AN: Happy Holidays, everyone! Something I've been working on for a little while that I thought deserved to be seen. Against my will, it got quite long. Please enjoy. The title is from the Killers' song, 'For Reasons Unknown'. Rating for language.

Summary: It is Malcolm Tucker's job to ensure the leader of his party performs well at public engagements, especially glamorous Union balls with already sympathetic audiences. It is not his job to help her choose an outfit, or babysit her through proceedings, and it is certainly not his job to listen to her breaking down over her husband.

Set: In the two years between Season 3 & Season 4.

Spoilers: For some position changes at the start of Season 4

Pair: Malcolm & Nicola (I'm so unpredictable sometimes!)

(I Move A Little Bit Closer)

For Reasons Unknown

by

Tricki

Malcolm is nursing an overlarge martini when he hears a soft thud off his left side and a gentle expulsion of air. His head turns slowly in the direction of the noise, but he already knows the source of it. Sitting beside him is Nicola Murray, looking exhausted but exhilarated all at once, and offering him a weary but proud grin. The speech she gave earlier has become her favourite child, and while the labour was hard, Malcolm can see that she's proud of the results. Even he has to admit, she's done well.

"So?" She says with an expectant tone and sparkling eyes.

"If you're expecting a treat and a scratch on behind the ears you've come to the wrong fucking person, Nic'la." Malcolm's tone is no-nonsense. Nicola is too tired and too familiar with him to heed the subtle warning in it.

"Actually, I'm expecting a drink. I've been waiting for this for fifteen minutes." The brunette retorts, reaching around him for her glass of whiskey with a pointed look. "Remind me again why you're so intent on me not drinking tonight?"

"Because, Leader-oh-mine," Malcolm drawls in that tone that makes her skin crawl. "There are two possible outcomes to me lettin' you get as shit faced as you want. The first is singing and the second is stripping, and I'm not sure which this fucking Party needs less right now, your dead cat shrieking or you gettin' yer tits out in front of a few thousand fucking unionists." In spite of herself, Nicola's lips curl in a wry smile. Now that she's used to Malcolm behaving like this, she manages to find the humour in it, manages to find some kind of comfort in the fact that he knows her so well. Why this is of any comfort is totally beyond her, really, but she finds little of it nowadays, so she takes it where she can get it.

Tonight Malcolm thinks maybe going easy on her might be in order. For starters, they're in public; she's not totally embarrassed herself, and she also (he's allowed to say it because it's largely his doing) looks quite stunning. It was rather like pulling teeth, babying Nicola Murray through eighteen dress options, arguing over the shortlist and finally settling on this one, but he knows the photos of her in tomorrow's papers will be worth the agony of the selection process.

"I am not letting you choose my fucking dress for me, Malcolm." Nicola had barked as he'd directed her into what looked like a private house but was apparently the office of a stylist. Her black coat had swished over a well tailored burgundy suit, her legs extending further than normal with her irritation. Inside the building were floorboards, white walls, and large windows with basically no furniture. Three overly quaffed consultants went to pounce on her with gushing praise of her figure and hair just as Nicola had turned to him and snapped "Get rid of them, Malcolm. This is too much of a fucking production already."

"Alrigh', ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for your help so far. We might peruse in private for a while if yeh don't mind?"

"Of course." One of the men had replied with a coat of understanding thicker than the icing on Nicola's Fourth Sector Pathfinders photo op cake. "Can we get you anything? Tea? Coffee?" While everything in Nicola had screamed for a coffee that was very, very Irish, she had known that would be tweeted faster than her dress size, so she'd instead opted for a lemon zinger and prayed it would go towards loosening the headache which was threatening to give her a very bad afternoon indeed. Hold the Prime Minister of the nation to account? That she can (usually, sort of) do. Be presented with dress options by a gaggle of stylists wanting to fuss over her? That is a sure way to give her a pain in the head.

"Alright, preliminary veto." Malcolm had said, pointing her to two racks of evening gowns.

Grudgingly Nicola had crossed to the first and begun flicking through it. "No." She'd mumbled, moving a black dress with white structured piping to one end. "Christ no." She'd repeated, relocating a brown silk dress which would have been lovely, were it not for the inclusion of sporadic ruffles. Another moment and Nicola had relocated a floor-length watermelon bandage dress as well.

"Though' you'd like that one actually. I'm very fucking relieved. You'd look like a burn victim." With a roll of her eyes Nicola had thrown back "The colour is the only thing I do like about it, actually."

"Typical." Malcolm had mumbled. Nicola had pretended she'd not heard him, knowing she would need to reserve her energy for more important fights today.

"I think that's all of them, actually. Well done, Malcolm, of..." a moment's pause while she'd counted them "eighteen dresses there are only three I totally loathe. If only the same could be said for my Shadow Cabinet." In spite of himself, Malcolm's lips had tweaked in the ghost of a smile.

