#wish all my fic ideas came to me in neat little easily-wrapped-up vignettes

[july-19th-club]

i couldnt stop thinking about “the offspring” and also ive been thinking it could be kind of fun to write from deanna’s POV so here’s both of that

We’re all a little surprised to see him walk back into the game a month after the memorial. He’d been so quiet during it, and has been very withdrawn with most people for the past several weeks. Not so in our sessions; he veritably lets loose and says things I can sense he’s barely articulated to himself without a willing audience. But in public he’s been far more reserved, and only nods politely and changes the subject as soon as possible whenever she comes up.

“Surprised to see you,” says Worf, never one to avoid stating the obvious. “Sit.”

He does.

“You okay? You ready for this?” Will gives him one of those friendly brother-slaps on the shoulder. Data shrugs.

“I know,” I say, as a faint, jittery mote of - apprehension? - hits me. His sensations always come across more...mechanically, with a slight delay in my experiencing of them, and I’m wrong about what exactly they mean more often than I’d like to admit. It took me years of knowing him to even begin to find their fine tendrils in the psychical space, since my ability is mostly an act of biology and there’s nothing biological about him. Even now I’m not sure how much of my impressions, when it comes to Data, are actually telepathy or whether or not it’s all just basic cold reading. But they’re there, little sparks of this-unsettles-this-being and this-being-is-engagedinterestedfulfilled-by-the-task-at-hand and preoccupation-obscures-this-being’s-other-processes. Right now my strongest impression is this-being-is-suppressing-impatience, which I have to mentally sort through a filter of good old-fashioned psychology to fix to a source motivation. Given the circumstances, it’s a good bet that he doesn’t want anyone to make a big deal out of his finally being back to the poker table, but it’s too late for that and he wishes we’d just get on with the evening.

I lock eyes with him across the table, and he brings her up of his own volition, surprising me. “Thank you. I imagine that you would, Deanna, being the only other member of this party who has both had, and lost, a child.”

That he’s been thinking about me in this sense is touching. We don’t talk about me during session, of course, but it must come to mind for him whenever he enters my office. I am proud of his willingness to address the elephant in the room outside of counseling, though, so I take the conversational olive branch. “You had Lal for a good deal longer than I had Ian,” I admit. “This end of the grieving process is bound to be exponentially more painful.”

“Again, Counselor, I cannot grie-”

I hate cutting him off, but this is something he’s supposed to be working on. Supposed to being the operative phrase. He has such a knee-jerk reaction to it, and it’s been like pulling teeth to try and change that. I feel unpleasantly teacherish and scold-y, but I speak up as I told myself I would the next time he automatically shut down someone else’s emotional observation. “Data. Just because your mind and body do not interpret and process emotion in a human way does not mean the experiences you have do not affect you or the way you think and experience things afterwards. We talked about this.”

He’s contrite, clasps his hands in his lap and looks away from me, at the table. “Yes, we did.” Then he meets my eyes again. “But not here. This is not therapy, this is poker night.”

“Mmmm, same difference,” says Will, as he starts passing the drinks around.

I raise my gin to toast Data. “Damn right,” I say, “and tonight I’m going to crush you and your big brain.”

There’s a hint of ease in his shoulders. Powering down from work mode to casual mode, as I’ve come to think of it. “Highly improbable,” he says. “My brain is in here -” he taps his forehead - “surrounded by dense protective alloy.” Chuckles around the table, and you could almost miss it but I catch a tiny self-satisfied nod. He told me a couple weeks ago he was working on a ‘observational humor subroutine, which has a better chance of merging with my automatic reasoning processes.’ I have to say, it’s an improvement over all those men walking into bars.

“There he goes again, bragging about his thick skull,” says Geordi, as the door opens and he takes his seat. “Sorry I’m late, guys. You forgot this.” He hands Data his green sunshade, which I’d hardly realized he wasn’t wearing. I see their hands brush, the way Geordi leans closer. He’s positively radiating fondnesswarmthcomfortreliefwelcomereturntohabit and it brightens my mood just to be in the same room as it. “Good to have you back, by the way. I’m gonna squash you like a bug.”

“We will see,” Data says evenly, donning the green shade. He takes the offered cards, shuffles, offers them to Geordi to slap for luck, and deals. And the game begins again.