Ensign Bracowicz Looked at His Viewscreen Again

The Talljet Quartet

by Karmen Ghia

~*~

JIR

~~~

Ensign Bracowicz looked at his viewscreen again:

SaJir; Romsky, Yuri Gregorovich; Jira Krinat (Jir the dancer); Jir Talljet.

He'd never allowed anyone onto the station with so many names. "What name do you use, Mr. ..."

"Oh, just call me Jir!"

"Um, Mr. Jir..."

"No, just Jir. Do you have a name, little one?"

"Um, Ensign Bracowicz, sir." He tried not to wriggle under Jir's piercing stare. This vulcanoid had the biggest, blackest eyes the ensign had ever seen.

"Are you all rechristened 'Ensign' when you leave Staflet academy? What's your given name, laddie?"

"Arlo."

"Arlo." Jir brushed his wavy hair off his shoulders and seemed to think about this. Half Magidrian, MageCheq in the patois, not even his hereditary second sight could tell him when or if he'd be let on the station. Alas, only being a MageCheq, his second sight was somewhat unreliable; he'd have to go on faith for this one. "Then, Arlo, what the fuck is taking so long? Stamp me in or kick me out, but do something before I take root on this deck. I've got a party tonight and show tomorrow and then it's on to Aigva 17 for more of the same." Jir bestowed dramatic, long-suffering glances on Smig and Stonet, standing patiently beside him.

"I couldn't get tickets to your show." Ensign Bracowicz stepped closer for a better look. This was probably as close as he'd ever get to Jira Krinat, whom he found sexy in photos and almost overwhelming in person.

"If you let me on the station," Jir said, seductively raising the ensign's chin to smolder directly into the youngster's eyes. "I'll *see* what I can do for you."

Reluctantly disengaging, the ensign punched a few buttons on his console, moved very close to Jir and said, in the sexiest voice he could conjure up: "You're all set, *baby*."

"Thanks, *dad*." Jir whispered and took a long, cool stride away from the youngster. Or tried to; the youngster was standing on his gown and it ripped halfway off at the waist. He gathered his skirts, or what was left of them, around him. He held up a hand to forestall the stammering, horrified ensign. "It's all right, not to worry, Arlo..."

"But, I, but I..."

"No harm done, it can be repaired, I'll just..."

"I want to have it repaired!" The ensign lunged at Jir.

"Relax, darlin', have you got a sewing kit?" Jir laughed.

"No! But there's a tailor here." He drew himself up and said in what he hoped would someday be his bridge voice: "I want you to go to him and have the bill sent to me."

"Oh! You're too too too kind, Arlo," Jir gushed graciously, just wanting to be on his way. "But I really couldn't..."

"NOG!"

"I beg your pardon...?" Jir asked, wondering if this was some new patois.

"NOG! Come here!" the future Captain Bracowicz commanded. "I want you to show Mr. Krinat to Mr. Garak's shop. I've torn his dress and I want it repaired and send the bill to me!"

Jir nearly bit his tongue in half to keep from laughing. He looked Nog over and gave up trying to determine what sex the creature was. Besides, he planned to leave all this nonsense behind him as soon as he was out of Ensign Bracowicz's sight. "Lead on, young... person," he sighed but was detained by more of his skirt ripping because Bracowicz was still standing on it. "I see. I've just got to take smaller steps here," he said, gathering his torn draperies. "Hochofedra." He shrugged and, after asking Stonet to settle the dance company and Smig to call on ThiaZole, followed Nog to Garak's shop on the Promenade.

Really intending to shake the ensign and get back to his company, where he could sew up his own skirt, Jir was distracted by the stroll he was taking. It had been years and years since he'd been on a space station and he remembered it as a drab and dreary, regular Starfleet kind of place. Of course, he recalled, this was an unusual Starfleet situation, more of a faux Starfleet station: Starfleet was just the hired help here. Jir smiled, enjoying that idea as much as the passing decor. The station had light and color and all kinds of folks in it and he was so absorbed he bumped into Nog when the ensign tried to usher him into Garak's shop.

"A customer for you, Mr. Garak," Nog yelled as Garak stepped from his workroom.

"I certainly hope you're not expecting a commission on this, Nog," Garak deadpanned and bowed graciously to Jir.