He'd crossed to the racks then and begun shuffling through the gowns. He selected a navy blue one with a black beaded strip around the neck and moved it to the rejects.

"Why?" Nicola had queried. She'd not objected, she'd not been particularly attached to it, but she had been intrigued by his rationale as always.

"Won't sit right over your collar bones." It had been matter-of-fact, but Nicola half laughed with surprise.

"How do you pick up on -? Hey, I like that one!" She'd interjected, interrupting herself as he'd moved a bright purple chiffon gown with detailing below the bust to the 'no' end of the rack.

"Of course you fucking do, the only thing more attracted to bright colours than you is a fucking hummingbird."

He'd then removed a black sequinned gown from the rack, mumbling "lens flare" as he settled it next to the purple one.

"Start with this one." He'd mumbled, passing her a desaturated burgundy dress with a high neck and gold beading around it. She'd not complained as he'd expected her to, merely taken the garment and disappeared into the little makeshift change room after thrusting her Burberry trench at him. She'd emerged a minute later, and even Malcolm had to concede that she'd looked good. He'd known it would suit her, chose it for precisely this reason. Passing her one of the more dubious choices for her first attempt would only result in her resisting the encounter more, and Malcolm had had neither the time nor the energy to waste any more of it on what Nicola fucking Murray chose to wrap around her body while she pretended to be the Leader of the Opposition.

"I like this one." She'd commented, twisting slightly to examine a new angle in the mirror.

"Yeah," Malcolm had agreed. He hadn't been sure it was quite there, but it was a jump-off point. "Can you try it with the peep toes?" He had asked, gesturing to a modest pair of cream Jimmy Choo pumps.

"It was a woman you were married to, wasn't it? Because you seem impossibly comfortable discussing women's fashion for a heterosexual male."

"Oh shut your fucken' cave, Nic'la. Honestly, yer five year old is more mature than you right now."

"Josh is almost eight now, actually."

"Oh! Oh forgive me! You know, I really should have looked it up. All yer children's ages are in my little book of 'Numbers That I Really Genuinely, Honestly Give A Fuck About'. Now fucking stand still." He had grumbled, taking a quick picture on his BlackBerry.

Again Nicola had rolled her eyes disdainfully at him, before grabbing another frock from the rack and withdrawing into the dressing room.

She'd emerged again in a teal chiffon number with a plunging neckline, adjusting her breasts as she scrutinised herself. "It's too low. I feel like I'm going to pop out of it if I breathe too quickly."

Malcolm had snorted. "Now that's not the kind of headline I'm after sadly. Appealing offer, though. Turn."

"If these are just going into your wank bank, Malcolm, I honestly will castrate you in your sleep and feed your bollocks to Terri's diabetic cagoodle." Her threat had seemed genuine, and rather than answer it immediate with a sharp retort, he had taken a moment to smile beatifically at her. It had been nothing short of terrifying.

"Don't worry, darlin', I'd rather wank over the cagoodle than you."

Nicola had shuddered almost imperceptibly. "Another new and vile aspect of your personality, Malcolm" she'd quipped, before withdrawing into the safety of the dressing room.

"I look like a fucking bride." Nicola had grizzled, emerging in a cream dress with cap sleeves that were beaded on the top.

"Oh, I though' ye'd like that one. Kate Middleton vetoed it because it was 'too old'. Thought it'd be righ' up yer alley!"

Her eyes had told him to fuck off even if her lips had remain pursed. She'd paused barely long enough for Malcolm to take his photo.

"Now that's more what I was thinking." Malcolm had said supportively as Nicola had emerged in an emerald green silk crepe number. It was demure in the neckline but not matronly, hugged her curves in all the right places, and gave an air of accomplished authority. Her waist had looked tiny in it, and the hint of cleavage was just enough to keep anyone in the room interested without ogling her. Malcolm had been just about ready to call the whole thing to a close when Nicola had announced, "I think there's a slight problem with it, actually."

Malcolm had craned his neck as subtly as he could, assuming it wouldn't zip all the way. He'd been distracted half way through his consideration when Nicola had extended her left leg out from a split which went almost all the way to her hip.

"Fuck." Malcolm had exclaimed quietly, annoyed that a seemingly perfect excuse to end the torture of watching Nicola Murray trying on an endless string of outfits had slipped through his fingers. He was not her fucking husband, he shouldn't have had to baby her through a fucking shopping trip.

Although, he had to admit, this was the most of her leg he'd ever seen, and it had been a very nice leg indeed. A split that high also has the added benefit of providing very easy access to do... many things he had definitely never considered doing to Nicola Murray. Ever.

