So getting settled in I'm hoping for a weekly update like a serial type thing so this might run crazy long or I might drop off entirely. Hopefully the former :) I'll add warnings/characters as I go so stay tuned, enjoy the ride, and as always C&C is welcome especially if I screw something up. Thanks to everyone for reading and supporting me!


"You're here to kill Quark, aren't you?" It's not until he finishes processing the question that Garak realizes he currently stands with his left forearm trapping Dr. Bashir's throat to the outside wall of the building. His right has the gun drawn pointed to his chest. Garak blinks, unnerved that he was unable to sense the man's presence. He quickly drops both arms reholstering the weapon far more expertly than most off worlders. He learned quickly observing from the rented room above this modest watering hole known as "Rom's" that to draw fast and to aim true is the difference between sure life and death out here. Especially when the sheriff is in whatever nightly regen the locals whisper about. Well at least you know in application your reflexes are still sharp. Defense response is still more than acceptable. But that's the second time he's been able to do that. Once, perhaps you were distracted by external stimuli but this time you were more than aware. You were perfectly alert and yet here you didn't so much as sense his presence until he was already beside you.

Garak takes a step back aware that his silence- that the way he's certain that he's staring into those wide surprised eyes- does nothing but lend credence to such a fanciful speculation. Ah but it can't be helped. And so he allows that unwise impulse and lets his eyes draw down slowly from Dr. Bashir's slightly parted lips to the undone top buttons of the white linen shirt, showing just enough skin that it should be considered immodest. And as surprised, as shocked as you would have me believe you are, doctor I don't detect any genuine hint of fear from you. Certainly you don't know me well enough from the moments we spent together in your office to lose your fear of me. Especially if you truly believe me to be a hired gun. And in fact, Dr. Bashir hardly seems to have taken much notice of his own circumstances and is instead already craning his head with utter indiscretion to see if he can catch a glimpse of the weapon.

"I knew it," he breathes, eyes furtively darting to left and right. Garak is terribly proud of himself for not so much as twitching in response to the obscenely obvious gesture.

"My dear doctor," Garak answers absently straightening the loose fabric of Dr. Bashir's shirt, smoothing it, making a show of brushing him off for any who might be watching. "I really have no idea what you're talking about." His voice is mild, and he easily recovers a humoring upturn of his mouth. "But I'll have to beg your pardon on this exciting bit of town gossip for the moment. I'm feeling quite... peckish and was just on my way to supper." Garak deliberately uses the human word, having researched the accent and committed it to memory. Federation human ancestry Earth, origins United Kingdom. His expression doesn't change even as he catches the double blink from Dr. Bashir, the faint curiosity, that little bit of reactionary tell of a slight lift of his head showing him his aim is true. Was there any doubt, Elim? Do they really all have you doubting your abilities now? Perhaps this little... vacation will do you some good if it helps you recover your senses. So, doctor, native born but not further out than your father else you'd surely speak with the same colloquialisms as the rest of the native born... unless of course there's a sizable population of your... ethnicity I believe is the human word but that seems unlikely given the size of the United Kingdom even with their disproportionately large representation in Starfleet. Maritime people, natural born seafarers, explorers, pioneers, but even then... No, stick with your hunch on this one, Elim.

Garak steps around the doctor solicitously going for the door, the whirl of thoughts a rushing burble of bursting swamp bubbles already passed through his mind. He's neatly compartmentalized it to the background only to let it be covered with far less telling thoughts of wind and weather. The sun has started to set and while he's easily acclimated to the welcome dry desert heat- even the frequent sand storms have become routine in the last week- he finds the cold nights to be a complete misery when they've caught him unawares. And speaking of being caught unawares... He knows Dr. Bashir has moved again as surely as he knows he's breathing. He still cannot hear him, cannot sense him properly. But he's found in his "twilight years" as Dukat has so grandly called them that there is no shortage of experience to draw on when he needs it. It's that experience which tells him to turn left- Dr. Bashir seems to favor the left, perhaps a friend or relative's handicap nurturing that habit- and Garak finds true to expectation that he stands there now expectantly. Garak's hand hovers over the brass doorknob. This time he decides to keep his attention focused away from the terribly attractive doctor. He cannot be certain that there wasn't a verbal entreaty that he'd missed with another sweep of brisk wind and he decides it safe to proceed as if there was.

"I would ask you to join me, doctor, but I'm afraid I'm hardly presentable company. More to the point, whatever would the local gossips say to you and I breaking bread in light of the circumstances?" He's not entirely certain if he speaks to scare Dr. Bashir away or to in fact play upon that natural curiosity and draw him in deeper. While the doctor could certainly prove to be a useful source of information on the world and its customs if nothing else he's far too inquisitive for his own good... Or Garak's for that matter. He finds himself surprised when he hears Dr. Bashir then step next to him with a shake of his head and a somewhat unreadable expression.

