Note: Happy Holidays and all that good stuff. Once again I ended up discarding all my hard work to alleviate this last minute rush only for a total rewrite but I'm a lot happier with the finished result, The plot with Nog thickens. But who's telling the truth? Also apologies in advance for everyone who was awaiting a full chapter dedicated to a Garak/Bashir BJ. I know there's a special place in fandom hell that awaits me. Ah but it will come, no pun intended. Thank you all for reading and commenting and following and being awesome. C&C is always welcome.
The woman was not the first to enter the shop three days ago. It was a man. He was tall and held himself high, almost to the point of stiffness, as he entered. There was a brief look which passed between himself and the woman who followed that Garak pretended not to notice. He made a quick assessment of the man first as he entered, starting with a flicker to the immaculately polished shoes. Polished, yet worn without spats, without that extraneous little piece of cloth that any well dressed well to do native would certainly don to protect the integrity of such a polish. And with that polish so perfectly held, the patent leather showing only the faintest creases he could see the shoes hadn't seen much wear between station and shop. They couldn't have been his normal shoes. The loose brown trousers fed up into an auburn vest, tapered at the waist, a signature style of Central. The tie was loose, careless, the shirt rumpled from improper storage. He looked like he'd just stepped out of the latest fashion catalogue, in fact. Garak found the effort worthy of a brief smile and nod.
He turned his attention next to the woman who entered behind but quickly circled in front like a she dog protecting its mate's throat from attack. Oh but she didn't feign fear, quite the opposite. She strode in front, a faint wobble of her ankle revealing her inexperience in walking in the high heels that fashionable Westworld women frequently donned. Her outfit was equally as precious; she matched him in scarlet, a plunging neckline far too revealing to be worn without a coat in the brisk late autumn chill, but wear it she did. It was framed in some black plumage, some silver trim around a waistline far too natural to quite fit the part, but the massive hat was a valiant effort that he also noted, also nodded at, as he stepped around the table, setting the fine camisole down, folded back to crisp perfection. She was the one who approached first, an admirable thrust of her pert bosom in the direction of his face that he was polite enough to allow a faint flicker of his eyes towards.
Though he was certain such a look was the desired effect, he still had the impression that she wanted to give him a rather brusque dressing down regardless.
"Good morning, and might I say it is a good morning indeed now that you two fetching young folk have entered. Is there anything I might direct you towards? I can tell you're both possessing exceptional taste and I believe I might have just the cape to accompany such a magnificent dress... Is that a LaRue?"
"Yes," she answered quickly, curtly, an imperious stride to her step as she brushed past him towards a rack of fine silk scarves he'd been fortunate enough to acquire in a trade when the merchants had flown in from down river. Setter silk they were, and likely out of her price range if she couldn't so much as be bothered to learn the designer of her own dress.
"By all means, if I can be of assistance in any way please let me know. You'll note the Garak on the sign out front, that is me, Garak." The "plain, simple" went unspoken as he stepped back ostensibly to tend to paperwork behind the counter but rather to observe them as they dismissed him out of hand.
He allowed them that flimsy charade, seeing her only halfheartedly look, seeing the man gravitate towards shirts that were definitely not his color with an awkward manhandling of precious linen. It was enough to elicit a near audible sigh when he noticed the woman's eyes flickering towards the mirror, to watch him in its surface. Ah, so she was watching him then, though to what aim he was not quite certain until his eyes lingered once more on the man making a complete mess of those shirts. Naturally his expression was kept to a placid grin, a grin he saw her interpret as interest no doubt when a triumphant little smirk appeared on her face. Somehow, Garak noted even her smile held an air of imperious authority that reminded him far too much of many a female Archon back home. It almost made him nostalgic, really.
But curiosity caused him to play their little game as he stepped back out and approached the young man, certain to fix that chiseled face with the appropriate amount of fawning.
"Now that, is a fine choice of a shirt, you've definitely a keen eye for quality, Mister..."
"Watters. Ca... Timothy Watters." A near misspeak, a quick recovery hidden with the loud clack of heels from the woman drawing his attention just briefly. Garak could tell he was used to introducing himself in a far different manner. But he followed it up appropriately with another flash of a smile as he continued, holding out his hand in the custom of humans. "I'm from... that is we're from Rush Valley." Garak shook his hand, finding the grip firm, concise, an enlisted man if ever he saw one. And to the best of his knowledge, Westworld had no standing armies.
"Ah, so you're a native then," Garak exclaimed just as he supposed he was expected to, and saw with a discreet glance the woman begin to circle behind him. He felt that old instinct, that pinprick between his should blades that he allowed to keep him on alert even as Watters grinned, flashing a wide smile surely intended to charm.
"Yes I am, Mr. Garak. I've lived here my whole life. We both have, my sister Karen and I." Garak allowed himself to be charmed as that hand lingered just a touch too long. Yes, his sister, of course. And Garak watched Watters' "sister" in motion in the mirror, studying the inner walls of the shop carefully. "This is the first time we've had the pleasure of coming to Indigo."
