AN: So I was planning on this being over, but something came to me that wouldn't quite leave me alone. It gets harder before it gets easier, so let me say at this point, if you want it to just end after Nicola's Birthday, you can happily leave it there and I will not judge you.

If you read this new section, you need to trust me for the next three chapters/17,000 words, or you will not forgive me. I'll be posting the next two on the next two weekends.

The chapter title is Abraham Lincoln's. Special thanks to MinervasBibliophage for her lovely reviews.

Up to you, dear readers. x

6.

"My own wisdom and that of all about me seemed insufficient for that day."

Malcolm Tucker and Nicola Murray's separation is amicable, after a long period of intense acrimony.

By the time they are dealing with lawyers each has largely learnt to compartmentalise their hurt and simply muddle through the process. Malcolm barely wastes his energy swearing at her and Nicola barely flinches when he does. She is steely and contained throughout the official process, and Malcolm barks orders at his lawyer like "Just finish the fucking thing. I want it done." Each discovers it's a peculiar thing, ending a de-facto relationship. Neither has the capacity to term it a divorce, even though this is the word most prominently used by their friends.

Malcolm hadn't realised his entire life was going to crumble when he got home from a publicity junket with a client. He'd been on the kind of high that usually accompanied the press buying whatever the fuck he sold them. It's something he's come to appreciate in a post-politics media managing role: people are more willing to trust celebrities than their elected officials, and by extension, are more willing to trust their staff.

He'd walked into their home that night with long strides, eager to see his partner, eager to tell her the minutia of his trip and hear the petty ins-and-outs of her week at Whitehall. He'd gotten a text from her before he'd boarded his flight, slightly garbled but nothing really out of the ordinary for his omnishambolic other half.

Need to speak to you about something when you get home. Have a safe flight. I'm so glad you're on your way. Xxx N

And then another a moment another had flashed upon his screen.

I've really missed you.

Nicola has always been somewhat prone to periods of separation-based-hysteria, so he'd not thought anything of it. He'd fired back:

You're a daft bint. Love you.

He'd found her sitting on the couch when he arrived, still in the neat dress he'd seen her wearing in oral questions. Looking back Malcolm's not sure when he worked something was wrong with the picture, even though something so clearly had been. She had obviously been steeled for battle; her feet were on the floor not tucked beneath her, and it had always been a rare occurrence for Nicola to still be in work clothes if Malcolm arrived home later than her. Malcolm, while he may have clocked all this, thought nothing of it as he dropped onto one knee on the couch beside Nicola and kissed her thoroughly. Nicola had noticed the suggestion of airline grade Scotch on his tongue; her own mouth had felt drier than the Sahara.

"So good to be home." Malcolm had mumbled, content to take in the texture of her hair beneath his fingers, the smell of her skin. He had not noticed that Nicola's little whimper was not borne out of pleasure, but stress. He had not noticed her shoulder muscles warring between releasing at his presence and coiling with tension. He had not made anything of the fact that she did not shift their positions and snog him senseless right there. She had touched his face timidly, as if she had no right to do so, and when Malcolm had trapped her hand against his cheek, turning to kiss the inside of her wrist, she had said his name in such a way that his blue eyes had snapped to her lovely dark ones. This was the first sign of trouble for Malcolm, and really, looking back, it most definitely should not have been.

Before she had even spoken, her eyes had begged for apology. Malcolm had cursed himself for spending as long as he did in politics, for having a career centred upon reading people, and failing to notice that the woman he loved was very obviously about to shatter his entire world.

"It can't be as bad as all that, pet." He'd said it gently as he caressed her cheek with long fingers, but there had been no hint of a smile on his lips, no softening of his eyes as he assessed her reaction.

"Malcolm, I..."

"What?" He had withdrawn from her then, leaving no physical contact between them.

"Something... happened."

"D'you think maybe you could just spit out whatever the fuck it is yeh're tryin' t'say, Nic'la? Because I am very fucking tired." The thickening of his accent had been as clear a sign as any of his tension, and Nicola had willed herself not to cry.

