I would like to take this opportunity to shamelessly plug my other "Thick of It" stories. I've written three one shot stories in the same style as this in the past couple of days, and I'd be much obliged if you'd look them up and tell me what you think. Happy reading!

OoOoO

Dressed in a new suit that she had treated herself with after her promotion, Natalie brushed her hair in front of the mirror. Malcolm sat on his bed watching the news and emailing various ministers with their instructions for the day. He was determined to keep things running perfectly smoothly until the Prime Minister returned.

"Malcolm?" She ruffled her fringe expertly before spraying it into place. "I thought you said something about being in Spain about now. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad that you're here, but I hadn't expected it."

The comment was made innocently, but for Malcolm it was a serious test of his patience. He had told her nothing about the precarious situation he had found himself in, and that was exactly how it was going to remain. He put the finishing touches on the email to Nicola Murray, a walking disaster if ever there was one – there was no way he could let the BBC interview her without some intense preparation – and stood, pocketing the device.

"Something's come up and I'd better go, otherwise- let's just say things will get pretty fucking nasty, and I mean Jeremy Paxman ten years back, when you were still watching the fucking Teletubbies or whatever, when he had balls the size of a fucking pair of space hoppers, nasty." He headed down the stairs and removed his jacket and scarf from the cupboard.

"You're avoiding the subject..." From the top of the stairs, Natalie watched as he buttoned up his jacket, unaware of how close she was to becoming the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. "Tell me, are party funds really so low that they can't afford to fly you out there."

The jibe was mild in comparison to the things Malcolm had said to her, but still he found that it was impossible to keep himself from snapping. Too many things were going wrong too quickly, and the last thing he needed was her mouthing off at him.

"Listen, I don't know what the fuck your problem is; maybe Daddy doesn't give you enough of his fucking pots of money, or, or Mummy doesn't love you enough, but I couldn't give a flying fuck about that, or any other part of your fucking sad little, insignificant Conservative life, so don't you fucking start asking about mine." There was a silence during which they both considered the harshness of his words. Instantly, Malcolm knew he had said the wrong thing. The whole point of this was to keep her sweet in case he needed to learn anything confidential about the Tories. That didn't quite explain the feeling that was suspiciously like guilt, but it could only be about sabotaging what had been a brilliant plan. She disappeared into the bedroom and returned a moment later with her briefcase. "I'm sorry."

"Fuck you, Malcolm. I have put up with so much of your crap, but I can't do it anymore. I thought... I don't know what I thought." Natalie pushed past him, and he saw that she was on the verge of tears as she slammed the door behind herself.

It dawned on Malcolm that he had fucked up spectacularly. Now more than ever, he needed to have something to fall back on – a source of information – but now she was gone, and even when he had been trying so hard to solve the ongoing problems with his career, Malcolm knew that he had only made things worse. He was getting careless.

"Fuck!" And she was gone. Malcolm opened the front door and stormed out into the street. There was no sign of Natalie, not that he was looking for her. He gritted his teeth and walked to Number Ten, where things went from bad to worse.

OoOoO

Natalie wiped her eyes and reapplied her eyeliner for the third time that day. She splashed some cold water on her face before leaving the female bathroom and returning to her newly gained office space. She now had a desk in the corner of the room, a filing cabinet and a potted, the latter of which was courtesy of her new boss, the Shadow Home Secretary. It was early days and Natalie still wanted to make the best possible impression, so she made sure to keep her demeanour as sunny as possible. Thankfully her brief for the day didn't involve working with her new colleagues, and so Natalie was free to work in peace and attempt to forget about her horrendous morning in solitude. She answered her memos and became better acquainted with the filing system favoured by the department, hoping to gain a better insight into how the Shadow Home Office worked.

It was comforting when an email from Emma arrived. There was only a single floor separating them, but now they worked for different departments, there was a lot less opportunity to gossip. Natalie clicked the link to the BBC page and whistled. Murray marks her man and makes her move. She watched the video of Nicola Murray, stilted before the camera, stammering about leadership, and typed back a response:

'The scary thing is that it might be true- no clue what their lot are thinking. Do you think Murray will go for it? -N'

If this move hadn't been sanctioned by the party – and she knew that it almost definitely hadn't – then Natalie could picture Malcolm's reaction. She ignored the stab of discomfort and continued with her work.

