Archive of Our Own ^beta

Through the wide curve of the viewport, the universe drifted past, a slow, endless crawl of light and shadow. Distant suns shimmered like dying embers, their glow bleeding faintly into the black. Every so often, a planet would pass by, casting a pallid hue across the room: pale blue, sickly green, bruised violet. The colours slid across the steel and glass, painting Commander Riker’s face in fleeting shades of other worlds; worlds he would never touch, though he’d been within reach of a thousand.

The motion-sensor lights didn’t stir as he moved to pour himself a drink; the amber liquid of contraband dimly catching the ghostlight of distant stars. Outside, another planet’s aurora spilled briefly through the viewport, a melancholy shimmer of blue and silver that ghosted across his hands.

The quarters were silent except for the low hum of the ship and the faint rasp of fabric shifting when Riker moved. He sat on the edge of his bed, shoulders slightly hunched beneath the folds of a blue robe. The fabric was soft, well-worn, the kind of comfort that came not from pleasure but from routine. His bare feet pressed flat against the cold floor. He didn’t seem to feel it.

Behind him, Data sat propped against the pillows, the silver sheets drawn loosely across his waist. The android’s skin caught the faint, passing starlight; a beautiful shimmer of pale gold beneath the silver wash of space. Every subtle movement, his chest rising with the mimicry of breath, the flicker of his eyes following the window’s slow drift of stars, was mechanical perfection disguised as humanity.

Riker didn’t look at him.

He’d once found that strange curiosity, Data’s constant search for meaning, his relentless imitation of intimacy, almost endearing.

Now it only left him hollow.

The gesture of companionship had worn thin; the illusion of tenderness felt like a trick of dim lighting and practiced words. The sex was still perfect, at least.

“You are… quiet tonight,” Data said finally, his voice low, almost tender, if such a thing were possible for him.

Riker didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the viewport, on the soft whirl of a nebula far off in the distance. Its light painted the room in hues of lavender and fading blue, then shifted, fading into black again.

Data tilted his head slightly, studying him as he poured another drink for himself, “Have I done something to—”

“No,” Riker said, cutting him off, his tone flat. It wasn’t anger, just fatigue, the kind that came from somewhere deeper than the soul.

Data looked down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap, as though searching them for meaning, “I do not understand,” he said, softly, “Earlier you requested that I—”

“I know what I said.”

“Did I not perform sexually in an adequate—“

“Be quiet, Data.”

Silence again. A long, empty stretch of it. The hum of the ship filled it, the sound of air cycling through systems built to sustain life; meaningless in a room where neither man seemed to need it.

Data’s gaze returned to the stars. They passed endlessly, beautiful and indifferent. He looked back at Riker, his eyes luminous in the dark, and said nothing more, the bed creaked as Data adjusted the sheet, a careful, humanlike gesture for the sake of someone who no longer cared to notice.

The third drink burned slower than the first two. It rolled down Riker’s throat like molten glass, leaving behind that same dull heat that never reached the heart. He poured another glass anyway.

Data moved silently across the bed, the sheets dragging behind him like a soft shroud. He came to rest behind Riker, his movements careful, tender, almost human. His hands rose to Riker’s shoulders, kneading them in slow, practiced circles. It was exactly how Riker liked it: the pressure firm, the touch steady, not quite human but precise enough to mimic the deep affection Data was sure he had for his human.

“Will,” Data said softly, his voice carrying no judgment, only quiet concern for someone who always got drunk after sex, “Please. The alcohol alters your behaviour. It makes you… act different.”

Riker didn’t turn. The glass trembled slightly in his hand before he set it down too hard on the table. The sound cracked through the silence.

“Different?” he muttered, almost to himself, “You don’t know the first thing about different.”

Data’s hands paused, “I am attempting to understand,” he said, his tone careful, a kind of carefulness that was learned, “When you drink, your emotional responses—”

“Stop.”

“—are inconsistent with your usual patterns of—”

“I told you to be quiet, didn’t I? Fuck, Data, shut up!”

The words hit sharper than the sound of glass slamming itself.

Data froze, hands still midair, then slowly withdrew them, lowering his gaze. He didn’t understand the silence that followed, but he accepted it as he always did. Riker pushed Data off of him, throwing him flat into the mattress with more force than either of them realized was building up. The sudden distance between them felt enormous.

Riker stood breathing heavily, the anger already draining from him, leaving only the dull ache that came after. He rubbed his face, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and regret as Data looked up at him, yellow eyes looking frantic at him, “Just… don’t,” he said finally, his voice breaking on the edge of quiet, “Don’t talk.”

Data said nothing. The sheet pooled around him as he sat there, motionless, his golden skin catching faint glints of distant light. Outside, another star passed; its glow sliding through the room like a blade of cold fire before fading back into black.

He crossed to the window, one hand braced on the frame. For a moment, he seemed small against the infinite dark beyond. Riker sank down again, not beside Data this time but apart, reaching for his glass as if it were something alive.

