Things were awkward between them. There was no denying that. But there was also no denying that some things were more important than their interpersonal issues. Like the fact that Shepard had just returned from her super-secret Alliance mission two days late, full of holes, and trembling uncontrollably.
Miranda had very calmly (okay, maybe not so calmly) and slowly (okay, maybe not so slowly) made her way to Shepard's cabin the moment she received word that the commander was released from the medbay. Dr. Chakwas had, infuriatingly, insisted on total privacy while she brought the commander back from the brink of death again, even though Miranda was the most qualified person in the galaxy to oversee such a procedure. The Cerberus officer understood that Chakwas was hesitant to trust her, but honestly. If Miranda had wanted Shepard dead, it would have taken her literally zero effort to ensure such an outcome two years ago.
Consequently, Miranda now had no idea what shape Shepard was in, or whether the doctor had even handled her upgraded biology properly. That was why she was so anxious to see her. Just to make sure she would make a full recovery. Just to make sure humanity's best hope for survival was still intact. That was all.
Oh, hell with it.
Miranda wanted to see Shepard because she cared about her. A lot.
And if the commander's most recent brush with death had taught her anything, it was that she didn't have time to play games anymore. She had to set things straight with Shepard, one way or another.
Her head was so full of spinning thoughts, she completely forgot to request entry before she barged through Shepard's unlocked cabin door, a half-planned apology on her lips and a flutter in her stomach.
She stopped in her tracks when she met an empty room.
What the hell?
Where was Shepard? She wasn't still back at the medbay for some reason, was she? Or, God forbid, trying to jump right back into her duties at the CIC?
"Shepard?" Miranda called out, mind beginning to run down a whole new rabbit trail. There weren't many places someone could hide on a starship. There were, however, shuttles and escape pods. But there was no reason for the commander to need those, right? Right?
It would be exceedingly helpful to know what mission exactly she'd just returned from, but Miranda was flying blind. What if—
The door to Shepard's bathroom hissed open.
Miranda turned, about to say something along the lines of there you are! I had started to worry, but then her eyes fell on Shepard and her voice died in her throat.
The woman was standing there, damp from the shower, in nothing but a towel. And it was wrapped around her waist.
"Um…" Miranda floundered dumbly, trying to keep her eyes from straying to Shepard's bare, pale chest, failing, and then trying again. She could feel her face flaming, which was ridiculous, because she'd stared at Shepard's nude body for two years and it never made her feel like this.
Apparently, being alive made all the difference. And oh, Shepard was very alive; her sternum flushed pink from the heat of the water, and her abs rippling with each breath, and her breasts—
Focus. Now was not the time.
Miranda looked away, choosing a point on the wall to focus on with all her might. "I—sorry," she said, and it came out strangled. She cleared her throat and tried again. "I didn't know you were—um. Should I—?"
"It's fine," Shepard said, and the low, raspy timbre of her voice in combination with everything else had Miranda's heart rate climbing even higher.
The officer scolded herself internally. What the hell was wrong with her? She'd been around naked people who were alive before, too, and even then she'd been nothing but calm, clinical, and in control. Was it different because it was a woman? Was it different because it was Shepard?
Miranda took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together as Shepard moved into the room, heading for the drawers that housed her clothes. The commander unwrapped her towel in order to dry her hair as she went, and Miranda redoubled her efforts to burn a hole through the wall with her gaze.
When she felt marginally more composed, the officer spoke again: "What I meant to say is, I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. The doctor wouldn't let me see you while you were recovering. Which, I might add, is ludicrous, seeing as I'm—" She faltered as Shepard turned her back to pull on a pair of fatigues and her eyes were drawn to a horrifying sight. "Shepard," she breathed, all embarrassment forgotten in place of crushing concern. She didn't make a conscious decision to cross to the commander's side; only found herself suddenly there, reaching for the other woman's skin but stopping herself just shy.
She could not look away from the absolute mess that was Shepard's back. Bruises mottled her pale skin purple and green in a pattern distinctive to bullet spray. Only the faintest traces of scar tissue revealed the extent of what the wounds used to be, but there were a lot of them. If that wasn't bad enough, at least one burn scar crossed her shoulder, and stitches raised her skin in several places. Medi-gel was a marvel of the modern world, but even it couldn't fix everything.
