Hello! Firstly, to anyone who is reading my other Mass Effect Fic I'm really sorry about the major delay but I'm not going to be continuing that one. I will, however, be incorporating the ideas from that one into this one. There will similarities in the plot line, but the telling will be different. After re-reading it I decided that I wasn't exploring what I wanted to with the conflicts within Miranda's character and I couldn't do that with 'One Final Loyalty.'
Secondly, I just want to apologise to anyone who has subscribed/favorited/read/looked at/loved/hated 'One Final Loyalty' and I hope this one explores whatever it was that you enjoyed about OFL.
Thirdly, this story will progress towards some more mature themes, I will try and have it so that you can skip out any sections if you are uncomfortable with them, but if I can't do that I will warn you at the start of the chapter. For now though, it remains pretty safe. There's not even bad language!
Fourthly, if you haven't already, please go and check out LivingLow's stories; in particular 'Hellhound', its a great look at an alternative Shepard/Miranda relationship. (Shameless plug over. Seriously though, his work is amazing.)
So here goes, attempt two - hopefully better than than the first one.
Disclaimer - All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story - i.e. darkangel447. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers - Bioware and E.A - of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
Commander John Shepard sat in his room, his right hand wrapped around the edge of his desk as Dr. Chakwas finished stitching his left side. His reckless sprint from the disintegrating Collector base to jumping the seven feet gap before landing on the edge of the Normandy had taken its toll on his body. The crash, resulting in three broken and two cracked ribs, as well as a purple and blue bruise that extended from just below his armpit to his hip bone, and a deep cut tracing from just above his navel around to the edge of his floating rib from where his side had smashed into the edge of the Normandy, was, in Dr Chakwas words, 'the stupidest thing Shepard had even done.'
Shepard stared at the fish tank, waiting for the slight sting followed by a sharp pull as the needle entered his skin and the exited again. It had been a long time since he'd had any wounds properly treated, preferring instead to slap some medigel on and hope for the best. There wasn't exactly time during a fire fight to ensure cuts and scrapes were sewn up. It was for precisely this reason that his torso, arms and legs were littered with a myriad of marks; his back and face remaining relatively unscathed. But then, his internal reasoning broke through, he wasn't in line to be a model. What did a few scars matter anyway?
Shepard hissed, sucking air in between his teeth, as the thread pulled the skin back together.
'This will sting' Dr Chakwas said, a hint of annoyance and anger evident in her tone as she finished tying and cutting off the suture before applying a liberal coating of medigel to seal the wound against infection. There was another, more metallic hiss as the door opened and Miranda walked in, her hips swaying in her trademark way. 'Let that dry in the air, and I'll come back in half an hour to dress it properly to bind the broken bones and try and prevent scaring.'
Chakwas stood smartly up, threw the empty medigel packet into her bag and marched out of the room.
'Thanks Doc.' Shepard replied to an empty room, just as the doors hissed shut.
Miranda smiled and shook her head as Shepard proceeded to gingerly prod the area coated by medigel, his knuckles whitening as his right hand flexed around the desk edge, the only indication that his side hurt more than he had originally told the good doctor.
'You do know that won't help.' Miranda's cool Australian accent chided with well disguised mirth.
'Yeah, well' Shepard stalled 'It wasn't supposed to hurt that much.'
Miranda folded her arms, pushing her left hip out as she leant all her weight on her right side, a smile still playing across her features.
'She worries about you, you know.' Shepard stopped inspecting the cut, turning to regard Miranda with an eyebrow raised. 'More than in a doctor/patient way,' Miranda elaborated.
'And you know this how?' Shepard replied, turning his attention back to the stitches and continuing to applying a gentle pressure to the surrounding bruise.
The soft click of Miranda's heels on the corrugated steel floor was the only warning Shepard got. In three steps she had arrived at his side and batted his hand away from the slowly healing cut. She kneeled down beside him, her left forearm coming to rest on Shepard's leg, her fingers tapping the outside of his thigh.
'Because it's true of everyone.' She wasn't looking at him, instead becoming increasingly interested in the nails on her right hand. 'Everyone cares about you Shepard. Doctor Chakwas can just show it in a more ... medical way.' She looked at him again, eyes flitting to his and then away again, 'She's annoyed that you keep injuring yourself, and she's worried that one day you'll hurt yourself and she won't be able to fix it.'
She pushed herself to her feet as she said this, turning away from him, refolding her arms. Shepard watched her before replying with a small smile;
'I was dead once. It didn't work out so well for me.'
