Alternate title: "Oh no, I'm gay!"
For this delightful kinkmeme prompt: masseffectkink dot livejournal dot com/9521 dot html?view=45260337#t45260337
See summary for the main points. However, anon specified some bonus content:
+ Shepard obliviously turning poor Miranda on when she bends over to pick up something, when she works out, etc.
+ Miranda's shower is broken, so she showers in the women's bathroom, and Shepard walks in for her own shower.
+ Jack noticing and making fun.
+ Oblivious Shepard.
+ Tsundere Miranda.
1.
Miranda Lawson has spent five point eight percent of her life staring at Commander Jane Shepard's inert body. Five point eight percent of her life spent burning a three-dimensional portrait of the woman into her brain. Nanometer by nanometer, up, over, and deep. Watching fresh, wet blood perfuse her shriveled cells. Watching her lungs rise and fall. Watching gas concentrations bloom and fade on the monitors.
Now that body is up and moving and talking to her and she doesn't know quite what to do. The rhythm of her life over the last two years has been knocked permanently off-beat.
Shepard herself is disoriented, a little unsteady, but coping. Given the content of her CV, she's probably become accustomed to finding herself in completely insane situations. The questions she asks Jacob are blunt and to the point. She even cracks a dry one-liner.
Miranda feels a flush of— something. Pride? The long, grinding hours spent staring at tangled masses of neurons under the electron microscope, the permanent ache in her back and neck, all the times she just stopped and put her head down on her desk and wondered what the hell she was even trying to do—
It worked. She did it. Commander Shepard is alive and awake and alert and herself.
Shepard straightens up to her full, improbable height, and looks over directly at Miranda. Her gaze is intense. Intelligent. And alarmed.
Miranda blinks and tunes back in to the moment. Rewinds the last five seconds of overheard conversation through her brain.
Ah. "Cerberus."
When uncomfortable, Miranda falls back on habit. Crosses her arms. Hears her own voice going cold, clipped.
She's frequently uncomfortable. This situation isn't helping. Her subject— her project— five point eight percent of her life has just gotten up and walked away from her.
How about a 'thank you,' part of her wants to scream.
The rest of her thinks furious, impotent thoughts about that control chip she wasn't allowed to use.
It's impressive, watching her life's work at work. Shepard is strange combination of careful and tactical and utterly fearless, and it doesn't even make sense but Miranda and Jacob fall into her orbit anyway. Entire platoons of mechs crumble under their advance.
Shepard's face lights up when they find her former squadmate— going by vas Neema, now— but fades when the quarian makes it clear she won't be joining them. She flatly rejects Miranda's attempt to bring in the traumatized witness for interrogation. And she still gets that hard look on her face whenever someone says the word "Cerberus."
The scars are healing nicely, though. Wilson had thought it would take a lot longer for the epidermis to gel around the weave.
Shepard's happy to see Chakwas and Moreau again. Smart move, recruiting them ahead of time; the Illusive Man had thought a few familiar faces would help her shed some of her native wariness.
The sheer delight in her voice when they reach Archangel knocks Miranda back.
(That's something else to be pissed off about, later. Vakarian? Her favorite squadmate? Seriously, no one in intel figured this out beforehand?)
When he agrees to join, Shepard— there's no other phrase for it— comes to life. Her whole body straightens. Her voice rises in pitch. She laughs. Steps forward and slaps the turian on his armored shoulder.
Irritating. They didn't want to provide her with this much support, so early on. They wanted her to have to start relying on the Cerberus crew. To rely on Miranda. To get used to her, to all of them, even if only as a necessary evil.
Shepard's cheeks are flushed, her eyes sparkling.
Miranda scowls out the window, and takes a dark satisfaction in trashing the first wave of Blood Pack.
Shepard comes to her office to talk to her. Her eyes are still wary, but her body language is open, friendly. Miranda tries to mirror her. To be welcoming, to the best of her limited ability.
It's still weird. Shepard's living, breathing body, watching her. Talking to her.
One of the many late nights alone in the lab, Miranda had started talking to herself. She'd been trying to brute force her way through a problem: a cellular matrix she'd implanted refused to connect to freshly cloned tissue. The matrix was sterile, porous, guaranteed by its manufacturer to meet specifications; the tissue was just regular god-damned fast-twitch muscle fiber, so what the hell was the matter with it—
Somehow, the sound of her own voice stopped her from going completely insane that night. She didn't solve the problem then, but figured it out after a long (and desperately needed) nap.
When she woke up, Shepard's stress hormones had lowered significantly, and her brainwave activity was stabilizing.
Miranda kept up the habit after that. Even turned it into a conversation, leaving pauses for Shepard's imaginary responses. In her head, by the end of it, they had become terrific work partners.