“Lights, ten percent,” he said. The computer obeyed, dimly illuminating the room in dull amber tones that only deepened the shadows.

The drink suddenly tasted stale now, flat and bitter, but Riker sipped it anyway. He stared into the glass as though it might show him something; his reflection, his regret, anything. He just couldn’t feel anything.

The silence stretched so thin it could’ve torn.

Data sat still on the edge of the bed, the sheet drawn around himself again for modesty, fingertips playing with the hem, his golden eyes fixed on Riker. There was no judgment there, no emotion to wound him with; only quiet observation.

That somehow made it worse.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Riker muttered, the words thick, low. He didn’t turn around, “Just… go.”

Data tilted his head slightly, as if to confirm he’d heard correctly, “You wish for me to leave?… You asked me to leave last night —“

Riker let out a humorless breath, half a laugh, half an exhale of letting rage slip, “Yeah,” he said, staring out the viewport again, “Get out. We’ve done enough pretending for one night.”

There was a pause, a long, hollow moment where the only sound was the hum of the ship. Then the mattress shifted as Data stood. The sheet fell away, whispering across pale skin and hitting the floor in soft bundles.

He moved with that same beautiful grace, each motion deliberate, precise. He gathered his uniform from the chair, slipping into it piece by piece, fabric against synthetic skin, the soft click of the combadge locking into place. When he turned, Riker was still sitting there, the blue robe hanging open, a half-empty glass in his hand, the stars moving endlessly behind him.

Data hesitated by the door, “Good night, Love,” he said quietly.

“Data,” the name came with a growl.

“Goodnight, Commander,” and the formality of it cut through the air like cold metal.

Riker didn’t answer. He drank again, slower this time, and the taste didn’t matter anymore.

The doors parted with a hiss, spilling a narrow band of bright corridor light into the room. It fell across Riker’s face; harsh, colorless, sterile, before fading again as the doors sealed shut behind Data.

Then the room was dark once more.

On the Enterprise, days didn’t really end; they simply dimmed and began again, marked only by the rotation of duty shifts and the quiet handovers between one weary watch and the next.

Riker had spent the evening in his chair beside the captain, half-listening to the hum of status reports, half-lost in the haze that had followed him since last night. The stars on the viewscreen glided past, indifferent as ever, streaks of light pulled thin across the velvet dark. A long shift with nothing of interest to speak of.

“Night shift will assume control in five minutes,” Worf announced, his deep voice echoing across the bridge. His report was curt, efficient; he didn’t notice the heaviness in Riker’s gaze or the silence that lingered between him and the officer at ops.

Data stood at his station, posture immaculate, eyes fixed on the console’s glow. His hands moved with mechanical precision, inputting final coordinates, reviewing the night logs. His voice, when he spoke, was even and polite as ever, efficient and mechanical, “All systems functioning within normal parameters, Commander.”

“Good,” Riker said, his voice low, and so tired, “Stand by for shift change.”

The bridge lights had already begun to dim into their evening cycle; soft amber replacing the sterile white, the tone of a ship settling into its quiet hours. Crew members filed out one by one, trading nods and brief murmurs as they left their stations.

The air felt thinner somehow, emptier.

At last, only Worf remained, standing near the turbolift doors. He gave Riker a firm nod, “I will see you on the morning shift, Commander.”

Riker returned the gesture with a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes,“Get some rest, Lieutenant.”

When the turbolift closed behind him, silence fell again. Only two figures remained on the bridge.

Riker in the captain’s chair, slouched slightly, eyes on the fading starlines. Data at ops, standing as still as a statue, his face unreadable in the low light. Riker stood slowly, his shadow stretching long across the floor as he crossed toward ops. Each footfall echoed, deliberate, unhurried, like a predator closing in on something that wouldn’t run. Data didn’t move. He simply turned his head slightly as Riker came closer, his posture still, hands resting at his sides.

When Riker stopped, he was far too close; close enough that the faint hum of Data’s internal systems met the rhythm of his own uneven breath. He glanced toward the doors; the turbolift remained still, silent.

Then he reached out.

His fingers brushed against Data’s hand first, hesitantly, as though testing whether the Android would allow it. The touch lingered, uncertain but real. Then his other hand rose, cupping Data’s face, his palm resting against that strange, perfect warmth of gold-painted skin.

“I shouldn’t have…” Riker’s voice was low, somewhere between genuine and putting on a show, “Last night, I shouldn’t have done that.”

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence was deep enough to feel like gravity.

When Riker leaned forward, it wasn’t with the force of command, but something gentler, something almost afraid. The contact that followed was soft; his forehead resting briefly against Data’s, a gesture of apology more than anything else.

Data didn’t speak. His eyes closed automatically, though he didn’t know why; he was programmed for comfort, but not his own, but something in this closeness felt like it could have been.

To Riker, it felt like forgiveness.

To Data, it felt like purpose.

