Well, I was going to wait to upload anymore, but due to some wank on the kmeme, I updated there sooner than I planned. And I thought it only fair I update here too.
That being said, this installment is heavy on development and angst, but that is the nature of this beast.
"You think you had to travel through the relay to get here." Miranda said impatiently as their shuttle door opened. The former Cerberus operative stood with her hands on her hips, nearly glaring as the asari and human climbed out. "I have been waiting for an hour."
Shepard grinned and slipped her upper arm into the cuff of her cane while Liara and the driver unloaded their bags. "You know how traffic is on Earth, Miranda."
"Commander. I had forgotten. It almost makes me wish the Alliance had not pardoned me." Her glare was accusatory this time since Shepard had been largely involved for having the Alliance issue a full pardon for Miranda and a few other Cerberus defectors. Now, in a twist that tickled the commander with delicious irony, Miss Miranda Lawson, former ice queen of the outlawed Cerberus, now contracted with the Alliance, advising, researching, being wholly responsible for Shepard's medical care and recovery. "At least then I could be on a planet with a civilized transportation system."
"But then you wouldn't have the pleasure of getting to work with me, again." Shepard grinned. Miranda's eyes swept appraisingly over her, scrutinizing the cane, her posture, making mental notes on her weight and any other physical characteristics. Shepard had put on weight, which was good, but she was still far from her pre-war physique. The scars on her face healed nicely. She leaned heavily on her cane, as if using it to prop her up rather than using it to assist mobility.
"You're tired." Miranda decided, as if chiding the commander for her recklessness with her condition. "Hello, Dr. T'soni."
Liara set Shepard's bag down beside her and embraced Miranda, which startlingly, the human returned. "Always so formal, Miss Lawson."
Although their relationship had been strained at first, no doubt due to Liara's initial dealings with the Cerberus operative during the retrieval of Shepard's remains, and then having to hand them over to the one organization she knew Shepard abhorred, Miranda and Liara had developed a friendship. Liara knew that Shepard trusted Miranda, liked her even, and Miranda had come to respect Shepard's judgment implicitly. After all, if it hadn't been for Liara, Miranda would not have been able to bring Shepard back to defeat the Collectors, to save them all. If it hadn't been for Miranda, Liara would not have her lover.
What had been a casual friendship had intensified during the first few months after the war ended. Neither woman left Shepard's side for more than a few moments at any given time. While Miranda worked diligently to put the commander back together, to heal her wounds, Liara had watched and realized that this wasn't like Project Lazarus for her anymore. During Project Lazarus, Shepard had been an experiment, a faceless, voiceless task, a series of numbers and statistics and vital signs on a datapad. Now, that she knew Shepard, now that the commander had forced her to reexamine who she was, now that she had come to love the woman who had once just been a pile of meat and tubes, ensuring her survival, reassembling her, had been much more difficult.
They had shared tears and triumphs, and Liara had been graced to see the human side of Miranda that Shepard saw.
"Sorry, Liara." The dark-haired woman shrugged, smiled. "Force of habit."
Shepard picked up her bag, waving Liara off as she tried to take it from her. Miranda watched the exchange, amused. While they had never hid their relationship before, they were always professional in the company of others. It was entertaining to watch the couple interact without the constraints of professionalism. Liara fussed over the commander, and Shepard surprisingly allowed it without rebuke.
Her eyes settled on the necklace Liara wore and the bracelet around Shepard's wrist. A collar in a public setting, of course, was out of the question for the commander who was a soldier and officer to her core, and more conservative than she let on. Miranda had assisted her in picking something out for Liara that was more discrete the last time she had checked on Shepard's progress at the cabin.
Some of the things Shepard considered were altogether horrific. If it hadn't been impractical, she would probably still dress in a uniform. What had Miranda told her? Oh yes, "You have all the fashion sense and style of a hanar." She had contacted an artisan offworld, had him commission two pieces, and had them shipped to Earth. That was much more satisfactory than buying something off the extranet, Miranda thought.
"Yes, commander." Liara replied to a question that Miranda had not heard Shepard ask. While their relationship had never been a secret, the precise nature of said relationship was known only to a few, select individuals, and Miranda felt privileged to be among them. Shepard valued privacy, so she felt immeasurably humbled that Shepard invited her into her personal life, shared this part of herself, her relationship with her. Though she would never admit it, even if pressed.
Sexuality was fluid, flexible, and incredibly varied. All sentient life participated in innumerable sexual practices and customs, relationships and arrangements. Miranda considered Shepard and Liara's relationship with the same practicality that she considered everything else. It fit them, and it was no more or less unconventional than anything else she had seen over the years. If a race of ancient synthetic life forms could resurface every fifty thousand years to destroy all sentient life, who was to say what was normal anyway?
Besides, it was utterly fitting for Shepard to be in charge, in control. Miranda had realized that the moment she had officially met the commander.
