Note: It's still Sunday as long as I'm awake, that how I'm looking at it, ahah. Anyway, a bit late, but I hope the end makes up for it. As far in as we are I wanted to move along with with Julian so yeah, I went there :D Things are about to get heated in more ways than one. No real warnings although I wrote this hungry so I might have been a bit lurid with the food descriptions... Anyway, thank you everyone for reading, C&C always welcome!
He locks the door behind him after a quick glance to the shop floor reveals no patrons.
"Have you got anyone in the dressing room?" Doctor Bashir stands, back to the door, hand lingering over that simple lock that Garak has every intention of refitting. Garak sets down the shirt he was carefully refolding, not answering him immediately as he takes pains to smooth the creases cleanly. He looks up after taking note with a sidelong glance of the impatient shift of a foot before raising his head with a faint smile.
"Doctor Bashir, what an unexpected surprise," he makes no mention of the fact that the Doctor stands with his hands still pressed to that wooden pane as if he may be holding back some massive stampede. "Although I'm afraid I'm woefully unsuited for company in my current position. I've heard much mention made since my arrival here about doctors and the hours they set to suit them at their leisure but a humble tailor such as myself does not have that same luxury. Money makes the world go 'round, as I've heard Quark to be known to say on occasion.
"You've my word that I'll make it up to you," Doctor Bashir assures him making no move to step further onto the shop floor. Garak notices then that the one hand holds a rather large cloth tied tightly to a sack as is the rather whimsical customer here. "But is there anyone else about? No company that I should be aware of?" He drops his voice uncertainly with a quick dart of his eyes towards the newly constructed dressing room at the far end of the space in plain view of the counter. Garak approaches him with an amused shake of his head.
"I couldn't possibly conduct any clandestine meetings without first inviting you to observe from behind the curtain. As a matter of fact, I'm expecting to host two Klingons tonight should you choose to return at say twenty fifty five hours this evening. I could show you a suit that would make you into a new man."
"You might have just said no," Doctor Bashir offers with a slightly boyish petulance.
"I might have," Garak agrees, "Just as you might have let on that you've been watching very carefully and you knew that there was no one else in here. But that, my dear, would spoil the entire game now, wouldn't it?" He watches that frown deepen. Garak can tell that it troubles the doctor to consider the possibility that his presence may very well no longer be so neatly camouflaged. Garak decides to leave him guessing on that one for it is far better to have him still believe that he retains that advantage. He does not, of course. Garak has considered himself- and has always considered by others as well to be hatefully so- extremely adaptable and quite adept when it comes to working around abilities that confound him. He's almost certain that it ties in to the doctor's ability to manipulate faintly by touch and tap into or rather, obscure those often forgotten extra sensory senses that lick at the consciousness of every sentient being. But if there is one this Garak has had to learn to be a master of, it is his own senses, feeling, even the very aura that he radiates when dealing with those such as Vulcans and Betazoids.
Garak prides himself on being unreadable, inscrutable, and it is that pride which has also caused him to view anyone with an equal advantage as a terribly important puzzle to be conquered. And thus he comes full circle to that careful practice of not letting that subtle projection of Doctor Bashir's to insinuate itself so deeply as to fool him again. He lets himself bask, drink in that sense of presence that the doctor makes no effort to hide so that he may always know its absence- true or false. And as Garak approaches, with a sheepish glance down, a carefully acted show of submission broken only by a faint lack of remorse in hazel eyes, Doctor Bashir holds out the parcel for him to take.
"Well, on that note, I thought I might bring an apology... er a piece offering you know for ah..."
"An egregious invasion of my privacy?" Garak does not suppress the soft chuckle at the earnest tone. "I can hardly deny that I would do the same in your position, my dear doctor, but as you've seen, I am an open book."
Garak takes the package back to the counter, remembering that humans on Westworld unlike some other cultures prefer to have the recipient of their gifts open them immediately in a garish display of slavish gratitude unless otherwise instructed. Doctor Bashir, true to that expectation follows circumspect, a mature attempt at hiding his interest in Garak's reaction.
