Note: No major note/warning here so I'll shuttup and get on with it!


"Now this is a pleasant surprise." Garak refers to the sight of Doctor Julian Bashir sitting on the edge of the large bed, shirt in its usual careless half unbutton. Doctor Bashir peers up at him. His hazel eyes glint in the somewhat dim light of the oil lamp on the bedside table, as they look over the rims of spectacles that Garak is mostly sure are fake. Garak takes a dramatic step back reading the name on the brass plate beside the doorway. It does in fact read "Jadzia Dax" in elegant script. Garak looks back in the room once more at the far end of the hallway, wondering for an insane moment if the doctor is going to lunge at him and try to throw him backwards over the balcony overlooking the common room. There's that paranoia hard at work again, Elim. He ignores that rational chastisement. Rationality has been a scarce bedfellow since his arrival here, and he's not about to try to bring any to bear where there is clearly none. Oh he has an inkling of course as to why Doctor Bashir is sitting there defiantly on what he assumes is Jadzia's bed, and it has nothing to do with them possibly being lovers.

No, he, like you knows all too well that she is the weak link. She is the gossip who enjoys a good tale over good sense, and her exploits in town along with the rest of the alpha quadrant are rather infamous. No, there's no way he would let you speak with her alone, if at all, and it seems he's come to offer himself up as a noble sacrifice. Garak steps into the room, smile growing as Doctor Bashir attempts not to look nervous.

"Yes, a pleasant surprise indeed but I must confess I was rather looking forward to Miss Dax's company tonight. Not that yours isn't a welcome substitute," he adds quickly.

"Shut the door please, Mr. Garak." Firm this time, gathering more courage. Good, that's it, doctor, I know you're a far better actor than you let on.

"Oh, no Mister, Doctor Bashir," he says as he steps inside, clicking the door closed and turning the locking dials. "Just Garak. Plain, simple, Garak. I would think a man with your… credentials would remember that detail."

Doctor Bashir holds up a notebook- exactly the one Garak had intended for him to take- and continues to look at him with that weighty expression. Garak takes a brief moment to survey the room, seeing that it's far larger than his. He knows that it is not possible on this planet to initiate any sort of space distortion or compression, but he almost wonders if there isn't some other optical illusion at work from the outside. He does not think that the building would retain its current dimensions if each door held such a large suite. There is the bed at the far corner of the room, Doctor Bashir seated on the queen mattress looking not entirely out of place. Between them he sees a large wooden sofa, ornately carved figures on the arms of the dark wood, cushions covered with a velvety maroon upholstery. He also sees a tall chair of similar design that's closer to him and he has a feeling that whatever orchestration the doctor has concocted it will go far more smoothly with Garak's compliance. He walks carefully, slowly over a woven rug, cream, dotted with a series of circles of various colors, some large, some small- polka dots, he remembers that whimsical name.

"Yes, of course... plain, simple, Garak," Doctor Bashir agrees as Garak sits on the ornate cushion of the sofa and makes himself comfortable. He takes note of a pitcher of lemonade placed on the side table between sofa and chair, and is sure to accommodate his host and sit right next to it. For a brief ridiculous moment he wonder if it might be poisoned. That seems unlikely but he doesn't particularly want to take that chance. He watches Doctor Bashir finish scribbling down a few notes in that notebook before closing it. The doctor stands and walks over to that chair looking uncertain for just a moment. He looks at Garak's eyes turning from the pitcher and glasses and sighs.

"Of course, you think it's poisoned, don't you?" Doctor Bashir sits forward on the large chair while Garak looks up at a large painting framed on the wall in front of them. In the picture is a dancer, beautifully highlighted center stage. Her arms are raised high above her head and he sees a long ribbon twirling a spiral down alongside. She has light blonde hair swept back, and the crowd behind her is a blur, the darkness splashed whimsically with few bright splashes of color. Not a dancer, he realizes, but a gymnast.

