Disclaimer: Star Trek: the Next Generation and Lt. Commander Data belong to Paramount. Zoe and her family belong to me. Fanfic is written for love, not money; no infringement is intended.

FONDEST IMAGININGS

San Francisco, Earth. Spring, 2372.

The first time I met Data in the corridor of the ship, we had an inane conversation that left the image of his pale face and yellow eyes burned into my brain, and the sound of his voice echoing in my ears. I was twelve, then - almost thirteen - and it had been my first visit to the Enterprise. The only other memory I have of that time was that of the engineering staff indulging a young girl's whim: I had ridden the lift up and down for hours.

Even that long ago, however, even when I was that young, I knew there was something between us. When I returned to the ship to live with my mother two years later, my crush was fully formed, and while I'd have denied it had anyone bothered to confront me, I knew deep down that we were meant to be. I mean, he tends to babble, and I like to listen to him talk.

There were rules in place, though, even if they were unwritten ones. He was my mother's superior officer, and my math tutor. I could perform with him in shipboard plays, and he could ensure that I passed his advanced mathematics tutorial and aced music theory, and while I did sometimes dance with him at shipboard social events, and had a habit of tracking him down for tea and confidences as I got older, there was no question of actually dating. Even if I'd been of age, he probably wouldn't have asked me to dinner. Anyway, he didn't eat.

So, I dated boys my own age, and later men my own age, or a little older. And I kept telling everyone that growing up on a starship did not necessarily mean I was headed for a career on one.

I mean, I'd always known that I didn't really belong in space. Or at least, not on a Starfleet ship.

My father was a celebrity composer and conductor, and I'd inherited his artistic personality, so when so when a theatrical troupe traveled aboard the ship, and agreed to hold a master class for theater buffs and the older students in the ship's school, I jumped at the chance, made a pest of myself, and eventually asked for an audition. I was invited to join their summer tour, but I never expected to be invited to apprentice with them. Still, I completed my last year of compulsory education while touring the galaxy as resident ingénue, and then surprised everyone by going to one of Earth's most hallowed universities and following an interdisciplinary course of study focused on performance and social justice.

Ten years after Data and I had first met, my mother was no longer a member of the Enterprise's science department, or even assigned to a ship at all, but was a full commander teaching cultural geography at Starfleet Academy. She'd also married again, and was living in a house that had apparently been in our family for generations, one of those old San Francisco painted ladies with big bay windows, and dimensions that always seem bigger on the inside.

There must have been some special magic embedded in the bulkheads and deck plates of the Enterprise, though, because even people who were never part of the senior staff still retained some indefinable bond. My mother's connection to her former shipmates was made stronger by the fact that my stepfather, Edouard Benoit, known interchangeably as both "Ben" and "Ed," (I wasn't yet sure which I preferred) had been a school chum of Captain Picard's, but even without that, her presence in Starfleet's home port would have meant that whenever the ship was in orbit, or an alum was in town, they knocked at the door, and were treated like visiting family.

It was unsurprising, then, that Data would show up eventually. That he did so while I was in San Francisco on a semester-long externship with a local theater company during my senior year of university was no mere coincidence. It also wasn't just a whim of scheduling luck (he was overseeing the launch preparation for the newly commissioned Enterprise-E). It was destiny.

"I have been following your academic career," he told me at one of my mother's dinner parties. The food had long since been consumed, and everyone had broken up into small conversation groups. "You have much to be proud about."

"I had a good teacher," I responded. "He insisted I learn the math behind the music, even when I didn't want to, and his lines were always book-perfect." I raised my gaze to meet his, and willed him to figure out that I was being truthful, despite the fact that I was also flirting.

His yellow eyes flicked back and forth as he searched for a reply. I saw him swallow reflexively, and wondered when he'd adopted that behavior. "Even the best teacher can only help a student find their own talent," he said. And now I was wondering when he'd learned to flirt back. "I regret that I have never seen you perform professionally."

"The new show doesn't officially open until after the Enterprise breaks orbit," I said. "But there's an invited dress rehearsal on Tuesday. Would you like to come?"

His answer was a simple, "Yes."

There was an electrical pop from elsewhere in the house, and then there was music. My mother loved to dance, and my stepfather loved to indulge her, with the end result being that these dinners always dissolved into dance parties. It was my turn for a reflexive swallow. "Data," I asked, "would you dance with me?"

