Work Text:
Malcolm fucking hates parties. He hates parties, he hates all the social make-nice bullshit that accompanies a party, and most of all he hates the dressing-up involved in any party that is more than meeting someone for birthday drinks after work. Not that he does that shite; he's just saying. In theory. He's convinced the modern tuxedo is a direct descendant of some medieval torture device.
As are parties.
He doesn't see what's the big deal about celebrating the end of one year and the beginning of the other, but he's apparently the only person in London who doesn't give a fuck. Apparently being the Director of Communications doesn't mean a fucking thing when it comes to his opinion of whether or not there should be a New Year's party at work.
It crosses his mind that this is how he spent last year's New Year's party, sulking in his office with a cigarette in one hand and a bourbon in the other while everyone else makes fools out of themselves. It also crosses his mind that since Clara isn't seeing anyone, she might come in here and nag him about attending the party. Well, he thinks she's not seeing anyone. He's not sure, actually. He caught a few gilmpses of her at the party, when he'd stepped in to make the obligatory appearance and round of greetings, talking to Jamie, and he didn't see anyone with her who was behaving in a date-type way, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything, because Clara’s far better at socializing than he is and wouldn't stay glued to her date all night. If she had one.
Avoiding the party entirely would be a fantastic way to avoid anything that might end up in the next news cycle; he's just poured himself another drink and lit another cigarette with the intention of spending the rest of the evening in his office alone when Clara breezes in with two glasses of champagne. "Tell me you're not gong to sulk in your office all evening," she chirps, plunking one of the glasses in front of him on the desk and keeping the other for herself.
"I was thinking about it." Though he personally hates formalwear when he's the one wearing it, he has the opposite feeling about Clara's wearing--a deep red dress with narrow straps and a skirt that's loose enough to swish faintly when she moves. "I fucking hate small talk."
"Yeah, I know you do." Clara smoothes down her skirt and sips her champagne. "How was your holiday?"
"Didn't I just mention hating small talk?" he grumbles, but he answers her question anyway. "The same as any other day except I didn't come to work. You?"
"Visited my dad and gran,” she says, "which was lovely, but three days with my step-mother was enough for me. I was ready to come back to work." She puts her glass on the edge of the desk and looks at him. "You should come out to the party, Malcolm."
Malcolm feels his face crumple into a scowl. "I really don't want to."
"I know," she says, "but these people bust their arses all year long and it wouldn't kill you to show just a smidge of appreciation, would it?"
"Yes, actually, it might."
"Malcolm."
"I'm fucking serious, darling," he says. "You know, I have this ulcer and I'm supposed to cut down on stress. I can't think of anything more stressful than small talk with the cunts who work here."
Her mouth presses into something that would be a smile if she weren't trying to smother it. "I think you'll live." She slips around the desk and extends a hand to him in invitation. "Please."
He really doesn't want to socialize tonight, but it's really fucking hard to say no with Clara standing there in that fantastic dress. There has to be a way to say it, though, and he tries to think of what that might be while he stubs out his cigarette and tosses back the last of his bourbon.
"I have a present for you," he ends up saying instead.
"Really?" The smile Clara's been suppressing breaks through at that. It makes her glow like a goddamn Christmas tree, and he feels a stab of guilt at that, because he'd bought the gift with the intention of giving it to her someday, in the future, not necessarily right this minute--or at least that's what he told himself after he chickened out of actually giving it to her before she left for Christmas like he's a goddamn lovesick teenager and shoved the thing in his desk drawer. Whatever. Distracting her with a gift is infinitely preferable to venturing out into the party.
"Yeah," he says, tacking a lie onto it for emphasis as he reaches into his desk drawer. "It was supposed to be for Christmas, but you were out of town and I was... busy."
"But I didn't get you anything," she protests, and with Clara, he knows it's an actual protest, not one put on for the sake of not wanting to seem greedy.
"Eh." He waves off the protest and pulls the flat, wrapped box from the drawer and gives it to her. "I'm impossible to shop for because I hate everything. Don't even fucking bother."
"Should I open it now?"
"I wouldn't have given it to you now if I didn't want you to open it now, fucking would I?” Malcolm says, but the irritation in his voice is feigned to hide other, more conflicting emotions. "Go on, open it."
Clara's eyes widen as she peels off the paper to reveal a Tiffany-blue box, but she doesn't comment.
"Oh, Malcolm.” She doesn't touch the necklace, a delicate platinum chain sprinkled with tiny diamonds, with a drop pendant of several more small diamonds, and her eyes are wide and surprised. "You shouldn't have."
Malcolm shrugs. "I wanted to."
"It's too much, really."
"Do you like it?"
"Of course I like it, it's beautiful." She puts the velvet case carefully on his desk on top of the discarded wrapping paper.
He senses there's more to the sentence than she's articulated. "But..."
Clara takes a moment before she speaks, like she's trying to work out what she wants to say--unusual for her, at least lately, when it seems like every thought she has just comes out of her mouth before she can stop it. "This is the sort of gift you would give if we were together," she says carefully. She's not looking at him; instead, she's tracing her fingers along the edge of the velvet case.
