Note: Apologies for the tailoring jargon/detail in this chapter. Those of you familiar with the works of my other alter ego will doubtless recall that I'm an accomplished maker and an amateur clothing historian. And say what you will about that shirt, it fit Alexander Siddig like a glove. A purple velour glove.

Part VI, Teaser: A Lunch Date

With his last fitting of the morning completed in record time, Elim Garak found himself in the unusual and enviable position of being able to shut up early for lunch. There was no point starting in on the alterations to Lieutenant Vilix'pran's new uniforms before eating: Garak was looking at a solid eight hours of delicate adjustments, and it would only frustrate him to have to lay the work aside after three-quarters of an hour. Nor did he have any intention of cancelling his lunch date just to dive into the project, however challenging it was. Lunch with Doctor Julian Bashir was the highlight of his week.

So Garak tidied his worktable and smoothed the three piles of neatly folded garments; four jackets, four vests, and four mustard-coloured shirts. Starfleet's decision to overhaul the sartorial image of its entire population was a frivolous one, a massive expenditure of labour and resources that only the prosperous (one might even say prodigal) Federation could afford. But it certainly was good for business. Uniforms were not supposed to be replicatable, and resequencing patterns were not provided for them — a sensible precaution, considering the trouble unsavoury types could get up to if it proved too easy to impersonate a Starfleet officer. The garments were instead manufactured to order, which explained the exceptional quality of the foundational workmanship. However, this also meant that they were constructed remotely to an officer's measurements, and not fitted on the body until the person in question received their requisition. This meant there were sometimes tailoring issues that needed correction. Nothing looked more unbecoming than a sloppily fitted Starfleet uniform, and so Garak did a modest but steady business in alterations.

Ordinarily modest but steady, anyhow. In their hurry to roll out the new design across the fleet, the Quartermaster's Department had cut corners in updating their officers' measurements, and in double-checking the specs at the point of manufacture. In the ordinary way of things, Garak could expect two or three Starfleet orders a month — perhaps more if there had been some major skirmish, or if the Defiant's crew had wormed their way into a messy situation. In the ten days since the new uniforms had been distributed to the personnel on Deep Space Nine, he had done forty-seven, including an armscye adjustment for Captain Sisko himself.

And really, if Starfleet couldn't even manage to kit out their command-level officers in decent weeds, did they have any business redesigning their uniforms at all?

It was good for business, at least: he invoiced Sisko directly for each crewmember, and Starfleet always paid their bills. That most of the changes had been relatively minor was all the more irritating, however. Lieutenant Commander Dax's trouser length, for example: she was taller than the average woman from a Federation world, but not egregiously so. Was it really so hard to leave a couple extra inches in the cuff? But Lieutenant Vilix'pran provided a unique fitting challenge, so Garak could excuse the confusion in his case. Not every tailor in the Quadrant, after all, enjoyed the Cardassian eye for detail or Garak's unique motivation to see the job well done.

Because of the wings, Vilix'pran's uniforms had been made with elliptical cutouts over each shoulder-blade, with two side-back fastenings on either side of a placket that was supposed to lie comfortably over his spine. The difficulty was that someone had cut the placket too narrow on every single layer of his uniform. The result was that the edge of the main body of the shirts pulled against the outer side of each wing-root. The Lieutenant had tried gamely to make do, but after a week and a half he was beginning to chafe. Garak would have scolded him for not coming in sooner, but after all, a working father of twelve couldn't simply run off to the tailor's on a whim.

Garak dimmed the shop lights and stepped out onto the Promenade, locking the door behind him. He would meander down to the Replimat and secure a good table. Then he could nurse a beverage and observe the denizens of the space station while he waited for his dining companion. Humans spoke of "people watching" like it was some idle diversion, but to Garak it was so much more. There were volumes to be learned from the everyday movements, the body language, and the facial expressions of the people around him, and what had once been a matter of professional interest was now one of his primary tools for survival.