He drew me into his arms with the confidence of an experienced dancer. I remembered watching him dance at a shipboard wedding, remembered the fake smile that had been plastered to his face as he guided the bride through the patterns of a formal waltz. I had looked away for a moment, and now I looked back, and noted that the smile he wore tonight was much more… natural? Organic? I couldn't find the right word. Not fake, anyway.

"I've missed this," I confessed. "You always make me look good on the dance floor."

I was pleasantly surprised to hear him chuckle at that. "I no longer have to count the steps for you," he observed." We moved together a bit longer, and when he spoke again, his voice was softer, more serious. "Zoe," he said, "you are no longer my student."

"Nope," I agreed. "Haven't been for years."

"Nor is your mother under my command."

"This is true." I took a breath then made my confession. "It's also true that I've wanted to do more than dance with you since I was sixteen years old."

His steps faltered, and I wondered if I'd misread him, after all.

"I'm sorry," I said. I started to pull away, but he stood firm, and didn't allow it.

"Do not be. I do not object."

"Did you know?"

"Not until after you left the ship," he answered. "When I did realize that I was the object of your 'crush,' I was flattered. I am still. I am also intrigued. Your theatrical biography mentions my name."

"Guilty," I said. "You were - you are - important to me, and not just because you designed a music theory course just for me." I wanted to say more, but the song changed to something that was likely more appealing to my generation than my mother's. I noticed a couple of my stepfather's students dancing to the faster beat. He was a journalism professor at Berkeley, and often had a few favorite students hovering around the house. "I'm guessing this kind of music still isn't your style," I said. We had often debated the merits of different musical styles, and he was staunchly in the dance-tunes-and-classical camp.

"I am afraid not."

"Come with me." I led him down through the kitchen and up the back stairs to the third floor, which I had claimed as my space. "My externship includes a housing allowance, provided by the producers of the show," I explained. "But most of the time I stay here. You can come in." My room, which had probably been servants' quarters centuries ago, was almost a loft and even had a small kitchenette. I closed the door, and the party noises vanished. "It's easier to talk when you can actually do so without screaming."

"Are Commander Harris's gatherings always so exuberant?"

"Some are, some aren't. Ben's students are younger than most of you Starfleet types. And a bit looser, I guess. He used to try and set me up with his grad students, but he finally gave up. I settled into a corner of my couch, kicking my shoes off. "Join me if you want," I invited. "I was dating a musician for a while," I continued after he sat. "It was nice at first, but then it fell apart."

"What happened?"

"I realized I'd been measuring him – measuring every guy I've been with – against someone who was incomparable."

"I do not understand." He was staring at me, waiting patiently to be enlightened.

"There was a time when you would have known all the details, whether you wanted to or not," I said. "But basically, he was a few years older than I am, and asked me to marry him, and I realized that even though we could have made a pretty interesting life together, he had one serious flaw."

"What was that?"

"He wasn't you." I waited to see if he had a response, but he was silent, letting me speak. "You were my teacher, my friend, and my confidante. We spent so much time together... and everyone kept saying we had a special connection. Comparing everyone to you was…inevitable." I stopped talking, letting the silence stretch between us again. "I know that's an awful lot to dump on you, but you're here, and I didn't want to waste the opportunity. If you want to go now, I understand."

"I do not." And I knew he was being truthful, not just because of the whole androids-don't-lie thing, but because he recaptured my hand, and ran his thumb along the base of my palm, and when I leaned forward in response, our lips met.

We'd kissed before - on stage, and chaste presses to the cheek - but kissing Data properly was everything I'd always imagined.

And being kissed by Data? That was even better.

Author's Note: Zoe is a character who's been noodling around my brain for years, though I've never posted any fic with Data as more than a cameo character. I recognize that my interpretation of Data is nothing like that of one of my favorite storytellers, Javanyet, but the beauty of fanfic is that every interpretation is equally valid. EDIT: 11 November 2010 - I've revised this to make it more consistent with the pre-quel, CRUSH, currently in (slow) progress. EDIT: 12 November 2014 - revised again, because when I wrote it, it was a one off, and I was never terribly specific about when it was.