#malcolm tucker x original female character(s)
Text
“A New Assistant” - The Thick of It - Chapter 1
Summary: Cabinet reshuffle day, the shit has increased beyond belief, and Malcolm doesn't like change. Especially when his new assistant, Ivy Fisher, is just as coarse as he is.. and a tad hot.
Word Count: 5317
Rating: Mature (for adult situations, language)
Warnings: No Ao3 Warnings, Explicit Language, Homophobic language, fatphobic language, sexist language, ablest language
Categories: F/M, Gen
Tags: Falling in love, crushes, comedy, slow burn, explicit language, original female characters, AU - canon divergence, mutual pining, additional tags to be added
Chapter 2, Chapter 3
Ao3 Link and full work under the cut.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510592/chapters/59169388
Malcolm clapped, and turned around. "Come on, people! Let's get going here," he was shouting, "I've got a to-do list longer here than a fucking Leonard Cohen song!"
The woman, who Malcolm had never bothered to learn the name of, just another office coffee jockey offhandedly mentioned, "Don't you have a new assistant coming in today?"
"Oh, fuck," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "that's the other thing, shit."
Malcolm took a call, ducking into his office. "I've got this-this reshuffle going on, the Leamington Spa by-election coming up, and on top of it I've gotta tame a new fucking pet... yeah, they're giving me a new assistant. Yeah, could be a prostitute for all I care. I've got more on my plate than a spinster at a wedding... yeah, that wasn't a reference to your daughter, by the way, Andrew."
A knock came at the door of his office, and he lowered the phone, pressing a button to end the call. A woman stood there, dressed modestly, not wearing too much makeup. She was dark-haired, short, approaching middle-age. She had steely eyes, both in color and in meaning, that said "I take no shit 'round here!" She was, admittedly, attractive. She was holding a clipboard flat, with a disposable coffee cup balanced on top.
"Hello, I presume you're-" She spoke, with a cockney accent, strangely.
"Malcolm, Malcolm Tucker, you're the newcomer, yeah? Come on, walk and talk." He weakly, in a "dead fish" manner shook her hand, and then brushed past her.
She pressed her lips together, following him. Malcolm walked down the hall, and greeted a friend. "Doug, Doug, Dougie! Look at you, cock the size of Pink Panther's tail. Come have a kit-kat." He shook hands with the scrappy-looking fellow, then turned around.
"Um, I'm afraid I turned it down, Malcolm." Doug apprehensively explained.
The assistant became invisible, neutral.
Malcolm's eyes turned cold, and acute. "You know 90% of household dust is made of human skin? That's what you are. To me."
His phone rang, again, and he answered sharply, "Doug Hayes is a massive abortion. Again, not a reference to your daughter." He sat down in his chair. She stood at the door. "We need somebody to plug this DoSAC hole. Anybody. A fucking mammal with a head." Malcolm whooshed past her again, turning briefly to gesture her to follow.
Malcolm went out to summon someone else. Passing by, a man commented something between a catcall and a teasing gesture at them.
"Shut up!" the two of them both said, at the same time, which surprised both of them. They shared a moment of eye contact that could be a love letter in Yorkshire.
Malcolm returned back to his hell cave. She stood at the door. "Sam, Sam!" He flicked through pages provided for him. "Get me... Nicola Murray. Yeah."
He made eye contact with her, widening his eyes as if to imply the person he was talking to was a moron. "If she says no, well, I don't know, the only other candidate's my left bullock with a fucking smiley face drawn on it... Great. Yeah. Bye!" Malcolm pressed the end call button, once again.
He tossed his phone down on the desk, and rubbed his face. He looked over at her. "Well, come in, what, do I have to invite you exclusively like a vampire?"
She clandestinely rolled her eyes, "No."
"Right. Good. Have a seat."
She sat down. "What's your name?" Malcolm asked, finally, after about her being here for about 15 minutes.
"Ivy."
"Not your Tuesday night stripper name, your full name."
She furrowed her brow, "My name is Ivy. Ivy Amelia Fisher."
He sat up. "Jesus, what were you born on a commune? Are you a fairy tale character?"
"No, and not like yours is any better, Malcolm Tucker." Ivy said his name with such malice. "Go on, I bet your middle name is something daft, like, like..."
"Theodore."
"Yeah, like- wait hang on.." she began stifling a laugh, "is your middle name actually Theodore?"
"It was my granddad's name, look, I don't have time for this. Ivy, go on, set up shop in that corner over there. I've got too much to do today, and I don't need you prodding at me like a male dancer's fat cock at a latex fetish strip bar."
"Right." Ivy stood, and began clearing off piles of needing-to-be-shredded papers that should have been done months ago off of some teacher fold-out type desk. Malcolm got on the phone and began tearing into someone. Ivy started taking notes for insults she can use in the future.
Admittedly, from what Ivy had seen, she looked up to Malcolm. She'd heard about him before she got pigeonholed into it, just vaguely. After cleaning up the litter box for years from some fat cat in another department, she was sure she was ready for Malcolm. And she was, just not exactly in the way she'd expected. She'd been given a list of pointers from the main meat of DoSAC about dealing with him, which went straight in the trash. Ivy preferred learning from experience, anyway.
"Ivy?"
"What?" She looked up.
"What actually is your job?"
His genuinely curious demeanor threw her off completely, "Uh, I'm your assistant. I deal with the, er, horseshit. Making your job a bit easier. Paperwork, coffee runs, yelling at people. The like."
"Really?" Malcolm raised an eyebrow.
"Mhm, now can I finish my housekeeping, sir?" She turned.
"No, actually, you can't. Can you elaborate on the 'yelling at people' part?"
She sighed, and sat down in her creaky office chair. "I've been told, and I've observed, that you do a lot of yelling."
"Yes, I do, it's my favorite part of my day. It's my therapy."
"That's very sad," she pointed a pen at him, "but my job is to do the yelling you don't want do to. Mostly at the insane clown posse of DoSAC upstairs. But I'm sure I have plenty to learn from you, sir, about your sort of.. swearing slam poetry."
"Slam poetry?"
"Christ, have you got Tourette's, yes. You're known for your myriad of insults, especially at the department I was last at. Now let me finish, and maybe I'll yell for you, as a treat." Ivy slammed a stack of 'to shreds' into a bin.
Malcolm, for once, was challenged with the same energy he had. Jesus, she was as uncouth and colorful as he was. Maybe he needed to be put in his place, maybe that's what he was missing. It didn't help that with every insult thrown his way he'd grow more attracted to her. Her soft, curly, dark hair was tamed back only by her hair elastic, which must have been one strong as hell hair elastic, because she had a lot of hair. Her eyes, which were stoic at all times, seemed to be endless.
"Fuck are you staring at?" She interrupted his goo-goo eyes session with a cold remark.
"I'm staring at my fucking computer, now can I work without you accusing me of rape?"
"Jesus Christ, sir." She pinched the bridge of her nose.
Ivy had finished clearing her space, and was obsessively shredding things.
"That's fucking annoying." He remarked, about 5 minutes in.
"Would you prefer me to chew it up and shit it out on your keyboard tonight, sir? This is all your to-shreds, anyway."
"Yeah I would actually." He leaned back, looking at Ivy. "I've got a meeting after lunch with the new Secretary of State, Nicola Murray."
"...Alright?" She folded her hands together on her desk.
"You're coming with me. You can learn a thing or two. Please stay quiet, though."
"Mmm.. okay."
"In regards to lunch," he paused to sigh, "I'm going down to the Sainsbury's on the corner. Make sure the tazmanian shit devil doesn't come 'round and fuck everything up."
"Right."
He grabbed his shoulder bag by the office door. "D'you want anything?"
She looked up at him, squinting and thinking. "Er... yeah," Ivy pulled out her wallet, pulling out a few quid, and holding it up, "a Dr. Pepper."
He left, returning about 20 minutes later, setting a brown bag down on her desk, which startled her. He said nothing, collapsing in his desk chair.
"Thank you, sir." She unrolled the top of the bag.
"Huh?"
"Thanks." Ivy raised her eyebrows, reassuring what she said.
He made some vague Scottish agreement noise, digging into whatever he's eating. She looked inside the bag, which held her money that she gave to him and her pop. Ivy looked at him, then back down at the act of kindness. She decided against saying anything, since the environment was already thick with tension.
They finished eating. Ivy had her salad that she brought from home and her Dr. Pepper. Malcolm enjoyed his deli food. And then it was up to the circus for the pair of them.
"Is this the number 1 ladies' detective agency?" Malcolm and Ivy almost ran into Nicola's office. Glenn was in the middle of doing something stupid.
Nicola stood, "Malcolm Tucker! The real deal. Hello." They shook hands.
"The real deal! Good to see you. You're looking great." He gave his false friendly smile.
"And I'm guessing this is your new assistant...?" The taller of the two women questioned.
Ivy stuck out her hand for her to shake, "Ivy Fisher."
"Yes, exactly." She nodded, and took her hand.
Malcolm turned to the other two morons in the room, "Alright, Hinge and Bracket, time to go and hang up your lady-cocks."
Ivy slinked back a bit, and let Malcolm continue talking. "Nicola Murray! Here you are, Secretary of State for the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship."
"Yep, I now have one of the longest job titles in Western politics. Thank God I don't have to wear a lapel badge."
Ivy looked out the glass and at 2 of the 3 stooges. One of them was mirroring the action Glenn was doing earlier. She smiled at them, not in a sympathetic or nice way, more just to laugh at them.
"It's a pity that we couldn't just make an abbreviation of it, you know, like PFI. Which I think stands for Pretty Fucking Imbarassing." Malcolm began, then continued, snidely, with "If you're a bit sloppy with the details. Which clearly your fucking husband is."
Ivy had started a list earlier of things that Malcolm said that she could later bring up in conversation. Either for purposes of teasing and berating or to have a psychology evaluation with. The list was a t-chart, which was directly on a piece of liner paper that Ivy kept at the back of the clipboard at all times. There wasn't much on there, aside from "Doug?" (which was regarding why Malcolm was yelling at Doug about household dust) on the side of psychological evaluation, and "PFI? Imbarassing?" which was on the haranguing side.
The woman in the flower print dress inhaled, and then began explaining, "Okay, look, James works for Albany, fine. He wasn't even working there when the contract was awarded-"
"Don't worry, that was just me-" Malcolm smiled again, beginning to laugh.
"Okay. Right. Fine."
"I mean, that's the sort of thing the press will throw at you." He glanced over to the other, shorter woman, as if he was speaking to both of them. "I mean, you step out of line, they'll be all over you. Like a pigeon on a chip. Is that your chair?"