Garak doesn't immediately answer him, oddly transfixed by the painting. He recalls stories of Emony Dax, told by the host herself and he wonders if that might be her. He hears Doctor Bashir clear his throat as if to work himself up to whatever great scheme he is playing now. And Garak is certain that there is another great scheme in the works for that first notebook has revealed the necessity of a rather cunning lifestyle. That pleased him far more than he realized, and though it was only by happenstance that he acquired the book, it still would have gone against his instinct to merely hand it back without divesting it of its secrets. Making a playful counter move in return only added to the fun. Yes, you selected book number five just as you were supposed to, my dear doctor. That was the only one of the seven where the first page perfectly mimicked your phrasing after passing that quixotic code. I have no doubt you imagined you'd uncovered the one singular truth amongst a pile of lies, but that's the beauty of the game, doctor. They are all true just as they are all equally lies. And now that I know you've taken the bait, I can be certain that you've digested and disseminated the appropriate narrative amongst your allies.

Garak has no reason to believe that the doctor has not spread the story appropriately either. He can tell the slight change in demeanor from the four co conspirators, Leeta included. It had been unfortunate to uncover her duplicity, but only to a point. And she was good. She played the part expert; most men would never have thought to search the room for spying devices especially on such a primitive world but Garak is nothing if not thorough. And even if one were inclined to believe her unaware of what the engineer O'Brien had concocted, there could be no doubt after that night that she had witnessed with her own eyes everything that mirrored periscope had to offer. Ah, but then she clearly spoke with Doctor Bashir, and that sense of betrayal whittled down to nothing, didn't it? Yes, she knows as does he that the man Elim Garak has fled Cardassia Prime fearing for his life, coming to a world where he is least likely to be detected, to a town where he can observe the comings and goings of all travelers lest a single one escape notice. And how fortuitous that he should happen upon a town where there is a man who feels just as imperiled as he to spark such a kinship.

You should have been a novelist, Elim. Garak watches as Doctor Bashir takes a deep breath, finding his silence in answer to that question doubtless some indicator of affront. He decides to let that smile remain on his face and allows Doctor Bashir to believe what he will as he fidgets and starts again.

"Right, I can only imagine that that's a terribly poor joke. Let me start again, please. I…" Doctor Bashir looks at him with such liquid eyes of sincerity that Garak actually weighs truth to be in his favor. "I owe you an apology." Garak is sure to feign the proper weight at that statement before magnanimously spreading his hands.

"I think it's fair to say that we have both been laboring under a set of unfortunate assumptions. I can only say that I'm thankful that nothing worse has come of it." He's about to take a drink of lemonade when he catches Doctor Bashir's eyes flicker almost anxiously to that very gesture. Garak considers that as he pours the liquid to the glasses, sure to allow a generous amount of ice slip into his own.

Too late to show any suspicion now, Elim, you'll simply have to take your chances that this is completely benign -unlikely- that if there is a substance it is not a poison – possible-, and then determine if it lies in the ice or the liquid. He holds out a glass to Doctor Bashir. Of course only a fool would drink a poison without the proper antidote, but then again he considers in this moment as well that there is a possibility that whatever is… unique about Doctor Bashir's anatomy, it may well have to do with an ability to quickly metabolize and or synthesize out toxic substances. However he is far too professional to allow it to give him pause. He takes a careful slip of ice, and ice only, trusting his tongue to detect anything suspect. He tastes nothing. Garak watches Doctor Bashir take a long drink as well. He has no choice but to further observe and investigate. He's sure to note the level of liquid when Doctor Bashir sets his own glass down.

"Yes, as am I," Doctor Bashir agrees with a slightly nervous looking scratch at the back of his neck. He glances down to the book in his hand as if steeling himself for some grand offensive. "I ah… suppose you're wondering why I'm here and not Jadzia then?" He looks at him waiting for the appropriate response which Garak indulges easily.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he agrees, setting the glass down noting a small look of chagrin. Doctor Bashir shoulders on, leaning in just a bit.

