Bad Education – Chapter XVIII

Malcolm couldn't sleep.

It wasn't as if he'd been particularly narcoleptic of late, but this torturous fucking night had taken the Ambien-laced cake.

The faint tick of his wristwatch sitting on the nightstand reverberated through his skull. He tried turning to the other side of the bed and pulling the soft duvet over his ear while stuffing the other firmly into the plush pillow – but in the back of his mind he knew all his efforts were futile.

He wasn't awake because of his watch.

He was awake because it was the 2nd of May.

A swell of acrid nerves took hold in his stomach once more, eating him from the inside out. Today was the day she had ordered him to meet her again, all those long months ago.

Clara.

His very own perpetual fucking torment machine.

At least by the end of the day he'd be rid of her. Be rid of the crippling hope that maybe she'd want a relationship with him. Or something. Anything. Every time he'd manage to drift off that night, his mind would drown him in endless simulations of their reunion – she would show up, strip off his trousers and start shagging him, then leave him naked on the fucking slide. Or she would show up, slap him for not telling her he got sacked, then leave him with a red fucking face.

However most times she wouldn't show up at all.

Most times he'd just be standing alone in a sad playground like the fucking chump he is. And then he'd wake up breathless.

Malcolm let out a huff and turned to his other side, when the omnipresent tick of his watch was drowned out by a barrage of excited thuds along the hallway outside. He pulled himself around to lie on his back and wrenched his weary eyes open. At least these days he didn't need an alarm clock. He followed the heavy sounds as they made their way downstairs, but all he could do was stare up at the blank ceiling.

He didn't want to get up. He wanted to sleep forever. Or at least till the end of the day. But he knew he had to make at least some sort of appearance downstairs otherwise he'd never hear the end of it. So scratching his fingertips through his thick beard then running them up to his wild mane of curls, Malcolm took in a long yawn, swung a reluctant leg out of the bed and sat himself up.

One day.

One day fucking more.

He could do this.

Malcolm slid the watch onto his wrist, then with creaking muscles he pushed himself off the bed, padded to the simple chest of drawers, slowly dressed himself in his civilian uniform of grey trousers and navy jumper, and tried desperately not to think of a certain pair of obnoxiously colourful socks he had kept hidden away as he slipped on his own dull white pair.

She wouldn't really want them back. He only got them out of pity in the first place, and now it would just be supercharged with guilt too. Guilt for his life now. He didn't fucking need that.

Malcolm shook his head and shoved his feet into his shoes then pushed out the door to the narrow hallway. The house was illuminated with the usual warm light to counter the grey, damp pallor glimpsed through the windows, and it provided him with an unexpected sense of relief from his darkest of thoughts. The amorphous clamour below him slowly became distinguishable as he descended the stairs, parting into the familiar tones of the deep murmur of the radio and the high pitched chatter of his current housemates, who he could now see rounding the kitchen table while their father weaved between them with plates of jam toast and cups of juice held aloft, only just keeping the reigns on the morning chaos.

"Morning!" His brother-in-law caught Malcolm entering the kitchen as he placed the plates down then quickly returned to the counter and focused on the small pile of potatoes that required chopping.

"Morning Sajid." Malcolm responded as usual, though his voice was a little craggier then he'd like. "Mornin' terrors." He passed the small head of his nephew scoffing down breakfast and scruffed up his silky black hair, then moved on the other side of the counter where his salvation lay brewing in a glass beaker.

"Rough night?" Sajid flicked him a look across the kitchen as Malcolm poured himself a large cup of coffee.

"Like a bloody battalion of Oompa Loompas decided it would be a laugh to pour a tonne of sugar directly into my eyeballs." There was a flutter of giggles at the table and he looked round to see his young niece taking a rare break from her drawing and giving Malcolm a toothy grin, albeit one with a rather prominent gap.

"That bad, eh?" His brother-in-law gave a sad frown in empathy.

"Nothing a little coffee can't fix." Malcolm grumbled into his mug then took a sip of the bitter drink before delving a hand into the bread bag and popping two slices into the toaster.

