Preface

Time or the Twilight Zone
Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/21512578.

Rating:
Mature
Archive Warning:
No Archive Warnings Apply
Category:
M/M
Fandom:
The Thick of It (TV)
Relationship:
Jamie MacDonald/Malcolm Tucker
Characters:
Malcolm Tucker, Jamie MacDonald, Ollie Reeder, Nicola Murray
Additional Tags:
Angst with a Happy Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, The Author Regrets Nothing, I Will Go Down With This Ship
Language:
English
Stats:
Published: 2019-11-21 Updated: 2021-11-28 Words: 2,916 Chapters: 2/?

Time or the Twilight Zone

Summary

The Quiet Batpeople scene turned slightly Malcolm/Jamie.

Alternatively, Malcolm may not care any more, but thankfully Jamie still does.

Notes

So, I couldn't sleep, and decided to watch some YouTube to send me off. What came up on my recommended but the Quiet Batpeople scene? I watched it, and the plot bunny bit. Two hours later, here we are.

This becomes Malcolm/Jamie because apparently everything I write whatever the intention does.

I hope this makes sense. And again, I'm sorry about the title, i spent 20 minutes coming up with nothing, so I went with the working title.

I'll probably check this over in the afternoon. For now, i hope you enjoy whatever this is

Chapter 1

"Everyday wombles." With those (fucking stupid) words, Malcolm checked out of the (fucking moronic) conversation.

Once, he had reigned supreme, delivering bollockings between singlehandedly keeping the entire fucking country running, sacrificing blood, sweat and spinal fluid.

This was his life now.

No power, no policies, just endless fucking rounds of the same fourth sector bollocks he had pissed on in office.

But that was the whole point in a nutshell, wasn't it? They weren't in power.

He was fucking no one again, back to the inadequacy of Opposition. No hope for redemption. No hope for fucking anything.

Not that he had had any chance for that, not anymore. He had gotten into bed with the Nutters, just for that chance to keep power.

Much as he hated to admit it, Jamie had been right; all their ideas, their grand vision - sacrificing it wasn't worth keeping power. But he'd gambled, and he'd lost. Which was worse, though? Losing power or losing Jamie? As if that was even a fucking question.

 

Tired of mulling over the same fuck ups, he slid his BlackBerry off the table, frowning once again at the empty screen. To the untrained observer, this phone appeared to be the same BlackBerry he singlehandedly ran the entire party from, capable of multi-purpose bollockings while catching up on emails. But no. That remained safely in his pocket, vibrating every now and then with the incoming news of inevitable catastrofucks he'd lose the remaining brown hairs on his head (and his increasingly dwindling will to live) to. This particular BlackBerry was all that remained of his private life; his one connection to the life he had pissed away for politics. Gone like Fatty fleeing an all you can eat salad competition.

 

 

"Sorry" Malcolm heard himself say as he rose to his feet. "I've got to take this."

Inwardly, he laughed. Take what? The same no call he hadn't been taking for the past however-the-fuck long? The same no call that would never come?

He scrubbed a hand over his face. Fuck, he was knackered.

How could anyone be expected to sleep though, when the other side of the bed remained so stubbornly empty?

He'd fucked up good and fucking proper going Nutter, but it wasn't even that, not really, that fucked him over. It wasn't how much he'd changed, or how fucking tedious the job got sometimes, nor how fucking futile their lives seemed. They were all part of it, of course, but not the real reason. It was, quite simply, because he was inadequate. Too scared about his reputation to come out of the closet, too afraid of being caught to commit himself. By the time he'd realised, well, Jamie had been packing up - called home by a family emergency. Ten weeks he'd promised, just enough to help his sister with her new bairn, but he'd never come back.

Malcolm never thought he'd think it, but he missed the wee fucker. And it wasn't just the orgasms he missed. Jamie kept him in line, kept him sane. Without him, Malcolm was stuck with unctuous little cunts like Ollie fucking Reeder. That obsequious little shit would throw his own mother under the bus if he thought it'd help his career any. But, it was all he had, and Malcolm had long been a master of making do. He was under no illusions that his career was safe, but what could he fucking do?

 


 

Ollie made one of his typically incompetent suggestions (what was fucking new?), Malcolm's stopping feigning immersion in his non-existant phone call to reluctantly return to duty.

"That sounds like a racist tribute band." At least he could still make snarky oneliners. Fuck all else.

Nicola began to blather on, more of the same monotonous shite they'd been hearing all fucking meeting.