"Fucking hell I thought, for one brief moment that shone like a wet hole that we might be able to wrap up this massive abortion of an afternoon." Malcolm had grumbled while he'd snapped a picture. "That one is goin' in the wank bank, though. For a frumpy, sour faced smug old hag, you have especially nice legs."

"Do I need to remind you that I can fire you, Malcolm?"

"That would require you takin' some initiative, darlin'."

When she had emerged again, she'd been shrouded in a charcoal one-shouldered gown with a velvet accent that trailed over her shoulder, twisted around her ribcage, over her hip, and down the back of the dress.

"I love this one," Nicola had said softly, studying it in the mirror. She'd smoothed her hands down over her hips and down the front of her thighs.

"I think it's too formal." Malcolm had replied thoughtfully.

"It's a fucking ball, Malcolm. It's supposed to be formal."

"'S not the righ' tone."

"You realise this dress has to be on my body all night, don't you? I actually outrank you on this decision which - wait! Isn't unusual, because I'm the fucking leader."

"Just fucking humour me and try on the rest." Malcolm's tone had been increasingly weary, increasingly irritable. Nicola's desire to pull rank on him every five minutes had been wearing especially thin that afternoon. He had taken his photo, pondering that what he really meant was that the dress was the perfect for her to wear to dinner with the Queen, if by some miracle she managed to win the next election. It was a dress for the world stage, not what would essentially be a three thousand person piss-up. Of course those kinds of comments, that yes she looked nice but maybe save the style for when she was leading the country would have given her the terrifying notion that she may actually win, and this hadn't been something he'd necessarily wanted to do. It had felt a little bit too much like being nice to her.

"Hey, does James have a tux? I'll text Sam his measurements and get her to rent one if he doesn't. She'll have it dropped off with the dress."

Nicola's eyes had remained fixed on her own reflection as she'd smoothed her hands over the expensive fabric again.

"James won't be joining me. He has a work function he can't get out of, unfortunately." Her tone hadn't wavered, but he had read the lack of authenticity in it. It had felt rehearsed. If she'd thought she was fooling him she was even stupider than he'd thought - he taught her how to do that fucking tone. Malcolm had filed it away in his mind and exited the email he'd been drafting to Sam on his BlackBerry, still studying Nicola meticulously.

"Righ'. Right." From that moment Malcolm had once again been committed to making sure she looked as good as possible, if only so her wankstain of a husband could suffer when he saw the photos in the papers the next day.

After several other attempts, Nicola had emerged in a navy blue lace number. As his eyes had trailed over her from head to toe he had mumbled "That's it. That's the one. There you go ladies and gents, Nic'la Fucking Murray can wear a dress."

"Thank fucking Christ." Nicola had muttered, turning in front of the mirror to fully take in the effect of the garment. The off-the-shoulder scalloped neckline showed off Nicola's clavicle perfectly, the line highlighted her waist, and Malcolm had been pleased to note that her arse, fabulous at the best of times, looked especially appetising. The tight cream silk layer beneath the lace hugged the line of her derriere, while the overlay of navy tulle had floated over it easily. It had given the invitation to look without screaming for attention. James would hate her looking so good, and Malcolm had taken a secret kind of pleasure in this.

"Alright, fuckin' take it off before we notice some insurmountable flaw it's failing to conceal. I mean, it can't change the fact that you've got a face like a smacked arse but it's only a fucking dress, not a Harley Street magician."

Nicola had reached for the zipper before she was even back in the dressing room, reminding Malcolm of the fact that she was overly comfortable with him and this was perhaps a problem. With a wry smirk she had thrown over her exposed shoulder "You know, we almost had a nice moment there."

"Don't worry, I found it deeply un-fucking-settling too."

Back in the present moment, Malcolm reminds himself that footage of Nicola standing on that stage making one of the most competent speeches of her career and looking fabulous will bounce the polls by five per cent at least. He takes a moment to inwardly grouse at how moronic and fickle voters are, but tonight it's going to work in his favour. Tonight, for the first time ever Nicola looks like a plausible alternative Prime Minister. If he can keep her going like this then everything's not lost. Beyond that he's already been approached by two of the union's main organisers offering financial support, and, from the drunker of the two, some particularly lewd comments about Nicola's breasts. Malcolm had kept himself nice, knowing that the donation was worth more than him trying to defend his leader, but still he had bristled at the other man's attitude towards her. For no specific reason, Malcolm tends to get a little homicidal when anyone other than a small group of staff comments on Nicola's body. It's certainly not because he has a general objection to objectifying women, or disrespecting Nicola Murray specifically, so he's not sure where it comes from. Perhaps this is because he refuses to dissect it too deeply.

"So, what were yeh after when you flopped down next to me, Nic'la? I know you're a bit simple but even you're smart enough to know not to come to me for praise."

