Disclaimer: Star Trek: The Next Generation, the U.S.S. Enterprise, and all the canon characters belong to CBS/Paramount. The rest is mine. This chapter is the wrap-up to my version of what happened after "The Most Toys."

Parley

Stardate 43920.57

(Saturday, 3 December 2366, 00:12 hours, ship's time)

"I'm sorry," I said. "That won't do. Lieutenant Commander Data, under the brethren pirate code, and upon the honor of the Royal Navy, I hereby invoke the right of parley."

There was a long pause, but he hadn't cut the signal to the annunciator. Finally, he said, "Very well, Zoe Harris. You may enter."

The door slid open and I stepped inside his quarters to find the room filled with new paintings. Many of them were still wet; some were still in progress. Two figures were prominent in many of them. "Geez, Data, if this is supposed to be art therapy, you're kind of taking it to extremes," I said.

He just stared down at me, a paintbrush poised in each hand. "You said you needed to speak to me."

"Yeah," I said. "I do. Could you maybe set the brushes aside and make tea or something? Conversations like this are easier when you have something to fiddle with, you know, hold and stir and stuff."

(=A=)

If I hadn't known better, I'd have assumed that Data had fifteen-year-old girls show up at his door in the middle of every night. As soon as I'd asked for tea, he put the paint brushes in cups of water – at least I assumed it was water – and cleared away the canvases that were leaning against his couch.

"Please sit down," he said, his tone polite, but much cooler than I'd ever heard it. "Is there a particular blend of tea that you would prefer?"

"Lemon-mint, please," I answered. "With honey. Are you having some, too?"

His answer was given in his order to the replicator. "Computer, two cups of lemon-mint tea, hot, pot of honey." He turned back to me, then, and asked, "Do you require anything to eat with your tea?"

I refrained from rolling my eyes, as there was no way he would have known that I'd spent the past week being reminded to eat. "No, thank you," I said.

He brought the tea and honey on a tray, but he didn't have a coffee table near the couch – probably he didn't need one – so I dragged over one of his extra chairs to use in place of a table. He got the hint, and even offered a "Thank you, Zoe," very quietly before setting things down.

I spent an inordinately long amount of time doctoring my tea, watching the honey drip into the greenish-amber liquid in slow, thick swirls. Anyone else would have grown impatient. Anyone else would have prompted me to speak.

"So, here's the thing," I began, "I woke up this morning and was actually disappointed that you'd cancelled our math tutorial. Since it's a well-known fact that I detest math, I figure either I've got a deathly illness, or I miss my tutor – no, I miss my friend – who also happens to be my tutor, and who is also the one person in all creation who managed to make all the numbers and symbols and stuff into something I can at least pretend to understand."

"You are giving me undue credit," he said. "Your comprehension of the material has not appeared to change markedly since you joined the class."

"Are you sure about that?" I asked, dubiously.

"Your test scores prove it," he said. "However, what has changed is your confidence in your comprehension. I do not believe I can take responsibility for that."

"Well," I said, "I believe you're wrong. It's you, Data. It's all you. My music is better because of you, too. Even my voice teacher commented that our theory studies have improved my ability to pick up new songs, that I'm using my voice 'more intentionally,' or whatever."

"I am gratified to know that my tutelage is helping you, Zoe," he said, still too-polite. "However, I do not understand why you felt it necessary to tell me this at such a late hour. Is your mother not concerned about your whereabouts?"

Is it possible I could have forgotten how frustrating he could be in only a week? "Maybe because I miss my friend more than I miss my tutor," I said, setting my cup back on the tray. "Maybe because I've heard stuff about what happened to you – that you were kidnapped by some psycho toy collector – that you shot someone." He looked at me sharply when I said the last bit. "Maybe because when everyone thought you were dead, Geordi and Wes made me come here and tell them what of your possessions I might want just because you stuck me on some list that I didn't even know about."

"What did you choose?"

The question threw me. "Excuse me?"

"I have learned that when a person dies, the people closest to that person are often soothed by having something physical to 'remember them by.' Geordi has standing instructions that if something irrevocable ever happened to me, he was to make sure my belongings were dispersed among my closest friends. I am curious about what you chose."

"I didn't, exactly," I said. "I mean, I came in here, and it felt all weird and wrong, and I yelled at Geordi about at least waiting for the body to cool."

"Had the explosion that apparently destroyed –

"Killed –" I interrupted.

He went on, unfazed, " – me been what it seemed, there would have been no body."

