Title:   A Poor Substitute
Author:  Kathryn Ramage 
Series:  DS9
Codes:   O'B/B 
Rating:  R
Summary: An accident on the racquetball court leads to an 
encounter.
Setting: Mid-3rd season

Disclaimer:  Paramount owns Star Trek, DS9, and all the 
characters even if they never really knew what to do with 
them.  This story was written purely for entertainment 
purposes.

Copyright Sept. 2000

\~*~/

*Swak!*

The racket smacked his backside smartly.  Bashir winced 
and flashed a pained smile; it seemed to him that Miles 
was swatting him a lot lately during these games.

"Your point," O'Brien said gruffly.

Bashir supposed that it was meant to be playful--with a 
touch of hostility, to be sure, since these swats usually 
landed after _he_ had scored--but it was primarily a 
friendly gesture.  

"Is that your game strategy, Miles?" he inquired teasingly.  
"I can either let you win, or go on being paddled every 
time you miss the ball?  If that's the plan, I'll concede 
now before I'm too sore to sit down."

"No such thing!" O'Brien snorted at the suggestion.  "If 
I beat you today, it'll be fair 'n' square."

"Oh, no chance of _that_," Bashir retorted. 

O'Brien used to find him an intolerable pest but, recently,
the Chief seemed not only to tolerate his company, but to 
enjoy it--though he would vigorously deny it if asked.  He 
deliberately sought Bashir out.  They had drinks together at 
Quark's.  They played racquetball regularly, almost every day 
since Keiko had left for Bajor.  Julian always accepted these 
invitations to play; he wanted Chief O'Brien to like him and 
he was gratified by the offer of friendship, even if he had 
to endure a few of the more uncomfortable demonstrations of 
O'Brien's affection.

Miles tossed him the ball.  "Serve, Julian, before I put 
you over my knees." 

Julian served.  The ball ponged off the forward wall and 
shot back.  O'Brien batted at it, and sent it rebounding off 
at a higher angle so that Bashir had to leap up onto the 
nearest slanted wall to return it.  The ball barely brushed 
the tip of his racket and, instead of flying back to the wall, 
fell short.  Miles rushed to catch it as Julian came down.  
They crashed together, chest to chest, and went tumbling to 
the floor.  

The breath was knocked out of Bashir and his vision dazzled.  
The next thing he knew, he lay sprawled flat on his back 
with Miles on top of him, just as dazed.

Miles groaned.  "You all right?"

"I think so."  

"This is your fault, y'know," Miles grumbled; his breath 
came in warm blasts near Julian's ear.  "Bounding off the 
walls."

"_You_ didn't need to chase after a foul ball."  They tried 
to move apart, but O'Brien's right arm was trapped under his 
torso.  Julian squirmed and shoved experimentally at the 
other man's shoulder, but Miles couldn't be budged.  "Can 
you get off, please?"

He arched his back to try and free the arm beneath him, while 
his friend's other hand traveled up his chest, trying to find 
a place to push against without hurting him.  A knee found 
ground beside his thigh.  Bashir lifted his other leg--
brushing O'Brien's flank with a sweep of taut, synthetic 
fabric as he placed his foot flat on the floor and attempted 
to wriggle out sideways--then he froze when his hip touched 
what was unmistakably a rock-hard erection.

Their eyes met.

"Miles," he said in amazement, lost for other words.

Anxious to get free immediately, O'Brien shoved himself away.  
Bashir crawled to the nearest wall and knelt with his hands 
on the slanted lower panel as he tried to catch his breath 
and collect his thoughts.  

*It means nothing,* he told himself.  *We were both dis-
oriented.  I was moving under him, rubbing against him.  
It was a simple physiological response to an accidental 
stimulus--I do _not_ turn him on!*

O'Brien touched his back.   "Julian?  Let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain," he answered.  "It was an 
accident.  No reason for either of us to be embarrassed-" 
But he stopped when the hand on his back began to move 
slowly in a caress.  