"Even so, I feel just awful about it. About this whole mess really. I think I've managed to convince Odo to take down that ghastly poster as well. I pointed out to him that as we can confirm you as neither Marritza nor even Garak for that matter, to keep that thing hanging when it clearly looks so much like you-"
"How thoughtful," Garak interrupts him with an acrid sweetness, the bundle easily untied, and then the largest cloth inside that to reveal a beautiful blue bottle of what he can only imagine to be kanar. And a southern vintage at that, the ornately blown glass of the bottle indicating it could have only possibly come from the Kirak family. He turns it over and sees the crest, the sight a welcome distraction from the thought of that offensive poster.
"Yes, a most excellent choice, doctor," Garak murmurs not quite turning to the remaining contents of the open cloth. "Shall I send Ms. Dax a token of my gratitude for her good taste in kanar selection or would your verbal playback be sufficient, do you think?" Doctor Bashir laughs.
"Guilty as charged. I don't know the first thing about kanar. I don't know anything about Cardassian food either so lunch might be a bit out of your comfort zone." Garak takes note of the careful radius of that aura Doctor Bashir possesses, that acute awareness bringing with it an odd immediacy of his presence that borders on intimate when he finds the doctor looking at him expectantly from across the counter.
"I think you'll find doctor, there is little that is... outside my comfort zone." The answer is breezy, light as he regards the two tightly wrapped squares and hopes that in spite of his boast there there are no live insects.
"I'm glad to hear it, Garak," Doctor Bashir answers, something in his tone causing Garak to look up slightly from his examination of several other wrapped pieces, one likely another bottle and two more perhaps some other food item. "I might be up for anything today as well. Maybe we could finish our discussion now that there aren't any other distractions." Ah, of course, that's what you want isn't it, doctor? Necessity has kept us both busy but I hardly expected you to drop the matter lightly. No, I'd be disappointed if you weren't so dogged in your determination to ferret out the little clues that I've left for you to something far more substantial and quite likely dangerous. But as productive as these past few weeks have been in cementing my cover, they've had precious little to offer in the way of anything remotely resembling excitement save for a few more distracting dinners with your rather alluring colleague. Dinners that, as Jadzia had offered could certainly lead to a few more pleasant distractions free from the trappings of intrigue, but somehow Garak found that straightforward solicitation to be just a touch lacking in challenge. Not that he didn't think Jadzia could be challenging when she put her mind to it but that hardly seemed to interest her for the time.
That isn't to say that the doctor's interest isn't apparent in its own right- especially after that night- but there is a hesitance, a subterfuge, a sense that the game hasn't yet played out that makes Garak far more eager than he ought to be to accept Doctor Bashir's impromptu lunch offer. He gathers the bundle back up with a nod.
"I suppose it wouldn't hurt to close up for lunch, though I warn you, doctor, the table in the back is ill suited for much else besides a few papers, and I still haven't been able to procure any satisfactory chairs."
"Lead the way, Garak," Doctor Bashir answers a small smile curling his lips, premature triumph rolling over in waves. It reminds Garak of a young riding hound prancing around the hard, certain he's hidden some ill gotten table scraps safe from the prying eyes of his master. But can he be taught to heel? That thought almost catches Garak off guard, nearly making him stop short as he opens the door to the back room, ushering the doctor to a small table on the far side of the room, opposite the large work bench covered in fabric and notions.
The tabletop is small, waist high and thankfully clear of the morning's inventory that he's quickly sorted through.
"May I?" Doctor Bashir works quickly as Garak steps aside, He watches as the bundles are open to reveal two bowls of soup, the vacuum seal of the lids removed with a faint snick, the smell of some savory vegetable filling his nostrils pleasantly. "Butternut squash," Doctor Bashir narrates as he unwraps two metal spoon. "And what's a nice warm winter soup without sandwiches, right?" he unwraps the two squares revealing bread- and to Garak's relief not some sort of sand or soil- with what appears to be thinly sliced meats between them accompanied by the ubiquitous fermented bovine secretions he's come to know as cheese. There's a pleasant warm laugh that comes from the doctor at Garak's continued soft polite smile inclined toward the food that he thinks is going to sit like stones in his stomach.
"You look like my mother when I was a child and would bring her mud pies that I made."
"Are mud pies in the same culinary idiom vein as sand-witches?"