"Oh I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Garak." Garak notes he's forgotten after their first meeting that the title isn't necessary. Forgot or willfully defaulted, that is. He notices Dr. Bashir reach into his pocket and take out a small timekeeping piece on a silver chain. He puts it back with a winsome little grin before readjusting his glasses to their proper position. You don't need them, do you? Of course there is the possibility that your visual impairment... myopia going by your affectations isn't that severe but then why wear those spectacles the remainder of the time? He recalls in that look of the man full in the face there was no moment of lost focus, no blindness so to speak or even the unconscious perception thereof. He makes a note to test his theory farther at a later time as he catches Dr. Bashir speaking again.

"Let them talk if they must and believe me there are some who must... But I think you'll be disappointed by the nature of their speculation..." There is a weighty frown that morphs slowly to his face bringing a heavy burden to the forefront far too deep to ever belong to a younger man. "They'll wonder... how long before you die... that is if they assume that the nature of our relationship is a romantic one." He brushes past Garak opening the door briskly before stepping inside to the noisy main room. "I've killed everyone I've ever loved... who's ever loved me..." Dr. Bashir laughs suddenly. "Now that's terribly dramatic, isn't it? But I am, as you say, feeling quite peckish so if you'd care to join me I'd welcome the company. Of course if you're a more cautious man than that well... I won't hold it against you." He shrugs his shoulders with the air of a man accustomed to frequent disappointment even as he throws out that unspoken challenge. Chase me if you dare is what Garak hears beneath the surface as Dr. Bashir turns away and heads towards an empty table that Garak has yet to see occupied after a week's worth of dinners. His table then. And pursue you to it, I shall.

"And refuse such an intriguing offer?" Garak murmurs to himself. "I wouldn't dream of it."

The words were soft, spoken only to himself as he followed Dr. Bashir but he caught it- that slight misstep- not a trip but an aborted pause that is recovered from with such ease he should think that he only imagined it. But I know better than to doubt my first impression and by Gul somehow you heard that, doctor. He can feel the excitement flood him at the prospect of the mystery deepening. Mmm yes, mystery coupled with a delectable sway of a posterior that clearly has been kept in very fine shape. Garak laments briefly that he's allowed his focus on Dr. Bashir's many alluring assets to divert his attention from his customary survey of the establishment's patrons and quickly scans the room in front of the bar. He sees what's he's deemed the usual crowd; A human male and his wife- Garak learned their marital status rather quickly hearing mention of the "Battling O'Briens" his first night. Newly bandaged hand leaving him sorely missing a dermal regenerator nursed only by a unexpectedly fine vintage of kanar and a rousing display of marital discord to go with it. Dinner and a show, he remembers in a vivid flood only tonight there's a pause in the evening's conflict as O'Brien the mister looks up at Dr. Bashir with a curious expression.

Should I? That look seems to say. No no... comes the answering expression back from the doctor. The sign is easily recognized as the two men quickly turn back away from each other and Garak only thinks to look one table over to a group of Ferengi spending what he's determined is the third night in a row trying to find the best mode of attack to reveal the fabled latinum stream of the North Mountains. Garak stops his walk, pulling out the ladder backed chair immensely pleased that Dr. Bashir allowed him the seat with its back to the wall. It's a pleasure only tempered by the acute feeling that it was a deliberate calculation, confirmed when the doctor sits and leans in almost conspiratorially.

"I imagined you'd be more comfortable there," He whispers with a second one of those dreadfully obvious stage looks left and right. "Lets you watch the room and all... watch for enemies." Dr. Bashir shoots him that charming terribly pleased with himself smile and the absurdity makes Garak shake his head and smile back. So that's to be the game tonight then. I suppose I've been "interrogated" by far worse.

Garak merely nods but rather than immediately launch into conversation, he sees Dr. Bashir suddenly pull a small square of pressed plant pulp- paper, his mind supplies- and begin furiously scribbling. He holds up a finger in a gesture to wait as his hand deftly scrawls and Garak allows himself the luxury of finalizing his quick survey chastising himself for his sluggishness earlier. By the State, Elim, did you really walk fifteen paces without catching everything? Surely it's been a long time but you know better than to prioritize leering at an attractive body over surveillance. He decides to remedy that quickly, thankful that his vision in the dark has always been superior even to that of his colleagues. The main room after twelve hundred hours is always dark, heavy draperies curtaining everything off and he suspects it's in deference to the more light sensitive patrons who frequent later in the day. The aether tubes- as he's since learned the name of the unique substance therein- running along the upper molding produce pleasant enough light but he's gathered by deduction there must be an associated expense to explain their sparsity. Garak has always considered a poorly lit eatery to be a particularly ominous sign but fortunately for his sojourn he's found the food quite to his liking.

