Chapter Text
On Q's monitors, Bond's fingers drum on the oil mogul's conference table as he babysits the minister running this round of mineral rights negotiations. The pinched lines around Bond's eyes betray the yawn he's suppressing, and Q stiffens with alarm. The tells are unmistakable: Bond is bored.
And if there's one thing Q has learned over the last 18 months, it's that bored field agents make terrible boyfriends. He thinks of their poor electric kettle, once a cheery yellow, now scorched black; of his favourite cardigan, zip torn when Bond dragged it over Q's head in his haste to get his mouth on Q's skin; and all the other possessions sacrificed to Bond's enthusiasm. Q just acquired a costly, antique coffee table last month…how quickly would the spindly legs snap if Bond fucked him on it?
His pulse speeds at the image.
No. For the sake of their belongings, Q can't let Bond come home from the field with all of that pent-up, destructive energy boiling over like a forgotten kettle. Q checks Bond's flight schedule, tops up his Oyster card, and starts planning his escape route.
Bond has adrenaline to burn, and Q knows just how to do it.