TITLE: Mutual Acquaintance
AUTHOR: Kathryn Ramage
SUMMARY: Awaiting rescue after a runabout crash on 
Bajor, Garak and O'Brien get into a heated discussion 
on a topic of mutual interest--Julian Bashir--and
learn that each of them is jealous of the other's 
friendship with the doctor.
RATING: PG for some language
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm not certain how to define this.  It's not quite G/B.  Oh,
sure, my underlying premise, as always, is that Garak
is interested in the doctor, but Bashir only appears at the
beginning and end of the story.

On the other hand, if I call it a Garak and O'Brien story,
somebody will jump to the wrong conclusion.

No, this is simply a conversation between two gentlemen
regarding a...well, you can figure it out from the title. 

There's no sex, no violence after the initial runabout crash,
and the gentlemen share an alcoholic beverage.  Rate it
PG for the subject at hand and occasional language--mostly
from Miles, I'm afraid.


Kit

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mutual Acquaintance  (DS9, G&O'B, PG)
Copyright May 1997
Kathryn Ramage

~~~~~

Someday, Starfleet runabouts and shuttles would be
equipped with seat restraints and impact cushions, but
until that day arrived, kais would die, pregnant women
would miscarry, and one's dearest friends would be
horribly injured in transport accidents.

This time, they were all fortunate enough to survive when
the runabout ploughed into a tree-covered hillside on
Bajor; their good luck was primarily due to Chief O'Brien's
piloting skills, but the Chief had been thrown against the
control panel, breaking his arm in two places and cracking
half a dozen ribs for his valiant efforts. Garak fared 
little better, splitting a knee-cap and tearing the 
surrounding cartilage and ligaments.

Bashir, only bruised, did what he could for them using the
contents of the runabout medkit, but he simply didn't
have the equipment to do more than heal their minor
injuries and make them both comfortable.

"The communications system's shorted out," he told
them. "I'll have to go for help. There's a village a couple
of kilometers down the valley--with luck, I'll be back in
an hour.  You'll be fine."  He frowned at them sternly.
"Behave yourselves while I'm gone."

Miles rolled his eyes.  "Yes, Mother."

O'Brien and Garak barely ever spoke to each other,
preferring to maintain an icy silence when they were
forced together.  Throughout this trip, Bashir felt that
traveling with his two closest friends was like being
crushed between implacable icebergs; every attempt
he made to warm up the frosty atmosphere of the runabout 
with a little conversation only made matters worse.  
When they had to talk, Garak became bitingly sarcastic, 
and Miles was plainly contentious. 

Why there was so much animosity between them, Bashir 
had no idea.  O'Brien, he knew, bore a general resentment 
toward all Cardassians, but his dislike for Garak seemed 
much more personal.  And while Garak had no high regard 
for humans, he seemed specifically contemptuous of what 
he termed the Chief's "simplicity." 

The last thing Julian wanted to do was leave them alone
together, but under the circumstances he had no choice.
He would worry about it all the way down to the village.

After the doctor had gone, O'Brien, who lay flat in the
middle of the cockpit floor, turned his head to look at his
unwelcome companion.

"It looks like we're stuck good `til Julian comes back,"
he grudgingly broke the ice. "If you'll open that
compartment just behind you, there should be something
to help us pass the time."

"This one?"  Garak, sitting propped against the bulkhead,
reached out to tap the panel of the nearest storage bin.

"That's it."

Curious, the tailor dragged himself a few inches closer,
winced, and unfastened the hatch.  After some fumbling
around in the dark compartment, he extracted a squat 
bottle of pale brown liquor.  "Irish whiskey?  Surely you
weren't drinking this _before_ our accident?"

"No, I wasn't," O'Brien answered, scowling at the mere
suggestion.  "I put it there when I heard about this little
trip. I was planning on a sip or two to kill the time while
waiting for you and Julian to take care of your business
with the orphans.  There's not one decent pub on Bajor--
you know what Quark says about ale and a god-fearing people.  
It was easier when Keiko was down here."

"I imagine it was," Garak murmured.

Miles missed this.  "Would you like to try some?" he
offered.  "It's a traditional pain-killer."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the technique."  Garak opened the
bottle, sniffed cautiously.  "Is this anything like your
Earth wines?  I've sampled a few vintages, at Dr. Bashir's
insistence."

"Fruit juice," Miles said scornfully.

Garak smiled. "There, we agree on _something_. May I?"
He indicated with a slight tilt of the bottle-neck that he
would have to drink directly out of the bottle.

"Go ahead.  That stuff'll disinfect anything."

The tailor gave him a tight little smile before he drank--