"Finished!" His nephew Hamish piped up from the table and presented his empty cup and plate proudly in the air.

"Alright good job now pop 'em in the dishwasher and get your stuff ready, we still have to wait for your sister." Sajid calmly ordered in his deep Manchester accent as his son skipped to the open dishwasher and plonked down his plate before turning to his little sister, who was still diligently drawing away in her own world, and gave a dramatic frown.

"Hurry up Aisha!" The boy demanded.

"I am!" His sister pouted, still looking down.

"No you're not!"

"Hamish; bag." Sajid stepped in sternly. "Have you got your ballet shoes and water bottle?"

The boy stomped begrudgingly out of the kitchen and around the corner to the main entrance of the house when Malcolm heard a forceful zip.

"Yes!" Hamish's monotone voice responded.

"What about your homework, pencil case…?" His father rattled off the well-known checklist as Malcolm granted himself a wry smile and flicked the hot toast onto his plate.

"Yes, yes, yes!" Came Hamish's answer.

"And the cue cards for your speech?"

"Yes!"

"Alright you're good then." He released his son then turned to the table. "Now finish your breakfast Aisha otherwise we'll miss the tram."

The little girl flicked a pleading look at her father but nonetheless put down her ubiquitous crayon and began to take small bites of her toast. Malcolm made his way to the table and sat opposite his quiet niece when Hamish returned, a very serious look on his face as he flicked through a thick pile of cue cards, and his father looked over to Malcolm.

"You know, your uncle used to coach all the top politicians down in London." Malcolm couldn't help but freeze slightly at the mention of his past – like a black dagger punching into this strange oasis he'd created for himself. But he couldn't let it on. He took a sip of his coffee as his brother-in-law continued unabated. "You should ask him for some pointers for your speech today." Sajid offered him up innocently.

Malcolm glanced up at the culprit's smiling face, then down to his nephew, his big bloody eyes staring right back at him in what could only be described as a clueless mixture of hope and awe.

Malcolm didn't even stand a chance.

"Alright then…" He gave a sigh and twisted himself round in his chair to face the boy. "Let's see what you've got."

Hamish flashed a grin then quickly flicked through his cards before he was contented, then shuffled his feet into a wide stance and gave a small cough. "GoodmorningmynameisHamishandtodayiwouldliketotalkabou – "

"Whoa there…" Malcolm jumped in carefully while his mind struggled to find a way to critique his nephew without it all ending in fucking tears. "That's good…" He attempted, scratching his beard, as Hamish's face froze. "…It was. But ah, first things first – does your class know who you are?"

"Yes." The boy responded quietly.

"Do you know who you are?" Malcolm leaned towards him with a comically raised eyebrow.

Hamish let out a small giggle. "Yes."

"Well ok then." Malcolm sat up dramatically in his chair. "Good, that means we can cut out all those boring bits and go straight to the meat! Really hook 'em from the start. What's your next sentence?"

Hamish smiled with excitement and looked back down to his cards. "WatershipDownwaswrittenin – "

"Bzzzzzp – boring." Malcolm pressed down onto his mug like a buzzer to little Aisha's amusement. "That's still just lentils. And nobody likes lentils!" He flicked a look over at Sajid who was watching on quietly, then back to his nephew. "Unless your da cooks them, of course – But I'm looking for a real, T-bone steak of a sentence; something that'll grab your class by the… yo-yos."

Hamish diligently scanned through his cards with hard focus before trying a line. "A bunny has a vision of their home being destroyed…?"

"We have a winner!" Malcolm clapped his hands together enthusiastically. "Any bloodthirsty 10 year old worth their salt would gobble that down!" Hamish smiled in encouragement but his uncle had not finished yet. "But next up on the list: close those legs up – you're not laying an egg. Also slow right down and take a break between your words. Now this is something even the grownup politicians struggle with. But trust me, if you slow down, you will feel more confident, and the more confident you feel the more people will want to listen to you, and the more people want to listen the more they'll like you."

"But what about all the stuff in my actual speech?"

"I taught politicians, not academics. Substance ain't my strong suit. Now let's see that intro again."