Even without emotion, Data understood what this meant. He’d felt it before, this quiet human softness that defied analysis. The way Riker’s voice softened when he said his name. The way this kind of closeness felt as if it erased the galaxy entirely.

When Riker finally drew back, his expression was unreadable, half amusement, half regret, “You deserved better than that,” he said.

Data simply looked at him, the faint reflection of stars caught in his eyes, “I do not require forgiveness, Commander,” he said softly, “You may do with me as you please.”

Riker’s thumb traced the edge of Data’s jaw, slow and deliberate, a motion so gentle it almost didn’t belong to him. The light from the stars caught on the curve of his hand, on the faint gold of synthetic skin beneath it, “…And I will,” Riker said, his voice a low possessive excitement, “Tonight.” His touch lingered a moment longer before sliding to the side of Data’s neck.

Data leaned into it with that soft, human mimicry he’d had somewhere inside him; eyes fluttering closed, head tilting slightly toward the warmth. He didn’t breathe, didn’t have to, but somehow Riker felt the ghost of it anyway. For Data, the touch was everything: connection, purpose, completion, true love.

Riker knew it.

He could feel it in the way Data stilled beneath his hand, as though afraid to move and end it.

“You know I love you,” Riker said.

The words seemed to hang in the air between them, fragile as light.

Data’s eyes opened, bright and childlike, an eager nod breaking through the quiet, “Yes, Commander,” he said quickly, the faintest smile flickering across his face, “and I you,” he couldn’t feel it, but that hadn’t meant he wasn’t sure of it. He had enough equations to figure that he was in love. He looked almost radiant in that moment; lit from within, as though those words alone had repaired something unseen inside him. Riker could see it, could feel it.

Then the moment shifted, the moment reality seemed to become fully aware of duty and not personal endeavors. The awareness returned, the programmed duty in Data, the sense of order that governed everything about him.

Data hesitated, his gaze lowering, “I… have bridge duty tonight,” he said carefully, as if he were afraid the words might undo what had just been said. He took a half-step back, the movement precise, almost apologetic.

Riker’s hand fell away, the warmth gone as soon as it left, “Yeah,” Riker grumbled after a long pause, eyes dark beneath the soft glow of the console lights, “Of course you do.”

Data straightened, his composure returning, though something flickered in his eyes, a tiny hesitation, a pulse of something almost human that he couldn’t name.

Riker lingered by the captain’s chair for a long moment, the echo of his own words still burning faintly in the air. The bridge lights had dimmed further, only the soft blue of the consoles and the slow pulse of the stars lighting the room.

He began to pace, a slow, restless stride that carried him from the viewscreen to the rear stations and back again. His reflection passed again and again in the dark glass of the viewport, fractured by the streaking stars. The thought had been brewing for weeks, festering in the back of his mind since long before last night. He’d buried it under duty reports and mission briefings, in the back of his hand against Dara’s face, but now, with only the two of them left here in the quiet hum of space, it rose to the surface like something inevitable.

He stopped behind Data’s station. The android was seated again, hands gliding over the console with the unthinking precision of a being that never tired, never faltered. His focus was absolute, his expression serene; so sure, so unburdened. Content with being surrounded by the man he thought he loved and the simple tasks of work. It made something twist in Riker’s chest.

“I think we should talk,” Riker said, his voice low, like he wasn’t initially sure if he should speak his mind, and then it came strong and confident in its typical manner, “About your position with Starfleet.”

Data turned at once, head tilting slightly in that habitual, almost innocent way he had, “My position?” his tone held no fear, only that quiet curiosity, “What do you mean?”

Riker met his gaze for a moment before looking away, “I mean your future. Your… role here. On this ship. With the Enterprise. With me.”

Data blinked once, eyes wide and unguarded in the low light, “I do not understand. My performance evaluations have been satisfactory. I have fulfilled all assigned duties—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Riker interrupted, louder this time. He rubbed a hand over his face and sighed, “It’s not about performance. It’s about… boundaries.”

The word hung there, heavy and strange.

Data’s brow furrowed slightly, a near-human gesture of confusion, “Boundaries?”

Riker nodded, “Between us. Between command and crew and family.”

Data looked at him, searching his face, trying to calculate meaning from what wasn’t said, “You believe that I have overstepped,” he said at last, not accusingly but with a kind of solemn curiosity, like a scientist identifying the flaw in an experiment.

Riker exhaled through his nose, tired, “I think maybe we both have.”

Data didn’t answer. His gaze drifted toward the stars, the reflections glimmering faintly in his eyes like distant thoughts. When he finally spoke again, his voice was calm, but softer than usual, “I am… uncertain what you intend to change.”

Riker didn’t respond right away. His fingers drummed against Data’s station, the rhythm out of sync with the hum of the ship. His eyes looked far away; beyond the bridge, beyond the stars, toward something that had no name but carried the weight of potential regret, “Maybe everything,” he said at last.

