I’m sitting in my flitter in the parking bay at Starfleet Academy, nerves jittering like proverbial butterflies in my stomach. I keep thinking that I should have said no to being his date, or that, once accepted, I should have let him pick me up. I mean, my apartment’s not that far away, and he has a freaking starship at his disposal.
Okay, that might be an exaggeration. But here’s what’s not: I’ve known Geordi LaForge since we were both ten, and I’m hiding in my flitter because I’m afraid of what my feelings for him really are. And I’m equally afraid of what they aren’t. I mean, what if he really does want to take our relationship into adult realms…and what if he doesn’t. And there’s still the whole traipsing around the galaxy thing. As long as we’re just friends, I’ll never have to deal with the agony of worrying when the Enterprise is out of communication, never have to refuse to cover a story about the ship or her crew because I can’t be objective, and… I bang my clenched fists against the controls, and mutter out loud, “Dammit, Kat, just go IN there.”
“Please restate your desired coordinates,” the navigation system requests in too-calm tones, the way computers do. I press the button to power down with a little more gusto than is really called for. And I take a deep breath. Then, I smooth my hair and exit the flitter.
I’ve been told where to meet him, of course, and I’ve been here before – years ago for his graduation, when I sat next to his sister and we rated the relative hotness of the male humanoids in his class to kill time. Ariana has a wicked sense of humor, while her brother is a little kinder in his witticisms. And then, when there were rumors of a conspiracy in Starfleet, I was one of the reporters sent to cover it. So I know where the arrivals lounge is, and I’m not weirded out by the full-body scan to determine if I’m packing weapons (though in this dress, I’m not sure where I’d put them. My purse holds a lipstick and my identification, not much else).
A cadet stuck on door duty recognizes me, and welcomes me by name, and I thank her, as I walk into the building. Lots of glass and steel and combinations of the two, just enough stone to ground the place. They’ve decorated for the occasion by hanging festive banners, and bringing out flowers in Starfleet colors. I’ve seen worse. I walk the short distance down the main corridor to the arrivals lounge, and enter, and the noise of so many conversations is a bit jarring after the heel-clicking silence of the corridor, but I just take another deep breath and look around.
I recognize a few faces. Captain Picard, of course, because he’s been interviewed a lot. Never seems to age, which is criminal. He’s talking to a petite blonde in admiral’s stripes. I think she’s got a Russian name, but don’t bother racking my brains for the knowledge. Davis T’laren, a reporter from a rival news syndicate is talking to a bearded officer in red, but notices me, and waggles his eyebrows – apparently the dress is effective – but I just smirk. Then I turn, and I freeze.
Geordi’s off in a corner, engaged in animate conversation with a man who isn’t merely dressed in the mustard-yellow ops color, but actually echoes it with his skin. This, I think, must be the infamous Data, who’s supplanted me as LaForge’s best friend. I’d seen his image before, of course, but it’s nothing compared to the actual person. And Geordi…Geordi’s also in yellow, and…is that another stripe? I can’t decide if I should yell at him for not telling me or merely be glad that someone’s seen how talented he his.
My name, being shouted (in as polite a manner as possible) breaks me from this line of thinking. “Geordi!” I answer back, and weave through the crowd, exchanging only brief greetings with people I know on the way. “Sorry I’m late,” I say.
He’s staring at me, at my dress. He’s…riveted, even. “You look amazing,” he says. “Worth the wait.” For a moment, something heavy hangs between us, as he watches me and I stare into his VISOR. Then he bends to kiss me on the cheek, and whispers, “I’m glad you came, Kat,” and it’s such a familiar gesture that all is well again.
“Yellow?” I ask softly.
He actually blushes. Well, sort of. “Yeah,” he says. “I meant to tell you, but there wasn’t time. I was promoted.” His expression is a mixture of shyness and pride. “I’m chief engineer,” he tells me.
I want to whoop or shout or dance, but I resist the urge, and simply hug him. It’s a little more enthusiastic than our hugs generally are, and it lasts a little longer, and I tell him softly, “Congratulations. I’m so beyond proud of you.”
“Ahem.” A voice behind me makes an extremely artificial coughing sound, and I pull away from my friend, smooth my skirt, and turn to find it’s source.
Mustering all of my professionalism, I extend my hand, and say, “Commander Data, I presume? Geordi’s told me a lot about you. It’s good to finally meet you.” I add, in case he’s unsure. “I’m Kathryn Rossi, from FNN. Call me Kat – all my friends do.”
“And I am just Data,” he answers, and I wonder if he, too, can feel the worry-waves emanating from Geordi, who has to be hoping we’ll like each other, at least a little. “Geordi speaks of you often, Kat.” He gives me an appraising look, as if he’s trying to decide how a polite android can say, ‘If you hurt my friend, I’ll kill you.’ And then that also passes, just as a steward (another duty cadet, of course) is circulating a tray of champagne.
Geordi hands me a glass, keeps one for himself, and nods at Data, who’s taken one as well. The three of us form a private circle, and Geordi lifts his glass, and toasts, “To friendship.”
I raise my glass, too, but I don’t speak, because I’m busy noticing that Geordi looks good in yellow. Really good. He catches me staring and catches my hand, squeezing slightly and letting it go, and then I want to say something, but we’re called into dinner before I can.
Here’s hoping Starfleet parties aren’t as excruciatingly speech-heavy as news net shindigs, because some things are better conveyed on the dance floor.
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