( as much as he appreciates the extra leg room, q would be at the very back of the plane if he'd had a choice about it. he's done the math. he knows that the probability of survival is on average twenty percent higher for passengers sitting near the rear. if flying was the absolute last resort, then he would have chosen their seats strategically. but m's orders are orders, and q has no doubt that bond played a role in getting them in the seats that they had now.
so here they are, both with hidden resentments about this whole affair that don't quite bubble to the surface. q, for his part, is finding it rather hard to equip himself with witty retorts to bond's patronizing remarks. it's a regular thing for a man who conflates youth with incompetence, and q is a young man with too much to prove - and even in these subtle ways, he tries to show bond up. tries to assert that he's someone to be taken seriously, because nobody does. )
Let's hope the rest of this contraption is sturdier than its armrests.
( he ends up muttering it within a stream of steady swear words under his breath, words that should sound odd coming from his posh british accent. q has ended up looking at his knees for the most part, anything to keep from reminding him that he is currently at 30,000 feet above the ground.
perhaps the martini that bond places in front of him is a necessary distraction as well, even if he isn't much of a drinker. q is proud of how steady his hands are when he reaches for the glass - there's only a mild tremor that runs through them as he raises the glass to his lips. such a bitter drink, dry and cool. such a classic, pretentious drink, and maybe it is indeed true what they say about being able to judge a man by the drink he orders.
no subject
so here they are, both with hidden resentments about this whole affair that don't quite bubble to the surface. q, for his part, is finding it rather hard to equip himself with witty retorts to bond's patronizing remarks. it's a regular thing for a man who conflates youth with incompetence, and q is a young man with too much to prove - and even in these subtle ways, he tries to show bond up. tries to assert that he's someone to be taken seriously, because nobody does. )
Let's hope the rest of this contraption is sturdier than its armrests.
( he ends up muttering it within a stream of steady swear words under his breath, words that should sound odd coming from his posh british accent. q has ended up looking at his knees for the most part, anything to keep from reminding him that he is currently at 30,000 feet above the ground.
perhaps the martini that bond places in front of him is a necessary distraction as well, even if he isn't much of a drinker. q is proud of how steady his hands are when he reaches for the glass - there's only a mild tremor that runs through them as he raises the glass to his lips. such a bitter drink, dry and cool. such a classic, pretentious drink, and maybe it is indeed true what they say about being able to judge a man by the drink he orders.
frankly, he wouldn't know. )
Shaken, not stirred. I've read your file.