Love Me, Don't Leave Me, Nurse Me
cut for length
Love
It was because of that stupid laugh.
It’s the one he always does, that deep, throaty chuckle that rumbles in his throat when he says something and laughs, even when the joke’s not particularly funny, or there’s just no one to laugh with but himself.
But he tells them to her, and sometimes she does laugh, because they are funny, and she lets him see something no one does. And he smiles when she laughs, the genuine kind where she needs to put a hand on his shoulder to pull herself together. Even a smile from her is enough, and in turn he flashes his grin, bearing all his teeth and lets out that laugh again. That laugh, she holds close and doesn’t tell anyone else, because it’s hers.
Maybe it was spontaneous and a mix of confusion, awkward subtlety, and honestly, why not? They work well enough together, and it was only a matter of time before he crept up to her office to talk about literature. Sometimes she comes down to visit him, and they just talk. And on some of those times Miranda is the one to lean across a pile of dented supply crates and press a kiss to his forehead.
Soon he’s a regular visitor, and he’s more helpful than Miranda asked for. He’s good company and he sometimes asks for her reports. But he’s good at reminding her of the small orange bottle that’s in her desk, a task that’s become ingrained in her life, but occasionally a reminder is always good. Like he cares.
And that’s the time where he says he kinda loves her, while she’s lounged asleep against him, a book on her chest because they were up all night reading. It’s going to be a while before Miranda ever considers reciprocating, but that’s okay. There’s plenty of time.
And Grunt is surprisingly patient. If only just for her.
———Don’t Leave Me
There’s so much blood.
All different colors of reds and blues smear across the ground and cakes on Miranda’s clothes but she can’t care less right now because everyone is dying.
She asks too many questions for there to be answers: why is there so much blood, why are we dying, why doesn’t Shepard answer us? They all come in a flurry as she frantically reloads and takes another bullet and it sears against her skin, hot and painful and wet.
The Collectors just keep coming and the rest are faring just as badly. Why she chooses to crawl over to Grunt to watch him die is something Miranda will never get an answer to.
He’s bleeding badly, seared with bullets and choking back on vomit and bile. He looks so weak now, paling, so unlike how he was before in the cargo hold. She administers medigel with the knowledge that it will do nothing. He’s as good as dead.
"Get that away from me," he growls, voice raspy and dry from dirt and blood. "It’s no use and you know it.
"I have to try." She shouts these more than says them, because of the gunfire, and it’s cracking Strained. She’s as dead as he is.
"Wouldn’t have picked anyone else to die with," Grunt mutters to himself, not aiming it at her but Miranda can hear it anyways. It provides a sense of…something, and she’s less afraid of dying. It draws up a smile, even, and that’s something they share, between them.
It’s the last thing they see before everything goes black.
——-Nurse Me
"You don’t have to use so much."
"I’m trying to prevent infection."
"Yeah, but do you need to dump half the bottle on me? It doesn’t even hurt anyway."
Miranda stops what she’s doing to look up at Grunt, who’s staring back with a look that Miranda can’t accurately describe as either bewilderment or annoyance. Probably a mix of both. For a moment her eyes trail off back to the wound on his arm, covered in yellow-stained gauze from pressure. She lets out a sigh and looks back at him.
"I suppose not."
"Weren’t you in charge of putting Shepard back together?"
Miranda’s face twists in a frown.
"Last time I checked, the Commander had human anatomy. I don’t have much skill in anything related to krogan. My apologies if my limited medical progress isn’t to your standards."
Grunt lets out a small hmph, a small exhalation of air, rumbling in his throat, before he turns away, staring at the plain walls of Miranda’s office while she went back to work. For a while they remained silent as she manages to add a spray adhesive to seal the wound, sealing it for the time being.
The walls were awfully boring to look at.
"This should heal in a few days," Miranda says off-handedly, fingers brushing against scale-clad skin, tracing patterns among the cracks.
"Yeah…Thanks for patching me up, by the way. Don’t need it, but…" Grunt hesitates slightly.
"It’s the most I can do," Miranda replies quickly, almost as flustered as he is. And then they lapse into silence again, longer this time before Miranda stands up to sit at her desk.
"Just try not to do that again."
A small, throaty chuckle.
"Whatever the lady wants."
