It is not essential, but might be helpful, to watch TTOI series 4 eps 6 and 7, to understand this story. This fic will cover the Goolding Enquiry, Malcolm's arrest and his subsequent trial and acquittal. Then chart Malcolm's relationship with Sam, and his struggle to find a new life and purpose. This is very much a fic of how I see Malcolm Tucker. I will spend a little time on Malcolm's background, as I see it. I realise it may not be everyone's interpretation but I hope some of you will see him the same way I do.
It will probably be in three or maybe four parts, depending on how it pans out.

Dignity. (Part One).

Malcolm sat in the Green Room adjacent to the Enquiry Suite, listening to the testimonies. One by one, his co-workers and colleagues, fed him to the wolves.
In short, from very early on, he knew he was being roundly fucked. Every single person at the Goolding enquiry lied. Without exception. However, it was quite clear that there was to be only one scapegoat. It was pay back time.
First, Stewart Pearson, lit the fuse, he named Malcolm directly. Accusing him, outright, of leaking. Others soon added more kindling to make sure the bonfire burned. Nicola; with an axe to grind, Ollie; keen to step into his shoes; Fergus Williams, the clever little shit, who manipulated the panel away from himself and towards Malcolm. Oh yes, he was the big bad wolf, he was the bully, the enforcer, the instigator of all that was bad. While they all wore their haloes low on their brows.
The fire caught hold, was liberally doused with petrol, and Malcolm was to be burned at the stake.
In some ways it was almost a relief. The career he had built, the hard slog he had endured, his unstinting loyalty to The Party, HIS party, it was all reaching it's zenith and the only way, now, was down. Down and out...and he almost welcomed it. His time was up, he was bone weary, he was done and he wanted release.

Throughout the whole sorry affair, Sam was his one constant. As he watched the screen, he watched her in particular. She sat right behind each one, as they gave their traitorous testimonies. Each player taking it in turns to stab Caesar in the back. Her face as impassive as she could contrive, but she didn't fool him. She couldn't hide her feelings completely, and Malcolm loved her for it.

If he was honest with himself, since rescuing her from the evil clutches of Russell Brewer at the party, Malcolm had 'got it bad'. His feelings for her were a constant ache, one he had not felt for a VERY long time indeed. Acting upon them, however, was quite a different matter. Affairs with work colleagues were not on his agenda and whatever his instincts, beyond a mild flirtation, things HAD to stay professional.
There were times when she looked so lovely, that he longed to kiss her. Yearned to stroke that silky hair. Nothing would have been nicer than to share a meal, a bottle of wine, then ask her back to his place...but he forced himself to push it down. Lock his feelings away and...carry on.

From his humble beginnings, everything in Malcolm Tucker's life had been a fight. He was an astute, clever child. Sensitive and alert. Quick witted and observant. Determined that his working class background would not be a hindrance. At 11 he won a scholarship to the local Grammar school, where, at first, he excelled, particularly in written English. His peers, however, were not impressed with their somewhat awkward, bright but lanky counterpart and he began to be the victim of merciless bullying.
His poor relationship with his father, meant he had to rely solely on his own ingenuity to outfox his persecutors. And he learned fast. A heavy drinker, disillusioned with the Glasgow tenement life that was his lot, his Dad frequently sought solace in the whiskey bottle. Often abusive and violent to his wife, Malcolm watched in silence as she suffered. Any misdemeanours on his son's part received a belting, and it was only a matter of time, as Malcolm, grew older, and stronger, that something would have to give. The occasion his father went too far, was the occasion when Malcolm punched his father to the ground, and left home. Never to return. He was 15.

Possessing good communication skills as he did, he managed to secure a post on the local newspaper. The work ethic was never a problem, he put in the hours, worked his way in and up. This was probably the apprenticeship for the Malcolm Tucker he was to become. At 21 he moved to The Herald and acquired a wife along the way.
Jess was a sweet girl, they were young, too young, but in love and that was all that mattered. Ambition was a fickle mistress, however, she brooked no competition. Moving down to London, where superior jobs beckoned, Malcolm eventually switched from journalism to the lower echelons of Government Communications.
It was a gradual souring, a poisoning that eventually ended his marriage. Loneliness, homesickness and her husband's relentless drive to succeed, against the odds, drove Jess away.
Their divorce was a great sadness to Malcolm. He saw it as a direct failure on his part and he never really forgave himself or forgot.
The knee-jerk reaction was to throw himself into his job. To the expense of everything else. The Glasgow boy fitted in no better here than he did at Grammar School. His colleagues were from Oxford or Cambridge, or Public Schoolboys, their backgrounds privileged. It made Malcolm all the more determined.
So it was, that, day by day, year by year, he built up his armour. His skin became impervious to hurt, he pushed himself relentlessly. He bulldozed all in his wake. He metamorphosed into the shouty, sweary, all encompassing force. He was hard on himself, working long hours, denying himself, keeping a punishing schedule that would kill lesser men. Yet, for him it became his life force. Sustaining him. His dedication, his loyalty to The Party, were the elixir that kept him alive. He thrived on the adrenaline rush, the daily lurching from one crisis to another. As his power grew, he became more ruthless.
The people who worked around him and against him, for the most part, disliked him intently. Earning a bollocking from Malcolm was their primary fear. He was the subject of much venom. His personal life became a fascination for them. They speculated about his unfortunate partner. Malcolm still wore his wedding ring. To be honest, he wore it to remind himself of his failure, nothing more. It was a badge, to remind him of better times. He enjoyed the speculation it caused! Where was this wife? Were they still together or was she under the floorboards? Was it even a wife? Could he be gay?
Malcolm, was, of course, well aware of the talk. It amused him greatly to keep them guessing. Sometimes he would throw in a homophobic remark, or a gay reference, or talk about hookers or women he had conquered, just to keep them on their toes. The truth was somewhat different, however. Malcolm was as straight as a die, in fact he loved women...but any kind of relationship in his exalted position, was nigh on impossible. Any female on his arm would be the victim of press attention, any liaison had to be first vetted by the security services. The implications of being seen anywhere untoward could be disastrous, so even a visit to a brothel would be fraught with danger.
The result was a very lonely man. Starved of affection, who lived only for his work. No one was allowed close. Barriers were impenetrable, he locked himself inside himself and never let anyone in.