"I came here for nothing more than alcohol." Nicola asserts, draining the glass of whiskey in one smooth swig. She does it so skilfully that he's actually a little impressed. "And then a dance."

"Oh fuck off, Nic'la, yeh can't be serious."

"I am deadly fucking serious, Malcolm. Come on, you've dolled me up, pushed me on stage in front of a few thousand intoxicated people, seventy per cent of whom are drooling men ogling my tits. The least you can do is give me one dance."

"Yeh've just described an average day in the Commons and I don't fucking dance with you after every sitting, do I?"

"Fuck off, Malcolm." She mumbles, taking his hand and physically pulling him from his chair.

"This is technically assault you realise?"

"Yes, but the best thing about you, Malc - maybe the only good thing about you - is that you know that'll be a complete media shitstorm if you have me charged with assault, and the only thing truer than the fact that you think I'm incompetent is that you want me to win the next election. Ergo, you're going to dance with me."

There are no words for how much Malcolm hates it when she's right.

She's a good dancer when she's not completely pissed, and either despite himself or due to his mild intoxication, he actually enjoys himself. At one point he spins her back into his arms too vigorously, and she stumbles against his chest, laughing uproariously.

"The worst part is I know you're not even pissed!" Malcolm laughs at her, steadying her by the hips without thinking about it.

"That was completely your fault!" Nicola retorts, still laughing and clutching at his right bicep. The moment of warmth Malcolm feels for the brunette takes him by surprise, and he wishes he could ignore it.

Of course he doesn't always hate her, not really. Actually on a personal level he thinks she's fine, maybe even a bit more than fine. She's quite a nice lady, really, but he hates when she's incompetent, hates when she fucks something up that someone who's been in politics as long as her really should be capable of undertaking. No part of him whatsoever will ever confess that he actually isn't hating her stumbling into his arms on a dance floor.

"You're the clumsy one, yeh daft bint!" Malcolm retorts. There is levity in his tone. He seems, for perhaps the first time since she's known him, like he is genuinely enjoying her company when they are conducting official business. It's not that they never enjoy each other's company; outside a professional context they find each other quite diverting, but within one they are prone to testing each other's patience. Nicola is basically just leaning on him and laughing at this point, barely attempting to follow the music at all. Malcolm takes her by surprise and spins her out again. She throws her head back with laughter, regaining her footing when she twirls back to him. They resume their dance, the pace lively and enjoyable. At one point Malcolm says "You're not actually a shit dancer, Nic'la. Maybe we can use that on a campaign poster: Nic'la Murray, Shit At Most Things, But She Sure Can Dance'." Nicola is in such good spirits she doesn't even chastise him. When the song ends, one of the higher-ups of the union approaches the pair, and Nicola instantly slips into Future Prime Minister mode.

"Hello, Greg. Are you enjoying the evening?"

"Not as much as you, Nicola." He laughs good naturedly and squeezes her shoulder. After a few minutes of discussing their children and Greg showing Nicola pictures on his phone, he changes the tone. "Do you mind if I get a photo, actually, Nicola? Rally the troops a bit?"

"Not at all!" Nicola enthuses,

"Malc, d'you mind?" He queries, offering the phone to the Scot.

"Course not." Malcolm replies, framing the image while Nicola wraps an arm around Greg's back. Malcolm indicates subtly for Nicola to lift her chin, knowing this photo will be spread across multiple social media networks as well as the union's newsletter and wanting her to look as good as possible.

Malcolm hands the phone back and Greg beams. "Thanks guys. My eldest is going to be so jealous. She loves you, Nicola. Keeps referring to you as 'our future PM'. The number of times I've heard the phrase 'Everyone be quiet, our future PM's on the telly'..."

"Oh, that's so gorgeous!"

"I think so."

"She's just about to turn fifteen, isn't she?"

"Yeah, next month. The twelfth."

"We have a meeting on the fifth, don't we? About the roads project we're taking to the election?"

"That we do, that we do."

"Listen, why don't you bring Libby along? Early Birthday present, we'll have tea and biscuits or something."

"You're kidding?" Greg gapes at her.

"Of course not. One of my advisers can keep her entertained while we talk shop, unless she's interested in infrastructure policy." Nicola's words are easy, but her promise more significant to the unionist's daughter than she can possibly fathom.

"Nicola, you are the greatest bloody person I've ever met. Do you know that?!" He plants a smacking kiss on her cheek and squeezes her tightly. "Oh my god, Lib's going to spew when I tell her."

"Well I hope you don't have to clean it up." Nicola teases, eliciting another laugh from Greg.

"You're a champion, Nicola. I'll let you get on, but seriously, I appreciate it so much. Great speech, by the way."

"Thanks, Greg. Good luck with the negotiation next week."

"Cheers, Nicola."

When she turns back to Malcolm he is staring at her with something almost akin to pride. The brunette cocks her head. "What?"

