A/N: Sequel to Clarity. I've done my best to make the story understandable to people who haven't read the first part, Clarity, but I'd still encourage you to read it. :)

It's darker and angstier than Clarity, and I've chosen to rate it as 'Mature' just to be on the safe side given the subject matters. Once again, I hope you enjoy. I'll try to update regularly and there should be at least as many chapters as Clarity (i.e., ten) if not more.

Gravity - Chapter 1

It was her fourth day back after the holidays. "2006, here we go," thought Clara, wishing she could drown out the sound of the man speaking too close to her ear. He probably imagined that she was enjoying his witty remarks. But she had stopped listening to him a while ago. Just as she had stopped listening to her Minister, who was addressing the room at large. This wasn't like her, she usually was quite attentive and studious when Bill Collins spoke. But then, he usually wasn't speaking somewhere where she remembered having enjoyed curry and lager with Malcolm Tucker. The memory distracted her. It had only happened about a fortnight before, after all. Why did the meeting have to take place in this particular room?

They were discussing a joint proposal with the people from the Department of Social Affairs. Well, Social Affairs and Citizenship, as of a few days ago. Which meant that, unfortunately, they would have to work together on a number of key issues. Unfortunately, according to Clara at least, because the DoSAC Minister - who had come accompanied by two of his advisors and a press officer wearing a bright pink suit - looked like the kind of person who could leave his house in the morning not realising that he'd put his shoes on the wrong feet. He had paid less attention to what the Education Minister had been saying than Clara, which was actually saying a lot, since she had mostly been enjoying a trip down memory lane.

They should have met at the Sanctuary Buildings, she thought. Since DoSAC was moving to a new location sometime in the next month, it had been deemed easier to meet at Downing Street. She remembered agreeing with her Minister that it was a great idea, already imagining that she might catch a glimpse of Malcolm at one point. But sitting in the very room where they had eaten dinner and so close to his actual office was almost akin to torture. Especially with that bespectacled tosser next to her whispering gibberish. His fake camaraderie was grating on her nerves. He might think that his own Minister was an idiot - and given what Mr. Abbott had felt compelled to say, she couldn't help but agree - but this didn't mean that it was what she thought of hers. And she wouldn't mind if he stopped talking and let her pretend to listen to her boss's speech, thank you very much.

Fortunately, Mark, who was sitting on her other side, was taking notes. She liked Mark. He was a senior advisor for Mr. Collins she had recently come to spend more time with, and he showed far more professionalism than the like of M & Ems, for instance. But his note taking implied that he couldn't possibly save her from the drivel escaping the DoSAC employee. She was on the verge of not so politely ask him to shut the fuck up when the meeting was finally adjourned. She'd have to inquire discreetly for a summary of what had been said from Mark. He wouldn't resent her for that since she had covered for him a few times in the last month, when he'd had to leave early because of his kids.

They were now all shaking hands and congratulating themselves for having spent close to two hours discussing something that would in all likelihood never leave this room. Joint proposals never really worked, let's be honest. If ministries barely functioned on their own, how could they possibly function better in twos? Clara stood up gratefully and smiled at the required people, wanting to escape the clingy DoSAC advisor. But he was following her. And kept on talking. They were now just outside the door. Clara had already told her colleagues she would go back to the Sanctuary Buildings on her own - thus allowing her to linger for a few minutes at Number 10 - and she needed to come up with a strategy to get rid of the pasty-faced geezer.

"Reeder, right?" she finally interrupted, and looked up at him. Christ, he was tall.

"Olly, yeah," he added, smiling, pathetically glad that she remembered his name.

"Listen..." she started, but it was no use, he was on a roll, and she had missed the beginning of his sentence.

"...and I thought that we could meet to exchange notes and, you know, wink, have coffee or something."

Olly Reeder was the kind of person who said 'wink' and winked at the same time. If this wasn't the ultimate proof that she needed to run for the hills, then her name wasn't...

"Clara Oswald!"

She faced the corridor and looked for the source of that voice, hoping her smile wasn't too obvious.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" quizzed the jovial Jamie MacDonald, his wide blue eyes travelling between the two of them.