"And how are you finding our quaint little town so far?" Garak was almost surprised with how easily those words came, never particularly thinking of any place as his in true spirit since leaving Cardassia Prime.
Watters took a step back in response, hands stopping short of clasping behind his back at ease, fingers curling just a bit uncomfortably with the effort of suppressing what Garak was certain to be a long learned gesture.
"It's stunning. It's just as beautiful as I've heard told. But I haven't been completely honest with you, Mr. Garak."
"Oh please, no "mister", just Garak," he responded automatically finding himself faced with another disarming smile wondering if that flash of white teeth was all that the man had to offer.
"Well Garak, you see, my sister and I have a bit of an interest in this building. I don't know if you're aware but this building used to be a rather famous site a few years back."
"You don't say." Garak recalled Jake Sisko's brief history but it hardly seemed a business of any particular note.
"Oh yes, Noh-Jay Enterprises was famous in Rush Valley."
"Quite famous," the woman, Karen chimed in again from a different point in the store, careful to be seen only looking at handkerchiefs when making that agreement. Garak glanced at her briefly and decided that she wore congeniality rather like a sickness.
"In Rush Valley?"
"Yes, definitely Rush Valley. It's south of here." Southeast if one were to split hairs, but beyond that, Garak would have bet his life that neither of them could locate any city other than Rush Valley on a map. Of course there was no easy way to verify the claim without spending an extraordinary amount for a steam plane courier to verify with the local census office, and certainly not any time within the next few minutes. He almost thought it might warrant a follow up even so. Garak had it on good authority that the young O'Brien woman was unparalleled in her field but it seemed that she'd recently run off with her brother to the badlands; that was argument number thirteen if he recalled his O'Brien family dossiers.
That would have to wait, however.
"You'll forgive me, but I can't say that I know much of this building beyond a brief tour from the previous owner."
"Nog!" Karen cut in with far too much familiarity instilled in that name. Garak watched her practically run to him before he could blink twice.
"Jake Sisko," Garak corrected gently. "And I certainly hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it is my understanding that Mr. Nog has recently passed, as I believe the human saying goes. I didn't have the privilege of making his acquaintance."
"Yes, the privilege," Karen murmured with a sour purse of her lips that was likely the cause of Watters clearing his throat loudly.
"We didn't know Mr. Nog either. But we heard this building has some of the most advanced techniques in structural engineering that were used in the back and in the basement and we'd appreciate if we could just take a look, just a quick look is all."
Now there was a warning bell if he'd ever heard one. Jake was quite clear on the rather practical nature of the construction, no amount devoted to beauty save for the trim on the outside. He was also quite adamant on the unremarkable engineering, really it was almost as if he were trying to keep Garak from even looking at it during their initial negotiation before Quark intervened. Still, he was hardly exaggerating. Had Garak been masquerading as a carpenter and not a tailor he might have been inclined to address that issue but he was in this deep enough and as much of a perfectionist as he was even he had his limits. And one of those limits was indulging foolish humans under such poorly contrived pretenses.
"There is no basement," Garak stated quite plainly as he set about fixing the pitifully refolded shirt on top of the pile.
"We know there's a basement, Mister Garak, the blueprint-" That statement snapped off, quickly filed by Garak as he pretended not to notice.
"Assuming there is a basement to be located- and I'm quite certain if there were I'd have seen some evidence of its existence. But if there were a basement I should think that it would be my privilege to have the first glimpse of it away from well meaning tourists." Another pat smile, an equally fitting snarl on the woman's face as she took a sep toward him. Clearly she was not used to being refuted so directly.
"You have no idea what you're-"
"Commander!" Sharply spoken by Watters, Garak watched her snap to attention immediately. However it was not that pathetic display of breaking character that immediately drew Garak's attention but rather the unfurling of an innocuous linen to a fully grown Sheriff Odo. Were he prone to being startled, Garak was certain that he would've screamed the way Karen had, or jumped back drawing a completely useless phaser like Watters.
As it stood, he merely watched as Odo stared the both of them down, his voice the same as the one he reserved for particularly nasty drunken brawls at Quark's.
"Yes, Commander Farris, if I were you I'd listen to your Captain and stand down." That changeling face shifted ominously between the two of them. "I believe I advised you on the legality of this matter already but if there's still an issue I'm sure I can explain it again at the sheriff's office." Garak noted the two of them regained their composure quickly enough standing up far straighter than before. Captain Watters lowered his phaser just as Command Farris raised hers.
"Westworld is not a sovereign independent planet whose laws must be adhered to by Starfleet the same as others. And the importance of this matter is far more grave than one town's authority." Garak nearly applauded Odo's pitying sigh.