Nicola looked at the prison jumpsuit colored chair. "Oh, God, yeah. It's cool, isn't it? It's got lumbar support." She slapped the back of it.
Ivy moved closer to Malcolm, sensing he was about to leave. "Bin it." He said starkly, grinning. "People don't like their politicians to be comfortable. They don't like you having expenses, they don't like you being paid, they'd rather you live in a fucking cave." She bit her lip, trying not to smile at Malcolm's words.
"Okay, fine, so what should I be sitting on? Should I just get an upturned KFC bucket?"
He grew agitated, lowering his brow. "Just a fucking normal chair. Right? Not a fucking massive vibrating throne."
"God, fine, I'll get a new chair." Nicola gave in, furrowing her brow.
"No, don't get a new chair, the press will go ape shit. 'New Secretary of State wasting money on chairs,' they'll kill you. Don't do anything until you've settled in. At least a week or two."
"Right, so you want me to bin this chair, and not buy a new one. Great. That KFC bucket is sounding like a good option now."
The room fell to a silence. Then Malcolm broke that silence, with "So, uh, you've got three kids, yeah?"
"Uh, I've got four. Yeah."
"Four?"
"Yeah! Katie's 16, she's the eldest. She's just left school."
"Not going to a college, to university?"
"Um, she's a bit of a rebel."
"What sort of a rebel? I mean, so what are we talking here, are we talking a pierced naval or holidays at Pakistani training camp?" Malcolm rested his face on his fist.
"It's.. It's chiefly heroin. Although she has cut down since getting pregnant by that Nigerian people-smuggler, because the track marks would have affected her porn career." Ivy and Malcolm both raised an eyebrow, in surprise.
Another woman, Terri, Ivy thought was her name, came in, silently. She startled Ivy. "I'm sorry to disturb. Um... Morning Malcolm. And morning..."
"Ivy Fisher."
"Right. Morning, Ivy. Just wanted to give you a few things here, that's change from the fruit salad. This is this morning's paper. Do excuse me." She left, and Malcolm had crossed his arms.
"I'm surprised that you haven't vetted me, I thought you'd know about the kids."
Malcolm looked around, "It's just that 'cause you were just sort of, you were a bit of a late-ish kind of appointment. That didn't quite give me the time to, you know, to fuck the Is and fist the Ts as Robert Robertson might say. And I had to spend a chunk of my morning, you know, catching Ivy here up to speed." He gestured to her.
"Right, I understand that. It's just that, it... really doesn't take that much time. To read someone's profile, that is.."
Ivy rolled her eyes, knowing and feeling exactly what Malcolm is feeling, and what he's about to unleash. "Well, I didn't have time, and I'm sorry about that. Okay? Fine. Okay, let's do it now. Okay. Mrs. Walton, what about these other kids? What ages are they?"
"They're 11, nine, and five."
Malcolm furrowed his brow, "11?"
"Mhm.."
"So that's uh, secondary school?"
"No, she's uh, still at primary, state primary. Lovely little school with terrible SATS results, but, you know, really good kind of broad demographic and steel band."
"So, she will be going to a secondary school, what, in September?"
"Yeah. Yeah, so um... I can see where this is going, um, it's not an issue."
"Great! Well, if it's not an issue I'll just fucking toddle off, then. I'll go and have a nice relaxing wee sleep under my duvet. Probably wouldn't even have to tug myself off 'cause I'm so fucking relaxed about that. 'Cause I know there is no fucking issue here. Right?"
"She's not going to the comprehensive, Malcolm. She's going to a local independent school."
Ivy sighed, and he put his hands on his hips. "Jesus H. fucking Corbett. Do you honestly think- do you honestly believe that as a minister, you can get away with that? You are saying that uh, all your local state schools, all the schools that this government has drastically improved, are knife-addled rape sheds, and that's not a big story? For fuck's sake.. sort it or abort it."
"Let's get this clear, my family is off-limits. Alright? This job is not going to get anywhere near my husband and my kids. It just doesn't."
"Of course it fucking does. As per the wee barcode and the serial number under your right armpit, you are now built and owned by the state. And you are under the spotlight 24 hours a day, darling! You know what you are? You're a fucking human dartboard. And Eric fucking Bristow's on the oche flinging a million darts made of human shit right at you. Can you take that? Can you?"
"Okay, you, the all-swearing eye. You didn't even know how many kids I had. You had to ask me. You!" Nicola pointed to Ivy, "did you even know my fucking name before we came in this office?"
Ivy grew cross, "of course I did, what fucking mongol can't remember Nicola Murray?"
"Hey! Don't bring Ivy into this!" Malcolm pointed in an accusatory manner at her.
"So who on Earth in the press is even going to know or care?"
He lowered his voice, "Do you remember The Big Breakfast? Remember that programme?"
"Yes!"
"Remember how Chris Evans started that, remember how it was a big success? And then they had that guy, Johnny Vaughn, remember him? Everybody loved him. Fuck knows why, but they loved him. Do you know what this is here? This, here, is fucking series 10 of The Big Breakfast." He gestured out into the DoSAC office area. "And do you know what you are? You're the fucking dinner lady that they have asked to come and present the show. The reason that I didn't know about you and your children is 'cause you were so low down on the list of candidates for this job, I didn't even have a chance to look into you. So low. Way, way, way, way, way, way, way low."
She sighed, and Malcolm continued with his incredulous self-esteem attacking tear. "You are now being scrutinized for what you wear, what you say. For your hair, your shoes, your fucking earring, your fucking cleavage, and your dress. Which, by the way, is way too loud."
"Too loud?"
"Yeah, I'm getting fucking tinnitus here! Look, your crooked husband I can make go away. But your crooked husband combined with you being worried about your underage daughter coming home up the duff from some truanting bastard, I cannot. She goes to the comp, okay?" Malcolm stood back again, and left in a hurry, with Ivy tailing behind.
They returned back to Malcolm's office. Ivy slapped her clipboard down, and Malcolm slapped his notebook down, both exhaling immensely and collapsing into their respective chairs.
"I hope you got some of that." He said.
Ivy looked up, then flipped through pages on her clipboard. "Uh-huh. The Big Breakfast, knife-addled rape sheds, obnoxious chair-"
"No, I mean, in regards to the press."
"Ah."
"Yeah, what I said applies to you, too now. Not as intensely as her, but certainly-"
"Watch my back?"
"Watch your back, yeah."
Ivy went back to filling out paperwork. There was a lot of it since her recent employment. Malcolm interrupted her, "have you got any kids?"
She didn't look up, but she raised an eyebrow. "No. You?"
"Nah. Never had time for a wife or kids."
"What, are you Paul the real estate novelist?" Ivy smiled, looking up.
He smiled, chuckling, "No." Ivy was taken back by seeing him unironically and genuinely laugh. He stared at her wedding finger, seeing it was empty. "And by the looks of it, you don't have a husband either."
She shook her head, "No..." Looking up, she continued, "Never really found the right one. I know, fucking cliche. Would rather grow balls and be castrated by a ceiling fan than hear anyone ever say that to me, but it's the truth." Ivy returned to her work, looking at her laptop. She turned her attention to a note that she had tacked onto the side. "Oh, cabinet meeting today," she announced to him.
"Yeah, let's hope Nicola will get her shit scooped out and handed to her there, put her in her place. I didn't like the insubordinate smug bitch." Malcolm leaned back in his chair.
"I didn't like her either, came after me for no fucking reason."
"Well, let's go over there and give her hell, for no fucking reason."
"We can do that?"
"I'll think of something to hassle her with on the way over. Come on, I'm bored anyway."
They both stepped out of the office and down and out. Malcolm spoke to some bloke on the way down.
"Hey, what's wrong with you, you look like you've shat a Lego garage or something."
"Jim Lane's daughter is standing as an independent in Leamington Spa."
Malcolm turned back around, putting emphasis on the first letter to come out of his mouth, "For fuck's sake... Fuck! This is going to split our vote."
"Jesus." Ivy quietly interjected.
"Do you think we're in trouble? Maybe we should have chosen her over Liam Bentley."
"No, she thinks just because her dead fat-arse dad was the MP that gives her the right to be our candidate. No, no no. This isn't tsarist Russia. It's not the fucking Dimblebys."
"What do we do?"
"We send everyone up there to support Liam Bentley, including the Prime Minister."
"You want to send Tom up there?"
"Yeah, fuck it, he'll be alright as long as he doesn't do the smile." The other bloke smiling awkwardly, mirroring what Tom would have done. "You hit the phones, right? I'll be with you in two shakes of a crying baby."
Ivy didn't know what was going on. To be honest that was the environment of the facility anyway. No one had their shit in a pile, no one had a purpose in life, they were just walking about in a mad trance at half the pace of an elderly snail, like a mad junkie in a Tesco's.
They reached their destination, and Malcolm began by haranguing Nicola about the outfit.
"Wow. Black widow."
"Malcolm. Ivy."
"Congratulations, first cabinet, heard you wowed them."
Nicola looked smug as ever. "The meeting's literally just finished, how would you know that?"
"Russian spies." Ivy made an imaginary rainbow over her head to be sarcastically spooky.
Malcolm smiled, "the PM texted me, he's very impressed. You could be nominated for best newcomer."
"Really?"
"No." Malcolm smiled again. So did Ivy.
The three made their way back up to Malcolm and Ivy's hell cave of torture and harassment. Ivy sat at her desk, working on paperwork again, but listening in.
"I see you've set up shop, Ivy."
"Yup. Had a shit ton to shred." She glared at Malcolm, who sat down.
"You knew Jim Lane, didn't you? The dead fucker. God rest him."
"Yeah, I did, a bit, back home. Very sad, all those weeks on life support... Nice chair." Nicola looked annoyed that Malcolm was allowed to have nice chairs, like a jealous arsehole of a kid on Christmas.
"Sad? What, lying on your back getting fed nutrient through a tube? It's my idea of a fucking holiday."
"Getting both a catheter and a colostomy bag also a part of that holiday, sir? You must be into some kinky shit." Ivy remarked.
"Shut up." He said lightly. "How'd you like to go to Leamington?"
"...When?"
"Today. It's never too soon to go to Leamington."
"I've just taken over a department, I have a hell of a-"
"You've been asked by the PM specifically to pop along to Leamington, and do some photo ops with Liam Bentley, supporting him. Yeah?"
"I don't really have any choice, do I?"
"If you wanna keep your job, no." Ivy interjected again.
“Of course you have a choice, you can decide exactly how you’re going to say yes. You can do it with a voice. Have fun with it.” Malcolm looked briefly over at Ivy, who began murmuring in a Mickey Mouse type voice.