"We'll be sharing the penthouse suite." Miranda said finally, once the couple had finished playfully bickering over the luggage. "It has three bedrooms, so I assumed you would not mind."
"Of course not," Liara said smiling as they followed Miranda into the hotel. "I can't say how much we appreciate you coming."
"Not at all, it saves me a trip to that forsaken mountain you live on." Miranda said dismissively, sneaking a surreptitious glance at Shepard who was being uncharacteristically silent. She had won the argument and carried her own bag, but Miranda had known her long enough to realize when she was being stubborn. Her heart ached at the woman who seemed so out of place when she wasn't in armor, when she struggled with a small duffel bag and leaned heavily on a cane to walk, her skin abnormally pale and pinched. She quickly looked away, ignoring the stinging behind her eyes.
"Why don't you all leave your luggage here?" She said when they reached the front desk. "Liara, I'm sure you want to get checked in with the conference? Shepard can go up to the room, and I will accompany the bellman with our things?"
Their accommodations were far more than adequate, Shepard thought. Somehow, the building had managed to escape the brunt of the Reaper attacks, and all damage had been quickly repaired to render the building serviceable again. It was one of the few in the area, and even after so many months it still served double duty as an Alliance headquarters as well as a hotel. It was impressive such a structure survived in what had been one of the larger cities before the war, but she hated the windows.
The lounge area alone boasted a huge sliding glass door that led onto a balcony. It once afforded a view of the city, a panoramic cityscape of a once beautiful city in the shadow of the mountains. Now it only overlooked a shifting expanse of rubble, of varying shades of gray and charred black. Once towering buildings were reduced to skeletons, hollow frames of concrete bone. Vehicles still littered the street like desiccated corpses, either burnt or rusted out. The sky was perpetually grey, cold. All the dust and debris kicked up by the destruction wrought by the Reapers had polluted the atmosphere. And even on a clear day the sky was more slate gray than blue. Past the city, the once majestic snow-capped peaks of the mountains now more resembled stony giants, overbearing sentinels gazing indifferently at all the destruction at their feet.
It made her wish they were home. She had not seen much of the destruction after the war. When she had been moved from the Alliance hospital vessel to Earth, she had been secreted far away, in the country, isolated from all the devastation. Sighing, she turned from the window and hobbled into the bedroom, where she abandoned her cane against the wall and lay on the bed, arms crossed over her eyes.
Her head was throbbing. She wasn't used to traveling anymore, and the hours in the shuttle had made her legs stiff and her joints ache. Before, she used to go days without sleep if she was on a mission. Now, she just felt tired. The pain in her lower body she had learned to cope with, but the headache was persistent. Sighing, she pushed herself into a seated position. She had carried up her small bag of personal items, medicines and such. But she had put them in the bathroom just off of her and Liara's bedroom when she first came in.
Grunting, she pushed herself off the edge of the bed and stood. The bathroom wasn't that far; she should have been able to make it without her stick. But she had not accounted for how stiff her leg would be without the aid of the artificial joint, without the support of the cane, and it buckled under the slightest weight, sending her sprawling across the hard floor.
Unfortunately, the bathroom wasn't that far and as she threw her arms out to break her fall, she miscalculated the distance and slammed her forehead on the bathroom door. The crack of her brow against the hard metal was jarring. It always amazed Shepard exactly how effective pain was at paralyzing the body. For several breaths, she could not move as the pain radiated in waves from her brow, into the roots of her teeth, down the back of her neck. Tears stung the back of her eyes before she could move again.
Dumb with shock, she pushed herself up, but not trusting her legs, dragged herself into the bathroom. Using the sink and her upper body strength, she pulled herself up to reach the kit stashed on the shelf above the sink and tucked it under her arm before lowering herself back down. She crawled, relying completely on her arms, to drag her back to her bed. She was seated before it finally began to settle in that she had fallen.
Her eyes settled on her leg, on the scars and bruises that lay under her trousers, on the malformed bones. A knot formed in her throat, and she forced herself to swallow several times. Several deep, even breaths and she had convinced herself that she was okay. Unzipping the med kit, she rummaged for her pills.
"Shepard, everything is settled with the front desk, but this is the last time I carry—" Miranda halted as her eyes settled upon the commander. She abandoned Shepard's bag at the door and crossed the room in a few quick, graceful strides. "What happened?" She knelt in front of her, took her wrist in between her fingers and began checking her pulse.
"Nothing, I'm fine." Shepard gently tugged away her hand, forced a faint smile.
"Oh?" Miranda eased up on her knees, lifting herself slightly so she could reach Shepard's face. Perplexed, Shepard tensed and shrank away but she still managed to wipe the pad of her thumb through the stream of blood that had not quite dried. She showed it to her. "Then what is this?"
The commander studied the blood on Miranda's thumb, genuinely bewildered. Touching her own fingers to her brow, she seemed surprised when they too came away bloody. Her expression hardened, and green eyes cast downwards, as if she were ashamed. "It's nothing."