He heard Miranda sigh; saw the gentle rise of her shoulders as she drew more air than normal into her lungs. Shepard continued to watch her back, before reflecting on his own mortality seriously for what felt the first time. He had always accepted that death was a possibility, for him or his team. He had left Kaidan Alenko on Virmire, and he had lost Jack to the Collectors. But there had always been a greater cost, too high to pay; humanity and the universe had to be protected. He would accept any punishment, even death, if it meant an end to the Reapers. However, there was a flaw in his reasoning - he had assumed that he would cause his own death, or the death of team members who knew what they signed on for, but despite every member of the Normandy being prepared for the possibility of death, Shepard had never dwelled on any surviving members. He had always stopped at the thought of his death, not exploring the idea that others would carry on without him. Team members left behind, having to live knowing that other lives were sacrificed; survivors guilt. He knew it; had experienced it - but the thought of being helpless was one that plagued him at night, worming its way into his dreams, chasing them into nightmares.
'You should still be careful, Commander. There may come a time when even I cannot re-build you.'
Shepard noticed the slight hint of ice in her tone, the way her consonants became clipped, her full stops became harsher and the return to his honorific became more pronounced. She sounded almost disappointed in his attitude, as if he was again a cadet at military camp, learning tactics with paintballs and enjoying himself far too much.
He smiled at the memory, closing his eyes as the wash of emotions flowed over him; the smell of crushed earth as he crouched in the reeds by a stream, the taste of the fog-littered spring air with the hint of deep green forests, the sound as his paintball found its target - the click of the trigger, the crack of the projectile leaving the barrel, the muffled thump as it hit his opponents vest.
He opened his eyes to find Miranda watching him, arms still folded, one eye brow raised in a characteristic expression. They watched each other, engaged in a game of mental chess, waiting to see who would make the first move, who would speak first. Shepard was very aware of the sound of his breath in his ears; a slight throbbing at the base of his hairline as he became more aware of his body.
For her part, Miranda was content to let the gravity of her previous statement sink in. The Lazarus project had been a singularly difficult thing to complete, she doubted whether she could replicate the results a second time. Shepard's cavalier attitude to the preservation of his own health was some cause for concern. Despite his determination to survive anything, Miranda seriously doubted that Shepard would pass through the coming battles unscathed and she wasn't ready to lose another friend.
Could he even be called that; a friend was someone you trusted, offered support and was typically excluded from sexual relations. After their night in the engine room, Shepard had definitely crossed that particular boundary.
The touch of skin against skin. Fingers tracing ribs and muscle outlines. The taste of salt and sweat in the air. Lips pressed against her shoulder, breath leaving a tingling sensation on skin; a whispered name and a chaste reply.
Miranda blinked from the memory, uncertain of its meaning, unsure of the consequences.
Shepard continued to watch Miranda. He saw her eyes glaze over, something playing behind the film. An emotional score that would end too soon. As quickly as she had left, Miranda returned her attention to the room, her eye's meeting Shepard's in a well concealed questioning glance. For the first time since entering the room she appraised Shepard with a clinical eye.
His armour had been removed, and the tight, form fitting webbing that had once protected his skin from the metal lay crumpled, in a ruined heap by the bathroom door. He had pulled some jeans on, along with a pair of old work boots, but his torso remained unclothed. During their brief pairing on the forth floor, Miranda had failed to notice the numerous cuts, scrapes, bruises and scars he had accumulated since his revival. Firstly she noticed a small, pebble-dashed area on the right side of his lower abdomen that told of his disagreement with a charging Krogan's shotgun: it would likely continue down across his hip and upper thigh. A pair of thin vertical scars ran across the centre of his left pectoral; possibly a rogue varren attack, while a horizontal burn, about a finger's width across, traced his right bicep; an incendiary round that had not missed its target. The rest of his chest and left arm were clear of any injury, but his right shoulder and abdomen boasted a blue and purple mottled masterpiece. His recent gash and bruise completed the ensemble.
Shepard did not seem abashed by her attention; on the contrary he became very still as she traced her eyes over his body. He was aware that she was not coveting him, not hungering after him physically, but instead observing him as a surgeon does a patient, the way an artist does a painting. She was mentally fixing and correcting her own work; perfecting in her minds eye what she could not replicate physically.
Soon enough, Miranda's eyes found Shepard's; blue-grey fixing on mahogany brown. It was Shepard who broke the reverie.
'Not as smart as I once was.' He lazily gestured to his body with his left hand as he spoke, 'but at least everything still works.' He pushed himself up from the chair with his right hand, his left hand clutching his freshly stitched side. He groaned as the stitches stretched slightly; Miranda instinctively took half a step forward unfolding her arm, ready to catch Shepard if needed. 'Well, mostly' Shepard concluded, finally allowing his left arm to drop away from his side.
Miranda smiled at this; it was so uniquely Shepard. His lop-sided grin, his slightly raised eyebrow, his caviler remark. All testament to his underlying attitude; life was one big joke. And if she thought about it hard enough or long enough, Miranda was certain she could convince herself of the same thing; that life was amusing and fate had a very twisted sense of humour. However, with her background, her training and even her current situation, Miranda could never truly let go of the enormous responsibility that surrounded everyone on this ship.
That was Shepard's gift.
