A/N: Hello, so CloudedWater made a request that I write a one shot that takes place after the war during Shepard's recovery. The requirements were emotion, reminiscing, and sexy times. I know I dragged my feet for forever on this, but I was feeling somber tonight so I was able to spit this out. It's probably not quite what you were expecting but I hope you enjoy it, my friend. :)
P.S. BAD GRAMMAR BE HERE. Haha, for real. I wrote it as I would want it to be read aloud. The punctuation is for flow, not for correct grammar (sort of stream of conscious-y, ya feel me?) so if that is going to bother you run away my lovelies. Run far, far, away.
This is the first time I've put something up in this sort of style so I'm really nervous. Ugh, sorry if it's lower quality than usual. I triiiied.
The first time she enters the room, she can hardly breathe.
It's stifling, how impersonal it all feels. The books she never admits to reading had promised glamorous reunions. Laughter, joy, raucous uproar. All of the words she had read, the happy endings she had watched, were proving now to be the tempting lies she had always assumed them.
She doesn't cry, of course. Miranda Lawson never cries.
For six hours she sits in the overstuffed chair by the bed. It is firm, stiff, rejecting the weight of her body and bending her almost painfully out of shape. The machine to her left whirs and beeps on a whim, always frustratingly resisting the pattern her mind subconsciously attempts to assign the sounds. She craves a pattern, a sequence, order. Nothing ever goes as she plans though. That is a fact she has long since accepted.
The rise and fall of the scarred body is hypnotic as it sleeps, and unbelievably alien to her. It should be the sight she has grown to know so well, the one that she has witnessed throughout the countless synthetic nights the Normandy had produced on their behalf. But there is no hint of familiarity to be found in that room.
The cold white walls, the uncomfortable chair that makes her back ache more intensely with each second that passes, the silent lump of charred flesh lying lifeless on the bed. None of it belongs.
It is only a name on a slip of paper that keeps her there throughout the day, wincing as her spine throbs. Two words - Jane Shepard - hastily scrawled hours ago on the top of a form in a clipboard. Those are the two reasons she stays, because there is certainly nothing else to grasp onto. No other essence to draw strength from.
The body on the bed means nothing to her. It is unrecognizable, painfully unfamiliar. There are no memories to reminisce over, only mangled flesh and that godforsaken beeping.
Apparently six hours is enough time to come to terms with change in the eyes of authority. She is reassured as she is lead away, that a new day is coming. Try again tomorrow, maybe conditions will have improved, that is the ease gentle nurses offer before sending her along her way. They have no way of knowing who she is though, no sense of her intelligence, her depth of understanding. Seeing through honeyed voices, sweet and thick with vacant promises, is a piece of cake for a mind of her caliber. It is insulting, maddening. It is upsetting.
She doesn't cry, of course. Miranda Lawson never cries.
At least she doesn't in public. The safety found behind closed doors however, the protection four walls can offer, that changes the variables, alters the situation. In her domain, Miranda Lawson does whatever she pleases.
The second time she enters the room, she does nothing but breathe.
Short, shallow gasps that betray her loss of control as soon as she is stricken with it. The body is the same. Still, save for the steady rise and fall of the chest. Charred, scarred, disgustingly inhuman. But there is a new feature, eyes.
Emerald eyes, open at last and so very familiar. It's too difficult to look at. It's too different. Shepard's eyes rest in the body of another. They flicker about the room, pained, confused, scared. They see through her, past her, perhaps. None of the emotions of the past remain, they are empty, lost without the rest of their kin.
The brow, the hair, the nose, the lips, the tongue, the laughter, the smile, all have deserted the eyes. They are meaningless alone, haunting. She looks away, and even all of the shame she feels for doing so can't coax her to glance back.
The eyes stare at Miranda for six hours, the machines buzzing, beeping, humming all the while, but no sound of any substance is made. Her back screams in protest, but she never moves from the chair until she is made too.
It's a week before she brings herself to come again.
The third time she enters the room, the eyes become her refuge.
It's too hard to look over the rest. The mangled face is moving now, reacting. It fights to seize the very basics of human emotion, the concept Shepard had grasped so well that she had spent her time as a beloved leader expelling the excess on those around her.
She sits, and the chair instantly reminds her of all the reasons she should have stayed away. A hand slides off of the bed. It dangles in the air, blackened, deformed, grotesque. It's the hand of a stranger, a person she has never met.
