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The racquetball court was Miles’ idea in the first place, and he had personally put in a lot (in fact, nearly all) of the labor to convert an unused room of ambiguous original purpose into a racquetball court. That was not to say that the court was Miles’ baby or anything like that - nor that he had a right to be the inaugural player to break it in — it still made Miles a bit miffed that that, when he headed for his first warmup in the new court, he was met at the door by Bashir, who was just leaving.
It did not help that he was wearing a clingy silver leotard thing that looked absolutely goddamn ridiculous.
“Chief,” Bashir said, in that uncomfortably mild way of his.
“Oh. Hello, doctor.”
“You built it yourself, didn’t you?” He tilted his head back over his shoulder to indicate the court. “Great job.”
He could be so patronizing sometimes. Miles knew a lot of doctors were like that, but he’d never had that problem with Dr. Crusher back on the Enterprise. “Yeah,” he grunted, “just finished. I missed playing. And I figured there’d be at least a couple players on board.” He strode past Bashir and set down his gym bag, then added, when he realized Bashir wasn’t leaving just yet after all: “I didn’t think you’d be one of them.”
“Only casually,” Bashir said with an infuriating placatingness. “I was captain of the team at Starfleet Medical, but of course this was many, many years ago,” he laughed a little bit at that, “I’ve kept up with it here and there ever since just to stay in shape…”
“I can’t say I’ve had much in the way of formal training, but it’s been a serious pastime for a lot of years,” Miles said - not defensively, oh no. It wasn’t his fault there was still something about Bashir that made him feel like he was being put on the back foot.
“It does make for wonderful exercise.”
Now Miles did get annoyed. He didn’t like what Bashir seemed to be implying about his body. Not every human could have the kind of metabolism that kept them all gangly and skinny at however fucking old Bashir was.
Bashir seemed to note the way Miles was gripping his racquet and meandered back into the court, setting his own gym bag back down next to Miles’. “Need a partner?”
Miles tossed a ball at him. “Serve.”
"It's wonderful you're finally making friends with your coworkers, Miles," Keiko said nonchalantly without looking up from her PADD.
"I'm not friends with Dr. Bashir."
She glanced at him over the pillow, eyebrows raised. "You've been meeting with him almost every day for a week."
"I needed a partner to play with, that's all. Although I could do with a less cocky one, if you ask me."
"I think Dr. Bashir is a very charming and friendly man," Keiko went on and Miles couldn't help but glare at her. "So well-mannered. And handsome too."
"Keiko—"
She dropped her PADD and chuckled, rolling over to loop her arms around his neck as she peppered his jaw with a wave of small kisses. Miles relaxed marginally.
"Don't worry, Miles, I won't steal your new friend from you..."
"I told you - Bashir's not my friend," Miles groused and finally gave up when Keiko's hand slipped under his nightshirt. "Ah, I suppose he isn't all that bad either, though."
Keiko grinned impishly and patted his stomach. "Then you should invite him for dinner sometime."
"Absolutely not."
Regular exercise was something Bashir had always tried to keep up with. He’d been disappointed, but not surprised, when he found that Deep Space 9 hadn’t had a gym (it was not really a Cardassian thing); when he told O’Brien he was very glad he’d built the racquetball court, Bashir hadn’t been lying. And besides that, he couldn’t have asked for a better racquetball partner. O’Brien was competent and competitive. Not much of a challenge, obviously, and observant enough to tell when Bashir was going a little too easy on him, and admittedly Bashir harbored some concerns about O’Brien working himself into a coronary over his inability to beat an older man at the game, but…
Well, it wasn’t about the racquetball anyway. Bashir rather liked O’Brien and he wanted O’Brien to like him too. O’Brien was intelligent and dedicated, and had a good sense of humor generally but was very no-nonsense when something needed to get done; they were all traits that Bashir admired and enjoyed seeing in someone in an important position like Chief of Operations. However, O’Brien - like many others in this stage of Bashir’s life - seemed to have some instinctive perception of Bashir as someone who could not quite be trusted. Racquetball was a chance to rectify that.
Granted, right now, it only seemed to be making O’Brien more and more frustrated with him. But he showed no signs of quitting, so Bashir was sure they’d push through that, and when he returned to his quarters after yet another game, he was in a good mood.
The good mood was slightly abated when he realized that somebody had been in his quarters while he was out.