"Be that as it may, Commander, you'll find that law down here tends to favor the one who wins the duel, and if you'd listened to Lieutenant Commander Nog, you'd know that weapon was practically useless the moment you arrived."
Her jaw tense, she lowered her arm glaring furiously, stilled only when Captain Watters put a hand to her shoulder.
"Of course, you're right, Sheriff. Stand down, Commander. I believe we can leave Sheriff Odo, to explain to Mister Garak the gravity of the situation. You did say you would do that." Not a question but almost an accusation. Odo was unmoved.
"I do what I say I'm going to do, Captain Watters. I believe you and the Commander said you were going to wait until I had."
"The Dominion is not going to wait around, Sheriff Odo. The Dominion is not going to wait while you try and reason with a Cardassian tailor!"
"The Dominion may not, but the two of you are or I'll throw you in a holding cell myself. Assuming that the two of you are telling the truth."
"How dare-"
"Let's go, Commander."
Watters was firm, already turning on a heel leaving Commander Farris to follow suit. Garak watched them leave, patiently waiting as the door slammed behind, Odo crossing around with a weighty expression.
"You have my compliments, sheriff, I had no idea you'd such a talent for impersonating fine garments."
"I am a man of many talents, Garak, much like yourself."
"You give me far too much credit, sheriff. I'm simply a tailor with a rather unfortunate string of luck as of late."
"Yes, these little episodes have a way of following you around, don't they?"
"You know, the famous poet Galag was famed for his long life of misfortune. He made a career popularizing the Cardassian... Mmm... I'm not sure how one would translate the word without it losing the gravity, the sobriety of the term... Jadzia once referred to it with the dreadful portmanteau of "wode" but I just can't bring myself to-"
"Garak."
"Yes, Sheriff?"
"I didn't come here to discuss Cardassian poetry with you."
"A pity, Sheriff, Galag is known for his clever wordplay and vivid sorrowful imagery. I could perhaps suggest a reading or two you might be able to request when the youngest O'Brien returns for the holidays."
"I'll keep that in mind. But let's get to the reason for my presence here. I had reason to believe those two would be paying you a visit. And while I have no doubt they are exactly who they claim to be, I'm not so sure about their intentions."
"Starfleet officers never have anything but the noblest intentions," Garak offered with a winsome look towards the door. Odo joined that look soberly.
"Most of the evil in this world is done by those with good intentions."
"Elliot?"
"Dax," Odo replied curiously. Garak supposed it was one in the same at this point.
"So tell me, Sheriff. What noble intentions do these two delightful young do gooders plan to send us to hell with?" And so Odo did.
And so it seems that Karen Farris will not let the matter rest so easily with that ill conceived subterfuge. Garak doesn't see her at the window for long. He's actually quite certain that she didn't register his look either as carefully sidelong as it was, but she was gone just as soon as he convinced himself he wasn't imagining things. He recalls the conversation with Odo vividly, almost haunting in its implications for the entire Alpha Quadrant should such a tale prove true. And should it prove not, it is either the clever machination of two rather gifted liars- which he's witnessed first hand to hardly be the case- or perhaps the delusion of two rogue officers which is no less threatening to him personally. But even given that he'd rather either of those scenarios be the truth than the the ugly truth itself being that of an impending invasion by a monstrous force ready to break through the castle gates at a moment's notice.
Ah, but Garak is nothing if not a painful realist and it is also that realist in him that decides to look down in that moment and catch Julian's wrist hard. A pity, really. That mouth feels so good, so eager, so Gul's damned wanting that when he sees the fall of the small syringe, and feels the numbing cold on his stomach he almost has half a mind to just step on the thing, put his hands to the back of Julian's head and keep fucking that hot mouth anyway. But no, he meets those panicked eyes with a rewarding little smirk, seeing the cotton ball, soaked no doubt in some local anesthetic, drop to the floor in a damp little ball. He meets those eyes with admiration for such beautiful duplicity even as he sighs and shoves his foot hard into Julian's chest just enough to knock him on his back while he painfully lets his cock retract back miserable and wanting.
"My apologies, dear Julian," he offers as those enhanced reflexes have Julian already crouched carefully, warily, rising to his feet without a single bit of apology. "I do hate to cut this delightful little game short, but I believe I have a far better use for those nimble fingers of your upstairs."
"Up... stairs?" Julian parrots back dumbly, doubtless trying to determine what Garak's game is now. Garak wonders if his eyes will dart to the discarded syringe, if his mind will remain locked to that singular task but instead he sees curiosity there instead. Julian is breathing hard, chest rising, falling, all that delectable smooth skin naked for his eyes as those heavy breaths pass wet swollen lips as he pushes those decorative spectacles back up thoughtfully. Absolutely perfect. Yes, it seems as if this little mystery will need to be solved sooner rather than later and only will this "basement" be the key.
"Of course, my dear," Garak says brushing past him without further invitation, feeling that electricity still sparking off him. "We have a door to open."