"You've finally learnt the smell of a PR scoop. That was fucking masterful, Murray. Fucking. Masterful."

"Believe it or not, Malcolm, sometimes I feel so devoid of support in this business I actually need the adulation of fourteen year old girls. Fuck knows I don't get it from my own." Malcolm offers a derisive snort and a almost-pitying smile.

"Let's not go into the minefield that is little Ella Murray, shall we?"

"I give a lot of free reign, Malcolm, but one more word about my children and I'll have my nice security man Louis execute you."

Malcolm holds up his hand in surrender, using the other to fire a text to Ollie. 'Hope you're keeping on top of the SM like you promised. Remember the talk we had about your man twat?'

After stowing his phone back in his pocket, Malcolm looks at her evenly and asks "'Nother dance? Think of it as a peace off'ring."

Nicola's hackles haven't quite lowered yet, but after a moment eyeing him with palpable irritation, she grudgingly extends her hand and allows him to lead her around the dance floor. The party is winding down, and Nicola wants to enjoy it for as long as she can.

Once they've been informed that Nicola's car has arrived and the pair is mutually shrugging their way into coats in front of the cloak room, a woman with golden blonde hair walks up to Nicola and pecks her cheek, mumbling "Hey Nicks," as she does.

"Hello, Jen. How're you doing?"

"Good, good! You look stunning, for the record. I mean honestly jaw-dropping. I'm sorry we haven't had any time to catch up tonight. I thought James would be here. Nick was hoping to chat with him about something."

"Yes, I know! He got held up at a work thing. Your dress is gorgeous." Malcolm notes Nicola steering the conversation away from her husband with all the skill of a politician - skills which she can barely manage to summon when they are professionally necessary.

"Oh, thank you. Love having an opportunity to drag a full-lengther out of the wardrobe." Jen's phone trills in her hand, and the blonde glances down at the device in her hand. "Shit that's Nick, he's found a cab. Can we grab lunch once Parliament's risen?"

"Of course! I'll text you some dates?"

"Perfect. I need to get some time in with you before you're too busy running the world to play with me." Jen grins the last as she leans forward to kiss Nicola's cheek again.

"Remind me why I love you so much, Jennifer?"

"Because I'm an insolent bitch. Give James our love."

"Will do! Send Nick ours."

When the brunette turns back to her Director of Communications he reads the slight fall of her face, notes the faraway look that clouds her eyes.

"You righ'?" The Scot queries, drinking her features in intently, reading her for any further information.

"Yep. Yes, absolutely fine."

Malcolm doesn't believe her for a moment, and he's so concerned by her almost imperceptible withdrawal that he directs her to her official car with a hand gently resting on her back.

They take a moment to readjust themselves, shedding coats in the warm car and flicking them onto the parcel shelf behind them. Soon they fall into silence and mutual contemplation, and no matter how much Malcolm wants lose himself in the late night London scenery, the fact that Nicola is sitting across the car from him clearly going through some kind of emotional turmoil won't allow him to do so.

"What's James doin' tonight that's so important he couldn't be here, Nic'la?" His voice is gentle but probing. She is staring out the window, her back to him. Her shoulders are set squarely, as if she is still steeled for battle.

"His secretary." Nicola's tone is matter of fact, but deflated, perhaps even defeated. She is as far across the car from him as she can be, and while he feels like he should touch her somehow, he wonders whether the distance between them is something she engineered so he can't.

"Jesus, Nic'la..." Malcolm breathes, at a total loss for what to say to her for the first time in years.

"Mmm." She agrees. The Scot, for once stunned into silence, is rescued by Nicola's capacity to witter at length. "I saw a text. A fucking text message. Do you know how it feels to find out that over twenty years of marriage is a total fucking joke from a text message? I didn't even mean to read the fucking thing. It flashed on the screen and I just..."

'Can't wait to see you on Friday hot lips. Cait Xxx' it had read.

Nicola hadn't shouted, hadn't sworn, hadn't thrown James' phone at his head. She had calmly crossed the kitchen, handed it to him and said "If you bring that fucking woman into my house I will set the entire force of the Metropolitan Police on you and I am completely serious."

She turns her head to look at Malcolm over an exposed shoulder, and he can see the full weight of everything she's been staving off crashing down upon her. It's subtle, the darkening of her eyes, a slight fall in the top of her cheeks, but nothing more. She remains composed. "Holly's with the kids." It's an unnecessary explanation; it's exactly what he'd assumed. There are many things he questions about Nicola Murray, but whether she would leave her children alone is not one of them.

