Fandom: Star Trek The Next Generation
Characters: Geordi LaForge / OFC
Prompt: #011 - Red
Word Count: 789
Rating: G
Summary: A weekly chat involves a favor. Chapter one of the Color Series: Color my World. This chapter takes place sometime before Home.
Notes: Written for the Livejournal FanFic 100. Star Trek: The Next Generation and Geordi LaForge are owned by Paramount. I'm just playing in their sandbox. This was written for the LiveJournal Fanfic 100 challenge. I chose a world I'm reasonably familiar with, and a character I've never explored. May continue to be Geordi/OFC (Kat) - may not. These is un-beta'd.

RED

"Kat, I need a favor." These are the words which begin my weekly com-chat with one Geordi LaForge, who's been my best friend since we were both ten years old.

"I'm not revealing my source on the Jotar dilithium smuggling story, even to you," I tell him, and mean it. "I mean, friendship goes a long way, but my career is important, even if I'm not gallivanting around the galaxy playing hero every other week." I'm half-teasing, half-serious, and just a little bitter that these weekly transmissions are the sum-total of our relationship, and have been for about ten years now.

"You know I'd never ask for a source," he assures. Then, because he really is one of the sweetest guys ever born, his tone softens. "Is it true you're in danger of being indicted?"

"You heard that, all the way out there?" I shouldn't be surprised. He keeps telling me that rumors travel faster than starships, but somehow it still rocks me that he knows.

"It's not common knowledge," he explains. "I just…heard it." The unspoken information is that he's been following my career, and if he weren't wearing a VISOR his expression would probably confirm it. As it is, it's enough to give me a moment's pause.

"So, you need a favor?" I ask, running my hands through my hair. I've hated my hair ever since I got too old to twist into braids every day, and I tend to play with it too often. I've been told it's one of my 'tells' – that I play with it more when I'm nervous – which is why I always stick it in a pony-tail before I play poker.

He hesitates, fiddles with something out of my line of sight, then looks straight at me, or rather, at the camera beaming his image to me. "The Enterprise is returning to Earth for a couple weeks. There's a conclave of captains, and some other functions at the Academy. There's also an alumni ball – a bunch of officers are being honored."

He says it casually, but I guess that he's one of the honorees, though I don't confirm it. Not yet. Instead I say. "You need a date, and want me to fix you up with one of my friends." I make it a statement, as this is a recurring theme with us.

"Not exactly."

I lift my eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I need a date, but I'd like it to be you." There's something odd in his voice when he says it.

"You're kidding." But he's not. I know he's not. "Geordi…?"

"Kat, you've - we've known each other forever – I'm one of the people being honored." He lowers his voice even more. "I'd like you to be there."

For a moment, a long moment, I think about declining. But then I remember that I have this great red dress hanging in my closet that I haven't had a chance to wear. Also, it's been too long since we've seen each other in person, and I'd really like to be able to talk to him without counting minutes. "Okay," I say. And then, "Hey, is your dress uniform still red?"

The question rocks him. "Yes, why?"

"No reason," I tell him, using my best bet-you-wish-you-knew voice. "Text me the details and I'll clear my schedule – but you're paying for the hotel."

He laughs. "Fair enough," he says. And then, "You're not dating anyone who's likely to beat me up, are you?"

"Jared and I broke up about a month ago. He decided dating interns was more his style," I share. "What about you – why do you need me? Ensign Martinez not all you hoped?"

"She's…nice…" he hedges.

"But…?"

"But we didn't click. Not enough."

We chat for another ten minutes, he gives me the capsule version of his week, and I give the bullet points of mine, and then I get ready to sign off.

"Wait," he says.

"What is it?"

"The indictment?"

"No worries," I tell him. "It hasn't actually happened, and if it does, I have an excellent attorney."

"But if it does?"

"You'll be my second call, Geordi. I promise."

He watches me – or my image, rather – for a full minute before he says anything, as if he's trying to discern my pulse rate or whether or not I'm overheated, to determine if I'm telling the truth. (Actually, he probably is doing just that.) "Alright, then," he says. "Talk to you next week."

"Same time, same station," I quip, and then the screen goes dark, and I'm left to contemplate the notion of going to a ball with my oldest friend, and wondering if it's wrong to hope that the red dress in my closet might actually get a reaction.