Take Major Kira, for instance. She was sitting at one of the central tables in the Replimat with her back to the general traffic of the Promenade. Garak would not have expected her to choose such an incautious position: a table in a corner, with her back to the wall was more Kira's style. And then there was the way she was sitting. She always curled possessively over her food; it was a subconscious habit of those who had grown up half-starved, competing for scraps with those around them. But today her left fist was tucked up to brace the side of her head, and the forward-leaning posture could not be comfortable with her pregnancy as far advanced as it was. She was picking indifferently at her food, too, clearly not relishing it but forcing herself to eat regardless.

As Garak studied her, reading the weight of tension in her back under the smoothly fitted maternity tunic he had made, Chief O'Brien approached. He seemed to be looking for her, and sure enough, he made straight for her table and sat down in the vacant chair. His broad, honest (perhaps too honest, Garak always thought) face was the picture of sober concern as he spoke to her. At this distance, Garak could not hear what they were saying, but he did not draw nearer. He always preferred to be circumspect where Major Kira was concerned. Her sweeping contempt for his species had softened over the years as she learned to see Cardassians as individuals worthy of a wide range of treatment, from respect and consideration to the hot, caustic loathing she reserved for Skrain Dukat. But Garak did not rank very highly on her hierarchy of regard, and after last year's unfortunate incident onboard the Defiant, he had been careful to keep his distance.

They were deep in conversation now, the engineer and the executive officer. Garak wondered what they had to talk about that could not be said in the privacy of the O'Brien family quarters where Major Kira now resided. It was a curious living arrangement, stretching even the Cardassian idea of familial bonds, but it seemed to be working well for all parties involved. In Chief O'Brien's place, with his own child in an alien womb, Garak supposed he might feel a similar need to keep everyone safe behind one door. But that was laughable, wasn't it? His child, as though Garak could ever aspire to something so… serenely domestic.

Something the Chief had said, the fervour in his expression almost more eloquent than any words, made Kira hang her head. She bobbed an uneasy nod and took another spoonful of her meal. Just then, the chirp of the comm system cut through the air. Garak had been unable to hear the conversing pair, but he could just make out Odo's steady but cautious voice.

"Ops to Major Kira."

Kira spoke in reply, and then she stiffened and O'Brien paled as the security chief's voice went on to explain; "There's another incoming message for you, Major, and they refuse to give either their name or location."

Kira sprang from her seat and strode off, Chief O'Brien hastening after her. Garak tracked them with his eyes all the way to the turbolift. As the door slid shut, he heard the Major snap, "Ops!"

Well, well. That was interesting. He would have to do a little digging later on, to see if he could find out what was going on in Ops. Garak liked to keep abreast of the activities of the senior staff, although he had to admit that Starfleet was not nearly as easy to spy on as he'd first expected when they took over this station. Much of what they did, they simply did in the bald light of day, with no attempt at subterfuge or misdirection. They labelled this "transparency" and coloured it a virtue. But when they did decide to do something in secret, it could be difficult to suss out the truth through routine means. Garak had been obliged to update his repertoire of clever tricks over the years to adapt to the new regime, and he flattered himself that he had done himself and his training proud. Done Tain proud? No, not that. Never that, however he tried.

Thoughts of the man who had styled himself Garak's mentor and superior were painful, best avoided. That one had crept up on him. Enabran Tain was dead, his power at an end. If that meant Garak could no longer strive for the impossible approbation he craved, well, that was a kind of freedom in itself — wasn't it?

And in the meantime, there was a very tempting table sitting vacant in the busy Replimat: no one was eager to snap it up while the Major's abandoned meal still sat half-eaten. Garak had no such scruples. He didn't think she'd be back any time soon. He strolled across the breadth of the Promenade and slid into the seat lately vacated by Chief O'Brien.

The other scenes playing out around him were not nearly as captivating as the first had been. Two Starfleet officers in gold collars were poring over a couple of PADDs by the bubbling light fixture columns. At another table, a human woman was deep in conversation with members of two different hairless species Garak couldn't be bothered to identify. In the corner, a pair of males, one human and one Andorian, appeared to be having a lover's tiff. Garak wondered if the blue one had just explained to the brown one about the rigidly traditional four-spouse marriage his people clung to. Interspecies romance was complicated, and while humans loved to put on a great show of acceptance of all models of love and family, Garak had observed they also had very firm ideas about the sort of relationships they wanted for themselves. The range across the species was broad, but individuals often adhered to a narrow choice.