Nicola sighed, “Yes. In my own voice.”
“I look forward to toasting your success.” He motioned for her to leave, and she did. “Have a lovely time in Leamington, yeah?” Nicola didn’t respond.
Malcolm pushed the door closed, sighing and collapsing back into his seat. “Jesus. Never easy. Never fucking easy.”
Ivy capped her pen, looking up at him stoically. Ivy thought he was mildly attractive too. In an unconventional way. She was excited to unravel the enigma surrounding him. This hard shell of a man, who smelled like clam chowder (maybe that’s the shell part, actually), who obviously has no friends. It was indeed sad. He was indeed, clearly sad, and maybe a tiny bit sexy. But, besides all this, she thought her first day was going well, so far. She was already paling around with Malcolm. She had learned a lot of new insults to hurl at people who were being dickheads.
“Do you think I should introduce myself to everyone upstairs? Formally, I mean?”
He had his face in his hands, but he looked up and blinked, then replied. “Uhh.. I don’t know, I mean, I think they’ll sort of find out. On their own. I don’t really like to tell them anything, it makes it more enjoyable when they find out about it on their own somehow. Like a chicken with it’s head cut off.”
“God, they’ll make up some daft little story sooner or later about how I’m either related to you somehow or that we’re fucking.” Ivy laughed. Malcolm chuckled along, noticing how pretty she was when she laughed.
The room and conversation fell to a lull. They continued to do paperwork, with breaks in between where Malcolm would berate someone on the phone.
“Oh, shit.” Malcolm was checking his watch when she looked up. “Nicola’s on in about 5 minutes.”
They both stood up at the same time and made their way to the DoSAC office space.
“Malcolm- oh, and…?” Glenn asked.
“Ivy Fisher.”
“Ivy. Right. Nicola will be there in a minute.”
The DoSAC group gathered around the crappy telly, waiting for Nicola to do her act, and try not to make a complete fool of herself. Olly was ducking around on the screen. Ivy and Malcolm leaned against a desk next to one another.
“She’s handling this very well, Malcolm.” Terri explained, as if Malcolm doesn’t have eyes of his fucking own. “Don’t you think?”
Malcolm was holding a print off of Liam Bentley’s campaign poster, examining it. He covered a part of it and whispered to Ivy, “I am bent.”
She snorted, “better not happen.”
He stepped up, “She’s looking a bit, uh.. A little bit edgy.”
Nicola had moved in front of the L, forming a perfect shot that said “I am bent.” Just as Malcolm had predicted. Chaos erupted in the office, people were shouting at Terri to get her to move. Ivy bit her lip, trying not to laugh.
Malcolm calmed Glenn down, and slinked back. Ivy was caught up watching the telly.
“Ivy! Come on.” He called after her. If Olly was here, he’d say something stupid, like “daddy’s calling.”
About halfway walking back to his office, Malcolm got another call. He absentmindedly walked back to the office area, which irritated Ivy to no end.
“Well you know what, Howard? She’s not bent, neither in the sense of being corrupted or being gay. And by the way, that’s an incredibly homophobic headline, you massive poof.” He shot a look at her, and then a different, more cross look at where he was going. “You’ve got egg on your face, Howard. You over-easy pissbag.”
“Oh, hey, Yoko Ono and the two remaining Beatles, piss off.”
“Right, any chance we could just skip over the usual abuse bit and move on to the part where we sort this all out?”
“Very low chance, but let’s see.” Ivy hugged her notebook.
“Yeah. Uh, you need to make a decision. Are you still going ahead with the private school? Because if you are, we need to draft a statement saying that your husband is leaving his job.”
Nicola looked at him in disbelief. “Are you taking the piss? You’re expecting me to choose between fucking up my daughter’s life or fucking up my husband’s life?”
Ivy nodded, and Malcolm said “Yeah.”
“So I just have to choose between them, like they’re on some fucking cosmic dessert trolley?”
“Listen, darling, I can’t fight on two fronts, you know? If the press run with both these stories you’re fucking dead.”
“You set this up, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“To put me in my place? Or get back at me for ignoring your advice? Or some other weird perceived slight that doesn’t in any way merit this massive fucking out-of-proportion Israeli-style response.” She yelled towards the end there.
“You don’t realize, I’m your fairy fucking godfather, right? I’m your fairy fucking godfather. And fuck it, she’s your fairy fucking godmother,” he gestured to Ivy, “fairy fucking godparents, but we haven’t got a magic wand that we can wave about, all we’ve got is a fucking Blackberry and a chiv. You’ve got a decision to make, make it. Talk to you later.”
It didn’t occur to Ivy until after they left that she was included in the conversation. Re-analyzing the words in her head, she realized he compared them to a married couple. Ivy smiled and brushed her hair back with her hand.
Nicola ran after them like some puppy dog. “Malcolm! Sorry, can we just carry on talking about that thing? Was it you who positioned me there?”
“God, why do you care?” Ivy said.
“You know what the first sign of madness is? Paranoia.” He pressed the lift button. “Have you seen that film, you know, A Beautiful Mind? The one with that, er.. Russell Crowe? The one with the maths guy who thinks that the CIA are working away in a shed at the bottom of his garden. That’s you.”
“No, I am not the mad one here. You are the mad one. You’re Russell Crowe.”
“No, no, no, no, no. You are Russell Crowe. And you need to fucking listen to me, Russell, you fucking antipodean fucking kangaroo-loving fruitcake. See, this poster stuff? That’s fucking small fry. That’s fucking whitebait, Russ, me old cobber.” Ivy and Malcolm walked into the elevator. “The really horrible stuff, that’s all still about to happen to you, right?”
Nicola looked hesitant at entering the lift. “You coming in?” Ivy invited her.
“Uh, no…”
They both raised an eyebrow at her. “I can’t- I don’t use lifts, I’m claustrophobic.”
Ivy held the “stay open” button on the lift. “What the fuck?”
“You’re what?” He had eyes the size of a baseball at this point.
“Not hugely, I can be in rooms, you’ve seen that, I just don’t do lifts, that’s all.”
He dramatically spun around, as if to measure the dimensions himself. “This lift is fucking huge! I mean this is bigger than some rooms, this is bigger than some people’s flats!”
“It’s about not being able to get out.”
“Oh, well, that’s great. That’s fucking great. That’s another thing right there. Not only have you got a fucking bent husband and a fucking daughter that gets taken to school on a fucking sedan chair, you’re also fucking mental!”
Malcolm continued to tear into her for the next minute and a half or so, comparing her to a myriad of things, most notably being a coffee machine. He looked at Ivy, who pressed the floor button finally.
“Jesus fucking Christ. That’s all I can say, is Jesus fucking Christ.” Ivy rested herself against the side of the lift, crossing her arms.
He rubbed his face, and then looked at her. “I know. Hey, by the way, you can jump in, now.”
“Hm?”
“I said you can jump in. I won’t get cross.”
“Other person might.”
“So? That’s half the job.” He grinned. “Making people cross.”
She smirked, looking at him. “And half the enjoyment, too.”
#the thick of it#malcolm tucker#peter capaldi#malcolm tucker x original female character(s)#pcap#jamie's fanfics#fanfic#fic#fanfiction
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
“A New Assistant” - The Thick Of It - Chapter 3
Summary: Nicola juggles a grieving redhead and a moronic, neurotic press advisor. Ivy and Malcolm have a falling out.
Word Count (this chapter): 5108
Rating: Mature (For adult situations, language)
Warnings: No Ao3 Warnings, Explicit Language, homophobic language, fatphobic language, sexist language, ablest language, implied/referenced past abuse
Categories: F/M, Gen
Tags: Falling in love, crushes, comedy, slow burn, explicit language, original female characters, AU - canon divergence, mutual pining, friendship, friends to lovers, angst, implied/referenced past abuse, additional tags to be added
Chapter 1, Chapter 2
Full chapter and Ao3 link under the cut.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510592/chapters/59509222
Ivy and Malcolm walked down the halls of the hotel, briskly, and popping along the way to say hello to mindless news people and other members of the cabinet, who were all nervously preparing and memorizing speeches. Ivy wasn't sure why Malcolm had invited her. She was gonna be like a bump on a log the whole weekend, since she was still too new to fully deal with the press on her own. Maybe Malcolm saw it as a training opportunity. Maybe he just wanted to not deal with a bunch of bullshit this weekend. Maybe he just wanted to spend time with her.
The latter was what was actually true. Malcolm just wanted to spend time alone with Ivy. I mean, it wasn't weird to invite your assistant with you to the party conference, right? It wasn't weird to get a room with two twin beds. Right?
Well, actually. Touch of a problem with that. As sitcom as it is, when they opened the door to the room, there was only one bed. A queen size bed. It's as if the fucking people who booked the hotel were trying to tell them something. It was actually pretty likely, rather, because they both had recently pissed off one of the desk jockeys in the department. It wouldn't have been hard to make a quick last-minute change.
"You're actually fucking kidding me, right?" Malcolm said, massaging the bridge of his nose as they entered.
"I'll sleep on the couch."
"What? No. No, I'll just call and ask for a room change. Hang on." He set his small suitcase down and made his way over to the side of the bed with the phone. He sunk in immediately. The bed creaked dreadfully. He cringed.
She sat about 3/4 of the way down the bed on the opposite side of him.
"Hello, sorry, is it possible we could get a room change? You see it's just that-... Jesus Christ, you're kidding. FUCK!" He slammed the phone down, rubbing his face. She whipped her head around. "Hm?"
"They're completely booked. No other rooms."
"Looks like I'm sleeping on the couch, then." She shrugged, looking back and staring at the painting hanging on the wall above the dresser. It had blues coinciding with a dash of yellow, a close-up of a field of forget-me-not flowers. "Pretty painting."
Malcolm was lost in thought, staring at the neutral carpet grain that hadn't been changed since the 70s. "Huh?"
"That painting. It's pretty. I don't know the name of those flowers. And trust me, I've seen a lot of flowers, I used to work in the funeral industry."
He turned, shifting further down the bed. "They look familiar." Ivy looked over at him, confused. "My mother used to garden. I'd help her occasionally."
She smiled, in a snarky manner. "Malcolm Tucker's a poof."
"Shut up. Right," he clapped, rising. "We've got to get a wiggle on, we've got reporters to jack off."
She stood up as well, following him. "A wiggle on?"
"You know what I mean. Come on, come on, come on."
They met up with some press people, among other friendly faces. It was still fairly early. T minus 2 hours until Nicola inevitably embarrasses herself.
