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The doors swooshed shut, cutting the noise of the party down to only a muffled cacophony as Worf left Ten Forward, swift-marching away from the whooping voices and thumping music. Part of him felt guilty for leaving so early when he had told Ensign Harris himself that he'd be there, but there was no putting up with… all that, for long. His ears still rung and the smell of synthehol lingered as he hurried down the corridor towards --
‘Going somewhere?’
Mid-stride, he stopped, turning towards the adjoining corridor. Commander Riker stood in a loose and low-cut shirt of blue silk, leaning against the wall with a look of pleasant surprise on his face and a half-empty glass of something vibrant in his hand.
Worf let his shoulders sag slightly. ‘Commander.’
‘We're off duty, Worf – how many times do I have to ask you to call me Will?’ the other man raised a stern eyebrow, but then broke into a grin, letting him know the order wasn’t serious.
Several more at least, Commander, he thought, making his way over to the wall opposite. He hadn't seen him at the party, but then again, you could've concealed an entire order of Cardassian soldiers on that dance floor and those on the outskirts would've been none the wiser. He wondered if Riker intended on going back. ‘I did not know you were a friend of Ensign Harris,’ he said, instead of asking.
Riker smiled. ‘Oh, me and him go way back. We met on shore leave a couple days in, really hit it off, and it took us right up till the shuttle docked to figure out we worked on the same ship. What about you?’ He quirked an eyebrow in Worf's direction.
Worf carefully ignored the unsubtle implications in Riker's voice, as he was now skilled in doing. ‘Ensign Harris is one of my finest security officers. I could not allow him to be reassigned without first congratulating him on his promotion. I did not anticipate half the ship would have the same idea.’
Riker laughed, downing the last dregs of whatever was in his glass. ‘He was a popular guy. The crew of the Agamemnon better appreciate him.’ He glanced at Worf, and must’ve noticed something in his expression that spurred him to add – ‘and I’m sure he won’t mind you left early.’
Worf muttered his thanks, a little uncomfortable at being so easily read by his commanding officer, possibly more so at being easily read by his friend. ‘I am rarely comfortable at social gatherings,’ he admitted, ‘but that…’
‘Quite the rager, huh?’
‘I am certain the ancient battlefields of Qo’noS were less chaotic,’ he grumbled, and Riker broke out in a dazzling grin in response. Worf's stomach flipped the way it always did when this happened – an inconvenient, apprehensive joy that still tried to overtake him whenever he gave someone cause to laugh at what he'd said. Since he rarely did so on purpose, the feeling did not fade with time, and the sheer... expressiveness of Riker's grin seemed to double its strength.
'Should you attempt to, return to the fray – I wish you luck,' he added, and Riker glanced away at the empty glass dangling loosely in his hand.
'No, I don't think I will.' He raised his gaze to meet Worf's as he said, 'I've never really been a fan of crowds. Especially when I'm not with people I know well.’
'I... did not know.' Part of him felt a sharpening sense of shame that he had assumed, much as everyone likely assumed, that there wasn't a party in the quadrant William Riker didn't feel at home at, but another significant part was picking up on the undeniably personal bent the conversation seemed to be taking. He carefully rolled a loose thread on the cuff of his off-duty shirt between thumb and forefinger.
Once again, Riker smiled, gently this time – although, once again, Worf failed to discern what the fondness in his eyes was for. ‘Where I grew up, in Alaska, there was hardly anyone around for miles,’ he said, glancing off into the distance. ‘I think the busiest night the nearest town saw was my high school’s prom every year.’
And Worf must’ve scowled, or something along those lines, because Riker joked that a high school prom wasn’t a ‘hugely Klingon concept,’ and then before he realised what he planned to say he was saying it.
‘At the school I attended, there was… a dance. I was asked to attend three times: twice as a practical joke, and once by a girl who wished to – anger her parents, with her unsavoury choice of partner.’
There was a silence, brief and unbearable, before Riker – Will – spoke softly. 'I didn't go to mine either. I got asked by Sam Robinson, that's – everyone in the whole school wanted to be me that day, let's just say – but on the night, my dad, uh, we had. We had a fight, and he wouldn't drive me. And I thought about walking, but the party would've been over by the time I got there. So I told Sam I was sick. I didn't want everybody talking.'
'You were right,' Worf said, more hesitant than he wanted to be, always so unsure of what to say but determined to say something regardless. 'A human high school is not a place of honour.'
And it must've been the right thing to say, because Will broke out in another one of his dazzling grins and Worf's stomach swooped as it always did, strait through him like a bird of prey catching a thermal.
