Chapter Text
The first time Nicola realises her life is shifting even beyond her precarious control is at a party Leadership Debate for the Opposition in sodding Birmingham of all places. It doesn’t help that the temperature outside hovers somewhere around the “fires of hell mark” and the air feels like treacle.
Nicola’s only here under duress; she fucking hates these things. Bloody Malcolm made her participate in the last debate of the day because apparently she has to be seen to be backing King Slimeball Miller. She’d much rather be helping Clare to win - backing the underdog so to speak. But no she can’t even do that as according to Malcolm; Ministers aren’t free to think their own thoughts and do their own thing. Maybe he’s trying to lessen the work for himself or maybe he’s just a bigger bastard then she gave him credit for. Either way; she’s miserable and just wants to go home.
Finally the debates are over and she makes a quick escape from “networking”- which is really just an excuse for seeing how far everyone can climb up each other’s arses - in a room that seems to double up as a furnace and where no one seems to be wearing any deodorant. As she walks back to her room she contemplates momentarily about hiding in the massive fridge that the hotel probably has in their kitchen and then hastily decides against it because she’d probably lock herself in there, and then die of hypothermia. She shudders slightly at the thought of the newspaper headlines the next day. Knowing her luck though she’d be found just before death by the angry Scottish Death Eater.
The heat and the arseholes are only part of her problem, as she kind of slightly deviated from “her” written points and it may have appeared that she was making her own bid for leadership. Again. When she glanced up and saw Malcolm’s death glare she knew she was in the shit. It’s made considerably worse that whenever she closes her eyes she can see the glare again and again.
She goes back to the grotty little room - one of Birmingham’s finest - with its paper thin walls, stale smell of what she hopes is kebabs and no sodding air conditioning. Finally locating her key in her colossal bag -which seems to house everything from tampons to old sandwiches - she slips into the room. The heat that hits her as she opens the door drains her of any energy she has left; so she slips her shoes and tights off, decides to dry swallow some pain killers to ease the drums in her head and collapses with a sigh onto the hardest bed in sodding Christendom and lies spread eagled trying to cool down near the shitty little useless window which is letting no air in whatsoever.
She tries desperately to conjure up cold images; she’s in Alaska, in the middle of a cold harsh winter with lots of snow…. Her fingers are numb from the cold…
The muffled “fuck you” that wafts through the paper thin wall from the corridor outside brings her back to her sweaty reality. Within seconds the door crashes open, hitting the wall and bouncing back as Malcolm storms in like he owns the place –its Malcolm so he probably does.
“Fucking hell Malcolm, can’t you knock for once?” she says wearily, staring at the ceiling. It’s reaching a point where she’s not even sure why she bothers to ask anymore. Her autobiography will just be chapters starting off with Malcolm came crashing into my room without bothering to knock… “Not like this room is fucking private or anything.”
He’s silent for a moment, and all Nicola can hear is his heavy breathing like he ran all the way here. She raises herself up on her elbows to look at him; even behind the newly acquired heavy frames he is now wearing the look he wears is one that makes her feel like a rabbit caught by a bird of prey. His hands are on his hips and just by his demeanour she knows what’s coming.
“You’re in fucking politics Nic’la; nothing is fucking private; or if it is it’s on a file in a safe in my fucking office. And for fuck sake get up; you look like a beached whale carcass that’s about to fucking explode across the room.“ He runs a hand wearily over his face “Is there anything you can’t fuck up you fucking moronic beached whale?-“
She watches as he paces around the room, swinging his hands about as vomits up apoplectic anger like she’s started a nuclear war that she didn’t know about. But the diatribe skims over her because she’s distracted by how different Malcolm looks. For a moment, Nicola can’t put her finger on it and then she realises it’s because even the great Death Eater himself isn’t immune to the heat either.