He likes Holly. He's often wondered how long Nicola had to spend interviewing potential nannies before she found one who wouldn't ever consider sleeping with James, regardless of how much he cajoled. Holly's loyalty is one hundred percent to Nicola, as it should be. The brief interactions Malcolm has had with her have put her in mind of Sam: diligent, quickly reactive, calm, and capable. Holly is a good sort, just like Sam. Everyone deserves a Sam or a Holly, Malcolm muses while he studies his colleague. Objectively, he wouldn't mind if she had a few more Hollys looking out for her. Of course, professionally it is of enormous benefit to him that so many members of her staff are so willing to turn on her and provide him with any information he requires. A single tear escapes her right eye, and she pushes it away quickly with a nail dressed in O.P.I Russian Navy.

"Oh, fucking come here, Nic'la." Malcolm mumbles gruffly, reaching for the brunette and pulling her across the back of the chauffeured MG's black leather seat. The Scot presses her into his side, and this simple act of tenderness from a man as genuinely harsh and insensitive as Malcolm Tucker tips her over the edge. Within a moment she is crying softly into his neck.

One of Malcolm's hands finds her bare shoulder while the other settles on her right knee. Nicola slips a hand under his tuxedo jacket and crumples his pristine white shirt in her hand.

"Come on, Nic'la, it can't come as a surprise after twenty long fucking years that yer impotent cock sucking husband is a hedge-born fuckstick." She laughs a little at this. Why, she's not sure; perhaps she's just gotten to the point where the whole situation is so absurd it's amusing.

She is laughing freely now, mumbling "it's not a fucking surprise, Malc, but neither is a root canal and neither is pleasant."

Malcolm laughs shortly through his nose and rubs his hand up and down her arm, fingers appreciating the difference between well cared for skin and rough, expensive lace. A deep breath results in the onslaught of Acqua Di Parma fragrances wafting up his nose. She smells like holidays by the seaside and earthy oriental flowers. She smells like Nicola Murray smells when she hasn't been working for sixteen hours straight. She smells like his days when they're full but not disastrous. She does not smell like his nights.

While Nicola is, professionally, often an enormous hindrance to him and his sanity, personally he really doesn't mind her company. Personally he barely even objects to her crying on his shoulder, but for the fact that he wishes James Fucking Murray would stop making her cry. He would also rather be in a less expensive shirt while she dribbles mascara and snot on it, but this is a minor point of contention.

"Maybe I should've let yeh get yer tits out for the unionists. I could've texted James some progress shots." Nicola laughs against his shoulder once more, and Malcolm inexplicably feels like it's an accomplishment. "He's a fucken' moron, Nic'la," he continues with genuine ferocity. "I mean I know I like to call you a frump but he's totally shitting mad to go off fucking his secretary when he has you. And I mean genuinely mentally infirm. I'd call him fucking retarded but it'd be a compliment. He's right up there with the women who drink their own piss to lose weight. He's a fucken' ant that's on workers' comp because it head-butted a fucking acorn too many times, right? You know what I mean? He's a beslubbering cock-wart on a micro-prick." Nicola smiles humourlessly and turns her head very slightly further into his shoulder, her forehead touching the skin of his neck.

"Thank you for being nice to me. Or at least, directing the horrors of your tongue at someone other than me."

Malcolm turns his face towards her head, brushing his cheek against her hair, mumbling "Ye're welcome, darlin'."

It briefly crosses Nicola's mind that this may be the first time he's called her darling with any intention other than belittling her. She thinks she should object, but she's too tired. "And just for the rec'rd, my tongue is capable of more than horrors."

"Of course. I'm sure it's unleashed its share of political genocides, too." He shoves her slightly with his shoulder, glad to hear her make a joke.

While her crying had subsided for a few minutes, her tears begin to flow freely again as she exclaims in pure frustration "Fuck! I'm never going to be able to leave him."

Malcolm rubs his left hand over his face, trying to summon his political judgement and failing. He smoothes the hand over her hair before returning it to her leg and rubbing her knee supportively through fine chiffon and silk. A Malcolm Tucker who's had one less overlarge martini and one less whiskey would snipe at her, would tell her she's made her own bed. A Malcolm Tucker who is feeling more 'Communications Director' and less 'colleague', less 'friend' would not give her the advice he is about to give her.

"Jesus, Nic'la, you can't live your life for the electorate."

He is surprised when she recoils from him; it's exactly the advice he thought she would want.

"No, it's my job to live my life for the electorate. My whole job. Do you not get that? I know you think I'm shit at it but I actually love my job. I loved it when I was a backbencher, I loved it when I was in Cabinet, and even though, yes, Opposition is complete fucking shit, I love it now. So unfortunately, yes, I do have to live my fucking life for the electorate." He watches her eyes flash with anger before she deflates somewhat. He's a bit disappointed; he enjoys her when she's challenging him, standing up to him. Silently she sinks back into his shoulder.

"All I'm sayin' is, pet, if you need out we can spin yeh out."

Nicola's voice is little more than a whisper. "Thank you."