"I mean, these are the worst pictures I've seen, really, they are. I don't know who was taking them." He pointed to one of his mates' ID badge photos. The bloke picked it up, looking at it briefly. "They've got Roy fucking Orbison doing that."
"I've heard he wasn't even blind." Ivy added, elbowing him. She was purposefully trying to embarrass him, as a joke.
"Malcolm?" The woman who's badge read Angela Heaney inquired.
"Yeah?"
"Have you seen Rob Holt's blog today?"
"Oh, yeah, of course, I read Rob Holt's blog. I read all the blogs. 'Cause basically I'm an underemployed fat fucking loser. Got nothing better to do with my time than sit in my bedroom like a fat space-hopper in a tracksuit, reading inconsequential, unspellchecked shit, fabricated by other fat, farting, fucking losers."
Ivy pressed her lips together, going wide eyed briefly to show her annoyance, albeit agreement. Angela began to explain, "Well, he's saying that the big health numbers in the PM's speech, they're from a false sample. Apparently, they're lifted from Andrew Dover's blog, not ONS."
Malcolm shot a look at Ivy, who immediately pretended to take a call, and walk off. "I wouldn't take any notice of it. There's nothing in that at all." He said.
"Nothing?"
"Nope, nothing. Catch you laters, alright?" He walked away, joining Ivy, who looked at him as soon as she said, "Whoever fucking leaked it is going to be leaking drool for the next six months after I've beat them into a shell of a human with a golf club. Fix it, or you'll hear worse from Malcolm. Right. Bye."
"Jesus. You're really hurling the colorful insults now."
She brushed past him, and began walking to their next destination. He followed. "Well, I learned from the best."
“Okay. So,” He clapped, “I need to phone the PM and tell him.”
“Uh, we could go up to the halls. No one’s up there.”
“Yes, right,” he pointed at her, “good. Get away from all these leeching journalists.”
They took the lift up a couple levels. Ivy didn’t expect him to stay near the lifts. No, Malcolm liked pacing. She wasn’t sure if it was a nervous habit of his (because she wasn’t sure if Malcolm was ever nervous,) or if walking around just made him feel important. Either scenario was realistic.
They lurked around the halls. Ivy was pretty sure their room was nearby. Maybe she’d pressed the same button as before by muscle memory. She could hear background chatter from various rooms of important people cheersing and toasting for important causes. But it was mostly drowned out by Malcolm’s stern voice. Being honest with herself, Malcolm was more important than anyone in those rooms.
She expected to get ambushed at least once by some eavesdropping journalist, like Nicola did. Oh, who was she kidding, Malcolm wouldn’t let that happen. He’s got a stick far too up his arse for that. He was like a light sleeping soldier in a warzone with that sort of thing.
What they did get ambushed by, instead was the crack-addicted Timothee Chalamet (Or Olly, if you prefer,) and a ginger woman.
“Oh, hey, Malcolm, Ivy. How’s it hanging?”
“Like the Gardens of Babylon. Do you know where Lord Clarkham’s room is? I’m gonna go and try and stick his balls in his fucking trouser press.”
Ivy looked Olly up and down, then smirked sarcastically, “I see you’ve pulled.” She winked.
“Uh- look this is Julie Price. She is the people’s champion that Nicola is announcing in her speech.”
“Julie Price?” They both stopped in their tracks and turned, shaking hands gently with her.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Ivy cocked her head sympathetically. “It was a massive tragedy, bless you. Are you being looked after? Olly treating you well?”
“Oh- oh not bad, yeah.”
“You stick with Olly. He’s a good guy. I know he looks a bit like an anorexic Leo Sayer, there, but… Hey, could I have a picture taken with you?” He pulled out his phone, handing it to Ivy. “I’ve got a little collection of memories, you know. Mandela and stuff. Ivy, could you do the honors?”
“Mhm! Of course.” She stepped back. “Smile!” She said.
Julie flirtatiously hit Malcolm, calling him a stunner or something along those lines. Ivy took it as an opportunity to mischievously scowl at Olly. “You really are impressive. Hey, do you know who else is impressed by you? The PM.” He mentioned, grinning.
“He has a nice part in his speech where he’d be honored to introduce you and have you on. If, you’re up to that, that is.” She clasped her hands in front of her.
“B-But that might clash, a bit. Uh, you know because Nicola’s having her on.” Olly said, looking pathetic.
Julie excused herself to the restrooms. Olly clenched his fists, desperately trying to convince Malcolm otherwise. “Y-You can’t do that!”
“You gonna stamp your foot and slam the door to your bedroom next, little Timmy?” Ivy mocked.
“Boo-hoo, Olly. Can do, have done.”
“You want us to think of a whole entire new speech in 2 hours? 2 hours?”
“We don’t want you to do anything, but if you’d like to keep your reputation and probably your jobs, you will.”
“But that’s not fair!” He made a concerned face.
“Suck it up, fuckface. If she goes on with Nicola, she’ll be watched by 15 house-bound mouthbreathers. And the swelling ranks of the unemployed, who hate us, by the way. If she goes on with Tom, it’ll make 10:00 o’ clock news.”
“It’s for the greater good.”
“Yes, the greater good, thank you, Ivy.”
“Julie, hello. Feeling better?” Ivy smiled gently, yet falsely. “So, what’ll it be, Julie? Would you like to stick with Olly here, or do you want to run with Tom, or sorry-” She laughed, as if to seem sweet. “The PM, for your speech?”
“Uh.. I’m going with the big boys.”
“Great! Good, yes, the big boys.” Malcolm said.
“Oh, sorry Olly. It was lovely meeting you.”
“Right this way, we’ll introduce you to the PM.” They walked off, leaving Olly a pathetic begging loser. They walked down the hall, standing either side of Julie like bodyguards for organized crime. Malcolm began making light conversation.
“Are you in the hotel?”
“Oh yes.”
“Oh, lovely.”
“Well,” she chuckled, “I wouldn’t call it lovely.”
They laughed along. “Oh, John!” Ivy called the bearded bloke from earlier over, who looked like he was in a rush. But he was always that way, she guessed.
“This is John, the press organizer.”
“Yes, we’ve met before.”
“Oh, have you, lovely! Are you a texter?” At some point, Julie began fiddling with her phone, and appeared to be texting someone. Malcolm shot a look to Ivy, then glanced briefly at John. She nodded.
“I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Excuse us for just a tick.” Ivy pinched the sleeve of John’s suit jacket, dragging him down the hall a bit. “Look, okay. I need you to just casually mention to Alan Dunn and… I guess Lindsay Anorexi at The Mail, that the PM has commandeered Julie Price for his speech. Okay?”
She turned, but was cut off. “B-But that’s not strictly true, is it?”
“Yeah, and strictly come dancing isn’t strictly dancing, there’s also a bit at the beginning where an old man dribbles. So what?” She got in his face. She was going for intimidation, but it was clear John was uncomfortably turned on. So she guessed she’d settle for dominatrix.
“I-I don’t know what that means, but-”
Just then, Glenn came hobbling down the hall like a washed-old Bradley Walsh look-alike in a Sainsbury’s cracker aisle. Ivy didn’t notice, but Malcolm sure did.
Glenn brushed past Ivy. “Oh, Glenn, I can see you’re a tad peeved.” He got in Malcolm’s face.
“I’m not having it, you’ve gone too far!”
“Get a grip, Glenn. I didn’t fucking cum in your fucking mouth.”
John began laughing, which caused Glenn to turn attention to both Ivy and him. “Are you in on this?”
“Nope, just following orders. Like a nazi guard.” He did the anti-semetic salute. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”
“...No?”
“Oh, good.”
“Ivy, can you take her?” She nodded. “Julie, if you could just step in there for a moment and have a chat with some lovely people. Have some tea and biscuits. We’ve got to deal with a um… internal issue. You do understand, don’t you? Good, go on.” She didn’t wait for a response, she just shoved her gently into the room.
“You,” Malcolm pointed at John, “fucking Henry the 8th’s lobotomized cousin, piss off and back to your sad job.”
John, did not in fact, piss off. The dank cream colored hallway slowly grew more lively with increasingly angry chatter paired nicely with erupting laughter from important people in important rooms. Like a fucking wine and cheese pairing. Malcolm and Glenn were bickering about Julie, which had an intermission with one of Malcolm’s famous quips, “Oh, shit, wow here’s the beige fucking power ranger now!”
Glenn continued, pushing harder each time. “We’re taking her back!”
Olly, John, and Ivy began trying to diffuse the situation. She swore to herself this was the last time they were going to agree on anything.
“Can we get a bit more sane about this?”
“Malcolm, calm down, please. Glenn, just fuck off and help glummy mummy write her new speech. Let it go!”
“Let’s not argue here!”
Glenn continued insisting, getting redder and redder with rage. Malcolm grew more and more annoyed. Ivy’s eyes widened, knowing this was going to get ugly quickly (well, actually, the ugliness had already peaked when both Olly and Glenn showed up at the same time.)
Then suddenly, it fucking happened. Ivy shut her eyes, cringing. John covered his mouth. Glenn went down, landing over Olly.
“Malcolm!” Ivy half-shouted, putting herself between Glenn and him in case it continued, her hands on his chest. He seemed to be over it, shaking out his fist in pain.
“You hit me!” He whimpered out, kneeling on the floor.
“No! I did not hit you! You hurt yourself!” Malcolm lied, artfully. She lowered her arms, knowing the worst was over for now. “Respectfully, what the fuck sir!” She hurriedly whispered.
Glenn whined that he thought his nose was broken. “Noses can’t break, it's a myth.”
“What the fuck are you on about?”
Ivy went to go help, “lean forward, c’mon, mate. I used to be a barmaid, don’t worry, this isn’t the first suckerpunch to the nose I’ve dealt with. Does anyone have a towel? Good, good, yeah. Here you go.” She let him dab the wounded area. She sucked through her teeth, “It doesn’t look good.”
Malcolm told Olly to get him back to this room. Julie was dealt with by John, not very well, but still fine enough. “No one saw that?” He asked Ivy, who was the only other person who remained, and thankfully it was just her. Anyone else would likely have received another of the same if they happened to cross Malcolm. “No, no one. Fuck, Malcolm!”
He hurried off in the direction of their room. He opened the door, letting her in before slamming it back again. “Jesus fucking tapdancing Christ, Malcolm, you broke a man’s nose!”
“Oh, he’s fine.”
“It is so not fucking fine!” She stood there, shocked, choking on words coming out of her mouth. He sat down in the chair that faced the door, looking at her stoically. “Do you know what fucking makes this worse? Hm? This didn’t fucking help anything. Glenn and Olly and Nicola are all still going to be seething with rage at us for taking their fucking star player!”