And he sees now, the patrons and their assorted dishes; Klingon, Cardassian, Human, and an abundance of bugs that he chalks up to Ferengi influence. The natives don't seem to possess replicator technology- whether by some esoteric reason or not he's yet to figure out- and yet the stores that must be required to produce such a wide array of dishes would have to be nearly impossible to acquire. As with everything else he notes it for later to be filled in when his attention affords. And his attention finds nothing of note until his eyes come across a Bajoran woman dressed in red who's clearly an off worlder. Her auburn hair is short, neat, and her dark eyes focus on him intently. He can tell she's not a woman who drops her gaze first. She, like the rest of the Bajorans he's seen thus far gives him a look of undisguised disdain but as he smiles pleasantly and looks back towards the doctor he can definitely detect an aura of malice far more personal than say the other two seated closer who glance at him, frown, and return to their meal. Curious... What is also curious is the snatch of conversation he catches from that more immediate table speculating how long until the doctor performs a public service and rids the world of another "damn spoonhead". Such a charming topic of conversation for dinner...

But it seems that Dr. Bashir was honest on that point and not merely playing theatrics. Well Elim, it looks as if your life may very well be in mortal peril should you decide to pursue this liaison to the next level. Very interesting. Well if hazel eyes peering at him from behind those suspect glasses weren't promising enough themselves that most certainly makes his mind up for him. Garak watches Dr. Bashir look quickly between whatever notes he's accumulated and Garak's face as if trying to decide something. Pity I've arrived at my conclusion first.

"Well now, doctor," Garak says clearly stealing the fire from whatever Dr. Bashir was working up to, "You should allow me to treat you as an apology for my earlier behavior. After all, you refused to accept my money for the impeccable way you doctored my hand and here I've repaid you by assaulting you and pointing a gun at your head." He isn't certain what reaction to expect, his short acquaintance with the doctor leading him to deduce that at this point he cannot yet predict his responses with perfect accuracy; he finds that prospect quite delightful.

"You're opening a haberdashery here in the last of the border towns before open sky ground and the North Mountains. The best prospects for such a business would surely be any of the main capitals. Thetanos isn't welcoming of outsiders but that leaves the coastal cities before you cross the Ionian Sea. Even barring that you would have travelled straight here from Babel Tower and even if you travelled by rail which is the most expedient way you would have passed Dead Falls, Chapparal, and Muledo- all of which I'm certain you've seen are much more populous and prosperous than here with a wider variety of patrons..." He speaks as if he hadn't heard a word Garak said determined to complete the monologue he'd worked up in his mind. "My meal is covered of course so you needn't trouble yourself," he adds hastily before looking back at the paper again. "And so why would an off worlder open such an establishment here? Of course I considered," Dr. Bashir rushes on excitedly "that you had friends or at the very least business contacts here but after our initial conversation I ruled that out immediately." Again he looks proud of himself not having paused for breath until now when Garak notices that same red headed Bajoran woman he'd seen rushing into Quark's the week prior.

"The usual, Doctor Bashir?" She asks looking curiously to Garak rather than to Dr. Bashir.

"Oh right, Yes, of course, please. It is Thursday after all and I can afford to be a bit indulgent but as I was saying you'd want to set up a long time establishment so that you might do it and not-"

"Julian," her tone is much more familiar, the tone chastising. He looks at Garak and stammers a quick apology. "Right, manners. This is Leeta. I'm sure you've seen her at Quark's but actually-"

"Actually I own the restaurant here."

"Well Rom actually," Dr. Bashir corrects automatically and Garak doesn't envy him the venomous smile she shoots him. He seems completely oblivious in any case.

"I'm the owner." She corrects his correction. Garak sees no reason to argue with that assertion. "And you are?" Garak folds his hands crisply on the table looking at her with a small nod of his head subtly, quickly appreciating the white taffeta hugging her waist and the crimped aerophane hair thin blue strands woven through delicately that beautifully frame her bosom. No local tailor but she easily wears a dress like that. Whatever the sign says, doctor, rest assured she is most certainly the owner. And if his brief introduction to the Ferengi currently rushing back and forth behind the bar is any indicator he's certain her hand in the business is absolute.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance formally, I'm Garak. Not Mister," He shoots a look to Dr. Bashir who pays him just as much mind as he had Leeta as he flips back through pages of the paper, "Just Garak. As I understand it I'm to play an important sacrifice to the good doctor's murderous impulses tonight."