Riker stood there, silent. His eyes moved over Data slowly; not in admiration, not desire this time, but with the weary scrutiny of a man trying to decide what he’s about to lose or gain. There was affection there, yes, buried deep, but under it ran something colder.He exhaled through his nose, shoulders tense beneath the folds of his uniform.

Then Data broke the silence.

“I promise I will make the wait worth it,” he said, with the smallest hint of a smile, soft, practiced, human. There was something nearly playful in his tone, an attempt at charm, at lightness, the way he’d heard others do, “I can be patient for you, Commander.”

It was meant to sound teasing, but it didn’t land that way.

Riker’s expression hardened. His jaw flexed, and for a moment, his eyes flashed, not with anger at Data, but at himself, at the corner he’d backed them both into, “I’m not asking for that,” he said curt and abrupt. His voice low and controlled, the words seemed to hang there, too loud for the quiet bridge.

Data blinked, the faint smile slipping from his face. His head tilted, confusion flickering in the small movements of his brows and mouth, “I… do not understand,” he said carefully, “You appeared to suggest—”

“You don’t know what I suggested.” Riker’s voice growled halfway through the sentence. He turned his back to the android, one hand braced on the railing. The muscles in his shoulders shifted under the fabric of his uniform, “That was the mistake.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before, the kind that couldn’t be filled by words.

Riker began to move again, slow and restless, pacing the bridge in the same wide, deliberate strides. He felt like he couldn’t think without moving, couldn’t breathe without pacing. Couldn’t deal with everything happening so fast. His footsteps echoed against the deck, the sound measured but uneven; the rhythm of a man thinking too hard and feeling too much and feeling too little all at once. Data watched him in silence beside the stars, a thousand indifferent witnesses.

He circled the upper railing once, twice, before finally stopping in front of the ops console once more, squarely in Data’s line of sight this time. Data sat perfectly still, hands folded neatly in his lap now, focused in quiet attention. The faint light from the instruments gleamed along his golden skin, making him look almost ethereal, almost untouchable.

Riker looked at him for a long moment. It had only been a few days ago. The ambassador from Arcturus V; all easy smiles, all charm, all that unshakable confidence that came so naturally to men of royalty who always got what they wanted. The kind of person who could disarm a room without trying. He’d been magnetic, the kind of presence that could draw gravity itself toward him.

Riker had watched it happen, quietly, helplessly, diplomatically, the way Troi’s laughter came a little easier, the way Beverly’s posture softened, and the way Data… had seemed fascinated.

That was what burned the most.

He could still see the way Data had watched the ambassador; head tilted in that curious, open way of his, eyes bright with something like wonder. The way he’d listened too closely, lingered too long in conversation. The way his fingers moved like they wanted to dance on his skin.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

Riker had felt it then when Data leaned a little too close, told himself it shouldn’t have mattered, repeated it until he couldn’t make sense of the words anymore, repeated it until the words looked wrong in his head. He didn’t love Data; never had, loved the sex, maybe, but there was that ugly pull in his chest, the jealousy he’d thought he’d long since outgrown as a rational adult man.

When that night came, when he’d gone to Data’s quarters under the pretense of needing to talk, of needing clarity… it hadn’t been clarity he brought with him. The ambassador had just been leaving. It had been anger that arrived alongside Riker’s appearance and the other man’s exit. Confusion.

Something like possession. In all the ways of the word.

He’d said too much, done worse, words thrown like knives, silence heavier than the things he’d refused to say, put his hands on him until he was only fracturing his own knuckles and hurting his own skin. Afterward, when the anger had burned itself out, when the quiet had returned and he’d looked for the usual unflinching forgiveness; it hadn’t been there.

Data had looked at him differently.

Not with resentment, not even hurt. Just… distance. A kind of thoughtful calculation that made Riker feel smaller than he’d ever felt in his life.

He thought about that now; the way that distance had lingered.

Riker exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck, “You know,” he said quietly, eyes still locked on Data, “that ambassador… he had everyone wrapped around his finger.” He gave a humorless half-laugh, “You too.”

Data blinked once, expression unreadable, like maybe he had regrets, but Riker doesn’t know how possible that is or isn’t, “He was… persuasive,” he said simply, carefully, “and his diplomatic credentials were impressive, and his rhetoric—”

“Yeah,” Riker interrupted, his tone too envious, too cut and dry, “I noticed…” The words hung there, flat and heavy.

He looked down at the deck, then back up at Data. The anger wasn’t real anymore, not toward him. It was just memory now, decaying and embarrassing, “I shouldn’t have let that get to me,” he said after a pause, quieter, “But it did. And when I came to you after—” he stopped himself. The rest didn’t need to be said.

The bridge was silent again.

Riker’s voice, when it came again, was somewhere between guilt and shame, frayed around the edges, “You didn’t forgive me right away,” he said.

Data’s gaze lingered on him for a long, unreadable moment, “I did not wish to withhold forgiveness,” he said softly, truthfully, “I merely… required time to process what occurred.”