Miranda suddenly wished much more fervently that she'd been able to work on Shepard after her return. "All these are new?" she said weakly, curling her hands into fists so she wouldn't be tempted to touch.
Shepard turned to face her again, and the look in her eyes was devastatingly sad. "I got shot a lot, Miranda," she hardly more than whispered. And that obviously wasn't even the full story. Shepard had never come back from a mission this banged up. She must have faced nigh-insurmountable odds on that blasted asteroid for her to look this bad. Which meant that she really could have used backup. Backup that hadn't been there.
Regret flooded into Miranda with so much force that she found herself choking up. "You should never have gone alone. I should have been there," she hissed. Shepard's condition was her fault, in part, for the sole reason that she hadn't been there to prevent it.
But Shepard shook her head. "I'm glad you weren't," she returned hollowly. "I wouldn't wish that on anybody."
Miranda only knew bits and pieces of the story, far from the whole thing, but she had at least witnessed the ultimate fate of the Bahak system. She had an inkling of the weight on Shepard's shoulders. And even without knowing any details, she was certain of one thing: "It wasn't your fault." She said it as gently as she could muster, daring to cross the distance between them to lay a hand on Shepard's bare shoulder.
Shepard didn't shake her off, but she didn't seem comforted in the slightest, either. "It doesn't matter. An entire system is still dead," she said tightly, in a way that told Miranda that she absolutely blamed herself.
And Miranda was out of her depth. How was she supposed to argue when she didn't even know what had happened? It was a losing battle, but she would try anyway. "Shepard—"
"I'll be fine," the commander cut her off before she could even begin. She turned away to rifle through her clothing drawer again, unseating Miranda's hand. "I just—don't want to think about it anymore." After a pause, she surfaced with a black N7 t-shirt and pulled it gingerly over her battered torso. Miranda did not miss the sight of her wounds, but the change still felt like a loss.
Now fully clothed, the commander caught her stare and faced her. Her expression was carefully shuttered. "Was that all?"
Miranda knew a dismissal when she heard one, but she was unwilling to be turned away so easily. Not when Shepard was so obviously hurting, and not when the air between them was still fraught with the memory of their last encounter. This was perhaps not the ideal time to bring up hard feelings, but if the debacle in the Bahak system had taught Miranda anything, it was that they had no more time to lose.
In other words, it was time for her to stop wasting time. Plus, if she could not convince Shepard that she wasn't at fault, she could at least try to comfort her another way. So, "No, it wasn't," she said with all the certainty she could muster. She edged closer to the other woman, searching those hard green eyes for a sign: either to back off or to continue, but Shepard was unreadable. Miranda pressed on blindly: "Shepard, about earlier. I'm sorry I snapped at you. And I'm sorry I've been so…difficult about—well, about us." Miranda realized she was wringing her hands and forced herself to still them.
"The truth is, I've been afraid. Afraid of failure. Afraid of getting attached. Afraid of—I don't know, myself?" She drew a breath and let it out in a frustrated sigh. She hated talking about her feelings on a good day, but the way Shepard was looking at her, impassive, just waiting, was absolute hell. But Miranda figured she'd come this far, so she plowed on: "I've never felt this way about anyone else and I don't know what to do, Shepard. But I'm tired of waiting. And—and torturing myself over it. I want to—to figure it out. With you. If that's still what you want."
A heavy silence followed her admission. Miranda was painfully aware of every heartbeat that passed, her pulse loud in her own head. Shepard didn't answer, just stood there and looked at her with those inscrutable jade eyes. The longer she stood there waiting for a response, the greater Miranda's discomfort grew. Had she made a mistake? Had Shepard's interest passed? Miranda wouldn't blame her; they hadn't exactly left things on stellar terms, and she'd certainly made things more difficult than—
Shepard stepped forward and kissed her.
The contact was a statement rather than a question. There was no hint of hesitation; no quarter for uncertainty. The commander kissed like she did everything else: firm, sure, and very, very skilled.
Miranda realized she was just standing there, frozen, and quickly jogged herself into action. She sucked in a gasp, and the action was like a dam breaking. Suddenly she was able to throw her arms (carefully) around Shepard's shoulders, sink into her grip, return her kiss with the fervor of finally letting go.
With all the tension and the angst and the uncertainty between them evaporated and the commander's lips locked with hers, Miranda had just enough awareness to wonder what the hell was I waiting for?
…