They remain silent until the car pulls up in front of Nicola's house. There is a light glowing softly on the doorstep, and the flickering of the television is visible from a room inside. For no apparent reason, Malcolm is reluctant to let her go, but Nicola makes the decision for him, gently pulling out of his grasp and staring at him levelly, waiting for him to let her out. He says nothing, but opens the door and slides out of the MG, waiting for her to follow. She emerges shrouded in her coat once again, and just as she's about to say goodnight, Malcolm leans back into the car and says "I'm going to see Mrs Murray inside."

When his hand settles on her back again, Nicola can't help but mull on how much she wants to withdraw back into his arms. She's sure it's only because James hasn't been this caring towards her in years, but that in and of itself is frightening. To be less caring than the Scottish Simon Cowell is to barely register on the Affection Richter Scale.

When Nicola unlocks the door she spies Holly in the living room. For a reason utterly unbeknownst to her, Malcolm is still trailing her in obedient silence.

"How were they?" Nicola queries, unbuttoning her coat and tossing it over a chic striped grandmother chair in the corner of the room.

"Terrors as usual. No, they were perfect. I think they must take after your dress. Have I mentioned that you look totally stunning?"

"One or fifty times. Thank you, darling." Nicola smiles, patting Holly on the shoulder affectionately.

"Actually think you should be thanking me for that, Nic'la. I fucking chose it."

Nicola rounds on him with an arched eyebrow, and for a minute he thinks they might go back to normal, she might get over her upset and find a way to emotionally shut herself off from her husband. Part of him, a very large part actually, would warmly welcome the complete emotional excommunication of James Murray from her mind.

"Oh, hi Mr Tucker. I was so busy perving on my boss I forgot my manners." Nicola playfully flicks Holly on the arm while thanking every force of the universe for delivering the young woman to her.

"Easy to do tonight. How're yeh doin', Hol?"

"Not too bad. Just finished exams for the semester so I can't complain."

"How long until you're qualified?"

"Still a year. Starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel, though. Part of it's placement."

"Well, let me know which hospital yeh end up in. I'm going to ask for yeh next time I get into a bar brawl."

Holly laughs even though she thinks he's probably not exaggerating about his propensity towards bar brawls. It's not as if he doesn't spend enough time in politics fighting, of course he needs to get his fists involved too. "I will do, Mr Tucker."

Nicola's hands are still settled lightly on Holly's shoulder, and Malcolm wishes he were more equipped to read her body language in personal situations. Is she always this tactile with Holly, or is she looking for support? He can't be sure either way.

"Is James home yet?" Nicola asks Holly softly, keeping her voice conversational, battering away the hope and fear that she feels.

"No, he's not. He texted earlier and said he might crash in the hotel they've got their function in. You know how his work dos get."

Malcolm watches Nicola's fingers tighten on Holly's shoulder before releasing it entirely. Malcolm can almost see every muscle she flexes to arrange a ballerina's smile on her matte red lips.

"Of course. Albany's legendary piss ups." Her tone isn't perfect this time. Malcolm hears her miss the note, fall slightly flat of the melody on the song sheet from which she's trying to sing. Just as he's thinking these things it occurs to Malcolm that he knows Nicola Murray entirely too fucking well, and he doesn't like it. He could tell if Hugh Abbott was terrified of him or not, not whether he was trying to stave off a tidal wave of emotions, and Malcolm liked it that way. Jesus, he could barely read Tom this well and he spent fifty hours a day with him. How is it he can pick up on these little quirks of intonation when it comes to Nicola Murray? He doesn't like it. He doesn't like that at some point she became Nicola to him, not just the frumpy bitch from DoSAC. A real and complete person for whom he has some affinity.

"Look, I'd better get back. Press Club fuckers to eviscerate before the early edition." His lips quirk a little, a grudging smile where she expected a genuine one, expected the glee of being able to verbally disembowel one of the journalists he must interact with as a necessary evil of his job.

"Of course. I'll see you out."

The pair pauses before Nicola's heavy yellow front door. The colour had made him flinch when he'd first seen it, but now it's like a little landmark of Impending Murray Madness, and part of him doesn't mind the impending chaos it promises. Sometimes, when he is especially sleep deprived and over-caffeinated, part of him even looks forward to seeing it.

"Are yeh going to be alrigh'?"

"Yes. Yes, of course." She says. She hits the notes this time, but curls her arms around her ribcage protectively. Because he's already spent the car ride telling her exactly what he thinks of her husband, Malcolm decides to refrain. Instead he peels one of her hands away from her body and pulls her into his chest. Nicola is suddenly very worried that she may cry again, but she maintains her composure like the professional she is. Malcolm doesn't hold her for long, and will never admit that largely his action is due to wanting to feel the stiff lace of her dress under his hands again as much as offering some semblance of comfort to his colleague.