"It's not what you think," said Miles.  "I don't usually go 
for boys.  I _love_ my wife.  I can't tell you what things've 
been like without her.  I try to get my mind off of it by 
spending my time here with you.  It's supposed to work off 
my tension, but you make it damned difficult, Julian.  How'm 
I going to stop thinking about sex when I have to watch _you_ 
jumping around in this tight little thing?"  He toyed with 
the back of Bashir's collar; Julian held his breath, stunned 
by what was happening.  "I can see every centimeter of you--
D'you know what that does to me?  I see you, and I just want 
to-" One finger hooked into the fastener seam, he tugged it 
open just a little, and placed a soft kiss on the nape of 
Julian's neck.
 
"Miles-" Bashir began, then gasped when his friend pulled down 
on the fastener, splitting his jumpsuit open.  

"I can't think of anything but ripping the damned thing 
right off." His hands slid down, parting the seam, exposing 
Julian's back to the waist, then kissed again between his 
bared shoulderblades.  "I want to get my hands all over 
you."  He took Julian by the hips to press him gently to 
the wall.  

"Miles, we shouldn't do this," Julian tried again.  It wasn't 
right.  Miles might be attracted to him, but the only reason
he turned to him now because he missed his wife.  He still 
thought of her, even as he nibbled on his best friend's ear-
lobe.  Julian had seen the effect that Keiko's absence was
having on Miles: the longer she was gone, the more miserable 
and lonely he became, and more restless with pent-up sexual 
tension.  It was inevitable that it would all burst out--
although Julian had never expected to be the outlet for that 
release.

When one hand slid over the curving muscle of his backside, 
already tender from those earlier swats, he gasped again and 
thought, *Oh, god!* but he said, "If we don't stop this now, 
we'll do something you'll regret."  

O'Brien took him by the hip-bone and turned him around. "I 
want to kiss you `til you can't see straight." And then he
delivered that promised kiss.  

Julian had no hope of pulling away, but if he had to be 
honest, he didn't want to.  Miles wasn't the only one who 
had been feeling lonely and frustrated lately, and if his 
friend was determined to do this foolish thing... 

He sat reclined with his bare back chilly against the slanted 
surface, as hands ran over his chest and belly and down until 
they found the bulge straining the restrictive fabric over 
his groin; one palm cupped over it, and Julian whimpered 
at the agonizing pleasure.  Miles tugged the suit off his 
shoulders, down far enough to bare his chest and nuzzle each 
nipple in turn.  Julian threw his head back in abandon.  His 
hands slipped up under Miles's sweatshirt, around his back, 
and he pulled him down.  Another kiss, and then he tore his 
mouth away to form an urgent plea--when the comm-system buzzed 
and a voice cut in: "Sisko to O'Brien."

It was like a bucket of cold water.

Miles jerked back out of his arms.  "Damn!"  He climbed to 
his feet, tugging his clothes into place as he stalked to 
the comm-panel beside the door.  He paused to give Julian 
a chance to put himself into order before he answered the 
summons.  "O'Brien here, Commander.  What is it?"

Sisko appeared on the small screen.  "I'm sorry to interrupt 
your game, gentlemen." He glanced beyond O'Brien to where 
Bashir stood far enough from the screen so that the commander 
wouldn't observe that his outfit was still open at the back.
Both were sweaty, flushed, breathing hard; it might appear 
that the two had been in the middle of an intense moment of 
play, provided one did not notice that neither man held a 
racket.  "You're needed in the docking ring.  I want both 
of you to join Dax at Bay 3 as soon as you can make it--but 
shower first."

"Right away, sir.  O'Brien out."  Once the communication 
was broken off, he turned to the doctor, who had stepped 
forward shyly.  "Here, let me do that."  Taking Bashir by 
the shoulders, he turned him around and pulled up on his 
fastener with a brisk, no-nonsense jerk.

"Miles-" 

"Not now.  We have to go."