Riker nodded faintly, eyes distant.

It wasn’t a secret that the ambassador had wanted Data to leave with him.

The man had made his intentions plain in the easy way of those who are used to being adored. It also helped that he had the sort of face that belonged to another century; sharp angles, handsome, all black hair and blue eyes like polished sea-glass. Even his smile looked like it had been stolen from one of those old Earth films Data loved so much, the black-and-white romances where devotion was painted in shadows and cigarette smoke. If Data had a pulse, it would have stopped him dead at the sight.

Data, for all his precision and reason, had been drawn in. Riker had seen it; the way Data had watched the ambassador, the way his curiosity had softened into something in awe, something too human. It had frightened Riker more than he’d admit.

The offer had been real.

A post, a partnership, the promise of discovery on another world. For a brief moment, Data had wanted it. Wanted him. Riker could see it in every measured pause, every too-careful word.

Then, in the end, Data had stayed.
Riker said it was because Data loved him; which he knows is true, emotions or not. It’s all there. It’s all obvious, it’s all… too perfect.
Picard, most likely, played the biggest hand in Data staying, had dictated loyalty, and loyalty, for Data, always won.

Riker had told himself to be grateful, but gratitude tasted bitter.

The night after the ambassador left, Data went to Riker’s quarters.

He didn’t knock twice, didn’t speak first. He just stood there in the doorway, pale and artificial under the low lights, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was expected or commanded. There was a stillness about him, a kind of mechanical grace that had nothing to do with peace.

When he finally stepped forward, it wasn’t as a person, not even as an android. It was as something else entirely; an object that belonged to the ship more than to himself. Not crew, not equipment, but something suspended between the two, like a tool handed from one tired hand to another.

A paperclip, a piece of tape, a convenience.

He offered himself that way. Wordless. Detached. A gesture of service rather than choice.

It hadn’t been passion.

It had been penance.

When it was over, Riker had felt no satisfaction, only the hollow ache of knowing he’d been given a thing meant to soothe a wound neither of them could name.

Data had processed all that life might have been with someone like the ambassador; someone who saw him as new, fascinating, even beautiful, the way Riker had at first, and when that vision died, what remained was this.

A gesture of surrender.

A quiet collapse.

Knowing what he had now was as good as it could ever get. Knowing things would end up the Exact. Same. Way.

Kneeling on the floor of Riker’s quarters, head bowed, still and silent, Data hadn’t looked like a lover. He’d looked like a man trying to repent for wanting to be more than he was built to be.

Riker knows now that the difference between his open palm against Data’s artificial skin and any real touch was meaning.

Data hadn’t come to him out of longing.

He had come expecting punishment.

Somewhere in that vast lattice of code, Riker thought, there must have been a spark of recognition; an understanding that he had done something wrong. That his fascination with the ambassador, with the easy charm and human warmth he’d never quite mastered, and never quite got from his commander he swore he loved, had crossed some terrible line.

Riker had seen it in his eyes that night. Not fear, but remorse from an object. A kind of awareness. As if Data had been running a thousand silent calculations and each one returned the same result: that love was the one equation he would never solve.

He couldn’t truly feel it, but he understood its shape. He knew what it looked like, how it moved, how it spoke. He knew he loved Riker. He knew he felt something for the ambassador that desired him in turn. In recognizing it, in knowing what he could never reach, he had turned to Riker not to seek comfort, but to accept his sentence.

Love was the ultimate humanity.

The one thing that couldn’t be programmed, only lived.

Data, so desperate to belong, to qualify, for someone, anyone, had thought that wanting it from someone who wasn’t Riker, who’d he swore was ‘the one,’ was a flaw to be corrected.

So he’d gone to the only man who could remind him of his place.

Riker had not corrected him.

He had only reinforced the lesson.

Now, staring across the bridge at him, Riker feels something close to nausea, he knows that what he mistook for devotion had really been Data’s confusion, his quiet attempt to atone for a feeling that was never supposed to exist.

Riker knows now that he could lose him.

It strikes him like a cold ripple through the chest; a thought too human, too familiar. The idea that Data, so constant, so endlessly loyal, could be wanted by someone else. That he could be seen as more than the sum of circuits and commands.

That he could be taken.

The ambassador had shown him that. Shown everyone.

Now, when Riker looks at Data, he sees it; the quiet confidence, the strange, unassuming grace. He sees what others might notice too. The possibility. The potential for desire. For attachment. The things he first saw when he first felt the pull towards the android, the desire to have him in his arms, in his bed.

Now it shakes him.

He’d never thought of Data as something he could lose because he’d never truly considered him free. Now that fleeting brush with someone else had changed everything. It meant that somewhere, somehow, Data could want for more; could imagine something beyond the walls of duty and obedience and the bed of his commanding officer.

That he could imagine a life that didn’t orbit around Riker.

