So. One of my femSheps has turned into the femShep I ship with ALL the human lady LIs (the one’s that count for Paramour; Allers is not her type and does not count). Started off shipping her with Ash, then Jack, then Samantha.

And then I got hit hard with post-ME3 shipping her with Miranda. Which is a bucket full of working through a lot of things, and only works post-ME3 (with some AUing of ME2, as it requires that Miranda survive the final part of the Suicide Mission after telling TIM to shove it and she quits Cerberus, even after Shepard told her in no uncertain terms to get off Jack’s back) after Shepard has seen Miranda actively fighting against Cerberus (even if a large part of that was mostly fighting against her dad).

Because this Shepard is an Akuze survivor, and her issues with Cerberus only ever went up. But after ME3, things are…different. Cerberus is mostly, if not totally, destroyed (for all we know, at least).

Anyway. On to some fic bits that are pavement on the road to a ‘ship.

“She was, um, adamant about not allowing us to do anything that would minimize or completely eliminate scarring. If she hadn’t been so badly injured, we’d probably have had to sedate her to get any work done on her face at all.”

Miranda stared at the audio communication panel. That certainly sounded like the sort of reaction Shepard would have. She remembered the distress that being reconstructed without her previous scars had caused the Commander. Shepard had miraculously survived the firing of the Crucible; if she pulled through the surgeries to come, there was no reason to begrudge her a few physical imperfections.

“Have your notes on Commander Shepard’s condition ready for my inspection when I arrive, doctor.”

“Yes, Ms. Lawson.”

Miranda took a deep breath. She knew more than anyone about putting Shepard back together. She just hadn’t expected to be doing it again, or under less than ideal conditions.

———

Shepard’s first thought was how dry her mouth felt. The second was that she was still alive, somehow, after everything that had happened. By rights, she shouldn’t be. She certainly hadn’t expected to live.

She expected she was in some field hospital somewhere in London. She could tell through her eyelids that there was light coming from somewhere in the room, and that made her hesitant about opening her eyes just yet.

“Shepard?”

The voice startled her. Shepard opened her eyes, blinking until the person who’d spoken shifted into her line of sight, mercifully blocking some of the light. She gazed up into familiar blue eyes and sighed.

“Miranda.” Talking was harder than she’d expected, and the name came out as a barely audible rasp. Shepard closed her eyes again and swallowed against the dryness in her throat. “You’re…making a habit of this.”

“And you’ve continued your habit of near-death experiences, Shepard.” There was a surprising amount of relief in Miranda’s voice, despite her choice of words. “I’ll see if an orderly can find you some ice-chips. Don’t try to talk any more just yet. The Alliance brass would flay me if I let you tire yourself out so soon after regaining consciousness.”

Shepard replied with a faint grunt. She had questions, so many questions, but she wasn’t sure she had the strength to hear the answers just yet.

———

Rebuilding Shepard for the second time was a very different process from the first. There was more of Shepard to work with, true, but Miranda had fewer resources at her disposal. Resources that had to be shared with thousands. And more than a few people were still hesitant about working with ex-Cerberus personal, despite the role that former Cerberus scientists–and Miranda herself–had played in defeating the Reapers. It was frustrating.

The second rebuild was also complicated by Shepard herself. A conscious, or at least occasionally conscious, patient was different from a comatose one. Miranda felt lucky that Shepard was, for the most part, content to restrict conversation to inquiries about the Normandy. The only problem with that was the uncomfortable twinge she felt every time she told Shepard that there was no news. Watching a spark flare in those ridiculously green eyes every time Shepard asked, only to see it fade every time there was nothing to say hurt more than Miranda was willing to admit, even to herself.

The only other topic Shepard showed an open interest in was in keeping any scars resulting from from her injuries or the surgeries that followed them.

“Shepard–” She’d turned to walk away, only to have Shepard clutch her hand. For someone recovering from massive injuries, Shepard’s grip was surprisingly strong. Perhaps it was the desperation.

“I need this, Miranda. That’s all I’m asking. Don’t take them away from me this time.” The intensity of her gaze made Miranda uncomfortable; it also gave her the chilling impression that Shepard would actually do everything in her power to put back any scars Miranda tried to take away.

“All right, Shepard. I’ll make a note of it in your files.” The tension went out of Shepard’s grip, and her hand slipped down to rest at her side. Miranda took a relieved breath as Shepard’s eyes closed.

“Thanks, Miranda.”

———

She didn’t ask Miranda or the doctors how long she’d been unconscious or how long it had been since the Crucible had fired. She couldn’t do anything about anything while she was stuck in a bed, and she couldn’t handle any new demons. Not just yet.

Shepard had too many questions running through her mind as it was. The Normandy’s whereabouts. EDI’s status. The Geth’s status. The thing that had claimed to be the Catalyst had said the Crucible would destroy all synthetics, but it had seemed too sympathetic toward the Reapers for her to trust it completely. She had to cling to the hope that the Catalyst had lied. Otherwise, she had the deaths of an entire race on her head, in addition to the lives of all the Battarians in the Bahak system. She’d have to live with whatever happened, but she wasn’t ready to deal with that guilt yet, if it existed.

She wondered, too, if Anderson’s body had been recovered. She hoped it had; he deserved a decent burial and a hero’s funeral.

Shepard swallowed hard and pressed the button to administrate another dose of painkillers. The pain was worse than she let on; she knew that there would be many, many other soldiers who needed whatever medication was available. She’d get through the pain. Hopefully without an addiction to painkillers.

———

Miranda had seen Shepard have nightmares through the SR2’s surveillance system, but that did not prove adequate preparation for being in Shepard’s room during one. It certainly didn’t prepare her for the unexpected desire to reassure Shepard that whatever it was she saw in the dream, it wasn’t happening now, and she wasn’t alone.

Shepard clung to her like a drowning person. Miranda held her close, stroking her hair and gently rubbing a non-bandaged portion of the Commander’s back. She didn’t say anything; she didn’t really no what to say in this sort of situation, and she suspected that platitudes would sound hollow.

Gradually, Shepard’s breathing slowed and her grip loosened. She pulled away a little and looked at Miranda. It was a complicated look. Confusion, remnants of fear, embarrassment, and what Miranda was fairly sure was a flicker of resentment. Resentment for what? Being there to witness this? Or for being tangentially responsible, at least in Shepard’s mind, for what the nightmare had been about?

But instead of pulling away entirely, as she expected, Shepard sagged against her, her head resting on Miranda’s shoulder. Shepard’s breath was warm against her skin.

“I’m…not used to waking up like…that…with company.” Shepard’s voice was still lower than usual, raspy from lack of regular use.

———

Shepard hadn’t awakened from a nightmare with anyone in the room with her since being hospitalized after Akuze. She wasn’t sure how she felt about Miranda being the first person to be there. But she hadn’t seen judgement in the other woman’s eyes, just uncertainty and concern. Having Miranda there did seem to have warded off the horrible, aching feeling of being alone that waking up from the dreams had always brought with it before.

Leaning against Miranda felt surprisingly reassuring. It was strange, being the one to depend on someone else after being the one in charge for so long. Being the one who had to be strong. Now the war was over, and she herself was one of the people and places that had to be rebuilt. Having to let other people do the work because she physically couldn’t yet…that was hard. At least Miranda had experience in that. And she wasn’t a stranger.

She took a shaking breath and sighed. “Thanks for being here, Miranda.”