Hamish slid his feet together and raised his chin up with a deep intake of breath, when he was suddenly interrupted.

"Oi!" A commanding Scottish voice came from the stairs when Malcolm turned to see his own little sister marching down towards the kitchen. They shared the same slim, tall figure, but her face was all their mother; round, elegant and forgiving. Malcolm was the one who inherited the sharp edges. "What are you lot still doing here, don't you have a tram to catch?"

"Uncle Malc was giving me a speech lesson!" Hamish exclaimed excitedly, to which his mother gave Malcolm a curious look.

"Was he now?" Katherine strolled into the kitchen. "Well hopefully I interrupted him before he had the chance to get onto Acerbic Adjectives."

"What does that mean?" Aisha looked up at her curiously.

"You'll find out soon enough I'm sure." Kat answered drolly then turned to her husband, placed a gentle hand on his chest and gave him soft kiss before turning back round to her progeny. "Now up you get."

"Come on kids." Sajid stepped out from behind Kat headed to the doorway to lead the charge. The children jumped off their seats and hurried to follow, but not before Malcolm felt something faint against his forearm, causing him to look down to where it met the table when he saw that Aisha had pushed her drawing towards him. He picked up the unexpected gift and gave a small smile as he looked over the abstract splash of colour and lines, another piece to add to his quickly growing collection.

"Thanks A." He called after his niece, who was having her bag posited on her back by her dad, then handed a bright green umbrella. She gave him a quick smile but then was hurried away out the door.

"Say bye!" Sajid's voice came from around the corner.

"Bye!" The children echoed, then were cut off with the slam of the door.

Malcolm considered the drawing in his hand once more, then returned it to the table next to him when he saw a slice of toast had gone missing from his plate.

"Hey!" He looked up at his sister, who had now taken her husband's place at the counter and was scraping the potatoes into the slow cooker, all while his breakfast hung precariously from her mouth. "I was going to eat that!"

"No you weren't." Kat put down the chopping board and tore the toast from her teeth before she headed to the fridge and threw him an orange. "Here you go citrus man."

Malcolm caught the fruit and punched a thumb into the top with an annoyed sigh in defeat. The frustration of living with someone who knows you too fucking well.

"So…" His sister carried on, pulling a small tray of meat from the fridge then swinging close the door. "…you going to write today?"

Malcolm couldn't help but roll his eyes. "No, I'm going to fuck off to The Hacienda and have a fucking glow-stick orgy with a dreadlocked white guy called fucking Steve."

"Best add 'invent time machine' to that little list of yours too cause The Hacienda's been closed for about 20 years." His sister smirked as she added the meat to the cooker. "A fact you'd know if you actually ventured round this city."

"Bit difficult to pop out for a jolly fucking stroll when your little sister has you chained to a laptop in her granny flat like fucking Mike Leigh's adaptation of 'Misery'." Malcolm popped a slice of orange into his mouth and watched his sister darting to the pantry and back. "When did you get so bossy anyway?"

"One: I've always been bossy." Kat smiled and poured a box of stock into the slow cooker. "And two: I'm your editor. It's my job."

"Was I drunk when I signed that contract?"

"One week sober."

"Obviously delirious from withdrawal symptoms. I want out."

"Guess I'll just have to ghost write it then. You think one chapter is enough to spend on your frolicking over gran's bluebells in my dresses?"

"Fine, fine I'll keep writing the damn book" Malcolm huffed in his chair. "But for the record – you're being played by Kathy Bates in the film version."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." She gave a satisfied smile, popped the lid onto the cooker and switched on with a flick, then turned back to him with trained eyes. "You going to finish that toast?"

Malcolm didn't need to answer, just raised up the plate in front of him to which Katherine immediately stepped out and nicked the last slice. She took a bite out of it in silence when her eyes remained on Malcolm, as if she were carefully studying him.

"You look like shit." She said after a moment, still chewing on a bit of toast.

"Always good to get second confirmation." Malcolm grumbled under his breath.

"Did you get any sleep last night?" The tone of her voice had changed, into some faint variation of their mother's, which normally he'd pounce on to tease her about, but now it just left him feeling exposed.

