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"And Ruth said: Entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee; for whither thou goest, I will go, and where thou lodgest, I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God." - Ruth 1:16
Miranda feels the water drip from her burning skin into the sink. There were always dreams, little slivers of life after, but mostly of before. Before was easy to predict, revive Shepard, assist in the suicide mission, defeat the Reapers, and maybe die with some shred of dignity to her blackened reputation.
People that play God don't have a happy ending.
Except her dream slivers became the wide reality placed before her, and for once, she can't stride forward with confidence. She's alive, Shepard's alive, and no crafted strategy comes to mind on dealing with this unknown. That's Miranda's Achilles heel, this dread that floods her body like the worst kind of high, leaving her head pounding, knuckles white as she leans over the sink, each breath a prayer for a merciful end to being tossed by this storm. There's no escape, when she lifts her head to the mirror, seeing the piercing blue eyes of the devil looking back at her in the mirror, his face as twisted by his false-god implants as she by her mutated genes, her monster to his Frankenstein.
"You're not real. You're just a damn figment of my bloody imagination!" Words of vitriol become words rasped through a tightened throat, and she closes her eyes, counting happy little dreams of past moments with Shepard, trying to barricade her walls from the echoing boom of his laughter.
It wasn't like this, mere hours ago, when Shepard was awake in the hospital, green eyes wide as she gestured dreams through empty air. Miranda had felt a happy flutter in her heart, watching the other woman map out what was to be put where, what walls would be painted what color, and other meticulous details about domesticity that Miranda has no knowledge in.
That's what she fears most, the snarling monster waiting behind a locked door, barely hanging on its hinges, ready to ripe her heart to shreds the moment it can. She fears that Shepard will toss her out, because she doesn't know how to be someone's shoulder to lean on, someone to confide in, someone to assuage fears and keep safe through sick mornings and toxic nights. The dread curls in her stomach, the horror that genetically modified terrorists don't find happy endings in the arms of their commanding officers. In rebuilding Shepard, Miranda lost something of herself. Maybe it was her icy facade, and that's why she cares so much that it hurts.
Shepard had always been there for her on the Normandy, willing to talk into the dead of night and the newly birthed morning over cups of tea. The same thing she did for anyone who needed a comforting voice and a hug to wrap themselves in. Shepard's hugs can keep out a lot of darkness, but Miranda's spent so long fumbling in the dark, working for what she thought was "the greater good" that she can't find the light, even when Shepard was right in front of her when they left the hospital, all cocksure grin, flame-red hair and bright eyes. Bright enough to light a new path for the both of them, not built on authority and violence, but partnership and caring and words of love whispered over candlelight dinners and slow dances as soft jazz fills the room.
At least Shepard's good about keeping Miranda on her toes. Who'd have thought the Savior of The Galaxy liked such an archaic style of music?
She hadn't meant to stand here, in the cold, surrounded by the devil and his ethereal grasp. Lost in thought, always mapping out strategies, because failure is a word Miranda detests. Failure meant dying, meant losing the people she began to call friends, failure meant watching Jane breath her last on an operating table after the dust had settled, after the Reapers lost the war. Failure means a lot of weight Miranda isn't sure she can carry.
The Illusive Man's laughter rings in her ears like a gunshot, and all she can process is the chant. "Useless, useless, useless," and Miranda does feel useless because Shepard's in the next room, probably fumbling around for her partner while Miranda has a pity cry in the bathroom because she's not good enough for Shepard.
Tears streak down her face, burning her cheeks, and Miranda whispers pleas, begs for mercy from the man who ruined her life, made her work for a great evil, and worse, made her survive it's destruction, the last of a group many believed to be against human interests, not working for them, as she'd been brought up to believe.
Her face feels hot, and her skin burns and her throat feels so tight she's afraid she'll choke on her words when explaining her fear to Shepard. But there's a knock at the door, and the devil disappears, replaced by her own wide-eyed, sweaty gaze looking back at her. And Shepard's leaning against the door, one arm listing, the other running through messy red locks, eyes still half-lidded, like she's not entirely awake yet. Miranda's heart skips a beat, booming louder then thunder.
"Miri'? What are you doing in here? It's like," Shepard pauses to check her watch-less wrist, "it's like really fuckin' early in the morning."
Miranda swallows, wipes away her tears as best she can, but Shepard can hear the sniffle the other woman gives, taking a step back from the sink.
"It's... it's nothing Shepard. Just a bad dream." The words feel like poison, spilling from her mouth. She told Shepard about the control chip, why can't she be honest now? Because Miranda fears the unknown, where Shepard welcomes it with open arms. Like's she's doing now, gently turning Miranda, placing calloused hands on her shoulders so the other woman has to look her eye to eye. Even half asleep, Shepard's eyes burn brighter then the sun.
"C'mon."
Miranda doesn't feel brave enough to ask more, so she follows Shepard, letting her drag them back to the bed, to the mess of sheets and the glow of the fish-tank, casting blue light over the room. Shepard sits them on the bed, shimming under the covers, motioning for Miranda to do the same. Her arms and legs feel tied down with lead as she nestles down under the covers, taking a deep breath as Shepard takes a hand in hers, threading their fingers together.