Malcolm felt the last of his will to live slowly slipping away.

This was what he'd fought for, sweated blood and spinal fluid for? A party led by a woman who devoted an entire meeting to classifying something that didn't need classification.

All those years of verbal castration and near mental fucking breakdowns for this?

It wasn't fucking worth it.

It was all he had.

 


"Quiet...batpeople." Those words out of Nicola's mouth froze something within Malcolm. In his life he had heard so much bollocks, but that?

That took the fucking pissy biscuit.

Once upon a time, that bollocks would have been enough for him to launch into a spectacular Tuckering. He just couldn't bring himself to care.

What was the fucking point? They weren't in power.

So what if his leader sounded like she was trying to commit career suicide? There'd be another incompetent idiot ready to step in, and the cycle would begin again. More piss to mop up, more ineptitude to wade through.

It never fucking ended, so there was no point in caring.

Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately (depending on your point of view, or your opinion on the Caledonian Mafia), God decided this might as well be a good time to intercede. Or royally fuck up some people's lives, but semantics.

 


 

Glass had shattered just before Malcolm had first laid eyes on Jamie MacDonald, and glass shattered again.

The panes of the fancy fucking glass doors were no match for the deadly combination of Motherwellian fury and a fortuitously placed bookend.

There, standing proudly amidst the shattered dust was rage personified. A particularly dangerous combination. Diminutive yet fucking handsome, uneducated yet fucking smart, fucking hilarious, and fucking miles away.

Jamie looked good.

He looked really good, like a fucking four course meal placed in front of a bloke who'd just trekked his way through the fucking desert.

The only explanation Malcolm could come up with was that he had finally cracked. The lunacy he was forced to deal with had finally driven him to hallucinations. But, hallucinations didn't make Ollie look like he'd just shat himself.

Jamie's body was coiled with tension, ready to go off on the nearest fax machine with unholy vengeance as if he had never been away.

Malcolm couldn't believe his eyes.

What the fuck was the psycho doing here? And how much had he fucking heard?

The answer to one of his questions at least became immediately apparent.

 

"Quiet Batpeople?" The phrase sounded ten times as utterly fucking ludicrous in that fucking gorgeous, fucking disbelieving accent. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

The rant Jamie proceeded to deliver had all the flair and inventiveness that had characterised some of Malcolm's most epic Tuckerings.

Malcolm just watched, stunned, as Jamie picked up where he'd left off, as if he'd never left, as if he'd just stepped in to do what Malcolm couldn't be bothered doing.

It was incomprehensible.

Mere seconds after Jamie ended with the succinct "get the fuck out of my sight", the psycho turned his attention to where it belonged: Malcolm.

Bright, brilliant blue eyes traced Malcolm up and down, a slow grin appearing on his face. "Alright, fuckface?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" Malcolm yelled, or he tried to. He sounded like a shadow of his usual self. Then again, he was, wasn't he? From Cabinet to Shadow Cabinet - oh the irony.

"Working" Jamie replied, his eyes shining with that same righteous assurance that he could do what he liked and God would meter out the consequences. "Clearly one of us has tae."

"Have I stumbled into the fucking Twilight Zone?" Malcolm demanded, ignoring everyone else in favour of gaping at the psycho in front of him.

"Don't be so fucking soft" Jamie dismissed, grinning with that feral edge. "I told ye I'd be back."

"Aye" Malcolm agreed bitterly. He wasn't sure if he wanted to punch him or shag him - either was looking pretty good. "Three fucking years ago. What the fuck time d'you call this?"

Jamie, the diminutive nutjob, smiled. It wasn't his 'I'm about to rip someone's balls off' smile, it was nice. He looked almost happy. If the others hadn't fled the room by then, they did so now, running from the terror of Jamie MacDonald smiling.

"What time do I call this, Malc?" Jamie asked, voice dropping to that tone it only ever had around him. "Time ye stopped being a fucking idiot."

The wee psycho took that final step into his personal space.

Malcolm's nose filled with the familiar scent of cheap aftershave, cigarette smoke and rage.

Up this close, Malcolm could see the lines Jamie had no business getting, the streaks of grey in his hair; signs of the time he'd wasted, the time he'd missed.

Jamie searched his eyes for something, Malcolm had no fucking clue what, but he smiled, something private and almost sad. "It's time you remembered who the fuck you are. You're the unfuckable Malcolm fucking Tucker. You're the whole fuckin' Party." Jamie's wide blue eyes glittered. "You lost an election - whoop-de-fuckin'-do.  It's no' the first and won't be the fuckin' last. Pull your fuckin' heid in, ye big jessie. We've got a government tae destroy."

