A/N: This takes place after the previous drabble - maybe a year or so? It was originally supposed to be more light-hearted, but turned into Kira having a bit of a crisis due to her injuries.

"I'll be fine."

"Shepard." Traynor grabbed onto Shepard's arm, stopping her inevitable argument with a stern glare full of as much determination as she could muster.

Gritting her teeth to bite back a response, Shepard tugged her arm free and headed back for the bedroom, her attempt at defiance thwarted by her limping. "You're worried — I get it," she scoffed, tossing her rifle on the bed. "But you don't need to be. I'm fine."

But even as she spoke, Shepard had to grab onto the bedside table to help lower herself onto the bed, and once she was sitting, she had to reposition herself so the pain in her hip was at least somewhat bearable. All it took was a single grimace to draw a pained sigh from Traynor.

"I'm not saying you can't go to the shooting range. I just… I just wish you wouldn't go alone."

"I can't keep asking people to travel halfway across the galaxy because I get restless," Shepard shot back.

Traynor threw up her hands with a frustrated groan and muttered something about not having that argument again, then marched out of the room, leaving Shepard alone. She thought about following, or apologizing, or grabbing her rifle and limping to the shooting range; instead, she pushed herself back onto her feet and began to pace around the room, stubbornly ignoring the pain.

—-

It wasn't until the apartment VI alerted Shepard to a guest at the door that she remembered their plans for dinner.

To celebrate the end of the most rigorous part of Shepard's physical therapy, she and Traynor had invited a few of their old crewmates — those that were either close enough to make the trip or weren't caught up in politics or repairs — over to the apartment for the evening. Shepard had originally intended to use her new-found freedom to take a trip to the shooting range, but after her and Traynor's argument, she'd spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between restless pacing and irritated tinkering.

But when Ashley showed up, Shepard made a beeline for the door, leaning on every rail and table and chair on the way; there was no one in the galaxy she wanted to see more at that moment, because Ash understood. She had spent weeks in a hospital bed beside Shepard after they'd stopped Saren, and she'd broken almost as many bones as Shepard during the final attack on Earth. She understood.

At least, that's what Shepard had hoped. But as soon as the door opened, the smile dropped from Ash's face. Maybe it was the way Shepard was hunched over, or her white-knuckled grip on the table she was leaning on; for whatever reason, Ashley hesitated before offering a quiet hello.

With every new arrival, Shepard told herself it would be different, but Miranda and Garrus and Liara all gave her the same sad, concerned look that Traynor had perfected. Even Grunt seemed unsure how to react. When Joker arrived, his arm locked with EDI's and leaning slightly into her, Shepard lead them to the kitchen then disappeared into her bedroom. She stood hunched over her cluttered desk, because sitting hurt too much and laying down was too much effort.

The door slid open and closed, and Shepard knew without looking who it was. When Traynor placed a hand on her shoulder, it took everything Shepard had not to crumble right then and there; she turned and reached for Traynor, holding her close and burying her nose in her hair. Shepard managed a quiet, "I don't need help," her voice breaking before she could say more. Traynor remained silent, and Shepard gritted her teeth in frustration — not at Traynor, but at herself; there was so muchshe needed to say.

But how could she? How was she supposed to explain howhelpless she felt? How, in just minutes, she'd gone from the near-invincible Commander Shepard, the N7 sniper with flawless aim who could save the galaxy, to Kira, who spent nearly six months unable to use the bathroom without assistance. How she'd gone from taking down Reapers to having panic attacks at the mention of one. How she'd gone from looking down her rifle's scope to seeing through a slightly blurry visual implant. How she'd gone from dashing into battle, cloaked and already taking aim, to unable to manage a few stairs.

How, mentally, she was still capable of saving the day, butphysically, she couldn't even save the toast from burning if she walked off too far in the mornings.

Shepard wasn't much for talking, anyway, and this was something she knew she'd never be able to put into words, so she said the only thing she could. "I'm sorry."

There was silence, then a soft, "I know."

"And… and I do need help."

"I know."