"That would be a no." He avoided her eyes.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." He answered automatically, but his thoughts were far more muddled. How many times this year had he just wanted to break down, tell his sister all about this ridiculous fucking school teacher who had taken hostage of his thought and all sane fucking reasoning, and never given it back. To ask her if he was just in some delusional fucking fantasy where he'd created his own perfect woman, or if it was even close to how she felt when she first met Sajid. To explain why he got fired, why he disappeared to Iceland, why Jaime called her to say he was passed out drunk on his couch, why he'd agreed to write a fucking memoir, why he took up her offer to stay up at her place.

Why all of this shitty fucking year.

But he couldn't.

Because he was meant to be getting over her. Over that long-gone one week fucking fling. And the moment he told Kat about it, was the moment it would grow roots he could never pull.

So he stayed silent.

But there was something else behind his thoughts. Something dark and fragile that kept bubbling up to the surface of his mind, and which he suddenly released before he could stop himself.

"Why did mum stay with da?"

His question struck Katherine like a ghostly punch. Her face immediately turned grave, an expression he knew all too well, a shared dread of their past.

"I don't know." She said softly after a moment, the question something that she had obviously struggled with too. "Why do you – "

"It's nothing." Malcolm looked down at his coffee.

They remained there in silence. He could feel her eyes upon him.

"You're nothing like him, if that's what's been bothering you." His sister's words felt like a knife slicing straight through his torso, causing him to raise a sardonic eyebrow at her in disbelief of her statement. Kat just frowned as she easily translated his look. "Fuck off, I remember him just as well as you and you're not him, ok? I mean, at the very fucking least – he was a coward. And that's something you are most definitely not."

Malcolm quickly stood up and grabbed his coffee.

He shouldn't have fucking asked.

"I've got to go back to writing." He turned away from his sister and headed straight to the back door that led to the garden.

Why the fuck did he even bring it up?

Malcolm reached for the handle and swung the door open.

At least she didn't insist on fucking arguing with him at the fucking moment, but he knew she wasn't about to quickly forget it.

He closed the door on himself before she had a chance to change her mind and he hurried over the wet paving stones to cross the small backyard as drops of rain pelted into his now lukewarm coffee until he finally reached refuge under the narrow awning of his sister's unassuming granny flat. Malcolm bent down to pick up the small pyramid of rolled up newspapers that had been quietly left at the doorstep of the flat by Sajid, as they had every other day he'd been there, then gave the stiff door an extra push to open.

The room was cold and Spartan.

Against one wall there was a discoloured armchair with his abandoned jacket, and against the other stood a simple desk with his laptop. In between these, laying on the concrete floor at the back, was his small pile of suitcases he had thoughtlessly packed up with random clothes and books when he got the unexpected offer from his sister to take a little writing break with her three months ago. Though he knew even then her motive was not to keep an eye on her new project, no matter how much she liked to joke around about it.

She was worried about him.

And he couldn't fucking blame her.

Malcolm dropped the bundle of newspapers unceremoniously onto the armchair then sat at the desk and drew open the screen of his laptop.

The word document of his memoir was still open. Taunting him.

A sea of white except for twelve fucking words.

He let out a groan and roughly scrapped his fingers through his hair before slamming the laptop shut with a hollow snap.

Who the fuck was he even kidding?

He was a fucking coward.

Too afraid to revisit his past.

Even too afraid to see if Clara Oswald would actually show up.

Malcolm began seep back down into the black mire of self-hatred when his eyes found themselves straying over to his abandoned suitcases against the wall.

They would still be there. He hadn't touched them since he unconsciously stuffed them between mounds of books when he left London. In fact he had always kept them with him throughout the whole year. Anywhere he went – hidden, but close.

But now the day had finally come and he couldn't fucking do it.

Malcolm stood up from the desk with heavy legs, walked the three steps to the back of the flat and crouched down by his bags. Slowly, he unzipped the smallest one and lifted the flap to reveal a colourful woollen bundle hiding in the corner. He picked up the pair of socks before he cold stop himself, and his mind drifted back to the night so long ago when she had cradled his bloody foot in her hand, when she defiantly rejected his attempts of breaking off whatever they had going on between them, when she left him with the faintest glimmer of fucking hope.

