The door to his office swung open and Lt. Cdr. Mario Ramirez poked his head in, saying, "Sir, Dr. Crusher is here."
Picard set the revised syllabus down and looked up at his adjutant. "Thank you, Mr. Ramirez. You may send her in."
"Yes, Sir," Ramirez said and then disappeared from sight.
Jean-Luc stood and tugged on his uniform jacket. He walked around the perimeter of his desk and moved into the center of the spacious office.
He thought he heard her voice in the outer office, but he couldn't make out the words. He hid a smile as he picked up the sound of her familiar boot tread. She walked faster than most officers he'd served with. Those legs—
He gave himself a mental shake. Now was not the time to be thinking about her legs.
"Harrumph." He tugged on his jacket again. He hadn't managed to determine the nature of her visit—her assistant had been obtusely vague when he'd made inquiries—and he'd resolved not to let the question bother him.
Beverly strode into his office, gave him a tremulous smile that sent his heart into free fall, and said, "Admiral."
"Doctor," he replied. He cleared his throat before adding, "Would you care to sit?"
He gestured toward the small sitting area, and she nodded. He turned and walked over to the replicator and ordered coffee service for two before joining her.
He kept his eyes on the coffee cups as he poured the steaming brew. He could feel her gaze on him, and he told himself her intense scrutiny was purely professional.
He paused and frowned slightly.
If it's purely professional, does that mean there are questions regarding my fitness for command?
Determined not to show his doubts to her, he picked up a cup and handed it over, saying, "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"
Beverly accepted the cup and took a tentative sip. "Thank you," she said.
She didn't answer his question, but rather continued to study him over the rim of her drink.
A master at using silence to encourage his opponent to talk, he recognized the strategy immediately. He sipped his coffee, refusing to give in to the urge to fill the dead space with conversation.
Jean-Luc decided to distract himself by studying her. His eyes followed the path of the sunlight coming through his office window as it struck her hair, highlighting the blonde streaks and setting the auburn on fire. He watched the play of light and shadow across her cheekbones and down her neck, and he stared, enchanted by the little pulse flickering beside her throat.
He refused to let his eyes wander lower for fear of causing offence. He brought his gaze back up to her face and let himself fall into her heartbreakingly blue eyes.
Beverly studied her patient as he poured their coffee.
How many times have I watched him do that? She wondered. And how much did I miss it when I left?
She forced the memories aside. She was here to get to the bottom of Captain MacDonagh's report; nothing more.
Still, she couldn't help admiring Jean-Luc's form as his well-defined muscles moved under his uniform jacket.
Memories of those muscles without the barrier of the uniform sent her mind off into unprofessional areas again.
Dammit! I'm here as a physician!
Jean-Luc passed her a cup and she took a sip. He continued to stare at her with a slightly quizzical expression, and she realized he must have asked her a question.
"Thank you," she said, hoping he didn't realize she'd been distracted.
By his arms.
Such lovely, strong arms.
Her response must have been sufficient because he seemed content to sip his coffee and watch her.
She shivered as his gaze wandered from her hair, across her cheeks, and down her neck. A hint of a smile kissed his lips as he traced the curve of her neck with his eyes.
She swallowed, finding the attention… intense.
He brought his gaze back up to hers and her breath caught in her throat as his hazel eyes seemed to penetrate straight into her soul.
She opened her mouth to speak, to ask him what he'd discussed with MacDonagh to lead the man to think Jean-Luc was ill, but froze when she saw it.
She set her coffee on the table with trembling hands.
Dammit. The goddamned meddling Felisian captain was right. The tightness at the edges of Jean-Luc's eyes and mouth proved MacDonagh's assertion: he was suffering.
And it's my fault.
Again.
The decades-long, and ever-present, fear settled like a boulder in her abdomen.
He watched the colour drain from her cheeks and resisted the urge to lean forward and assist as she set her cup down with trembling hands.
He raised an eyebrow and asked, "Doctor?"
She swallowed and picked at the hem of her sleeve before looking away. After what seemed like an eternity, she closed her eyes, took a shaky breath, and brought her gaze back to his.
"Jean-Luc, there's something I need to tell you."