"Whatever you think I did," Garrett says, immediately, except with a mouthful of food it's more like a muffled slur. He swallows, coughs, and sits up straight, trying to pass off a slightly strangled expression as aloof seriousness.

"As I was saying, I didn't bed or kill--whoever it is you're thinking of, I have a well-known lookalike who's an absolute ruffian." Garrett nods gravely, folding his arms over his chest. "Unless you're here to congratulate me. In which case, thank you! But no reward is necessary, really, your gratitude is all I need."

Or, well-- "Of course, a small donation to the war effort is never out of place. I'll spend it responsibly, I promise."

He squints at the stranger, trying to jiggle lose a memory--the mercenary company, perhaps? He had that sort of haggard look to him. "I don't owe you money, do I? Or my lookalike, I mean. He's notorious for that kind of thing."