Chapter 6

Data lay neatly supine in the dark, his positronic brain processing the day's events, his inhuman eyes watching the heat patterns made by Picard as he slept. He could see his Captain like a rainbow, red and yellow and blue and green, losing and retaining heat, an almost-abstract collage of shifting shape and colour. He was aware of his even breathing and, if he increased the sensitivity of his aural receptors, he could hear the blood moving through the other man's veins, hear the life itself as it rushed ceaselessly through the other's body. To be so uniquely close was a strange comfort, but Data was curious – and sad – to discover that it was also very lonely.

Quietly reviewing what had happened between them during the past twenty-four hours, he found himself faced with some startling facts. He backtracked to that conversation, shying away from it instinctively, but knowing that he had to face it if he was ever to twist the sting out of its tail. After a moment, he realised he had to go back to the beginning: to their first encounter aboard his Enterprise. Only in the context of events there would later actions make sense. If, he thought, human actions ever did. At least he had an advantage over most humans: he could, partially or completely, deactivate his emotion chip and analyse problems dispassionately.

This particular problem was, he realised as he examined the information at his disposal, that much of the data to be processed was simply inconsistent. He was used to dealing with normal human contradictions, some of which his companions would not even have noticed, but these were beyond normal: these appeared to be the result of deliberate deception. For the purposes of this exercise, he dismissed that notion: his Captain would not, under normal circumstances, deceive him. Not that these were normal circumstances… But, assuming that there was one, what was the explanation for Picard's erratic behaviour?

To have kissed him as he had, and then rejected him out of hand; to have avoided him for days and then asked him here; to have almost run away from him when they arrived and then made such a point of touching him – although he had not reacted, Data had been acutely aware of every cell in the Captain's body as it hovered so near his own – and afterwards bolted from the room and virtually ignored him for the rest of the evening: these were not the actions of rationality. What could cause someone to behave in such a way – someone who was normally so organised and clear-thinking?

He realised that he was making a large assumption: that there was a hidden consistency behind the behaviour, when in fact there might be none. But he had to start somewhere, and to accept even as a hypothesis that his Captain was genuinely irrational was simply not appropriate. He smiled to himself, recognising the flaw in his own reasoning, and consciously set it aside.

His eyes settled on the moving pattern next to him. Its colours swirled and merged: he made a mental note of their particular hues and relationships, and promised himself that, whatever the outcome of these few intense days, he would paint them. He realised that he had not painted for a very long time: with a shock, he calculated that he had painted nothing since his Captain's death. This impulse to create was the first he had had since that life-changing day aboard the Scimitar, and the fact surprised him. Did he need the physical proximity of the man he loved in order to paint? Did that make Picard his muse? His eyebrows twitched involuntarily: the thought would certainly entertain his Captain. If their relationship was ever repaired enough for him to share it. Oh, he missed Jean-Luc… Not only his old Jean-Luc – who had become a beautiful memory now – but this solid, flesh and bone Jean-Luc, lying two feet away in all his human openness and vulnerability, and what their relationship could have been. How strange, he thought, to miss something he had never had.

So, back to his current task: if there was an explanation for Picard's strange behaviour, what could it be? What caused human beings to behave apparently without reason? Deep emotions, he knew – fear, hatred – he felt he could dismiss those as probable causes. He must generalise more: what motives might be responsible? Deception was one, as he had already surmised – uncertainty was another. Unhappiness often caused erratic behaviour, as humans struggled to accept inevitable fate and failure, as did reacting to incomplete, shifting information. Which – if any – of these might apply to Picard?

He analysed each, and concluded that none provided a full explanation, but he would not let go of the conviction that there must one. He owed it to his Captain to find it.

What could cause Picard to act as he had? Something made a connection in his neural net, and he let it run, allowing it to develop, to fan out into other neurons so that they, too, could make connections. Picard's actions – that was the word – Picard's acting! Not behaviour, not motivation, but acting. Picard was playing a part, a part he did not believe in, and that split between the inner and the outer man could surely lead to apparently irrational behaviour… Like a lantern swinging in the dark, whose illumination comes and goes without apparent reason, only when the observer hears the wind and sees the bushes obscuring the light does he understand that erratic blinking and winking – only then does it make sense.