I rolled my eyes at him. "I know this. Do you really think I didn't know this? I just meant it was too soon. Especially since Geordi was convinced you weren't actually dead. He said something was off in the mission logs. Even asked me to be a fresh pair of ears, though that was just his attempt to make me feel better."

"Inviting your participation to give you something else to focus on would not be out of character for him."

"No. And sadly, having meltdowns is not always out of character for me."

"Did you help?"

I laughed. "Of course not. But I did get to hang out in his office and have lunch. Will you tell me what really happened? Did you really shoot someone?"

"It would be more accurate to say that I shot at someone. The beam never hit its intended target."

"You missed?" I didn't believe it for a second.

"I was taken by the Enterprise's transporter beam as I pressed the trigger. The weapon was in a state of discharge and was deactivated during my transit."

"They can do that?"

"Yes," he said. "They can."

I glanced around at the paintings. "So which of the people in the paintings is the one you shot?" He opened his mouth to correct me, and I amended my question slightly, "Shot at. Whatever."

He gestured to the male figure, wearing a hat, and I shivered. "That man has a black soul," I said.

"I was not aware it was possible to catalogue the color of a soul."

"It's more an expression. It means he reeks of evil. Unless you just painted him that way. He was the collector?"

"Yes."

"I'm guessing he didn't want you for your awesome intellect, handsome visage, and stunning conversational skills?"

"He wished to include me among his objects of art."

"That's awful." I stared at the painting, at all the different images, each as dark as the others. "Did he have other people in his collection?"

"I do not believe Kivas Fajo perceived me to be a person."

"But you are."

"There has been some debate about that," he admitted.

I shrugged. "Anyone who spends five minutes with you, and still disagrees that you're a person is either blind, bigoted, or stupid. Quite possibly all of the above." The look I gave him dared him to defy the Wisdom of Zoe. He chose not to. "Who's the other person? The woman? She looks sad."

"Her name was Varia,"

"Was?"

"Fajo killed her as we were attempting to leave."

"To stop you?"

"To make a point." He clipped those words, almost as if he was angry about the situation, but I knew if I pressed he'd tell me he couldn't feel anger.

I looked back at the picture of my friend's former captor. "Yeah," I said. "Definitely a black soul." I let that thought rest in the space of the room for a moment, picking up my tea again, and actually sipping some. After a bit, I asked, "So, is that why you're in your quarters brooding instead of helping to mold the minds of the Federations future leaders? Because you feel responsible for someone's death?"

"I am not responsible for Varia's death," he said, and something in his demeanor told me not to question him on that point. "However," he confessed. "Kivas Fajo had dropped his weapon before I aimed mine at him."

I don't know how it all clicked together in my head – maybe it had to do with all the horror and detective vids I liked to watch. Maybe it was just weird luck. "Oh my god," I said. "You're freaking out because you wanted him dead."

I expected him to tell me he wasn't – couldn't be – freaking out. I expected him to deny his desire to kill the guy who'd wanted to just… collect… him. Instead Data admitted softly, "Yes, Zoe, I did. But I should not have. Vengeance is not part of my programming."

"Apparently, it kind of is," I said.

"I have been conducting self-diagnostics and processing my behavior, since then," he added. "Cancelling classes was necessary until I was certain I was not… compromised."

I stared at him for a long moment. I watched his face, then looked down at his hands that were clasped in his lap. His tea had remained untouched. I set mine back down. "Are you conscious of every tiny part of your programing?" I asked. "I mean, you blink, but are you conscious of every blink, or do you just sort of know that you do?"

"I can be aware of each movement," he said. "I generally choose not to be."

"Well, maybe there's bits of your programming that decide that vengeance might actually be an appropriate response in certain cases. Maybe it's a bit you're not supposed to be aware of. Kind of like hypo-sprays."

"Hypo-sprays?"

"Sure. Little kids, even older kids sometimes, when they're getting ready for school, they get routine booster shots of common vaccinations. Hypo-sprays pinch a little, but it's really not that bad. Except, if you know it's coming, what you anticipate it feeling like is way worse than what it actually does feel like. If you don't look, though, if you don't see the thing coming at your arm, it doesn't hurt."

"Your theory is that there are parts of my program that I am meant to… not look at… so they do not… adversely affect me?"

"It would probably sound a lot more plausible if I used proper terminology,"

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Nevertheless it is an interesting theory."

I shrugged. "Well, it's either that or you have to admit you might actually have a few emotions lurking in there somewhere."