Jir slowly circled Garak, looking around the shop. "A Cardassian couturier on a Federation-run Bajoran space station," he said, lightly scanning the tailor's chaotic telefield. "I have now seen everything." Intrigued, he continued his scan as unobtrusively as possible, but could make little sense of the jumble of memories and emotion, which made Cardassians a misery for telepaths everywhere.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Maybe." Jir switched off his scan; it was futile and exhausting. "One of staflet's junior officers ripped most of my dress off and now insists that you, and you alone, are the man to repair it."

Garak turned curiously to the only staflet junior officer in the room. "Really, Nog, did you...?"

"It wasn't me! It was Bracowicz!" Nog yelped.

"Yeah. Arlo," Jir confirmed darkly.

"I see." Garak turned back to Jir. "I realize you have a reputation for being irresistible, Mr. Krinat, but I was not aware it still inspired violence," he said urbanely.

"Ah! You have the advantage of me, Mr. ...?"

"Garak."

"Mr. Garak."

"Just Garak."

"Justin Garak? How unCardassian."

"No, not Justin Garak," the tailor explained. "Please, such formality, do just call me Garak."

"Garak." Jir nodded.

"Garak." Garak nodded.

"Well... Garak. Perhaps you can fix this for me." Jir cheerfully slipped out of his gown and stood before the startled tailor and attentive ensign in a skimpy loincloth. "Do you suppose you can do it while I wait?" he asked innocently.

Garak put his hand in front of Nog's eyes and told him to run along, which the ensign did with great reluctance.

"Mr. Krinat..."

"Oh! Call me Jir!"

"Ah, Jir, if you'd step into my dressing room until the repairs are..." Garak had noticed some curious glances at the mostly naked, extremely beautiful man standing in his shop and wondered how long before Odo came to arrest someone for public indecency.

"Oh, I'll just stay out here and shop."

"I think that..."

"Garak." Jir gestured imperiously at the gown. "Sooner started, sooner done."

Knowing an order when he heard one, Garak retreated into his workroom and hoped for the best. Ever practical, he wondered if a mostly naked Jir the Dancer in his display room would be good or bad for business. 'Sooner started, sooner done,' he reminded himself, pulling his tools together and starting to work.

Jir looked at suits and dresses for a while and then decided he wanted to play with Garak. He sauntered into the workroom. "So," he said, looking around. "You're a tailor."

"I am." Garak wasn't sure he wanted Jir in the same room. 'It's true,' he thought. 'Jira Krinat *is* sex incarnate. Although getting along in years, but aren't we all?'

"I don't think I've ever been this close to a Cardassian before," Jir mused, circling, not scanning, just admiring the silky black hair, broad shoulders in their well cut tunic, the stocky build he suddenly found so charming on this particular being. "You're rather..." he moved closer. "Cute."

"Why, thank you, Mr. Krinat." Garak said calmly, realizing two things: this vulcanoid could easily overpower him and he might enjoy that.

"Jir," the dancer crooned millimeters from Garak's lips, "Call me, Jir."

"Jir..."

"You Cardassians don't travel alone very much, do you?"

"Travel is so much more pleasant with others, don't you think?"

"In fact," Jir continued, ignoring Garak's digression. "One never sees fewer than two Cardassians."

"And where have you seen this?'

"As if there is safety in numbers. Safety from contamination by outside influences."

"What kind of influences?"

"I have seen Cardassians in some of the more obscure venues I've danced in. They never come to my shows; they seem to think my dancing will pollute their minds."

"These must be very obscure venues if you and Cardassians were on the same planet, Jir."

"They were phenomenally obscure, Garak. But my work takes me to all sorts of places. Like this one." Jir reached up to stroke Garak's temple.

As if hypnotized, Garak gazed into Jir's eyes as the dancer's long white fingers brushed just behind his eyeridge.

Entranced, Jir sifted gently through Garak's consciousness, smiling at the Cardassian's happiness with Bashir and Gul Xriet before him, saddened by the years of loneliness and loss, intrigued by his relationship with ThiaZole, Quark, and the rest of the station and the Garak milieu in general. 'A strange Cardassian,' Jir was thinking. 'But charming.' And he settled in to enjoy him, perhaps delve a little more deeply into his strangely veiled past...

But not for long. They leapt apart when Odo pulled the curtain back. "There has been a complaint about a naked man in your shop, Mr. Garak."

"Oh?" Garak was still rather vague from the unexpected meld.

