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A fire alarm going off at three in the morning is bad enough on its own. A fire alarm going off at three in the morning, on an unnaturally hot, muggy, and wet night in May, right before a final exam at eight in the morning - now, that, that is bad. James tugged on boxers and the first shirt he could grab out of his closet - a shitty Americana novelty shirt he received as a gag gift for his birthday a month ago - and emerged into the hall, where a current of other students were also mussed, grumbling, and filing towards the exits. James locked his door and fell in line.
Outside, it was just as unfortunately damp as he was anticipating, and he sighed at the feeling of mud under his regrettably bare feet. He came to a stop in the crowd outside, folding his arms across his chest and watching the lights of the fire alarms flash through the windows into the dark. The man standing next to him yawned widely and scratched his hands through his hair. James glanced at him, then did a double-take.
“Aren’t you a bit too young to be here?” James asked before he could think it through. He blamed it on the just-woken grogginess. The man squinted at him.
“I’m in my third year, thanks,” the man replied, yawning again. He rubbed absently at the back of his neck. The guy must have done the same thing as James, since he had a sweater haphazardly tugged on and hanging off on shoulder, his boxers revealing skinny legs.
“No way are you in your third year,” James commented. The man looked at him again irritably.
“I’m nineteen and I’m in my third year,” the man repeated. His voice sounded oddly familiar. “Aren’t you a bit too old to be here?”
“So short-tempered,” James remarked. The man shrugged. “I’m twenty-nine and I’m also in my third year.”
“Backpacking?”
“Travelling,” James corrected. “I wouldn’t call it backpacking.”
“Shame.” The man made as if to pat his pockets, then sighed. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a light, then?”
“Unfortunately, no.” Silence reigned for a moment. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
The man looked him over. His mouth twisted up into a small smirk when he looked over James’ hideous shirt. “No, I don’t think so.”
James frowned slightly. “No, I do.”
The man raised an eyebrow at him. “What’s your name?”
“James.” The man raised both of his eyebrows. “Bond. James Bond.”
“I’ve helped you through at least three separate computer issues,” the man said, in a flash of recognition. “I do a lot of overnight work over at IT.”
“Oh, that’s you,” James said. His voice was exactly that, that voice over the phone that talked him through hopeless wireless internet problems and pop-up ads and browser hijacks. “Q… something.”
“Just Q.” The man - just Q - rubbed at the end of his sleeve with his thumb.
“Don’t you have a whole name, then, just Q?” James asked. The alarms continued to blare inside Champion Hill Residence.
“I do,” Q answered. James motioned with his hands when he did not continue.
“Care to elaborate?” James pushed, and Q sighed a second time.
“My name is Qadir.” James mimicked Q, raising both his eyebrows. The man successfully fought off a smile. “My name is Qadir Riordan Paşaoğlu. Nobody can pronounce it. The nickname’s just easier, at this point.”
“Well, Q, it’s a pleasure to meet you in the flesh,” James said, holding out a hand. Q squinted tiredly at it, then stuck his hand out and shook James’.
“I’m sorry, I forgot my glasses inside.” Q pulled up the shoulder of his sweater. It fell back down again almost instantly. James waved off the apology.
“You’ve got an interesting name,” James commented. Q glanced at him.
“Yeah, my mum’s Irish and my da’s Turkish,” Q informed him. “They also hate their son, apparently.” Q turned slightly, evidently ready to fully engage himself in conversation. The light from the flashing fire alarms inside the building flashed against the side of his face. “What do you study, then?”
“War Studies and French,” James answered. “How about you? Something with computers, I’d wager.”
“You’re mostly right.” Q adjusted his sweater again. It slipped. “I’m studying Informatics and Digital Humanities as well as a minor specialized degree in Classics centralized in Palaeography and Manuscript Studies.”
James whistled. “That’s a mouthful.”
“Yes, well, I’ve had practice saying it.” Q looked him over. “Not backpacking, then. I’m going to guess military.”
“For a bit,” James confirmed. He tugged at the top of his garish button-down, revealing the top of a scar. “Got shot, sent home.”
“Sorry about that.” Q clasped his hands behind his back for something to do with them. James shrugged, pulling the shirt back into place. “Where did you get that horrible shirt, anyways?”
“My friend Eve gave it to me as what is possibly one of the worst gag gifts I have ever received.” James tugged at the collar. “If I had had more presence of mind when the alarm went off, I would have found the fire and thrown it in.”
“I might still do it,” Q threatened teasingly. “Friend?”
“Just friend.” James briefly considered telling this man, essentially a stranger, more about his life, maybe more about Eve, maybe about Vesper, maybe about the military, maybe about the fruit bar he was thinking about having for breakfast. Three in the morning does that to a man. “How about you?”
“Single.” Q shrugged. “Men.”
“Succinct,” James commented. The corner of Q’s lips turned up.
“Why waste time?”
“Reasonable.” James looked back up at their residence. “Where do you live?”
“Third floor. 303.”
“I’m 203.” James grinned at him. “You’re a terrible upstairs neighbor. Do you fling yourself out of your bed, or do you just fall a lot?”
“Hush, old man.” Q’s head turned as suddenly as the fire alarms stopped. “Oh, mercy hell, I can go back to sleep.”
“Okay, Q from IT,” James said, dropping his hands down to his sides. “I guess I’ll be seeing you-”
“Hold on,” Q interrupted. He turned on the spot. “Does anyone have a pen or a marker?”
“Yeah,” a young woman said, passing off a Sharpie from the pocket of her pajama bottoms. Q thanked her and beckoned for James’ arm. James hesitated, then held it out for him. Q unbuttoned the cuff, pushed up the sleeve, and started to scribble a string of numbers down his forearm.
“Text me, and we’ll meet for lunch,” Q told him around the Sharpie cap in his mouth. He recapped the marker and passed it back to its owner. “Get some rest. Burn the shirt.”
“Get some rest. Don’t fall out of bed,” James retaliated, and Q got closer to a laugh than he had the whole evening.
“I look forward to sleeping,” Q commented, starting to head up the stairs of their building to the third floor.
“I look forward to lunch,” James replied, turning onto the second floor. Q offered him a little wave before leaving him behind. James unlocked his door, tossed the shirt in the corner, and wrote the number down on a sticky note so he would not lose it if it rubbed off in his sleep. He heard the door upstairs open and close, and he grinned.