and found the Earth liquor did have a respectable kick.
He fixed the cap back on the bottle and obligingly rolled
it across the carpet to O'Brien.

"There's no reason this time can't pass pleasantly," he
said while his companion gulped.  "We are not that
different, you know."

"You and me?"  Miles snorted in disbelief.

"Yes, of course.  We are loyal to our respective homelands, 
our families, our friends."  The Chief remained unconvinced.  
"If nothing else, we do share one common interest."

"What's that?" O'Brien asked warily.

"He just left us a moment ago."

"Oh."

"I think you'll find we share many of the same opinions
regarding our dear doctor."  With a twinkle of mischief:
"I find him to be a prying little pest."

O'Brien, not expecting this, laughed.  "He's always 
underfoot," he agreed, playing along.  "Like a yapping
puppy."

"A spoiled brat."

They grinned at each other; Miles rolled the bottle back
across the floor.

"He's smug."

"Supercilious."

"Prissy."

"Arrogant."

"Little Mister Know-it-all.  If have to hear him go on
one more time about his `engineering extension courses-'"
O'Brien mimicked Julian's accent; Garak laughed.

"Yet, in spite of his more irritating idiosyncracies,"
the Cardassian said smoothly, "we do both have a great
deal of affection for him."

Miles caught the bottle rolling back across the floor at
him.  After a sip and a moment of contemplation, he
answered, "Julian means well, but he tries too hard. He's
so eager to be liked he can't help but be a pest.  He's
like a little brother who's always tagging after you.  You
want to thump him every time he opens his mouth, but
you'll beat the hell out of anybody that tries to do him
harm."

Garak chose to overlook the implicit threat.  "I've never 
had a younger brother," he said, then added with a note 
of polite curiosity:  "But surely your feelings for him 
aren't entirely fraternal?"

Miles frowned, puzzled.  "I don't know what you mean."

"Don't you?  Perhaps not.  You might be unaware of it--it 
is characteristic of an uncomplicated nature such as yours 
not to understand its own motivations.  I've watched you 
with him for some time and there are certain...sexual 
undercurrents to your friendship which I frankly find 
fascinating." 

"Now wait just a minute-"

"What else _can_ I think?  All those months that Mrs.
O'Brien was away, all those romps in the holosuites.  All
those racketball games, and him in that little silver 
thing..."

"I'm a married man!" O'Brien went maroon with indignation.
"I never-!"

"I never meant to suggest that anything _improper_ ever
occurred between you," Garak went on quickly, as if to
apologize.  "You are, as you say, a married man and your
dedication to your family is almost Cardassian."  Miles
did not appreciate the compliment.  "But can you honestly
tell me you never once thought of-"

"Thought of _what_?" Miles tried to sit up, forgetting his
ribs, and then sank back immediately, clutching his side.

"Oh, nothing." Garak smiled.

"No, you tell me what you're trying to insinuate," Miles
insisted, flat on his back again, eyes squeezed shut with 
the pain.

"Are you all right, Chief?" The tailor tried to rise, his
right leg extended awkwardly, stiffly braced by its
makeshift splint.

"He told you not to put your weight on that leg," O'Brien
pointed out between gasping breaths.

"He told _you_ to lie still.  You'll puncture a lung
squirming around like that."  Garak did not sound terribly
distressed at the prospect.

"Bastard.  If I could get my hands `round your scaly neck..."

"I meant no offense," Garak assured him as he slid back
to the floor.  "On Cardassia, the mentor/pupil relationship 
is considered perfectly respectable.  I find nothing 
wrong with a mature male feeling affectionately protective 
of a rather attractive youth. Quite the contrary, I think 
it's sweet."

"It's not like that," O'Brien insisted.  "He's my best friend."

"Mmh...yes."

"No," the Chief answered, trying not to let Garak rile him.
"I am not in the least attracted to Julian Bashir."

"Not in the least?" Garak persisted, enjoying the game.
"Can you say you've never once thought about...his eyes?
The way he looks up through his lashes when he's
teasing and you're not certain if it's meant to be
flirtatious? That playful little smile? You've never wanted
to kiss him--just to shut him up?"

"Oh, to shut him up," said Miles, eyebrows shooting
upwards.  "Sometimes I think I'd do anything to get him to
stop talking."

"You've never watched him walk away, and been tempted to 
grab that delightful marvel of callipygity?"

"Huh?"  Miles looked up, his brow furrowed.  "Oh, 
his skinny little butt, you mean?  Smack it with a 
racket once or twice, but that has nothing to do with 
sex.  When he catches an impossible off-the-wall shot.  
It's not natural, the way he can jump."

Then he chuckled, which genuinely surprised and
baffled Garak.

"What?"

"You don't believe a word of it, do you?  All this rubbish
about me wanting him." O'Brien twisted his body as much
