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If Data were anyone else, he’d be a red flag, sitting the way Geordi finds him—exactingly straight, with both hands clasped before him, following a classic “We need to talk,” communique. There’s a split second where Geordi falters in the doorway of Ten Forward, because he’s had a few women call him out for coffee and greet him just like that—rigid and foreboding. It’d usually mean a break up. It’s entirely possible that Data’s researched standard human break up protocol. It’s also possible that his posture’s perfect because he’s perfect, if naive, and likely has no idea how ominous it all looks, even to a blind man. Guinan’s behind the bar, chatting with several ensigns, and it’s tempting to stop by there first to load up on synthehol. Or, if she can swing it, something stronger. Then Geordi reminds himself it’s just Data, his best friend in the universe, and he heads over sober.
Data smiles at his approach. Geordi can’t see it, exactly, but can read it in the information his VISOR picks up—Data’s smiles are a familiar, welcome data stream. He chimes, “Geordi,” in the same friendly, pleasant voice that he called Geordi to Ten Forward with, the same simple, charming tone that he uses for most things. It’s nice. It’s good.
Geordi’s still suspicious. He answers, “Data,” and slips onto the chair opposite from his boyfriend. The table’s standard size, big enough for four, but two seats are missing. It’s just the two of them, huddled close to the viewports, and it feels like a cozy booth in a small-town diner, not a wide open area floating through space. Data’s company sometimes has that effect—personal and sweet. They’ve spent countless hours in Ten Forward together, whether eating and drinking or just talking, meeting others or tucking into their own private projects, playing tired colleagues or makeshift dates. They ask each other out all the time but don’t usually add, “We need to talk.” When Data doesn’t start talking, just stares politely at Geordi, Geordi prods, “What is it?”
“I believe it prudent that we discuss certain matters regarding our relationship.”
Geordi’s stomach clenches. It sounds like the android version of an exit plan. “And those matters are?”
Data shifts his posture, crossing one lean leg over the other and relocating his clasped hands to his knees. It’s a deliberate choice made for show—he doesn’t get uncomfortable or require adjustment. It’s like blinking or smiling, and sometimes Geordi can read it all like an engine diagnostic, and other time’s Data’s just as baffling as every other person Geordi’s ever fallen for. But more handsome and lovable. Data calmly explains, “Parenting.”
Geordi blinks. For real. “Parenting?”
“Yes, parenting. During my hair appointment this morning, I overheard a number of fascinating discussions regarding the difficulty single parents face when dating. It has thus come to my attention that I have been negligent in the relevant preparation.”
On reflex, Geordi checks over his shoulder. He half expects to find Riker at the next table over, laughing away, having put Data up to it. But Ten Forward is relatively slow, most of the nearby tables unoccupied. Geordi’s still waiting for the punchline. It wouldn’t be the first time Data told a wildly confusing and unfunny joke.
When that punchline doesn’t come, Geordi asks, “You’re serious?”
Data’s expression quirks, in the physical geography of his face, if not the heat signatures. His data’s always been unique that way, and that makes it better, special. Sometimes it’s harder to interpret, but he knows Data well and reads all the queues—the lilt of his voice and the small tilt of his head. He seems as lost as Geordi. “Why would I not be? Was that amusing? If so, that was not my intention.”
“Not exactly, but...”
“Perhaps I have not explained properly. It is, after all, my first time discussing the magnitude of being a single parent with a romantic partner.”
“Data.”
“Yes, Geordi?”
“You’re not a parent.”
“Ah,” Data starts, lifting a hand and one finger, in a way that tells Geordi he was hoping he’d be asked to elaborate on this particular point. “I have also been informed that is incorrect, as I have what many would call a ‘fur baby.’ As the proud father of a fur baby, I must be sure that any potential partner is ready to take on that responsibility.”
Geordi snorts. When Data just tilts his head again, Geordi accidentally laughs a little louder. It has to be a joke. If nothing else, the term ‘fur baby’ is comical. Except Data doesn’t have the usual pleased aura he gains at the successful delivery of a joke. He even adds, “I am serious, Geordi. If we are to escalate our relationship, can you accept that responsibility?”
A final, smothered laugh escapes. The rest dies on his tongue. Data waits it out, patient as ever. He must really be serious. It’s kind of adorable. But mostly delusional. Except dating Data’s always been quirky, and that’s something Geordi does know and accept. So he squashes the urge to insist a cat’s not a kid and instead grunts, “Sure?”