Natalie dismissed it as a mistake, but before long the situation escalated. She couldn't believe it when the Daily Mail decided to back Nicola, nor the brief statement the minister gave to the press. Even as she went home for the day, Natalie couldn't stop thinking about the way in which the Labour party seemed to be losing control. Maybe Malcolm had something big planned.

In an effort to stop thinking about the Labour Party's spin doctor, Natalie decided to make dinner. Having something to do with her hands was relaxing, and she wanted to do something nice for Emma, who had seemed a bit down since Ollie.

"Would you like me to make a salad for with that?" Just as Natalie slid the lasagne into the oven, Emma stepped into the kitchen.

"No... no, I can manage, but thank you." She couldn't meet Emma's eyes, unable to deal with the slightly sanctimonious talk that would follow any discussion of what had transpired between her and Malcolm.

"Alright then. Do you want the Chardonnay or the Pinot Grigio?" Emma looked between the bottles indecisively.

"Whatever you would prefer is fine." There was something very relaxing about chopping up the vegetables for the salad. Natalie accepted a liberal helping of wine and enjoyed the pleasant buzz that it gave her as she worked.

"You're doing a better job with this than Ollie ever did." Emma snorted in disgust.

"Men can be such bastards. Oh, speak of the devil." As Phil sauntered into the kitchen and helped himself to the wine, Natalie prayed that he would go away as suddenly as he had appeared.

"So if we're so bad, why don't you two go lesbian? Since I suggested it, I will of course be allowed to watch-"

"Fuck off, Phil." Nobody managed indignant rage quite like Emma.

"Alright, but only because this is like 'Friends' meets the 'Gilmore Girls'." He lifted the packet of crisps that Emma had opened, but both of them felt that it was a small price to pay for some peace and quiet.

"Are you okay? You've been awfully quiet." Setting down the knife, Natalie turned to face her friend.

"I- I'm fine." She gave a feeble smile and willed Emma to accept her answer, but the only sounds in the room were the hum of Radio One in the background and the gentle roar of the oven.

"No you're not. Where have you been going at night? Have you had a fight with him?" It was astonishingly close to the truth, and Natalie realised that she had completely underestimated her best friend. Of course Emma would realise.

"What? There is no guy; I've been working." It wasn't uncommon for people engaged in projects or warding off a crisis to work overnight, and Natalie only hoped that her excuse would seem reasonable enough.

"Is it- is it a girl you've been with?" Emma spoke so softly and looked so serious that Natalie had to laugh. After a moment, Emma's straight face wavered and she started to giggle. "I didn't think so, but it wouldn't have mattered if it was."

"Do you really think that my mum would see it that way?" Again, they laughed, and Natalie felt closer to Emma than she had in a while. Her mother was, if possible, even more conservative than Thatcherite Natalie, and did not acknowledge same sex relationships, never mind approve of them. "You're right, there was a man. But it's over now, and I..." Determined to retain her composure, Natalie opened the oven to check up on her masterpiece.

"You're still not over him?" Emma watched sympathetically, nibbling on a piece of garlic bread.

"No. It was this morning that I finished it, and we weren't well suited, but it still hurt. It was supposed to be a fling, but then I started to have feelings for him, and I thought that he had feelings for me... I was completely and utterly wrong." When Emma wrapped her in a hug, Natalie couldn't help but cry. She was still shocked that things with Malcolm had ended so badly, even though she should have seen it coming, and she didn't want to think about her feelings for him.

"Just tell me one thing. It wasn't..." As Emma hesitated, the pit of her stomach fell. Natalie knew she had said too much. "It wasn't Phil, was it?"

"Phil? Fuck, no." Wiping her face, Natalie realised that she was laughing and crying at the same time. She could see the headline before her eyes: Government Spin Doctor Drives Tory Policy Adviser Insane. Together, she and Emma served their meal and watched the review of the Fourth Sector Launch on the politics channel.

OoOoO

Also watching the BBC's analysis was Malcolm Tucker. He was to see Tom in the morning – the Premier's first undertaking upon his return to the UK was to see him – and so evidently Steve was getting the boot. His gut was telling him that something was amiss, but Malcolm wanted the buzzing in his head to stop. He would accept this as a life raft and work from there.