"I'm not naked," Jir said, annoyed by the interruption. He stomped into the display room, Odo and Garak in his wake. "I'm wearing a loin cloth. Is the complaint about the loin cloth? Do they want me to take it off? Did they send you to take it off me?"

"No," Odo said very clearly. "You're either to get dressed, stay out of sight or be arrested."

Jir turned his outrage on Garak. "What... sorry, who is this?"

"Constable Odo, please meet Jira Krinat. Mr. Krinat, please meet Constable Odo." Garak liked to do things right.

"Charmed," Jir grated. "Constable, you do realize that I'll be dancing in less than a loin cloth before several hundred people tomorrow night, don't you?"

"The station maintains a different criteria of dress in different sectors."

"So residents are allowed to shower and fuck naked," Jir observed. "Well, that's good."

"Mr. Krinat..." Odo began.

"Constable..." Jir spat.

"Gentlemen, please," Garak interrupted before something really unkind could be said. "Your gown is almost repaired, Jir..."

"Keep my fucking gown, tailor, if I'm going to the jailhouse, I'm going like this," Jir snarled, advancing on Odo.

Garak had but a moment to wonder how vulcanoid strength and beauty would fare with a shapeshifter before their savior arrived in the form of Mrs. Azbury, who'd arranged the dance recital in the first place.

"There you are, Mr. Krinat, we've been looking and looking!"

"Really! Really!" Jir snarled.

"Yes! One of your company told us about the unfortunate accident at the debarkation point..."

"Yeah, Constable, one of your ensigns tried to rip my gown off. Are you going to arrest him?" Jir was still right in Odo's face.

"... and we thought you'd like to rest after your journey before the reception tonight," Mrs. Azbury bravely finished, trying not to notice that Jir was enraged about something and mostly naked.

"Are you invited to this thing tonight, Constable?" Jir asked coldly.

"Yes, I am."

"Garak?"

"No, I'm afraid I was not invited."

"You didn't invite your Cardassian tailor?" Jir swung his wrath round on poor Mrs. Azbury. "Woman, are you mad?"

"I, um..." she began.

"Invite him!"

"Mr. Garak, I'm sure it was an oversight..."

"Of course, Mrs. Azbury," Garak assured her, she was a good customer, no need to alarm her. "But I have other plans for the evening," he lied.

"You're lying," Jir snarled.

"I'm not!" Garak insisted.

"Then change your plans."

"I can't."

"Liar!"

"I'm not!"

"HA!" Jir yelled. "If you don't come to this fucking reception tonight as my date I won't go and furthermore, I won't dance tomorrow either!"

Mrs. Azbury went pale. Hundreds of tickets had been sold; it was a fund-raiser for the Bajoran Charity Hospital, and the station was swarming with beings who'd come to see Jir the Dancer. There would be a riot it he didn't dance. There might be a riot if he did dance, but there would definitely be one if he didn't. A brave woman, Mrs. Azbury rose to the occasion. "Mr. Garak, might I have a word with you in your workroom?"

"Of course." Garak pulled back the curtain and they disappeared.

In the display room Jir asked Odo, "Still wanna take me to jail, copper?"

"Maybe."

"Everything all right, Odo?" A curious Dax asked from the door and ventured into the room.

Scan. "What the HELL is that?!" Horrified by the Trill, Jir moved behind Odo.

"A Trill," Odo answered blandly.

"Oh, god, I should never leave the stage," Jir sighed. "This life beyond the footlights is full of horrors. Dress ripping ensigns, receptions, Trills, constables, obscenity laws..."

"I saw you dance _Skolta_ once," Dax interrupted.

"Impossible, woman, I haven't danced _Skolta_ in over a hundred years, you can't be that old." Jir dismissed it with a wave of his hand.

"I did and I was hard for a week afterwards."

Jir stared and then mutely appealed to Odo for an explanation. That never came because Garak strolled out of his workroom and said he'd be delighted to escort Jir to Mrs. Azbury's reception.

"Good. Can you dance?"

"I have danced."

"Like what?"

"Oh, the usual. Warios, Merlas, Prionos."

"And?"

"Wladads, Kritis, Findras."

"And Oblatas?"

"An Oblata? What a quaint idea. I haven't danced an Oblata in ages." Garak was amused.

"Nor I," Dax put in.

"So, there is something to look forward to," Jir enthused, all sunshine and light again. He took the repaired gown Garak offered him. "That is unless I'm still being arrested on a morals charge," he said to Odo.