"I understand that the two of you had a little wager," he stops suddenly, looking furiously at the floor and Garak can only imagine what it is that he's remembering. "The er… questions that is… You were going to ask her three questions and well I thought I.." he takes a deep breath and forcing himself to look Garak full in the face.

Garak is aware of the few feet that separates them but that distance is easily cleaved by the long arm that reaches out towards him. Doctor Bashir, to Garak's curiosity, takes his hand. Garak allows it, the memory of their brief dinner coming to him, that taking of the hand, that expression, repeated with the Bajoran woman Kira. There is some meaning in this then. A human custom? No, that's not it at all. There is a certain way that the doctor captures his eyes, a thumb carefully to his pulse he notes this time. Garak finds himself looking back in those eyes, a hazy sea seeming to spiral around into something poetic. Doctor Bashir's cadence changes, his voice soft, a sleep song that seeks to trigger some other part of his conscious, Garak suspects. Fascinating… just when I think I have you figured out, doctor, you display such promise as this…

"I thought you would want to ask me those questions instead. Isn't that right, Garak?"

He looks into those eyes, not betraying anything, wiping any indicator of thought or calculation from his expression- his time as a gardener has honed that vapid stare to perfection. There is a compulsion. I can tell that's exactly what you're doing and perhaps it might have worked that night before I had some inkling of what you were capable of but now... Now he plays along carefully retaining his full cognizance and awareness. It wouldn't do to have the doctor suspect that his little trick is ineffective after all. That may come in use later. Garak nods slowly, not quite sure if he is affecting the proper response with that dull agreement.

"Yes, I believe that would better suit my purposes." Doctor Bashir smiles at him- satisfied but not smug- and sits back flipping that notebook open.

"I thought that you might feel that way," he says already feverishly scribbling. Garak does not detect any physiological difference after doing a brief internal check and decides to risk a drink of the liquid itself. He drinks slowly, cautiously as the doctor completes whatever he is writing, and is not quite sure that he detects a true difference in taste or if it's only his paranoia speaking.

"I consider myself somewhat of a mentalist," Doctor Bashir informs him conversationally. Garak isn't quite familiar with the term but he can guess based on the etymology that it has some relation to a psychic or magic phenomena. "That is, I can read your mind." There's a playful grin, a mystical waggle of his fingers before he continues. "So I thought that I might make you a proposition." Garak takes another long drink, raising a brow ridge at that choice of word as he sets the glass down.

"A… proposition?" he asks innocently and is quite pleased to see a slight widening of those eyes behind the thin frames. Doctor Bashir opens his mouth- doubtless to protest- but Garak is quick to continue, "My, my, my, first, the lovely Miss Dax, and now yourself, just full of propositions, the lot of you." He smiles, seeing a flustered Doctor Bashir scramble and nearly drop the notebook, shaking his head wildly.

"No! That's ehm… not what I… that… that's not to say that I don't find you quite… that is, I'm flattered but…" His eyes vacillate quickly between Garak's face and the floor, and for a moment it seems he might hyperventilate. He downs half the glass of lemonade in the interim.

Garak's own expression doesn't change from that polite smile and as Doctor Bashir looks up at him once more a look of charming irritation appears on his face as he practically slams it back down.

"You're having me on, aren't you?" Garak can of course tell from the context of Doctor Bashir's words the intent behind the unfamiliar jargon, but he chooses to ignore it.

"Are you so certain it wouldn't be the other way around?" He expects a similar reaction but he finds the doctor having recovered with a small smirk turning up the corner of his mouth.

"That remains to be seen now, doesn't it," he fires back far more sure of himself than he initially let on. It is only by a quick drop of his eyes that Garak can sense his uncertainty in the flirtation. He doesn't allow it to delay him however as he presses on.

"Let's say then so that there's no misunderstanding, that I have a game in mind, Garak. If you'd be willing to indulge me, that is."

"Some might say that my very presence in the absence of my betting partner would be indulgence enough, but I must confess that you have me intrigued, doctor. After all, you are quite the man of mystery and as you had correctly guessed… there are a few things I'd like to know about you." Doctor Bashir sits back, just a touch dramatically, and Garak allows him to slip back into that feeling of control.

