Author's note: Character death, angst. Small 'ficlet', in which someone dies and Shepard attempts to deal. It's just a passing thought written down, so is less than epic, but decided to put it out there anyway, because there can never be too much Shoker. (Joker/Shepard for ME3, please!)
Destiny Stolen
It wasn't supposed to be like this. This was supposed to be a time for her to breathe, to relax and even celebrate. The reapers were finally defeated, and her purpose and destiny were finally fulfilled. It was supposed to be drinks on the Citadel, medals from the Alliance and a big fat apology from the Council - and then running off with the Normandy as a parting gift. That was the plan – and that's what she deserved, damn it!
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
Every news feed she had passed by on her way back, had been telling about the seemingly endless relief and celebration in the ruins of the cities, of the Alliance glorifying her as a hero and the Council piling endless amounts of support behind her. It was exactly how she planned it and how she wanted it. But not like this. Not in the hollow and broken world, where nothing was at its rightful place and people stole each other's destiny. She wasn't supposed to be alive, not really. She had died once before, and had honestly believed she would die again – and she was alright with that. Not with this.
It wasn't supposed to be her, sitting in the cold leather seat, twirling his stupid hat in her useless hands, ignoring the hot trail of tears down her cheeks. It was not, it was not, it was not! Stupid hat, stupid life, stupid Joker.
She wasn't supposed to have cradled his broken, lifeless body in her hands with his cap lying on the ground no longer super-glued to his head. She wasn't supposed to hear people talk, but not being able to listen. She wasn't supposed to feel like this; broken and alone. No, no, no! Stupid victory, stupid reapers, stupid Joker.
This was his hat, his leather seat and his Normandy.
It was her purpose, her destiny and her death.
It wasn't supposed to be him, leaving his chair to steal her death. The burning in her lungs as she gasps for air, surrounds her and it hurts. No, please, anyone but him. Not the one, who watches stupid sci-fi flicks with her late night, and steals kisses when no one is watching. Not the one who would follow her through hell itself, but never allow her to wear his hat. Not the one who takes her out for dinner, then when she comes back from the bathroom has eaten all her fries. Not the one who insists her penchant for pets on the Normandy is sick, yet gives her a robot dog and names him Udina.
Stupid Shepard, stupid love, stupid Joker.