'Oh, you can say that again,’ Will laughed. ‘It’s a shame we missed out though. Building up the courage to ask for that slow dance, trying not to step on their toes – supposedly it’s quite the coming-of-age ritual, in some cultures.’
‘In some cultures.’
‘Oh, don’t try to tell me Klingons don’t dance, I know for a fact there’s a long and noble history of it.’ Will smiled playfully, and Worf was reminded again of how many of his defences he’d shown this man the workings of.
‘Not all Klingons dance,’ he amended.
And just as a warm kind of dread was starting to settle over him at the way Will seemed about to take that as a challenge – the music stopped. The thrum of bass no longer rumbled through the ship. It seemed a little early for the party to end, but, no – there it was, another song, this one… slower and quieter.
Fate, it seemed, was his enemy tonight.
‘Well, what are the odds?’ Will laughed, in genuine, sparkling surprise. He hummed along to the melody, one he was obviously familiar with, tilting his head with the steady, swaying beat. And then his eyes locked on Worf’s. Dazzling and familiar. He offered his hand.
No, Worf thought. And of course not, and this is not something I do. This is not something I can do.
Not that he was afraid, and not that he’d ever allowed fear, debilitating, consuming fear, to stop him from getting the thing done anyway, just that he had no plan for a situation like this. Nothing to fall back on, no stance to drop into, no objective, no guidance.
He placed his hand in Will’s. Let it be lifted, tugged closer, raised into position. The rest of him followed, stepping into the space where their breaths began to mingle. Will’s other hand moved over his waist to settle just a brush above the highest hip-ridge, and he placed his hesitantly on Will’s broad shoulder. It took him less than half a second to start worrying what to do with his feet, which just made his mind recall moQbara' forms he had to consciously dismiss, distracting him further from what he was meant to be –
‘Relax,’ Will said, voice low, the kind of hum that would’ve been swallowed up back inside the party but here, in the quiet of the corridor, it vibrated in the air between them. ‘I’ll lead. Just follow me.’
And Worf let himself be led. Haltingly at first, misjudging distance and speed – but Will’s pace was even and soon it would’ve been harder for his body not to follow. Will's palm was warm in his, their outstretched grip strong, pulling their chests together so that sometimes an in-breath would graze stomach against stomach and at first Worf thought to pull away but no, this was the point, to be close, close enough to feel the heat of an exhale on his cheek, feel the buzz in his skin that meant eyes on him. The song was maddeningly, wonderfully slow, stretching out time so that every little detail expanded to fill the space. And yet somehow, he couldn't catch his breath...
The gentle rhythm came so easily to him now that he could no longer avoid looking up to meet Will's eyes – the fondness from before was waiting for him, although where there had been mirth was now a thrill of something else, something that terrified him and paradoxically made him lean even closer until suddenly their chests were pressed together, sternum to splayed ridges through their shirts. Will's hand tightened on his waist. They were moving so slowly, part of him wanted to explode from Will's grip and run til his feet were pounding faster than his heart, or to throw them hard to the floor and into a sparring match, something fast and simple, win or lose, with rules he understood, but he didn't think he could bring himself to. He was hypnotised.
And just like that, the song ended. For a brief moment, they held their final step as the silence drew out like the last reverberations of a bell. Will’s eyes flicked – down. Worf could feel his gaze like a steady weight on his lower lip, could feel his own hand travelling up Will’s shoulder as if drawn by a magnetic force.
Then the corridor shook with a clashing rumble as the party they’d all but forgotten about kicked back into full ferocity, and the spell broke like a brittle blade. Will’s eyes searched his face, darting, but Worf knew he wouldn’t find what had been there moments ago – he could feel himself closing off, didn’t think he could stop if he tried, and although he cursed himself inwardly he was indulgently relieved he would no longer have to wait for it, the moment, the moment that always came where he did something wrong that could not be laughed off. His hand slid off Riker’s shoulder, and he swallowed, nodded, and turned away.
And was tugged back by the hand still holding his. He stopped, but didn’t turn around, hovering there with one foot out the door of their dancefloor.
‘Worf?’
His voice wasn’t wounded, wasn’t angered.
‘Yes?’
‘Can we… do this again, sometime?’
His thumb was moving back and forth against Worf’s knuckle.
‘I… would like that. Commander.’
‘How many times am I gonna have to ask you to call me Will?’
He knew the answer, knew it even as he gently tugged his hand free, knew it as he walked away without glancing back, how close he had been to just letting go. Once more, Commander, he thought. Just once.