How a single woman could be so unbearably frustrating was beyond comprehension. The years had done nothing to dull the commander's obstinacy. Miranda threw her hands up in frustration. "It isn't "nothing," Shepard. Your health and well-being is my responsibility, dammit."
"I fell."
"What?" Miranda frowned, confused.
"I tried to get to the latrine without my stick," Shepard explained quietly, gesturing vaguely at her cane which leaned against the nightstand. And I fell… and hit my head."
Her normal response would be a flippant comment about clumsiness, or at the very least she should chide her for her stupidity. Honestly, she was not a child and should recognize her own limitations. But… shame and insecurity were as clearly etched on the other woman's face. Tears glistened unshed in those emerald green eyes as Shepard turned to look at her, defiantly, as if daring her to something.
It wasn't the first time that she had seen Shepard truly vulnerable, and Miranda was astonished that it still shook her to her core to see the commander as anything other than uncertain, unwaveringly confident. This was the woman who took her through the Omega-4 Relay, who had bounded down from the ship onto the Collector base with an assault rifle resting on her shoulder as if going for an afternoon stroll. She had taken Miranda on every leg of their journey through the base. She had defied The Illusive Man, destroyed the Human-Reaper, and saved Miranda from plummeting to her death, half-carried her back to the Normandy. The same woman who killed a Reaper, on foot, and then said, "Well, one of us had to go," when Miranda had asked about it.
Now, she could not make it across a room unaided.
"It's okay." Tentatively, Miranda reached out and rested her hand on the former soldier's knee.
Shepard rolled the bottle of pills in her hand thoughtfully. "Will I ever get better?"
It was a hard question, one that Miranda did not even want to answer. "There are variables, many different factors to consider."
"Being tactful, Miss Lawson?" The commander grinned mirthlessly, rested her hand on Miranda's. "The truth?"
The former Cerberus operative inhaled shakily, wondering at the change in herself. Years ago, before she had met Shepard, she would have told anyone the ruthless facts, the cold truth. Softening the blow never did anyone any good. Now she was reluctant, and had it been anyone else, she might have still given a clinical, indifferent answer. Voicing it made it true, and she did not want it to be true, not just for Shepard's sake. "It is… unlikely, Lissa. The cybernetic grafts have rejected twice. I can, and will, try again, but they will probably reject as well. There are therapies… physical therapies, and you will regain strength, but…" She found she couldn't meet Shepard's eyes.
"I'll never see action again." Shepard whispered, still staring intently at the pill bottle without seeing it. "I'll never be who I was."
"No." Miranda withdrew her hand and went to the bathroom, filled a plastic cup with water, and blinked in the mirror several time until her eyes were clear before returning to her friend. "Saving the galaxy wasn't enough? You want to see more action? And people think I am arrogant." She asked said, smiling and hoping a little teasing would break the somberness of the moment.
Shepard popped the cap off the bottle and tossed two capsules to the back of her throat, chased it with a swig of water. "No, but I would have liked to have the choice." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"You can still serve. Not even the Alliance is stupid enough to forcibly retire you if that isn't what you want. You could advise, assist with the rebuilding." Miranda tossed the empty cup into a nearby waste basket, sat next to her on the bed.
"Politics?" Shepard snorted and quirked a brow. "You have met me, haven't you?"
"Point taken, Shepard. Do you have any medigel in that bag?" Miranda reached across Shepard for the bag and began rifling through the contents.
"Yeah, some meddling asari insists that I have a tube with me at all times." Shepard smiled fondly as she mentioned her lover, but then the smile faltered. "Hey, Miri?"
Miranda dabbed a bit of medigel on her finger, angled Shepard's face towards her with her other fingers. "Yes?" It was rare that Shepard used her pet name, and the only person besides Orianna Miranda felt comfortable doing so.
"Don't tell Liara. I will." Shepard tilted her head, pulled her hair back with one hand to allow Miranda to apply the medigel. There was a brief fiery cooling on the cut as the medigel began to knit the wound back together, to seal it off from infection. "Please?"
Miranda slowly withdrew her hand, wiped the lingering remnants of medigel on her slacks. "Of course, Commander."
You can take the soldier out of the war, but you can't take the war out of the soldier. Or some equally trite saying. For some reason, I feel compelled to explain myself so y'all don't think I'm rolling off on a tangent with this fic.
So, I wanted to do a post-ME3 fic that explores what happens if Shepard does survive, the more realistic ramifications of everything. Don't worry, D/s will still figure in largely to the story, but I wanted to do more with it. I made Shepard crippled on a whim, but I realized that I've never explored that in a story before and I wanted to. I wanted to write what really happens if you're lucky enough to survive the Reaper War and make it home.
Yes. More tangents. Okay. I think I'm done for now. ;-) MOAR FEEDBACKS!