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The equipment came back in pristine condition.
Bond did not.
Q had read the report: ambush, explosions, exploitation of a freshly healed injury in Bond's leg. The mission had still been successful, leaving Bond with only a week spent in the hospital. (Which, for him, was a success.)
Still Q stared at the stylized gun on his desk for hours after Bond was flown in. It was surreal to see it there, not even a scratch on it. After the stars rose and Bond was deep in morphine-sleep, Q lit a cigarette, pushed the gun aside, and went back to work.
He didn't visit Bond, but was ready for him when the agent came back to him soon after, cleared for duty once more. The gun was on Q's desk again, but he moved it out of reach when Bond went to take it.
"Do you know how much it costs to build you a new gun?" said Q plainly.
Bond leaned back a little on the balls of his feet, hands in his pockets and an indulgent quirk of his eyebrow indicating he thought he knew where this conversation was going. "An incredibly hefty sum that you've surely told me about before, Q, but not important enough to remember."
"Correct." Q didn't look up to see if Bond showed surprise (he never did). Instead he took the immaculate gun in his hands, and started disassembling it. "Guns, radios, grappling belts, poison pens and laser cufflinks... It's not like it costs me the crown jewels to make them. We have nine double-o's to outfit, R&D to work with, and a thousand other miscellaneous things going on every day. We lose equipment. It happens."
Q spread the gun out in pieces before Bond, who was staring at Q, eyes narrowed a little in contemplation. One by one, Q picked up the useless pieces and dropped them in the bin beside his desk.
"What we don't want to ever see - " Thunk. "Is the number of lost equipment -" Thunk. "To be eclipsed by the number of lost agents." Thunk. "They're much harder to replace." Thunkthunk. "Do you understand, Bond?"
Do you understand my apology for making such a fuss before, like my toys are worth more than your life? Do you understand that I want you to destroy everything I give you if it means a safe return? Because I understand that, now - that if my weapons crumble under pressure, then it's my issue to resolve, not yours.
Bond smiled with his eyes, the faintest wrinkles appearing at the corners that no one could see when he was unconscious and hooked up to an IV.
"Yes, Q."
"Good." Q pulled up the wastebasket, dumped the parts back onto his desk, and reassembled the gun to perfect working order in under a minute. "Here's your ticket. Your plane leaves in two hours."