He didn't suppose a Cardassian was in any position to pass judgement on that.

When he had been at the table long enough to establish his occupancy, Garak rose and returned Major Kira's tray, now smelling strongly of cold, mashed katterpod beans, to the replicator. He checked the time on the control interface. Too early yet to order the Doctor's tea: it would be cold by the time he turned up. Garak requested a glass of rokassa juice for himself, and slid back into his chair just in time to thwart the ambitions of a pair of monks from the Bajoran shrine. He smiled graciously at them, but they did not return the gesture. He supposed that was only to be expected: even if he weren't a Cardassian, he had taken the table they wanted. He watched them move off, faintly amused, and then settled comfortable to toy with his drink.

It was 1300 hours on the dot when his lunch companion arrived. Julian Subatoi Bashir, tall and svelte despite the execrable new uniform, strolled up the Promenade and mounted the dais of the Replimat. Though now that Garak was looking, he noticed how the jacket's grey, quilted yoke actually made the Doctor seem a little broader in the shoulders, and he couldn't deny that the rich cyan of the shirt made a pleasing contrast against the auriferous skin. Humans had such a vast rangeof skintones, from Chief O'Brien's pale, ruddy complexion to shades far darker than Captain Sisko's. Child as he was of a world of monochromatic faces, Garak was fascinated by the variety. It had interesting implications for his daily trade, too: a colour that looked splendid on one human made the next one look like a bilious Romulan.

The Doctor had sought him out with his eyes, and he now approached, grinning affably. "Good afternoon, Garak!" he said, swinging one slim leg over the chair Major Kira had abandoned with such haste. "How goes the war?"

"War?" Garak huffed, annoyed. It was another one of those absurd human idioms, surely. Nonsensical, meaningless — and a little tasteless, considering the situation with the Klingons. "My dear Doctor, I prefer my daily affairs free from bloodshed."

As he had hoped, Bashir's eyes crinkled with mirth. "I'll bet you do," he said with wry relish. Then his face grew somewhat graver as he added; "I was sorry to cancel last week. I had a lot of work to do, catching up after my conference. Settling in, you might say."

"Oh, that's quite all right," Garak assured him airily. In fact, he'd been very displeased when the Doctor had requested a pass. They had missed not one, but two weeks before that, thanks to his trip to Meezan IV. Three weeks without the diversion of lunch with a man Garak could not deny was his friend had made for a dreary month. "I've been quite busy myself. It seems that every other Starfleet officer on the station has complaints about the fit of their new uniforms. I've been taking in and letting out, hemming and tucking and re-cutting all week. I'm sick of the sight of those things."

"Sorry to hear that," Bashir chuckled. He reached beneath the table to tug at the hem of his jacket. "Mine fits like a glove, as you can see."

"A pity," said Garak. "Your face, at least, would have been a welcome sight in my shop. Commander Worf isn't a very amiable customer."

"Worf came in to have his uniform altered? He doesn't seem the type," said Bashir. He craned his slender neck to peer into Garak's cup. "What are you drinking today?"

"Rokassa juice," Garak said, then tilted his head quizzically. "Can't you smell it? You've developed such a discerning nose for Cardassian foods over the years, I would have thought…"

"I suppose I'm a little stuffed up today," said Bashir lightly. "So, are you going to tell me what was so far off-spec with Worf's new uniforms that he came to you for assistance? Or do tailors hold themselves to a standard of confidentiality, just like doctors?"

"I do try to be… circumspect," Garak demurred playfully. "Without getting into the particulars, I think the Commander's chief objection was that he wasn't able to enjoy the full range of motion he requires in the discharge of his duties." Smiling coyly, he manoeuvred the conversation back to more interesting waters. "Are you certain you don't want any adjustments to your uniforms, Doctor? You're usually so particular. I've spent dozens of hours over the last few years tweaking your garments to meet your exacting standards. Why, I even altered that abominable purple velour number, even though I could have made you some sort of decent beachwear in half the time."

