Fuck off, Malcolm. I'm in agony."
"Well, you heaved up yer guts in the back alley. D'you remember that?"
"I remember the taste in the morning."
"Now that's about as fucken charming as an ageing sex worker with gingivitis."
If Nicola's head weren't pounding as if it were being rammed repeatedly by a lorry, she would lift it and glare at him. As it stands, she is physically incapable of doing so, and this tells Malcolm more than anything else about her current state. More than the drawn curtains and the lying on the desk. That she can't muster the energy to glare at him? That is both serious and of some concern.
Standing before her desk, Malcolm squeezes her shoulder softly and for the first time Nicola's head raises. Not the whole way yet, just a slight tip back so her eyes and nose are visible above her arms. It's not endearing. Not at all. Once he's sure he has her attention he sets a 48 pack of 400mg Ibuprofen tablets on the desk before her. She reaches for them with a look on her face that says he may have just presented her with the Queen's sceptre.
"Back on the horse, alright darlin'?"
"Right. Government to win, JB to destroy." Replies Nicola with new resolve as she accidentally rips the box in her haste to open it. Malcolm is surprised when she dry-swallows four in one go. Surprised and maybe a little alarmed.
"That's my girl."
Malcolm brushes his hand over her shoulder again as he makes to leave, but is halted by Nicola softly calling after him: "Malcolm? I'm not your fucking 'girl'." His lips quirk, though she cannot tell with his back to her; this is the kind of comment that ordinarily would give Malcolm myriad complicated thoughts about the evening before, about her rain-frizzed hair and her not unjustified self-loathing.
Luckily for Malcolm, it takes a very long time indeed for him to be able to consider kissing Nicola Murray without the vivid memory of the smell of her vomit rather souring the idea.