“So what?”
“So fucking what? You’re actually kidding me. You’re so fucking caught up in the moment, so fucking primal like a tiger looking for it’s next meal. You don’t even fucking think of the future.” Ivy’s voice began breaking, on the verge of tears. “Do you know what all that career hopping taught me? It taught me I was fucking wrong. I was fucking wrong so many, many times. I was so fucking wrong to waste money on schools that got me no more happiness, I was so wrong to waste my remaining teenage years bunging around the cinemas with my friends instead of being at my bedridden mother’s side. And right now, I’m thinking I’m wrong in getting involved with you.”
He slapped the arms of the chair, getting up so fast. “THEN FUCKING LEAVE, IVY! I NEVER ASKED FOR YOU! I NEVER ASKED TO BE AROUND YOU 8 HOURS OF MY FUCKING DAY!” He stood over her. She backed off quickly into the skinny entryway of the room, touching the wall almost. Her eyes widened, out of fear. Making eye contact with him, she let tears begin dripping down her face. She covered her mouth, muffling whimpers of things like “please don’t hit me.”
Malcolm bit his lip, backing up, and pressing his back against the other wise of the entryway. He could have sworn his eyes felt wet with salty droplets, which refused to fall. “I’m sorry.” He whispered.
“What?”
“I’m so fucking sorry, Ivy.”
She stayed quiet for another minute, wiping away her tears, and sniffling. Strangely, she began chuckling. “I’m not the one you should be apologizing to, you stupid old man.”
He furrowed his brow, confused. "I'm gonna go apologize to Glenn for you."
"You don't have to." He covered his mouth, looking down, ashamed.
"I know." She said as she wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a one-sided hug that didn't last more than a few seconds. He blushed, looking down at her, frozen. "Right, I'll be back later."
"Jesus, Ivy!" Nicola shouted when she entered the room almost silently.
She didn't react. "You alright, Glenn?"
"I don't want to speak to you Ivy, sorry. Nor Malcolm."
"I think you should leave."
Ivy ignored her, turning to the bathroom door. "I've come to apologize, Glenn. On behalf of myself and Malcolm."
"Oh, what, 'cause Malcolm couldn't do it himself? Had to get his winged monkey to go out here and do it? Fly my pretties, fly!" Olly tacked on to the conversation, helping nothing.
She shot a look at Olly, before turning around and putting her hand on the door frame. "I'm really sorry, mate. Sorry he did that in the heat of the moment, you know? And I'm sorry I didn't stop it, it was really quite stupid and shortsighted of me. We're under a lot of pressure, right now, you know. It's a fucking war zone. We're soldiers, you gotta expect there's just a bit of friendly fire."
"Yeah."
"Good. Good. I would uh, hug you but I don't want to get any blood on my blouse. Shake on it?" She stuck out her hand, and he took it. The half-dried red liquid between their hands squelched disgustingly. She cringed.
Malcolm entered the hotel room, "How's the patient?"
"I'm fine, Malcolm. Just sore." He called out from the bathroom. Ivy ran her hand under water and dried it off with one of the fancy paper towels. "I've already apologized, sir."
Malcolm nodded, clapping and turning to Nicola and Olly. "Alright, so you've lost Julie. You've got a cavity the size of a prisoner's arsehole in your speech. Got a back-up plan?"
"We'll figure it out, thank you."
"Why don't we help you, hm? I mean, it is the least we could do." Ivy piped up.
"Yes, yes, yes, roll some tits up the flagpole and see if anyone gets wood."
"Christ. Okay, well, all we've got is Mannion's second holiday."
Ivy sat down on the couch behind Nicola's chair. Malcolm joined her. The couch was tiny, as was everything else in the room, so they were pretty close quarters. They didn't mind, but Malcolm didn't stay for long. Again, he liked to pace, and pace he did, like a caged tiger. Glenn joined the group, sitting in the remaining single seat. "He works really hard at planning his holidays." Glenn said.
"Fucking A+ quality sarcasm there that you're lobbing at 'em. Boom."
"I feel like I'm in a therapy group being run by my own rapist."
Everyone's cell phones chimed, all in sync. "Oh, shit." One of them said. "It's got out!" Another added. Olly sarcastically said, "No, I thought it was room service cold-calling."
"Who the fuck leaked it? No one saw it, right?" Ivy looked at Malcolm. He was preoccupied checking around the internet. "Fuck! It's on Rob Holt's blog! Okay, we need to get your people's champion out of this hotel, before some tabloid minge-flannel starts soft-soaping her."
"So we've got her back again?" Nicola asked.
"Jesus, don't be so sensitive about this!" Malcolm yelled.
"My fucking responsibility! Fuck the speech!" Nicola yelled also, slamming the door to the bathroom.
"Women! Women, huh? Slamming the fucking door. Where did this idea come from? Wilma! Fuck off." He spat.
She called out to him, "I'm making a phone call."
"Make a phone call, phone a fucking friend." He collapsed next to Ivy again into the couch.
"Women," Ivy mocked in a nasty tone. "Okay, Fred Flintstone."
"Shut up." He smiled, looking at her softly. She giggled.
"God, get a room you two." Olly said, without looking up, continuing to type.
"We have a room, sod off and write your mummy's speech." She squinted at him, crossly
"Ivy, we should go back and get ready for the stupid banquet thing." He touched her shoulder, which caught her off guard. Normally she instigated physical contact. "Right you are, yeah."
They joined some reporters to have wine and break bread in fancy dress. Malcolm dawned a bow tie, which Ivy made mental note of to make fun of later. Glenn had joined them, feeling a bit better, and no longer bleeding.
"Have a bit more, Glenn, go on." Malcolm poured him a bit more. "Watch your step, though, don't go tripping up again."
"Absolutely." They laughed along.
Angela, same reporter as earlier, piped up. "D-Day. What is it, Malcolm? I thought you were one of the boxers, not the emcee."
"No, I've just got to rear my ugly head, as you would have it, at a few receptions this evening. Including the Rod Hughes do for Tom. Believe me, I'd rather slip into something more comfortable. Like a coma." Again, they laughed along.
The same woman continued, "Malcolm, you've started beating up your own guys. That has to be a bad sign."
"Oh, he didn't hit Glenn," Ivy swiped with her hand, smiling, defending him. "No, I didn't. Why would I do that? And there's no proof that I did."
"Yeah, whatever you say, Malcolm," she chuckled.
"Watch," He threw a fake punch "he doesn't flinch."
"Malcolm wouldn't hurt a fly, and trust me, I'd know, because I've had to roll up Sunday's paper and whap a few in his office for him." Ivy said, grinning.
"We're pals, I mean," He went to go stand next to him, "Look at the size of this guy, I wouldn't hit him. Look, he's a fucking man-mountain!"
"Are you calling me fat?" Glenn jokingly attacked back.
"Heh, that's the banter."
They continued for a few more moments. The conversation was slowing, like a dying fireplace on Christmas eve. Malcolm gave Ivy a look, which said "we've got to get going," and they excused themselves. Once they rounded the corner into the halls once again, they saw John, the fucking idiot, from earlier. They stopped, and Malcolm shoved him into a room. Ivy was a bit concerned, considering that she didn't know who's room that was. She figured she might follow them, eavesdropping on their conversation. Maybe she'd pick up a few classic Tucker scare tactics.
She heard something about tweezers from the twat, something about bullocks, and then finally, she heard Malcolm answer his phone, announcing that Julie was the leak. Something about Twitter.
Malcolm opened the door quickly after that, which startled Ivy half to death. "Were you listening in?"
"Of course I was, I wasn't just going to sit outside the door waiting for you like some primary schooler waiting for her mummy, all arms crossed and lunch box in hand."
He raised an eyebrow, smiling slightly, "...So, anyway, Julie's the leaker."
"I know."
"Well how'd you know, I only found out a minute ago?!" They left the room, almost running into a maid on their way out. He looked at her. "Oh, listening in, right. Sorry, I forgot."
"You're as daft as a goat sometimes, you know, Malcolm?" She teased.
"Shush."
Malcolm and Ivy went to Glenn's room, where the 3 fuckheads of DoSAC were increasingly panicking, trying to finish Nicola's speech while she memorized it.
"Squeeze my cock and call me Nancy," Malcolm announced, pushing open the door to the room and inviting himself inside. "Were you born in a barn, Glenn? Keep the door and your arse cheeks tightly fucking closed, right?"
"That's a fucking tiny kettle. Did they use your dick as a ruler, because boy, it sure fucking looks like it." Ivy said.
"Where's glummy mummy?"
"She's having a pee." Glenn delivered.
Ivy suck out her hands, "Oh, Julie!" Julie was seated on the edge of the bed, twiddling her thumbs. "How are you?" She clasped them in front of herself.
She shrugged, "Could be worse."
Nicola came out of the bathroom, jumping at Malcolm's presence. "Fucking hell, Malcolm."
"Julie, darling, could we have a wee word with you?" He said.
"...Why, is something wrong?"
Malcolm squatted down next to her, awkwardly. "Do you know a man called Rob Holt?"
"I've never heard of him, why, what's all this about?"
"Well it's just that he's one of your uh, followers, on... Twitter?" Malcolm looked at Ivy. She nodded, echoing, "Twitter."
"And we think that some of your uh...?"
"Tweets."
"The tweets that you've been doing have actually been reported, out there."
"Well." She exhaled, "What're you accusing us of?"
"We're not accusing you of anything." Nicola said.
"You all look like you're accusing us of something! You fucking sound like you're accusing us of something!"
"No, no, no, no-"
"I've seen Spooks! You have treated me like a bag of shit all day!" Julie began, standing up. "I mean, I'm a very, very patient person, but I've had it up to here with yous lot! I should've known not to trust yous lot, when you fucked over them Metric Martyrs. All I was trying to do was right by my Jason, right? And if he was here now, he'd be fucking appalled by the way yous lot are carrying on. He always said you were a useless bunch of wankers."
Olly came in, holding a bag of crisps which crinkled obnoxiously. Although nothing could be more obnoxious than whatever was about to come out of his mouth. "Oh, Julie! Oh you're back! Excellent. Every epic needs a hero. Put tiny kettle on, lad, I'm gasping."
Malcolm was staring darkly at him, arms crossed. The awkward air was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. "Uh, everything okay? What's-What's going on?"
"Uh- Malcolm, could you just come to the toilet with me, for a moment." She pushed him into the toilet. Ivy turned to look at it, making a confused face. She leaned towards the door once it shut, to try and hear some form on conversation. She only managed to pick up the gist of the plan.
