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Summary
Q examined the half-smoked cigarettes littering the ground beneath him, his eyes tracing the orange paper wrapped around perfectly round filters. Bond’s custom cigarettes had small wrinkles at the ends, giving them the expensive feel of a unique creation. He missed them, but corner store tobacco would just have to do.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Q dragged his gaze up to look at the face of the man speaking to him. He couldn't stop his hands from shaking, but it was a cold evening.
“You started smoking again?”
“I don’t know, James. What do you think?”
“I think you have bad taste in cigarettes."