The thought hollowed him out. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was something older, uglier, the realization that what he’d mistaken for loyalty might have only ever been limitation.

If Data could grow beyond that, if he could learn what wanting really meant, then Riker might be left behind, nothing more than the shadow of the first man to make him feel small.

He sits there, the hum of the bridge stretching into silence. Data doesn’t turn to look at him. Doesn’t speak. Just continues his work, face neutral, eyes reflecting the soft glimmer of the stars.

Riker watches him and feels, for the first time, the unbearable weight of knowing that even perfection can leave.

“I want you to quit Starfleet,” he says again, as if it’s nothing, as if it’s a favour between friends, not a command.

Data blinks once, the faint whir of servos in his neck audible in the silence that follows, “I still do not understand,” he says, though there’s something behind it, something faintly resembling disbelief.

Riker leans back in his chair as he sits now, “You understand,” he says, and he almost sounds tired, like he shouldn’t have to explain, like dealing with the Android should get easier and easier, not harder, not any ounce of effort, “You just don’t like the answer.”

Data doesn’t respond. He stands for a moment longer, perfectly still, as if his mind is processing not words but intent, weighing tone, expression, the human mixture of affection and his own desire for possession. For someone to want him as much as he wants to be wanted. Then he moves, slow and deliberate, stepping with slow paces until he stands beside Riker’s chair.

“Commander,” Data says softly, “is this an order?”

Riker looks up at him, expression unreadable, “No.”

“But you are asking me to resign my commission.”

“I’m asking you,” Riker says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, “to stop pretending that Starfleet is all you are. You think they love you. They don’t. They study you. They keep you close because they don’t understand a machine that wants to be a man. You deserve more than that.”

The words sound almost kind. Almost.

Data offers a nod, like he’s piecing it together, “…And what would I be without Starfleet?”

Riker’s eyes flicker, something like love twisted by control, “Mine,” he says.

The word lingers between them, fragile, possessive, still inevitable.

Data does what he always does: he listens. He calculates. He understands.

“Yours?” Data repeats, the word small, almost dreamlike, like he’s testing its shape in the air. Like it’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he needs to feel human.

Riker doesn’t hesitate, “Us. Together.”

For a moment, it almost sounds simple. Like a solution to everything broken between them.

Data’s voice softens, quiet and uneasy, “…Wouldn’t people find out? About us?”

Riker looks up, there’s something in his eyes, something Data can’t really name, something human, maybe surprise, surprise that Data still thinks that matters after a new man wanted to whisk him away, “Does that bother you?” Riker asks.

Data looks away, just slightly. His head tilts, and his voice lowers to something almost fragile, “It bothers you…” he says. It isn’t accusation, only truth. The faint reflection of the stars shimmer in his eyes, but they don’t reach whatever passes for his heart, “I am fully aware,” Data says, after a moment, “that I am something to be embarrassed about. I am not something to be… shown. Not the pride of someone’s life. Just—” he pauses, the next words breaking slightly, caught on the limits of language, “Just something to be brought out when someone wants to show off a piece of innovative technology.”

Riker stares at him. He wants to say it isn’t true. That he isn’t ashamed. That it isn’t like that, but the words die before they reach his mouth, because both of them know better.

“You’d stay in my—our—quarters,” he says, calm and sure, “Wait for me to finish my shift. Busy yourself with more homely endeavors, your art, maybe. You wouldn’t have to interact with anyone.”

Something inside Data stirs.

It’s not rebellion. Not fear. It’s something bigger than fireworks, bigger than an explosion across the quadrant.

The thought pleases him.

To be wanted, not as an officer or a machine, but as something belonging; something so beloved in the small, quiet way of the women he’s seen in old television programs. June Cleaver in a pressed dress, waiting for her husband to come home. The kind of life where affection is routine, simple, and safe.

He imagines himself there, waiting in soft light, the sound of Riker’s footsteps in the corridor, the familiar warmth of his voice as he returns. He imagines being looked for.

Expected.

Loved.

A domestic fantasy built from static and memory, flickering behind his eyes. He smiles, too big and a little goofy and all cheer, “That would be… most agreeable,” he says, trying to remain neutral, and he means it.

“Glad t—“

The words are barely out of Riker’s mouth before Data moves toward him. It’s instinctive; or something close to it. He crosses the short distance between them and folds himself into Riker’s arms, all warmth and trust and unbridled joy.

For a moment, he is weightless.

He looks up at Riker, yellow eyes bright with something like wonder. There’s no calculation, no trace of logic. Only the pure, unguarded delight of being wanted.

He speaks softly, voice coloured by an almost childlike eagerness, “You mean it? A life together..?”

Riker nods, and that’s all the confirmation Data needs.

He leans closer, rests his head against Riker’s shoulder, and lets the fantasy take shape in the closeness between them; the gentle domesticity of it all. A shared space. A cat. The way humans look at one another when they say ‘welcome home.’