\~*~/

The emergency was a minor one--a Starfleet exploration 
vessel had just returned from a year's mission in the Gamma 
Quadrant with its engines in need of attention and its crew 
requiring medical scans--but it kept them busy for the rest 
of the afternoon.  They both worked aboard the ship and 
interacted at intervals, but whenever they met, Julian 
could see how guilty his friend felt about what had happened
between them on the racquetball court:  Miles could barely
look at him, and spoke to him in a terse and professional 
manner, without their usual banter.  Others had noticed it 
too, even if, thankfully, they didn't know what was wrong; 
after a debriefing meeting in the wardroom, Dax had joked 
about how badly Julian must have been beating the Chief in 
their interrupted game to make him this grumpy.

Later that day, after all the excitement was over, he saw 
O'Brien sitting alone on the upper level of Quark's, going 
through a bottle of synthetic whiskey, and his heart went 
out to his friend.  He seized the opportunity.  

"Miles, we have to talk."  He placed a hand on O'Brien's 
shoulder and, leaning over, said quietly near the Chief's 
ear, "You can't go on avoiding me forever.  We can't pretend 
it didn't happen."  He swung his leg over the nearest chair 
and sat down.  Miles didn't try to leave.

"I didn't want it to," he responded after a moment.  "Julian, 
I'm sorry--One minute, we were all tangled together, and 
before I knew what I was doing-" he paused, then reluctantly
looked up to meet Bashir's eyes.  "If Commander Sisko hadn't 
stopped us when he did..." 

*I was about to beg you to fuck me,* thought Julian, and he 
could see by the astonished look on Miles's face that his 
friend understood this.

"I've never done anything like that before," O'Brien 
confessed.  "Not with another man."  He regarded Julian 
speculatively.  "I suppose you have?"

"A few times," the doctor admitted.  "But this isn't the 
first time you've considered it, is it?  This must've been 
building up for awhile."  In light of what his friend had 
said about seeing him in his jumpsuit, Julian understood 
now why Miles was so often tense and irritable during their 
racquetball games.  And all of those swats suddenly made 
sense.

"Mghm," Miles mumbled in answer.  He caught the attention of 
a passing Ferengi waiter and asked for a second glass.  "Was 
it Garak?" he asked as he poured Julian a drink.

"Was what?"

"'A few times'."

"No," Julian answered, with a small, wistful sigh.  "No, we 
never did."  He wondered how he always managed to get into 
these impossible relationships with men.

Miles leaned on the table and whispered, "You would've done 
it, wouldn't you?" 

Julian nodded.  "But it would've been a mistake.  You would
have hated yourself for it afterwards, and blamed me."

"You kept trying to tell me that."  Miles shook his head.  
"It's not that I blame you, Julian.  It's just that I don't 
know how far I can trust myself.  I have- er- thought about 
you before.  You don't know how close I've come sometimes...  
But no matter what I think about doing with you, Keiko means 
too much to me--I can't do anything to endanger what I have 
with her.  Dammit, I don't _want_ to feel this way."

"I understand," Julian said sympathetically.  "You're going 
through a difficult time.  Once Keiko comes back, it won't
be so bad.  You'll stop thinking of me."

"But that'll be _months_." Miles lowered his voice.  "What 
if it happens again?"

Julian appreciated the problem.  What _would_ happen?  The 
temptation was there, acknowledged now; Miles might try to 
resist it for the sake of his marriage, but as long as they 
put themselves in situations where they were alone together, 
they risked another encounter.  They might not be interrupted 
the next time.  "Maybe it's best if we don't play racquetball 
for awhile," he suggested.

"Right."  There was another awkward silence, and then Miles 
glanced up at Julian again.  "Do you play darts?"

\~end~/

Kathryn Ramage                    kramage@erols.com
~*\*~*/*~~*\*~*/*~~*\*~*/*~~*\*~*/*~~*\*~*/*~~*\*~*/*~
- "How many games of racquetball have we played in the 
last two months?"  
- "I don't know--15, maybe 20?"  
- "Try 70...And you know what all those games taught me?  
That I'm a poor substitute for your *wife*."
- "I could've told you that 60 games ago."

                     - Bashir & O'Brien, Fascination