But that was then.

This was now.

And he didn't think he could handle another punch in the fucking gut.

He heard the slam of a car door reverberate from outside.

Katherine was leaving.

She was wrong.

He was a fucking coward.

But he didn't want to be. He never wanted to be like him.

Malcolm looked back at the socks in his hand.

What if he did it?

What if he went for the fucking punch anyway?

Another slam of the car door. Kat would drive off at any second.

His heart rate began to rise.

Malcolm checked his watch. 8:17. If he sped he could get there just in time.

No more time to think.

No more time for fucking cowards.

Malcolm shot up from the pile of bags, the pair of socks grasped in his hand and swiftly grabbed his jacket from the armchair as he rushed outside and into the rain. He stuffed a hand awkwardly through the arm of his jacket as he ran across the muddy garden, then down the side of the house, when he heard a car engine start.

Fuck.

Hurry the fuck up.

Almost tripping over a tangled up hose, he stuttered round the corner of the house when he saw his sister's Audi slowly reversing out of the small front driveway.

"Kat!" He shouted after her, limping slightly as he attempted to put on the second arm of his jacket. "Kat, wait!"

The car stopped. Malcolm sprinted across the grass when the driver's seat window began to wind down.

"What the fuck are you doing?" His sister's face appeared behind the descending tinted glass.

"I need to borrow your car." Malcolm ordered gruffly, the rain now beginning to flatten his hair.

Kat just let out a laugh. "Are you serious? You'll crash it in a second!"

"I won't, I promise, I just fucking need to get to London now, ok?"

"Why?" She frowned.

Malcolm was struck still at the side of her door. He didn't have any time to waste, but he needed her car. How could he even… His mouth opened but all words fell short.

Katherine let out a sigh in frustration. "Oh, for fuck's sake…" She punched the release of her seatbelt. "You better get in before you turn into a drowned fucking rat."

Malcolm leapt back as she threw open her car door. "Thank you thank you thank you I fucking owe you."

"You already fucking owe me." Kat grumbled as she got out of her car and moved to the passenger door to retrieve her bag and umbrella. Malcolm wasted no time in jumping into the driver's seat. "I want this back by tonight, ok? Along with a complete explanation in fucking five-part harmony." She glared at him as he started up the engine.

"You're the best."

"Shut up."

Kat raised her umbrella over her head as Malcolm closed the window back up and began to reverse down the driveway. He couldn't tell if the racing thud in his ears was the windscreen wipers or his fucking heart.

He was going to the Powell Estate.

He was running into a knock out punch.

He needed to hurry the fuck up.

Pressing down on the accelerator he flicked his eyes up to the rear view mirror when there was a sudden grey flash across the reflection, causing him to stomp his foot on the breaks with a hard jolt. He'd almost backed into moving traffic.

Malcolm looked out the windscreen and up the driveway to see his sister standing alone up the top, under her umbrella, her eyes glaring at him, as she firmly gave him the finger.

An auspicious fucking start to the journey.

He attempted a smile back at her then readjusted the rear view mirror and tried again. He had caught a glimpse of his tired face as he looked back to the road behind him, then carefully straightened up into the traffic. The dynamic duo were right – he did look like shit. Malcolm considered stopping at a petrol station on the way down, grabbing a cheap fucking razor and giving himself the first proper shave he's had in ten months. Surely that would knock a couple of years off him, make him look the slightest bit more presentable if she did decide to show up.

But if she didn't, his bare fucking baby face would just be there as a fucking reminder of her rejection.

Malcolm gripped the steering wheel and tried to remember the shortcut to the southbound motorway.

No shaving then.

He had to retain some shred of self-preservation.