He hasn’t got his jacket on which isn’t that unusual, but the rest is. Half of his shirt is untucked from his trousers. He still has his tie on but he’s loosened it and it hangs bedraggled a couple of inches below where it should be. The top button of his shirt is undone, and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. It feels dangerous that he’s so casual and a little bit messy about his appearance in front of her. That’s even before she starts thinking about those dark framed glasses he now wears. They make him look like a younger, thinner, cadaverous version of Martin Scoresese; and she’s always had a thing for him.
Maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the amount of “Rescue Remedy” she’s had today to even get her to the debate, or maybe it’s because she hasn’t been so much as touched by fucking James in what could be years but Nicola’s brain suddenly whirs into action. Malcolm looks rather good for a cadaverous hell raiser. In fact she’d go as far to say bloody handsome.
She’s torn from her day dreaming by Malcolm clicking his long fingers in front of her nose and those piercing blue eyes level with her own. “Stop fucking gawping at me woman. It’s like you’re eyeing me up for your next meal. Did you hear what I just said? Or did the fucking fairies just take your brain?-”
“Oh just get on with it, Malcolm” interrupting him; and moving to push herself off the bed as she’s suddenly feeling quite vulnerable with Malcolm in this type of mood. “Can we just get the bollocking over and done with, because its sodding hotter than hell and I really need a cold shower. Preferably to drown myself in”
She trails off. Maybe that wasn’t the wisest idea, especially now as she becomes very aware that the cold piercing blue eyes of Malcolm Tucker are now staring her down, even behind the glasses that look doesn’t diminish.
“Well I’m very sorry for putting you out, you dozy mare. We can’t have that, can we? Is it OK love if you can lend me five minutes of your precious- fucking- waste- of- space- time; because I have much better things to do than looking at your glum face”
“Goodo-“
“Well; have I got news for you. In fact probably the best sodding news of your measly good for nothing life. You my darling; you” he chuckles humourlessly “are in the fucking running”
The cogs in her brain try to turn over what the hell he’s talking about; but it’s too painful “The running?”
He looks at her, over the top of his glasses; like h e’s dealing with the biggest idiot he’s ever had the misfortune to know; “For the White House. What do you think I’m talking about you fucking idiot?! The running for leadership of the Opposition; you blithering idiot. Oh for Christ sake Nic’la - don’t look like you’re catching flies! If you hadn’t scurried away from the scene, like a rat searching for cheese you might have been able to have found this out. It’s fairly fucking obvious to anyone who has any brain cells left that you don’t believe in Dan’s policies! I mean what the hell was that out there?! I thought we’d end up with you getting a fucking polar bear on stage to support your theory about the polar ice caps and then have it maul you to a fucking bloody gory death by the end of all your sodding wittering and wining. Which believe me; I’d fucking pay to see. You; Nicola Twat Murray has started her own fucking coup and it would seem my darling that you’re the dark fucking horse of the leadership race”
The laugh she gives is hollow and she folds her arms across her body, “you’re joking yes? You must be really bored, Malcolm. Like I’m even going to believe-”
“When have I ever joked with you?” he interrupts her. The corners of his mouth turn up in into a scary smirk showing his teeth that makes her think of a horror movie she had the misfortune to watch years ago when she was dating James. Right now; that would seem ideal; being killed by some sort of psycho… because that kind of smirk from Malcolm means only one thing; he’s deadly fucking serious.
Her stomach drops away and she thinks she’s going to be violently sick.
“Holy shit Malcolm. Shit. How? What? The dark horse? How the fuck?” He nods slowly. “I didn’t even think I was a fucking horse, let alone a dark one!” She swallows hard. All she really wants is her “Rescue Remedy”, her chest is tightening and she’s suddenly can’t fucking breathe “Fucking Christ… is this.. how.. as in.. what… fuck…-“
She launches herself off the bed and pushes past him in a desperate scramble to get to her handbag on the shitty little stained table, she can’t fucking breathe please god let me have a heart attack right now, and scrabbles about through her handbag and why the fuck can’t she find the Rescue Remedy and why the hell is there all this shit in here?