as he dared and lifted his uninjured arm.  "The way I see
it, _you're_  dead jealous."  A finger stabbed in the
Cardassian's direction. "You'll say anything to poison our
friendship.  Lying, manipulative bastard."

Garak muttered, "Simple-minded oaf."

"I've met with some back-stabbing, conniving, slick-tongued 
devils in my day, but _you_ beat everything. You can't 
come at anything straight-away, can you? There's always 
an angle with you, always some way to screw over anyone 
who's stupid enough to trust you. An innocent kid like 
Julian shouldn't be allowed within light years of the 
likes of _you_ ." 

"`The likes of _me_'?" Garak echoed.

"Julian's too young. He doesn't remember the war.  He
doesn't know what you damned Cardies are really like--
never met one before you started in with him.  He
doesn't see the kind of trouble you can lead him into."

"Are you suggesting that all Cardassians are
untrustworthy? I find that offensively racist."

"No," Miles conceded with a deceptively guileless
expression. "To be fair, since I've come to DS9, I've met
with a few Cardassians who are honest and upright people.  
You aren't one of them."

"I see," said Garak.  "It's not Cardassians you object to,
but me--because of him."

"Hell, yes!"

"You wish to protect him from my twisted, manipulative,
devious ways."

"Oh, I know what you're up to," O'Brien took another
drink.  "You think I don't?  _You're_ the one who's
after him.  I see you, the way you look at him.  The
way you put your hand on his shoulder and _squeeze_ .
You're the one who thinks about touching him."

"Why, Chief, I had no idea you observed us so closely.
I might almost think _you_ were jealous."

"Don't start _that_ up again!" Miles huffed. "I'm concerned
for his safety, that's all.  _I_ know what you are--Julian
doesn't. It makes me sick, seeing him sitting there, 
smiling while you tangle him up in your web of lies."

"What an interesting metaphor!  Our innocent young 
doctor as the hapless insect, caught unawares in my 
predatory designs.  You have a gift for poetic imagery 
I never suspected."  Then, with sincere curiosity:  "You 
don't believe I truly care for the good doctor, do you?  
I assure you I do."

"Ha!"

"At least as much as you do," the tailor insisted.

"You charm your way around him.  I try to warn him that
you're up to no good, but he won't listen.  He just laughs
it off.  Christ only knows what he sees in you."

"Dr. Bashir appreciates my company because _I_ provide
him with intellectual challenges, mystery, a sense of
perspective beyond the narrow scope of his woefully
limited Federation upbringing," Garak retorted.  "I give
him adventure.  What do _you_ have to offer him in the
way of companionship?  Darts!"

"He trusts me," Miles answered smugly, "in ways he'd
_never_ trust you.  And it just burns you, doesn't it?"

The tailor drew his good knee up to rest his folded arms.  
"How frustrating it must be for you," he said after a 
moment's contemplation, "to worry so for his safety 
and have him consistently ignore your advice."

O'Brien made a deep, disgusted sound in the back of
his throat.  "I have to listen to him go on about you.
D'you know what that's like?  `Garak says this,'  `Garak
taught me that.'  `You should see the present Garak
got me for my birthday.'" The words were sneered.
"You're always giving him presents.  Is _that_ acceptable
on Cardassia--turning the head of an `attractive youth'
with fancy gifts?"

"I hardly think a box of chocolates constitutes seduction."

"I have to hear _your_ words coming out of his mouth.
That time you went off with Enabran Tain and the
Romulans, he actually tried to use me as a _replacement_!
For you!"  O'Brien sounded mortally offended.  "He asked
me to lunch and wanted to talk about literature!"

"If it gives you any satisfaction," Garak grumbled back at
him, "I don't enjoy hearing him prattle about `Miles' either.  
Believe me, Chief, it gives me no pleasure to hear how 
much _your_ friendship means to him.  I certainly 
don't like sitting downstairs at Quark's all afternoon 
knowing he's up in the holosuites with you."

They considered each other for a moment.

"Not the most sensitive guy in the galaxy, is he?"

"No, but young men are notoriously blind to the feelings of
others."

Garak found the bottle of whiskey rolling across the
floor in his direction, long after he'd determined O'Brien
meant to keep it to himself out of sheer spite.

"You know, Chief," he said as he sent the bottle back.
"I sincerely believe that if it weren't for our common
fondness for the doctor, we would not despise each
other quite so heartily."

O'Brien had to smile at that.  "Pity, isn't it?" he said 
with no little hint of sarcasm.  "If it weren't for Julian, 
I'm sure we could be friends."

"Indeed."

Miles cradled the whiskey bottle and shut his eyes.
"Insidious bastard," he muttered.

They sat in silence.  After a few minutes, the Chief began
to snore.  Garak watched him, smiling slightly, but his eyes
were glittering.

"Simpleton," he said.