Excited, he applied his new hypothesis to Picard's actions of the past few weeks: if he was feeling one way and acting another, it would certainly explain his recent behaviour. Fighting not Data, but himself – and not doing it very well, from what Data could see. So what was it Picard was fighting? What might Data dare hope to imagine had been going on in Picard's head?

If the point of conflict was Data – and it certainly seemed to be – then it must be connected with their relationship, now and in both past universes. To take the simplest hypotheses first, either Picard disliked him and felt obliged to pretend an affection he did not feel, or – and Data felt his positronic firing rate almost triple as he thought of it – he loved him and felt obliged to pretend otherwise. The world shifted slightly and deliciously sideways. Picard loved him. Perhaps. Perhaps…

But why then would he behave as he had? Data struggled once again to think through the possibilities. If Picard loved him but did not want to admit to the feeling – why would that be? Surely not the fact that Data was male? Picard had never demonstrated any such prejudice towards any of his crew, and he had certainly shown none aboard Data's Enterprise. If it was that, then Data was confident of his ability to win his Captain over, though he felt a tiny runnel of disappointment at Picard's smallness of mind. Maybe there was another explanation: one better fitted to the man Data knew.

Why would Picard not wish to admit that he loved Data, even to Data himself? What could possibly make him behave in such a fashion?

Looking back on the process of analysis, Data was chagrined that it had taken him so long to reach the truth: once it had presented itself, it was so obvious that he could not imagine how he could have missed it. He almost laughed. Was he not behaving in exactly the same way himself? Had he not justified his behaviour – behaviour identical to that of Picard – while puzzling over his Captain's?

For someone with such powerful processing capacity, he thought, he had been astonishingly obtuse. Picard thought Data did not want him; Data thought Picard did not want him; and, like fighters a ring, they had been circling one another, both acting on incorrect input and longing for that input to change. He thought of Guinan's words: Men are such fools. He grimaced. We are indeed, he thought. We are indeed.

But he felt such elation at solving the problem that he was content to be called a fool for all eternity. Interestingly, he noticed that he had not had to deactivate his emotion chip at all, and was surprised. The distraction of feeling may well have compromised his processing abilities, but he suspected that the ability to empathise had also actively guided him to his conclusions. Yet again, he had been shown a facet of himself he had not been aware of: it was fortunate that he and humility were old friends.

Peace rushed through him, light and bright and sparkling, along with a deep, machine-based satisfaction that he had solved the mystery at last. He almost woke Picard at that very moment, but recognised that his friend would, like any human, need more time than an android to process all this information: it was, after all, only seventy-three seconds since he had begun his deliberations. He would have to tell him carefully, open his mind gently to a future of ecstasy. But when he did tell him – when they looked each other in the eyes for the first time as lovers… He watched Picard's gently-moving eyelids and imagined kissing them.

All he had to do was wait for an opportunity to lead his Captain out of the shadows and into the sunshine. Then he would take the chance that would change everything, and make them both happy.

* * *

Picard thought there had never been such a storm. The wind whipped and snapped around the runabout like vengeance, and handfuls of sand tore at the windows with ceaseless viciousness. There was no chance of seeing the sky, let alone judging its colour: the air was thick with tiny, malicious particles that would strip the flesh off a man in minutes, and he found himself grateful that the vehicle had been built to withstand the hostility of space. With the lights dimmed as they conserved energy, and the intermittent rattle of the onslaught outside, the little moon now seemed a very inhospitable place indeed.