"Thought so." He flips the book open crossing his leg, looking like more what Jadzia would coin a traditional head shrinker than a physician. "If you recall I told you I'm a bit of a mentalist and a part of that ability is the ability, not to predict the future, but to predict, to plumb the deepest corners of the mind. And your mind, Garak is what I think I've figured out. Now you're going to ask me three questions and I have every certainty that I know what those three questions will be. I'm going to write them down here on this page and then place the sheet of paper underneath this chair folded quite nicely and you are going to ask me anything you desire. And I bet…" He shoots that dangerously look- dangerous in just how sensual it is in its intensity- as he finishes.

"Well now, since you seem to be a betting man, I'll go double or nothing with you. If I'm correct then it will be my turn to put the screws to you just a bit. But if I lose then you can ask me three more questions that I must answer honestly." Garak is immediately intrigued as both he and the doctor take a long drink at the same time, looking at each other, some silent thought passing between them. Now this is quite an interesting turn and I must say it's a much more exciting one than anything else I might have anticipated tonight. A mentalist, is it? No, not a mind reader, but a very clever man who knows his own writing inside and out and believes he has enough of a dossier on his opponent to know exactly which questions he will ask, and where they fall in line with the average layman. But then again, the best psychic probe can often be undone neatly with a little logic, a little depth of thought and I believe I already know which questions those would be. Now as to whether or not I should humor you, that remains to be seen.

Garak sets the glass down, settling back into the couch getting more at ease. He feigns consideration having already made up his mind. The longer he can engage Doctor Bashir in an intimate- or at least what he believes to believe an intimate conversation- the more he can find out. And the best interrogator knows that answers come not just from questions but from those deep, intimate conversations where one reveals their own darkest secrets. Or so his unwitting clients usually believe. He can feel Doctor Bashir's eyes on his as he makes a study of the picture once more, noticing a faint trail of spots along the leg of the proud gymnast. Emony Dax, indeed. He does not allow that silence to go on this time, knowing that it's best for the doctor to believe himself in full control. He nods definitively as he turns back to Doctor Bashir.

"You make a most interesting... proposition, Doctor Bashir, and I find myself strangely compelled to acquiesce to your little game." Ah, and there's that look. I've read him right, he did pull some trick, and he believes it to be working perfectly. Good. But not quite good enough. "Alright, I agree to your terms, though I warn you even Vulcans cannot claim to successfully pierce the veil of the Cardassian mind so easily." He watches the smile grow on Doctor Bashir's face as he takes another drink of the lemonade, the beverage true to its form leaving him with a thirst for more. "I do have one question though that I cannot help but immediately call to mind. Perhaps not even a question so much as a concern."

"A concern?"

"It's simply that as much as I would like to believe in the virtue of men," he says with a perfectly straight face, "I wonder how we shall know beyond a mere gentleman's agreement that we both speak the truth and not merely the truth as is convenient to us."

He reaches for the glass, finding it empty already as Doctor Bashir almost finishes his own. Garak finds it curious that the answer doesn't come right away. Rather, the doctor finishes his glass as well with a somewhat lusty sigh, a wipe of his mouth before greeting Garak with a smile far too self assured for this small victory.

"Oh it's quite simple really," Doctor Bashir informs him as he finishes a few scribbles on the page and then tears the paper out, folding it in quarters, placing it beneath the chair. Garak watches him, content to let him finish theatrically to plan. The easy smile that greets him is reward enough for that patience as he notes the light catching the doctor's tanned skin rather nicely. Doctor Bashir shrugs as his eyes flick back to the pitcher of lemonade. "You see the both of us have just ingested a rather potent truth serum."

And Garak knows that he does not quite succeed in hiding the brief tell of his eyes, the brief tightness of his smile. Doctor Bashir takes the pitcher in hand, holding it up smugly, definitely smugly this time. "More lemonade, Garak?"