It’s one of those miserable days.
The rain lashes against the window and his room is cold, reflecting the grey weather. As James waits between his English Literature classes, he stands at the window pane, watching students run across campus, either holding hundred dollar textbooks above their heads or donning an umbrella.
A yawn pushes his past his pursed lips and he stretches, wincing from the soreness of last nights’ endeavors. Marking. He spent the night curled up in multiple positions with hundreds of papers on the 17th century poets and their reflection of society in literature. It makes him angry how some students don’t even belong in the course, that some of them take the elective thinking its an easy grade.
It’s not. Bond makes sure it isn’t.
Some students come into his office hours and yell, their faces turning red as they realize the shit they’ve stepped in, that this professor isn’t going to roll over for them just because they’ve paid twenty grand to get into the school. They walk out with their tail between their legs, either angry or upset. Either way, they appear next class and glare at him, exchanging snide comments with their mates beside them.
Bond tolerates it. In fact, he doesn’t really pay much attention to student gossip. He couldn’t care less what the students think, and he cares even less of the other faculty members. Female professors are always batting their lashes at him, and male professors are always expressing their jealousy or try to out do him.
He just doesn’t give a shit.
So when his next class begins to pour in, chatter loud amongst themselves, he takes a sip from his coffee cup and stands at his desk, shuffling the papers around.
When the clock strikes 11:30 on the dot, he rubs his temple and looks up at the class. Only one in the corner is looking at him, hair a mess, dark circles under his eyes, cardigan almost similar to the one Bond wears. It makes him smile, but he doesn’t make eye contact.
"Morning. I’m sure you all had a great weekend, but it’s back to reality and literature. So today I want to discuss the impact of John Milton’s ‘Paradise Lost’…"
It was always hard to get out of bed, especially when you had so few hours sleep but for Q it was such a common occurrence he was soon adjusting to it. Sleep had evaded him long before he had started college but it seemed to dislike him even more now and he was finding himself living on only three hours a night if he were lucky.
With a groan he rolled out of bed and went about his morning ritual (which involved getting a bowl of cereal and retreating back to bed to scroll through various sites on his computer) before finally he threw on whatever clean clothes he had and collected his bag before heading out.
He was there somewhat early, just like he was every day. It gave him enough time to choose the the seat in the corner that he liked and today just a little time to dry off before class started. He doesn’t mind being excluded in the conversations around him, he’s never really had that many friends to begin with and it gives him so much more time to focus on his class work.
Q busied himself in his bag, pulling out the things he needed as the classroom filled up. The sound of chatter grew steadily louder until It was exactly 11:30 and his professor looked up. With his things settled and organized (somewhat) he can’t help but notice the faint glance in his direction and smile before he begins to speak. His thoughts sort of stumbled for a second, he had a nice smile. Q decided quite quickly he liked it when his professor smiled, he wondered why he didn’t do it more often? But why had he smiled? Oh god, there wasn’t something on his face again was there?
As discreetly as he could he reached up to gently touch his face to make sure Professor Bond wasn’t indeed smiling as something on his face. Which he wasn’t, thank god. With that small drama out of the way Q could focus his attention fully on his professors lesson and he was glad to find that he’d already studied the book mentioned.
Throughout the class he found himself answering numerous questions when they were posed which was completely unlike him. He preferred to sit quietly unless called upon normally but today he wanted to stand out, just a little bit. That’s why his hand went up again and again, whenever a question was left unanswered. Was there anything wrong with trying to impress your handsome professor? (And no Q had not noticed that he was handsome. Not at all. It was just a general statement. Made . . generally.)