"Actually..." started Reeder, blushing slightly and obviously thrown by the arrival of the loud Scot.

"Have you seen the big man?" asked Jamie, paying no attention to what Olly was saying.

"The big man?" couldn't help but stutter the DoSAC advisor, his eyes staring enviously at Clara, "You've met the PM, Clara?"

"I wasn't talking about him, you dafty. And he's a wee thing, really. No, I was talking about Malcolm, of course!" announced Jamie, throwing his arm around Clara's shoulders conspiratorially.

"This lass here and Malcolm Tucker go way back. Isn't that right, Clara? Thick as thieves, I should say. Right?" he added, hugging her side against his and staring at Reeder whose slight blush had turned into a full blown red face. He might have never met the PM - neither had Clara, after all - but he had definitely come across Malcolm Tucker. This was made obvious by his reaction and terrified eyes.

"I was actually just on my way to see him, his office is right around the corner, you know," at this, the taller man walked backwards a few steps, trying to escape, "why don't we go together, Clara? I'm sure he'd love to see you," he added unnecessarily, since Reeder had already made his hasty exit with a whispered 'bye' in her direction.

Clara disengaged herself from Jamie's hold when she saw the conference room emptying, and waited until the various ministers and advisors had gone before she fully turned towards the grinning man. She tried frowning but it was difficult to keep a straight face when all she could think about was Olly Reeder's crestfallen expression when he had heard the name 'Malcolm Tucker'.

"You are such an arsehole," she couldn't help but blurt out, which only made Jamie laugh harder, "but thank you, I didn't know how to get rid of him."

"Those DoSAC people, they're the worst," acknowledged Jamie, "they always fuck something up."

"And now that they have taken on Citizenship, we'll have to work together," Clara added, shuddering at the prospect of spending time with Oliver Reeder and his Minister on a regular basis.

"So, have you seen Malcolm yet?" asked Jamie, who had started walking again.

"No, not since I got back," she admitted. But she'd been pretty busy, after all, and up until that afternoon, she didn't have much time to stop and think about meeting him. Who was she kidding? Of course she had been thinking about Malcolm. The memory of the time they'd spent together before Christmas had been playing in her mind constantly, and helped her deal with the rest of the holidays.

"I'm on my way there now, let's go."

"All this wasn't for Reeder's benefit, then?" inquired Clara, following him to another set of Georgian doors at the end of the corridor.

"No no, as much as I love playing the knight in shining armour, I have a valid reason for being here, believe it or not," he grinned.

"Are you sure..." Clara started saying, fearing she might catch the PM's enforcer at a bad time, but Jamie had already led her inside the office. He hadn't even knocked, she noticed.

Clara had spent time in Malcolm Tucker's office before. She remembered quite clearly that snowy afternoon when all three of them had planned how to get rid of a nasty article and its author. In the end, Malcolm had been forced to erase the journalist from the UK Press Card registry. A risky move, given that it was of course illegal, but necessary.

The Director of Communications was sitting behind his desk. He was on the phone - for a change - but he'd raised his considerable eyebrows when she entered. Clara thought she perceived a small smile at the corner of his lips. He straightened up on his chair, and they heard him wrap up his call. His hair was getting a bit long, thought Clara. But she'd be lying if she said she didn't like this rumpled look on him. With his slightly greying brown curls and loose tie.

Jamie was the first to speak once Malcolm had put the phone back on its cradle.

"Got those précis you wanted, and the Daily Mail called again about those invisible tax cuts their fucking medium has apparently foreseen."

"I don't know where they're getting this, nobody's been speaking about bloody tax cuts," sighed Malcolm, taking a quick look at the files Jamie had brought down.

"They're just hacked off because nothing's been happening since the New Year. But hey, brought you a present," he said, gesturing towards Clara who stood in the background even though Malcolm's eyes had scarcely left her figure since she'd come in, "I rescued her from the clutches of DoSAC's grown-up foetus boy."

"Olly Reeder?" asked Malcolm unnecessarily, considering that Jamie's description had been spot-on.

