notes: set during the events of me3; miranda see's lengs for the first time in years, after the accident.
A crosshair stitch, followed by a skin weave meshed with pale milk and tan scarred flesh above the kneecap, threading across joint and bone, joining heat with the solid brush of icy metal. Her fingertips ghosted across the union, afraid to touch as if the wounds were yesterday, borne from blood and bullet holes. She can feel the seize and twitch of muscle beneath skin as her hand met with natural skin again, only to trail down against metal hollows and wires merging with the soft flesh behind the knee. Such a thing horrified her, eyes trailing over scar tissue, marking patterns and memories that weren't hers; tattooing a concept across her mind as her other hand inspected the technical work carved into the calf.
Foolish questions near passed her lips, but her mouth remained clamped shut though the tremble in her lower lip was obvious as daylight. To allow her to even see – was this a blessing or a cruel joke played on her by the Gods? Over intimate since the arrival of previous events, for him to sit back passively with a haughty and judging glare to his eyes, as if to say her absence was the cause of... this, though far from the case.
But it begged the question, as her palm cupped the side of his knee, lifting to see barrel mechanism lodged in cartilage. Would he still have his legs if she hadn't left? They never separated as partners in the field after a few missions but this was during her stint on the Normandy... She could have prevented this if she stayed, maybe. Her bright eyes trailed the slithering line of a surgical scar up his thigh on the other leg, her free hand resting a palm flat against the developed muscle under marred skin.
He worked so efficiently; she would have never known had it not been brought in passing as her eyes scanned logs of procedures. But issue of already knowing didn't prevent the way her lips parted, mouth agape, sapphire irises shimmering, while a bloom of anger rose in her chest at the sight of the mutilation for the first time.
He sat down with ease, watching her with an avid fervor and within seconds she was on him, hands trembling and vision blurring. He allowed her to inspect, to study, to fuss, and crow but never once did she hush an apology, soothing words, or the like. They had no time for that; they never did.
Yet now she could feel his pulse in his thigh, thumb running along the dip of sinew on the inside as notice takes over that his one leg is damaged unevenly. Both lost at the knee completely, starved for skin rejection from movement, his wounds were ghoulish – no amount of physical cosmetics would fix such a thing. Miranda knew he wouldn't dream of it either.
As her palm rounded the shape of his thigh following stitch mark after stitch mark, her knuckles brushed against a relaxed hand of his. Her eyes shot up to bore into his, wondering if her brief contact with something not permitted set a particular frightful rage.
But her glance was met with nothing. His eyes were too busy following her fingertips as they danced along his skin and metal.
She wondered, as she stared at his face, noting the familiar frown lines and heavy set eyes, if he still thought himself whole?
For to her, he still was.
And she had hands to prove it with.