He doesn’t think of the bridge, or of duty, or the rank he’s fought so hard to earn. Not now. Not when the promise sounds so soft and human and whole, because this, this idea of an ‘us,’ of a ‘love and family’ this feels like everything he has ever longed for, almost understood.

He feels special.
Wonderful. Wanted.

Riker leans in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to Data’s temple, then pulls back just enough to meet those pale gold eyes, “So… you’ll tell Picard tomorrow?”

Data hesitates, the tilt of his head betraying the sudden storm behind his composed face. He stares at Riker, as though the words themselves have suddenly become too real, too immediate, too frightening, “Tomorrow, Will?”

“Is there… something wrong with that?” Riker’s voice is biting, the question pulled through his teeth, through the warm stillness they had been holding. His fingers curl slightly against Data’s arm, firm, commanding, a mark of impatience that would have left bruises on anyone else.

For a moment, Data says nothing. His eyes flicker away, then back, uncertainty shimmering in the faint reflection of starlight across his synthetic features. He stares down at his arm, looks at Riker the way anyone else would say ‘you’re hurting me,’ and says nothing.

Riker’s chest tightens. He feels the anger surge like a current beneath his ribs, sudden and corrosive.

‘Why was it so easy for him to run away with some ambassador from who-knows-where?’ Riker thinks, teeth gritted, ‘…And so hard to…’

His hands tighten involuntarily. The contrast strikes him, the ambassador, charming, distant, allowed to sweep Data into a new life effortlessly. Riker, had only asked for this. Just for a chance, and still Data faltered, hesitated.

“I asked for this!” Riker bursts out, the words louder than he intended, echoing off the darkened panels of the bridge, “I didn’t chase you. I didn’t have to argue or calculate or… or run numbers to make you see it!”

Data doesn’t respond immediately. Even without emotion, he registers the human fury radiating from Riker, and the frustration that has no algorithm to quiet it.

Riker exhales, running a hand through his hair. He swallows, frustrated with himself and with the android who makes him feel so infuriated, “Why is it so easy to go with someone else,” he mutters, “and so hard to just… be here when I ask?”

If Data were anyone else, he would have been terrified of the outburst. Most people would have flinched, stammered, or retreated entirely. But Data, with all his careful calculations and synthetic composure, only shuffles back slightly, just enough to create space between them. His voice is measured, calm, almost clinical, “I… I just wasn’t expecting to leave active duty so soon,” he says, attempting reason where emotion has failed, “It is a significant change to my daily routines and responsibilities.”

Riker’s eyes flash, and the calmness in Data’s tone only fuels the storm inside him. Every syllable, every measured pause, seems to mock him, or maybe it’s just the reminder that Data doesn’t feel the way he expects him to.

“Not expecting?” Riker snaps, hands clenching at his sides, jaw tight, teeth clacking together, “You understand what I’m asking, and still you hesitate?! After everything?!” His voice rises, the sound rough and untempered, echoing against the bridge walls.

Data remains still. His eyes do not waver from Riker’s, but the faint light in them flickers; a hint that he senses the intensity of the fury directed at him, even if he cannot fully process it.

Riker stops abruptly, chest heaving, fist suddenly balled in Data’s uniform, gaze burning, “Do you have any idea how easy it was for someone else to sweep you off your feet, and how impossible it is to get you to just… be here for me?!”

Data doesn’t respond. He only tilts his head a fraction, as if considering the words, weighing the emotional calculus in a way no algorithm should be able to manage.

Riker exhales slowly, anger still coiled tight, a boiling thing under his skin, “You weren’t expecting to leave Starfleet? You weren’t expecting me to ask for you?” his voice drops lower, dangerous and trembling all at once, “You would have left for him. You wanted to. Do you know how that feels?”

Data stays quiet, but the small, imperceptible tension in his shoulders betrays the smallest crack in his perfect composure. Then it hits him, in a rush that logic can’t fully account for: William Riker wants him. Now. Tomorrow. Today. The thought pulses through him, intense and startling, like a signal breaking through static.

It’s everything he has studied, everything he has imagined in fragments of old films, in holodeck simulations, in dreams built from human longing he can only approximate. The quiet domesticity. The attention. The affection. The promise of being seen and wanted, not for duty, not for function, but simply because he exists… And yet.

Data understands, with a clarity that surprises him, that he is uncertain. He should be grateful. He should be thrilled. Riker is giving him exactly what he has always dreamed of: a life with him, removed from the endless obligations of Starfleet, waiting quietly in the quarters with a meal prepared, with conversation, with the possibility of love and comfort.

It is a life imagined countless times, analyzed, broken down into its variables and probabilities, and still… he is unready, because to accept it is to step beyond the familiar safety of routine, to step out of the life he has known, to abandon the structure that has defined him.

Even in its perfection, even in its inevitability, it is frightening.

He glances at Riker; standing there, impatient and furious, yet soft in the quiet moments between outbursts, and realizes that this is the threshold.

One step forward, and there is no going back.