"Now, Garak, I happen to be very fond of that shirt," Bashir warned, wagging a finger. "I think it suits my personality."

"And what personality might that be, Doctor?" Garak asked, mockingly innocent. "The personality of an Orion pirate, perhaps?"

Bashir pursed his lips, teasing. But for some reason, there was no sparkle in his eyes as he said; "You never know!" The he clapped his hands to his thighs and raised his eyebrows as he got smoothly to his feet. "But my uniforms fit perfectly, Garak: no alterations required. Sorry to disappoint."

The hell of it was, Garak was disappointed, just a little. It was fortunate that he rarely had to seek out Doctor Bashir in his professional capacity, but he enjoyed when the young human sought him out in his. It made for a welcome interlude in a day that might be filled with nothing more stimulating than cutting fifty perfect buttonholes and stroking the egos of insecure customers. And it meant they got to spend time together outside of their usual meals. But if the uniform fit, it fit, and there was nothing more to be said on the matter.

"What can I get you?" Bashir asked. He had come around the table and was now standing at Garak's shoulder.

"So you're playing the waiter today?" Garak asked. "I wasn't aware you had serving experience."

"Oh, I'm a man of many talents," said Bashir sagely. "Just tell me what you want to eat, and you can sit there and defend our table until I get back."

There was a certain logic to this: the Replimat was considerably busier now than it had been when Garak first arrived, and competition for the seats was stiff. A harried-looking Bajoran woman juggled two loaded trays while her eldest child, a lanky girl of thirteen or fourteen, carried another and herded three smaller siblings in their mother's wake. Garak, who wouldn't have given up his seat for the Grand Nagus himself, was mildly surprised his gallant companion didn't make the offer. Then again, they had a small table and only two chairs: their spot wouldn't have done the young family much good.

Garak gave his order, and waited impatiently for Bashir's return. They settled over their meals and into a lively cross-cultural debate (music, this time, Cardassia's loyalist masters against Earth's twenty-third century chimes movement) that could have carried them clear through to dessert if Garak hadn't noticed something peculiar.

"Is there something wrong with your linguini, Doctor?" he asked curiously, instead of rising to the bait of the other man's absurd point about self-expression superseding patriotic intent.

Bashir's face scrunched in puzzlement. "What? No, not at all. Why do you ask?"

"You're eating so slowly," Garak observed.

The Doctor looked down at his plate, and then across at Garak's. "We've both got exactly the same proportion of our meals left," he said, clearly perplexed. He was wearing an expression that reminded Garak of a schoolboy whose math problem had unaccountably come out wrong

"Precisely!" said Garak. "Ordinarily, you scarf down your meal like you're afraid someone might snatch it away. You never pause to savour your food as it ought to be savoured. We've talked about it before, you know. So I can only conclude that either something is amiss with the dish itself, or something's dampened your appetite."

"No, of course not," Bashir said, trying to brush him off. Then he seemed to think better of it. He laid aside his fork and chafed his palms together. "I suppose it's Major Kira," he confessed.

Now, this was interesting. Garak leaned in a little, invitingly. Humans loved to confide in others, and Doctor Bashir certainly loved to confide in him.

"Oh, dear," he said, as sincerely as he was able. "Not trouble with the baby, I hope?"

"No…" Bashir muttered. Then his eyes grew keen and alert and he shot Garak one of his delightfully perturbed looks. "You know I can't discuss it."

"Because it concerns the security of the station, or because of your oath as a physician?" asked Garak.

Bashir tilted his head to the left. "Both," he allowed. Then he sighed and shook his head in obvious annoyance. "She's a contrary person. She says she's invested in doing what's best for the fetus, but she won't follow instructions. It was my understanding that… Bajoran women put a premium on caring for their young. And yet yesterday—"

Garak held up a warning palm. "Perhaps you shouldn't say any more, Doctor," he sang. If it had nothing to do with the cryptic call from Ops that had driven Kira so swiftly from her meal, he really wasn't interested. "While I appreciate the trust you place in me, I don't really think the Major would appreciate you sharing this level of detail about her pregnancy."

