Commander Shepard. N7. Savior of the galaxy. Hero.

All those names and more she could hear echoing at the back of her head, and Shepard didn't believe she deserved many of those. Okay, sure, the Reapers were gone, and she was damn sure that was her influence, but at the same time, it hurt pretty badly to hear the Alliance... and much of the rest of the galaxy lauding her –and occasionally Kaidan, since it was no longer possible to keep the fact that the first human Spectres were pretty much married already- and seemingly ignoring the rest of her crew. Okay, so perhaps Tali was quite content keeping the spotlight off her as much as possible while she helped the Migrant Fleet and the geth rebuild Rannoch, but Shepard couldn't help but feel that the rest of the crew, from Traynor to Joker to Vega, deserved their turns in the spotlight.

Gingerly, the commander folded her arms, then leaned her head on them, slumping over a mostly neat desk. The apartment Anderson had given over to her made an ideal place to rest; it was open, there was room, and she wouldn't have to be alone.

Alone was bad, she'd decided, long ago. Alone meant she could hear Ashley, snarking away in the back of her mind about something Vega had done, or prodding her about the fact that Kaidan and Shepard had finally made moves at each other. Alone meant she could hear banshees screaming, under the traffic, and hands twitched for weapons she no longer carried. Alone meant she could hear Thessia's defenders, those brave asari, calling for help as they too are cut down- and all so Shepard could find some relic.

God above, it was bad enough she couldn't walk without limping, without running the risk of falling every other goddamn step, without feeling like her hip was going to tear itself apart again and even though the doctors had insisted on bed rest for a while longer, Shepard did not want to be stuck any longer than she had to. She felt weak, and she knew she wasn't as strong as she had been before. Shepard still had had a hard time feeling anything in her fingers, and she knew it was because the nerves were still mending. Her shoulders didn't flex as far as before, not yet, but she would be damned if she let herself atrophy further than she had during the hospitalization, during the physical therapy. If Shemer was anything, she was stubborn.

She should have died before she reached the Citadel, and she attributed the fact she didn't to the fact that humans were fucking tenacious. They clung to life like nothing else out there—sure, everything fought to live, but there was just something...

A chime sounds in the background, and without thinking, Shepard counts the number. -five, six, seven, eight. Another part of her reminds her she should clean up, limp about the house and at least make herself halfway more presentable than the shorts and Kaidan's shirt, but sometimes, why bother? It was only going to be her crew, and she didn't mind them being around in any capacity. Shepard looked forward to the times when her crew –all of them- came around to visit. The galaxy didn't feel as empty, as shattered. She may not be captain of the Normandy anymore, but they had become her fire-forged family, and Shepard missed them like hell when they weren't around.

A door chime interrupted her reveries, and Shepard lifted her head up, blinking owlishly in the sudden light. When it rang again, the tiniest of smiles flitted across her features, and she dragged the back of a hand across her face. "Just a moment!"

Calloused palms provide leverage as Shepard heaved herself to her feet, pausing to gather her unsteady balance and wincing as she feels the mostly healed joints shift under her weight. Bare feet find purchase on the wood floors, and Shepard eases her way down the stairs, to the front door. A perfunctory glance, and she leans gently on the switch, sending the door open with a whoosh.