"Tonight?!" Ah, now that got your attention, didn't it? He notes that Dr. Bashir seems unduly flustered not by his allusion to ill fated lovers but rather the hint of impending intercourse. A bit prudish for my tastes but that can certainly be overcome easily enough.

"Oh you really mustn't mint the gossip." He notes her far more conventional reaction to what most would find the important part of his statement. "I mean there are... there's more to... not that it's my place, can I suggest the Sem'hal Stew?" She rushes her voice rushed rising just a bit. "I guarantee you'll feel like you're right in North Torr. I mean assuming you've been to North Torr but our cook said that's where the recipe comes from." Garak doesn't show his surprise at her knowledge of his home world and wonders then if her reaction to seeing him earlier hadn't merely been a reflex. Yes, lest you forget you're a member of the race who enslaved her people and brought nothing but misery and death to an entire planet. He simply nods.

"I would be delighted. I have found myself in the district a few times and it most certainly would be a welcome taste of home. Oh and if it wouldn't be too much trouble with yamok sauce-"

It's impossible to miss the way that the Bajoran woman in the corner nearly starts in her seat and he isn't sure to make of it when Leeta gives a quick nod and leaves the table. And she, like Dr. Bashir couldn't possibly have heard that but I suspect possibly a different reason at hand. Garak wants to watch her. He has a feeling that he doesn't want to take his eyes off of her but he knows that whatever needs to play out won't come to fruition with him seeming too aware so he looks back to Dr. Bashir calmly.

"Now, my dear doctor," he continues without missing a step in their earlier conversation. "While I admit my choice of locale for my business might be suspect at best, I hardly think my decision to bring my much needed aesthetic to Indigo should be cause for concern."

"Aha! But that is just the tip of it, Mister Garak!" He doesn't quite punctuate the statement with a garish point of his finger but Garak can almost picture it nonetheless. Dr. Bashir grins at him not knowing how seductive that expression is as he takes his hand. "See I first had my suspicions when you kept asking after Quark. When in my lab you asked no questions about the more obvious specimens, the skeleton in the corner, the terrariums full of different arachnid species any of that. But you see here.."

Dr. Bashir points to the scabbed over wound on Garak's hand and he too suddenly finds that hand, finds that bronze thumb caressing the scar the most fascinating thing in the world as well.

"Doctor, while I admit the prices that Quark charges might give cause for some malcontent I assure you that-"

"Shh shh but see here... here," Doctor Bashir interrupts him with an intensity to his eyes that makes them nearly seem to glow. Garak finds himself stuck stupid to those eyes for however long passes as Dr. Bashir opens his mouth to speak once more he cannot imagine what could have been revealed in those fleeting minutes but-

"Aamin Marritza!" the shout comes not from some ten feet away where the Bajoran woman previously sat but closer to his right. Garak's head jerks up, that yell pulling him from his reverie simply from the unexpectedness and he curses such an amateur response even as he recovers. But that recovery comes just as the barrel of a long gun, not entirely unlike the one holstered behind his back, aims right for his chest; his heart more than likely. No, not quite like the one at your back. That one is safely holstered in a case that would absorb the impact of at least one fire of the aether where the one pointed at you has no such precaution. And these guns only have- as he's found purely by happy accident- a kill setting to boot. For all the Bajoran rhetoric about "spoonheads" lacking hearts you all seem eager enough to point your weapons there. Garak sees snarling triumph on the woman's face as she stares him down. Marritza. The name garners little recognition but he imagines it must be Cardassian. Should he live through this he'll make it a point to educate himself on the despicable scoundrel who ought to be standing here in his place.

"I believe there's been a-"

"Quiet snake." She takes another step closer, the room deathly silent and he sees Dr. Bashir's face losing all color and he cannot help but find a rather dark comedy in the sense of deja vu that must be flitting through the poor man's mind. Garak would laugh himself if the barrel wasn't growing steadily larger in his line of vision reminding him that even by accident it could too easily go off. He considers whether or not he has time to reach for his holstered weapon- "That gun you've got. I want to see it on the table." And now that that question has been neatly answered he obeys slowly. "I know it's you, Marritza. There's no trying to hide any longer, you filthy murderer. And I've got more bad news for you. The bounty pays the same whether you're alive or dead. I think you can see which one I prefer. Now, do you have any last words before I send you to hell?"

"Only two," Garak offers calmly as he places the gun on the table and stands with his hands up. "Over. Acting." He wonders how long he'll be able to enjoy the look of perplexed rage that settles on her face at his witty retort. If I was a betting man, I'd wager not long at all. His predictions have, after all, always have been right about the most unfortunate of events.