Work Text:
Nicola’s meeting with Malcolm at Number 10 had gone fairly well, all things considered. Yes, he had given her a bollocking over the cock up earlier in the day, but he’d also torn a piece out of Ollie and gay-bashed a never present Glen. So she decided to ask it, a question that had puzzled her since her first meeting in Malcolm’s office some months ago. She mustered up the courage and asked as nonchalantly as she could on the way out.
“Um.. Malcolm. These painting on the wall here.” Nicola pointed to the three finger painted pages tacked to the wall by the door.
“What the fuck about them.”
“These your kids? Or-“
“Fuck No. I ain’t got- Some fucking special needs kids came for a tour. Made these for Tom. Fuck cunt faced lady told them I was the man who could give them to the PM. Boosts the moral of the cunts I bring in here to shit on. Makes them think I’m not such an asshole. Now piss the fuck off. Go. GO!”
Malcolm charged towards the door the way he does when he’s trying to rid his house of a cancer, ushering Nicola and Ollie out as quick as he could. Nicola regretted having asked immediately while Ollie gave Malcolm a cold stare, seeing the pain in Malcolm’s face as his heart dropped, realizing how he had answered. He kept eye contact until the door was shut tight.
“Fuck.”
………. ………. ………. ………. ……….
“Special Needs Kids !!!”
The voice had come from the hall, the remark made by the person entering through the front door. The anger and bite in the voice ringing in Malcolm’s ears. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, trying to wrench the tension free. He wanted to bark back, as was his instinct, but he acted against it. It was better to let his sparring partner get the most of it out first.
“Is that what you think of them? My nieces and nephew? Special fucking needs children?”
Ollie followed his nose and stormed his way into the kitchen, temper tamed by the scent of roast, potatoes and herbs coming to fruition in the oven.
“What you want me to say? ‘Oh, right, those were made by this twatface fucker’s sister’s kids. We had them round for nosh and the tiny fuckers made this shit.’”
“You know, I didn’t think I could be angrier with you than I was two hours ago.”
Ollie dropped his bag on one of the extra chairs at their table, running a hand through his curls as he turned to leave the room, shrugging off his jacket as he went.
“Look, I’m trying to say I’m fucking sorry, right? And you’re fucking walking away from me.” Malcolm muttered the last part to himself.
The shouting match was put on pause until Ollie returned, having taken the time to change from his work clothes into jeans and a t-shirt advertising his love of Coldplay. Malcolm knew it was serious when Ollie wore the only shirt he owned that Malcolm resented him for.
“You know I love those kids Olls.” Malcolm admitted.
“I know.”
The younger man moved about the kitchen, setting out plates and utensils, trying to keep busy and out of Malcolm’s way. After a few awkward silent minutes, Ollie gathered the nerve to speak.
“I know you didn’t say what you did to hurt me. I was just.. caught off guard by the remark. I know you care about the kids and I didn’t mean to insinuate that you didn’t.”
Malcolm removed the roast and potatoes from the oven and placed the hot pan on the stove before preparing to carve the chunk of meat. He felt his heart lighten a little. The look in Ollie’s eyes as he’d followed Nicola out of No. 10 had been haunting him. He was sure they were in for more of a spat than they were having. Malcolm was well prepared to sleep in the spare room for a few nights. And though he would never admit it, it hurt. The thought of upsetting Ollie, making him feel as though he wasn’t important to him. He’d made an effort to lighten up on the bollocking in the eight months they’d been secretly fucking each other, but he couldn’t forego it completely. Especially when the twat deserved it. But he usually pulled him aside and pretended the worst of it. There weren’t a lot of things in life Malcolm could say he loved.
He loved his job.
He loved his party.
He loved dishing out a good bollocking.
He loved Fanta.
And he loved Ollie.
“I am sorry.” He spoke in time, making sure to enunciate every syllable to ensure Ollie felt the sincerity in his words.
Ollie snuck in behind Malcolm, the younger man grabbing the older by the hips to keep him in place. His lips grazed Malcolm’s earlobe as he went for his neck, whispering a reassuring ‘I know’ before peppering a kiss or two and nipping at his collarbone. Malcolm abruptly stopped sawing the roast and basked in the warmth that rose in his cheeks and his stomach. Ollie worked his way back to Malcolm’s ear, pausing before he whispered once more.
“You’ll be really sorry later.”