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

It has been over a year since I posted this and I am so sorry it has taken me this long to update.
Series 4 is not exactly my favourite series they made, but my friend (who is obsessed with Adam and Fergus) recently made me watch it again, and I got reinspired!

So, I hope you will accept this chapter as an apology.

Also, I changed the ending of the previous chapter a while ago, so you might want to go back and read it in case you haven't already.

I'm going to stop blathering on now, only to say I hope you enjoy!

Malcolm wasn't proud of how long he stood there, staring at Jamie in abject fucking confusion. It was like one of those awful fucking waking dreams, only there was no terrified staffers running from his fury. There was just a wee psycho in the same fucking anorac he had always worn, standing there as if he expected Malcolm to suddenly be the man who had singlehandedly ruled over the entire fucking country again.

 

If only he fucking could be.

 

But that was the fucking rub, wasn't it? That Malcolm Tucker, the one that had crawled through raw shit for far too many years to admit, had only ever worked alongside Jamie MacDonald. They'd clawed their way from being journalists in Glasgow, to reigning over their kingdom of terror in London. When Jamie had left, so had that Malcolm.

 

And now Jamie was back.

 

Already he could feel the fire banked within him starting to rage again.

 

Fuck. He had missed the demented wee psycho, hadn't he?

 

Well, fucked if he would let the bastard know that.

 

As he saw it, he had two options. One, he could walk out of the room and never look himself in the eyes again. Or two, he could have a bit of a therapeutic shout. He'd always loved those.

 

 

 

"You fucked off to Motherwell for three fucking years!" Malcolm shouted, grateful for the relative privacy of these offices compared to Downing Street. "Ye cannae just waltz back in here like nothin' fucking changed and ask me tae fucking trust ye!"

"Ach, pull the other one, Malc" Jamie growled, pacing in front of the table. Malcolm suddenly found himself the star of several increasingly lewd fantasies involving Jamie and that table (or Jamie and the wall, or Jamie and the floor - he was definitely seeing a pattern). He told his libido to kindly fuck off. "Ye're not angry at me, you're fucked off that you didnae come wi' me when I asked." Jamie stopped pacing and peered at him strangely. "What the fuck happened to you, Malc?" A flailing hand came dangerously close to Malcolm's face. "Jesus Christ, ye even let Steve fucking Fleming get one over ye!"

"I dinnae see why you're pretending tae fucking care!" Malcolm shot, his anger deciding that blaming Jamie for everything was a pretty smart idea. "You fucked off. Left me tae fucking deal with all this shite. You can fucking fuck off again for all I care."

Jamie just leaned on the table, whistling a few jaunty bars of Jolson. Fuck if that didn't bring back memories. "You never took me off the books, Malc" Jamie said eventually, smug in his righteous superiority.

"Oh aye?" Malcolm raised an eyebrow, feeling the familiar burn of rage he had been missing these past years. "That can fucking change."

"No it cannae" Jamie grinned, all teeth and feral charm. "Ye need me, and ye know it."

Fuck. The pugilistic psycho did have a point. Malcolm scrubbed a hand over his face. "I dinnae have time for this now, Jamie" he sighed, Jamie's eyes lighting up at the hint of defeat in his voice. "I've a Shadow Cabinet meeting tae pretend tae listen to."

"Malcolm." He turned back towards Jamie, seeing a softer expression on his face. "I know that look, whatever you're planning, don't."

Malcolm glanced out of the doorway, holding a hand up to Nicola's aide (whatever her fucking name was, he'd privately nicknamed her probably-a-lesbian). Probably-a-lesbian scowled but nodded, mouthing five minutes with more glower than Malcolm entirely appreciated.

"The wheels are in motion, Jamie."

Jamie scoffed loudly. "No they're not."

Malcolm slammed the door, glaring at the Motherwell mongrel before him. "They fucking could be!"

Jamie crossed his arms, glaring at Malcolm with the you're a fucking moron look he usually left for DoSAC incompetence. "Ye cannae oust Nicola Murray, Malc."

"She's almost as useless as Ollie fucking Reeder" Malcolm snapped, a headache creeping in at his temples. "She's a lovely person, but she has tae fucking go."