The drive seemed to take far longer than he felt comfortable with, like Einstein had forgotten to add fucking Stress to his relativity equation. He speeded when he could, flicked between every single radio station before giving up entirely and resigning himself to silence – all the while watching time tick by laboriously slowly next to his revving speedometer. Didn't help the universe had obviously conspired to torture him by placing certain giant fucking billboards along the side of the motorway every fucking mile – wide green blocks carrying the words 'THE MITCHELL PLAN: Good for our kids. Great for the UK". Which, besides being the obvious fucking reminder of a certain stubborn lass with fucking balloons for eyes, made him stew over the White Hall Communication Office's choice of fucking phrase. Because who the fuck would want to do something just good for the kids? No, had to reassure the selfish fucking adults they'd be getting a cut of the benefits too.

Malcolm stepped down harder on the accelerator and the roar of the turbo engine graciously downed out his thoughts, when he finally glimpsed the turnoff sign for London. He automatically checked the clock again, but knew already that he was running out of time. He would have lucked out to begin with if Clara decided to show up, but now he was pushing that luck further if she actually bothered to stick around and wait for him.

He adjusted himself awkwardly in his seat and checked again that her pair of socks remained in his jacket pocket, then sped off towards East London.

Eerily, there didn't seem to be any traffic at all the closer he got to the Powell Estate. His heart beat began to race and his chest began to constrict as the last part of his drive seemed to fly past disproportionately, and before his knew it he was turning into the driveway of the same drab council estate he kissed Clara outside of just over one year before.

Fuck.

This was it.

He leaned forward in his seat and looked up at the grey towers in front of him, their concrete façade almost blending into the bleak London sky. Malcolm slowed down, and took the faintly remembered route around the buildings to the back while his eyes darted round the sombre courtyard in search for any sign of Clara.

He stopped breathing when he turned the corner.

There was a motorbike sitting alone at the curb by the playground.

And in the playground itself was someone sat on the swings. Someone small and brunette.

Malcolm's entire body flushed with an unbearable heart. His hands began to feel numb against the steering wheel.

She came.

He almost felt like he could vomit.

Did she come cause she still likes him? Or was it just pity? Was she still the same? Was she even who he remembered her to be?

There was a loud metallic crunch.

The seatbelt snapped against Malcolm as he jolted forward in his seat and slammed down on the breaks.

He'd fucking driven into the gutter.

Kat was going to murder him slowly with a rusty fucking spoon, but none of that even mattered at the moment, because out past the windshield of the car he could see that Clara heard the accident cause she was standing up and looking right at him.

He clumsily jimmied himself free from the seatbelt and jumped out of the car when he found himself standing only a couple of yards away from the woman he'd spent twelve whole months trying hopelessly to forget.

And he had no fucking clue what to say.

"You came." She broke the silence for him with the voice he'd missed so fucking much. Though she almost seemed startled.

"So did you." He managed to croak out. They stood there awkwardly for a moment when she stuffed her hands into her leather jacket.

"Whose ah, whose car is it this time?" She nodded to the wreck next to him.

"Sister's."

"Right. Her own fault for lending it to you then."

"I doubt she'll see it that way."

"I see. Feisty one?"

"It's a family trait." He attempted a sly smile at her, but it didn't seem to land. Unbidden, a fresh rush of nerves took over his gut. Didn't look like she was here to pick up where they left off. He had to try a different tactic. He stepped forward towards the playground. "I brought your socks." He delved a hand into his jacket pocket and withdrew the fluffy woollen ball. "As per your instructions."

"Thanks." She held out her hand to collect the socks as he approached her by the swings. "I've missed these things."

Malcolm berated himself slightly as their fingers failed to touch when he gave her the socks and he looked dumbly at her as she considered the bundle in her hand for a moment before she finally spoke.

"Do you want to… should we sit down?"

He followed her line of sight to the swings when he caught her meaning. "Sure." Malcolm agreed quickly and squeezed himself between the two metal chains to sit on the hard plastic seat, when tried not to focus on the way her legs only barely touched barely the wood chips underneath while his were splayed two feet in front.

"So." Clara glanced up at him as she slightly swayed in her seat.

"So." Malcolm couldn't help but echo.

"How was your year?"