He regretted the loss of a day's digging: tomorrow they were scheduled to return to the Enterprise, and he would have to leave his precious site to someone else's questing hands. Not that the place would be recognisable after this. He felt a pang: this was likely, with his luck, to be just the storm to expose that elusive temple he had read so much about. And now he would never get to see it…

He turned back to the voluptuously-shaped amphora he was painstakingly cleaning. Its wild beauty stunned him, with its variety of textures, extraordinary colours and patterns: he caught sight of a decoration near the rim, and the glimpse of those unique fingerprints from a loving, long-dead hand, brought tears to his eyes. Roughly, he wiped them away, not wanting Data to see them. He had no wish to indulge in anything emotional with Data right now: the emotion that coloured his whole life was too near the surface for that.

He was, of course, too late: nothing escaped Data's notice. When the android quietly offered him a tissue to wipe his eyes, he pushed it aside, shaking his head, but he touched Data's hand as he did so, and the contact thrilled through him like fire.

What Data did next was totally unexpected. Clearly finding his Captain's wet face unacceptable, he reached over the table and gently moved his fingers across Picard's cheek, sweeping up the tears as he did so. Picard felt the gentle warmth of the touch, the delicacy and tenderness behind it, and his mind sprang back to that other moment when he had performed a like service for his friend. A small whimper escaped him: the pain was almost unbearable.

"Data, please – "

"You cannot restore the artefact if you cannot see," Data pointed out.

"Don't, please – " He gulped a little, longing for the physical contact that he must pretend to reject. " – touch me," he finished in a whisper. He was so confused, so wretched, so alone…

"Captain," Data said, with a firmness in his voice that told Picard that his words were the result of a previously long and intense thought process. "I believe that we need to talk."

He swallowed and shook his head. "No…"

"Yes, sir. Our previous conversation regarding the events aboard my Enterprise was intended to clear the air. I do not believe it has done so. I am constantly aware of – something that stands between us. I – it may appear inappropriate of me to raise the matter, but I value our friendship sufficiently highly to risk your irritation. I believe we still have matters to discuss."

Still unsteady with emotion, Picard took a deep breath and consciously relaxed his chest muscles, regaining his self-control. He carefully laid down his brush, and focussed on his companion. The last thing he wanted was a repetition of that conversation which had destroyed all his fresh, green hopes so viciously and so very thoroughly. He didn't know if he could bear another disappointment: the scar tissue over his heart's wound was still thin and liable to tear under pressure.

He knew he had not been controlling his own actions as well as he should – he knew he had succumbed to the temptation to stand closer to Data than necessary, that he had touched his hand when such contact had been entirely avoidable, that he had watched him through lowered lids when he should have been working, just to soak up the beauty of the man. If Data was going to set him right, he certainly deserved it. But he had no doubt that, whatever he intended to say, the android would be gentle.

He put away the stab of pain that thought engendered, and replied in a flat, emotionless voice. "You may be right, Mr Data." He rose and walked to the replicator, still functioning despite the power reduction. "Tea, Earl Grey, hot. Twice." Carrying the tea to the table, he sat down next to Data – away from the artefacts, it was the only place to have a conversation, he told himself – and placed the drink in front of him, keeping hold of his own cup. It gave him something to do with his hands.

The silence stretched between them, taut and dangerous. Picard knew he should say something, but his mind was blank. In the heat of activity, he could cope with this – Data's nearness, his earnest intensity – but now, deprived of anything to do, he was lost. "Data – "

"Captain – "

They had spoken together, and Picard fervently wished himself elsewhere. "Mr Data. After you." The tension tasted like stiff, white cloth in his mouth.

"I was going to suggest that we set aside convention and be totally honest with each other." Picard's eyebrows would have disappeared into his hair, if he'd had any. "There may be painful things to be said, sir – awkward things – but my feelings for you…" he trailed off in a most unData-like way.

