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It’s a well known fact that Morn was the station gossip. Surveying his kingdom from his throne, Morn on his barstool had front row seating to the daily dramas and public secrets of all of Deep Space Nine’s residents.
Morn would be the first to gossip about: how you can’t trust Jake’s innocent kid routine because he is in fact a relentless dom jot hussler; what exactly Kira and Jadzia might be up to for hours in the holosuite; which deputy Odo growled at for being thirty seconds late to his post this morning; when Kai Winn is next due back on the station; and so on.
Morn would wax on for hours about: how best to stack boxes of jumja root; each and every nitpicking comment his mother has made to him; the long list of his own best qualities when in earshot of any lovely ladies; exactly what sounds his ship makes on which parts of his regular routes; and a myriad other number of mundane subjects that he found more enjoyment talking about than anyone showed interest in listening to.
Morn liked to talk and he liked to share his thoughts, and not everyone had the patience to listen to him, but he was never found wanting for company seated comfortably at the bar at Quark’s with a refreshing ale in hand.
Morn liked to talk, and this gave the impression that he’s an open book, but Morn also knew that some things -- very few things -- were best not to mention aloud, at least not until the time was right:
The long-hidden wealth pooling in Morn’s second stomach, for example. The way he groaned in relief as his special-made mud bed soothed his leathery latinum-burned skin. The fact that he didn’t have any idea what the practical purposes of ancient earth “matadors” actually were.
Morn liked to talk, but some things were best left unsaid altogether:
How despite Quark’s seemingly limitless energy, the dark rings around his eyes grew deeper over the years. The way Quark complained about Odo every chance he got, but visibly perked up whenever the constable stomped into the bar. How Quark would throw himself into a new business scheme right about the same time his lover of the week was nowhere to be seen.
The number of marriage offers Morn had turned down, because who would want a partner who would rather drink at the bar every night than come home.
(After all, the bar is his home.)
There are some things Morn doesn’t talk about. It’s better that way.
This never stopped him from putting his big mouth to good use anyway, however. And Quark would be the first to notice if it did.
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- Morn’s mouth gets Quark in trouble
Morn and Quark’s relationship had been tested a few times over the years.
As often happened, Morn’s lips let loose information that hadn’t seemed like it should be secret, but apparently was.
Even when all he did was idly gossip about a new face at the bar!
There wasn’t even anything particularly nefarious about the nervous alien that Quark, ever the hospitable host, tried his best to welcome to the station. True, Quark even went so far as to buy the new customer a meal, which wasn’t quite as common a circumstance. However, Morn -- as Quark’s proud number one customer and frequent receiver of Quark’s patient listening ear -- jumped at this chance to praise his favorite bartender!
And yet, “Morn should keep his big mouth shut!” was the thanks he got when Odo confronted Quark about consorting with this apparently shady figure. How was Morn supposed to know when Quark’s acts of kindness were supposed to be kept secret?
Not that Morn would ever begrudge Quark for manipulating people for profit. That would be hypocritical of him, since Morn’s social life benefitted directly from Quark’s investment in the bar.
As Odo was quick to point out in response to Quark’s reprimand: “There’s no profit in kindness.” And Quark’s favorite charity was his always own pocket.
Morn should have known better -- whenever Quark pushed a drink special on him, after all, it was quite transparently an effort to move expired products before Odo busted the bar for selling past due drinks.
Not that Morn minded all that much; he’s not all that picky about what he washed down his gullet, as long as he’s seated on his barstool and as long as the drink flowed freely. Plus, while his latinum-lined pockets were as deep as his appetite (both, of course, residing in the pit of his stomachs), he’s not one to begrudge a deal.
Honestly Quark should know better than to expect Morn to keep quiet about something so mundane as Quark talking to a new customer.
Some things seemed like they would never change: Odo would always be there to crack down on Quark’s schemes, Quark would always claim to love profit above all else, and Morn couldn’t stop his mouth from talking endlessly if he tried.
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- Morn’s mouth saves the day
So yes, sometimes Morn’s ever-flapping trap gets him in trouble, but sometimes it’s a distinct blessing. Morn likes to think it evens out, altogether.