Thirty-five years old, and her best friend was imaginary.
Thirty-five and a half, and her best friend is now real, but doesn't remember any of it.
Oriana. Oriana. Oriana. Oriana.
She's safe. She's standing right there, across the plaza, with her family. Her posture is relaxed; she's smiling. Thank god. She's safe.
Miranda's shaky and drained, from nerves, and overuse of biotics, and from the deep, bitter ache of losing Niket twice; first to her father, then to Enyala. Almost to herself. She holds herself upright by sheer force of will.
"Go talk to her," Shepard says, and gives her a nudge.
It's the first time they've touched outside of combat. She looks up at Shepard.
Her life's work looks back at her, her eyes warm, her face crinkling in a smile. "Go on. You want to, don't you?"
There's no wariness in her expression at all.
"Yes," Miranda murmurs, surprised at the relief and happiness washing through her. "I do."
Miranda watches her all the more closely after that. Shepard circles through the ship, smiling, shaking hands, patting shoulders, bumping elbows. Dropping one-liners. Doing favors. Jacob doesn't say much, but after Aeia, she's pretty sure he'd follow Shepard anywhere.
She touches everyone. Everyone except her.
Miranda grabs a towel and gym clothes and goes down to the treadmill in the shuttle bay to run out her frustration.
Everyone loves her. Respects her. Everyone wants to follow her. Do things for her. Please her. Make her laugh, in that wide, delighted way she has.
Her feet thud against the mat.
The door hisses open. Shepard steps in, a towel slung over her shoulder and a water bottle in her hand, all freckled biceps and long, muscular legs. "Hey."
Miranda looks over at her, wide-eyed, misses a step, and almost face-plants on the treadmill bar.
"Sorry!" Shepard's at her side in a flash. "Didn't mean to startle you. You okay?"
"Fine," Miranda pants, clinging to the bar for dear life, feet planted on the edges of the platform. The treadmill whirrs emptily underneath her.
Shepard glances over at her numbers. "Wow. You're fast."
Miranda scrapes together what's left of her equilibrium. "Of course I am."
"And a hard worker," Shepard says, pointing at the count on the machine's timer. Damn. Had she really been down here that long?
"I don't want you running yourself ragged, Miranda. Uh, pun not intended. Here. Take a break." Shepard holds out her water bottle.
Miranda looks down at her for a moment, then powers off the machine, and takes it. Their fingertips brush.
"Thanks," she says. "Sometimes I can get a little... single-minded."
"I can tell," Shepard says. "It's an asset. As long as you have someone around to remind you to take care of yourself."
Like Shepard, constantly taking care of everyone. Equally kind to everyone. Human and alien and Cerberus alike.
Miranda tips her head back and gulps the water, not bothering to be elegant. Wipes her mouth on the back of her hand. A drop slides down her wrist.
"Thanks," she says again, and hands the bottle back.
Is she imagining it? Or does a flash of— something— cross Shepard's synthetic eyes? "Anytime."
Miranda watches her as she goes over to the weight rack. Shepard stacks an impressive number of plates onto the bar in the squat cage. Settles it over her shoulders, and steps out, arms flexed, legs taut.
Miranda doesn't need to stand there watching Shepard's muscles slide and bunch under the smooth, pale surface of her skin. She's done enough tests. She knows they work.
She pats her face dry, and leaves.
Miranda's losing it. She's losing the crew. Despite their grim purpose, the ship hums with good cheer; Hadley and Matthews rib each other as they move through the mess. Gardner drawls a hello, and Patel actually smiles at her as she passes by. Miranda almost smiles back before she catches herself.
No one is scared of her anymore. Shepard's invisible warmth has settled around them, one and all. She's charmed the krogan, softened the turian, reformed the convict. And now, for an encore, she's successfully humanized the perfect human.
The Illusive Man's private emails to her are becoming terse. Recruit her. By any means necessary. Find a way.
Even the bloody A.I. likes her. It makes Miranda sick with jealousy.
She feels herself opening up, whenever Shepard comes by to talk; her body relaxes, her face softens. She glows under Shepard's attention, like a plant stretching towards the sun. Finds herself smiling, for no reason, an hour afterwards. She hates every second of it.
The real woman outclasses her imaginary friend in every way, except one: now Miranda has to share.
She doesn't tell the Illusive Man about that part.
Miranda observes Shepard, takes note of her schedule, her little idiosyncrasies. She spends almost no time in her cabin. Works on mission reports in the mess hall. Uses the communal bathroom. She seems to hate being alone.
Miranda picks up her towel and shower caddy, firms her mouth, and steps out of her office.
In the women's room, she picks the stall second from the door, the one with the best light. Throws her towel over the edge. Pulls out her expensive, rosemary-scented shampoo.
