Disclaimer: Star Trek: the Next Generation and Lt. Commander Data belong to Paramount. Zoe and her family belong to me. Fanfic is written for love, not money; no infringement is intended.

The first time I ran into him in the corridor of the ship, it was plain that we were meant to be. I mean, he tends to babble and I like to listen to him talk. But he was my mother’s superior officer, and my math tutor. There were rules in place, albeit unwritten ones. I could perform with him in shipboard plays, and he could ensure that I passed advanced calculus as well as music theory with flying colors, but I couldn’t ask him to dance with me at the cast party, and he would never have asked me to dinner, even if I’d been of age. Besides, he didn’t eat.

I never really belonged in space, anyway. Not in Starfleet, anyway. So when the theatrical troupe was visiting, and came to do a master class with the theater students at the ship’s school, I asked for an audition. I never expected to be invited to apprentice, but I was, and I did.

Fifteen years later, my mother was no longer a lieutenant in the science department, or assigned to the flagship at all. She was teaching English at the Academy. The people who spend time on that ship, though, form special bonds. Whenever the ship was in orbit some of the officers she’d served with would be around, for dinner, or brunch. Whatever. It was inevitable, then, that he would eventually be among them.

That I was back in the city, in rehearsals for a play that would open before his ship left Earth, wasn’t just coincidence. It was destiny.

“I have been following your career,” he told me, at one of my mother’s dinners. “You have much to be proud about.”

“I had a good teacher,” I answered. “He insisted I learn the math behind the music, even when I didn’t want to.” I raised my gaze to meet his, and willed him to figure out that I was being truthful, despite the fact that I was also flirting.

His yellow eyes flicked back and forth as he searched for a reply. I saw him swallow reflexively, and wondered when he’d adopted that behavior. “Even the best teacher can only help a student find their own talent,” he said. And now I was wondering when he’d learned to flirt back. “I regret that I have never seen you perform professionally.”

“We don’t open until after the Enterprise breaks orbit,” I said, “but we have an invited dress rehearsal on Tuesday. Would you like to come?”

“Yes,” he said.

There was an electrical pop from elsewhere in the house, and then there was music. My mother loved to dance, and my stepfather loved to indulge her. These dinners always dissolved into dance parties. It was my turn for a reflexive swallow. “Data,” I asked, “would you dance with me?”

He drew me into his arms with the confidence of an experienced dancer. I remembered watching him dance at a shipboard wedding, remembered the fake smile that had been plastered to his face as he guided the bride through the patterns of a formal waltz. I had looked away for a moment, and now I looked back, and noted that the smile he wore tonight was much more… natural? Organic? I couldn’t find the right word. Not fake, anyway.

“Zoe,” he said, “you are no longer my student.”

“No,” I agreed.

“Nor is your mother under my command.”

“This is true.” I took a breath then made my confession. “It’s also true that I’ve wanted to dance with you since I was sixteen years old.”

His steps faltered.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I started to pull away, but he stood firm, and didn’t allow it.

“Do not be,” he said. “I am flattered.”

“Did you know?”
“Not then,” he answered. “When I did realize, I was flattered. I am still. I am also intrigued. Your theatrical biography mentions my name.”

“Guilty,” I said. “You made a big impact in my life.”

The song changed to something more appealing to my generation than my mother’s and I noticed a couple of my step-father’s students dancing to the faster beat. He was a journalism professor at Berkeley, and often brought his favorites to these parties.

“I’m guessing this kind of music isn’t your style,” I said. I was half-teasing, but he seemed to pick up on that.

“I am afraid not.”

“Come with me.” I led him down through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the third floor, which had always been my space, and remained so now. “The producers of my show pay for me to have an apartment here in the city,” I explained. “But most of the time I stay here. You can come in.” My room was almost a loft, and even had a small kitchenette. I closed the door, and the party noises vanished. “It’s easier to talk when you can actually hear without screaming.”

“Are Commander Harris’s gatherings always so exuberant?”

“Some are, some aren’t. Ben’s students are younger than most of you Starfleet types. And a bit looser, I guess. He used to try and set me up with his grad students, but he finally gave up. I

settled into a corner of my couch, kicking my shoes off. “Join me if you want,” I invited. “I was dating a musician for a while,” I continued after he sat. “It was nice at first, but then it fell apart.”

“What happened?”

“I realized I’d been measuring him – measuring every guy I’ve been with – against someone who was incomparable.”

“I do not understand.” He was staring at me, waiting patiently to be enlightened.

“He wasn’t you, Data. You may have only been my tutor, and my friend, but you made an impression. They say girls always fall for men like their fathers? I didn’t have a father. So I compared everyone to you.” I waited for a long moment then said, “If you want to go now, I understand.”

“I do not.” And I knew he was being truthful, not just because of the whole androids-don’t-lie thing, but because he recaptured my hand, and ran his thumb along the base of my palm, and when I leaned forward in response, our lips met.

Kissing Data was everything I’d ever imagined.

Being kissed by Data was even better than that.

Author's Note: Zoe is a character who's been noodling around my brain for years, though I've never posted any fic with Data as more than a cameo character. I recognize that my interpretation of Data is nothing like that of one of my favorite storytellers, Javanyet, but the beauty of fanfic is that every interpretation is equally valid.