No big first-post preamble. (Benefits of posting from my phone?) I want to share this fic with Fronds and this is easier than sending endless screencaps of my writing app. VERY much still in progress, paragraphs jump around a lot towards the later half, brackets indicate that a phrase is a placeholder. Probably requires some canon knowledge, but quick primer: this takes place on a space station, Garibaldi is the security chief, Franklin is the head of medicine, Vorlons are a notoriously reclusive and secretive race.
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"No."
"No?"
"I just said no, what about that needs clarification?"
They're walking down the main strip of the Zocalo, browsing the stalls and stands displaying their products. Garibaldi puts on his best pleading face. It's one Franklin is very familiar with.
"Doc, c'mon, wasn't that bagna cauda the best thing you've eaten in your life? This is *almost* as good. It deserves an exception too."
"Hey, I never said it was that good," Franklin protests, feigning interest in a jewelry display while trying to subtly swallow the saliva that wells up in his mouth when Garibaldi mentions his bagna cauda, "and besides, 'almost as good as this other meal I shouldn't have let you eat' is hardly a persuasive argument."
"What, you're telling me that near-perfection isn't worth experiencing because it isn't *quite* perfect?"
Franklin stops him with a hand on his chest, leveling his best 'this-is-for-your-own-good' doctor look at his colleague. "Michael. This is about your health. Do you really want to drop dead of a heart attack in a year when you're chasing some pickpocket through Down Below, just because you weren't willing to limit the amount of fatty foods in your diet?"
Garibaldi puts his own hand on top of Franklin's, matching his gaze with an expression of over-the-top beatific suffering. "Is life even worth living if I'm supposed to subsist off of bags of lawn trimmings from the ambassadorial gardens?"
Franklin is unmoved. "There is plenty of great food you're allowed to eat on this diet, Michael, if you'll just give it a chance."
"Great by whose standards, a cow?"
"Okay, now you're just being childish."
"Me, childish? I-"
Garibaldi abruptly cuts off, his eyes narrowing. Franklin recognizes this as what he privately calls "scenting the wind": Garibaldi has just caught a whiff of [bad intentions], and like a stray dog sniffing out a juicy steak dinner, he's [going to make a beeline for it.]
Not that this particular dog would be allowed to eat a steak dinner, of course. Too much fat.
Garibaldi walks over to one of the storefronts with displays set out front, seemingly indistinguishable from any of the others, and begins browsing through their wares with an almost comically casual air. Franklin is surprised that he hasn't crossed his arms behind his back like a detective in one of the old 20th century mystery programs Garibaldi has made him watch. And then he does. Franklin tries to supress an eye roll.
Garibaldi stops in front of a medium-sized tiered glass tower overflowing with a dizzying array of plants. Nothing compared to the station's botanical gardens, of course, but a bigger selection than one would expect for a run-of-the-mill Zocalo storefront. Franklin recognizes many of them - a flowering Centauri *Khiral nassen*, its long-stemmed golden blossoms so overgrown that they're drooping low enough to graze the surface of the table; a large selection of scrubby little Drazi plants that are popular mainly by virtue of their hardiness and difficulty to kill, even by neglectful plant owners; a variety of slender Minbari plants that seem almost bioluminescent, all with the same ethereal beauty as their caretakers and most with medicinal uses. A few Earth plants as well, in varying states of health; the potted geraniums look all right, albeit slightly wilted, but the [Korean plants] are badly fly-bitten.
Franklin spots a small, striped plant with a bulbous head, its label proclaiming in three languages - Standard, Narn, and what seems to be badly translated Drakhiri - that it hails from the Sol system's second planet, a gaseous and inhospitable place boasting only a few rare, especially tenacious life forms, including this one. "Should we tell them Venus flytraps aren't really from Venus?" Franklin says drily as Garibaldi watches the plant lazily close its jaws around an unfortunate gnat. Garibaldi doesn't answer, too intent on [his film noir detective thing], and instead walks up to the shopowner, a solidly-built [alien] who immediately seems to shrink at Garibaldi's approach.
Garibaldi flashes what might charitably be called a smile. "Looking for a gift for a friend. Mind if I ask you a few questions about your stock?" The owner, apparently relieved to hear that he isn't being
Garibaldi points to a small, unassuming plant flanked by two signs proclaiming, in massive bold text, that it is from the Vorlon homeworld. Compared to the image on the sign, this specimen doesn't seem to be doing especially well. "You know there's a strict sector-wide ban on selling any products from the Vorlon homeworld? I imagine just about any representative from the League would fight each other for the chance to slap you with a massive fine and jail time, just to get a little clout with the Vorlons. Not to mention what the *Vorlons* will do to you when they find out you've been selling illegally poached organic material from their homeworld..." Garibaldi trails off, a [concerned] look on his face.
The proprietor turns green around the gills, vestigial they may be, and begins talking frantically. "No, no, it is a, how is it called-? A 'marketing gesture'," he babbles, gesticulating so wildly that he nearly misses knocking an entire display of Pak'ma'ra seed packets off a wire rack behind him. "We of course would never violate such a crucial law,"
Garibaldi grins, sharklike. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. But it might also interest you to know that misrepresenting the origin of biological specimens is *also* illegal on the station. For health and safety reasons, of course. Not to mention the potential repercussions if a Vorlon happened to notice your little sign, 'marketing tactic' or not."
The proprietor turns from green to white.
"You're also required to clearly label all botanical specimins
Franklin reluctantly inclines his head. It's true, he just isn't crazy about being used as a prop while Garibaldi plays detective.
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