Malcolm covertly told Glenn something. Ivy was too tired and too over it to figure out what. Julie left by herself in a ferocious hurry. As soon as the door slammed closed.
"Good riddance." Ivy mumbled.
"Do we have anything we can use against her?" Malcolm demanded.
Nicola rubbed her temple, crossing her arm over her chest. "Metric Martyr stuff. That's all I can think of."
"Fruit by the pound?" Ivy lifted herself off the wooden hutch, joining them near the bed. "That's it?"
"Fruit by the fucking pound. Fuck. Okay, well, we say we're dropping her for extremist views. How about that?"
The group shrugged, mutually agreeing that it was good enough for them. "Just don't go into detail, otherwise they'll crawl up your arse like a dirty little Syrian dwarf hamster all over again."
Ivy snickered at her own joke which was in her head. "How do you like them apples? By the pound?"
Olly and Nicola sighed heavily, one of them remarked, "Jesus."
After quite a night of wine drinking, toasting, celebrating, or otherwise partying, Malcolm and Ivy said their goodbye's and goodnight's to friends and coworkers. They both looked like Hell. Well, it could be worse, but still Hell. Malcolm's bow tie was crooked and half undone (it was actually surprising to Ivy that he both knew how to tie one and had a real one, not just a pre-tied one). He had spilled droplets of dried cherry colored wine on his white button-up, which he had failed to notice in time, so it was likely that they'd leave irreparable stains. Ivy's makeup was smeared, a faint streak of eyeliner spread across her temple from a forgetful moment where she wiped the corner of her eye. Her dress was wrinkled, her hair messy. They were both half wine drunk. The clock read 12 am.
Despite looking like an embarrassing mess, Malcolm thought she was so incredibly gorgeous. He caught himself staring through the cracked door and into the mirror while she was washing her face and brushing out her curls. Good thing her eyes didn't catch his or he'd never hear the end of it. "Who's sleeping on the couch?" She asked, kneeling down beside her bag to pull out her pajamas.
"Huh?" He said, setting his tie in his overnight bag and removing his jacket.
"I said, who's sleeping on the couch?" She went back to the bathroom, this time closing the door so she could change.
He pulled his shirt out of his trousers and began unbuttoning it. Malcolm didn't listen to a word she said. All he knew is that she asked a question. So, he responded, "Sure."
"Were you even listening?" She laughed.
"No."
"Whatever. Are you decent?" Ivy had finished getting dressed. So had Malcolm, apparently, since he answered with a "Yes."
She stepped out of the bathroom, crouching down once again to put her clothes away. Malcolm felt his heart skip a beat. Oh God, he thought, she's even more stunning now. She was wearing a plain black spaghetti strap tank top and soft pajama shorts. She wasn't even trying to be attractive, she just plain was. Ivy had her arms crossed over her chest, staring at his face stoically.
"Right, I don't really feel like hunkering down on the couch tonight. So I'll sleep under the covers, you sleep on top."
"What?"
She sat on the side of the bed that had the flower painting. "Do you need hearing aids? We're both adults, get over it." She said, sliding into bed and rolling over. "Just don't snore."
"Fine." He pulled the spare blanket off of the top of the armchair, fluffing it out over the bed and laying under it. "Goodnight, Ivy."
"'Night, Malcolm."
#the thick of it#malcolm tucker#peter capaldi#malcolm tucker x original female character(s)#pcap#jamie's fanfics#fanfic#fic#fanfiction#a new assistant - fanfiction
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
“A New Assistant” - The Thick of It - Chapter 2
Summary: While DoSAC fucks around trying to keep the data wipe a secret, Malcolm and Ivy begin to become more comfortable with one another.
Word Count (this chapter): 5222
Rating: Mature (for adult situations, language)
Warnings: No Ao3 Warnings, Explicit Language, homophobic language, fatphobic language, sexist language, ablest language
Categories: F/M, Gen
Tags: Falling in love, crushes, comedy, slow burn, explicit language, original female characters, AU - canon divergence, mutual pining, additional tags to be added
Chapter 1, Chapter 3
Ao3 link and full work under the cut.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510592/chapters/59267578
Malcolm walked into the office, expecting to turn on the light. It caught him off guard when the light was already on, and Ivy was sitting across the room at her desk, quietly talking to people on the phone about menial garbage that Malcolm had put her on last night.
"Oh, shit." He said, dropping his briefcase beside his desk and settled into his office chair.
She looked up after finishing her call, "Morning, sir."
"Were you here all night?" Malcolm made a concerned face.
Ivy capped her pen. "No, got here early to sort out Anthony's mental breakdown about his stupid bloody department of education thing." She rubbed her eyes, which didn't smear what little makeup she had on. She looked tired. She could have been lying.
"Well, good morning anyway. Can I fetch you some tea?"
She thought it was a sweet gesture. He always tried to be kind to her, no matter how frustrated or pissed he was at anybody else. He was always patient. Even if he made a smarmy comment, it was all in jest. She had only been there a week, but she knew that Malcolm didn't treat anyone else like this.
"Aren't I supposed to be the one doing the tea fetching?" Ivy smiled meekly.
Malcolm didn't look at her, instead preoccupied with signing into his computer. "Right you are. Can you fetch us some tea?"
She sighed, getting up, "what kind?"
"Earl grey would be fine, thank you, Ivy."
"Mhm." She fetched it, then came back fairly quickly.
As she leaned down to set his cup on his desk, he began, "You ever see that movie with Rory Calhoun, where there's these siblings who sell meat but it's actually made out of human flesh? What's it called again?"
"Motel Hell?"
He snapped his fingers, pointing at her. "Motel Hell. Wow, you must really know your '80s horror films."
She chuckled, "I remember seeing that one at the cinema with my mates."
Malcolm raised an eyebrow, "in cinema?"
"Yeah."
He didn't continue, trying to calculate her age in her head.
"Sir, you're only about 4 years my senior." Ivy slumped into her chair.
Malcolm looked at her in disbelief. "No..." he turned his head to give her a side eye. "No, you can't be."
She pressed her lips together, and nodded. "Yeah. 46, as of July."
"I thought you were approaching your 40s. Christ, you look lovely."
"Oh, stop." She swiped her hand at him, grinning and blushing. "You're not that bad, either, Malcolm."
He sighed, "Anyway, uh, my point was that you and I are like the people from Motel Hell. Tag team of..."
"Shit?"
"Yeah, shit. So, I want to see you in action. How about you go up there and see what's.. shaking." Malcolm smiled, using his hands as he talked.
"Alright then. I'll take notes for you." She stood up, making her way up to the DoSAC workspace.
The sound of Ivy's heels echoed through the office space and send the same vibe as the Other Mother from Coraline. Once she rounded the corner, she didn't make a fairer presence.
"Morning, morning, morning everyone." The DoSAC employees looked relieved to see her instead of Malcolm. They really shouldn't have been. "Where's Nicola?" Ivy turned to Olly, who was punching in a phone number.
"Er, she's on a call." He said, which was a total lie, as she had just stood up and looked directly at her before ducking back down again, with a relieved look on her face. Again, she really shouldn't have been.
A blonde haired woman, who's name Ivy recalled to be Robyn, asked weakly, "Does he know...?"
She wheeled around, staring at her. They were the same height. "Hm? Sorry? Does he know what?"
"Er..." Robyn scrambled for something to say, clearly, "the best way to clear a paper jam?"
"I'm not sure, but in my expert opinion, you put a hamster in a tube sock and beat the printer over and over again with it until it works." She bluntly responded, then turned at Nicola's voice.
"Morning, Ivy. Uh, if you could sort out the sack race situation for me, that'd be terrific." She said to Terri, who agreed and asked what she could do. "Ideally, build a time machine so that we could go back and not invite photographers to the sports day."
Ivy rolled her eyes. Terri and Nicola continued for a few more moments, then Nicola turned her attention to Ivy, finally. "So, Ivy-"
"Oh, sorry, uh, Malcolm's calling, hang on just one moment." She made her way to the elevator nook.
"Malcolm, what can I do you for? ....Oh, yeah, it's going okay. Yeah they're being fucking weird, like those boys on that one show, Ghost Adventures. Walking around and shouting every five minutes, 'what was that?' .... no, not literally, sir. But maybe you should come up here, they look like they're about to admit something. They've got it in their little beady eyes. ....Yeah, okay. See you." Ivy slinked back to the main area.
She gave a warm smile on her way back. "Right, my apologies. What's going on, hm?"
"Uh-" Nicola began, but then was cut off when Ivy answered a voice call. "Hello, Rory, what can I do-... WHAT?" She shouted, and continuing, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? JESUS!"
Ivy ran off, towards the bridge point of the office. She continued to talk to Rory about something regarding what's on the press, something menial, but Rory always decided he was most important. That's why Malcolm gave Ivy the number, for her to handle it. Robyn and Glenn had a very clandestine conversation full of false laughter on the other end of the hall. She took mental note of it. Once Malcolm exited the lift, she ended the call.
They held conversation on their way back to Nicola's office.
"They're being fucking weird."
"They're always fucking weird, why do you need me up here?" Malcolm asked.
She exhaled through her nose. "I'm just worried it might be something big, and I don't know if I can handle it, okay?"
"You can handle it, trust me, you were fine, but since I'm up here anyway, I might as well stay up here." They stopped directly outside of the Secretary of State's office. "We'll talk about this later, okay?" He pointed at her, and they both entered the room.
"Little pigs, little pigs," he teased in a gruff voice, "Let me come in. Don’t worry about the hair on your chinny-chin-chin."
"Malcolm, Ivy, what was your call?" Nicola asked, smugly.
They both furrowed their brows. Ivy spoke first, "is it any of your business?"
"What was our call?"
Glenn tried to get a word in, but Malcolm continued. "You want to know what our call was? Sorry, I didn’t realize I had to run all the calls made through your bed-wetters switchboard, here."
"Usually he’ll just dial 1-1-hate." Ivy jumped in.
Nicola asked, "Malcolm, do you know?"
"Of course he knows."
"No, he doesn’t know."
Ivy gently elbowed him, whispering, "Fucking clandestine."
"There has been a massive irretrievable data loss. The last seven months’ worth of new immigrant details have gone, apparently lost in the computer." She finally laid out.
Ivy’s eyes widened out of shock, and then her brows lowered, angry. Malcolm paused for a minute, beginning to crack a smile and then a maniacal laugh.
"You’re fucking kidding. Nicola, tell me you’re fucking kidding." Ivy began, slowly raising her voice halfway through the sentence.