Bashir sighed, put down his gym bag, and set about putting things back in order. He knew full well that Elim was perfectly capable of searching someone’s quarters without leaving a trace, but his obvious intention had been for Bashir to know he’d been there. Things were very subtly out of place but, between spies, he may as well have written “Elim Garak was here” in indelible marker on the wall over Bashir’s bed. This was just another addition of odd and petty behavior from him as of late.
Specifically, since the racquetball games with O’Brien had started, Bashir mused as he set new and more complicated door codes. Elim had even gone so far as to cancel lunch via PADD message, with no given excuse, after Bashir had already been waiting for him for fifteen minutes. He’d also snooped in Bashir’s research files at the infirmary - again, something he could have done without leaving any evidence, but didn’t, because he wanted to be sure Bashir noticed he was now just straight-up stalking him.
He’s jealous, Bashir diagnosed. He’ll get over it.
In light of that it was hard not to laugh when O’Brien complained to him before their next match that Elim had set about making friends with his wife. Evidently they had a mutual interest in plants - Keiko being a professional botanist, of course, and Elim claiming to have started an apprenticeship with a gardener before “circumstances” forced him to switch over to tailoring.
“Can’t you do something about it?” O’Brien grumbled.
“He’s not my pet, you know,” Bashir replied, privately amused. “And he’s a very nice young man, I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. It’s high time he made some friends on this station besides me.” …and Quark.
O’Brien was clearly dissatisfied with that answer, but he accepted that Bashir wasn’t about to intervene in Elim’s latest scheme and served the ball.
…
Their match abruptly ended when O’Brien somehow managed to step on the ball mid-flight and completely wipe himself out. He seemed fine, if dazed and having had the wind knocked out of him, but he angrily declined Bashir’s polite request to check him a little more thoroughly.
Bashir didn’t get a chance to push the issue further. He was called away to the infirmary, for the latest in a never-ending line of minor accidents that were a mainstay on the station - though, strangely, were becoming more common at an alarming pace.
Perhaps I should have asked the Chief to check the gravity plating, he thought as he shrugged his lab coat over his racquetball uniform and headed for the infirmary.
“If it’s action you want, you’ve come to the right place,” Quark bellowed, standing drawn up to his full height on top of his bar. “Excitement - we have it here! Thrills and spills! Victory and defeat! Look no further — we’ve got it all!”
Miles spotted Bashir in the crowd and made his way over him. It was no easy feat - Quark’s hadn’t been packed like this in weeks, which was especially odd considering the joint had been practically empty the past few days. Miles had just opened his mouth to ask Bashir what was going on when Quark started yelling again, this time gesturing grandly at Miles.
“Here he is! The reigning champion of Starfleet - a legend on both sides of the wormhole — ladies and gentlemen: Miles ‘the Mechanic’ O’Brien!!”
There was applause and a smattering of excited hooting from the crowd. Miles tried again. “What’s all this about?” he half-shouted to Bashir. “I got an emergency call.”
“So did I,” Bashir half-shouted back. “But I don’t see any emergency.”
Now Quark indicated Bashir. “And the challenger: he’s fast, he’s deadly, he’s Julian Bashir. They call him ‘the Doctor’! The grudge match of the galaxy!!”
“Get down from there,” O’Brien hissed at Quark while Bashir just stood there uselessly with his eyebrows raised. It seemed that, once again, he found nothing but entertainment in something that Miles found incredibly annoying.
Quark ignored him. “And all… for a worthy cause,” he said dramatically. “Yes, these noble competitors have insisted I donate half of the house’s winnings to the Bajoran War Orphans Fund.”
“Orphans?” Miles said, caught very off guard, especially by the way three vedeks waded through the crowd just to give him an appreciative bear hug. Bashir’s eyebrows had practically disappeared into his hairline by now.
“‘The Mechanic’ versus ‘the Doctor’, tomorrow,” Quark declared, “1200 hours. Only one will emerge victorious! So place your bets!! And in the meantime… the tables are open…”
Gradually the crowd dispersed as people rushed to place bets; Quark climbed down from the bar, finally giving Miles and Bashir a chance to ask him just what the hell he was doing.
“Quark,” Bashir said, eyebrows still raised, “you can’t just do- this - without us agreeing to anything.” He sounded like he was attempting to be reproachful while also trying not to laugh. Miles was only getting more exasperated with the whole situation by the second.
“As your exclusive promoter, I have the right to exchange matches as I see fit,” Quark said.
“Exclusive promoter?”
“Sign here.” He presented a PADD to Bashir and Miles.
“Why would I sign anything you put in front of me?”