“Oh for Christ Sake Nic’la; If you could act like an actual human being and not someone who is fucking MENTAL-”
Nicola is no longer listening to the Scots ranting; instead finally locates the “Rescue Remedy” and is torn between gulping down the rest of the bottle or just using drops. She listens to the voice telling her that she should really take the drops because otherwise she might end up hallucinating on the bed, if she isn’t already. She takes a few drops but it does nothing to ease the panic bubbling away inside her; although the sound of blood in her ears, eases slightly.
She turns around to see him grinning at her like a mad Uncle at the family Christmas party;
“Malcolm, NO. Absolutely not. Nada. NO” her voice sounds utterly alien, high pitched , squeaky, she sounds hysterical but then she thinks she must be. She must get the stubborn arsehole in front of her to believe that in no uncertain terms will she ever go for leadership.
“Oh contraire; I think you’ll find the majority of the brain dead ball sacks downstairs would rather vote for you; then either Clare or Dan. In the words of one “She’s the most human out the lot of them.”
Nope, those two drops are not working; she opens the bottle again and squeezes the pipette into her mouth desperately. This cannot be happening.
Malcolm walks across to her and lays his hands on her shoulders. He’s close enough to her now that she can smell his cologne and it causes her to feel more nauseous than before. She finds herself looking into his blue eyes; hoping to see some kind of kindness but she knows this is Malcolm. She still finds herself momentarily distracted though as she seems to be lost by staring into his now glassless face; and finds herself thinking the same thing that she always does whenever they’re so close together… fuck his eyelashes are long-
“Nic’la you’re a fucking omnishambles. You are I both know this. But do you want to sit on the side-lines for the rest of your shambolic life; being a miserable, smug cow, or do you want to do something that could change the Smiths and Jones’ life? Isn’t this why you came into this fucking politics?” She narrows her eyes at him. He’s using that?!?
(Once a few months back he asked her on one particular dark and dismal night- one where he wasn’t allowing her to go anywhere until she got a speech right - why she had even bothered to go into politics. She’d been tired so she told him the truth. She wanted to make a change to how things were. She knew what it was like; how her parents had struggled with bringing up her and her siblings, she wanted to help people, bring about something that was different rather than the day to day struggle that so many people coped with)
She moves away from him this what he’s using?! Manipulative bastard. The sheer panic suddenly gives way, and anger rises in her the pit of her stomach.
“Let’s face it love; and I really can’t believe I’m saying this… you’re the best thing for our party to get us back into power.”
“You good for nothing manipulative bastard. I told you that in private; not to use it when you thought the time is right Malcolm!!” She backs away from him, hoping to put distance between him and herself.
“Aye lass, and don’t you forget it for one tiny fucking moment,” he hisses at her, walking over to her -closing the distance she’d hoped to put between them - their faces now so close together that his spittle hits her cheek. “We all know that if Clare wins, it’s over for the party for good, and do you really want that? And as much as I like Dan; even if he does win he won’t be taking us back into power because he’s about as human as K-fucking – 9! So really; yeah, if you’ve unknowingly started a coup ; well you know I’ll make it worth your while, donchya?! If you don’t believe me sweetheart, go and put on something that doesn’t look like it’s so tight it’s going to fucking asphyxiate you-” He waves his hand in front of her face, and it takes all her strength not to bat it out the way “ – because you’re making me feel so hot just looking at you; and that’s not in a sexual way mind, because I’d rather asphyxiate myself! We need you Nicola is we want to go anywhere! I’ll give you a couple of hours to think about it – and then well…
“I don’t have a fucking say about this do I?”
“If you want the best for the party then no you fucking don’t”
“And… if I don’t?”
“I’ll be writing your very nice, bland resignation tonight.”
“You little fucking shit, Malcolm. Just. Fuck off.” She spits out. He smirks at her, and then he’s walking away from her; wrenching the door open like it’s done something personal against him and shouts over his shoulder “Until tonight, glummy Mummy!” and stalks out of her room.
She feels violated and dirty, but most of all she feels hatred for the man. She picks up the used glass tumbler beside her on the table, and screams as she forcibly throws it at the already stained wall. As it hits, the sound of it shattering into tiny shards gives some satisfaction to Nicola. Fucking bastard.