She's right, and Malcolm knows it. The problem is, he just doesn't know what he wants to say about it. "Clara--"
"I know," she interrupts. "I know, you wanted to give me a Christmas gift and you thought I would like it. And I do like it, very much. But I think... I think this means more to me than it does to you."
It's not accusatory. Said in a different tone, it might be the kind of thing that sparks a shouting match between them (what doesn't?). Instead, it's touched with regret, and it saddens Malcolm instead of pissing him off.
"Maybe it doesn't," he says.
She looks up at him then, like she doesn't quite believe him, even though she wants to--and why should she, when he's pushed her away for this long?--and away again, and she reaches to close the lid of the case. Malcolm reaches over to stop her, covering her hand with his.
"Maybe it doesn't," he says again. And really, maybe it doesn't. "Maybe it means more to me than you think it does." Because it occurs to him right now, while he's sitting at his desk looking at her with that sad little smile, that maybe he's never going to be more ready for something more, something real than he is now.
"Does it?"
"Yeah," he says. "It does."
"Malcolm--"
"Just-just, c'mere, yeah?" He shifts to his feet and slides his arms around her and it feels like what he imagines coming home would feel like if he'd ever had a good one. He hasn't touched her like this since the last time she saved all their arses and that was different, anyway. That was public gratitude, a temporary celebration.
This isn't gratitude, and it doesn't feel temporary.
Malcolm doesn't keep track of how long they just stand there, holding each other. It's not like him, really, at all, but it feels right and he doesn't stop and she doesn't pull away. Neither of them make a move until his office door swings open and there's a discreet cough.
"Sorry," Jamie says, with a smirk that says he's not fucking sorry at all. "Just wanted to see where the fuck you were since I hadn't seen you. I'll fuck off.” He slips out, chuckling, and the sway in his step lets Malcolm knows he’s still a few drinks of way from completely smashed.
Malcolm's arms relax but he doesn't really let go of her. "That bastard," he says, but there's no malice to it even if he knows Jaime’s out there laughing his fucking arse off.
"He's never going to let you live this down," Clara says. She's blushing a little, a flush of pink over her cheeks and nose which Malcolm finds ridiculously attractive.
"Screw 'em." Malcolm touches one of the little strands of hair that's slipped from the little twist Clara's done her hair up in, just because he can. He's craved touching her since the first time they met and now that he's started, he's not sure if he can stop. Though he'd better figure out how, and soon. This is not something he wants to fuck up.
Right now, though, he wants another excuse to touch her, and he lifts the necklace from the velvet case. "Try it on?" he murmurs, and she nods, lifting her arms to push her hair out of the way before remembering that her hair is up in a twist and she lets them fall to her sides again. He fastens the clasp behind her neck but doesn't immediately draw his hands away, resting them on her shoulders instead.
The pendant falls just above the neckline of her dress, and Clara reaches up to touch it, though it's a hesitant gesture, like she's afraid it will crumble under her fingers if she's not careful. "It's beautiful, Malcolm,” she whispers. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he says, and nods toward the room attached to his office. "There's a mirror," he says. "Go look."
She does, but she catches his hand and pulls him in with her. Malcolm's glad she does when he sees the look on her face when she sees herself in the mirror; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen someone look so genuinely pleased by a gift.
When she turns to him again, he's aware that there's suddenly a lot more noise from the party; they're counting down to the New Year, shouting and blowing stupid paper noisemakers and generally doing all the things he was hoping to avoid from this party in the first place. "Looks like they're counting down," Malcolm says, despite the high probability that Clara can figure this out for herself.
...9...8...
"I hear that," she says.
....7...6...
"Maybe this year will be better," Malcolm says.
...5...4...
Clara grins at him, sliding her arms around his neck. The diamonds in her necklace sparkle, but he hardly notices them. “Optimism from Malcolm Tucker — mark this day down in the calendar, folks.”
...3...2...
“Fuck you,” he says, cheerfully, and she laughs, reaches behind him, and tips the door closed.
...1.
It's tentative at first, like they've forgotten how to do this. It starts as a brush of lips, more like sharing a breath than actual kissing, and then Clara sighs against his mouth and fucking fuck him, he's done for, and the kiss shifts into something deeper, something that feels a little like making up for lost time. He's not sure where to put his hands; he settles on her back before he remembers how low her dress dips and his palms brush against soft, bare skin and smooth muscle. It's easy to underestimate Clara, with her slender frame and birdlike bones, and he's as guilty of it as anyone, but when she nudges him against the door it's more of a shove than a nudge and he's reminded that she's a hell of a lot stronger than she looks. Her hands push under his jacket and he puts up with that for a moment before shrugging out of it. Malcolm's not alone in his need for touch and they indulge themselves before they break apart with more than a little reluctance. On Malcolm's part, at least, he's trying to get a grip before they end up fucking against the sink; while it's an erotic mental image, it's not how he wants this to go.
Not with Clara, who he loves. Jesus Christ, he fucking loves her.
"Come home with me," he says, catching her hand.
She presses her fingers between his, rubbing her thumb along the side of his wrist. "Are you sure?"
"It's the first thing I've been sure about since we met.” Which is not entirely true; the other thing he's sure about is that he's in love with her, and he's about to tell her so, but Clara laughs and kisses him again and he thinks maybe those are words for another day.