Jamie laughed, inclining his head in quiet agreement. "A'right" he conceded, apparently willing to listen to Malcolm. How fucking gracious of him. "Who's your choice to replace her then, eh? That tiny skulled fucker Geoff Holhurst? Cliff 'I'm a cunt' Lawton? Blinky Ben Swain?"

Malcolm stared at a point over Jamie's shoulder, resisting the urge to glance at his many phones. "Dan Miller."

Jamie threw back his head and laughed. And laughed. And laughed some more. Then, he seemed to realise that Malcolm wasn't fucking joking, and he swore hard enough to make even the most hardened sailors blush. "Ye cannae fucking do that, Malc" Jamie sighed, trying his hardest not to yell. "It's too reckless. You know what that backstabbing cunt is like. Him and that twat Reeder, thick as fucking thieves."

"Nicola is a poor leader" Malcolm defended, not in the mood for Jamie's correctness to talk him out of this.

"Fucks sake" Jamie growled, eyes glittering with the beginnings of the homicidal rage that had first made Malcolm fall in love with like him. "Nicola Murray is the leader you chose, Malcolm" he explained slowly, as if to an utter imbecile. Malcolm did not fucking appreciate it. "Miscounts like that dinnae just happen, so dinnae gi' me the innocent eyes, Tucker."

Malcolm inclined his head. "Aye, I chose her" he admitted quietly. "Biggest fucking mistake I made after you left."

Jamie grinned like they were making progress. "Ye've just forgotten how bad ye both want it" Jamie stated, as if Malcolm didn't already fucking know that. "You cannae throw it all away now, Malc. And ye know it."

"Aye" Malcolm agreed bitterly. "For all the fucking good it'll do us." He laughed without mirth. "We're fucking nowhere, Jamie. Up the creek wi' no fuckin' paddle and not even a fuckin' canoe." Seeing Jamie watching him, listening as he always had, Malcolm gave in. "The government are fucking up left, right and centre. You've seen it in the papers; that twatting Silicone Playground fuckup, and that bullshit wi' Tickle. And we're fucking sitting in here, blathering on about fucking Quiet Batpeople and joining the Tories in taking away school lunches!"

Jamie smiled far too pleasantly over Malcolm's shoulder, probably making whoever was trying to come and get him shit themselves in fear. "Okay then, Malc" Jamie invited, as if they were back in his old office at Downing Street (fuck, he missed that office). "How would ye deal wi' Nicola if we were in power?"

Malcolm twitched a smirk, remembering all the useless cunts he had to micromanage. "Coddle her, flatter her, lead her by the fucking hand, and if that didn't work yell some fucking sense into her. Omnishambles that she is."

Jamie grinned, Malcolm's bloodless lips twitching in response. "Time to get to work, then Malc." Jamie clapped his hands, shoving the sundry papers Malcolm always carried into his arms. "We've got a Shadow Cabinet meeting to survive, then a fucking party to resurrect." Jamie fleetingly looked wistful. "Nothing we haven't done before."

"We were a lot younger then" Malcolm pointed out, mainly to watch Jamie growl.

"Speak for ye fucking self" Jamie snarled, Malcolm's libido doing a happy little dance. "I'm a fucking spring chicken, me."

"I've seen younger" Malcolm said wickedly, smiling his most placid smile just to get a rise out of him. Baiting Jamie was dangerous, but it was always good for his sex life.

"Fuck you, Tucker" Jamie replied pleasantly, a hint of danger lurking underneath. "Oh, and if you ever replace me with that mimsy fucking cunt Ollie again, I'll rip your fucking skull off and use it as a chamberpot."

Malcolm couldn't help it. He looked around, making sure nobody was watching, then he smirked and kissed Jamie quick and hard. "Dinnae fucking leave me again, and I won't."

 

 

 

Then, as if absolutely nothing had changed but the government, Malcolm and Jamie strolled out of the building, ready to cause the same kind of unholy chaos they excelled in. And if anyone was foolish enough to take exception at Jamie waltzing into the Shadow Cabinet, Malcolm got to watch Jamie eviscerating them for his own personal entertainment. Nicola, for her part, just seemed resigned to the renewed reign of the Caledonian Mafia while Ollie looked seconds away from pissing his pants. If Glenn had been there, it would have been just like old days. There but for the fucking grace of God.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you for reading!

Afterword

End Notes

I know. How could I leave it like that? I don't know, maybe it's not the end. It's four o'clock in the morning, what do i know?

Edit: 27/11/21 - More coming soon!

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