"Oh, you know, lots of hiking, oxygen, sustenance, and all that…" Malcolm obfuscated. "Nothing too interesting. Not compared to your year at least – I've spotted you on the telly a couple of times. Seems you've made quite the name for yourself."

"Oh yeah, that." Clara looked away. "Couldn't really let them pass the Mitchell Plan without keeping a strong eye on them. Think it all got a little out of proportion in the end though, teacher's union even asked me if I was thinking of running in the next election."

"Are you?"

"No chance."

"Pity." Malcolm shrugged. "You'd make a pretty fucking brilliant politician."

Clara didn't respond, just readjusted herself in her swing before looking back over to Malcolm. "I'm liking the new beard look." She attempted.

"What, this dead fucking rodent?" He gave her a smile and brushed his beard with his fingertips. "Grew it cause I knew it was the only way I could get fucking pubes on my face now."

She fell silent.

Malcolm could fucking kick himself.

"I can't do this." She suddenly broke the silence, causing his heart to fucking drop in his chest, when she turned her face up to look at him properly. "I can't. So… just… you listen up, ok? I don't want to hear your bloody cynical speeches about how the world is shit so what's the point, I don't want you to brush it off like it was all bloody inevitable – I just want you… I just need you to sit in your spot and be quiet for once in your life because I've waited to say this to you all fucking year, ok?" Her eyes burned into his as he was struck still.

"Ok." He barely dared to answer.

"I'm sorry." Clara began, her voice steady. "I am so, so sorry you got fired. I'm sorry you lost your job that meant everything to you. And I know it was your choice, I know you fucking ranted about it at the end, I know all that – but without me you would never had made that choice. Without me you would never had lost your job. When I heard you resigned after the election I practically sprinted to that crappy old burner phone to call you, but I couldn't. Because that would have just be me being selfish and reckless. And god knows I've done enough damage being selfish and reckless with you, with the policy, with everything in my life. But I'm working on it. I've been trying to work on it. So that's it. That's what I came here to say. I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?"

Malcolm's brain malfunctioned.

Forgive her?

He almost choked at the ridiculousness of her plea, the words failing to form in his mind let alone his mouth.

There had to be a way he could make her see.

"I'm writing a book." He suddenly blurted out, to which she just lowered her brow in confusion. "Well, fucking supposed to be writing a book. A memoir, in fact. Signed a fucking million pound book deal with my sister's publisher four months ago, spent the last three months fucking camped up at her place in Manchester in order to write it, and I can recite the fucking entirety of what I've written so far in two fucking seconds: 'Ask anyone in government about me they'll say I'm a fucking cunt'."

He let the silence fall between them before he started again, watching her face soften just the slightest bit.

"This year… I'm not going to fucking placate you and say it was all fucking roses and unicorns. It was fucking hard. You don't fucking realise how much your fucking job has pumped up your fucking human suit and made it function until all the fucking air is sucked out and you're left with nothing but a sack of fucking skin. I was my job. And I had no idea how to be me without it. Fuck, I still don't, if I'm completely fucking honest. But writing a memoir - or fucking not writing it – you're forced to look back at your life. And I've realised, I haven't written jack shit because I don't know what to say. I know exactly what to fucking say. I can a write a ten page diatribe on my preferred posture when I take a fucking dump for fuck's sake. But I don't want to. I don't like what my life had become and I don't want to fucking revisit it. So, you know, yes, I forgive you. Whatever that fucking means. Because I would never have changed if it weren't for you. I'd still be a fucking coward and a puppet. Fuck, the way I was going, without you being an obstinate little shit, I'd probably have ended up in jail eventually. But I'm here, and I'm slowly getting better. So. That's why I came. To tell you that. And I don't want to hold you to anything you said last time, cause a year's a fucking year, but I thought one day you might feel like complete shit so it would be nice I guess if you knew that at least you saved this one broken fucker's life."

Malcolm felt as if a crushing weight had finally fallen off his shoulders. He said it. At least he fucking said it. But to his complete surprise, when he finally dared to look back up at Clara to see her reaction, her large eyes were tinted red with tears.