There was one time in particular when Morn was so involved in chatting with the other last customer of the night (an iridescent, glittery eyed woman of some unknown insectoid species), that his time at the bar had encroached into the early morning hours without him realizing.
It’s always such a disappointment when a bar closing interrupts a good conversation!
But luckily, instead of kicking Morn out at the regular time, Quark was too involved in an intense whispered discussion with a shadowy figure out of earshot to bother.
Morn took advantage of this good fortune to drink his tenth Black Hole of the night and to describe to the luminous woman (who was an exceptionally good listener despite not having visible ears) all the types of bolts involved in his latest courier route.
“How fazzzcinating,” the woman buzzed, her antennae drooping. “I had no idea one could have zzzzo much to zzzay about zzzo dull a zzzubject as boltzzz.”
Morn had a lot to say and was so happy to be able to share this with her. There were vibrating hex bolts! And reverse-twist screw bolts! And swivel-topped carriage bolts! So many kinds of bolts, and the ratios of what kind of bolt a ship or space station would order depended on many factors, a nuanced matter on which Morn expounded on at length to his conversational partner.
His attention barely wavered as the woman started checking the exit to the bar every few seconds, as if plotting an escape from Morn’s prattle. (He only realized that this was what she was doing in retrospect, as was often the case). Meanwhile, the discussion between Quark and his shadowy associate amplified into what seemed to be a heated argument.
“I promised you would have security codes, and I make good on my promises! I just need--” Quark says in a tense whisper.
“And I promised that this station would no longer have a barkeep if I didn’t get what I asked for! Unlike a certain miserable Ferengi, I don’t back out of my word.”
However, Morn’s only reaction was to talk louder to make sure the woman could hear him. His ears weren’t well attuned to his surroundings, so on he babbled, oblivious, until -- as would prove fortunate for Quark -- a quick movement caught his eye.
From under the woman’s chair, a many-legged creature darted out, then climbed on top of the bar. It was covered in wiry corkscrew hairs and about the size of a forty pound parcel of hex bolts -- smaller than Morn’s head, but not by much. All those Black Hole drinks seemed to have vanished any remnants of Morn’s dinner several hours ago, as Morn’s rumbling third stomach was quick to tell him. And so, Morn scooped up the delicious creature, shoving it in his gaping maw mid-sentence, its legs crunching between his gums as he continues his monologue.
The woman, previously slouched on the bar from too many glasses of fermented nectar (and boredom), at once reacted to Morn’s late night snacking. Great iridescent wings sprouted out of her back, flapping so that she hovered above the bar, her multi-faceted eyes flashing.
Morn hastily started to explain that it was an honest mistake, what with such a sumptious-looking creature within snacking distance, but the woman interrupted him:
“Zzzzhe wazzz zzzuch a loving zzzteadfazzzt pet, my dear Zzzuzanne, and you ATE her!” The woman spat these words out angrily, then escalated the situation a step further and spat out a viscous green liquid, splattering everything within a ten foot range.
It burned the outer layer of Morn’s leathery skin, and he opened his mouth to yell in irritation, but was drowned out by an even louder shriek from Quark’s associate, whose long cloak was dripping with the acid.
Quark, wide-eyed at this turn of events, took the opportunity that was handed to him to shout some choice words of his own: “And-- uhh-- there’s more where that came from if you threaten me again, Enob!”
“I surrender, I surrender! I’m never doing business with you again!” The shadowy associate, less intimidating now that his cloak had large burning patches in it, ran out of the bar without another word.
“And good riddance!” Quark muttered, shot a harsh glare on Morn, then plastered on his most rueful grin to apologize to the buzzing woman.
When he finally got her to leave without calling security (“Morn didn’t mean any harm! I’ve known him for years, he wouldn’t hurt a fly! Uhh, no offense.”), a night’s profits worth of free drink tickets tucked into her thorax pocket, Quark turned to Morn.
Morn opened his mouth, a stream of heartfelt apologies on the tip of his mucous tongue, but Quark held out his hand in interruption.
“Ah, ah, ah -- don’t say another word, your big gob has caused enough trouble tonight. It’s unacceptable to eat people’s pets. And those free drink tickets I gave her are coming out of your tab,” Quark reprimanded.