All in all, the Fourth Sector launch had been no worse than he had expected; that is to say, it was abysmal. On the bright side, everyone had been granted an insight into the Nicola Murray that he worked with on a daily basis and as a result, withdrawn support. Perhaps it hadn't been a part of the plan, but he could try and spin it that way, and who didn't love a happy ending? The cliché made him think of another happy ending scenario, which although it had been a sham, Malcolm knew had been an enjoyable sham.

He had never made Natalie that angry before, and they had initially traded such insults – Malcolm frowned as he realised that he had given out the majority of them – at the beginning of their... what had it been? It had started out as just sex, and for the sheer hell of it he had decided to make her fall for him. She wasn't completely awful, even if you could be a little fey at times, and it had been... acceptable to have her with him on the couch, especially when she had cuddled him. Perhaps he should have cuddled her too; women tended to like that, and it would have helped the plan.

He couldn't use her for information. Natalie had left him.

Malcolm was not willing to consider how much these facts distressed him; to do either would be to concede weakness. She had been promoted and so would be made aware of more sensitive information, so it stood to reason that he would try and get her back. It was logical. It was the immense pressure under which he could not afford to crack – not again, and he should never have spoken like that to Terri, but she had caught him off guard, almost like... – that made him nervous as he dialled Natalie's now familiar number from his home phone so that she wouldn't recognise the caller ID.

It rang.

He waited.

It rang.

"Hello?" Natalie spoke clearly, her crisp accent slightly muffled in a way that suggested she had been crying. She cared.

"Hi, Natalie? No, listen darling, don't hang up. I'm really sorry about earlier-"

"I meant what I said. It's over. Don't call me again."

"Don't fucking hang up!"

"I can't handle it. I can't deal with you anymore."

The line went dead. Malcolm stared at his phone in disbelief. Ignorant of the devastation his life was undergoing, Jeremy Clarkson – Malcolm thought he was a cunt, personally. A useless, English cunt at that – droned on in the background. Malcolm dialled her number again. He nearly had a heart attack when Margaret Thatcher's voice trilled through the telephone – she was an even bigger cunt than Jeremy Clarkson, and arguably the biggest cunt in British history – but it was only Natalie's automated message: it's a better record than the Labour party ever had at any time. She wasn't taking calls, it seemed. And every time he wanted to call her, he would need to run the risk of listening to that harridan.

Malcolm dropped the phone into the cradle and headed for his drink cabinet. He poured himself a generous glass of scotch. After one particularly good night, he had decided to try and charm Natalie by asking what she cared about. She had bitten her lip and giggled before enthusing about Margaret Thatcher and what an inspiration she had been. At first Malcolm had been forced to count to ten and backwards so that he didn't eject her from his bed, but if he pretended that she was talking about something else, he could instead focus on how pretty Natalie looked when she was half asleep.

He drank from the glass and contemplated what favours he could call in, should it come to... of course it wouldn't.

Perhaps his failure to set things with Natalie right had been an omen, because Malcolm's supposed reconciliation meeting with the Prime Minister was only a formality to let him know that Steve Flemming was officially back. He had already known, and Tom knew that he already would. Prowling the streets of London, Malcolm was none the wiser about how he could fix his situation than he had been when he had stepped into the Prime Minister's office.

OoOoO

Alone once more, there was no distraction from the task at hand. Slowly but surely, the many plots he had concocted had become increasingly tangled, and the harder he tried, the worse things became. The steady ticking of the clock made Malcolm aware that he was no closer to saving himself. Tom was extremely cool with him, so using his charm wasn't going to be possible until it was too late, and all his time was being taken up with trying to get back on the proverbial horse. Malcolm couldn't afford the division of his energy between attempting to oust Steve and keeping the government out of trouble.

Putting the dishes into the sink, Malcolm wondered if his plan would be successful. Marianne could be counted on – she was a freelance and a fledgling – but he needed the support of the others to make it work.

He also needed to relax otherwise, he knew, things wouldn't come together again. Malcolm knew what, or rather who, had the strange power to put him at ease, but the odds of seeing her again were as slim as an anorexic. Picking up his blackberry, he called her mobile.

