It had been more than a week since they spoke, and Miranda had not followed up. She'd asked for time, and Shepard had been giving it to her, but she was beginning to doubt that any amount of internal debate would be enough to solve her dilemma. It was always just a cycle of head versus heart; her loyalties to Cerberus versus her personal desires, and nothing was changing. She felt useless and off-balance and the more time ticked by, the more anxious she got. She'd been avoiding Shepard out of the fear that if she got too close, Miranda just might explode. Into a fit of rage or a haze of lust, she wasn't sure.
That's why she was here, drowning her problems in the Normandy's lounge, when the commander finally caught her with her guard down.
Miranda was not proud to admit that her hands began to shake as soon as the other woman stepped into the room. Briefly she considered making an excuse to high-tail it out of there, but despite all her fears, she was tired of running. She was better than that. Shepard deserved better than that. Especially when the problem she was running from was so stupid.
Miranda swallowed dry and did not turn as Shepard came up to the bar beside her. She could feel the woman's trademark gaze find her, but kept her own eyes trained on her drink. It was dwindling, so she picked up the nearby bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy to correct that issue. Her trembling hands spilled a few drops as she poured, and she suppressed a curse. No way Shepard missed that.
Indeed, as Miranda went to pick up her new drink, Shepard's hand shot out and closed around hers, keeping the glass pressed to the tabletop.
The officer let out a frustrated sigh. "Cutting me off already? I'm not even drunk," she said, only half joking. It was difficult for her to get drunk thanks to all the upgrades. In that regard, she was especially bitter toward her father's tampering.
Shepard ignored her comment. "Are you all right?" she asked instead, cutting straight to the point, as always.
Cutting straight to Miranda's heart, as always. "Fine," Miranda sighed, running her free hand over her heated brow. She was again considering a hasty escape. After a week away from Shepard, she'd almost forgotten how overwhelming it was to be in a room alone with her. "I just overextended myself on that last mission."
"I didn't know you could do that." Shepard sounded doubtful. Rightfully so, since it was a blatant lie.
"Yes, well," Miranda murmured halfheartedly. She may not have been drunk, but apparently she was buzzed enough to hinder her conversational skills.
Shepard took her turn to sigh. She let her hand fall away from Miranda's and watched as the officer took her intended drink. "Miranda," she said, sounding reproachful. And tired. Very tired. "Talk to me."
A blend of guilt and panic shot through Miranda and made her words come out sharp: "Is this what you call giving me time to think, Shepard? Just back off for once, all right?"
The commander didn't flinch, but the hurt in her eyes was clear as day to someone who spent so much time looking at them. In the wake of her outburst, Miranda felt the crumbs of her composure slipping through her fingers. Why couldn't she just function? Why did she have to take things out on this woman whose only crime was being braver than she?
"I'm sorry," she started, reaching out, "I—"
"No," Shepard cut across her in hollow tones. "You're right. I won't bother you again." And with that, the commander snagged the bottle of Serrice Ice Brandy and strode from the room.
…