"Oh God, no!" Doctor Bashir laughs louder and Garak imagines that whatever contrast lies between the two it must go beyond mere nomenclature. Doctor Bashir stands on the other side of the small table as he takes out at last two bottles of either root beer or some other carbonated woody tonic. "No no, no relation at all... at least not anything that Leeta makes. You ah... don't have any cultural dietary restrictions, do you? I didn't even think of that honestly. I mean of course I thought Leeta might say something about my choice if she thought it was an issue but then there are a lot of ethical vegetarians and of course any physiological issues as well..." He looks concerned for a moment and Garak waves it away. He's become far more familiar with the wide variety of meats that humans enjoy in their diet. On closer examination the slices in question appear to be roast beast or something similar.
He doesn't recall that particular item giving him any digestive issues and he's careful as Doctor Bashir opens the bottles with a small knife pulled from his pocket, not to become complacent with the steady stream of babble for his benefit. He listens, of course he might be called upon to recall even the most inane conversation points later, but he does not allow himself to become absorbed in the material more than he needs to be. It is a tactic, and a very basic one to get him to drop his guard, and Garak is sure to listen with a polite nod of his head as Doctor Bashir explains that root beer in fact refers specifically to a beverage derived from the sassafras root generally combined with other mint or fruit flavors rather than being a catch all term, and that actually the beverage he's brought is birch beer. Garak is not particularly expecting there to be much difference until he tastes the bubbly brew and finds it much more heavily spiced and far less cloying. It almost burns, his sinuses almost making him cough until he lets it fizzle down, a quick swallow leaving that crisp feeling in his mouth.
Garak finds a slow curious scrutiny following that drink from across the table and he can only imagine the expression on his face as he blinks several times strangely tempted to have another drink.
"I've heard some call it root beer's nasty little cousin, but I've always preferred it myself. It's a little different than what one expects having only a lifetime of the other."
"You strike me as a man who prefers a bit of the other. Perhaps more than a bit." Garak sees Doctor Bashir stop almost stark still at that statement and he isn't quite certain what about that should prompt such an immediate reaction. In fact he nearly looks about to choke rather than swallow the drink and Garak finds that completely fascinating as the doctor's face darkens rather magnificently as he stares across the table. Whatever he said, whatever context is behind it, Garak can infer some embarrassing undertone and he marvels at the seemingly endless amount of clandestine sexual references prevalent in Federation Standard. There comes a hard swallow and Doctor Bashir quickly recovers, eyes darting down to his lunch for just a split second to finalize that shift.
Garak sees that introspective turn of his eyes and decides that it would be a good time to sample the sand-witch before he samples the desert readying itself to be devoured. He's thankful as he eats that the contents of the inside obscure the taste of the small seeds of the bread that try and make their presence known rather insistently. He makes a note to find out what sort of bread this is and never order any as long as he lives. But those moments to chew, to savor the meat and the generous amount of unctuous sauce. The cheese is sharp- not his favorite but not so unpleasantly reminiscent of its origins as others he's sampled- and that large bite lets him discreetly observe as he chews, sandwich held covetously in both hands. He wonders if he ever appeared so fresh, so obvious when he was much less experienced in his undercover work, but no, Garak does not believe he would ever be so obvious in the change of his body language, his eyes, even the tilt of his head when subtly shifting mannerisms for his work. But then again the doctor, while similar in age could hardly be expected to be held to that same standard. At least not yet.
Garak pretends not to notice as he sets the sandwich down. This is after all, Doctor Bashir's little game and he doesn't see a need to break any rules of decorum just yet.
"I guess Jadzia's been talking again," Doctor Bashir says at last only further cementing Garak's determination of his earlier comment as being ignorantly sexual. Sloppy, Elim. You've had all the time int he world to make a better study of idioms. "But I think it's time for you to do a little talking, Garak. And I want to know, because I don't trust the little clues that lead me to the book that I found, which book is the truth."
"And you expect me to answer honestly without any of your... truth serum?" Garak asks careful to conceal the beautiful ecstasy he feels at being asked the question.
"Not at all, Garak, but I expect that you like everyone else has a tell for your lies. Everyone does. One just needs to know what to look for." Smug. So beautiful almost righteously arrogant. Oh doctor. Oh doctor, doctor, your naiveté is so perfect. Oh there is hope for you but these moments. These precious moments are the child's first wavering steps before falling back to the ground in front of its parents.