"I know I don't..." His hand flies to his face and rubs it wearily. "I'm not good at the encouragement bullshit, righ'? Ye're a big girl and I shouldn't still be tryin' to fuckin' Ferberize you. But you were... Yeh did really well tonight. The speech was" a breath, as if he's about to break bad news. Most people would be about to tell her they have cancer with that tone. Malcolm Tucker utters the words "Really good."

She can sense he's about to go on, and knows him well enough to know that his continuance will only result in him backing away from the statement, saying something like 'that was the least incompetent I've ever seen you,' and she doesn't want to hear it. She holds up a hand to stop him.

"Thank you. Really."

"Yeah, well, don't fuckin' get used to it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"If yeh need any help - with the whole impotent puss-sack of a husband thing, I can sort it."

"I appreciate that, Malcolm."

"Righ', now get some fucking sleep. I don't want yeh looking like a screen test for hobbit makeup for the hospital walk-through tomorrow, alrigh'?" Nicola rolls her eyes, and once again they are almost back to normal. Nicola pulls open the door and mumbles "Goodnight, Malc" as he peels past her, brushing her elbow with his fingertips as he goes.

"Nigh', pet."

Nicola almost starts at the epithet. She's not quite sure what's happened between them tonight, but it has been a very unusual shift indeed.

While Nicola is contemplating this, Holly pads into the hallway behind Nicola and watches Malcolm retreat back to the car alongside her boss.

"Isn't he normally kind of... shoutier and swearier than that?"

Nicola nods, eyes following the departing car. "I'm surprised he didn't have an aneurism from bottling up all his expletives."

When Nicola slides into her car the next morning, there is a copy of every leading newspaper ready and waiting on the seat next to her. On the top of the stack is a yellow post-it note bearing the words 'Well fucking done' in a familiar hand.

Shifting the post-it Nicola takes in the headline on the first paper.

Murray rallies troops for election victory.

Below it is a photo of her gesturing with one hand, leaning forward into the microphone at the podium from last night. She looks like a leader. The next paper has run with Our next PM? and a series of photos of her entering the ball. The society section of one of the trashier daily rags has chosen Prime Ministerial Material before dissecting every inch of her gown, alongside a short interview with the designer. She hates to admit it, but Malcolm was absolutely right on the dress.

Within a moment her phone starts buzzing insistently in her hand. James.

Nicola rejects seven calls, mumbling that her husband can go fuck himself under her breath before continuing to flick through the papers. After a few minutes and a few more calls, a text flashes up on her screen; it reads only 'What the fuck are you doing with Tucker?'

At first she takes it to mean that James was somehow unaware that she would have staff at a work related function, but eventually she stumbles upon the source of the problem. She has no idea how it got there, certainly didn't notice anyone with a camera at the time, but there, larger than life in the Mail (of course it's the fucking Mail) is a picture of Malcolm spinning her out across the dance floor and her laughing contentedly. The caption below it reads "Harmony in Opposition ranks. Nicola Murray dances with Communications Director Malcolm Tucker."

Nicola has to wait less than a whole ring for Malcolm to pick up the phone. "Did you do this?" She asks with no preamble.

"Can we use full sentences at six am, d'you think?" Malcolm retorts.

"The Mail. Did you do this just to piss off my husband?"

Nicola can almost hear the predatory, self satisfied smile that curls his lips. "Just wanted to show the prick wha' he missed."

"You're incorrigible." Nicola grins.

"I fucking try, darlin'. I fucking try. Now where in Christ's name are yeh? I want to run through the talking points at least fifty eight times before I let you loose on a room full of terminally ill children. 'Specially after what happened to Mannion, and let's be serious, he's not half as shit as you."

With normalcy restored, Nicola returns to her papers. Yesterday may have been a roaring success, but a week is a long time in politics. She may have a marriage that isn't worth the name, but she also has an election to win, and after last night's episode she knows which is worthy of her energy.

Malcolm kicks back in his chair, pulls his glasses off and rubs a hand over his face. He wishes he could have seen James' face when he'd stepped out of his secretary's house and found his wife staring up at him from the front of the Daily Mail, with 'Big mistake, James' written on it in blue biro. He's promised a very expensive bottle of Scotch to the sub-editor at the Mail for hand delivering it with his message, now he probably needs to organise some flowers for Sam and Holly for helping him find the address. Everyone needs a Sam or a Holly.

When Nicola finally strides into the office, all perfect arse and excuse me I have a country to run in eighteen-months'-time, Malcolm feels something loosen in his chest, across his shoulders. She flashes the screen of her phone at him.

"Twenty eight missed calls." She informs him quietly with a wicked smile.

For reasons unknown, or reasons he refuses to name, Malcolm is impossibly glad to see her smile.