He feels like he’s lost Q.
"Bloody brilliant," Q breathes, eyes fixated on the computer, as it begins to swirl in a multitude of codes and colours, so bright and sparked that it hurts James’ eyes, "I’ve never seen any code like this. It merges just so well, and I’ve never gotten into the mainline so quickly …" Then, as if he understands just what’s happening, he straightens, quickly changing back his impressed, excited expression to his practiced poker-face. "I-I mean," he corrects himself, "as brilliant as I’ve seen a criminal do.”
"Oh, you wound me," Silva purrs, leaning down to place his chin right onto the quartermaster’s bony shoulders, lips too close to the other’s throat for James’ liking, “darling Q. I was sure that would win you over …” And as he says this, low and accented, he swerves his startling eyes over at the shadows, where James nestles close to the wall, and he’s had enough.
Maybe he’s just not talking to Q enough.
So he turns right around from the direction of the kitchen of his flat - the flat that he shares with Q - and begins to walk toward the bedroom, when he hears giggles. And it’s the rare ones - chiming, high-pitched, and cherubic. He has no doubt that it’s Q in his mind, but the doubt stems from the inkling of worry in his chest that it’s Silva who’s making him giggle.
"Stop it, Raoul,” he hears, stopping dead in his tracks as he just twists his head to peek in, looking at a blanketed Q on the mattress, trying to stray from Silva’s teasing fingers, tickling, grasping, touching, “just because we got you out to aid us in the newest rendition of hacking doesn’t mean that you can come into my personal space like that -” And as if he’s felt James’ sharp eyes on him, Q freezes and turns around, looking at James with eyes that remind the agent of a deer that’s caught dead in the highlight.
Since when had they become so friendly to be on the grounds for a first-name basis?
"Double-oh-seven," he tries to say, wetting his red lips, "w-we just rented a movie, actually. ‘s about hacking - called The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo," his voice dies down to a mere whisper at the end, silent, "… you can join us?"
And he thinks: no, that’s alright, Q. I wouldn’t fit in, anyway.
"Bond," Q says, looking positively irked and tired, rubbing his eyelids with his forefinger, "I don’t think I was made for this … this … this.” He places down the gun, completely whole and untouched, the barrel still in place and the cartridge empty, and slouches slightly, looking small. “I’m not a field agent - I don’t think I’m going to need to strip a gun, you know. I might need to know how to strip a cord,” he says, placing his head in his hands and mumbling, “can we be done?”
That’s not how he reacted to Silva, earlier - and James sighs, taking the gun for himself and stripping it, alone, unable to even answer. “Right. I apologize for wasting your time.”
He just wanted to feel closer to Q, again. Aside from being on the same team, did they have nothing in common? They were the direct opposites, while - and even though he hated to admit this - Silva fit just right in like a puzzle.
Damn it all.
He can’t sleep.
He gets up and takes the sleeping pills from the medicine cabinet, not even bothering to read the instructions and hazards before grasping out a handful, grinding them finely into powder; and then, sliding them right into a glass and pouring whiskey over on top, looking at the amber liquid soak through the powder and unable to remember just how many he’d picked up.
"Just need some rest, ‘s all," he mutters to himself, in the quietness of his own, dead office, before he downs the whole thing. It’s hazy, blurry, bleary, fuzzy, before his vision’s back.
Maybe he just had taken a little too less of those sleeping pills. Bloody things. Chuckling silently, he takes a moment to pour out the rest of those seemingly innocent, white pills, doing the same and placing it in the bottom of his cup, before covering with alcohol and taking another long, pained gulp.
When he feels that he’s tired, he’s already gone through the whole bottle - one that was unopened beforehand. Nothing really registers in his mind, though, so he just walks on over - stumbles, rather - to his armchair and falls on it, tilting the back down so that he’d be reclining, before pressing the button on his phone that would play the audio.
"Hello, James," Q says, voice soft and embarrassed, "I can’t believe you bloody talked me into this - but I love you, you rude, snappish, annoyance of a twat," and James smiles here, softly, silently, heavy eyelids closing so quickly, "I love you."
And he places that in a loop, focusing on the end of the message, until he doesn’t wake up.