This has got to be some kind of spectacularly awful sodding joke...
xxxxx
Several hours, two panic attacks and a used up bottle of “Rescue Remedy” later she realises that it isn’t. She’s at the bar on her fifth or is it sixth Mojito of the evening, gulping it down like it’s the last drink she’ll ever have and hoping the mixture of “Rescue Remedy,” painkillers and alcohol will mean a quick death. She’s managed to fix herself a quiet corner at the hot grubby bar, which is in relative darkness and away from the worst slimeballs and their god-awful BO. If she has to smile and nod at some other gimp that comes across to tell her that she’d do an amazing job as leader, and “if there’s anything that they can do to help her fix that position they’ll do it,” she thinks she’ll scream and then murder someone. Preferably Malcolm. It has to be something about Birmingham and the heat she thinks. Once we all get back to cold, drizzly London, everyone will be laughing about this.
An unholy screech makes her turn around and study the god-awful idiot murdering What’s Love Got to Do With It? Normally, Nicola loves karaoke– but tonight when it’s hotter than hell, her head is pounding, and she wants to throttle Malcolm - she’d rather shoot the sod who thought it was a good idea.
She catches sight of Malcolm casually making his way across the room full of drunken idiots. She watches as people scuttle away (Ollie) like they have a bad case of diarrhoea and desperately need the toilet or they uncomfortably share a joke (Dan) with him and although bile rises in her from how much she just hates him, she can’t help but think that he doesn’t look bad for a satsuma obsessed devil.
She turns back to her drink, and takes a large slug of it, trying to ignore the traitorous thoughts and rather get the courage that when he inevitably appears to tell him to fuck off and take his sodding leadership bid with him.
The smell of his cologne fills her nostrils before he appears, giving her just enough warning time to get her something like an act together.
“Malcolm Fucker, coming to ruin my fun are you?” She has to yell slightly to the space that he appears in to make herself heard above the noise of what used to be Tina Turner being screeched out.
“Mojito Murray, ever classy aren’t we?”
“Malcolm. Just fuck off, yeah? I just want to get blind drunk and hopefully die.”
“Sorry, no can do Ni’cla. If you’re going to be our leader, I really can’t have you making everyone go fucking deaf when you can barely stand – although Fiona’s having a damn good try at it.” He whips the ice cold glass out of her hand, and puts it down on the other side of him. “I take it you’ve decided on the right thing to do?”
“I’ve decided on sod fucking all actually Malcolm, except that I will finish my drink, and IF I want to sing along to fucking Mamma Sodding Mia, I will. So fuck off Malcolm.” she reaches round to retrieve it, but he stops her by grabbing her wrist, and wrenches her off the stool making it topple over. People turn as he frog marches her rather drunken self across the floor like a misbehaving child which is equally infuriating and embarrassing at the same time.
“Malcolm, for Christ sake”, she tries to pull her arm free but his grip just tightens. He gets out of the room; smiles evilly at someone walking down the corridor and then pulls her into another room and slams the door shut. He finally releases her arm and he’s in her face, pinning her against the door. Instead of being intimidated she’s going to use it to her best advantage. She needs to get her view point known and if that’s getting up close and personal, then so be it. She’s feeling brave; although that could be down to the alcohol.
“Listen to me, you nutty bint.” He jeers into her face “this is needed for the party to actually get us back into power. We need you. Do you really think I’d be allowing this sort of talk to go on, if I didn’t think you were a better alternative to those arseholes?”
“Oooh the great Malcolm Tucker begging me. Again. Careful Malcolm you’ll be starting to get a reputation…“ She sways slightly and realises that her tongue is numb….and everything is sort of hazy.
“And you’re going to get a reputation as a drunken lush” he taunts; and starts pacing like a caged bear.