Morn gave a heaving sigh and shrugged his shoulders in acquiescence.
Quark rolled his eyes and took out a large blue bottle from under the counter. Trying to steady his shaking hands, he carefully poured the bubbling liquid into two tankards, then downed one of them in a single gulp. He shivered from the burning of the alcohol and wiped off his mouth.
“For my nerves,” Quark said as Morn watched, impressed. “Well go ahead, take the other one, on the house. Don’t just sit there gaping at me. It’s pathetic to drink alone.”
Morn nodded, then accepted the offer of the drink as well the implicit gratitude for scaring away the threatening associate. Eager to redirect attention from his mistake with the pet, he picked up where he left off on his monologue on bolts, until Quark, eyes drooping, shooed him out the door.
“It’s 0400, Morn, well past closing time, and I still have to figure out what gets burning green bug juice out of my carpet. Ugh, the last time I went to bed this late, profits the next day dropped ten percent. Don’t you have better things to do than keep me up with your rambling?”
Quark’s hands were no longer shaking though, so Morn took Quark’s irritated scowl as a good sign and plodded out the door with only a couple mournful laments.
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- Morn’s mouth is a comfort and a distraction
Morn’s penchant for idle chatter had a tendency to attract trouble -- and since Quark’s Bar was the location for the majority of these ramblings, its bartender was most often likely to be affected, for better or for worse -- but just as often he was able to wield it as a congenial asset.
Over the years, whenever business at the bar was slow -- and other customers were few and far between -- Morn was grateful that he could always count on this bartender for his enduring company. Quark always had some clever scheme up his sleeve or bawdy joke about his recent exploits he was more than willing to find any audience for, and Morn was only too happy to provide that audience.
Of course, Quark also had a tendency to brag about the same stories over and over, but Morn could hardly begrudge him that, because he knew he tended to do the same thing. They understood that about each other. And in his defense they were good stories.
Every so often, usually around Mother’s Day, Morn would pour out his soul, while Quark half-listened, wiping down the bar and checking inventory at the counter. He would expound on at length, in excruciating detail: what exactly his mother meant in her latest holomessage, a mean comment one of his seventeen siblings said and how it hurt him, and, most often, why his latest lover left him. For the price of an evening’s worth of ale, Quark would listen with those huge ears of his, nodding and “mm-hmm-ing”, and occasionally chiming in with advice, before pouring Morn another pint.
Quark, on the other hand, was full of passive aggressive swipes at his clientele’s lack of respect and appreciation for his talents, but rarely imparted honest and frank confessions of his own.
(Which was fine by Morn. Despite popular perception he didn’t share everything with everyone either.)
“You’re friends with someone for years, sticking up for them to naysayers, giving them a worthy challenge for their talents, and then -- they don’t even notice all you do for them!”
Quark would often interrupt whatever Morn was blabbering on about with vague bitter muttering along this vein.
“Not like you, Mourn, you and your thick wallet and your bottomless stomach -- stomachs? you’ve got to have more than one in there -- are always here for me.”
Morn would listen, then chime in with a vaguely relevant story of his own -- about his brother Lorn, for example, and how he once convinced a girl he had five stomachs, but that’s not quite accurate -- and whenever Morn would finally take a breath Quark would cut in with more complaining of his own.
The cycle would continue like this for some time -- Quark getting the chance to express himself without having to confront his own messy emotions directly, Morn relating mundane stories that show he’s listening but not judging -- until, eventually, Quark had vented all needed to.
At that point something Morn had said would distract Quark from his problems.
“What do you mean you can’t digest yamok sauce? You’ve been eating it on everything ever since I slashed prices to get rid of it. I guess that explains all the weird noises your stomach has been making -- customers have been complaining, I’m cutting you off.”
Or perhaps: “Your sister Zorn has a beet farm on Livanius? I never knew that. Are they tasty? More importantly, are they cheap? Can you get a family discount? I’ve been looking for a new non-replicated lunch dish with better profit margins…”
Or something like: “I can’t believe you ate at the Klingon restaurant yesterday! You realize I take that as a betrayal. What do you eat there that you can’t get here? That hurts, Morn, it really does. Did I ever tell you about the time I bought out a whole vintage of wine right out from under that ridge-headed proprietor? I estimate I stole ten percent of his business that week...”