You really believe that, don't you? You actually believe, augment, arrogant, brilliant augment that there isn't any little thing you can't accomplish if you just try hard enough. As long as you've lived you've managed to cling to that delusion, to that child's ignorance, and I don't doubt that you've never been faced with failure before. Or if you have it was a failure as such that you could swath yourself up in some fatalistic delusion but to sit there and tell me, to tell Elim Garak that you can see through his lies because you solved a child's simple puzzle... Oh the potential is there, I wouldn't be bothered to lead you stumbling through the dark if there wasn't but my my, will I ever have fun disabusing you of these notions of yours. And it is that thought that gives him a brief bitter pill, a brief memory of the child that he ruined, the small toothless snake that grew her fangs and bit him deep until he thought she might cling until she grew large enough to devour him whole. But that thought passes just as quickly as the doctor eats, watching him, waiting for his answer.
And Garak gives it to him with a prim sip of the bubbly birch beer.
"Of course, my dear, they're all true." He watches Doctor Bashir process that quickly, seeing that conclusion dawn with a brief widening of those eyes and he almost thinks the spectacles might slip as the doctor regroups once more. He can see the small tell, if there are any tells to be told it is the doctor's quick double blink downturn that reveals the augmented brain processing, scanning, just like a machine filtering and discarding solutions until it comes to the most logical one. It's rather attractive, Garak decides as Doctor Bashir catches his eyes carefully.
"They're all lies then. Every one of them."
"Just as they are all true," Garak fires back intentionally infuriating but finds that the response isn't a quick rush to frustration. No, the doctor is playing deadly for real today. That excites him enough to give a soft breath, a soft click of his tongue and Garak can see a slight rise of Doctor Bashir's head, a slight flare of nostrils that seems to pick up some scent, that unconscious desire.
Garak smiles at him, letting it grow darker, letting that atmosphere in the room shift as he sees Doctor Bashir's long fingers spider crawl across the table to rest over the back of his hand. Garak lets him. He feels the heat from Doctor Bashir's fingers, and he feels that light press, not quite with that same subtle manipulation but also clearly seductive as the lightly rub back and forth. Garak can see the discard of one question after another in one more blink quick double blink and he feels the curl of those fingers just as Doctor Bashir makes a not so subtle study of the collar of Garak's shirt. Perhaps he looks at his mouth as well. There is a lick of lips that begs for a mirror, that begs for a lot of things really as Garak lets his own attention flit to that perpetually open collar and golden skin.
"I think I'm going about this the wrong way, Garak. I think that I really need to ask you is... are you a dangerous man?"
"To you, Doctor?"
"Answer the question." Those fingers slide to his wrist and Garak remains acutely aware at all times of the likely upper limit of even an augment's strength with the doctor's height and likely muscular development.
"Then perhaps you should ask the right question, Doctor."
"I am asking the right question, Garak."
"Ah, but that is where your truth becomes a lie. No, that is not the question that you really want the answer to." No squeeze, not yet, but Doctor Bashir moves closer, his face coming closer as his voice drops, as if every wall were listening to their words.
"Tell me," a soft desperate plea.
"Am I here to kill you," breathed out in a equally low drop, Garak making no move but letting the doctor lean, cross that distance stretched across the table almost painfully to his limit. And yet he doesn't draw back. There's a palpable tension of his shoulders, fought against, silenced in that moment and stilled so that they might stand face to face.
"Yesss..." he hisses sexy sibilant breath warming Garak's face.
"But that's not the best question, doctor," Garak answers as he allows himself at last to be drawn to that heat, to those eyes, to that increase of respiration, of those eyes that have begun to flicker madly even as they fall nearly shut.
"Please..." Another elongated S with a slight sharp edge that leaves no doubt the doctor has studied those sounds, rehearsed them, has made a perfect mimic of that turn of his head, another faint flick of his tongue just like he would need to do. It is complete put on, a fabrication, but what Garak knows he cannot fabricate is that equally strong, equally arousing scent, that faint breach of tincture and clove that he cannot ignore. It couples with that near flawless act, with those parted lips that crudely invite him to let their mouths meet in that sloppy undignified mammalian mash. Garak doesn't quite let their mouths touch as he matches that tilt, instead bringing his other hand to the nape of the doctor's neck, carefully curling fingers to hold that head back, thick half silvered waves tangling in his grip.
"The real question, Doctor," Garak whispers tightening his hand, feeling nails dig into his wrist in response, "Is whether or not you can stop me if I am." And with that it is Garak who leads that hard kiss, who holds that head, and brings them their mouths together in a vicious, violent crash.
