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Sometimes it was a question.
After Geordi used a dated metaphor or asked Data something illogical, Data would raise his eyebrows, pull the corners of his mouth down in a confused frown, and ask,
“Geordi?”
Geordi thought it was cute. That curious face. The way Data was never afraid to ask for clarification because he knew Geordi would always give it to him. Even if that meant explaining a silly figurative expression in the middle of trying to prevent a warp core breach.
Other times, it was a warning.
When Geordi wanted to go over the captain’s head with an experiment, disobey orders for the greater good, or risk his life fixing something Data claimed Geordi should let him do instead, Data would set his jaw, eyes wide with concern, head tilted downwards in a scold, and give a simple word of caution,
“Geordi.”
Geordi knew it should bother him, the way his best friend thought he needed to be taken care of. He should be annoyed that Data thought he could tell Geordi what he was and was not allowed to do. But sometimes it sent a secret shiver down his spine and heat to his cheeks. Partly because he knew how much Data cared about him. Also, of course, partly because that scolding tone did something for the part of Geordi that loved to see his sweet, gentle best friend take control, the part of him that wanted to submit to that warning and let Data just take care of him.
Occasionally, it was a plea.
When they started having sex, Geordi experienced levels of pleasure he didn’t know were possible. Data had been giving him that pleasure all night with his dexterous, wandering hands, his wet mouth, the soft pads on the tips of his fingers, always calculated and gentle, always taking his time to ensure Geordi felt good. Geordi lost track of how many times he had come, until he found himself on his back, Data thrusting into him so sweetly, giving Geordi everything he had to offer, drawing deep whines and gasps from Geordi’s mouth. Data gazed at Geordi in wonder; in wonder of how any human could give themselves over so completely to his touch, which he once thought too hard, too cold, too…technological, in wonder of the amount of stimulation his lover could handle, brow shiny with sweat, feet digging into Data’s back to invite him in deeper. Data wanted Geordi to come, wanted to see him fall apart from pleasure and bliss and the soft sting of overstimulation, so he begged,
“Geordi,”
And when it mattered most, it was just a statement.
Like the first time Geordi told Data that he loved him. Of course, he didn’t expect anything in return. How could he? How could he ask his best friend to reach into the depths of the very special way he experienced emotion, and find something there to give away? It felt selfish, and a little rude, but hiding his true feelings from Data somehow felt worse. He didn’t expect Data’s response: a widening of golden eyes that gazed into brown ones, a pale hand outreached to lay over the other man’s darker one, and the one word, full of softness and emotion:
“Geordi…”
And Geordi didn’t know his name could sound like that. Like something coveted, something beautiful, something to be protected with gentle touches and a subdued voice. It was just a statement. “Geordi.” But it held what he knew was Data’s promise that he would love Geordi in his own way. That he would stay, as long as Geordi would let him.