Q sat on the floor in the middle of the library. Books and papers were scattered around him. His laptop was placed precariously on the coffee table, a mug with cold tea beside it. Q was tired. Exhausted. He looked at the laptop, a document with notes open, numerous tabs opened in various browsers. Three days, three nights, since he had met with James. Q had come home, made a cup of tea and had begun his search for a solution. A way, to keep the soulbond between the two sentinels, a way to keep them together with a single guide, bonding with both of them.
He looked at the small book in his hands. Inconspicuous. An old book, handwritten, kept through generations of guides, changing its owners whenever an older guide met a young, hopeful guide, probably still believing in the wonders of the bond with a sentinel. Q put the book down, almost reverently. He had found what he had been looking for. And it was terrifying.
He tried to stretch his legs, wincing at the pain in his muscles, his back, his shoulders. Slowly standing up, he almost fell over, realising that he hadn't eaten anything substantial for the past three days. Leaning on the armchair, he breathed slowly in and out, the world spinning slightly around him. After a while, he was able to stand up straight and make his way to the kitchen, getting a glass of water and eating a biscuit. Feeling better, he drew a deep breath and closed his eyes. He shook his head, then went to his bathroom. He wrinkled his nose as he was stripping of his clothes. He really needed a good soak! Turning on the water, he drew a bath, hot, with a copious amount of bathing soap. Sinking down into the foam, he let out a sigh, which turned into a sob. He drew his knees up close, hugged them even closer and buried his head between them. The hot water, the sizzling sounds of the small bursting foam bubbles, the dripping from the water tap. It felt soothing. Normal. Known.
Q sat still, the water cooling, the foam slowly disappearing, even the drip-drip-drip drying up. Silence. Stillness. Quiet and calm. Q wanted to scream. He swallowed, opened the stopper and got out of the tub. He grabbed the largest towel and wrapped it around him, then he went into his bedroom. His huge bed–their huge bed, Scottie's and his–Q just stood there, looking at the bedding, unused, fresh, soft. He could feel tears in his eyes as he almost fell forward onto the bed, the towel thrown on the floor. Pulling the blanket over his naked body, he finally let the tears flow, curling in on himself, crying.
It felt like an indefinitely time before his body stopped shaking, the tears had dried up, and he stopped heaving for breath. He felt wretched, wrung out, body and soul. With what felt like a superhuman effort, he climbed out of bed, got another glass of water, swallowed two paracetamols, filled the glass once more and went back to his bedroom. He felt hollow, numbed, as he looked at the bed. Without further thought, he went to the other side of the bed, Scottie's side, and burrowed under the duvet. He slept before he had turned on his side.
Scottie was sitting in front of him, smiling a bit sadly.
"Q," his voice was rough.
Like he had sounded the first day they had met, Q thought. The roughness seeping into Scottie's voice whenever he was touched, moved by this young guide, sitting in front of him, ready to be bonded. Q looked up at him, a small smile on his lips.
"You know what you'll give up?" Scottie asked mildly.
Q's smile faded as he gave a slight nod.
"Why? Q. why?" Scottie looked at him, his eyes serious. "You've got your life, an education, a way to make your own living. Why?"
Q looked down, biting his lower lip, contemplating. Then he looked up again, shaking his head and shrugging. He didn't know. He didn't know!
With a start, Q woke.
"Scottie," he whispered, both hope and grief in his voice.
He pulled the duvet close to his face, as if trying to breathe in a last scent of Scottie. All he could smell was detergent. He could feel the tears welling up again. Determined, he sat up in the bed. On the nightstand at the other side of the bed, Q's side of the bed, stood a black and white photograph of Scottie. Q stretched over and took it, sat back up on Scottie's side of the bed, the blanket pulled tightly around him, the photo in his hands. He looked at it, his finger tracing the fine lines of the beloved and well-known face.
"I don't know why, Scottie," he said quietly.
He sat there, thinking. After a while, he cleared his throat.
"Mother asked me to," he began to articulate his thoughts, grinding his teeth. "She asked me to just talk with them, to assess them."
He stopped. Frowning, trying to understand his own motivations.
"I think," he worried his lip. "I know, I like them. And they need me."
He closed his eyes. Oh, he could see Scottie cocking an eyebrow, tutting at him. Q sighed.
"I know, I can help them. Both of them. They are–different." Q gave a small chuckle. "Not very eloquent, I know. But that's what they are."
He considered the two sentinels, Alec and James.
"Why, you ask? I don't know. I know, I'm terrified. But," Q looked at the photo in his hands. "I miss you, Scottie. I miss you so much. And–"
He had to stop to put his mind in order.
"Nothing matters any longer. Since you're gone, everything is–dull. Grey."
Q nodded at the picture.
"This makes sense. This," he pointed at the room, "I will keep this. It's mine, it was ours. I will need it. As a retreat, a way to keep a sense of self. A sense of myself."
He closed his eyes; tears were threatening again.
"Scottie," Q could hear his own voice.
He was pleading.
"I'm scared."