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He watches him constantly, more so over the years. Ollie notices that, even though apart from it he notices barely anything. Worse than that, he never tries to understand what it means.
It’s Malcolm who starts it, without planning to, this game of theirs that isn’t really a game, the game with only one real player, though they’re never sure just who out of the both of them that is.
They’ve been in opposition for a while, and Malcolm’s changed, without Jamie at his side, Jamie who would’ve put him straight and stopped this from happening in the first place, and without the throne of power he used to reside upon. He begins spotting things, slowly, because there’s time now and because the wall of spin he was hiding behind all that time is slowly starting to crumble.
They’re not as important now, the party, but Nicola’s still not short on fuck-ups. He’d have thought she’d get better over time if he was just any man, but he was Malcolm, he knew better than to get his hopes up with the lost cases he tried setting straight day after day.
She’s not short on Ollie’s help either, he notices, and at some point between pinning him against walls and shouting at him at a dangerously close proximity, Malcolm decides that that’s a good thing. He’s still not very competent, but he’s starting to admit that he has other, more redeeming qualities, qualities he didn’t have time for when he was the Prime Minister’s enforcer and had absolutely no one to answer to. That’s changed, too. Now he has himself.
He’s rather nice to look at, the ponce. He sees that when he calls him a fucking Poxbridge twat. Nice curly hair too, that disgusting fuck, looks like it’d be great to hold onto for support. And when the dull wanking shit enters the office in the morning he thinks to himself that maybe, just maybe, that stick of a body of his would fit nicely underneath his.
His first impulse is to forget that. Right away. He doesn’t have time for some fucking 12-year old distracting him from the work he’s really fucking excellent at.
Except now, of course, he does.
…
“You didn’t send the fucking e-mail”, he shouts across the office, pinning the little fuck-up's curly head down with his eyes in a heartbeat. He’s gotten rather good at that, he has to admit, and he doesn’t know if that’s an achievement to be proud of.
“Malcolm, I can explain, I-I…”, Ollie tries to defend himself, but to his great disadvantage, that’s a thing that didn’t improve over time.
But Malcolm doesn’t let him get that far. “My office, now”
He’s with him under a minute, standing in the door, shaking, his tie loosened just the tiniest bit, but Malcolm notices. He does that too often, seeing things that shouldn’t actually matter, but that bit of collarbone is there, staring at him, and it throws him off guard for a second.
“Y-you… when I fucking tell you to send a fucking e-mail, what do you do?!” He marches to the door to close it, staring at him, fuming with anger.
Ollie shudders. “Malcolm, I can explain”
“Yeah, I bet you fucking can, and you’ll say it wasn’t your fault and really it was all a big fucking misunderstanding and why don’t we just have a little circle jerk to commemorate that we’ve resolved it” Malcolm moves in, like a bird circling his prey, and wishes this particular prey wouldn’t look so terribly inviting that having it here and now would be a pleasure. “Not fucking happening, I tell you what is fucking happening though, I’m going to get a tiny little hammer from Nicola’s wank box she keeps in her office and I’ll start hammering tiny little nails into your tiny fucking ears until your brain flows out the other end, you fucking shite”
He takes another step towards Ollie, and just like that, he’s too close. In the heat of the moment, he doesn’t even know how it happened, but he can smell him, see the terror in his eyes behind his glasses and wonders for a moment if he knows, if he could possibly know what it’s like for him lately, just being this close, and how he wishes he could fucking explain it because this should not be happening. He doesn’t fucking fall for incompetent twats who look like they’ve only just stopped breastfeeding.
But then he’s kissing him, probably harder than he’s ever been kissed before. And his tongue is positively devouring Ollie’s mouth but he doesn’t care anymore, because he doesn’t answer to anyone, not even to his bloody conscience, and so he finally does what he wants.