"It's not easy for me to say this, it's just" a catch in her voice; desperation to make him understand, terror that he never would. "Malcolm I'm so sorry."

Malcolm's hostility had masked the genuine dread welling within him for whatever she was about to say. The conclusion, however much he didn't want to believe it, had been obvious.

"Would you please tell me what exactly you're witterin' about? Fuck me dead, you've not been this completely fucking inarticulate since you were Leader."

Nicola has never been quite sure whether Malcolm had been wounding her out of defence, or whether he had been trying to provoke her to the point where she could injure him back.

"I'm so sorry." She'd repeated. "Malcolm, I love you so much and I am so, so sorry." She had felt like he would fill her silence here, perhaps even draw her into his arms and tell her they could sort it out, whatever it was. Had he not sensed that anything which would prompt this reaction in her would be unforgivable, he would have done exactly that. Instead he had left her hanging in silence, his gaze hard and unyielding.

Finally Nicola had mustered the will to mumble "I slept with someone else."

She had expected Malcolm to scream at her, to give her the bollocking she so deserved. Instead he had uttered a concerningly contained "Who?"

A quick deliberation and Nicola had decided to tell him. "Andrew."

"Andrew Watckins?" Nicola had nodded, unable to form the word 'yes', the final affirmation that, yes, her life was about to crumble before her eyes and this time it was entirely her fault.

"Never thought you'd be one of the MPs who throw their keys into the Chamber's chamber pot."

"Malcolm - "

"When?" He'd demanded, refusing her the chance to speak.

"After... After the Super Schools announcement."

His ire had peaked again. "You've been keeping this from me fer two fucking months? Where." 'Where' had been more a demand, an accusation, than a question.

"Malcolm this isn't going to help anything - "

"I get to decide what shitting pieces of turd-shaped fact are helpful here, Nic'la! Where?"

"I'm not playing this game with you."

"Was it here? Did you bring Andrew Fucking Watckins to my house and let him fuck you?"

"No! Malcolm, no." She had been torn between wanting to hit him for talking about her in such terms, even though she'd of course heard worse from him, and feeling in some part of her that she had earned whatever he threw at her. "Malcolm I would never do that to you."

"Well I didn't think yeh'd spread your fucking legs for another Member because I was a wee bit fucking busy at work!"

Nicola had visibly flinched, and finally Malcolm felt some modicum of satisfaction.

"Did you go to a hotel?"

"No. No, it wasn't that premeditated it just... it just happened, Malcolm."

"In your office?"

"No. Of course not, no!" He had felt an unwanted release of tension upon hearing this. To fuck someone else in her office is something Malcolm would have found almost as big a violation as her fucking someone else in their house.

"His?"

"Yes."

"Jesus cunting Christ, Nicola..."

"I was... I was pissed and I was lonely and I wanted you! I wanted you and you'd barely touched me for weeks and - "

"Don't! Don't you dare! Don't you fucking dare turn this around on me and make this my fucking fault! Because I'm busy? In case you haven't noticed recently, darling, we're both very fucking busy people and d'you know something? Even when you've been off fannying about in the Commons every night until the wee fucking hours I have never even fucking considered touching anyone else! And d'you think people haven't offered? I've had twenty year old interns all but begging to be bent over my fucking desk and slipped a stiff one and I have never even..." Malcolm had seemed to run out of steam then. Perhaps the enormity of the situation had hit him, perhaps he'd simply run out of words. His hand had rubbed across his face wearily, and Nicola had wanted to reach for it, to kiss his fingers and pull him into her arms and pretend this was all a very realistic but very horrible dream. As it stood, she had been afraid to touch him.

"I love you. That's why I would never fucking do something like that to you."

"Malcolm - "

"Shut yer fucking cave, Nic'la. I don't want to hear any more."

