Dysecdysis - Reocities

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 hundre