#tuckeresque

“Lies shed their skin

Like snakes.”

It was a fundraiser. A charity ball, really. Not to mention one that let in far too many wankers for Malcolm's tastes. He was stuffed into a nice suit, velvet jacket and all, and as miserable as could be. He hated everyone here. Sam wasn't even with him tonight. She was spending the weekend with her mother. The poor woman had some sort of medical procedure, so she was staying over at her place.

Nevertheless, Malcolm persevered and made the rounds to speak with everyone. Later, however, he brushed arms with one Harvey Specter, of all people.

His eyebrows rose, a bit startled. "When the fuck did ye get here? Just vacationing, or are ye working on an overseas case? Ye shoulda texted me and told me that ye'd be in London, ye twat."

“And so it goes, and so it goes. And you're the only one who knows.”

(This story is from twitter and has migrated here. This was the final reply, and this is as far back as you can go to read.)

Months passed, and things were slowly getting better. Alicia had physically healed. Malcolm went back to work for her, doing what he could. Eventually, she returned to work as well, although with more bodyguards than before.

They could do this.

She could win the seat for the Secretary of State for Defence. Oddly enough, news of the kidnapping had surfaced mere weeks after it had actually happened, and the public were entirely on her side. That hadn't changed in the months it took her to heal from it all. If anything, it had only helped her. Fucking awful lot, the public.

“Maybe it's been crazy, And maybe I'm to blame, But I put my heart above my head. We've been through it all And you loved me just the same.”

(This story is from twitter and has migrated here. This was the final reply.)

It had been so long since he had seen her.

He knew he had a ten o'clock meeting. Sammy had just been in the office to deliver him a hot coffee. As he waited for the next client, he went through his emails, clearing out his inbox. When the door opened, however, he nearly dropped his cup of coffee. As it was, he spilled a few drops on his hand.

"Fuck, that's hot," he cursed, shaking his hand and hissing. "What're ye doing here? Oh my fuck."

“She drives me crazy, Like no one else. She drives me crazy And I can't help myself.”

(This story is from twitter and has migrated here. This was the final reply, and this is as far back as you can read.)

The trip to Italy would do them a world of fucking good. They needed it. Over the past few weeks, while it had been nice to be home from prison and healing with his wife, it was clear that they needed one hell of a holiday. They deserved it.

The plane ride was a mess. Malcolm was stuck next to an asthmatic younger man who listened to his music loudly and snored as he slept. He was practically vibrating with rage. Clara's hand was on his thigh, hoping to calm him and help him through the trip. Eventually, he'd donned his earbuds and listened to his own music, not his neighbor's. Christopher Cross, Gordon Lightfoot, the Eagles, etc. He eventually dozed off. His last thought was to never book a middle seat on a plane ever again.

When they landed in Italy, he woke to Clara's hand on his face.

"Oh? We're here?"

“There are spaces between my lines that only you can fill.”

Things were insane in the office at the moment. Off The Table was rather busy. Malcolm was overwhelmed and it was more than obvious. He was trying not to yell. Trying being the keyword there, and failing miserably.

Sometime around the afternoon, Sam came in to deliver a cup of tea for him. He gave her a soft smile, muttering, "Thank ye, luv."

Even after spending the entirety of COVID's lockdown together, he and Sammy hadn't murdered one another. If anything, they were closer now. Softer, even.

“What a wicked game to play, To make me feel this way. What a wicked thing to do, To let me dream of you.”

Malcom was currently stalking the halls of DoSAC. He needed to find the Glummy Mummy and give her a stern talking-to. The appalling radio interview that she had last night would haunt the party for days to come.

As he made his way to her office, he stepped inside and pointed to the door. Ollie and Glenn looked terrified to find him standing there.

"We need tae have a talk, minge-box," he began. "The sort of talk where daddy tells the weans mummy's never coming home because he murdered her and buried her in the backyard. I might just do that tae ye at this point. We seriously need tae talk about that radio appearance last night. Fuck off, Ollie, alright? Ye too, Glenn. Fuck off. Get back tae work, both of ye. Stop standing around in mummy's office."

It was late afternoon. Malcom was taking a break from his current case, needing the time to recuperate and breathe. The other members of the Board of Negotiations at Off The Table were going to be the fucking death of him. They were doing his (non-existent) tits in, and his head was pounding with frustration. He was exasperated.

He inhaled a sandwich that Sam had all but ordered him to eat, enjoying a Fanta after. On a whim, whilst glancing at his phone, he decided to text Maria.

You doing alright?

Haven't heard from you in a bit.

“If you leave me now, You'll take away The biggest part of me.”

Malcolm came home from work that evening to find his door unlocked. Rolling his eyes, he pushed it open and stepped inside. He already knew who his fucking visitor was. From the foyer, he could see James' shoes resting on the threshold into his living room area. He spied a pair of a long legs dangling from his sofa and he called out to the man as he slipped out of his overcoat.

"Ye could just fuckin' text me, ye know? Instead of breaking it and all that. My heart would be in significantly better shape if ye did."