Resistance - J.M. Dillard [21]
After years of working with him aboard the Enterprise, she had eventually learned to read his moods, despite his fierce-looking features—the furry, upward-slanted brows that cast a shadow over his dark eyes and converged at the bridge of his nose to form a sharp V; the bony, ridged forehead that emphasized the severity of his eyebrows and intense glare. His lips were usually fixed in a grim, rigid line. All of the foregoing made him seem to wear a perpetual scowl—to an outsider. Though he rarely smiled, and his mannerisms were gruff, Beverly now could detect his various moods: playful, joking, serious, embarrassed, uncomfortable, furious, sad. The slightest quirk in the corner of his lip conveyed a wealth of emotion.
She knew that Worf had felt awkward on the bridge after T’Lana’s snub, but he had covered it well. By the time he entered sickbay, his mood had again shifted; he was plainly melancholy. She did not understand why, but she was not surprised to see such emotion in him. Beverly had learned that there was a great deal of insecurity and tenderness lurking beneath the fierce Klingon exterior. She knew that Worf had been married to a Trill during his absence. Beverly had seen holograms of her—a beautiful, delicate-looking woman. No doubt, her death had devastated him, though he never spoke of her; he worked to hide his grief from his crewmates.
Just as he was hiding something now, something that deeply troubled him, something Beverly suspected had to do with T’Lana’s behavior on the bridge.
As his physician and his friend, it was Beverly’s job to find out what.
She’d said nothing to him at the beginning, just the usual conversation between doctor and patient during a routine physical. It was best to get him comfortable and somewhat relaxed with the procedure before starting to ask the sensitive questions.
Near the end of the exam—after minimal exchanges, with Worf answering most questions with an affirmative grunt—the Klingon rose and straightened his tunic, clearly ready to be dismissed after the usual brief affirmation that he was in perfect health.
Now or never.
Beverly drew in a deep breath and said, tentatively, “Worf…you know that as chief medical officer, I’m responsible for more than just your physical health. And I can’t help sensing that something is bothering you.” She paused. “You know that ethics require me to keep everything you say in strictest confidence.”
Worf let go an abrupt, short sigh at that. His lips parted, as though he were about to answer—but then a look of uncertainty came over him, and he fell silent.
At least he hadn’t dismissed her outright, which was a good sign. She pressed, her tone gentle, cautious. “Does this have something to do with the reason you turned down the promotion to permanent second-in-command?”
His russet eyebrows lifted swiftly. “The captain told you?”
“I’m one of the senior officers. Of course he told me. I would have learned about it soon enough, anyway.”
He looked into the distance and released a sound between a groan and a growl. “I do not deserve the position.”
The statement honestly shocked her, and she let go a gasp of disbelief. “Worf, I can’t think of anyone more deserving, or more qualified!”
He pressed his lips firmly together, not meeting her gaze; his own was fixed on a distant spot beyond her shoulder. “I had a choice once,” he said tautly, “between duty…or personal loyalty. I chose incorrectly. A starship commander does not have that luxury.”
She thought a flicker of pain crossed his features. She suppressed the impulse to reach out and put a comforting hand on his great shoulder. He was uncomfortable with the notion of a gentle touch. Instead, Beverly decided that she had come this far and might as well get to the heart of the matter. Months ago, Jean-Luc had told her the story of how Worf’s wife had been wounded during a mission. The Klingon had