Work Text:
When the bar was quieter, Garak materialized, bearing gifts: a pile of clothes, a case of kanar, and a piece of paper. Quark fingered the shirts, folded so neatly the edges could cut flesh.
“Exiles rarely get time to pack,” Garak said. “Or so I’m told.” He pushed forward the paper. On it was written: Professional services. Payment in advance.
“About this, Garak—”
“Ah! A contract is a contract—”
“Only between Ferengi.”
Slowly, fastidiously, Garak tore their plans to shreds. “You’ll never know how close you came. Now sell me some of that kanar. The constable is watching.”