A/N: For Robb1068, who has been a tireless supporter and whose reviews and insights have resulted in many improvements to my fics. I hope this meets with your approval…
What's Next?
"Today's the day, right?"
"For what, exactly?"
"Today's the day I get out of here."
"My my, Commander, I didn't realise you'd qualified as an MD during your convalescence."
"Funny, I wasn't aware that was a qualification you held either. Major."
"As it happens, my honours subjects at university were biochemistry and biomedical technology, and I did my genetics degree at night school."
"I'm not hearing the word medicine anywhere in there."
"And two years spent developing the techniques that would make you the galaxy's most expensive iteration of Frankenstein's monster taught me the rest."
"I'm still not seeing the initials MD anywhere on the horizon. I want a real doctor."
'Major' Miranda Lawson paused and met the mischievous gaze of her patient with narrowed eyes. "Do you really want a real doctor up here?" She let the threat hang, and nodded in satisfaction when her suitably cowed companion shook her head.
"No," Commander Rachel Shepard admitted. "Chakwas is even less likely to let me out than you are. I'll take my chances with you, Dr. Frankenstein."
Miranda smiled, magnanimous in victory. "Be patient, Shep. I'm encouraged that you feel well enough to be frustrated, but you are almost out of here. It won't be today, but maybe the day after tomorrow, or the day after that. Your test results aren't quite where I want them."
"But I feel fine. Better than fine. A little tired, maybe, but there's no pain."
"I'll be the judge of your condition, thanks all the same."
"Are you getting training from Karin? Jesus, you even sound like her."
"As Dr. Chakwas is a consummate professional, I'll take that as a compliment."
"I don't suppose the flattery will get me anywhere?"
"Nice try." Miranda grinned evilly. "No. Listen, I know all the waiting's giving you both blue balls... what's so funny?"
Shepard's snort of laughter echoed round the room. "Blue… but no balls," she forced out between chuckles, and Miranda shook her head.
"Grow up, will you? Anyway, Liara's waited for you this long, she can wait a little longer. And besides, I really don't think your stamina's going to be up to all that fantastic reunion sex you're fantasizing about."
"All the more reason to get in training," Shepard quipped.
"I'm going to have to get Liara to tie you down, aren't I?"
"Actually, I think she'd enjoy that. Maybe a little too much. Last time… well, you don't need to know. But I'm up for it, as long as I get to be in the room when you tell her."
"Fine," Miranda shot back. "As long as I get to bring Aethyta along." Miranda grinned as Shepard's smirk slipped. "Don't worry, I wouldn't really do that to you. But I promise, you'll be fit enough to celebrate your release from purgatory properly."
"Thanks, Miri." Shepard smiled softly. "But seriously, that's not it. Or that's not only it. I just... I want my life back. I want to be out of this damn hospital, away from this city." She flapped a hand at the window, where the downed Reaper that commanded the horizon cast a long shadow towards the hospital. "Away from that bastard." She sighed, her face falling into a downcast frown. "I won't be able to forget, I know that, but even for a little while, I'd like to be able to just sit on my ass someplace pretty and imagine for a few hours that the galaxy isn't completely fucked, and that I can give Liara something approaching the happy ever after she deserves."
"So you're planning to make an honest woman her, are you?"
"I think she might have beaten me to the punch with that. By asari standards, anyway. But yeah, that's the plan." Shepard sighed. "I never imagined doing anything of the sort, y'know?"
"What, getting married?"
"No," Shepard chuckled. "Proposing. The whole grand romantic gesture thing."
"Yet somehow you don't seem the type to have been waiting for some dashing stranger to sweep you off your feet."
"Hardly. I just figured it would be a decision, made in a conversation, something he and I would just work out in the course of being together."
"He and you?" Miranda arched a sardonic eyebrow to punctuate her observation.
Shepard scratched at her neck, blushing slightly. "I haven't had that many other relationships, and they were all with guys. It may have coloured my viewpoint a little when thinking of marriage. But that's beside the point. I didn't think I'd want the big fuss."
"And now you do?"
"Now I want it for Liara." Shepard's blush deepened. "Sad, I know, but... God, our whole relationship has been framed by this war. Nothing about it has been normal. I've put her through hell, twice..."
"That was hardly your fault," Miranda interjected. "Either time."
"It's not about fault. She's suffered as a result of her relationship with me. Simple fact. So I'd like to try and redress that, now that we actually have a chance to define what we want the next chapter of our lives to be." Shepard sighed. "You'll tell me if I'm being pathetic, right?"
"You're being pathetic," Miranda jibed, but her heart wasn't in it. In all honesty, Shepard's relationship with Liara was something she envied. For all that she was happy for her friend, a dry, cynical little voice at the back of her mind took great delight in pointing out that she'd never had any kind of relationship, romantic, platonic, or otherwise, that came anywhere close to what the commander and her bondmate shared. And then the voice would remark that it was hardly surprising, given that she could barely cultivate anything beyond a professional relationship or a lust-driven coupling of convenience. Her ill-fated attempt at real relationship with Jacob had been wonderful and terrible in equal measure; his compassion and generosity in being able to move past her aggravation at her own failures and continue their association had made his eventual friendship all the more precious, and all the more painful to lose. Still, the disappointment had been sufficient to make her finally give up on the notion of romance, reasoning that it was safer and more productive to simply treat sex as a commodity and avoid the kind of emotional connections she wasn't comfortable dealing with. Shepard had cracked that logical, chilly shell, Oriana had torn the fissures wider, and now, surrounded as she was by the easy affection and camaraderie of Shepard's family and friends, a new, wistful little voice in her mind was making itself heard, letting it be known that yes, actually, it thought Miranda might quite like that. Maybe one day, when things are a little more settled and...