"I'm pretty sure he was flirting with her. The fucking nerve of that lad!" he added, apparently enjoying his boss's comically horrified expression and Clara's internal wince.

"He what?"

His voice was colder than Clara had expected. Surely he realised that Jamie was having him on. And that she'd never... But then, Malcolm Tucker could sometimes react unexpectedly.

"We were having a meeting with Mr. Abbott and some people from DoSAC about a joint proposal for Citizenship and Education," Jamie predictably snickered, "and that moron Reeder kept banging on about his brilliant ideas. I'd never met him before - he's clingier than a labrador puppy with less than a fraction of its appeal."

She sat in front of him, even though he probably didn't have much time to spare her, but she wanted their eyes to meet over the desk. He seemed somewhat reassured by her serene expression and honest stare, and his shoulders sagged ever so slightly.

"I'll be on my way," said Jamie, already walking towards the door with a satisfied expression on his face, "looks like you kids need to plan a date or something."

Clara rolled her eyes, but said nothing. Malcolm merely thanked him and didn't comment on his cheeky words. They both knew he was probably right.

"How were your holidays?" asked Clara a few seconds later, fearing he would bring the subject of the DoSAC advisor back.

"Nice enough," he replied non-committally.

She let her eyes roam over the walls of his office and she smiled when they fell on a splash of colour behind his chair.

"I see you got some new drawings," she supplied.

He smiled slightly in turn and nodded, "Liz's wean insisted my office needed decorating. And I like the way it throws people."

"Wolf in sheep's clothing, right?" she replied, thinking that it was indeed a suitable description for him. Well, for people who didn't know him very well, at least. When he was at work, he was more of a wolf in shark's clothing, if such a thing could be achieved.

"How was Liverpool?" he inquired, and Clara realised that this small talk was there to hide his nervousness. Malcolm Tucker didn't do small talk. Not because he didn't know how to do it, but because he simply didn't have the time. But surprisingly, no phone had started ringing since she got here, and no one had knocked on the door with some urgent papers for him to sign.

She answered his question with a distinctive Gallic shrug. She'd rather not talk about it. Not now, at least. Not when they were so pressed for time and so utterly new at this. Whatever this was.

"Alright, I guess. And I spent New Year's Eve back here with some friends." She'd gone to Martha's for a party, but wouldn't admit that she had more fun reacquainting herself with her dog - she'd missed him terribly - than meeting Martha and Mickey's friends.

Malcolm nodded, his fingers drumming on the desk and his steel-grey eyes piercing her. Clara knew perfectly well that their coming together was now a matter of when rather than if. They'd been dancing on the edge for far too long, it seemed. Even though they'd met less than a month ago. Their behaviour at the moment was actually more akin to staring down a precipice than dancing. But she wouldn't mind jumping, as long as Malcolm jumped with her.

"Clara..." he started, but he was interrupted by his desk phone ringing. He angrily pressed a button without glancing at it and the noise stopped immediately. What he meant to tell her must have been important, then. Clara swallowed automatically. Having Malcolm Tucker's entire focus directed at herself was more than a little terrifying.

"That idiot Reeder," she blurted out, incapable of stopping herself, "he was just... He was just a prat, really, I would never entertain the thought of flirting with a guy like that."

Where was this coming from? Why had she felt the need to justify herself? She'd done nothing wrong, and this had nothing to do with what they were discussing - or not discussing, as it were. Still, she'd felt compelled to say something. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. As though she couldn't hide anything from him.

"You're saying he's not your type, then?" Malcolm asked, raising his eyebrows, and Clara relaxed - his half-smirk told her he was enjoying himself and her predicament. Jerk.

"I've never gone for the public schoolboy look, no. Especially when it seems that they haven't left school, yet," she replied in a fake-serious tone.

"What about soon-to-be middle aged Scots who've never seen the inside of a University?" he added, and Clara could tell that under the veneer of humour, lied an important question.

"It depends," she told him.

"On what?" He looked slightly unsure, now.

"On whether the soon-to-be middle aged Scot would be ready to handle a twenty-eight year old bossy half-French girl."

"Oh, I don't think handling her would be a problem, no," he countered easily, and his obvious pun made her grin.