My feelings for you. Picard felt his heart flip in his chest, and found a small moment to marvel at how human the artificial organ felt. Was Data on the verge of expressing something – something he hardly dared hope for? He began breathing more quickly, and without thinking reached out a hand to cover Data's. "Data, don't be afraid…"

Data's obvious surprise was subtle and cruel, like a paper cut, and Picard snatched his hand back even before Data could reach out to remove it. He seemed to recover quickly, however, and when he spoke Picard imagined a coldness in his voice that had not been there before. "I am not afraid. I was merely going to suggest that you might be concerned that anything you say would damage our friendship, since the nature of words is that they may be neither recalled nor forgotten. However, I will undertake to erase all record of this discussion from my memory banks should you ask me to do so. I would not only forget what you have said, I would have no memory of you having said it. You may speak with impunity, Captain."

Automatically, Picard shook his head. "That would be unfair. I couldn't ask you to do that."

"You do not need to: I have offered."

The simple statement moved Picard to further tears: he felt their hot sting and blinked in shame. He noticed that, this time, Data made no move to wipe them away: he might not love his Captain, but his concern and sensitivity were unselfconsciously honest and true, and Picard was strangely humbled. He felt acutely uncomfortable: how could he even think of forcing this elusive, wonderful man into a place so alien to him? With a sudden rush of peace and sadness, he smiled. "I don't think we have anything to discuss, Mr Data. I've been – adjusting to your presence here, and not managing it very well, I'm afraid. If I've taken that out on you, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to – I've been confused, searching for something – "

"Captain."

" – that I hardly knew myself. It – wasn't quite as I'd expected, and I do like life to be well-ordered and tidy, you know that. The pleasure your return has given me – my happiness at your being here – I thought I could become more to you than – "

"Sir!"

" – and I suppose I just lost touch with reality for a while. Data, I will never cease to count myself blessed in your return – it's an irony, isn't it, to be eternally grateful to Q? I know I'm not your Jean-Luc, however much I might… But your kindness, your – gentleness – towards me – it gives me the strength to go on, to value every moment of you, to – "

"Jean-Luc!"

" – grab your friendship with both – what did you say?"

"I have been endeavouring to attract your attention, sir. I apologise for addressing you in such a manner, but you were not listening."

"No," Picard said quietly. "I guess I wasn't. I'm sorry."

"Captain. You have said enough. I understand." Data's eyes shone, but Picard did not see it. All he was conscious of were the words, their implied dismissal, the fact that he had given way at last to his feelings and let his tongue run away with him. He should have held his peace: could anyone have been a greater fool?

He bowed his head and vowed never to vex Data again.

Then something changed. The hand he stared at as it rested on the table was not his own: the fingers were longer, the fingernails more delicate and tapered, the skin more sallow and smooth. It was Data's hand, and his own was beneath it. He was bemused, hardly able to absorb the warmth, to understand the reason behind it. Bewildered, he raised his eyes to those of his companion, and finally saw the tears that mirrored his own. "Data?" he whispered.

"As I said," Data said softly, "I understand." He reached out his free hand and traced the contours of Picard's face as if seeing them for the first time. "You are astonishingly beautiful, Captain. I do not know why I never noticed it before."

Picard could find no words. The emotions that suffocated him with their insistent, overwhelming violence seemed to have removed his power of speech, and all he could do was turn his hand over beneath Data's, holding it fast as though he would never let it go. Joy surged through him like an avalanche. He wanted to scream.

"Nothing to say, Jean-Luc?" Picard heard the name, the subtle teasing in Data's voice, and thrilled to the knowledge of what they meant. What they promised.

Dropping his eyes fixed from those deep golden ones, Picard leaned in and kissed the inside of Data's wrist with a strange, slow reverence. He trailed his fingers around the fine-boned knuckles, caressing the length of each of Data's own fingers before lifting the hand to his face and kissing each finger tip in turn. He was shaking and light-headed with bliss.

Data loved him. After it all, Data loved him! Picard didn't know why, or how, or what had caused him suddenly to say so, and right then didn't care. Overwhelmed by happiness, he laughed and trembled and bit his lip in anticipation.

When words finally came, they were not what he expected, but they were perhaps as good as any to usher in the rest of his life. "You know, Mr Data, I've always loved your hands."

* * *

To be concluded in the separately-posted M-rated story 'A Dream before Dying: Epilogue'