"Do you know what? Do you know what’s really fucking sad here, is that I don’t even have the energy to pretend I already knew. Which is for the best, because I’m gonna need all of my fucking energy to fucking rip all of your bodies to bits with my bare hand and sell off your flayed fucking skin as a sleeping bag to a normal person!" He turned to Ivy, "Ivy, go and get my bowie knife from my office, because I’d like to start now."
"Can I just say that getting angry actually isn’t going to help anything. I’ve done anger, I’m currently at grief, I’m working my way towards bargaining… whatever, you know, it’s behind me."
"Oh, that’s great. That’s fan-fucking-tastic, minister! You know what, why don’t you just explain your little plan to us here so we can pick out all the problems with it like crows looking for bits of flesh on a fresh piece of roadkill." The short woman spat, crossing her arms.
She sighed, asking Terri to explain the plan. "Well, blaming the department minister might be a high-risk strategy."
"Ooh, high risk. Power serve." He added immaturely.
Ivy smiled, then bit her lip, adding "Saucy."
"My pitch would be that this department is fatally flawed. It’s out of condition, it’s obese, it’s asthmatic."
"That a-girl, back over the net."
“You're really sure about that, Nicola, because-” Glenn began.
"Yes, wise words from the distinguished, elderly, gay fucking tennis coach here."
Olly interjected, "Seriously, I think we should talk about my strategy further because I really think that there's a way-"
"Oh, good, the tiny-dicked ball boy's having a go now, with his tiny little clean white shorts and a pink polo, here we go." Ivy pinched the bridge of her nose, leaning against the black filing cabinets.
"What about Sue Barker's little sister? What's she got to say?"
Robyn made some comment about lemon zinger, before Ivy checked her notes. "Does The Guardian know about this? The Mail?"
"Oh God- you two, can't even handle you, you fucking statue, on your own," Nicola started, motioning to Malcolm, "but now it's fucking Bonnie and Clyde. The Guardian, God I don't fucking know..."
"Shall I find out? Get some feelers?" The woman in the pink power suit asked.
"Yeah, go on, get your feelers out for the lads."
"What do you think, Malcolm, will shitting on the department work?" Nicola suggested, crossing her arms and rubbing one of her temples.
"Oh, sure. Let's cause a bit of friction, here, huh? Let's fire someone, let's fire Glenn!"
"You can't just fire Glenn, no."
"We could fire Glenn."
"Shall I get his file?"
"No! I've got a list!" The sickly fucking Mister Rogers (God rest his soul) shouted.
Ivy folded her hands together, bending down as if she was talking to a child. "Oh, you've got a list? Of what, your favorite fucking toys, you fucking immaculate toddler?"
Malcolm left the room, and so did Nicola and Glenn. "Ivy, come on. You're the new broom, you're sweeping up trouble with one end, broom-handling incompetent staff up the tunnel with the other."
"So how do we play it with the Guardian, then?" She chased after him.
"Smile. By gay. Smile, smile, smile!" Malcolm psychotically smiled. Ivy mirrored him.
"Malcolm, sir?"
"Huh?" He was at his desk again, stuffing his notes for the meeting at The Guardian in a pile.
"Am I coming with... you... to the thing?"
He stopped, looking at her, lost in thought. "Er... yes, but I'm going to need you stay out of the lunch room. Stay in the lobby. Have a lovely beans on toast or whatever it is you cockney bastards do."
She rolled her eyes, shrugging, "Ah, thanks mate."
"I'll call you or come get you if some shitty shit thing happens, like Nicola chokes on a piece of banana or some other disaster."
"I'd expect Nicola to choke on Jeffery's banana, trying to sputter out..." She continued for a moment, mumbling on about calling Nicola a wanker.
"You really don't like her, do you?"
Ivy looked up at him, raising her eyebrows. "No. I really don't. She's a fucking disaster with the press. She's a smug little stinging lit piece of coal thrown in your shoe directly from hell."
"Well, what can you expect from someone so low down on the list?"
She snickered, "Not much apparently."
"Fine. Yeah." Ivy looked up at Malcolm's voice. She was seated on an uncomfortable red seat directly across from the meeting room. She stood and met up with him again.
"Ah, there's your other half, Malcolm." Olly commented.
"Piss off." She answered.
Most of them piled into the lift, and Olly continued. "I didn't think you'd have come today, but I suppose she follows you everywhere, like a little puppy."
"Yeah, what is it with you two, Malcolm?" Terri chimed in. "Are you two dating?"
"Are we dating?" Ivy mocked. "No, we're not. I'm his assistant. He's my boss."
"Hot, isn't it?" The curly haired lanky bitch continued.
She sighed. "Olly, if you don't shut the fuck up, I'm going to tear off your arm and beat your thick skull to death with it." She pointed at him threateningly.
"Ooh, I'm so scared of the oompa loompa in the navy blue skirt."
"Don't fuck with me!" She shouted.
Malcolm shot Olly a stern look, to let him know he meant business. That classic Malcolm look that put fear into DoSAC's veins. He shut up immediately. They exited the lift and out of the lobby, then back inside into the van.
"Hey French Lieutenant's woman, we're over here, come on! What're you doing, marking out your territory?"
Nicola had a look on her face like she'd just seen a ghost. She'd fucked up somewhere along the line, Ivy thought.
"I need some air, Olly, come with me, now." She hurried out the car.
"She's not a post-match puker, right?"
"Fuck's sake."
"I know."
Terri began talking about wine. She stopped, in favor of asking more prodding questions. "How was your first week, Ivy?"
"Fine." She was pretending to write things down, instead drawing a caricature of Nicola in a straight jacket with a text bubble coming off of it saying 'wooden toys!'. She had it turned to Malcolm, who looked at it and smirked.
"He wasn't too hard on you, was he?"
"Nope."
"Are you listening to me?"
Ivy finally looked up. "Nope!" She smiled. Malcolm covered his mouth, checking his Blackberry, and pretending he wasn't grinning. "And I don't work for you, so it doesn't matter."
Nicola returned to the car, apologizing profusely and explaining herself to Malcolm. She ended it with a, "Sorry, Malcolm, I'm really sorry."
"Fucks sake!" He smacked his lap with his clipboard, "JESUS! CHRIST! Well now we've got another adjective to add to smug and glum, FUCKING RETARDED! Jesus! Do you not think it would be germane to check who you're talking to? It's a fucking newspaper office! It's not a fucking, sanatorium for the fucking deaf, is it?! Are you so dense?! Am I going to have to run around slapping badges on people wit a big tick on some, a big cross on others, so you know when to shut your gob and when to open it? Jesus Christ! Oh, but that'd probably confuse you as well, won't it?! That'll be TOO confusing! You'll see a cross and go, 'oh, fuck, X marks the spot! Better tell this little person all about the Prime Minister's fucking catastrophic erectile dysfunction!' Oh, but, not to worry! Not to worry, you've sent Olly over there to deal with it! Fucking Olly! He's a fucking knitted scarf, that twat! He's a fucking balaclava!"
Once Malcolm had finished his tear, he held his face, turning to look out the window. Nicola quietly left the car, leaning against the side of it and rubbing her face. She looked like she was about to cry.
"Sorry, Ivy." He quietly said, apologetically. "Sorry you had to be caught in the middle of that."
She had been silent the whole time, stuck in between those two. "Oh. It's okay."
"Don't I get an apology, too?" Terri piped up.
"No, actually, you don't, you fucking wad of bubblegum. Come on." Malcolm and Ivy exited the van, Nicola saw and followed from the other side. They approached the red head, and Olly was desperately explaining himself to her.
"The department's not really fit for purpose, I mean, Terri's quite bad."
"Not just Terri, I mean I'm not going to name names but Robyn, Robyn's shit. Total shit."
Olly nodded, "Robyn, she's total shit."
"O-kay. Olly, please fuck off." Ivy said, crossing her arms.
"What?"
"Go on. Go and have your fucking lukewarm tea. Mummy and daddy are talking." Malcolm added, shooing him with his hand. "I'm sure that we can settle this matter of you eavesdropping on a private conversation."
The journalist paused for a moment. "It was a public conversation."
"No. You are- you think you're so clever and you are so totally wanking with the wrong crowd here because this woman-" Nicola grabbed Ivy by the sleeve, dragging her in front of Malcolm and into center stage. "This woman, here, is the press."
"Nicola!" She hurriedly whispered. Nicola ran off, whining "Fuck, what have I done?" All the way back to the van.
"Do you think this is going to advance your career? Is this you moving forward?"
"I mean, at least my career has got a trajectory, whereas yours is about to crash head-on into a change of government."
"Don't you worry, girl, because I can still fucking steer some fucking flaming wreckage in your fucking direction."
"Yeah, I'll tell you what, once it's printed I promise I'll come back to you for a reaction quote. How's that?"
"Darling, I wouldn't fucking piss on you, if you were fucking allergic to piss, right?"
"Malcolm-" Ivy attempted to begin to deescalate the situation.
"No, I will fucking-"
The reporter began to walk away, "I'll come back to your wife, here, for a reaction quote, too. That's quite enough for one day. Jesus."
"We're not married!" He shouted after her. "Fuck right off, then!"
As they turned, Malcolm began muttering swear words to himself. "Are you alright, sir?" Ivy asked.
"No! I'm not fucking alright! Shit!" He spat, throwing his hands up. He huffed, "Sorry, it's just-"
"I know." She tentatively put a hand on his forearm that was attached to the hand stuffed inside his pocket. "Sorry, dumb question."
"No, you're fine."
Meanwhile, inside the van, the gang were gossiping like a bunch of schoolchildren about Malcolm and Ivy. Terri pointed, "Look, they're holding hands! They have to be dating!"
"What?" Olly looked out. "No they're not!"
"Okay, shh, shh, they're coming back."
Malcolm and Ivy walked back to their office in silence on their way back. Once they got back and settled back in, Malcolm broke the silence.
"Well that was a fucking whale-sized shit stain on this department."
Ivy clacked in her password into her laptop. Without looking up, she answered "This department is a whale-sized shit stain. To be completely honest, sir, it's exactly what I'd expect to happen."
He chuckled for a bit, then the room went back to silence. Once again, Malcolm broke it. "Ivy?"
"Hm?"
"What did you mean, this morning, when you said you thought you couldn't handle it?"
"Huh? Oh. Er... well, I meant exactly that. I didn't feel that I could handle a big reveal like that. And I had a feeling that was what they were going to do."
"Do you know what? I think you could've handled it."
"Sir-"
"I've seen you in meetings. I know how you've done at your last job. You're quick enough, you're... certainly smart enough, and you've got enough power in your voice to yell if need be. That's a big part of the job, too."