For once, Nicola had done as she was told without protest. Malcolm had dropped back onto the couch beside her after pacing around the room with his earlier monologue. His elbows had come to rest on his knees, his fingers running over his face. He had pinched his lip between them thoughtfully.

"Is this how you felt when you found out James was cheating on you?"

"Cheated. Once. Past tense. I fucked up I just... I just fucked up."

"Is this how you felt?"

"No."

"Why?"

Nicola had steadied herself for a moment, trying to will the pieces of her life to stick together again. "Because I didn't love James anymore. I guess I was shocked and upset but I - "

"You saw it coming is what you're tryin' t'say. And I fucking didn't because I love you. And I fucking trusted you." His words may have been muffled by his hands, but the pain in them was so clear it could have been broadcast from a megaphone.

If Malcolm Tucker's brain is made of packets of crisps, his heart is a nuclear missile proof safe which only a handful of people have access to, containing an assortment of origami. Nicola Murray is the first person who has ever been granted access to the safe only to take it upon herself to pick the wings off all the butterflies and crush all the cranes.

"Was it good? Was he good at fucking you?" The edge to Malcolm's tone had been terrifying. Anyone who knew him less well would have been pondering their physical safety. For Nicola his tone had cut her more deeply than any weapon ever could.

"It was awful, Malcolm. It was awful because all I wanted in the entire sodding world was to have you there. I missed you so much and it felt so fucking... wrong to have someone else touching me. Malcolm, I know this is so completely, one hundred percent my fuck up but I would give anything to go back and change it. I actually mean anything. This is the stupidest thing I've done in my entire fucking life and you know that I've done some reallyfucking stupid things."

"You can't rewrite history, Nic'la." His tone had been soft and broken, his words a simple fact that nevertheless ended something of critical importance to both of them.

"You used to have a bit of a knack for it." She had ventured. The look he'd shot at her told her it was still too soon for levity, and she is sorry for the miscalculation to this day.

Nicola had seen the set of Malcolm's muscles, his shoulders, and had known the answer to the question before it had passed her lips.

"Is there any chance you can forgive me for this?" What she had wanted to do was beg him to forgive her, to change his mind and not hate her - at the very least to try not to hate her - but she had known pressuring him would only make him resist the situation more. What kind of man would Malc The Great and Powerful be if he had been so easily swayed by the words of the woman he had loved? No matter how long they had been together she had known this would always, in some way, be a consideration for him. Nevertheless, she can still recall the chant of 'please forgive me' that had pounded through her mind as regularly as her pulse.

Part of Malcolm had wanted to say that of course he could try. He could be a grownup and move past this, because surely one major fuckup shouldn't be enough to derail years upon years of happiness. A normal person would move on from this lone infraction. Malcolm Tucker is not a man who has ever considered himself to be normal.

In one fluid move Malcolm had risen from the couch and collected his suitcase, still full from his trip.

"Where are you going?" Nicola had demanded, but she had known even then that he would leave her; she had known that he would not come back.

"Can you do something for me, Nic'la?" Malcolm had asked. His tone had been gentler, suggestive of some kind of hope. Nicola's entire body had twinged at the possibility that maybe he was going to gather his thoughts, maybe he would think this through and come to the same conclusion that she had, that despite a major failure of judgement, Nicola was the person who would love him more than anyone else, despite his many flaws. Was she asking that much more from him?

Nicola had shifted forward on the couch, wanting to cross to him but respecting that he hadn't wanted to be touched by her.

"Anything." She had answered, and she had almost meant it. She had considered that perhaps he would ask her to leave Parliament, and the part of Nicola that had thought maybe loving him was more important than her life's work had been prepared to contemplate such a request.

Knowing her weaknesses and her sore spots better than anyone else had allowed Malcolm to bring her to this point of openness, of possibility, before destroying her on the spot.

"Never fucking speak to me again."

With that Malcolm Tucker had slammed the door to their house and left his erstwhile partner to decide how best to collect the jagged fragments of her life.

Malcolm Tucker and Nicola Murray had not kissed goodbye.