"Earth to Miranda." Shepard's voice drew her from her thoughts, and she focused to see the other woman looking at her with the beginnings of a concerned frown tracing lines in her brow.
"What?"
"You OK, Miri? You were a long way away."
"Yes, of course, just… thinking."
"Yeah, there's been a lot of that going around," Shepard noted, scratching her scarred forearm absently.
"Stop scratching," Miranda chided.
"It's still itchy."
"What are you, five? Stop scratching."
Shepard grinned bashfully. "Yes, ma'am." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing really," Miranda hedged, then, as Shepard pursed her lips and cocked a sceptical eyebrow, she added "well, maybe wondering about the future a little."
"Yeah. We've been geared toward this goal for what feels like forever, and now it's done, so where do we go from here, right? What's next?"
Miranda started slightly, the familiar phrase echoing through her memories. What's next, the impatient rebuff from her father on the rare occasions she'd ever spoken to him. What's next, the Illusive Man's favourite phrase in meetings, a way to underline that he cared only for future successes, and that past results were nothing more than ancient history. What's next, Shepard's shorthand for keeping her team focused on outcomes and progress, building momentum, but a question understood by all under her command to be open to any topic, any concern, personal or professional, trivial or momentous.
What's next?
For the first time in almost twenty years, Miranda was unable to answer that question.
"Anyway, getting you back on your feet is my main priority. I'll worry about after that, after that," she deflected before Shepard could press. In all honesty, it was starting to prey on her mind. While she trusted in Admiral Hackett's integrity, her position was vulnerable. Shepard was ready to leave; her implants and nanotech support system was almost as optimised as Miranda could make it with the equipment she had available, and the accelerated healing rate they imbued meant that the commander was rapidly approaching the point where exercise and normal day to day mobility were necessary for continued improvement. And once her friend walked out the door for a well-deserved stretch of R and R, Miranda's position would be even more precarious. She knew too well that institutional gratitude had a short half-life, and that Hackett, while influential, was not necessarily the biggest kid in the playground. Without Shepard present to throw her weight around, there would be no guarantees. In order to protect herself, and Oriana, she knew she'd be best served by moving on, quickly vanishing without trace into the damp, dusty dark of the London night before anyone wised up.
And go where? The small, snide voice of her cynicism whispered the inescapable question. And do what?
She had no answer; the enormity of that realisation reared up like a spooked brumby. All her life there had been a purpose, a goal. Pleasing her father, then escaping him. Serving Cerberus. Meticulous study and training, countless successful operations, rising to become Illusive Man's most trusted adjutant. Two years leading the most ambitious medical project ever undertaken by humankind, then the hunt for the Collectors to test the mettle of her handiwork. (That was how she'd viewed it at the time, never imagining the constellation of truths her jaunt to the centre of the galaxy would unveil.) Almost another year opposing Cerberus while hunting her father, fighting the Reapers as and when they intersected with her targets. The final push over Sol to buy Shepard the time to perform one more miracle; then her own contribution, rebuilding Shepard once again; not for the cerebral challenge, this time, the thrill of the intellectual hunt, but for friendship. For the fierce desire to see her courageous, stubborn, foolhardily noble best friend have a chance to enjoy the victory she'd been prepared to die again to secure.
And now… now there was nothing. No mission, no strategy, no goal, just life, stretching out in front of her without a map or a signpost. Everything she'd counted as immutable had been uprooted in the last year, all of her plans and schemes laid waste by either her own actions in quitting Cerberus, or the cataclysm unleashed by the war. She had nothing to do, nowhere to go, not even the first inkling, in this moment, of what lay ahead.
She wasn't sure she liked it much.
"Miranda?" Shepard said quietly, drawing her once more back to the moment.
"Yes?"
"Thinking again?"
Miranda smiled wryly. "No fooling you, is there?"
"Oh, I don't know about that," Shepard demurred. "But listen… will you do something for me?"
"Anything." The confession slipped out, unguarded, uncensored, and Miranda blushed, but made no attempt to add conditions, caveats or excuses as she held Shepard's gaze. This was the one person in the galaxy she could allow such an intimate insight.
Shepard nodded, accepting the burden of Miranda's faith with a small smile. "Don't run," she requested.
"What?"
"Don't run. Don't decide to jump before you're pushed, don't rush into a course of action before I've turned around twice."
"Shep, I…"
"No excuses. Don't disappear on me, Miri," Shepard commanded gently. "I've lost too many friends lately." Her green eyes held a plea far more eloquent than words, and Miranda nodded slowly. She could give that much.
"I won't run," she promised. "I can't stay here forever, though."
"I'm not asking that. Just give me a little time to get my shit together, OK?"
"OK," Miranda agreed. "Since you asked so nicely."
"My Mom brought me up right," Shepard chuckled, leaving Miranda once again in awe of the other woman's unerring instinct for when a joke or a light touch of sarcasm would prevent an awkward silence or too candid a truth.
"Your Mom is an amazing woman," she retorted with a chuckle of her own. "Far smarter than you, for starters."
"No argument here," Shepard grinned.
Miranda's omni-tool chirped, and she opened her message interface to see a new incoming mail. "Well, Admiral Hackett's asking to see you. Apparently he and Councilor Tevos have something they want to discuss."
"Yeah," Shepard nodded. "Ask him if tomorrow suits. I'm a bit tired for a long and involved wrangle right now."
"Sure thing." Miranda tapped out a quick reply, and smiled at Shepard. "So, how are you going to manage this proposal business?"
"Well," Shepard looked away, smiled, then looked back, "as usual, I'm going to need the help of my friends. Are you up for one more mission, Miss Lawson?"
"Always, Commander Shepard."