Chapter Text
Q had never considered himself an ordinary boy. From an early age, he shunned his peers and obsessed over the human mind. Its inner workings fascinated him. Even during his teenage years, when his sexual identity crisis broke him, he far preferred to recover with case studies and textbooks over his family or any friends. He wanted to know about himself. First, he struggled to find out why men attracted him. Why his mind would put his parents through that shame. Later on, at university, he wondered why he could never hold a stable relationship. Where had he learned this behavior? He asked himself hard questions. What events in his life had affected him? Was he broken? Ruined?
When he began his second year of university that he knew he wanted less to analyse the mind, and more so to mold it. The years of childhood development had untapped potential. Children were as unpredictable as they were malleable.
It was around this time that Q gave up on relationships. Easier to let people assume he was too strange to find a wife than to risk his future over regular sex and emotional support. He could find both separately when the urge struck. After all, you couldn’t be queer and teach young kids. The world was too harsh. He reminded himself of this whenever a random bout of loneliness hit him and left him half-drowning in a bottle of expensive wine. It was such a waste. It left him angry with himself and with a throbbing hangover. But it only happened once or twice a year, so he never tried to fix it. Fix himself.
Q was as independent as they came, a regular young bachelor living in a modest flat a quick ride from his workplace. He let no one paint him in a different light. He never brought his one-night stands home, maintained friendly if distant relationships with his coworkers, agreed to cat-sit for his neighbors when they went on vacation to the Bahamas once a year. If anyone asked if he was happy with his way of life, he’d say yes. Then ask if he didn’t appear so. If pressed, he’d admit to missing his family or friends, most of whom he’d left behind in Manchester and Glasgow, respectively.
In short, he was lonely. And in denial.
His third year of teaching had begun two months ago and so far it had proved a worthy distraction. The new kids in his class were rambunctious and eager to learn. They kept him on his toes and left him exhausted. They reminded him how much he loved his job. He worked far longer than the standard nine-to-three that school ran, filling his mornings with lesson plans and his nights with new gradebook entries. Each weekend was a race to catch up. It was during the summer months when things wound down. Q would itch to do something, to meet someone. His sinful trysts became more frequent, as did his wine wasting and his calls to his mother.
November was a stressful month for teachers all around the country, private or public. There were parent-teacher conferences at the end of the month. He’d need to have a folder of graded work to present to persistent parents and be ready to praise their child’s every act for a solid 30 minutes. They might have questions about the classroom environment and his teaching methods. He was a young teacher and had been under scrutiny before. Parents hesitated to trust he knew what he was doing. If he guided their kids into the fourth grade, there would be no pressing complaints. Sometimes he’d disagree with certain parents because of their attitude or a differentiation of goals, but that was all in the job description.
Given it was the beginning of November and he had few precious weeks to prepare, Q made it his mission to begin his work early. He compiled the personal folders with the most significant or upstanding work a child presented him with. As much as he loved his classroom and his desk, Q knew he worked best where no one could pop their head in and bother him during his scheduled work time. He could bring his laptop home and work until his frozen dinner. Then work some more.
Q packed his gradebook and a few folders he planned on stockpiling and some math homework he had yet to grade for their take home folders. He said his goodbyes to his colleagues hovering in the teacher’s lounge around the coffee machine and made his way outside. He made a beeline for the front gate with confidence no students might be around an hour after school had ended.
As with all Q’s confidence, it turned out to be false. From the corner of the gate, he heard the playground swings creaking. Being paranoid, Q backtracked and ducked around the side of the building. His paranoid proved correct. A little girl was pushing herself on the swing with no noticeable adult supervision. She was one of his students, in fact, which made his chest tighten with fear. What if someone had walked by and seen her? School grounds protected her, but they did not shut the gates until after five. And what if she had fallen and gotten hurt? He’d never forgive himself for leaving her like this. The option didn’t even cross his mind.
“Natalya?” He walked closer to her.
She didn't stop swinging without a care. “Hello Mr. Q.” She kicked her legs to gain momentum.
“Natalya, what are you doing out here?”
“Swinging,” she said. She had a peculiar way of talking. She was shy in his classroom. It was like pulling teeth to get a straight answer out of her.
“Natalya, why are you all alone?”
“Because he’s late.” She glared in the gate's direction. “Again.” She slowed down as Q took a step or two closer to her and sat down on the swing next to her, messenger bag discarded in the sand.
“Who’s late?” He asked, swaying alongside her. When she didn’t answer, he prodded further. “Where’s your mum, Natalya? Did she send someone to pick you up?”
“She’s somewhere in Venice,” a voice said. Q whipped his head around to keep his eyes on the approaching man. “I’m sorry I’m late, duckie, got hung up in traffic.”
“That’s what you always say.” Natalya pouted and kicked her feet against the sand beneath her.
Q looked between them, realized how bad of a first impression he must make with sand in his brogues, and stood. “Thomas Quintessant, Natalya’s teacher. Please call me Mr. Q, everyone else does.”
The man looked him over. Q decided he already didn’t like him all that well. He had a disarming casual look about him, the “I can read you better than you can read me” type that put Q on edge, despite the bespoke suit he wore. Q blamed the sleepy eyes and the easy slope of his shoulders as he stood.
“Bond. James Bond. I’m Natalya’s father,” he said, a hint of a smirk on one side of his mouth. No, Q didn’t like him one bit, considering the reason Natalya was outside all alone before Q had noticed her, but he couldn’t show it for professional courtesy’s sake.
“You can call us if you can’t make it in time for standard pick up,” said Q. He was protective of the children in his classroom and traffic was no reason to risk a kid getting hurt.
“It slipped my mind.” Bond looked apologetic.
Q slung his bag over his shoulder, watching Natalya pick up her backpack. “Well, please try to remember next time. As long as we know she’s here, we’ll have no problem watching her for a bit if you’re running late. Playing outside without supervision is an accident waiting to happen.”
“Of course, it won’t happen again. Thank you for watching over her.” Bond shook his hand.
Placated, Q smiled down at Natalya. She was pouting, but she met his eyes. “If you're the last one, come back inside. You can hang out with me in the classroom, alright? We can play cards or hangman on the board. We’ll get Miss Moneypenny to join in if we bribe her, deal?”
She considered his offer before her face bloomed. “Deal!”
He felt his smile grow into a grin. “That’s my girl. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early. Remember your assigned reading for tomorrow or you’ll have to finish it during your break.” He turned to her father. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bond.”
“All mine,” said Bond. Q heard Natalya say something to him. “Would you like a ride home?” Mr. Bond called out after Q.
Q turned. “That won’t be necessary. Thank you for the offer, but I live just a few minutes away.” He waved at Natalya, who waved back with a far brighter disposition than she’d started off with. Then he turned his back on the school’s gates.