Until Sam.

Right from the start Sam was not intimidated in the least, by Malcolm's bluster. Besides, to her he was never the shouty, sweary Malcolm. To her he was considerate, genuine and really quite funny. She had heard him banter with Jamie, and considered him to be one of the few people Malcolm trusted, to a small degree, or who he would describe in any way as a friend.
After they parted ways, Malcolm seemed to turn in on himself even more. The hours he worked were, frankly, ludicrous. How he stayed on his feet some days, Sam would never know. He seemed to push himself harder and harder, as time went on, for less and less reward. Yet, she noticed, he always had time for the 'little person'. He would yell a hail storm at a government minister, and then exchange pleasantries with a tea lady, or a message courier. He knew the names of the cleaner's children, and asked after them. His niece and nephew would send him pictures they'd drawn, which he hung proudly on his office wall.
Sam, unlike almost everyone else, could see THIS Malcolm Tucker, and she fell in love with him!

******"Are you finished?"
"Yes, I'm finished, but you didn't finish me"******

******"We need to drop Malcolm. He's a dead man"******

Speaking quietly into his mobile, outside Dan Miller's office, Malcolm knew the game was up. His only concern now was that he could resign, go to the police station, with Greg Fraser, his lawyer, then hole up at home, with a shred of dignity intact. Unfortunately, thanks to Ollie, that was not to be. It was Sam he entrusted with the task of phoning Greg, but more, she could not do. The fiasco at Brentford, and his subsequent rush to Hackney, almost pleading with Ollie for mercy, was the ultimate ignominy.
Malcolm would never, ever, as long as he lived, forgive that little wank stain for what he did.

Back at the department, watching Malcolm's face, on the news, as he stood on the steps of the Hackney Police Station, Sam sobbed, bitterly. Luckily, there was no one there to see her. In various offices, minions gathered round plasma screens, to gloat at the downfall of the once mighty Lord. She hated every single one of them and wanted no more part of this nasty, sordid world.
Affording herself the luxury of telling them all to go fuck themselves, however, was not on the agenda. Not yet. She had work to do. Locked in her desk drawer, were discs of Malcolm's files, containing all the dirt he had collected on various people over the years. Without a second thought, she began downloading those files onto a USB stick, which she then secreted in a tampon holder in her handbag.
She had just broken the law. She didn't care.
Malcolm's Blackberry was on his desk. She copied his contact numbers from it and returned it to its place.
Reaching for her keyboard she began typing her resignation letter.

The weeks following these events were long and arduous for both of them. Sam had couriered the information she'd 'liberated' to Malcolm's house, that evening. She received no reply. Malcolm was released on bail, pending the court hearing.
During that time she had no contact with him whatever...and she was bereft. Each day the ache she felt became more acute.
The trial began and she attended everyday. Sitting in the public gallery. It startled her to see him standing in the dock. He was pallid and grey, thin as a rake, his eyes somehow dull and distant. Shoulders hunched and head bowed, he looked 10 years older. Sam was shocked, how desperately she wanted to hold him!
Never once did he glance up at her, or anyone else. He was like a beaten man, humbled, desolate, rudderless in the storm.
On the day of the verdict, which she had been sure would be an acquittal, she watched his shoulders drop, just by the slightest amount. Saw a tight intake of breath and a bite of the lip, for the merest of seconds.
Something inside her, took over at that moment. She HAD to be by his side.
When she reached him and slid her hand in his, he looked down at her as if in a daze. A mixture of questioning, disbelief and desperation, all in one glance.
"It's over Malcolm, let's go!"

So this is the first instalment. The next will chart the aftermath of the trial and Sam and Malcolm's relationship in the first year...