But you're making sure I was lying when I said I can leave this behind
I was lying when I said I believe in clean breaks
- Dashboard Confessional
His fingers twitch and drum a quick cadence on the cheap table next to his thinly disguised hospital bed. The bright pillowcases and thick quilt can't change the awkward angle or the flimsy plastic bars that highlight exactly where he's stuck. They must think he's stupid. Joker scowls. The familiar hazy fog of painkillers pumping through his system has mostly faded now, leaving sharp clarity in its wake. He pinpoints the lingering sting of the deep needle puncture where the IV had been removed... recently. He runs his finger lightly over the mark and hums, glaring at the bright fluorescent lights and cheap off-white paint that will never manage to hide the harsh metallic walls. Hospitals always reckon that the soft pastels will be comforting, somehow, ease the healing process, but he grew up on Arcturus and the sharp rivets and cold utility of space station construction signals "home" to him. He knows it's there, under the peeling patch jobs, easy enough to see. He itches at the grooves in the wall like he itches the leg that feels stiff underneath the cast that immobilizes it. The minor breaks have all healed; it's only this one - the bad one - left. He knows from experience that it will spike to a level of agony just under unbearable if he puts any pressure on it by attempting to stand or walk. He stares at the shadows chased into the corner of the ceiling and considers attempting anyway.
He's never been one to hurt himself on purpose; it happens enough by mistake. Simple things that people take for granted have landed him in places like this one far more often than he wants to count.
He can't sit still in this place anymore. He can't move either. And the only thing that hurts worse than his shattered bones are the memories that chase him in the darkness. Physical pain is an easy distraction, and one he knows far too intimately to be easily intimidated by it.
The doctors that follow him are more than just the ones who are interested in fixing his broken body. He's stonewalled dozens of psychologists since they pulled him from the escape pod over Alchera, since Shepard's death had been first rumored and then confirmed by the ANN reports on the monitor they'd pulled down from his wall with a muted argument they'd probably figured he couldn't hear. Wires still dangle from the hole they'd left behind. Joker stares at them and taps his fingers up and down again. It's a repetitive, thoughtless motion, but motion helps to calm him, makes him feel like he's going somewhere even if he isn't.
He stills his hand just long enough to fumble for the datapad at the edge of the table. He catches it just before it falls and pulls it toward him, but no matter how many times he swipes his finger across the screen or keys in his access code, it only flashes black and spits him back to the main login entry. The frustration is enough to make him scream. The scream brings not the nurse he was expecting but a man in crisp dress blues.
Joker swallows hard and salutes. People give him crap for his attitude all the time, but he still can't shake off the ingrained necessity of protocol, respect for the chain of command. Not to mention the fact that Captain Anderson does always sound slightly pissed off when they talk. If he's here, it can't be for any good reason. So he relaxes only slightly when Anderson gives him a grim nod and sags into the seat next to his bed.
"I'm locked out, Captain," he says softly, pushing the datapad toward the other man.
"I know, son," Anderson replies, without looking at it.
Joker frowns. Anderson's always pulled out the paternalistic card with Shepard, but with him? "What's going on?"
Anderson recites a canned speech about integrating humanity into the wider galactic community more fully, about re-evaluating assets now that the Alliance Fleet no longer has to fend for itself, about stepping up to take their place as leaders. He even manages to make it sound half-genuine. But Joker scowls, seeing clear through the bullshit. "You can't do this," he screams, as though it's Anderson's fault. Well maybe it is. These new orders haven't gone into effect yet, so until further notice he's still regarding the Captain as his C.O. "I'm the best damned pilot in the Fleet and you know it! You can't ground me!"
"You're not grounded," Anderson demands, sounding tired. "You've been reassigned."
"To Arcturus," Joker reiterates. It means that even after he gets out of this hospital he'll be stuck here. "And Kaidan's pushing files around on the Citadel."
"As am I."
"Yeah, but that's different. You're -"
"Military advisor to our esteemed first Human Councilor Udina. And about to be promoted to Admiral, too. You'll be at the ceremony, won't you?"
"Um..."
Anderson smiles, but Joker can hear the bitterness in his words, because it matches what he feels exactly. "I promise you that my new position is not any less a punishment than yours."
"This isn't right," Joker demands. Anderson nods, agrees, but says nothing. It isn't enough. "You stole the Normandy! Surely you're not going to roll over now. Let them..." Shepard died, whispers the voice in Joker's head, and that whisper brings it all back: the memories, the screaming. His still-fractured leg throbs in time with the guilt and the grief, spiking up sharper as the medicines that had once dulled the pain continue to fade out of his system. Shepard died a hero, saved the Citadel and the lives of the ungrateful bastards on the Council, lost dozens of Alliance ships to do it. "We can't just let them pretend that the Normandy - that Shepard... people died, Captain," Joker finally manages to choke out. "People died, and they mattered."
The expression on Anderson's face softens to a sympathetic little frown. In this moment, Joker can begin to understand why Shepard trusted him at the start, in orbit over Mindoir when she was just a frightened kid.
"It's only for a little while," Anderson finally says. His voice is soft, but determined. "They can shove us into the darkest corners they can find, but they won't shut us up, will they?"
Joker just stares at him, barely refraining from rolling his eyes. This tacit permission to raise hell isn't enough, not when Anderson would've given Shepard a whole fleet if she asked. But he nods. "Yeah. Okay, Captain."
Anderson pats him on the shoulder and tells him to cheer up. But he says it with a voice that even clueless-when-it-comes-to-people Joker can read: tired and broken. Repeating it only because he knows it's what's expected of him.
If he were less useless, he'd know what to say, but all Joker can do is watch the soon-to-be Admiral drag himself out of the hospital room. When he's alone again, he glances down at the datapad, a dysfunctional brick in his hand. Joker hurls the pad across the room, and smiles in grim satisfaction as it shatters. Grounded. It's not the first time it's happened, obviously. It's not even uncommon.
Despite what he tells the officers about his condition not impacting job performance, the truth is that complications arising from Vrolik's Syndrome can easily knock him out of action for weeks at a time. He's a liability groundside in a far more significant way than most pilots. He has to be exceptionally careful on shore leave to the point where he goes out of his way to avoid the vacations everyone else looks forward to. He's used to sitting things out, watching from the sidelines, being asked again and again to prove himself. He rises to the challenge every time. But this is different. The Alliance doesn't want him anymore - not him, not any of them. The Normandy was Shepard's ship, and without her, they're all lost.