Bashir looked chagrined. "No, no, of course she wouldn't," he said. Garak expected him to pick up his fork again, so that he had something to fidget with. Instead, he folded his hands over his plate and shook his head. "It's just frustrating, that's all. When the patients don't listen to their own best interests. It's irrational."

Garak supposed that was true, but surely that wasn't a surprise to an experienced physician. There was clearly something deeper troubling his dining companion. For one thing, he had referred to the O'Brien offspring as the fetus, when Garak didn't think he'd ever said anything other than the baby before. He was no expert in obstetrics (and was anyone really an expert on this unique pregnancy, except perhaps the man sitting across from him?), but Garak knew enough about clinical detachment to suspect there was some reason Bashir was trying to distance himself emotionally from the child in question. Maybe there really was something wrong with the pregnancy; from the sound of things, something that Major Kira wasn't willing to cooperate in addressing. Only that didn't seem quite like her, either.

The other odd thing was the way he had said Bajoran women like that, so deliberately after the briefest of pauses, as if a different word had been on his mind. Something a little less polite, perhaps? Even rude? Garak felt a little gleeful jolt of amusement. Why, Doctor, even after all these years, you continue to surprise me.

"I'm sure she'll come around," he soothed. "The Major takes her responsibilities very seriously. Even the… unorthodox ones."

"I'm sure you're right," Bashir sighed. He shook his head and looked around the tabletop, as if he had only just remembered they were eating. He lifted his mug of Tarkalean tea and sipped it with a curious deliberateness. "Now, then. Music," he said, like a propagandist returning to the approved script after a nonconformist newsroom interruption. "As I was saying, the importance of personal expression is—"

The comm system chimed. "Sisko to Bashir!" The Captain's voice was brisk and very hard.

"Bashir here. Go ahead, sir," the Doctor said crisply.

"Report to the security office immediately," the Captain instructed. "There's been an incident onboard the Volga, and we need your expertise."

Bashir stiffened, his face slackening with anxiety just a fraction too slowly. He really was distracted today. Garak put the pieces together swiftly enough. "The Volga?" he said. "Isn't that the runabout that Commander Worf and Commander Dax took to Starbase 63?"

Bashir's lips scarcely moved. "Yes," he said tightly. Of course his first thought was to fear for his friends. It was most endearing.

"Dax and Worf are unharmed, Doctor," Sisko's voice promised. "They're on their way back from Bajor, and they'll be docking in just under three hours. Come to the security office, and Odo will fill you in."

Bashir nodded briskly, even though he had to know the Captain couldn't see him. "Aye, sir," he said. "On my way. Bashir out."

As the comm link went dead, the young man was already climbing to his feet, snatching the napkin off of his lap and tossing it down on the table as he went.

"Bajor?" Garak mused. "Did they make some kind of detour?"

"I'm going to find out, aren't I?" asked Bashir, but his tone seemed like a counterfeit of strained irritability instead of the real thing. A pity, really. Garak loved watching his friend in a pique. When the Doctor raked up a thin smile, the Cardassian blinked pleasantly up at him. "My apologies, Garak: we'll have to finish our debate another time."

"But of course, Doctor," Garak said, all pleasant understanding and willing absolution. "Run along. Do your duty."

Bashir nodded once more and then strode off. He moved purposefully, but he did not run. Well, it's not as if he has far to go, Garak explained to himself. And if they won't be docking for three hours, there's probably not much he can do when he gets there, anyway.

He looked down at the abandoned tray: coiled noodles strewn with pink curlicues of Bajoran shrimp and a generous dusting of melted cheese. When she paused to think a moment, Major Kira would probably feel a pang of guilt for the unfinished meal she had left behind. Garak doubted any similar misgivings would visit the good Doctor. Julian Bashir had probably never gone hungry in his life: he would have no compunctions about wasting food.

Garak had grown up in a time of famine, and he did worry about things like that. But those days were the stuff of bad dreams, and he wasn't quite guilty enough to finish the Doctor's meal for him. The shrimp looked delectable, but the human predilection for consuming dishes made from the milk of lesser species was, quite frankly, revolting. Garak plucked up the abandoned napkin and tented it over the offending dish, before resuming his own lunch contentedly.

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