Chapter Text
It was a rare treat — and a rare nerve-wracking threat — for Worf and Deanna to join an away team together. They beamed down to a cold, icy planet that had Deanna shivering immediately, even under all her fur-lined layers, and Worf was happy to sling an arm around her and keep her warm when nobody was looking.
For the first six hours, they did what they’d been sent to do. This planet, nicknamed Paradise, was in desperate need of terraforming help, and since Commander Riker had experience with icy locales, he’d been sent to help. Deanna and Worf were just there to follow orders. They joined the work teams while Riker scouted the perimeter and set up watch stations to keep the local predators at bay.
In the evening, though, freed from duties, exhausted and cold, Worf and Deanna met in the starlit glass-ceilinged barracks they’d been assigned. Deanna was already smiling, the stars reflecting off her dark eyes as she took Worf’s hand. He reached up, tangled his fingers in her curly hair, loosened the band that kept it out of her eyes. It fell in waves down to her shoulders, and the scent of her filled his lungs as he pulled her closer.
“Let’s dance,” she murmured, her face buried against his chest.
“Dance?” Worf said.
Her fingers clenched in a loose fist at his waist, tugging him closer. “Do you mind?” she asked. “We’ve never danced before…”
“There is no music,” Worf rumbled.
Deanna just met his eyes with a grin. She laced her fingers through his and started to hum. He didn’t recognize the tune. Soft and beautiful, fast enough to morph into a waltz, slow enough to justify how close they stood, her chest against his, their breathing synced—
“Lead the way,” said Deanna softly.
So they danced. Starlight fell in shafts from the glass ceiling and illuminated Deanna’s face, brought out the auburn highlights in her hair. She let him lead, and she set the pace via music, and with her thumb she rubbed a slow, sensual circle on the base of his wrist, teasing him even as they swayed together, as they spun — as he held her closer — as he pressed his lips to hers—
A blast of cold air slammed into them as the barracks door opened. They stumbled through another three steps before they stopped. Deanna’s humming ceased, but she didn’t let go of Worf’s hand.
Commander Riker stood in the doorway, his cheeks burnt from the cold wind, his parka still zipped up to his throat. The sight of him, hair ruffled and face flushed, flipped Worf’s stomach.
“Having fun?” he asked, uncharacteristically flat.
Deanna hesitated and tugged her hand away from Worf’s. “We were just dancing,” she said.
“I can see that.” He bit the tip of his gloves to pull them off and rubbed chapped hands together for warmth. “But we’re not here to dance, Counselor. Lieutenant. We’re here to work.” He studied them, eyes narrowed, and then his gaze fell on Worf. “Lieutenant, with me.”
It was after duty hours. Worf’s chest swelled in anger, but Deanna shot him a warning glance. He grabbed his coat with a scowl.
“Where are we going?” he asked as he followed Riker to the door. The cold, barren landscape greeted them with a torrent of icy snowflakes right to the face, and Worf growled as he wiped them out of his eyes.
“We’re going to do our jobs,” Riker said, his voice hard. “You might like it — if you tried it sometime.”
Worf gave him an unimpressed look, waiting for an apology. But Riker — who would definitely apologize to anyone else, if he spoke to them that way — just squared his shoulders and glared back, refusing to back down. It was ridiculous. Worf could see how sorry he was in those painfully clear blue eyes, but Riker refused to admit it. The longer the expectant silence went on, the more stubbornly Riker stood his ground.
…And Worf had to admit, as a Klingon, that impressed him.
“Lead the way,” he grumbled.
It was only as he stomped through the snow banks that he realized Deanna had said the same words to him, just minutes earlier.