Chapter Text
Honestly, he had no idea what he'd been hoping. A functioning relationship? Someone to love him? Anger bursting through his veins, he shoved his thermos into his bag and slammed the door to the teachers' lounge. He ran into Eve, who might be the closest friend he ever had.
"Q, are you okay?" she asked, a frown between her eyebrows, obviously worried about her friend.
"Yeah," he sighed, his hand clutching the strap of his bag.
"Where's James?"
"I've no fucking idea — and I'm not even sure I care."
"I thought you guys were doing fine." She had that motherly look on her face that made Q want to run away. He knew she only meant well, but it was scary. He didn't want her to care — anyone to care.
"That's what I thought as well," he whispered, trying not to burst into tears. Seemed like the not-wanting-anyone-to-care part was screwed.
Q got out of the building and took a deep breath into the fresh air. It was so could outside that breathing hurt his lungs. He coughed and zipped his parka up — it would be too bad to die in the winter's cold, wouldn't it?
He started walking swiftly towards his flat; he could have taken the tube, but he wasn't in the mood to be locked up amongst so many people, in so little space. A faint drizzle began to pour, each raindrop like a little dagger piercing his olive skin.
He lived on the third floor of an old building — which was almost a ruin — but it was his home, and it felt better to be there than anywhere else. He left his shoes and bag in the hall, threw his coat on the armchair and fell on the couch. His back hurt, his head hurt, and he didn't even want to think about the state of his heart right now.
Grabbing the blanket on top of the couch, he put it over his body and decided not to think for the next twenty-four hours, at the very least. Which, of course, didn't work. Not because his will wasn't strong enough, but because someone started knocking at their door, in a rather insistent manner.
"Bloody hell," he swore between gritted teeth.
"Q — it's me. I know you're there."
He knew this voice way too well. If he hid his head under a cushion and didn't answer, James would go away, right? Well, perhaps not. The man was unbearably beating the poor door, and Q knew he just wouldn't stop. Holy crap. With a groan, he finally got up to open the door, and here he was, bloody James Bond, in all his glory - rain-soaked hair, flashing blue eyes, this bloody stupid grin, and his every-day tuxedo. Honestly, who wore tuxedos for highschool? Stupid pricks, that is.
"C'mon, open this fucking—" James stopped mid-sentence when he found himself facing Q, barely holding back his tears. Christ, all he wanted to do in that moment was to hold him tight in his arms, but he knew that Q wouldn't allow it — at least not now.
"Why you here?" Q heard the zombie voice say instead of his.
James sighed, wearing the weariness on his face; he looked like he didn't sleep for ages. Q backed off to let him in — no way his neighbours heard whatever would happen between the two of them.
"Are you planning on talking to me at some point?"
"When were you planning on telling me, exactly, huh?" backshot Q.
"Telling you what?" James was dumbfounded.
Q didn't say anything for a while before he shoved the screen of his phone under Bond's nose. James blinked, and cautiously took the device in hand. He swallowed with difficulty, his heart clenched, and put his hand over Q's — more like tried to.
" Q, I— I'm sorry," said James in a broken voice.
"No. Oh, no. You have no fucking right to tell me you're sorry. No fucking right to tell me you're sorry when I told you everything and when you keep doing whatever hell you want to do with your life. Christ. I can't believe it. You repel me."
"Q, I swear, it's not—"
"I trusted you, James. TRUSTED YOU. All these things you said, that you wanted to be good for me, to know me, all of this for that? Screwing the first whore you find? Do I matter so little to you James?"
Q wondered if he could hold back his tears for much longer. He'd never been so pissed off in his entire life, and bloody crap, it hurt, it hurt so much. All he wanted was to punch James in the face, to throw him out of his flat, and to forget everything that had happened between them.
"This is not what you think, Q."
"Too easy to say." Q was staring blankly at the raindrops clinging at the window.
"I really don't understand," he added.
"I wish I could explain."
"Bloody hell, why can't you? Tell me!"
"It's…complicated."
"Nonsense. Go away James. Fucking go away." His voice seemed to be someone else's, cold, bull-headed, but he couldn't allow his feelings to take the best of him. He couldn't let James hurt him that way. James tried to approach Q one more time, but Q backed away. "I said go away."
"Q, please—"
"LEAVE ME ALONE!" This time, it was Bond's turn to back away, dumbstruck. He would have preferred Q to slap him in the face, or hurt him physically. This was worse. Far, far worse. The words felt like blades, blades cutting his heart in two. He realised how much Q suffered, and it was all his fault. He felt so stupid, and he wanted to tell the truth, the whole truth, but it was too bloody complicated, where would he even start?
A fist hit James' chest, a small fist concentrating all of Q's strength, and he wouldn't stop hitting. James wasn't even hurt by so much violence — not that Q was weak — but it hurt far more to see all that pain in those green eyes, hurt not to know what to do or say.
James found himself all alone, only hearing the clicks of the lock of Q's door and his own aghast, erratic heart beats.
Q was in tears. Sobbing like a freaking mess, and it didn't make him feel any better. Who was the sodding idiot who said crying brought relief? It couldn't have hurt more if his heart was actually out of his chest, torn to pieces, and stomped on. It hurt like freaking hell, and as much as he wanted to believe in a better world, one where he would find his prince, he knew life was not a fucking fairytale, and that one rarely found their happy ending.