He could let go, forget about the world beyond the Normandy and dream of a happier place. Miranda did not have that resolve. She pondered these thoughts as Shepard began to work through a tentative series of stretches, twisting his upper body to the left and right as he kept his feet planted shoulder width apart.
Midway through the third set, breaking into their companionable silence, the metallic hiss sounded again, announcing Doctor Chakwas' return to the room.
'I thought I told you to leave that alone' She stated in her firm, bedside manner. 'If you keep stretching the stitches they will eventually snap, Shepard.' She motioned to the desk chair and had him return to his original seated position.
Her cool, gloved hands began applying pressure around the wound, asking if this hurt, or that hurt while Shepard grunted his response.
'The gel is beginning to have an effect, however the best remedy for this type of injury is rest.' She looked Shepard directly in the eye as she said this. 'I mean it Commander. The more you over exert yourself, the more likely it is that one of these ribs will splinter or re-break, leading to a punctured lung, a haemorrhaged diaphragm or a a lacerated artery.' She pushed Shepard's left arm upwards so that it was held parallel to the floor. 'Hold this,' she commanded, pushing a long bandage into his left hand.
She removed a rectangular section of gauze from its sterile packaging and placed it over the stitches. Removing Shepards right hand from the desk she placed it firmly over the dressing. 'Keep that there,' the doctor ordered, before delving back onto her bag and pulling some microporous adhesive tape from her bag. She ripped it into similar length pieces before taping the gauze into place. Shepard sighed a bored sigh as she worked, before Doctor Chakwas batted away the hand holding the dressing in place. She took the bandage from his hand and began winding it around his lower abdomen.
'You might find that it moves, or rides up, but provided you take my advice and don't do anything overly strenuous, it should stay in place for a few days. I'll need to remove it and check the stitches again then and possibly re-bandage, depending on how well the ribs have set.'
She rose to her feet in one smooth motion, taking her bag as she did so.
'Goodnight, Commander.' She turned to leave, nodding at Miranda as she passed. 'Miranda.'
It was Miranda who replied, 'Thank you, Doctor. For everything.' The two women shared a sad look, and with a quiet hiss, Doctor Chakwas left.
Shepard pushed himself to a standing position again and stretched his arms above his head, quickly stopping and grasping his side as he moved to far. Miranda hadn't moved this time, instead taking up her vigil again, arms crossed, weight to one side.
'I should probably be heading down stairs' Miranda began, 'We have a lot of work to do before we brief the council. I'll have your documents and reports ready for you, Commander.' She turned to leave, but a set of strong fingers curled around her upper arm and forced her to turn around. Her momentum carried her into Shepard's sculpted body her palms landing on squarely on his chest. She sighed, trying to suppress a grin, her mouth working to hide her mirth as she refused to return Shepard's look.
'You could do that.' Shepard mused out loud, trying to catch her eye as he used his body to turn them around and walk her backwards towards his bed. 'Or' he paused for emphasis 'You could just stay here with me instead.'
'I could.' She replied, mimicking his playfulness sliding her hands down towards his navel, 'Or I could just do this.' With practiced ease she moved her left hand across Shepard's abdomen and applied a gentle pressure to his freshly dressed cut. Shepard's breathing hitched and he instinctively straightened up as he felt Miranda's thumb press into one of his stitches.
'That, was below the belt.' He replied, making no move to reduce the pressure, despite the slight quivering in his breathing.
'Not quite, Commander.' Miranda responded, moving her right leg to rest between the Commander's. 'But it could be.' She continued to apply a force to his stitches while wrapping her right leg around his left, and raising her thigh to press against Shepard's crotch. He coughed at this, gingerly looking down as Miranda applied more pressure.
In one quick move, Shepard untangled himself from Miranda's leg and stepped smartly backwards. He folded his arms, and rested one leg slightly out in in front. With a half smile he watched as she closed the distance between them, her face a hair's breadth from his own. She had a triumphant smile playing across her features.
'Until next time, Commander.' Miranda whispered, her smooth accent evident at even this volume. She closed the gap and pressed her lips against his. She smiled against him and then pulled away, sauntering out of his quarters, hips swaying.
She didn't even look back as the steel doors hissed shut behind her.
Ooooerr. Yeah, there we go. Chapter One is up and sorted. Any mistakes are entirely mine as I have not re-read as many times as I perhaps should, so if anyone notices one (or many) please do let me know and I'll do my best to put it right. There will be a couple more chapters in this immediate time frame, and then there will be a larger time gap, and the some more stuff will happen. I don't want to give too much away, but there will hopefully be some surprises, and at a later date, we will even get to see Shepard's dancing skills; some of our favourite character's will return, but this will not be a big epic adventure - its more of a character exploration, seeing how far I can push the characters in one direction and seeing if they are still, well, them.
As this is predominantly a character piece, if anyone feels that the characters are out of 'character' (for want of a better word) please, please, please do let me know! As always, reviews are much appreciated.
Thanks for reading.
Dark
(Word Count: 3,156)