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At 0356, Data is surprised to encounter Lt. Commander Worf in Guinan’s lounge. It is a time when the alpha shift rarely makes an appearance, given their circadian rhythms; and further, Data has found that Captain Picard, Dr. Crusher, and Geordi account for the majority of these early morning encounters (446 out of 489 occurrences). Unusual, then, that Worf should be up. He is staring out the window, scowling.
Data slides into the seat across the table from him. “Is something bothering you, Lieutenant Commander?” he asks, modulating his voice to be low and comforting.
Worf turns to Data, his scowl adjusting to an expression 20% less disappointed and 30% more frustrated. He grunts noncommittally.
“Perhaps I can get you a drink? Dr. Crusher suggests that discussing quandaries with a friend over a beverage can ease your mind. I know that I have found outside perspectives to be useful during my own struggles,” Data offers.
Worf’s lips twitch. “I am not one to…talk about things.”
Data shrugs. As always, the motion is a dichotomy: a gesture to indicate carelessness, whose motion he must calculate down to the micrometer to execute properly. He makes a game of it, letting the nanometers fall where they may. It’s as much chaos as his body permits.
Worf looks over at Guinan, his eyes not quite focused. Thoughts elsewhere. “A prune juice,” he says, with the air of a heavy concession.
Data fetches it for him. He lays the cup in front of Worf with the precise placement that would be expected in a Japanese tea ceremony, his synapses firing with the knowledge of a thousand analyses of food, drink, and their role in dozens of studied societies. Worf takes the cup and moves it 3.68 centimetres to the right, wrapping his hands around it. Like the calculations of Data’s shrug, the people around him do not see the precision and intent of Data’s actions. But Data finds that he prefers it this way; likes to find meaning in those 3.68 centimeters, the way that it transforms his actions into something new and collaborative. It is enough that he knows the original intention, even if they do not.
Worf does not speak. Data makes sure not to stare for too long at his face, or too look away for long, either. It has taken years of careful study to identify the proper balance that encourages intimacy, and not discomfort. For a time he even looks out the viewport, as Worf had done. With his emotion chip, he has begun to appreciate aesthetics more, begun to forge emotional connections between sights and memories. But for whatever reason, the stars are unchanged. They are travelling at warp 5.001, he notes. There are 831 stars in view. Eighteen are in varying states of decay, although he would need a telescope to confirm his findings. He has analyzed enough poems on the topic of astronomy to wonder why Dr. Soong did not think that his creation should find meaning in looking at the cosmos. He wonders what Worf sees, when he looks at the stars.
After 11.29 minutes, Worf at last speaks. Data takes it as a sign to return his gaze to Worf’s face.
“This is a human drink,” he says, and stops as if unsure.
“Yes,” Data confirms.
Worf grunts. “I like the way it tastes. But it is… unKlingonlike to drink it.” He stops again.
It is a segue, Data thinks, to what is truly bothering him. “You are struggling to balance your identity as a Klingon and your position in Starfleet,” Data suggests.
Worf nods. “But it is more than that. I was raised by humans. They told me about what it meant to be Klingon, as best they could. But I did not live it. As a boy I clung to being Klingon with every muscle in my body. I thought it was my duty as son of Mogh. But here I am. I chose a human vessel. I choose to drink human juice. I will never be human. And I will never be Klingon.”
Data tilts his head. “I like the balance that you have chosen. I’m glad to have you aboard.”
Worf turns the cup around and around. “On most days, I am too. But it is a half-life nonetheless.”
The people at the table next to them look up and recoil when Worf snarls the last bit. Worf sees them and he grows angry, lips curling over his teeth, before he composes his face.
“I envy you, Data. I wish I had a switch to turn off my emotions,” Worf says abruptly.
Data blinks. “I have found my emotions to be an enriching experience, if confusing at times,” he says.
“I’m not allowed to have them. I laugh, and Barclay takes a step back. I cry, and for years I am told that it is no wonder I am in Starfleet, the Klingons would never have me. I frown—“ he gestures sharply to the table next to them, not looking at them. The people get up and move to a farther table.
“Cahliss forbid I should be truly angry,” he says through his teeth. His nostrils flare, and a muscle feathers in his jaw.
Data looks down at the table. Worf is still holding his glass in one hand, knuckles white. But he is not exerting enough force to so much as crack the glass, though Data knows that he could with little effort.
“My emotions allow me to connect better with other humanoids. Yours alienate you from them,” Data says.
Worf snorts. “A terrible pun,” he declares.
Data had not intended it to be one. But humanoid associations sometimes lends itself to a cleverness which surpasses his own processors. The pun, unintentional as it may have been, lets a little tension out of Worf’s shoulders.
There is something elegant in the way that Worf gazes into his glass, something about the negative space around him and the curves of his forehead which makes Data want to capture the moment. Data’s view of the stars has not changed, but something has shifted in how he sees Worf. He is pleasant to look at.
Data deliberates over a proper transition before forgoing the tricky venture entirely; connecting two topics in a way that a humanoid can follow is not one of his strong suits. “May I paint you?” he asks.
Worf looks startled. “What, now?”
“If it’s not inconvenient.”
Worf makes eye contact for 4.291 seconds. “Why not,” he says, and downs his drink.
Spot winds her way around Data’s ankles as soon as he crosses the threshold to his quarters. “Make yourself comfortable,” he says to Worf, and fetches his paints from storage, mind already full of calculations of mixing pigments. He emerges to find Worf standing stiffly, uncomfortably, in the middle of the floor.
“Relax,” Data urges as he sets up his easel. Worf tries, but his shoulder are high enough to serve as earmuffs.
“Here,” Data says, and he reaches out to adjust Worf’s pose. Worf flinches, hard. A complicated knot of emotion slams into Data: 31% hurt, 23% confusion, 17% surprise, 15% anger, 14% sadness.
“I apologize,” Data says. It’s not the first time he’s encountered someone who dislikes his chassis. He’s surprised that Worf is among them.
Worf won’t meet his eyes. “No, I…”
“You can go, if I’m making you uncomfortable,” Data says.
Worf scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m no good at this,” he mutters. “It is not that I dislike your touch, Data. It is that I appreciate it too much.”
Data puzzles over the words. “Romantically?” he clarifies.
If Worf looked uncomfortable posing, it’s nothing on what he looks like now. “Yes.”
Data looks him over. Beautiful. Deliberate. Human and not-human, just as he is. It’s an appealing thought, but—“I am not human enough to give you what you expect. There is a 87% likelihood that I will, colloquially speaking, ‘mess things up’.”
Worf gives him a small smile. “I’m not human either.”
“Well, then,” Data says, and kisses him. It is highly imperfect; it will require considerably more trials to get it right. Data can’t wait.