"Fuck – " He jolted up straight in his swing. "Don't cry. I didn't mean to – "

"You mentioned what I said last year." She carried on undeterred, as the first tear rolled down her soft cheek.

"Did I? Yeah I guess I fucking did." Malcolm panicked, unable to read the contradictory emotions on her face. "But, you know, who the fuck remembers the specifics, it's fucking fine if you don't."

"I said I'd choose you." She seemed to have moved in closer to him.

"Yeah over a fucking nation of kids. And you just said you where done making selfish decisions, so, fuck, I completely understand if you've changed your mind."

"I haven't."

"What?"

"I'd still choose you."

Malcolm felt his throat close up on him as he stared down at Clara in awe.

"Why?" He could only ask.

"Because you're incredible." She finally let out a smile through her tears. "Because you're a bastard. Because you're tall and you're kind, even though you pretend you're not. Because your Scottish and sexy and because absolutely none of the men I've met this year can even remotely compare to you."

Malcolm couldn't help but narrow his eyes. "How many men?"

"Shut up you idiot." She gave him a playful shove, the first contact for a whole fucking year. His body radiated with joy.

"Just saying, I'd like to know my stats here. What was it, 45? 120?"

Clara frowned at him in jest. "You're right, I am starting to change my mind now."

"What, and miss out on Mr Incredible?"

"Well who says he'd choose me too?"

Malcolm stilled, when his hands clasped either side of Clara's swing and he pulled her straight to him, his eyes hooded in attack. "Love, he doesn't even get a fucking choice. Seems you're it for him."

Her eyes flicked over his face, their noses almost touching as he became intoxicated by her presence.

"Big responsibility." She murmured against his lips when their eyes locked.

"I think she can take it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Malcolm moved the fraction forward and took her lips into his own with a blessed sigh of relief. How long had he fucking missed this. How long had he wondered if he'd ever get the chance to taste her lips again, to feel the slow draw of her fingers against the back of his head as he did now. Their kiss became deeper but it wasn't enough. It could never be enough. He wanted it to go on forever.

Which was exactly when he heard a shrill fucking wolf-whistle across the fucking way.

Malcolm pleaded the non-existent gods that Clara would just ignore the sound and continue doing that thing with her tongue, but unfortunately, she drew back from him. He held down a grumble of annoyance when he finally opened his eyes to see Clara looking out past the playground to the drive around the building, when she unexpectedly burst out into a roar of laughter.

Malcolm sat like a confused dunce, and followed her sight only to find a small group of fucking teenagers with a football gawking at them.

"What is it?" He turned to Clara, who was still laughing, but she couldn't answer. "What?" He flicked back to the kids, who seemed just as perplexed as he was at her outburst. "Oi! Shouldn't you kids be in fucking school?!" He shouted at them in frustration, which only seemed to make Clara laugh even harder.

"Fuck you!" One of the spotty teenagers threw back with a V then they carried on playing football regardless.

Clara's hands found themselves sprayed across Malcolm's shoulder as she tried to regain her breath, but her eyes were once again bloodshot and puffy with tears, this time with a whole other reason, but still not making any sense to him at all.

"You right?" He looked down at her curiously.

"Fine. I'm fine." She answered between dying laughs. "It's just… life, you know?"

"Ah yes!" He raised his eyebrows and gave an over-exaggerated nod. "Life. Yes. I know all about life."

"Do you now?" She looked up at him with a keen smile.

"I do. Well fucking versed. I can give you a lesson or two in it, if you'd like?"

"I'd like that very much."

"Just a warning though, lessons might take years, decades, even." He couldn't help but attempt out as he felt himself once again moving closer to her.

"Well then." She gave a content smile and grasped his hand firmly around hers. "We'd better get to it."

000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000

NB

Wait. Hold on. Is that the end? * scans over entire chapter * Holy shit.

Holy shit guys I actually finished the fic.

Umm.

What do I do now?

Actually no I know what I do now, I bow down at your feet and thank you from the bottom of my heart for sticking with this mad fever-dream of mine, even though it's taken two years.

Holy shit it's done.

My mind is blank but know I love you for reading and you're the best. So please accept all these hugs.