There were things they didn’t talk about directly -- Quark’s strange relationship with Odo, where Morn got the money to spend so much so often at the bar -- but that was an arrangement which worked for both of them.
Whenever Morn wanted a place that served him food just the way he liked it, surrounded by friends and the convivial sounds of the dabo table, he could go to Quark’s and was sure to be greeted with open arms.
Whenever Quark was bothered by those squishy sensitive parts of himself he kept under lock and key, he could vent about it to his heart’s content until Morn’s continuous prattle gave him a comforting distraction.
No matter what Morn did -- eating a customer’s spider poodle, accidentally disrupting Quark’s schemes with his big gossiping mouth, throwing his stool across the room in a panic over the Klingons -- Quark would never kick Morn out of the bar.
After all, profits would drop five percent.
No matter what Quark did -- ditching Morn in the middle of a heartfelt conversation to go bug Odo instead, telling the same exaggerated stories and bad jokes hundreds of times, slowly raising the prices on Morn’s favorite drinks then denying it when Morn brought it up -- Morn still spent every afternoon and evening at the bar.
After all, where else could he always find a listening ear and a refreshing beverage?
Morn was the customer and Quark was the businessman, and theirs was a steady rapport built on reciprocity and mutual benefit -- a steady exchange of latinum for alcohol.
It’s an uncomplicated relationship and a constant one.
However, while they could always find each other for a listening ear, there were still things they didn’t talk about.
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+1 time Quark left him speechless
One night, after the end of the Dominion War, yet again Morn was the last customer sitting at the bar, while Quark used those last few quiet moments to vent his frustrations before cleaning up for the night.
“More things change, the more they stay the same. New administration, but I still can’t get away with anything, and it’s not even fun trying anymore. Nagus for a brother, my mother wearing clothes, and a nephew risking his life for hu-mons. But look at me -- no moon, no wealth, no fe-male. I’ll be working at this bar until the day I die.”
Morn opened his mouth -- with a joke, a distraction, a barely relevant comment -- but Quark interrupted.
“And you? You’ll be sitting on that barstool, day after day, as I toil my life away.”
Morn opened his mouth again, but Quark tilted his head like he just realized something, and shushed him.
“All these new faces, but you…Your face will always be the same...”
Quark contorted his own, squinting at Morn’s distinctive wart-covered mug like he was seeing it for the first time, then leaned in closer until he was half over the bar counter, less than a foot from Morn.
Morn just blinked at him, glancing down to his synthale and wondering if it would be rude to take a gulp right now, or if that would disrupt whatever train of thought Quark was on.
“Well, maybe with a few more hairs if I can find you that elixir, but it’ll be here… You’ll be here -- mouth hanging open like a mud dog, freshly replicated synthale in hand, staring at me with those soulful eyes from across the counter...”
Morn decided to take a swig of his drink after all, careful not to hit Quark’s thoughtful face with the tankard as Quark continued to squint at Morn up in his personal space.
“Nothing better to do than sit at my rinky dink bar at the edge of the Quadrant.”
No planet you’ll suddenly be named Grand Nagus of, no Starfleet to assign you a post off-station, no xenophobic family that needs you to stay and heal them on their faraway world.
Quark didn’t say this last part, but Morn heard it anyway.
Don’t leave me. Everyone else comes and goes, but I need you here with me.
For once in his life, Morn had nothing to say in response. Instead, he transgressed that last foot between them, that traditional boundary of the bar counter that so often separated them.
...and he put his mouth to better use.
Quark’s mouth had the aftertaste of his usual late night snail juice, and the salty tang mixed with the refreshing crisp of Morn’s synthale created a peculiar cocktail of flavor that Morn thought he could definitely get used to.
Turns out home can be both a place and a person, and for Morn, the bar contained both.
Quark broke away, dazed, to stare at Morn. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. So, instead, he climbed over the bar counter to straddle Morn’s lap.
They didn’t talk for quite some time, well after last call.