OoOoO

Ever since Malcolm had first phoned her in the aftermath of that morning, Natalie had ignored every one of his calls. At first, when her anger had been fresh and raw, it had been easy. There had been a grim satisfaction whenever she had deleted the messages he had left; an almost rebellious pleasure in deleting both of his texts, unread. Now, it left her cold. She hadn't been able to delete his last message.

But, it seemed that Malcolm wouldn't leave her alone. Everywhere Natalie went, everything that she did, there were reminders of him. It was a bloody nightmare. Almost every broadsheet newspaper had run some kind of editorial on him that morning, the blouse she had wanted to wear to work was somewhere in his house, along with her favourite pyjamas, every time she watched Jonathon Ross she heard his commentary, and to top it all off, a perfectly innocent invitation to dinner by a new co-worker had sparked a memory of what the meal had once served as a euphemism for.

"What have I done to deserve this?" Theatrically, Natalie flopped onto the couch. Internally she could hear the sarcastic reply 'Joined up the fucking Hitler Youth, I think...'.

This couldn't go on. Returning to her laptop, Natalie continued working. She would keep going until she forgot about Malcolm.

It turned out that things weren't as simple as all that.

The television attached to the wall of the office, permanently on BBC News 24, was droning in the background. Natalie was ahead of schedule and idly wondering if she could get away with ordering from pizza hut and not sharing, when the dull buzz was increased in volume. She looked up from the pamphlet on her desk, and at first Natalie thought she had become delusional.

Malcolm Tucker Resigns.

Resignation? This was never something she had considered to be within the realms of possibility. Instantly she realised, as almost anyone with a modicum of sense did, that the hand of the Director of Communications had been forced. After a moment, Natalie realised that she was not dreaming. But for the voices of the broadcasters, the office had fallen silent. Nancy watched the screen, transfixed – not even the senior officials in their building had known this was coming – and wearing the same look of shock that mirrored that everyone else.

The item carried on for a number of minutes, but Natalie couldn't process it. Malcolm had been so much higher up the ladder – the Heart of Darkness, according to the Guardian – and he was a political Goliath. He had been sacked. It was almost impossible to believe. Natalie wondered where he was now, and what he was doing- could Malcolm come back from something like this?

Natalie stood, feeling like she was going to suffocate. She didn't know how she felt about Malcolm being fired, but there was no way she could listen to the gossip and speculation that was already beginning.

OoOoO

It was quiet. Too quiet. Malcolm thought about turning on his television, but the thought of seeing the news of what was, effectively, his demise, was too much for him to stand. He would give his right hand to have heard one of the ministers stuttering out a confession, the Prime Minister's overly serious tones, or even the overly-enunciated musings of Julius Nicholson.

Malcolm sat in the dark until he was too tired even to ask himself the question that had been running through his mind ever since his premature return home; where had it all gone so fucking wrong? It was like ketchup flavoured crisps, rap being counted as music, or Peter Andre's celebrity status: it made no sense to him.

Slowly, he climbed the steps to his bedroom. It too was silent and empty. Malcolm picked up his phone before he could question the wisdom of such an action and phoned Natalie. Her company was better than nothing- she did not make him feel happier than ordinary. There was, unsurprisingly, no answer, and he sat through the Thatcher speech before leaving a message after the beep.

"I would like to see you. It... it would be nice."

It was, as messages went, utterly inadequate, but Natalie had become surprisingly good at picking up on what it was that he meant to say. She was bound to have heard what had happened by now, so why hadn't she answered?

Because you were a bastard and she left.

Malcolm picked up the bottle of Channel perfume that had, in recent weeks, adorned his dresser. He pressed the button and released a liberal spray of the rich, familiar scent. This was completely pathetic. He was a sad, sad cunt. Despising himself for stooping to a new low, Malcolm threw the container so hard that it shattered against the wall. All around him was the smell of Channel. Fucking wonderful.

Once he had read that when a person slept, they had no sense of smell. Without removing his clothes or shoes, Malcolm got into bed. He felt twice his age. Everything he had worked towards was gone. The world of intrigue and espionage continued without him. As Malcolm drifted off to sleep, his hand snaked underneath the other pillow and clung to the t-shirt that Natalie had left behind.

OoOoO

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