~~~

When Bashir returned to the runabout with an emergency
medical team, Miles was sprawled asleep.  Garak sat with 
his eyes shut, but he opened them immediately, alert,
when the doctor came in.

Bashir looked relieved that they hadn't killed each other.
"You're all right?"

"Yes, Doctor, of course.  It's been an uneventful afternoon."

Julian knelt beside the Chief to check him first, and 
extracted the half-empty bottle from the curve of O'Brien's 
arm.  "I see you've found a mutual interest," he said with 
such prim, medical disapproval that Garak grinned.

"Yes, in fact, we did."

The doctor crawled over to check his condition while the
Bajoran medics transferred Miles to a stretcher.  "What
have you two been up to?"

"Oh, we talked.  You'd be surprised what topics of
conversation people can find to discuss when they're
thrown together.  I think we understand each other a little
better."

Julian beamed at him, delighted.  "Good!  That's nice to
hear." He waved a Bajoran medic, who hovered reluctantly
at the prospect of assisting a Cardassian, over to help
him help Garak to his feet.  "I'd like it if you two could
get along--I care so much about both of you, you know."

THE END

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The following tale of alien encounters is true.
By true, I mean false. It's all lies, but
they're entertaining lies--and, in the end,
isn't that the real truth?  The answer is no.

Leonard Nimoy, hosting The Simpsons
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We get lots of letters that say: "I love Zorak.
Blow him up!" I mean, what's *that* about?

Space Ghost
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Kathryn Ramage         kramage@erols.com