He raised both brows, appearing to think it over, but all he said was, "Hm."

Again, we lapsed into silence. Just before the silence became awkward, I asked, "Kivas Fajo… he's still on the ship, isn't he? Geordi said there was a prisoner?"

"Yes," he said. "He will remain in the brig until we reach the next Starbase."

"Do you still want him dead?"

"He will be dealt with by the proper authorities."

"That's not what I asked." I took a breath. "Look, I'm not going to repeat anything you tell me. I mean, if we're friends, there has to be trust right?"

"Yes."

"Yes, you still want him dead, or yes you trust me?"

"Yes," he said again, this time with the merest hint of a smirk.

"Data…!" I wanted to launch myself at him, and tackle him with a hug. Instead, I looked around at the paintings again. "Have you ever played darts?"

"No," he said. "I have not. Why?"

"I have an idea. One that will enable you to cease the obsessive painting of soulless sociopaths before there's no more canvas left in the sector. Might even help cure your bloodlust." I smiled to show him I was teasing about the last part, then got up off the couch, taking the tea-things with me. I returned the still-full mugs, and asked the computer to replace them with new ones. Then I asked for a set of darts, which I added to the tray. "Can you get black and red paints and brushes please?" I asked.

"You wish to paint something as well?"

"Me? No. I have the artistic ability of a sand flea. You are going to paint a bull's eye on one of the pictures of Fajo." He gave me a quizzical look. "You know, a target, like on a dart board. I'm sure you can look it up faster than I can explain."

He rose to his feet, but still seemed uncertain of my plan. Nevertheless, he painted the concentric red and black circles on the painting I chose, then, at my urging, hurled darts at it. "Is this supposed to be cathartic?" he asked, after landing all three darts dead-center.

"You tell me."

"I do seem to be less inclined to create more images of him." In fact, he painted circles on another of the images, and repeated the process. "I am not certain the bull's eye is necessary."

"For you? Probably not."

He threw darts until every single one of the paintings of Kivas Fajo had been essentially obliterated. Then he quietly gathered the torn canvases and bundled them to be taken to the larger recycling chute at a later time. He also put away the paints, leaving only three images of Varia left in the room.

"I'm guessing flinging darts at her would be inappropriate?"

"Yes," he said. "But I do not believe I need to keep all three images." He came back to the couch, where I had moved to the corner that had been his before, the better to watch him with the darts. I'd been sipping my replacement tea the whole time. "Was my prolonged absence from your classes the only topic you wished to discuss, Zoe?"

"Not exactly," I said. "If you hadn't cancelled tomorrow's theory lesson, I'd have waited to bring up one of my other topics 'til then. Although, I should probably confess that I haven't practiced all week. Mostly, I want to know why I'm on your notify list. I mean, we really haven't known each other that long."

"Is a lengthy history a requirement for all close friendships?" Data asked. "Consider the number of hours we have been spending together, not only in your math tutorial, but theory lessons, quartet rehearsal, and the occasional social event."

"You consider lunch a social event?"

"When eaten in the company of others, in the Ten-Forward lounge, it would seem to qualify."

"Okay, that's fair."

"Consider also that you came here tonight to confront me about not being present at usually scheduled times."

"I really didn't think you'd actually let me in," I said. "Wes said you weren't even talking to Geordi. Isn't he your best friend?"

Data's eyes widened slightly, but he answered the question. "He is. However, Wes's analysis is not entirely accurate."

I cocked my head at him, in much the same way he often did when he was confused or needed time to process information. "So you have been communicating with –" I cut myself off. "You know what, that's none of my business, and I've been pretty nosy already."

"Concern for a friend and being 'nosy' are not the same thing. You are curious. Have we not agreed that this is a trait we share?"

I grinned at him. "Guilty, as charged, sir," I said. "You still haven't answered my original question, though."

"No," Data agreed. "I have not. Nor have you told me which of my personal items you did not 'exactly' choose."

"I'll tell if you do?" I offered, teasing.

He picked up his cup of tea, which I'd covered with a saucer to keep from cooling too much, and sipped some, probably just to be social. "I believe we have a bargain."

"I asked for your violin," I said, then hesitated. "I asked for something else, as well, but when I asked for it I felt like I was implying our friendship is deeper than it really is, and I couldn't really explain why I wanted it."

"You know you cannot offend me," he reminded gently.

"I have a feeling that's not entirely true," I said. "But I asked for the portrait of your daughter. I thought someone should have it who wasn't…I don't know…official. And I couldn't stand the thought of it being destroyed."