She takes it.
Words remain impossible, and so she sits, only focusing on the eyes because everything is so very different, and she needs an anchor, no matter how much this one hurts.
The hand squirms in her gentle grasp, and she fights the urge to drop it, to flee. Instead, she suffers through the blistered finger dragging along her open palm. The movement is slow, deliberate. Long strokes come from the misshapen pointer finger, occasionally tapping and pausing, relentless.
Subconsciously she registers the pattern, but it takes longer than it should to realize a message is being sent. She chalks her delayed understanding up to exhaustion, but knows it is her reluctance to accept the warped flesh travelling along her own that keeps her from being her usual hyper observant self.
Over and over and over the letters are tapped out until she responds.
H...I...H...I...H...I...
Swallowing hard she places a gentle hand on top of the finger to halt its movements. "Hi," she whispers back breathlessly, trying her hardest to smile for the other woman's sake. The eyes shine, and for a moment everything is back to normal.
And then the finger wiggles impatiently beneath her hold and reality storms back into the room, bowling her over in its brashness. As soon as she drops her hand, startled, the finger is back at work.
S O R R
Miranda stops her before she can complete the word, because she knows all too well that feeling the letters against her skin will break her. Only one of them should be on the brink of apology. She is the one who has been doing wrong, the one who is sitting there, crumbling from their situation.
The words are on her lips, but all that escapes in a shaky exhale is, "just relax."
She wants – needs – to apologize to Shepard, the woman to whom she owes her existence. But she doesn't. She can't. Shepard isn't there. She can't see her, can't find her. There's pieces, a faint sprinkle of fiery hair, a certain quirk of the lips.
Emerald eyes.
But it isn't enough. Shepard hasn't returned. She is still lost. And so Miranda flees once more, and she despises herself more than she ever has before, which is saying more than she has ever cared to admit.
She is so very scared of the world these days, in a way she never has been before. There are possibilities now, paths down which life can lead her that had not been open just a short time ago. She could be left with so much, or so little, and it feels like there is no possible way to discern which outcome will be hers.
There was a time, not too long ago in the grand scheme of her life, when solitude was all she had. That would always be what she would have.
And then she had been handed Shepard.
It had been a slow process, recreating a broken mass of matter into a functioning being, but she had succeeded, and inadvertently unleashed her own downfall.
In the beginning, her irritation had been genuine. She had distanced herself for the proper reasons, duty and professionalism, the things that were expected from her because she so often delivered. But as the situation changed, so did her rationalizations.
Suddenly, she was no longer pulling away, retreating, because it was her responsibility to maintain a professional distance, but because it was the only way in which she knew how to respond. The looks that Shepard so frequently sent in her direction, the inadvertent contact, the understanding and forgiving tone of their increasingly frequent conversations, it had her running scared.
And then there had been the day they had stormed the Collector base. The day she had thought would be her last, so what was the harm in giving in? What was the harm of one final act of indulgence?
The harm was that she survived, they all had, and suddenly any playful adventures in the engine room had taken on a whole new meaning. The passion she had felt in that liaison, it didn't disappear with her death like she had expected. She had survived, and for the first time in her life she had to contemplate the notion of love.
It would have been far easier to have perished as planned.
To think back now, to remember those experiences, to recall the emotions, the passion, the heat, it only brings pain. It twists in her heart like a dagger because these are things which have been lost. It's different now, and she will never get back what has so obviously vanished.
Because she knew, she had always known. Everything was going to change, she had told Shepard that herself in their final encounter before the end. Now, everything is changed. Her prediction had come true. Her predictions always came true. And because of it, she is lost.
No Cerberus, no Reapers, no more debts to be paid. It is a clean slate for Shepard. The outside forces that had bound them together are gone. There are no longer any obligations between them, and she fears that knowledge. She fears Shepard's freedom from her.
Weeks pass before she returns to Shepard's side, or is it months? She never keeps track anymore, never checks the date or glances at a clock. She knows that it will only bring guilt, and so she merely hides. Locks herself away from the world to wallow in her own misery.
The fourth time she enters the room, the corpse is sitting up.
It's in the same bed, breathing, moving, functioning, and pretending to be human. Time has passed, too much time, but the humming of the machines is so familiar she feels like she had heard them only yesterday. The skin of the body is still charred, reminiscent of human flesh only in name, certainly not in color or texture.