She smiled, warmly, and genuinely. She was blushing, just a bit, too.
"Don't doubt yourself. Okay?"
She sniffled, on the verge of tears. "Okay." As she nodded, a tear dropped down onto the paper she was reading. "Thank you, Malcolm. Thank you."
"Hey, hey, woah." He stood up, "Don't cry, I was just-"
"I know." She wiped a tear away. "It just means a lot to me, that's all." She grabbed a tissue, wiping away drips.
"Okay..." Just then, his cell phone chimed, a notification from the Daily Mail. They'd gotten their grubby little hands on the story already. "Oh, shit."
"What?"
"Mail's found out. Right, gotta get Nicola's spidery arse down here. Pick yourself up, and look alive, love." He punched in the number, and sternly talked into the phone, "Get over here. Now. Might be advisable to wear brown trousers, and a shirt the colour of blood."
Ivy didn't listen to that last bit. She was too focused on him calling her ‘love’. Yeah, it was colloquial around England to refer to women as ‘love’, but it was mostly in a demeaning or sarcastic method of use. It meant more that Malcolm had used it as a term of endearment.
Malcolm began once Nicola - and for whatever reason, Terri - had settled down. Ivy was stationed next to him, arms crossed, like a bodyguard of a mob boss, leaning against the back wall. “I just want to say to you, by way of introductory remarks that I’m extremely miffed about today’s events. And in my quest to try and make you understand the level of my unhappiness, I’m likely to use an awful lot of what we would call violent sexual imagery. And I just wanted to check that neither of you would be terribly offended by that.”
"Did you write that for him, Ivy?" Terri asked, as if they were friends.
"To be honest, I’d rather him not apologize for it, it’s funnier that way." She said starkly and with a bit of sass. "I’d rather him go in unlubed, if you will."
"I think I could do without the theatrics, Malcolm."
"Enough! E-fucking-nough. You need to learn to shut your fucking cave, right? Today you have laid your first big fat egg of solid fuck. You took the data loss media strategy and you ate it with a lump of E. coli. And then you sprayed it out of your arse at 300 miles per hour."
"I simply made a mistake."
"Pretty big fucking mistake." Ivy added.
Nicola furrowed her brow. "God, can you just shut up!"
"Hey, I don’t work for you. I don’t give a flying shit what you tell me to do."
"You got on the record and off the record fucking mixed up! What would have happened if like, George Martin had done that? We’d have no fucking Beatles, that’s what. Now, I don’t give a fuck about that. I’ve had to sit next to Paul McCartney at fucking Chequers."
"The data loss wasn’t my fault."
"Fine, yeah, but I tell you what. It came out pretty fucking fast once you were in there, didn’t it? Which makes me wonder, should I just go and talk to the boss? Should I go and tell him, 'I don’t think she’s up to the job.'"
"You said yourself that if he sacks me after a week, it looks like he’s fucked up."
"Yeah, but that was before, when your only problem was a fucking shit pun in a newspaper and a face like Dot Collen licking piss off a nettle."
"Okay, I messed up, right? I messed up. But I will, from now on listen to every bit of advice you give me. I’ll go on Question Time wearing a push-up bra and a fez. I’ll do the hustings on stilts if that is what you tell me the strategy is because you know about that stuff, Malcolm. I know that. It’s just that I’ve got things that I want to do, all right?"
"Of course you do, like Montessouri fucking rocking horses, I suppose."
“No, no.”
Ivy checked her notes, "Uh, the Mail has the motherload on this, yeah? But you know, you’re going to have to just swallow your pride."
"Uh-huh. Thank you, Ivy."
"Right, what’s the strategy?" Terri clicked her pen.
"Ooh, the Kraken awakes." He sarcastically said.
"No, no no. This is just the first part of the meeting that hasn't been about expletives or fezzes or stilts or teabagging. This is the bit that relates to media management."
"Teabagging?" The assistant inquired.
"I didn’t say anything about teabagging. Do you know what teabagging is?"
"Er… not really, no. I’m told it’s uh… unpleasant."
Ivy and Malcolm made eye contact, both thinking the same thing.
"Who do you want me to call? The Mail?"
"Yes. Go on, get the mail in. The Cheeky Girls back on tour." He escorted them out of his office, closing the door behind them.
"What a day, eh, sir?" Ivy said, returning to her desk.
"Er… Ivy, I’d rather you not call me ‘sir’ anymore. At least not when we’re alone."
"Oh. Okay. Uh, any particular reason?" She began fiddling with some papers, stacking them and clacking the edges against the desk to straighten them.
"No, no. It just feels a bit formal, you know? Like, oh, what’d I do to deserve respect?"
"Mhm."
The room returned to silence. Even though they were a week in, Ivy still wasn’t christened in Malcolm’s eyes. This was her first experience with a scandal that was actually proper. There were no long nights, where they were flip-flopping back and forth with options and the media while the cleaning lady worked around them, not yet. There were no miserable holidays where they spent the time sucking up to another MP. If Malcolm had any friends or social skills, he would have expected to have had a night or two sitting together at the bar after a long night, slowly getting hammered on cheap beer and the occasional hard malt. There was none of that yet. But he still felt like she was here the whole time. Like she’d been through thick and thin with him. He didn’t know if that was just her vibe, or if it was on account of the fact that he was slowly falling in love with her.
Wow, Malcolm thought. He’s admitting it to himself now. That was unheard of. He hadn’t been like this since high school. He hadn’t felt anything towards anyone, especially not since he took this job all those years ago. Shit.
"Hey, Malcolm?" Ivy finally broke the silence. Hearing her voice was such unrequited bliss.
"Yeah?"
"Do you… want to go for a drink sometime? Or something besides work?"
"Why?"
"Can I be honest?"
"No."
"I’m going to anyway. You seem like you need a friend."
He stared at the wood grain on his desk to preoccupy his senses while he thought for a moment. He finally answered, "Okay."
"Huh? Sorry?"
"Let's go, then."
"It's only 3:30, Malcolm."
"Yeah, but it's 5:30 in Finland. Come on, grab your stuff, there's a pub 'round the corner."
"We have work!"
"No, no no, it's okay, we'll just sneak out."
Ivy was taken aback by Malcolm suddenly rebellious manner. I mean, he sort of was rebellious regardless, in a different way. Swearing and hurling abuse at coworkers was his drink of choice when it came to rebellion, but he always stuck around and did his work. It's not like he was straight-lace, either though. He was just never the type to ditch out early.
"Christ, what if the press sees us?"
They sat up at the bar stools. Malcolm ordered them each a beer. "The press won't come near the pubs. They haven't yet, anyway."
"Haven't yet? Do you...?"
"No, not all the time. I usually have a stash in my office." He smiled, joking. She laughed, taking a swig.
"I wanted to be a bar maid when I was younger." She mentioned, offhandedly. "Went to school for it for a few months. Became preoccupied with other things." She continued to explain.
"Really?"
"Yeah. But, enough about me." She shook her head, gesturing to him. "Did you ever think you'd get into politics?"
He sighed, "Not really, no. I uh, went to school for journalism. Started at my local newspaper, which got absorbed by The Independent. Continued there. Slithered my way up the chain." Ivy raised an eyebrow. "I dipped my hands into politics while working there. I left the Indy and worked for what is now called the department of work and pensions, then, again, worked my way up from there."
"Mm."
"What about you?"
"Oh, uh... Well I-I didn't really have a career until my mid 30's. I've bounced at lower level secretary or receptionist positions for a while. In both politics and journalism."
"Yeah, 'cause didn't you work for good old Harry Pickle, the dickle for a while?"
She snorted, almost spitting out her beer. "Is that what they're calling him?"
"What, you didn't know?"
"No! The bloke always kept that sort of thing under wraps, I guess. For his own sake."
"Jesus Christ the man's a fucking control freak."
"I know, oh trust me, I know. I had to wake up early every morning to print out things he could check off to make him feel like he had more control, while I poured sawdust over his idiocy vomit pile and swept it up. Fucking disaster. And when I said I wanted to leave, I think they put me on you because you were the worst to deal with."
He paused, furrowing his brow.
"In their opinion. I genuinely enjoy working for you Malcolm, don't worry." She placed her hand on his forearm that was resting on the countertop. He looked at it, biting his lip and trying not to draw too much attention to it.
Oh God, is she interested in me, is she being nice, or is she just tipsy? He thought. No, we're only one beer in, she can't be. Stop staring, you look like a creepy old man. She's just... so beautiful.
He clenched his fist under the counter, scrambling to find other things to talk about. "Uh, what about before your 30's?" She hadn't moved her gentle hand.
"Oh. Uh..." She looked apprehensive, almost embarrassed. "Well, you know I went to bartender school. But before that I mostly just... stayed at home. I don't have any younger siblings. Actually, no siblings period."
Malcolm smiled. "You're lucky."
She chuckled falsely, "I'm really not. I er... had to take care of my mother after secondary school. She was ill."
"Oh, bless."
"Yeah," she looked down, smiling sorrowfully. "But, she didn't have long to suffer. She died when I was 19." He nodded along, sympathetically. "After that, bartender school. I worked as a barmaid. Got bored with it after a year or two. Then I went to undertaker school, while still bar tending in the nights."
Malcolm raised his eyebrows, shocked. "Really?"
"Yeah. I'm not kidding. If you ever need to mix a black velvet or embalm a body, you know who to call." She giggled. Malcolm laughed a long, admiring her as well. "So, then I worked as an undertaker until aged 33. I was offered to become funeral director, you know, the seedy arsehole who'll tell you shit like 'it's what dad would have wanted' when showing you a 10,000 quid casket. Had no interest there. So I started my assistant job in government, after going to a job fair. And the rest is history."
"Jesus, your life is so much more interesting than mine."
She chuckled. "I don't think it's all that cool. I mean, I've never been outside of Europe."
#the thick of it#malcolm tucker#peter capaldi#malcolm tucker x original female character(s)#pcap#jamie's fanfics#fanfic#fic#fanfiction
2 notes
·
View notes
Text
Once again tumblr is not letting me post on my laptop, but chapter 5 of A New Assistant is up on Ao3. Heres the link:
https://archiveofourown.org/works/24510592
#a new assistant - fanfiction#the thick of it#jamie's fanfics#malcolm tucker#malcolm tucker x original female character(s)#fanfiction#fanfic#fic
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
megafurrycollectorwolfworld
Untitled
felonius-glitch
STATIC IN THE BRAIN
bsneezes
🌼Belle🌼
zainab1
Untitled