"Operative Lawson, the shower in your quarters is fully operational."
"Thank you, EDI, I'm aware."
By any means necessary.
Shepard barges in, humming under her breath, towel over her arm. Miranda's facing forward, her back arched, her arms stretched up, working her hands through the mass of dark hair piled on top of her head. Expensive, rosemary-scented bubbles slide down her shining body.
The light is just so.
Shepard pauses. Swallows? "Miranda."
"Shepard," Miranda replies smoothly, and carries on.
When Shepard tosses her uniform over the edge of the stall next to hers, Miranda realizes she may not have thought this plan all the way through.
Water hisses. Shepard resumes humming. Her voice is low, smoky, pleasant.
Bare, freckly feet pad over the tile. Shepard stands in front of her, glistening and statuesque and— god. Miranda can feel her face heating up. Her heart kicks into double-time. "—Yes?"
"Can I borrow your shampoo? I have my own, but... yours smells amazing."
"It should," Miranda says, pink-cheeked. "It cost entirely too much." She hands over the bottle.
Shepard grins at her. Their fingers brush again. "Thanks."
Damnit.
Back in her office, hair still damp, she paces. Resists the urge to throw things. Which one of them is recruiting the other? Which one of them is seduci—
No. Don't be ridiculous. Shepard is one hell of a physical specimen; Miranda knows this better than anyone. That doesn't mean she wants to—
A knock on her door. She whirls. "Who is it?"
"Me."
Damnit!
The door hisses open. Miranda drops heavily into her desk chair. "What do you need?"
Shepard peers down at her. Wet clumps of hair curl around the curve of her cheek. "Nothing. Just wanted to check on you. You seem a little stressed, lately."
A bead of water falls down and splashes onto her shoulder.
Miranda drops her face into her hands.
"...How do you do it," she says, muffled.
"What?"
Miranda makes a vague, one-handed gesture at the ship surrounding them. "Everyone here looks up to you, you know. They love you. Say the word, and they'd follow you down into hell itself."
She hears the sound of Shepard shifting her weight. "I don't think—"
"It's true," Miranda says, shortly.
Shepard lets out her breath. Comes around to Miranda's side of the desk, and sits down on the corner.
Miranda tugs her datapad out to safety before the screen can crack under the woman's well-muscled butt.
"Sorry," Shepard murmurs, smiling.
"This crew began as Cerberus," Miranda says, frustration hot and aching in her throat. "They began as mine, but now they're yours. It's only been a month. And the worst part is, I can't even blame them."
Shepard looks down at her scarred hands for a long moment.
Miranda waits in silence.
"I didn't realize who you really were for a long time," Shepard says, quietly.
"What? What do you—" Shepard lifts a finger, and Miranda subsides.
"You put on a— mask, kind of, when you speak to others. Your voice changes. I didn't connect the dots until that day we went to rescue Oriana." Shepard tilts her head. Looks down at her. "But it really was you, the entire time, wasn't it?"
Miranda looks back at her, wide-eyed. "What do you mean?"
"The voice that talked to me. Told me stories. Worked through problems. Explained all sorts of technical details that I still don't understand." Shepard's eyes crinkle in a smile. "Bitched about the rest of the staff."
Miranda's cheeks flush. "What— You— you remember?"
Shepard leans in closer. Her voice lowers. Her smile turns wicked. "You sang me lullabies."
Miranda's face goes scarlet. "Get out of my office this instant."
"No," Shepard says, good-naturedly.
"Damnit—" Miranda stands and slaps her palms flat against the desk. Freezes when Shepard reaches down and takes her hand in her own.
Shepard squeezes her fingers. "Miranda. I was half-awake, half-dreaming. Everything felt wrong. I didn't know who I was, or what was real. But you were there, and you talked to me. You were my anchor."
Miranda is still frozen.
"You brought me back," Shepard says, watching her intently. "And you kept me sane."
Miranda can't meet her eyes. Looks instead at the line of the scarring— almost invisible, now— that wraps from Shepard's pale temple, down along her cheekbone, to the straight, finely cut edge of her jaw.
Shepard's voice is low and very soft. "Thank you."
Miranda's eyes snap back up to hers.
No one has actually ever told her "Thank you."
Just "Good work, Lawson" or "That will be all" or "Acknowledged."
The ache in her throat burns. Her lower lip trembles.
Say the word, and I'll follow you down into hell itself.
"...Please leave," she manages.
Shepard squeezes her hand once more, eyes full of concern, and goes.
Miranda collapses back into her seat and buries her face in her arms.
A short while later, her omni-tool blinks with a message.
You have a really pretty voice. -JS
Miranda presses her hands to her burning cheeks, and curses the day she joined Lazarus Cell.