When the younger man kisses him back, his next instinct is to push him up against the wall, but – no. Not here. He’s always been clear about that, even though there was no one to be very clear about up until now, except for maybe Jamie, but that’s another story.
He breaks away, and hates himself for it. When he looks at the man opposite of him his face is flushed and his lips are red from where Malcolm’s mouth left off, and he can’t help thinking he could’ve done better.
“You will keep quiet about this”, he whispers, his voice trembling. “So quiet, in fact, that if I ever catch you just thinking about it I will personally cut off your cock and keep it as a souvenir. Is that understood?”
He nods, and that’s it. Or at least Malcolm thinks it is.
…
The next time is at a party conference in May. It’s no special occasion, but it hardly ever is. It could’ve happened anywhere, and eventually, it would have. That’s the whole point.
Ollie’s babysitting Nicola during the day, whilst Malcolm does his best to entertain the press. He often sends him away to do more important stuff these days because they both know Nicola is done for, but for now she’s still reasonably important to the party and since she can’t do it herself someone has to take care she doesn’t fuck up.
In that respect, it’s a success of a day. She gives a boring speech that doesn’t attract any attention towards her, and that’s how Malcolm likes it. Knowing her, it’s the best she can do, after all.
Malcolm doesn’t stay long at their little get-together in the evening. He’s always found it quite ridiculous for the party to have one, even more so now, when they have nothing to celebrate anymore. He endures the chats with the journalists and party members, keeps them as happy as can be and then returns to the hotel room reserved for him, quietly. He’s tired nowadays, with so little to lose.
He loosens his tie, discarding it on an empty chair. He doesn’t get further than that when there’s a knock on the door, several knocks, to be precise, about 15, matching the melody of Bohemian Rhapsody.
Malcolm marches to the door, prepared to shout expletives at whoever waits for him behind it, but what he sees throws him off guard.
Ollie lets himself in, not even waiting for a reaction from his boss. He throws himself onto his bed, but not before swaying considerably, a bottle of booze in his hand and his tousled hair all over the place. It’s almost impossible for him to admit, but Malcolm is finding it hard to breathe.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” he asks, grim, but shutting the door nonetheless.
Ollie sits up, his speech slurred as he answers. “Look, Mal-lcolm, I know I’m not s’posed to think about the thing that happened but I was having some wine and ignoring Nicola aaaand then I saw you leave and you looked really fucking sexy, you did, Malcolm, and now I’m here and you’re not fucking wearing a tie and that’s even worse”
It’s not easy to make the great Malcolm Tucker stutter, but Ollie manages it, somehow. “W-what the fuck? Y-you really shouldn’t be here, I’ll just-“
But he’s not allowed to finish, and that’s a first as well. The younger man gets up, anything but easy on his feet, and places a long finger on his lips. “Shhhhhhhhhhh”
He giggles, foolishly, and that’s when Malcolm clicks. In a matter of seconds, he’s got him pinned up against the hotel wall, the booze slipping from his hands, and there they are again, those lips of his, and maybe this time he’ll kiss them red enough.
“You little shite”, he murmurs between kisses, as Ollie tugs on his shirt, shakily unbuttoning it - “How fucking dare you” – and Malcolm drags him to the bed as revenge.
It’s more a fight at the beginning, trembling hands tearing sheets and clothing, lips biting – mostly Malcolm’s – on smooth skin – mostly Ollie’s, and for the first time in way too long Malcolm feels alive.
When Malcolm’s lips find Ollie’s collarbone, he leaves dark, blue bruises on his skin, but he’s past the point of caring now. He hopes he’ll be able to see them the next time the other man forgets to dress himself properly before entering his office.
He doesn’t care about a lot of things, after this. But it’s how he copes, Ollie is, now, after all of this, whatever this is, and so he has to.
…
Malcolm watches him sleep that night, and so many nights after that, though he wouldn’t ever be seen admitting it. Ollie doesn’t notice, but he sees the bags under his eyes the next day and takes a wild guess.