"What happened?" Shepard whispers it, like they were at confession, soft and non-judgmental and not pressuring. Miranda rubs a thumb over the redheads hand, shuts her eyes before blowing out a breath and staring at the ceiling. "I had a horrible dream." "I hate when that happens," Shepard interjects, shit-eating grin spreading on her face. Miranda groans, feels the wall get a little harder to scale, but the rope stays taught so she puts one foot in front of the other. "You were dying, and I couldn't save you. And you called me all sorts of horrible things. Said you didn't love me, just used me for my information.""Mmmm," Shepard says prophetically, before turning her head to look Miranda face to face, their noses almost touching.
The weight tying down Miranda loosens an inch, and Miranda exhales deeply through her nose.
"Well it's nice to have you here now. I'd probably go crazy if I didn't have you around to cuddle with. Plus, who else is going to help me decide what colors to paint our apartment?" Jane's off with the hand-waving again, gesturing to something that to Miranda looks muddled and hard to make out.
Miranda sits up, looking down at her partner through furrowed eyebrows, feeling her bottom lip quivering as she wars between smiling and mustering her angry glare. Not that it would do much good, because Shepard's bluntness has started to chip apart her armor. "Why are you treating this like its nothing?" Miranda hisses, all venom and teeth on display, going for the jugular.
Her aim is a mile off, as Shepard looks up at her with a smile that shouldn't be reserved for someone like her. A smile that exudes warmth and love and confidence, things Miranda never got from her father, too busy off playing demigod to care about her beyond being an experiment. "Because it is nothing," Shepard says with a shrug of her shoulders, the sheets pilling up as she reaches with one finger to poke Miranda's nose. Before Miranda can really get the lead flying, before she can return to being the Ice Queen and tearing apart the best thing that's ever happened to her, Shepard articulates.
"Because you brought me back. And when I saw you, I thought you were an angel." Shepard grins. "Still are, at any rate."
Miranda hears the horns blasting, the rumbling as cannon fire splits apart the walls she'd spent so long enclosing herself in. Enemies are at the gates, but Miranda gets choked up, tears spilling from her eyes as she can't find the words to drive people back, like she spent so long doing. How can Shepard say such things, when Miranda modified her body against her will; whose to say she wanted to be brought back from the dead in the first place? Miranda played God, but instead of denouncing her, her creation praised her, whispered reverence between the darkness of intimacy and the light of open combat? Miranda feels the last of the walls fall, and as she wraps her face behind her hands, Shepard drags her down, not into damnation, but into a safe haven. She finds new tears to cry as Shepard runs a hand through her hair, wrapping an arm around her bare back, rubbing her shoulder.
"You're wonderful Miri, and you brought me back from the dead, gave me life and gave me a person I could confide in. When everything seemed dark after I got locked up, you came back and showed that the light still burned. I love you, and I will spend every day telling you that if I have to. You're smart, and kind, and have a big heart that's too big for a woman like you. You care for your sister, and you wanted both of us to be happy."
Shepard shushes her, rests the older woman's face against her chest as Miranda clings, clings to Shepard, clings to this ray of sunshine she's found and wants to keep for herself. Fingers rub her cheeks, rub her hair, any part of her that Shepard can sooth. Sooth the aches, the painful feelings that Miranda kept locked up for so long. The ones that pour through her skin with her sobs, with the digging of her fingers into Shepard's flesh.
"You spent so long making sure we were happy, that you forgot how to be happy. I'll lead you where you went astray, and we'll paint this apartment, and get a dog, or a cat, if you want one. I'll get you anything if it means you'll wake up smiling, ready to take on whatever challenges come our way, whatever fancy restaurants that we come across, who think they're too good for us. You deserve to be happy, Miri, don't tear yourself apart trying to be the person you used to be. Stay here, with me, and lets read trashy books together at night. Lets call up Garrus and Tali, and everyone else, and we'll have another party, because if it wasn't for you, we wouldn't have all made it out of this war in one piece. Would you like that?"
As Shepard finishes rambling to a shell-shocked woman lying in the ruins of her battered castle, Miranda quits crying, feeling wrung out and thirsty, and very thankful indeed. The sickness still festers, but she's managed to surpass it, managed to believe Shepard's dreaming as more then the wistful imagination of her lover. Now that imagination was reality, and Miranda looks up at her, eyes shining, a small smile breaking through to flash on her face.
She kisses Shepard on the cheek, before resting her head on Jane's chest, feeling lulled to sleep by the steady thrum of her heart.
"What kind of a dog can we get? And if we have a party, I demand a song we can slow dance to, not any of that new age refuge Jack likes so much." Shepard laughs, a melodic sound that rings in Miranda's ears, wrapping strong arms around her. "Any kind. But we're getting a cake for this party." Miranda arches an eyebrow. "What in the world for?"
"Because I'm hungry, and we'll need a bigger cake then that for our wedding."
Miranda groans, her heart threatening to burst from her chest as the thought of their wedding, two proud space divas in white, it all sounds so sweet and romantic that Miranda feels like a love-struck teenage girl all over again.
"I wouldn't trade any of that for all the credits in the galaxy." "Neither would I."
Miranda feels her eyes grow heavy, nestled under the sheets, the steady beating of Shepard's heart making a nice rhythm to the dreams that chase out the shadows from before. It feels like home, a word that sounds foreign on Miranda's lips, but has a nice ring to it.
Home...