Data seems to measure that response, which is fair, because it was tentative. Geordi tries to sit a tad straighter, look marginally more confident, like he said it because he meant it and not to appease his partner. Data asks, “Are you sure?” Before Geordi can brush it off again, Data notes, “When tasked with babysitting Spot in the past, you have had significant trouble.”
Geordi rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. “Well, I wouldn’t say significant...”
“You have taken umbrage with Spot’s behaviour, which, despite my attempts at training, is not likely to alter further.”
“I mean, it’s not like I’ve got a grudge against her, it’s just that she can be... difficult... sometimes...”
“Geordi.”
“Yeah?”
“She is a cat.”
It was such a normal morning when Geordi woke up. If he and Data ever progress enough, openly enough, that they move into the same quarters, and he wakes up next to Data, every morning will probably be abnormal. And flow into abnormal days. But it’ll be worth it for the joyous nights. Assuming Spot lets them sleep afterwards. Geordi can easily imagine her climbing onto his face in the middle of the night to try and suffocate him, or meowing him awake hours before his shift, or stealing his socks and flushing them out the airlock.
“I know, Data. She’s a cat, not a kid. I can handle a cat.”
“She is my cat, and if our relationship is to progress, she will also be yours.”
Escalate. Progress. Geordi gets that it’s sort of a good thing, Data wanting their relationship to continue, to flourish, except he realizes aloud, “Are you asking me to... co-own Spot?” That doesn’t sound right, but he’s not sure what the term is. His brain unhelpfully offers ‘adopt’, but that’s definitely wrong.
Data informs him like it’s grave and obvious, “Geordi, one does not own a cat. They co-exist with them. And whether or not you officially take on that role, progressing with me will inevitably put you in a step-father position to her.”
Fathering a cat’s definitely not right. Nobody said anything about raising a cat when Geordi first crossed that line with Data. Data’s phrasing confuses him, but a few words stand out, shining through the nonsense—making things official. Geordi dazedly repeats, “Official...” and then blurts, “Wait, are you proposing to me?”
It’s almost a relief when Data coolly says, “No.” And then it kind of stings. It’s not that Geordi’s opposed to a proposal—he’d just like more time to think about it, digest it, maybe talk about it first. Without any indication of that emotional rollercoaster, Data explains, “We must work out this situation before we discuss our potential marriage.” Our potential marriage. Geordi’s drifting away in an emotional tsunami. Data makes it sound inevitable.
“So... you’re pre-proposing to me?”
Data visibly pauses, pondering for a moment, and Geordi thinks it’s not so much an affectation as Data’s processors whirring to work out a swell of new, important information regarding his future and life choices. Or maybe Geordi’s wrong and it really is just a yes or no question for Data, whether or not they should marry. After a beat, Data answers with a note of whimsical curiosity, “I suppose I am.”
A wave of purple saunters up to their table, and Geordi doesn’t know whether he’s embarrassed or grateful for the interruption. Guinan has a tray of drinks that Geordi didn’t order, and Data probably didn’t either, because he would’ve asked Geordi first. Guinan doesn’t need to—she knows everything—and that probably includes whether or not Geordi and Data will make it and with or without Spot in-between. She sets the drinks on the table—fizzing, bright pink, and mysterious. She hums, “I thought you might need these.”
Geordi grits out, “Thanks,” and prays that she doesn’t know exactly why they do.
Except she hovers there afterwards, casually carting the empty tray, and tells Geordi like it’s nothing, “For the record, I find step-parenting can be very rewarding.”
There’s probably a story there. Geordi’s way too embarrassed to ask. He groans, face falling into his hands. Between that and his VISOR, his blush should be sufficiently hidden. He feels ridiculous. Guinan chuckles fondly, and he can hear her robe rustling as she leaves them be. When Geordi peeks through his fingers, the information’s obscured, but he can pick up Data taking the first sip with an air of hopeful optimism.
Data swallows and says, “There is no need to worry, Geordi. I understand that you may need some time to consider the situation before we tell Spot of your new role and graduate to the proposal stage.”
Geordi doesn’t know what to say. He trips over a few awkward noises, mortified and shocked and maybe a little flattered, before he finally gets out a weak, “Okay,” and tries his drink.
It’s synthehol, nowhere near strong enough. But Data seems happy, and that’s really what matters.