One of his rare 'organic' smiles flitted across his face, and the look in his eyes seemed just a fraction warmer. "It would have been an honor to know that Lal's portrait was in your care," he said, and even if it was spoken in the same matter-of-fact tone he used to explain why strings vibrated at specific frequencies, in that moment, it didn't matter.

I smiled back at him. "I'm glad you approve," I said. "But I'm even gladder that you're not actually dead."

"As am I," he agreed.

"So, kind sir, keep your part of the bargain, or pay a forfeit," I said, using my best bubbly voice, in order to lighten the mood. I still wanted to know why he deemed me list-worthy, but suddenly it was only a 'want' rather than a 'need.'

"A forfeit?" he asked. "Does that mean you no longer wish me to answer your question?"

"It means," I said, "that I think I already know, and I suspect that time will confirm my theory. It also means I haven't heard you play the violin in a week, and I really miss it." I gave him the winsome look that always worked on the other men in my life – T'vek, my father, the really hot counselor I'd crushed on during music camp the year before – "Would you please play something for me, Data?" I asked.

"I would be happy to," he agreed, standing up with the obvious intent of fetching his violin, but before he had even begun his customary tuning ritual, his comm-badge chirped, and he flashed an apologetic look at me, then tapped it to respond. "Data here."

"Commander, I'm so sorry to bother you at this hour," came my mother's voice. "This is Emily Harris. Is my daughter still with you?"

He glanced at me, and I rolled my eyes, but nodded for him to answer. "Yes, Emily. Zoe is with me. Would you like her to return to quarters?"

"Would it be an imposition if I stopped by and picked her up?"

Again he glanced at me, and I gave a thumbs-up signal. "Not at all, Emily. We have completed our discussion."

"Thank you, Data. See you soon. Harris out."

"I am afraid I will have to 'owe you one,' Zoe," he said, turning back to me.

"Any chance you'd consider un-cancelling theory tomorrow? Or today? Or… you know what I mean."

"I believe, in the light of our conversation, that reinstating our lesson would be appropriate. However," and his voice took on the tone he used almost exclusively to tease me, "I was under the impression you did not practice this week. Are you certain you wish to –"

I cut him off, not with words, but by standing up and wrapping him in an impulsive hug. "Stop." I said. "Data, please? If I suck, I suck, but I don't want to miss another Saturday."

He seemed to understand that it wasn't just about the music, just as me hugging him wasn't just about his agreeing to go ahead with our lesson, but was also my need to know he was really, truly, alive. Awkwardly, his arms came around me, in an embrace that was just close enough to be comforting without being inappropriate. "Alright," he said softly. "As you wish."

"Thank you," I said, though it was muffled against his uniform jacket. I stayed there a bit longer before pulling away and looking up at him a bit sheepishly. "Sorry."

Whatever he had planned to say was cut off by the door chime. "Enter," he called. "Emily, I am sorry to have kept Zoe so late."

My mother and I shared a look, and for a moment I thought she was going to chastise me in front of him. Instead, she simply gave each of us the smile that I tended to refer to, at least mentally, as her 'gushy Mom look,' and reached for my hand. "It's fine," she said. "At least if she's with you, I know she's not getting into trouble. Goodnight, Data."

I let my mother lead me into the corridor, adding my own, "G'night, Data."

"Goodnight Zoe," he replied, "I will meet you here at ten-hundred hours."

His door slid shut, and my mother let go of my hand, only to catch me by the waist. We hadn't walked that way in a while, and I was surprised to find I was almost as tall as she was. "So, exactly how much trouble am I in?" I asked her.

She shook her head. "None. Tonight you get a bye."

"Dare I ask why?"

"Call it a mom-thing, accept it, and move on, Zoificus," she said. We entered the turbolift, and she let go of me. "You look better. Happier."

"Yeah," I agreed. "I kind of am."

"Must've been a pretty good talk."

I smiled, thinking about everything that had happened with Data and me in the last few hours. Darts, tea, conversation…our first proper hug. "Yeah, Mom," I said, smiling. "It was a really good talk."

Notes: Yeah, I know, this chapter is really talky, but Zoe and Data are talkers. I suspect that part of his week was actually spent in debriefings, as Zoe's mother suggested in a previous chapter. I also suspect that Data's visit to the brig, to confront Fajo takes place after his evening with Zoe, but that's me, and your mileage may vary, as the saying goes. Revised 20 April 2016 for typos and timeline correction.