"Good, then," she announced, standing up. She'd love nothing more than banter with Malcolm Tucker for the rest of the afternoon, but they both had workloads to get back to.

"Oh, and by the way," she added, as a parting word, "Oliver Reeder? Absolutely no chance. For one thing, he's far too tall. Highly unpractical." She enjoyed his somewhat dumbfounded expression and walked towards the door.

"Do you want to go to the River Café in Hammersmith on Friday?" he asked her quickly, her fingers on the handle and his phone ringing again in the background.

"It's posh as shit," he told her once she was facing him, "but the food's good."

"I'd like that," she replied, blushing slightly.

He nodded and graced her with one last small smile before picking up his phone.

"Tucker," she heard him say in his usual scolding tone, just as she was closing his office door.

Clara was replaying their conversation as she exited Downing Street. She felt lighter than she had in days, but couldn't help but worry in advance about Friday. They had shared a few meals together, though never in public. She hoped they'd manage to relax and have a nice time. So immersed was she in her inner world, that she didn't pay attention to the three uniformed officers she came across before leaving. If she had, they would have undoubtedly darkened her mood. But since she didn't, no sense of foreboding intruded her journey back to the Sanctuary Buildings. It was only that night, when Jamie called her, that the image resurfaced.

"Jamie, to what do I owe the pleasure?" It was close to midnight, but she had recognised his number on her home phone.

"Clara?" She sat up immediately, hearing in this single word that something was very wrong.

"What is it?" she asked him in a small voice, her heart hammering in her chest.

"Malcolm's been arrested," he told her simply, his tone devoid of its usual mirth.

"What do you mean?"

"The police came to his office after you left, and they arrested him."

"But..." she started, frowning.

"We got him out but it looks bad..." he interrupted her, and she could tell he now hesitated adding anything else.

"Tell me," she inquired resolutely, her free hand clenched.

"They found pictures on his computer. Someone must have tipped them off," he exhaled loudly.

"Pictures?" This didn't make any sense.

"Yes, you know, pictures that shouldn't have been there. Pictures of..." a beat, "little children."

"Oh my God!" she let out, her eyes no longer seeing her sitting room, her ears no longer listening to Jamie on the other end of the line.

"But..." She stopped. And for several nerve-wracking seconds, the only thing they both heard was their rapid breathing. This was a mistake, surely. There was just no way... Right?

Images kept assailing her mind. Malcolm the first time she saw him at the Treasury Party. Malcolm giving her a ride in his car. Malcolm walking her dog with her. Malcolm kissing her forehead on his doorstep and looking at her with something that felt very much like love. Had she been wrong about him all this time? Was he the kind of man who could manage to deceive everyone in his life?

But there were other images, ones that evoked feelings that were harder to describe. Malcolm sending an advisor who'd manhandled her on an unexpected trip to rural Wales. Malcolm looking lost at the idea of his abusive childhood being exposed in an article. Malcolm telling his sister on the phone that he'd be on time to read her children a story before they went to bed. Malcolm listening to her talking about her mum. Malcolm's proud smile at his nephew's drawings in his office this afternoon. No.

"It's a set up," she whispered to Jamie, fearing now - perhaps justifiably - that someone might be listening.

The young man's relieved sigh on the other end told her that he had come to the same conclusion. And that he was glad not to be alone in this particularly rocky boat. Clara knew that he had two kids of his own: if he believed Malcolm innocent, then there was no room for any lingering doubt in her mind.

"That's what I think, too," he told her quietly.

"Hewitt," they then both said at the same time.

"I'm going to get him out of this, Clara," he pledged, "Sarah...my wife, she's a lawyer, and her brother's a QC. We'll prove it wasn't him. And I'll make sure he still has a fucking job waiting for him when it is all over, I'll make sure no one finds out."

He was mostly trying to convince himself, but Clara still found his words encouraging.

"Just tell me what to do and I'll do it. I want to help," she said earnestly, her mind set. He's innocent. It's a set up. Everything will be okay.

"2006, here we go indeed" she thought once more, after Jamie had told her his plan.