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“Maudlin news today,” Mycroft said, hanging up his coat as he walked into his home.
In the silence of the room, it likely seemed as though he was merely talking to himself as though he was some nutter, but Mycroft knew better. It was all the little details, all the murmers and calls that had been made throughout the day that told him he wasn’t alone.
Making his way over to his sofa, he stared at Malcolm Tucker, who sat there like a broken man with his jacket casually tossed over the arm of the sofa and his tie loosened, but still on as he stared blankly at a television that wasn’t even on. Sighing, Mycroft sat next to him, unbuttoning his own jacket as he did and took in the once proud spin doctor.
Moments passed into minutes like sludge in an hourglass before Malcolm finally looked away from the television with a sad look as he said, “You know I’m never going to be declared innocent.”
Smiling a bit bitterly Mycroft nodded. “Perjury is... rather frowned upon these days.”
And with the way they had Malcolm by the short hairs, there’d be no escape for him. Certainly not one that would appeal to the odd sense of morals the usually amoral man held. He wouldn’t just leave the country like some common fugitive; rather he would take everything head on. It would be like watching the death of a king and Mycroft’s only regret was that he would never be able to prevent it.
“I don’t even care anymore,” Malcolm said with a small shake of his head. “Maybe it’ll be good for me.”
“Certainly used to getting buggered,” Mycroft said, attempting to make light of the situation.
Letting out a small huff of air and forcing up a brief smile, Malcolm nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for that.”
Frowning, Mycroft scooted closer to Malcolm, resting his hand on the man’s thigh. Watching as his thumb ran along the inseam of the man’s trousers with no real intent beyond attempting to comfort one of them, he grimaced as the silence fell over them again.
“Stewart was fired. DoSAC is now culpable for the attack of a woman and her children by her ex husband,” he spat out, too quickly to be one of their usual teases. He was merely trying to prevent the bad thing from happening like a small child that thought if they delayed the inevitable then everything would be fine. “Dan’s... thrown you to the lions, as it were, but Ollie seems like he might do well. Fresh blood and all.”
“Why was Stewart fired?” Malcolm asked, resting his hand over Mycroft’s.
“The PM felt that... his purpose in things was a bit... redundant.”
“Been redundant for awhile,” he pointed out, his voice lacking even the barest hint of malice.
“Yes, well, you and he were rather like a set of toys,” Mycroft confessed. Looking Malcolm in the eyes, he furrowed his brows. “It’s not as fun when someone ruins half your set and... Perhaps it’s time I stop playing about with the toys.”
Malcolm let out a soft snort before asking, “So you’re not going to groom Reeder as my replacement?”
“Heavens no. He’s far too young and you might not go to jail. Certainly if you don’t I can keep you around here. You can be my Scottish French-maid.”
“I lack the legs for it.”
“That you do,” Mycroft agreed quietly.
“Fucking prick,” Malcolm muttered fondly.
“I got a swear out you,” he said, sounding far more excited than he should have. “That’s always a good sign.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Smile slowly fading, Malcolm only nodded in agreement as whatever maudlin thoughts he was ruminating over returned to him. Clenching his jaw, Mycroft leaned against the man, uncertain what it was he should do. He may have had friends in high places, but to help out Malcolm would push the limits of even his powers. Not to mention, just one look at the man, proved that he had already got the help he wanted when he first called.
Taking a deep breath, Mycroft steeled himself as he forced the question he didn’t want answered. “So, should I assume that this break up is... implied or are we going to go through the motions?”
“I love you.” Intertwining his fingers with Mycroft’s, Malcolm kissed the back of the man’s hand before looking at him. “You’re... The very embodiment of everything I worked for.”
“You always did like to take your work home with you,” Mycroft said, shrugging it off as though it was nothing.
“I told Ollie something to that affect. Might have sounded a bit bitter.”
Smiling to himself, Mycroft told himself that he wasn’t actually amused by Malcolm’s antics. There was nothing funny about the situation they found themselves in, but the laughter covered up the increasing feeling of sadness in his stomach like a blanket over a chasm.
“It’s odd,” he said, squeezing Malcolm’s hand a bit tighter than necessary. “I never pictured us ending this way.”
“You never pictured us ending with me going to prison?” Malcolm asked in disbelief.
Thinking it over, Mycroft nodded in agreement. “True. But I genuinely assumed it would be for something more insidious than perjury. Ruins your bad boy image, that.”
“Going to stick with me through the trial?”
“It can’t be any more boring than that inquiry.”
Nor could the outcome prove to be much better either, but Mycroft felt that after everything, he could manage to be there for every delaying moment of the trial. At the very least, he knew he could count on Sam to be there, loyal to the bitter end.
“It’s kind of funny, but I actually do love you,” Malcolm said, the amusement in his voice cutting through Mycroft’s train of thought. There was a sort of look of shock on his face, as though the realization was something he never expected, but he wasn’t fighting it. Malcolm had ceased fighting anything after the inquiry it seemed. “Beyond the embodiment of the government thing. You’re... important to me.”
“Your timing is piss poor,” Mycroft shot back angrily, outraged by Malcolm’s statement. “My brother jumped off a building this year. You couldn’t have... waited to be arrested?”
“I fucking live to make your life miserable where I can. It’s better than a... Really good day at work,” Malcolm said, wincing at his own lack of creativity.
“Stop it,” Mycroft ordered, jerking his hand away from Malcolm’s. “You’re making this worse. Be creative, be cruel. Just...”
“Don’t go quietly into that good night? Sorry princess, but I’ve been lingering at the edge of this for awhile now. Time to finally fucking jump and wait for the ground to make a mess of my brains so that Dan and the shites in DoSAC can pick at it like the hungry fucking vultures they all.”
“I in no way appreciate the jumping metaphor.”
“I know you don’t,” Malcolm said.
Staring into those defeated blue eyes, Mycroft sank further into the sofa, curling up against Malcolm’s side, one hand balled up in the man’s shirt. “Good.”
Wrapping his arm around Mycroft, Malcolm rubbed his side briefly before settling for simply holding him. “So what do I get for my last fucking meal, huh?”
“Curly wurlies, fanta and something between hate and fuckety-bye sex,” Mycroft said into Malcolm’s shirt.
“Sounds nice,” Malcolm said with a nod. “We going to watch the news first?”
“I suppose.”
Grabbing the remote from next to him, Malcolm turned on the television and they both sat there quietly as reporters spoke of political fuck ups and international scandals, watching on for their parts in the gigantic fuck that was government life.