A/N: Just a little extra chapter I wrote today. If you want to know where the inspiration came from, try listening to David Bowie when you are trying to revise :) please review

Roxana screwed her nose up and put the cup back on the table. Q caught her gaze and frowned.

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, inspecting the tea. "It is not poisonous."

She rolled her eyes. "Its Earl Grey," she muttered, pointing to the mug that he was holding.

He shrugged. "Why does that matter?" he quizzed her, still looking confused.

"For one, I do not even have Earl Grey in my cupboard. Secondly, I certainly don't have it with milk in!" she answered him angrily.

Q smirked. "Tea's tea," he said simply. "What's the difference? It has to be the most boring beverage, yet here you are, arguing over a slight difference in flavour."

"You're so close minded," she murmured. "It would hardly surprise me if you said that a zebra is the same as a donkey."

"Well, from my point of view," he justified. "They might as well be. After all, it's a big universe, big being an understatement, as you say, so a donkey and a… zebra are basically the same for me."

She took the tea from him and tipped it down the sink. "Honestly, milk in Earl Grey. You are strange."

"Are you going to moan at me all day?" he asked, sounding tired, though she knew he liked winding her up.

She put her hands on her hips. "I will not waste my breath," she replied.

"I know," he said. "Why don't we call your parents over again?"

She raised an eyebrow "Why don't we? Because you utterly embarrassed me last time. You didn't even invite them over, neither did I. They invited themselves over, what a surprise they must have had."

Q did not cringe or blush or interject, only nodded proudly. "Any woman would be lucky to have me."

"I'm sure she would," Roxana scowled.

"Have you heard of Helen of Troy?" he asked.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Thinking it over, she replied, "Yes. I know who she is."

"Then I take it you have heard of the Trojan War?" he asked.

She nodded as memories of Ancient Greek at school came back to her. "Yes, she caused it."

"With a little help from..." he trailed off, pointing to himself.

Roxana shook her head. "Oh, shut up." She smiled wryly, before sitting down at her type-writer.

"You're writing again?" Q complained.

"It's not like I can go to university," she said. "The holidays are still on."

Q rolled his eyes. "Holidays? From school?"

She looked up at him. "University."

He shrugged. "Whatever. It's all the same. Learning pointless things to get you through your blink-of-an-eye life." He leant against the wall definitively.

"School is useless?" she repeated, raising an eyebrow, setting up her type-writer.

He nodded "Well, Q schools are very important. After all, we keep the universe in line."

"Literally, university?" she echoed, smiling.

He nodded slowly. "Indeed. You see, we Q have so much to do. From watching you, all you human beings seem to do is go to work or school, watch that brain cell killing box, eat chips and sleep."

"Being human is a lot more fun than that," she countered. "Granted, I am sure that a few of my neurons die when I watch Top of the Pops."

Q picked up a vinyl record and scoffed.

"Are you listening to me?" she asked, annoyed.

He nodded. "Yes. I do not have to look at you to listen to you."

"It's courtesy," she justified.

"You people are so polite," he moaned.

"You're saying that as if it is bad," she said.

He shrugged, put the record down. "Maybe I'll have my hair like that."

"God, no," she muttered.

"I've told you, call me Q. God is far too pretentious," he said.

"And you're not at all pretentious," she said sarcastically. Her gaze on him lingered. He nodded abruptly then clicked his fingers. She gaped at what she saw.

"Oh, gosh," she exclaimed. "You'd give A Flock of Seagulls a run for their money!" She burst out laughing.

Q seemed to take offence; he drew back and examined his hair in the mirror.

Shaking her head, still laughing, Roxana said, "Some people suit mullets. Like Simon le Bon..." She grinned. "Some, do not suit them."

Q folded his arms. His haircut resumed its normal shape and size. "Better?"

She nodded. "Much better."

"Let's get to work with your novel," he decided.

She frowned. "Yes, my novel. Not ours. Not yours. I can write it myself, thank you, Q. Go and watch TV or something," she suggested, waving him away.

But he did not move. He only smiled and held his position. "I am renowned for my unsurpassed artistic ability. Across the universe."

"I'm sure you are," she said. "But, this is my work and I want to do it alone. I can't put up with your sarcastic comments morning, noon and night. If you won't watch the television-"

"That's right," he interjected. "I won't."

"Then why don't you read a book," she added.

"I'll read your book," he said simply.

"You can when I finish it," she said with finality. "But at this rate, I doubt I will finish it before the millennium is out."

"A good book takes time to complete," Q said. "Plus, I, being immortal, have literally all the time in the world. Your book could take until the Sun explodes and I would be happy to wait."

"Except, I'm not immortal," she reminded him. "Not sure that I want to be."

"Suit yourself," he said bluntly. He stood watching her for a few minutes, then harrumphed and sat down on the sofa. He glanced at the clock, then at the TV set, then at Roxana again. In the end, he resorted to tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.

Roxana turned around and glared at him. "Stop that, or you're leaving," she snapped.

"How much have you written?" he asked, out of the blue.

She was silent for a moment, then replied, "I've finished the chapter, actually."