“I understand how you feel, but… think of the children.” Quark cast an almost helpless (but actually just conniving, it was still Quark) look at the vedeks, who had not moved more than two inches away from Miles through the whole conversation. “The monks have already made a down payment on new blankets for the winter. …ah well, I’m sure the little ones can huddle together for warmth.”
“He’s got us there, Chief,” Bashir said after a beat.
“Oh, Christ,” Miles said, “fine. The money had better actually make it to the War Orphans Fund, Quark.”
“Why, Chief! Of course it will,” Quark said, making an exaggerated placating gesture. “You have my word as a Ferengi.”
For whatever that was worth.
After a minor incident with Quark in which he attempted to drug Bashir with an “ancient secret medicinal brew” filled with hyvroxilated quint-ethyl metacetamin, it was finally time for the match. Bashir had been a bit surprised to hear that nearly all of the bets had been placed on him and not O’Brien - he would have expected it to be the other way around, what with O’Brien being the younger man and all. He did, admittedly, consider throwing the match when Quark suggested it, but ultimately decided that Quark would be making good on that donation one way or another - he and O’Brien would certainly make sure of it, and he imagined Odo would pitch in as well.
(He also resolved to check Quark’s records later to see if Elim had bet anything. It would certainly have given some consistency to the “war orphan” backstory he was still selling the more gullible Starfleeters.)
Like most sports, luck was a negligible element in racquetball, compared to skill. However, it was still an element, and apparently a quite vicious one when it turned against a player. Bashir completely flubbing the first serve - fine. He wasn’t exactly trying when it came to playing against other people; in fact, he was intentionally careless, and sometimes that cost him points, which was the whole idea. But the second serve – the head of his racquet, which had been in good condition a few minutes ago, spontaneously detached itself and went flying halfway across the court.
Very strange. They paused the game for Bashir to fetch his spare racquet. The broken one was inspected by both of them (quickly, admittedly, because Quark got impatient fast) and they agreed that there had been nothing wrong with the racquet, like it had been tampered with or anything. (Bashir didn’t mention who would have done that - not Quark, for diplomacy’s sake considering this was being broadcast, and not a certain jealous Cardassian, either, because it would undoubtedly make O’Brien very uncomfortable to know about that little issue.)
The spare racquet worked fine, at least, but the level at which Bashir was not doing well and O’Brien was doing incredible was starting to put both of them off. O’Brien scored his ninth point (compared to Bashir’s three) when Bashir somehow managed to bodily crash into the wall in a way that he would definitely be feeling in his back for the next two days at least. O’Brien proceeded to cut the transmission over Quark’s protests.
“Something’s wrong here,” he said.
“It seems to be going quite well for you,” Bashir replied, though he agreed. Playing below his level or not, being six points down was just weird, and accidentally flinging himself into a wall was downright uncharacteristic of him.
“This is the best game I’ve ever played in my life,” O’Brien said, a little hesitantly. “I’m making shots I couldn’t make fifteen years ago - when I was playing five hours a day, every day. I can’t miss.”
“And I can’t hit the broad side of a Plygorian mammoth.”
O’Brien picked up the ball and tossed it to Bashir. “Try throwing it against the wall.”
Bashir threw it in such a way that it should have come straight back to him, and yet, in complete defiance of Euclid’s law of reflection, it careened off the wall in a completely different direction. O’Brien attempted the same thing, and caught the ball neatly. Then he intentionally threw it at an odd angle - the ball bounced from wall to wall - then popped right back into his hand.
They both stared at each other for a moment.
O’Brien hit the comm panel. “O’Brien to Ops.”
It really was a shame that O’Brien didn’t share the same appreciation Bashir did for solving crazy space (or alien gambling machine) anomalies. O’Brien was just relieved it was over, and decided that for now, he was done with racquetball.
“But not permanently, Chief?” Bashir said hopefully.
O'Brien grumbled something unintelligible and crossed his arms, but sighed in defeat when he glanced at Bashir over his console. "I suppose not, no."
"Great! Because I would love to keep the little rivalry we had going there for a bit longer - and who knows! Maybe you'll even beat me without some space anomaly intervening some day!"
Dax giggled a bit too loud at that, but her reaction only seemed to push the issue in Bashir's favor.
"Fine, doctor," O'Brien said icily, though Bashir didn't miss the way the corner of his mouth quirked up briefly. "I suppose someone around the station needs to make sure our senior citizens stay active, eh?"
Grinning, Bashir slapped him on the shoulder and made his way to the turbolift to get back to work.
Surely this was going to be the start of a wonderful friendship.