It is near impossible for her to bring herself to look into the eyes of what is almost Shepard. She had deserted her, fled in her own selfishness when she had been needed. There is going to be resentment in those eyes, she knows. Anger and pain and hatred. She deserves it, it's not a question of that. But that doesn't make it any easier to trail her gaze up from the floor to meet that of the figure on the bed.
All she finds is understanding. Forgiveness.
That hurts worse than the hatred she has been expecting.
And then it is speaking to her. The voice is harsh, grating, distressed. It's one she has never heard before, but it is fitting. To hear Shepard's voice now, without being able to really see her, that would be unbearable.
"You don't have to do this." The voice hurts so much to listen to, she can't imagine how much it hurts to emit.
"What?" She asks, because it's the only thing she trusts herself to say. She knows all too well what is being said, that she can run, flee, for real this time, and she won't be pursued. Won't be blamed.
"Stay here," comes the pained clarification. "With me." The words are short, clipped, each syllable a clear effort. She wants nothing more than for that voice to be silenced.
"Where else would I be?" The question is rhetorical, but an honest one.
She genuinely doesn't know.
The fifth time she enters the room, she finds more of Shepard than she had imagined she would.
There is more of the woman sitting up in that bed than she had thought she would ever be privileged with seeing again. Parts she had assumed lost were returned to her. The strength, the power, the fire, the kindness. It was clear, sitting proudly atop a cheap, overused mattress.
Her chest tightens as the figure nods, silent because words still hurt. She is gestured to, asked to sit on the edge of the bed. She hesitates, not out of fear, but because in this state it's closer than she has ever been before. It's new territory, another change.
At least it's more comfortable than the chair.
"Hi." The voice is a pained sound just as before. And now, instead of fearing it, Miranda finds herself longing to hear more of Shepard. How has it come to this? Since when have her thoughts become so contradictory? So foolish? So juvenile?
Since Shepard.
She tries to answer, but only manages to clear her throat, and Shepard snatches the chance away from her. "I'm glad you came, but I need to be sure." Again that grotesque hand is reaching for her, and while the machines beep and wail and hum around them Miranda tenses in anticipation of the contact, fearful of betraying any disgust by flinching away.
And then, wonderfully, she realizes the preparation was pointless. The hand gently trails along her own where they rest in her lap, and though the touch is not as she remembers, it is so miraculously and beautifully Shepard's.
She meets the gaze of the eyes - Shepard's eyes - and knows they're still home. They always were, she just needed to believe it again.
"If this is obligation," Shepard says softly, words slow and thick and laced with exhaustion, "I couldn't bare it."
"It's not," Miranda assures her quickly, willing her to believe, praying that the broken warrior before her will understand.
She can't say what Shepard needs to hear. Those words elude her. Now, and perhaps forever. This is all she can offer, her presence, herself. And she pleads to whatever gods that may exist that it will be enough.
Shepard's gaze drops to their hands, still connected, and continues. Softly, slowly, "I just need you to be certain."
She leans forward suddenly with childish impulse, tired of the conversation, capturing Shepard's lips in an unfamiliar kiss. It is uneven, rough. Long gone is the gentle meeting of smooth skin. It has changed, but Miranda won't let that stop her now. Change won't stop them.
Shepard pulls away, and Miranda exhales loudly through her nose, trying to fight the frustration stirring within her. It is like Shepard doesn't want her to remain invested, as though she wants her to pull away. She knows what it is. Shepard is just being herself. Kind, generous, and so very selfless. She is trying to set Miranda free.
It is a shame for her that it is an impossible feat, doomed from the very beginning. Miranda hasn't been trapped by responsibility like Shepard so clearly believes, she has been ensnared by affection. There is no turning back from this, no matter how hard Shepard pushes her away. They are firmly entwined now, entangled.
Endlessly.
Always.
"I don't care," she finally admits, raising a tentative, trembling hand to run her fingers along the completely foreign bumps and grooves of Shepard's cheek. The words hurt to say out loud, she has never wanted to admit them. To utter the phrase is to confess that the idea had been pondered, that at one point, she had considered caring. That maybe it would have been enough to tear them apart.
Shepard leans into the touch, eyes drifting shut. "It's going to take a long time," she sighs out. "It might never be completely normal."