"No need to look so proud," he chided. "I'm sure it's not exactly Gone With the Wind."

"You read it?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No need to. I am sure my life followed that plot at some point."

She smiled wryly. "If you're lucky, maybe you'll make it into my book."

"I think you may be confusing the meaning of the word 'lucky'," Q muttered. He gestured to the fridge. "May I?"

She nodded. "Depends what you want."

"Nothing too filling," he replied. "Do you have any toast?"

She stood up and walked over to the breadbin. "Not in the fridge, I don't." She handed him two slices of bread.

He stared at them. "Toast," he said.

"Yes. It's not a natural thing, you know. Don't they teach you anything at Q school? You have to put the bread in this," she spoke deliberately, seeing if he had figured out that she was scathing him. He shoved the bread in the toaster, then watched it. She rolled her eyes and pushed the bread down and she set the timer. He nodded. "Ah, yes. These machines of yours are so… needy."

"Remind me not to get a needy toaster next time I need one," she murmured.

"What makes you think I will be staying long enough for me to be able to remind you?" he mocked, a wry smile creeping across his face.

She frowned. "Good point. Though it is nice having someone make tea for me, even if you do it badly. Hideously."

He nodded curtly. "The magnificent, omnipotent, glorious Q, at your service," he said with a bow.

She laughed. "Any more adjectives and you'll turn into one!"

He raised en eyebrow. "Oh, you humans and your humour."

"Right," she said defiantly. "To work."

"Off you go then," he said.

"No, I don't mean it literally. I mean, I need to do my coursework," she clarified.

He knitted his brow. "Course. Work?"

She nodded. "Ye—es," she said, looking confused. "For university. You see, I have to-"

He cut her off. "Yes, yes, I know."

She raised both eyebrows. "You do?"

"Not exactly," he admitted. "But I did not particularly want to listen to whatever you had to say, so I said so."

"Honesty is the best policy," she muttered.

With an over-the-top grin, he clicked his fingers and a chair appeared beside her. He sat down in it, much to Roxana's dismay. She looked at him sceptically. "Oh, no, please." She slapped her forehead.

Smiling jovially, he nodded and gestured to the type-writer and textbooks strewn across the desk. She picked one up, scanned the contents, then opened it up to the preferred page. She slammed it on the table, to which Q jumped.

"Here we go," she muttered, flicking the page over, then back again, grinning grimly.

"You do not look so pleased," he observed.

"No, I'm not pleased," she agreed. "I'm confused and stressed and seriously starting to doubt my life choices."

"I don't understand," he said.

"I thought a god was meant to understand everything," she murmured.

"When he wants to," he countered.

She sighed. "Fine. It's just, I've tried to hard with this course, yet I still barely scrape a B. I want an A, well, I need an A, but I can't get it."

"I could help you," he offered.

She smiled. "Thank you, but we are not even allowed to ask humans for help, let alone deities."

He smirked. "So you're accepting my godliness now?"

She nodded. "Only because I need a god now. Anyway, moping won't help. Right, let's get to it. Page one, The Doppler Effect."

Q got bored very quickly. Being omnipotent, he was not used to the idea of having Mother nature control him. He had little to do. His eyes drifted around the tiny flat, catching on the TV, on the bookshelf, on the fridge, on Roxana, on the noisy type-writer. "I should have come in a decade or so," he muttered.

"I'm sorry?" she asked, fully ensconced in her work, noting down key terms and descriptions, with a few diagrams.

"At least then I wouldn't have to put up with that infernal clickety-clack," he complained.

She raised an eyebrow, but said no more of it. Her gaze fell down to the desk and she noticed, there on the wood, a small doodle. She frowned, then scowled. "Q!" she yelled.

He stuck his finger in his ear and grimaced. "Must you?"

She scoffed. "What do you mean, Must you?" she repeated. "You're the one drawing on my table!"

"I'll get you a new one if you want. One not nearly so hideous," he suggested.

"You're really starting to get on my wick," she murmured, trying to get back to her coursework. She had read the words 'time dilation' ten times now. Yet it still had not gone in.

"Is this of value?" he asked.

"What, no, not really. I got it from Oxfam," she quipped.

"Then, what's the problem? I mean, sentimentality and materialistic needs are useless when you're omnipotent, like moi. Oh Q, I'm speaking French!" he exclaimed.

"I mean, who writes their own name on a desk?" she said under her breath haughtily.

"I'm sure you did it," Q said with a smirk.

"I wrote the names of other people in my class," she admitted. "People I didn't like. That way, they got in trouble."

Q smiled and nodded. "Clever. Perhaps I should write your name here."

She chuckled, then read the rest of what he had written. "Q was here. Whoever reads this, send my love to Jean-Luc and Kathy. Not Benjamin."

He nodded, pleased with his handiwork. "Now no one will forget me."

"You're omnipotent and immortal, apparently. No one has a choice but to remember you," she pointed out.

"Yes, but they need to remember me," he said emphatically.

She laughed grimly. "Who are you, Tucker Jenkins?" she asked, smiling to herself.

He frowned "Who?"

"You know, Grange-" She rolled her eyes. "Never mind."