DISCLAIMER:  O Holy Paramount and the likes, I humbly
put forth this shameless tribute to the Great Gods of TPTB
and contribute some little nonsensical fable of my fevered
imagination.  Have mercy.
COPYRIGHT 1996 BGM
Title:          Subterfuge
Author:         BGM
Series:         DS9, G/B
Summery:        Some quiet musings from our beloved tailor.
Rating:         PG-13 for language

It’s amazing how many details and nuances you can observe simply 
by watching someone.  For one of my reputable nature, observation 
has become sort of a third eye ... and I know a few clients who 
would laugh at the double-entendre.  Though truly, I have come to 
appreciate the simple textures and layers of nonsensical 
information I can get simply by watching someone talk.  Now lest I 
lean my chin over my fist and make appreciative eyes at my lunch 
partner, I doubt I would ever let public the way I truly regard 
him while we indulge in this weekly ritual.

But just look at him.  He's such a delight to marvel, I am scarcely
aware of my own blabber wafting to his attentive ears.  What am I
saying?  Some other obscure part of my past that belong to another
man than myself?  Or is it that he retains the same fascination I
have for him, having no desire whatsoever to hear my fevered tales
of spies and political enigma?  I delude myself again, of course.
It's exactly what he wants.  To indulge his passionate desire for
knowledge that seems almost Cardassian in nature.  To learn and
know his opponent thoroughly as well as feeding his own curiosity
of what exactly makes Elim Garak tick.  

I laugh suddenly at this, a low throaty chuckle that makes no 
connection to our discussion.  He pauses and regards me curiously,
those wide mahogany pools of delicious liquid widening slightly.
The knit at his brow creases his skin, and I know he is annoyed.  He
would never confess this, of course.

I shake my head and sigh, waving my hand dismissively and concocting
some idle explanation that he accepts only mildly.  He has taught
well, I will give him this.  So suspicious, so cautious.  Such a
blatant contrast to when I first met him.  I again indulge in some
delusions that it is because of me he has come this far, but yet
again, what am I to this young man?  What is an old exile to a
fresh, engaging youth with all his life still awaiting the light 
of day?  It is these moments I mourn my own youth, my lost soul that
has, slowly, pieced apart and joined all those who has lost life at
my hands.  I mourn them, and myself, and I wonder if he knows ...
I repress the shuddering in my hands and smile brightly, continuing
to discuss idly with my lunch partner.  To pass what, in four years,
has become the highlight of my week.  Months these days, but alas,
he has duties ...
~~~
What makes him so damned nervous?  His hands are shaking ... what
did the doctor do to him I wonder?  Are they lovers?  Friends?  Well,
I have a long while to discover that.  I will have to be careful ...
I know those eyes ... observant and scrutinizing.  If I make a
blunder, he will know.  Then, I will have to kill him.  For the
greater good of the Dominion, I will swiftly kill this man.  Smiling,
I sip my tea, glancing ever so briefly at my skin to verify its
texture.  Perfect.  I smile even more brightly.  

He will never know.

THE END