Data’s mind races, calculating the costs, the changes, the consequences, yet beneath the logic, beneath the measured probabilities, there is something else, an almost imperceptible tug of desire. The longing to belong, to be wanted, to exist wholly in someone else’s orbit.

It is a dream finally handed to him.

Still, he hesitates.

Riker steps forward, a coiled storm behind his eyes, the force of his intent palpable in the air between them. Every muscle in his body seems ready to act on impulse, to take what he wants before the weight of hesitation can settle in, his fist leaves Data’s collar and pulls back.

The soft hiss of the lift doors opening cuts through the tension.

A young crewman steps out, pausing mid-step as his gaze falls on them. For a heartbeat, the world stops. The raw, dangerous intensity between Riker and Data hangs like a live wire.

Riker freezes, then exhales sharply through his nose. The storm vanishes from his eyes as quickly as it arrived. He straightens his uniform, smooths his expression, and turns toward the junior crewman with the effortless ease of command, “Ah, Lieutenant,” he says, voice calm, friendly, entirely ordinary, “Good to see you.”

Data mirrors him perfectly, nodding in polite acknowledgement, his posture impeccably neutral. No flicker of tension remains visible, only the soft glow of the bridge lights on his golden skin.

The crewman hesitates, uncertain, before giving a quick nod and begins moving on to their station.

Riker watches him go, then exhales again, slower this time, and lets the rigid mask slip just slightly. His jaw sets as he turns back to Data. The weight that had been coiled in the air does not fully leave, only condenses, invisible but undeniable.

Data, standing perfectly still, senses it too. Not the storm itself, he can’t feel that, but the echo of it. The shadow left behind by something unspoken, something dangerous, something human.

Riker finally lets himself lean back against the railing, silent, every nerve still humming.

Data remains perfectly still, standing as he always does, yet internally he traces the almost imperceptible currents of the moment. Every microgesture, every shadow in Riker’s expression, is recorded, analyzed, cataloged.

He knows what he has just witnessed. Knows, with a certainty that no human could ever match, that Riker would have struck him, perhaps harder than he can comprehend, had the lift not intervened with an innocent crew member.

It is not malice that fuels Riker’s outburst. Data recognizes it as frustration, desire, and fear of loss, maybe, a tangle of emotions he cannot fully feel but can approximate through observation.

Data wishes he could tell Riker that. Wishes he could articulate it in terms that would be understood, that would bridge the gap between human chaos and android reason. Wishes he could explain that he does not resist intentionally, that every hesitation is not a denial, but a reflection of thought, of processing, of care for both of them.

Data looks at Riker, and then down at his own feet. The faint glint of starlight on the deck reflects off the polished surfaces of his shoes, catching the smallest details of his posture; tense, hesitant, measured.

He knows, with cold certainty, that he has been frustrating.

That he does not act in ways humans expect, does not react with warmth or instinct, and yet remains entirely aware of the consequences.

It is the reason others have left him before.

The reason people cannot stay.

The reason the ambassador would have eventually given up on him, too.

Yet, here is Riker; still standing, still speaking, still trying.

Still giving him a chance.

He should be grateful.

He knows he should.

He is lucky.

He keeps his gaze lowered, not out of shame, exactly, but out of awareness, a silent acknowledgment that he has so often been untouchable, and that Riker’s persistence is a gift he is not yet fully prepared to accept.

Yet, in that quiet pause, something shifts. A small, imperceptible tension in his shoulders eases. Just a fraction; even if he is unready, even if he cannot yet express it properly, he feels it: the rare, fragile certainty that someone has not given up on him.

Someone wants him.

Data smiles softly, almost imperceptibly, a small curve of expression that carries more meaning than words ever could.

Slowly, deliberately, he unpins his comm badge and the rank pips from his uniform. The metallic glint catches the faint starlight, the cold silver and gold is warm only in Riker’s hand.

He extends them toward his love, and for a heartbeat, time stretches. The gesture is simple, militant even, yet the significance is impossible to overstate.

It is not a request.

Not a suggestion.

It is a surrender of structure, of duty, of identity as he has known it.

He is offering himself in a way no Starfleet protocol could encompass.

Riker takes the pieces, fingers brushing Data’s, feeling the coolness of them. His chest tightens. Anger, desire, and something close to awe mingle.

In that quiet exchange, in the glint of pins held between them, in the fragile acknowledgment of choice, the bridge feels smaller, the stars outside brighter, and the space between them narrowed to something that might be enough.

“I’ll get my cat,” Data says softly, and Riker thinks he can hear the smallest flicker of happiness threading through his regular, calm tone. It is an almost human gesture, the cat, living together, Spot simply a tether to ordinary life, to small comforts that remain even as everything else changes.

This is the last time Data will walk these corridors as a lieutenant commander, the last time he will move among the crew who depend on him and respect him in equal measure.

He moves with quiet certainty, unhesitating, as if the path beyond the bridge is the only logical step left.