Permission (a Star Trek TNG Fanfiction)

Chapter 3

"Cynicism"

A sigh escaped my lips and my posture all-but-deflated where I sat. Head lowering back into the cradle of my hands, I spoke in a near-defeated tone, "I just.. I can't, Data."

Which, in all fairness, was true... Probably.

"Doctor Korvinn," Data replied, "There is no logical reason that you would lack the capability to complete the mission; All accounts provided by Doctor Crusher have described your qualifications as more than satisfactory for the task at hand."

My face lolled upwards again, allowing me to send the android a half-hearted glare, "That's not... I mean, I didn't.. The point is-" I began. My hands flailed slightly with each sharp attempt at coherence, with my facial expressions following them in a rather pointless, directionless dance of emotions. "I just..." The words drifted off.

Eyes scanning across the room, I took time to consider my next words carefully.

I tend to zone out an awful lot more than a 'responsible adult' with 'important responsibilities' really should.

Or, at least, that's what I'm told on a more-than-regular-basis.

I like to think it's not entirely my fault- I've just reached that age where words begin to feel like pointless fluff in comparison to the ever-elusive thoughts they're meant to encompass. Well... I suppose that's not really the correct way to put it. But, that's kind of the point, isn't it?

Intention never quite translates into action or speech in a direct line- It more-so grasps the general outline and delivers a haphazard silhouette of what you actually intended. And now, in light of all my thoughts formed from years of (questionable) wisdom, intertwined with the present moment's worries- in the face of a being who takes almost all words at face value- I somehow found the process of finding precisely what to say to be a-harder-than-usual balancing act to perfect.

So, I zoned out.

I stared into space.

I considered my options.

Or, at least, that's what I intended to do.

I find that my brain often begins with honest intentions... Before inevitably succumbing to the kind of pointless dribble that rendered all those previous attempts at productivity completely pointless.

Today was no exception.

Which meant that, after about the third productive thought, my mind then drifted to Data (No, Not like that).

Quick-as-a-whip Mr. Data- Who made life for me far more complicated than it outta' be because, despite his seeming naivety for flirting and utter obliviousness when it came to social-cues, nothing fully went over Data's head. Sure, he may not understand every wink or hint you threw at him, but hell would all-but freeze over before he forgot that you did it. And sooner or later, whether it be through pure deduction or with a helpful hint from someone more adept, he'd put the pieces together.

In short; Data took notes. More than notes, actually- Data took detailed records with photographic detail, time-stamps and no expiration dates. It's why you can make an offhand joke to him about his 'Shakespeare-like-eloquence' one day and receive a puzzled expression, only to have him fill your ear with a poetic ode to his cat a year later; He remembers things.

Except, not all situations brought about by his astounding memory lead to mere surprise and a weird sense of pride for my friend; some elicited pure, barely restrained terror.

Because it's these instances that rather quickly lead me to the realization that it was going to be real, damn hard to keep anything hidden from the guy. Which, given my current situation, meant trouble.