“You’re so fucking used to getting your own way aren’t you; you just don’t know how to cope when something doesn’t go your way…”
He stops and glowers at her “That’s my fucking job you dozy cow!!” he hisses out. “Why can’t you see that without this the party is going to be down the pan?”
“That…” she’s having a hard time thinking up any words at all that even begin to explain how much she hates this idea and then launches into the only thing she can think “It’s all about the sodding party with you isn’t it? You have nothing… nothing.. better to think about so you live and fucking breathe it, and so you become tyrannical and stomp over what other people actually fucking want”
“Oh for fuck sake, listen to yourself will you!” he hisses back - his face is so now dangerously close to hers - she can smell the Fanta on his breath.
“You. You…” she launches herself from the door and jabs him with a finger, hard enough that he starts moving backwards “you… fuck you Malcolm. You’ve put me between a rock and a hard place, and oh… sod this. Can I leave now?” She points to the door “Or am I destined to stay in this room with you for –fucking –ever, because I do have a life to lead y’know…”
“One that involves copious amounts of alcohol obviously. Look; I’ll leave you the fuck alone as soon as you say yes. Why can’t you get it in that thing you call a brain that you winning - because you will win – will be the greatest thing for you and OUR party. You could become PM. Imagine….” He whispers the last line and sweeps his hand across; staring off into the distance like he’s imagining what it could be like…
“No, Malcolm. Nada. Because… “ She sighs heavily wishing she hadn’t had so much to drink “you know why. I will only disappoint myself and you. I couldn’t even fucking lead DoSAC effectively…”
“So can I assume I’ll be writing your resignation”
She shakes her head. She’s had enough of this. She needs to get out. She turns to open the door and then suddenly Malcolm is there, slamming the door shut, eyes glaring at her like she’s the devil incarnate.
“You fucking ASSHAT!” she screams at him.
“Just say yes”, he smirks at her “just say yes, and I’ll allow you out of here. Think about it. Think how you could be the next PM, and that massive arsewipe of a husband will say when you become leader, he might even give you a shag, because you certainly need a good seeing too -“
It’s not until the sound of skin on skin contact and her hand is stinging with pain that even in her inebriated state she can feel; does she realise what she’s done. A large red hand mark on his cheek starts to grow and he stares at her in disbelief, shock and anger. Shit.
“Fuck! Shit.. Malcolm I-“
It’s the oldest cliché in the book and when she looks back on it all, it’s all a blur. He launches forward eyes like fire. She ends up backed against the door again because his gaze is so intense that she feels like she’s going to explode from the sheer intensity of it. She feels herself shaking slightly and panic rising in her chest. There is no way out. Suddenly all the air is forced out of her as she realises his tongue is invading her mouth forcefully. Nothing about it is gentle; it’s rough and as angry and as furious as she feels. As her brain catches up with what’s happening, she responds, their tongues start doing battle for dominance and their teeth clash. It isn’t pretty. She can taste the sickly sweet Fanta overriding the taste of cheap rum and mint in her mouth and if anything it just makes her feel more nauseous.. One hand is in her hair, roughly pulling and the other is moving down her body…
He tugs at her bottom lip with his lips, making her groan. And then his hot blissful mouth is on her neck, nipping and it’s dangerous and she hears herself moaning. But the pause between nips is enough for the dulled alarm bells to start ringing clearly in her head and -OH FUCK.
YOU’RE FUCKING KISSING FUCKING MALCOLM!!! FUCK, BUGGER, FUCK, SHIT
She’s suddenly painfully aware of it all, of who this is that’s kissing her neck. She tenses and he pulls back slightly and that’s enough that can push him away from her; the force making him stumble back, loosening his grip on her. Nicola uses the freedom to turn and wrench the door open. She bolts down the corridor; her lipstick smeared and her lips feeling bruised and sore; people look at her as she runs past like a demented banshee but she doesn’t care. She needs to get away from him as quickly as possible.
She knows she’s just agreed to being “the dark horse”. What she doesn’t realise is how this is the start of something that will completely turn her world on its axis; and that it takes her years before she can even go back to Birmingham without feeling nauseas.