"I know," Miranda replies thickly, swallowing. The limitless funds she had had at her disposal are gone, lost. There was a time when this would have been nothing, when she could have painstakingly pieced Shepard back together herself.
Perfect.
But now she can't. It's impossible. And maybe, just maybe, that's what she's been running from.
Because it had been mutual up until this point. Miranda had restored Shepard to health, to life. In return Shepard had touched her. Body, mind, and soul.
A life for a life.
Now, Miranda is worthless. She can't save Shepard from this. Can't fix her. The work of strangers, impersonal medical personnel, that's what they must rely on. Limited funds. Her one asset has been stripped away from her, because without that, without being Shepard's caretaker, her savior, what is she? Nothing. Useless. Everything she once had - once was - is gone.
So what is the point of her?
Everything is different. Everything has changed. She can see herself no longer. There is no label to wear, no job to possess. She is lost.
But if somehow, some way, Shepard can see a point, can discover a purpose, then it is a role she will fill with every ounce of her being. Whatever Shepard desires from her she will offer freely, wholly, unquestioningly. That will be her purpose, so long as she is deemed worthy to fulfill it.
It is a good day when the nurses release Shepard to her care. It is beautiful, and gorgeous, and not even the rubble remains of a unspeakably horrific war can diminish the feeling that grows inside her as she leads the universe's savior home.
It is all encompassing, all consuming. It is uncontrollable.
And as Shepard stands in the apartment of her deceased mentor looking so incredibly broken, so very small, and so utterly lost, Miranda knows this is how she has looked countless times before. When her world had crumbled around her. When she had been betrayed, discarded, ridiculed, attacked, this was the expression she wore. And every time she had, Shepard had taken her hand, grounded her, and spent the long nights in the deepest reaches of space reminding her over and over that these feelings only meant that she was so very human, and so completely alive.
She walks over to her, and resolves to return that courtesy.
By a gentle hand she leads Shepard up the staircase with purpose, silent and unfaltering, determined to show no hesitation, no regret. Shepard allows the direction, takes it gratefully without resistance. Miranda is in charge, able to remain or flee, to do whatever she desires. There is no control here, no bounds or shackles, only the freedom to choose.
They reach the bed, and she slides atop the mattress, intent on making her decision physically clear, as those sorts of words have always been her weakness.
Though her intention is quite clear, Shepard never engages Miranda first. She only responds, replies. There is no initiative from her; the night is Miranda's to do with what she will. To express the emotions she needs to express, to feel the weight she has always so successfully hidden from.
She takes the job to heart, because it is all she has left to offer, and because god she has missed this.
The map she had carefully chartered in her mind's eye, the one that so intimately held the design of Shepard's every dip and curve, is rendered useless. Months of experience dissolves into a distant memory. The woman is uncharted territory now, ground that needs to be rediscovered with gentle caresses and careful concentration.
The reactions aren't the same. The familiar sites don't quiver in quite the same way, the places that once were vulnerable resist manipulation.
But the warmth is there.
The fire, the feeling of belonging, it is passing between them with wild abandon. It is frantic. It is needy.
It is familiar.
Every touch invigorates her, reminds her of what she had feared losing. What she had almost lost because of that fear.
That was the past. This is the present. The present with her and Shepard and endless nights to experience together, getting reacquainted and growing infinitely closer until there is no longer any distance between them. Until their souls are lain out for one another perfectly, honestly, because no matter how hard to come by trust is, they have earned it equally.
Everything else is forgotten by the pair, everything but each other.
The pain is abandoned, as very quickly Shepard begins to forget to wince when her still tender injuries are touched.
The memories of fear are cast aside, as very quickly Miranda forgets what was ever possibly frightening about this.
And the promise made to a pleading nurse to spend the coming weeks on strict bed rest is pleasantly broken with gusto.
Her flawless, porcelain skin rolls against the charred scars of Shepard's and she hardly registers the change in sensation because it is them. The very same them that for six painful, excruciating, weeks she had thought completely lost because a lump of breathing charcoal on a hospital bed was too mangled to be identified.
They move together for longer than they ever have before. More intensely, more furiously, more passionately. Never pausing, never wavering, never faltering, and never stopping until utter exhaustion halts their movements.
Everything is different, everything has changed.
And yet, as Miranda lay in the familiar hold, basking in the heavy weight of affection that has so unbelievably been surrendered to her alone, she knows things are so very much the same.
Nothing has changed at all.